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

by Don McQuinn

  There was command—and mystery—in the suddenly harsh voice. Resentment twitched at Lorso’s mind, but his body moved as if that new voice controlled it. When Lorso straightened, Moonpriest whipped the previously hidden thing from behind his back, thrust it in Lorso’s face.

  “The Man Who Is Death.” Moonpriest intoned, chin tucked against his chest. Slitted eyes peered upward. Slowly, he retracted the cast copper figurine. It was an elongated man standing on a circular base. The arms were pressed to the sides, fists clenched. The thin, bony legs were stiff. Huge, round eyes of white quartz stared. Bone teeth gleamed in a tiny, gaping mouth that screamed eternal, silent terror.

  The piece went into the smaller copper pot. Head and shoulders extended above the top. “You will see.” Moonpriest’s words were northwind’s hiss in icy rigging. Transfixed by the bright inhumanity of the figurine’s glaring eyes, pierced by Moonpriest’s voice, Lorso’s thoughts scattered, his heart raced, his knees felt unsound.

  Tears of Jade. Only she spoke and stole his strength. Only her.

  Until now.

  Chapter 26

  Lorso never spoke until he was safely returned to the torchlit riverbank and seated at the official table with Fox, Saris, and the River dignitaries. By the time Saris rose to introduce Moonpriest to the newly arrived Rivers from their distant villages, he was berating himself for allowing Moonpriest’s posturing to disturb him. At the end of Saris’ surprisingly short speech, Lorso was sufficiently recovered to sneer at Moonpriest’s back as the white-clad man left the table. Every Skan knew Sosolassa raised the moon to pull the sea higher onto land; that was how the god peaceably showed man his strength. Sosolassa’s angered strength was a thing best not thought about. What power could a scrawny landscum like Moonpriest squeeze from clay and copper?

  Tears of Jade would grind him to powder.

  Moonpriest gathered himself to make his about-face. Taking hold of his robe with one hand, he started his turn, then flung the material so it billowed. Torchlight picked out the silver wire artfully woven into the cloth. When the swirling subsided, he bowed to his River hosts. Rising, he caught Lorso’s eye. For a moment, he considered a bold, conspiratorial wink for the Skan leader. Lorso’s expression quashed that idea. Disappointment touched Moonpriest’s eagerness. He was certain he’d seen a glimmer of fear when he confronted Lorso with the Man Who Is Death. Now Moonpriest sensed hostility.

  Which made the game that much more exciting. What the savages didn’t understand was that they couldn’t win.

  Gods play. Men gamble.

  With the moon altar to his back, his audience to both flanks and the front, Moonpriest spoke. He opened his true mind, the god’s mind, and his mother poured beguilement through him. Reason flowed from his mouth, coated with sweet cajoling, spiced with wit and humor. Moonpriest soared within himself, intoxicated by his own words, no more conscious of their source or sequence than a plant analyzes the component nourishments of the earth.

  Lorso strained against the compulsive voice that exhorted and then lulled, only to stir his heart again. No warrior could hear of eternal life gained through death, of a life after death in a land of honor and pride, without yearning.

  Lorso pulled back. His own god had ears. Punishments.

  He looked to his men, scowled. Those who caught his glance quickly lost their foolish, gawking expressions. They elbowed the men next to them, surreptitiously indicating Lorso’s black disapproval.

  Moonpriest saw it all. The god within him floated free, looked down at Lorso, laughed happily. Bringing such a one into the correct faith would be more rewarding than attracting a hundred weak-willed fools.

  Then, while the god that was Moonpriest hovered, unseen by mortals, enjoying the vibrancy of the words coming from the man that was also Moonpriest, something disturbing happened.

  The man who had become Moonpriest looked into the eyes of the man who had become the god called Moonpriest.

  The god reeled at the revulsion in the man, at the desolation and abandonment. Moonpriest the god felt exposed, violated.

  With dire determination, the god resumed his rightful primacy. The last mote of the deceitful, willful man’s thinking must cease.

  Moonpriest halted his oration. He signaled for Windband nomads to deliver the prisoner to him. Then he waved Lorso forward.

  Taking the Skan leader by the elbow, Moonpriest led him atop the wagon and positioned him at the far end, beyond the altar.

  Two nomads in ceremonial dress brought the prisoner. The guards wore tight jackets that exposed the arms from the shoulder, and loose, baggy trousers. The front of the clothes was solid white, the back solid black. The prisoner now wore a rough robe, white, sleeveless, that reached midway between knee and ankle. The guards hoisted him onto the wagon, standing him on the copper plate on the wagon bed at the center of the altar. The man showed neither fear nor hope. Still, he swayed, and gripped the copper railings with both hands.

  Lorso saw the venomous look Moonpriest flashed the prisoner, and deduced the man had somehow thwarted Moonpriest. The assumption was verified quickly.

  “See this wretch,” Moonpriest thundered. “He came to murder the friend of Moonpriest. Only the foulest of men claim the name of Peddler. Only Sylah would force any man, even an ambush murderer, to pretend to be one. This man had no pack animal, no goods to sell. Still, he refuses to admit that he is of Sylah’s Church. Denial will not save him. My mother will prove he lies.”

  Moonpriest did the unimaginable. He indicated Lorso should join him on the wagon.

  Stunned, Lorso didn’t move. The Skan crew stirred, made ominous noises of fear and warning. Moonpriest waved again. From the corner of his mouth, Saris urged compliance. “Go, Lorso. It’s a great honor. Many of my people will lose their own fear if they see you have none.”

  Lorso’s hand went to his sword. There was a hint of accusation in Saris’ tone, an inference that fear contributed to Lorso’s immovability.

  “He startled me.” Lorso rose quickly. A glance silenced his crew. Head up, Lorso paraded to the wagon. Ignoring the steps, he leaped smoothly to take his place beside Moonpriest. Many in the crowd made sounds of admiration.

  The prisoner looked at Lorso with undisguised contempt. It was hardly the expression of a defeated man, and Lorso speculated about defective questioning technique. Then he noted the hand gripping the copper banister. Flesh at the ends of the fingers oozed. The nails were missing.

  Moonpriest said, “I will show you that this man lies, that he is the enemy of Moondance, the enemy of all friends of Moonpriest.” A quick nod from him, and the nomad guards assumed seats on the ends of a long beam running perpendicular to the moon disk frame. There were crank handles in front of the seats. The men turned them. Leather belts set the disks to turning, slowly. They muttered, making Lorso think of distant surf. The wagon trembled.

  Taking the statuette of the Man Who Is Death from the receptacle on the altar, Moonpriest lifted it high. In the darkness, the polished copper figure glinted. Eerily, the hollow eyes seemed to suck light from the torches and swallow it. The agonized grimace swept the crowd. A low hum of anticipation rose.

  Waving the wandlike figure, Moonpriest spoke softly to Lorso. “I have a surprise for you tonight. There’s a deceiver among us. Saris says one of the River leaders at our table belongs to Sylah’s upstart wing of Church. He’s the true target of my mother’s fury. You’ll see.”

  Addressing the crowd again, Moonpriest replaced the figurine. “Many of you question if my mother strikes those I choose, or if she truly strikes those who lie to us, or mean us harm. Let one of you ask this prisoner a question to which we know the answer. Which of my friends will test our enemy?”

  “Me!” A short, thick warrior ducked under the restraining rope to posture bravely in the forbidden area. “Ask him if he’s afraid.”

  “Ask him yourself.” Moonpriest smiled benignly. Lorso smothered his own grin, knowing the questioner was planted. Tears of Jade used
the same technique.

  After the question was repeated, the prisoner answered with a shake of his head.

  The black-and-white guards increased the speed of the moon disks. The noise level rose. The wagon seemed to be trying to speak, its boards and fittings moaning in disorganized chorus. Raising his voice, Moonpriest spread his arms, gripped the decorative knob atop the carved post. “Take the Man Who Is Death from his place,” he said, moving to stand away from the frame. Lorso made room for him.

  Gingerly, favoring the ruined fingers, the man reached. Fear danced across his features, but his jaw remained clenched. He grabbed the cast copper piece and lifted. For a moment he swayed, unsure if he still lived. Then he scowled.

  “Put it back. There are other questions.” Moonpriest jerked his chin at the interrogator-warrior, who responded eagerly. “Prisoner! Are you a Peddler?”

  Once again, the Peddler acted out his part of the entertainment answering, lifting the figurine, replacing it. Other inane questions followed. The crowd was involved by then, enjoying themselves, asking if the man could fly, or lived under the river. Finally, Moonpriest quieted them.

  “Answer me, now, failed murderer. Answer my mother. All have seen you speak the truth. And live. I will ask you my question.” He flung out his arms, steadied himself by grasping the snake carved pole. “Those who accept Moondance and Moonpriest become as my spirit brother, the snake, able to shed this life as a skin. My brothers will be born again with me, to return to the world from the moon and live in paradise.”

  The guards worked harder. Sweat dripped from their chins, stained their clothes.

  The copper rays were a shining, solid wheel.

  Lorso caught an aroma, something he’d never smelled before. Clinging, demanding, it made him think of heat, but there was no sign of fire, except that of the torches.

  Sound picked at his ears. A sizzle. Malevolent. Connected with the bad, sticky smell. Lorso didn’t know why he knew that.

  “Are you sent by Church?” Each word rang.

  The prisoner smiled. An enigmatic, self-confident smile, as if there were a joke taking place, and only he comprehended. His voice was loud enough for those on the wagon and no one else. “I failed Church. She didn’t send me.” He turned his head, shouted over his shoulder at the seated dignitaries. “I was not sent by Church!”

  The bloodied, tortured hand shot forward toward the silent scream of the Man Who Is Death. A spark, startlingly bright blue-green in the dim ruddy light of torches, leaped to meet the grasp. There was an earsplitting crack. The prisoner gave a cry, indefinable.

  Lorso knew he would hear it for the rest of his life. Men died all around him all his life; none ever made that sound.

  None of them were killed by a god.

  The prisoner bolted erect. The outstretched arm went rigid as steel. Then, in the same instant, he flew backward. Flaccid, the body landed in a confused tumble.

  For the space of two or three heartbeats, a time that felt like seasons, no one stirred. Then, simultaneously, everyone erupted. Noise rolled across the night, across the river, echoed back. Someone called Moonpriest’s name. The crowd seized it, made it a chant.

  Moonpriest basked. He preened. He paraded the length of the wagon.

  Lorso refused to yell with the rest. He could refuse that; he couldn’t deny the roaring in his ears, the ripping beat of his heart. Moonpriest pulled him to the steps leading down from the wagon. Lorso stumbled along behind, elated and shamed at the same time. Moonpriest said, “We’ll speak to my traitorous River infiltrator now.”

  Moonpriest watched Lorso’s reaction carefully. Lorso’s silence during the spontaneous cheering only reinforced the conclusion that this was a leader, a man controlled by his own mind.

  It was exactly what was needed to counterbalance Fox, Moonpriest thought. Not that Fox wasn’t extremely bright, but he responded to emotion first. Thought came later. A man like Lorso would provide a perfect complement; a fighter—even a god—needed two hands.

  Moonpriest forced himself back to the present. He stopped in front of the accused spy. The mindless thunder of the crowd’s enthusiasm dwindled.

  Looking directly into the River’s eyes, Moonpriest said, “I know your heart. You are Sylah’s.”

  The River raised a hand, a defiance that made Moondance laugh aloud. Before the River could speak, Moondance continued. “Look at the false outrage. Liar. I demand you touch the Man Who Is Death.” Moonpriest stepped back. Projecting, calling on the trained voice, he spoke over his victim, past him, went directly to the crowd. “All have seen that my mother treasures truth. Speak honestly, and you are one of us. Lie, and your soul is burned.”

  “I can’t.” The River’s eyes rolled. A cottony swirl of spit speckled the corner of his mouth. “I mean I won’t. No one can question my honor. I’m an honest man. Just ask.” He stopped abruptly, seeking one who would vouch for him.

  Each former friend showed the face that denied: sad, furious, ashamed.

  Moonpriest said, “I need good men. Confess. Be forgiven. Join me. Help me.”

  Awareness of abandonment seemed to brace the man. “I will never be tested. No man questions my integrity.”

  “No man is. I am. Moonpriest. The god who is a man. Take my test, or be proven guilty for refusing.”

  The bare challenge was out. The crowd sighed anticipation.

  Breathing heavily, the River stared into Moonpriest’s eyes. His lips tightened. His words sounded as if drawn through ice. “I’ll take your test. Then I leave. I won’t be offended this way. You’ve made an enemy.”

  While everyone around the River relaxed, something told Moonpriest that this was a most dangerous time. He signaled his men to turn the moon disks.

  The River dropped his sword belt on his chair, then moved to the front of the table.

  Moonpriest led his victim toward the altar. He saw a River woman open her mouth as if to scream. Her eyes rounded. Hands clapped to her cheeks.

  Moonpriest dodged, dropped like a stone.

  The lunging River, knife in hand, tripped over Moonpriest’s feet, tumbled past.

  Lorso was thrusting at the spy before he could actually fall down. The sword took him just above the belt from behind. The impact drove him forward, out of control, bent at the waist in parody of age. A slash hacked into the unprotected nape of the neck. Almost decapitated, he wobbled on, three, four, five incredible, terrible steps.

  He ended facedown, arms reaching toward the moon disk altar.

  A strange sensation of separation filled Lorso. To his left, nomads and River allies encircled other Rivers, clearly those formerly commanded by the figure lying at his feet. People cheered, screamed, shouted. It was no more than a worrisome buzz in his ears. Moonpriest held him at arm’s length. Lorso watched the mouth work and heard nothing. Suddenly, however, words broke through.

  “It was as my mother foretold. ‘Keep Slavetaker at your side. He must know your power before he will consent to protect and ally with you.’ For this you stood with me at her altar. For this you stood with me to confront the traitor.”

  Lorso suffered the rest of the night’s events as a dream. Later, alone, he sat by the sharker’s tiller. Downstream, a dying moon plunged its curved blade into the horizon. Under Lorso’s dangling feet the unceasing river whispered urgent journey.

  Lorso clenched his fists, closed his eyes in a compressing scowl. He repeated the name of Sosolassa over and over.

  Chapter 27

  Shara and Cho stirred simultaneously. In tandem, both great heads lifted from between forepaws to sniff the air. With a smooth grace that denied their bulk, they rose from their comfortable doze. Gan ignored them until Cho leaned into his right side. He smiled down at the top of her head. She pushed that way when she was disturbed enough to want his attention, not disturbed enough to growl or bark. Grabbing a floppy ear, Gan gently pulled her head back and forth. “What’s this? Pretending there’s something dangerous out there, so you can lean on
me?”

  The heavy tail wagged lazily. Neither dog took its gaze from the doorway leading from the roof down into the castle’s interior.

  Certain this calm curiosity merely signaled the approach of someone unexpected, Gan watched the door, nevertheless. It was unlikely anyone meant to attack Murdat on the roof of his own castle, Gan thought wryly, but men who reacted only to what was probable didn’t grow old.

  He turned from the crenelated wall where he’d been staring out to sea. A twinge of resentment drew an unconscious frown across his forehead. The Inland Sea fascinated him. Not just its everchanging surface or the beauty of its mountain-ringed shores and islands. Gan saw more. He saw a path leading wherever courage would take one, a field of maneuver where skill matching valor must be the living heart of any battle. He saw a road, horizon to horizon, endless, that should carry trade in all directions. Trade. The soul of empire.

  Emso appeared, followed by Conway, then Tate, and finally Leclerc.

  Pretending to scold, Gan pushed down on both dogs’ heads. “Frauds, both of you. You knew who it was all along.” Bright eyes and canine grins called to mind impertinent children. Contributing to the image, both dogs lay down with gusting, self-satisfied sighs.