Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  Fox and Lorso exchanged controlled nods, quiet greetings.

  For a moment, Moonpriest despaired; even his most senior lieutenants eyed each other like dogs across a bone. He forced himself to continue as if nothing threatened.

  “What everyone must understand is the terrible power of the secret of the Door. Women are bidding to control that power. Sylah simpers and claims she desires only equality for women. As if that weren’t enough! In plain fact, she intends to make Church and its women the overlords of all. Men will be servants. Women who aren’t Church will be even worse off than now. Imagine a woman with privilege. We all know how deceitful and spiteful they are. Imagine yourself slave to a female.”

  A touch of color tainted Lorso’s weathered features, Moonpriest cursed himself for underestimating the hold the woman called Tears of Jade must have over her adopted son. He spoke quickly, glossing the error. “I’m sure you never hear Tears of Jade insist that women rule your people.”

  “Tears of Jade would never suggest such arrogance.” Images flicked across Lorso’s mind as he said it. Men who’d disagreed with Tears of Jade. Men who’d been foolish enough to desire young women Tears of Jade wanted given to men she favored. Lorso remembered incantations. Potions and powders created in deepest secrecy. The god’s business. Sosolassa could be very cruel. Men died in indescribable agony. A sharker commanded by a man who offended Tears of Jade disappeared at sea.

  Sternly, Lorso reminded himself that Tears of Jade never sought personal power. Power rested with Sosolassa. What happened was his doing.

  Fox asked, “What do you think of our River allies? One of your men told me you were attacked frequently, coming upstream.”

  Pulling at a long braid, Lorso’s answer was almost a challenge. “In the end, it’ll be helpful to us that they’re divided. Once Gan Moondark is crushed and Sylah dead, the Skan see little need for the Rivers.”

  “Many would agree with such argument.” Moonpriest’s lips barely moved. “If two allies suddenly turned on a third, however, it might prove very difficult to form other alliances later in order to overrun Kos.”

  “If the third ally turned on its friends, those two would be right to defend themselves.” Lorso shrugged hugely.

  “Exactly.” Fox leaned forward, peered around Moonpriest at Lorso. The lean, leathery Mountain warrior was outfitted in finery typical of his adopted nomad brethren. Fire opals set in silver disks were sewn in large-petaled floral patterns on his shirt; smaller versions decorated his sleeve. Larger opals dangled from his ears on long gold chains. He reflected small firelights in myriad directions. Fox bunched his fists on the table, continuing, “I mean to mount Gan’s skull on my battle pennant. I’ll make a spirit flute of his leg bone and a cape from the skin of his dogs. But I will give up all of that if Moonpriest orders, because he is a god. He must—”

  A hand shot out with a swiftness surprising from one as apparently nonphysical as Moonpriest. It clamped down on Fox’s wrist. He finished the sentence for Fox. “He must never forget that others can’t be forced to acknowledge his holiness. We know what happens when power is abused.”

  Moonpriest released Fox, leaned back from the table. His eyes lost focus. His voice took on a haunted tone, yet there was menace in the dry scrape of it. “A god who lends his power to another is punished. Conway is an agent of Sylah’s Church. His evil destroyed Windband’s camp, destroyed many lives. He brought the curse of sickness to Windband, helped Sylah cheat me of the Door. If not for Fox and the elite fighters called Blizzard, my nomads would have been scattered. We survived rebellion and apostasy. We’re stronger than ever. My power is stronger than ever. As you and your men will learn. But enough storytelling. Our host indicates entertainment.”

  The music of the River People struck Lorso as effeminate. He was used to the skirl of whistles and the hypnotic thump of heavy drums. The four River musicians plucked at strings stretched over long-necked hollow boxes, producing complex, supple sounds that wound across the crowd as delicately as smoke. It was much like the earlier music in Moonpriest’s tent, even to the insistent little metallic drum in the background.

  Somehow, though, the music stirred Lorso. Thoughts of the mission struggled to remain uppermost in his mind, but sank under visions of Jaleeta. As if to mock his weakness, a lone River woman moved out into the open ground formed by the three dining tables. At the dancer’s appearance, a gusting exclamation swept the crowd of over two hundred men gathered there. In the taut silence that followed, the instruments seemed to grow louder. The song became a goad.

  The woman, bold as a jay, strode the front of all three tables. Dressed in a long, white deerskin skirt and close-fitting sleeveless jacket of the same material, her black, gleaming hair was a cloud that swept below her buttocks. The white leather was embroidered in green, yellow, and blue, rippling lines that spoke of the life-giving river and sun. Belled anklets and wristbands tinkled as she walked. Lithe, she smiled at her audience with the confidence of a woman who knows precisely how tempting and dangerous her beauty is, and who revels in the knowledge. With her circuit of the tables complete, she gestured in the direction of the River women and nonwarriors beyond the fire at the fourth side of the banquet area. A girl darted out with a mask, then ran back.

  The mask was a tiger. Pure white fangs bared in a snarl, it was amazingly lifelike. The tempo of the music increased, the volume subsided. Intricate melody gave way to a simpler, repetitive refrain.

  The woman breathed life into the image. For quite a while, she stalked. Those watching felt her press against shielding rocks, knew the rough touch of bark as she eased around trees, sensed the twigs and rocks underfoot that must not be broken or rattled.

  She portrayed a hunt, projected the full atavistic emotion and imbued it with sensuousness. Utterly silent, the warriors were transfixed.

  The twanging little drum raced now. The string music shivered with anticipation.

  She sprang, an incredible athletic move that began with four running steps to reach foot-blurring speed. Soaring high, she straightened horizontally, flew directly at the head table, at Moonpriest, Lorso, and Fox. At the last instant, when it appeared she must fall facedown, she drew her feet under her, landing on the ground, facing them in a triumphant crouch. Rising swiftly, she posed, arms outstretched, demanding admiration. Then she was racing to disappear among the mass of her people.

  “Isn’t she splendid?” It was Moonpriest flushed and grinning.

  “A very attractive dancer.” Lorso heard the tension in his voice, cursed it.

  The music was drowned out by the rough, raucous laughter and shouting of stirred-up men.

  One of Lorso’s crew appeared at his shoulder. Sweat ran down his face. Bits of food clung to his cropped whiskers. “Windband’s got women,” the crewman said. “They said we can come with them to the wagons, outside the village. Come with us.”

  Lorso looked to Fox, who winked. “Captives. Some Smalls, mostly Kossiars. A few Rivers from hostile villages. None as pretty as the last one.”

  Moonpriest added, “We can’t ask our warriors to live like monks. No one’s allowed to damage the women. It’s all very well managed. You and your crew are welcome guests.”

  “No. I can’t. I took an oath. My mission must be accomplished.” Over his shoulder, addressing his fellow Skan, Lorso added, “Go without me. I never should have sworn…” He forced a laugh. It jangled in his ears like broken shells.

  No one else seemed aware of the falsity. The crewman hurried off. Feeling foolish, vulnerable, Lorso got to his feet. “I’ll sleep aboard,” he told Moonpriest. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Then, embarrassed not to have asked sooner, he said, “Why didn’t someone from the River People join you and Fox and me?”

  Moonpriest laughed easily. “I asked Saris to give us this afternoon and evening alone with you. I explained that some persuasion was needed to bring the Skan into complete alliance. You understand?” A sly grin assumed complicity, and Moonpriest a
dded, “Tomorrow you’ll both meet. Saris and I have more entertainment scheduled. Uncommitted Rivers from many villages are coming here. I will convert them to Moondance. They’ll see you and your vessel, hear you describe the power of the Skan. We’ll strengthen our force by many, many warriors.”

  “I speak to them?”

  “Just tell them who you are, how many sharkers you can send into battle, that sort of thing. Can you do it?”

  Lorso straightened. “I speak to our Navigators. I’ll have no trouble here.”

  “Good man. We’re going to rule, my Skan friend.” Moonpriest clapped Lorso on the shoulder as the latter waved and turned away.

  Once Lorso was out of earshot, Fox spoke. “He didn’t even see the dancer’s look for him. Maybe he’s not a man at all.”

  Moonpriest led Fox away from the table. “Lorso has another woman. At home. I’m sure of it.”

  “Then the plan failed. You wanted Lorso involved. ‘Increase our hold on him,’ you said.”

  Irritably, Moonpriest increased his pace. “Use your mind. You, who can track anything anywhere; can’t you see the importance of his refusal? As a tracker, isn’t it as important for you to see what actually is, rather than what you expect? Lorso denies himself. We have our opening.”

  “I understand about the tracking. I don’t understand about Lorso.”

  “Good.” Exasperation made the word a weapon. “Just leave the thinking to me. Good night.” Moonpriest broke off toward his tent.

  Lorso, picking his way along the bouncing board connecting the sharker to land had no thoughts for Moonpriest or Fox. He focused his mind on Jaleeta. He thought of her hair. Like the dancer’s. Of her grace. Dancer’s grace. Of her rich, full body.

  With his eyes closed, cedar and lilac seemed to flood his nostrils, the scents she favored. The pressure of her embrace forced air from his lungs, and his body tightened with the tactile memory of warm, soft skin pressed against him. No matter how hard he tried however, Jaleeta’s face evaded his mind’s vision.

  He discovered a drowned friend once, dead on the bottom in water only waist-deep. The day was perfect, cloudless, the sun a benevolence. Light joined with the wind-ruffled water’s surface to disguise the features, mottle them, turn them this way and that, so Lorso didn’t know if the mouth grinned or grimaced, didn’t know if the wide, sightless eyes begged for release or winked in macabre jest.

  Why would Jaleeta come to him with the same wavering, unsure features?

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, Lorso stood at the bow of his moored sharker and watched a matched team of six black horses pull a massive wagon onto the level stretch just beyond the rocky riverbank. He sneered. Horses. Eyes rolling, clomping about on huge, hard feet—they could cripple a man just by stepping on him in their smelly excitement. Disgusting.

  The wagon load was covered. Idly, Lorso wondered what needed protection on such a fine day.

  Behind him, Moonpriest said, “Good morning, Lorso,” and the Skan started. When he turned, Moonpriest and a River smiled apology from down on the shore. Moonpriest said, “Didn’t mean to startle you. I came to introduce Saris.” Moonpriest tilted his head to the side, indicating the River, gestured at the team and carriages. “This is all part of the demonstration planned for today. What disturbs you?”

  “Nothing. I was wondering what they’re doing.”

  Saris said, “Moonpriest has wonders to show us.”

  “Wonders?” Lorso moved aft to where the gap between hull and shore narrowed and vaulted over the side. Moonpriest laughed aloud, entertained. “Very acrobatic.”

  “What?” Lorso asked. He noticed the River, Saris, was as puzzled as himself.

  Moonpriest blanched, appeared to choke. “A word from my past,” he said. “From before I was claimed by my mother, and born again. We called a person who could leap and turn that way an ‘acrobat’; what they did was ‘acrobatic.’ I forgot you don’t have the word.”

  Saris nodded, looking wise. “Would you call our woman who did the tiger dance an acrobat?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Lorso was too sensitive about his limp to endure the subject for long. “Where is this land of yours, Moonpriest? The Skan trade wherever land meets water, even as far as the country of the Nions. No one we trade with knows this place. We know your friends came to Gan Moondark—”

  “Never say that!” Moonpriest’s visible discomfort over questions about his homeland escalated to rage at the remark about Gan Moondark. Inwardly, Lorso exulted, delighted to have irritated one so pompous. The notion that he’d angered a god chilled him momentarily. When he considered that he was under the protection of his own Sosolassa, he relaxed.

  Moonpriest raged on. “I was an ordinary man once, and I come from a place more distant than you can imagine. I came with other men and women. That much is true. I never joined Gan Moondark, as the others have done. They’re fools, under the influence of Sylah.” He broke off, literally panting in his fury.

  Lorso watched the man’s color suddenly alter. The bloodred of anger weakened to an exhausted, blue pallor. Moonpriest recovered, then resumed, icily calm. “This day you’ll see my power. You’ll know how unfortunate it is to lose my affection.” He stalked away.

  For a moment, the two men shifted awkwardly. Finally, Lorso managed a small grin. “Perhaps I irritated him. A little bit.” He held up thumb and forefinger, almost touching.

  “More than that, I think.” Saris’ answering smile was tentative, the quick cut of his eyes toward the retreating Moonpriest cautious. “He’s very dangerous.”

  Making conversation, inviting Saris to share something to eat, Lorso examined the River leader. The tight, sleeveless jacket showed a well-muscled torso. One arm was seriously injured. Full, bloused trousers looked too skirtlike for Lorso’s taste. Unlike the clothing, Saris’ hat looked quite new. The wide brim was excellent weather and sun protection, the crown high enough to protect against the sun’s heat. It took a second look for Lorso to realize the hatband was a snake, with the head extended forward, fangs at the ready.

  He recoiled. Saris saw and understood. More assured now, he swept the hat off, extended it toward Lorso. A taunt lurked in his words. “I’m told there are no poisonous snakes where you live.”

  Lorso positioned his feet for a sword stroke. His hand went to the weapon’s handle. “You were told right. They kill people. Why wear one?”

  Saris laughed easily. “Snakes are the spirit animal of Moondance. This snake, the one that warns, is Moonpriest’s spirit animal. Only men chosen by Moonpriest are allowed to wear the skin of the sacred one.”

  “If a man is chosen, must he wear the skin?”

  Pondering a moment, Saris grew serious. “Moonpriest never said that.”

  “Good. Skan have their own spirit animals.”

  “Moonpriest respects these things. He allows anyone to worship any way they choose, as long as they acknowledge Moondance’s supremacy. He says all gods and spirits answer to his mother.”

  Sweat prickled along Lorso’s spine. He wished Tears of Jade were present. How could he reconcile Sosolassa answering to the moon mother? If he denied the rule, the alliance must collapse. If he accepted it, Sosolassa would claim him. Adopted son not withstanding, Tears of Jade would take the sad walk to the ceremony rock and sing the song of curses for Lorso. Spirits burdened with the song of curses lurked in the sea just under the surface, always wet, always cold, always reaching out to draw down the living.

  Saris shrewdly guessed what caused Lorso’s concern. “If I were troubled by a conflict between my religion and Moondance, I’d say nothing. If Moonpriest doesn’t demand that you accept the moon mother, why bring up the subject?”

  Tears of Jade warned that intrigue would be as ordinary as rain in the course of the alliance. Lorso already saw the negotiations as more like stalking prey; the advantage wasn’t with whoever played the game fastest or hardest, but most quietly.

  He changed the su
bject. “What is this wonder you spoke of?”

  The River’s reaction was unexpected. Saris’ eyes widened momentarily. Lorso was certain he saw a touch of fear. “Moonpriest’s surprise. Later, just before sundown. We need time for the people to gather.” He indicated upstream. Lorso looked to see a pair of previously unnoticed River boats approaching. The grayed wood hulls and dusky tan sails blended admirably with the greenish-brown water and the sunbaked cliffs of the north shore. That was the best thing Lorso could say for them. Heavy, stolid, the vessels were built for work. They carried traders, cargo, livestock, or fishermen. Lorso hid his contempt, picturing how easily his sharker would slash past such a waddling hulk. He asked Saris, “How many people will come to hear Moonpriest?”

  “Hundreds. The River People are a large tribe, even if we are divided over Moondance. Not everyone who comes will accept Moonpriest. Many will. Moonpriest says that for every one that goes away committed, that one will bring us two.”

  The notion intrigued Lorso. The Skan approach to other faiths was quite simple: If it was any good, it protected believers against the Skan and Sosolassa. If Sosolassa prevailed, his power declared the losers slaves. Those were plain, demonstrable facts.

  “What do we do until this grand demonstration?” Lorso made no effort to hide his impatience. “Is it so necessary for me and my crew? I should be discussing the time of our attack, the goals of our forces. Moonpriest knows no Skan is going to fall in a faint and declare him a god. We came here to talk about war and loot.”

  Looking as if he’d bitten into something rotten, Saris kept his answer calm. “You’re stronger than your men, Slavetaker. Your crew spent all night with the Windband slave women. Many are still there. I doubt their minds are on war and loot.”

  Inwardly fuming, Lorso satisfied himself with a curt nod. He walked in the direction Saris indicated. By the time he spotted the wagons drawn up in the wide, pleasant valley, he was sweating. He knew of the massive, high-wheeled wagons, so was prepared for his first sight of them. Even so, when a Skan hopped out of one he exclaimed aloud at the fact that the spoked wheel was a good head taller than the man.