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

by Don McQuinn

  There were at least twenty wagons. Lorso was sure the ten fancifully decorated ones were for the women. The cloth tops, stretched across frames, were painted. One was a moon over a chain of mountains. Another showed a tiger leaping after an escaping deer. A third was nothing but roses, large and small, red and yellow and white. The wheels and yokes were painted, as well. Lorso noted all this while pausing against a large rock outcrop.

  He felt eyes.

  As nonchalant as possible, he feigned examining his boot, and inspected his back trail. Maintaining the same casual mien, he scanned the slopes on his flanks. Trees were thick on both, but well spaced, with little brush between them. There were uncountable places to hide, but nothing shouted of danger.

  Brush crowded the path leading into the valley and wagons. Normally a horse and game trail, the weeds and brush showed the scars left by the huge wheels. Telling himself he was behaving like a frightened fawn, Lorso pushed aside the eerie feeling of being watched and stepped out toward his men. At the same time, he knew he’d seen or heard or smelled something, and he’d failed to identify it.

  The arrow meant for his chest passed in front of him so close it sliced open his billowing shirt. Not to be entirely denied, the razor-sharp head nicked the underside of his right upper arm on its way to a clattering stop in the brush. Yelling, Lorso dove for cover in the brush, clamping his left hand on the nasty little cut in his arm while the right drew his sword. Cursing himself for not carrying his own bow and arrows, he lifted his head slowly, cautiously.

  Far up the mountainside, a man ran away. The distance startled Lorso. It wasn’t surprising that the arrow missed; it was amazing that it even came close.

  Lorso’s shout had been heard. The Skan crew and several women tumbled out of the wagons. A few Windband nomads made an appearance. One swung onto a horse, not bothering with saddle or bridle. Whacking an open hand against the animal’s rump, he galloped to Lorso, arriving in a skidding halt.

  “Is it a bad wound?” the nomad asked; then, without waiting for an answer, “Who did it? A River?”

  The newcomer’s face fell when Lorso admitted he had no idea. Joy replaced disappointment when Lorso added that the man was fleeing up the mountain, and pointed to the figure clambering across some rocks. “A hunt!” the rider exulted. “A man. Best game of all. Sorry about your arm. Doesn’t look like much. We’ll get him for you, though. I got to go get the others.” He left at the run.

  The first of the Skan arrived shortly after the nomad raced off. Lorso’s wound was inspected and bandaged with practiced expertise. Long before the last Skan straggler reached Lorso, however, a pack of mounted nomads streamed up the mountainside. Their whoops and screams resounded through the valley. The Skan watched with the stoic interest of men analyzing a danger that might one day demand attention. The tough, barrel chested horses of Windband seemed to defy gravity. Lorso wondered if these improbable animals had claws instead of hooves, the way they scratched and gouged their way uphill. Their riders clung to them like demons, only to leap off just when it seemed the beast must pitch over backward. On foot, the riders helped the horses. Sometimes they pulled them up by the bridles. A few actually tucked in behind the mount, shoulder to the horse’s hind end, and hoisted them forward to the next firm purchase.

  Simultaneously, another Windband party howled around the eastern side of the mountain. Lorso guessed they’d make a long circle to cut off any escape to the south.

  He almost felt sorry for the fool who’d tried to kill him.

  Chapter 25

  Moonpriest suffered no abstract sympathy for Lorso’s potential killer. Listening to the tale, he appeared to burn with a quiet, mad rage. Long after Lorso finished, he sat immobile, gaze fixed on a point far beyond the tent walls.

  Watching him made Lorso uncomfortable. Tears of Jade had much the same habit. Lorso took the opportunity to examine the tent. Rather, that room of the tent. Four standard Skan cabins would fit in that one room. The white material admitted a filtered, muted light that was bright without heat. Rugs covered almost the entire floor. Where they failed to meet across the flattened, pounded earth, slaves had strewn thyme, mint, and other herbs. All those aromas mingled with the thick smell of warm beeswax, the primary waterproofing agent.

  Seating consisted of ornately carved chairs arranged in a semicircle facing a slightly raised platform. Moonpriest sat on the latter on a long, padded object. Lorso was told it was a sofa. It too, was white, so soft Moonpriest appeared to be absorbed. A dark purple-blue screen was backdrop. The color of the cloth was eccentric, lighter in some places than others. At the top center there was a hazy moon that shimmered confusingly, but which dominated the screen, nevertheless.

  The thing was merely a piece of luxurious prettiness to Lorso until he looked away, then looked back. Suddenly, he saw its significance. The moon drifted in twilight. The paler colors indicated stripes of cloud. Moonpriest sat immersed in the scene, a creature of the sky.

  “Sylah.” The solitary grating word jerked Lorso out of his inspection. Unmoving, Moonpriest repeated himself, louder. “Sylah. It has to be Sylah. Not even Gan Moondark inspires the fanaticism to attempt such a foolish, useless act.”

  Bristling, Lorso rose. “Foolish? Useless? Me?”

  “Sit down. You hear insult where there is none.” Moonpriest gestured impatiently, so preoccupied with his own thoughts he failed to encompass Lorso’s anger. “The Skan sent their finest warrior to me to create an alliance. Gan Moondark knows killing you would infuriate your people. Your own men would testify no treachery was involved. The schismatic devil Sylah understands nothing as well as she understands murder. You’ll see. The man will tell us.”

  Lorso scoffed. “First you’ll have to catch him.”

  “If the man flies, Fox will scent him in the sky. If he swims, Fox will track his ripples in the stream.”

  “Even so, he may die before he confesses.”

  Moonpriest laughed. The expression that accompanied it lifted the back hair on Lorso’s neck. “If his faith serves him well, he’ll die resisting capture. When we get our hands on him, he’ll confess. Oh, my, yes. You’ll see.”

  Reluctantly, Moonpriest admitted to himself his rudeness toward Lorso. He inquired solicitously about Lorso’s wound, clucking concern over possible infection. Lorso’s demeanor was impressive; he was more concerned about the damage to his shirt. Not until Lorso’s explanation did Moonpriest realize the material was linen, and not cotton. The further revelation that the dye that made it such a rich blue was indigo was even more impressive. Seeing Moonpriest’s interest in those things, Lorso launched on a description of linen manufacture.

  Moonpriest groaned inwardly. Hastily, but tactfully, he interrupted. “This is something I very much want to learn, Lorso, but I must always be working on newer, better weapons for our victory.”

  Watching Lorso leave, Moonpriest wondered if the ignorant savage had any comprehension of just how important those new weapons would be. The Skan were no better at siege operations than the nomads of Windband. Both cultures struck without warning to loot and pillage, then disappeared. One faded into the vastness of the sea, the other into the equally accommodating spaces of the Dry.

  That had to end. Raiders could spearhead conquest, but trade and industry were the basis of empire.

  Moonpriest bent forward, cupping his chin in his hand, contemplating. After the disaster with Conway, with its terrible fires in the Windband camps, there were many who declared him a false god. That number multiplied when the attack on Church Home failed and plague fell on all Windband. Yet he overcame. Living proof that his mission was blessed.

  Empire. There must be a base. Church and state in one place. In one man. In one man-god.

  No empire could flourish without assured access to the sea. No religion could be secure without barricades for defense against unbelievers. The fortified cities of Ola and Harbundai offered solution to both problems.

  Moonpriest rose with swift d
ecision, swirled outside in his full white-and-silver shirt and trousers to mount his white horse. A slave steadied the animal until Moonpriest was well seated. Moonpriest accepted the action as a courtesy; he was a far better horseman now. One traveled with Windband mounted and at high speed, or got jounced and battered dizzy in a wagon that took forever to get anywhere.

  Riding south, Moonpriest soon reached an indistinct trail that branched off the well-traveled route paralleling the river. It appeared to head directly into the face of the towering mountains, but instead, it led to a narrow valley.

  A little farther on, his goal stood revealed.

  Raw wood shining against the dusky background, alone in its clearing, a massive catapult, the type properly called a trebuchet, waited to be tested.

  Moonpriest listened to the nervous slave in charge of its construction. “She’s sound now, Moonpriest. We can take her apart in a morning, put her together again in the time between second meal and darkness. She’ll throw a stone as heavy as a big man as far as the best arrow flight.”

  “How long to build another?”

  The slave’s visible tension soared. “Sometimes the wood’s flawed, Moonpriest. Or the bull-hide lines aren’t as strong as they should be.”

  “You’ll meet my requirements or die.”

  “Four days. Five, in rainy weather.”

  “Three. And part of the fourth. Damn the weather. Now, make this thing work.”

  The slave ran to the machine and his crew. The long arm, with its basket made of thick leather strapping, lowered backward as men heaved on the winch handles. The stone-weighted end raised. Streaming sweat, the workers twisted the wheel. The basket dropped. At last, four men heaved a bulky slab of stone into the mesh.

  The men released the winch. The basket rose. The weight fell, came to a slamming, booming stop. The long end whipped forward impossibly; Moonpriest doubted his eyes. The timber bent like a reed. The stone cut the air with a noise like falling water. When it struck the cliff wall, the thrown stone shattered explosively. Great shards of living rock blasted away from the cliff, leaving a discolored, jagged wound. Pieces even slipped free after the main damage was done.

  The grinning slave in charge said, “I told you. We have it. Do you want to see how we take her apart now? Or throw another rock? It doesn’t take long.”

  Moonpriest was satisfied. He reined his horse into a whirling turn and trotted off.

  The sun was low in the sky, gilding the restless surface of the river, when Fox and the search party rode into the camp. Whoops and shouts announced success. Stopping in front of Moonpriest’s tent, they called out their news.

  The battered, bloodied man leashed to a horse swayed in their midst. His face was scraped raw, his shirt torn from his shoulders to hang in shreds across his belt. The skin of his chest and stomach looked burned from being dragged. It was hard to tell if the blood puddling where he stood was from his lacerated bare feet or if it flowed there from his other injuries.

  Moonpriest stepped out to examine the prisoner. To Fox, he gave a curt “Good work,” then circled the man slowly. The man panted, gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. “Give him a drink,” Moonpriest ordered, waiting until the gulping, straining man took all he wanted.

  Moonpriest spoke gently. “You tried to kill my friend. Tell me why.”

  It took two tries for the man to form words. “Skan. Important Skan. Pink-and-black stone, sostone. Thought he’d have lots. Rob him, sell stone.”

  “Why lie to me?” Moonpriest reached out, jerked the defeated chin up, twisted to make the man look him in the eye. “I only ask you questions so you may answer with truth, and lessen your punishment. I am Moonpriest, the man who is a god, the god who is a man.”

  “Truth.” The man tried to gesture with the hands behind his back. “Wanted to rob. Please. Don’t kill me.”

  Fox said, “He’s a Peddler.”

  Moonpriest smiled. “Give him more water. Food, if he wants it. He’ll be useful this evening. Lorso should be happy to see we take the attempt on his life as a serious matter.”

  Fox said, “When he finds out it was a filthy Peddler who shot at him, he’ll take that very seriously, himself.”

  Later, as Lorso and his crew approached, nomads uncovered the large wagon, now resting in the center of a roped-off area. Hundreds of Rivers pressed against the barrier, and they emitted a collective sound of wonderment and awe as the device stood revealed. The Skan ranged behind Lorso muttered among themselves. One called out: “Is that what everyone talks about, Lorso? The god’s lightning wagon?”

  Spinning around, Lorso’s stiff leg caused him to pitch to the side. Caught by surprise, one man failed to get out of the way, stumbling into a companion. There was a series of bumps and curses. The group came to a shuddering halt. Lorso snarled at them. “We serve our own god. I’ve told you; no Skan challenges Moonpriest, this Moondance thing, or any other false beliefs. We defend ourselves if we must. But I’ll hear no more about other gods. Is that understood?”

  An older man said, “Everyone understands. It’s just that—”

  Brusquely, Lorso talked over the explanation. “Stay together there, at the near corner of the roped-off square. If there’s treachery, fight back to the sharker. Who cuts the mooring lines?”

  Two hands went up.

  “And if they fail?”

  Two other men signaled.

  “Good. I sit at a special table with Moonpriest, Fox, Saris, and some Rivers. Be alert. Remember, you’re Skan.”

  Still irritable, Lorso suffered through introductions to several River chiefs and dignitaries. After the first two, they all looked alike; floppy trousers, floppy hats, self-important floppy faces. They favored feather decorations. Colorful, but they swayed and bobbed and jittered, adding to his general feeling that these weren’t substantial men.

  Once protocol was observed, Moonpriest took the Skan leader’s arm. “Come. I want you to see my mother’s altar.”

  The two of them walked all around the device. Moonpriest said nothing until they returned to the front, which was identified by highly polished copper stairs leading from the broad bed of the wagon to the top of the altar’s platform.

  Moonpriest enjoyed the irony of the situation. Lorso had no faith whatever in the power of the moon mother. The supreme jest was that if the principle of a static generator were explained to him, the bloody-minded savage would transmute the hard science of it to magic even as he heard it. Playing the game to its limit, Moonpriest pointed out the most obvious features of the device, giving them explanations Lorso could accept.

  “The actual altar is the table in the middle of the wagon bed. The two ceramic disks are called moon disks. You see how they’re separated by that large piece of framed leather? Actually, they’re mounted on the same axle—you can see it sticking out of the center, braced on those two triangular stanchions. The two disks are kept separated to signify the moon we see part of the time, and the moon hidden to us part of the time. Big, aren’t they? Just about as far across as from your fingertips to your shoulder.”

  Badly feigning polite interest, Lorso said, “It’s pretty. I understand the four painted columns on the leather in the frame; each column represents a changing phase of the moon, from full to dark, and so do the metal images stuck to the top of the frame. The metal rays pinned to the face of the disks must signify a harvest moon. They’re copper, and we call the red moon the Time of Harvest. It probably means good harvests for all your followers.”

  Sarcasm tainted the words, a mere wisp of scorn. Moonpriest heard it as clearly as brass. A flush inched up his throat. “The rays show how my mother’s power flows in all directions. She blesses all seasons.” Moonpriest reached to stroke one, from its narrow inner point to the rounded fatter end that reached about a handspan from the disk’s outer edge. The ridged form was mirror-smooth. Even the copper pins holding them in place on the disk caused no appreciable surface roughness. Moonpriest let his hand wander to the
two thin rods projecting from the triangular axle brace. One extended to the upper left of the disk, one to the lower right. Brushes of copper wire at the ends touched the copper rays.

  Forgetting his guest entirely, Moonpriest fondled the rattlesnakes carved into the nearest of the two posts flanking the disk-separating leather screen. Facing out on both sides of each post, one snake stopped just short of the ball carved at the top of the post, while the other reached only halfway up. The lower held a comb in its mouth. The copper teeth of all four combs thus mounted were perpendicular to the disk, almost touching the copper rays.

  Moonpriest checked the stability of one of the copper rods attached to the closest pair of snake-held combs. The rods plugged into horizontal holes in the closest carved pole. Directly below that hole, a copper chain came out a similar opening; the lower end coiled on the wooden part of the altar surface. A copper wire tied to the farthest pair of combs dropped to a copper slab atop the altar; the metal sat on several thicknesses of waxed wildcow hide. From that, twin copper rods, like bannisters, spanned directly to another copper slab on the floor of the wagon bed.

  The altar was perfection. Only Moonpriest knew its truth. Even those fools who sided with Sylah, and the weak-boweled preachings of her ineffectual Church, couldn’t control his mother’s power. Only Moonpriest. They might understand the generation of electricity, but could they duplicate his construction? Who but Moonpriest could build such a device that allowed him to destroy the unworthy and spare the needed? Moonpriest. Moonpriest.

  “Moonpriest?” Lorso’s puzzled call violated Moonpriest’s inner soliloquy. He spun around. Lorso was pointing to the far end of the wagon. “Those things; are they part of your religion?”

  “Yes.” Moonpriest collected himself, composed explanation. He gestured for Lorso to follow. Handing the Skan two tubular, flat-bottomed copper pots, he said, “See how well these sacred objects are made.” He bent to pick up a porcelain jar, swiftly taking something from inside it, slipping it behind his back. Ingenuously, ignoring Lorso’s attempts to get a glimpse of the hidden object, Moonpriest said, “See how seamless the copper pots? Now, look how the porcelain jars slips neatly into the larger one?” Moonpriest lowered it into the pot in Lorso’s right hand, continuing, “Now, put the smaller copper pot inside the porcelain one. There; finest porcelain, completely sleeved in purest metal, save where the porcelain extends this little distance at the top. Three strengths are needed, Lorso. Three. This is the collector that holds my mother’s power, waiting to judge the true and the false. Set the containers on the metal slab, just as they are.”