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

by Don McQuinn

  Thin high-pitched fluting spiked the cold, clear air. A single note, crystalline. It froze Conway and Tate as effectively as a shout of alarm. When the sound broke, transformed into shimmering trills, the change was almost visible, as if the music suddenly turned to glittering splinters.

  Then it was gone.

  Mikka remained hidden. Karda, even farther ahead, failed to appear or sound off.

  Worried, Conway signaled he was going forward. Tate moved to accompany him. He frowned, shaking his head in a negative. He pointed at their back trail. Grudgingly, she nodded.

  Conway advanced on foot. Mobility was less of a concern than stealth in such heavy forest. If needed, a whistle would bring Stormracer at a gallop. Gliding from tree to tree, Conway closed in on the point where he’d last seen Mikka. He flipped the wipe’s safety.

  The dog blended almost perfectly with the rock outcrop where she sheltered. She was aware of Conway long before he saw her. Nevertheless, she held her position, staring off uphill in a manner Conway could only consider confused. The hackles on her neck were raised. Conway thrilled at the fierceness of her when she glanced his way.

  Karda drifted into sight. His dark bulk slipped from cover to cover as lightly as fog. Conway was disturbed to see that like Mikka, the big male was uncertain about the presence above them.

  Incongruous, unwanted memory twisted and squirmed in Conway’s deepest consciousness, demanded presence. He saw a grove of trees, carefully tended. A Church grove, holy. Lanta walked there, sad and alone, playing a flute. But that was a long time ago. The melody and tone were different. Conway shook his head, made an inarticulate sound of dismissal. Lanta was in Ola, safe from exactly this sort of testing puzzle or any other danger.

  Bringing the dogs to heel, Conway returned to Tate. “I’ll go see what I can find. Some rocks up ahead will give you good cover while I’m gone.”

  “Forget it. I’m coming with you. Whoever that was, he knew we were here. I feel it. He was a long way off, for that flute to sound the way it did. He’s been watching us. He just let us know it.”

  Deciding against argument, Conway described the odd behavior of the dogs. “I’ve never seen them like that,” he finished.

  Tate merely nodded, falling in with her companion’s departure. The route was directly up the slope, which grew steadily steeper. Snow gleamed dully where they finally spotted the still, waiting dogs. Dismounting, Tate and Conway again thoroughly checked their surroundings. To the flanks stretched unbroken forest, majestic trunks melding distantly into impenetrable walls. The mountain was quite narrow at that point, and the slope of Snowfather Mountain was visible beyond the left shoulder. Not far above the dogs, the trees on their own mountain ended. The landscape became stone and snow, a brooding, disapproving presence.

  Leading the horses, Conway and Tate pressed forward. The dogs watched them come. Karda, indicating his unconcern, sat down and scratched busily.

  Footprints were perfectly clear in the new-fallen snow. Someone walked out of the forest directly to a comfortably flat rock. Flattened snow showed the imprint of a seat. Conway said, “He wasn’t worried about us catching him. Look at the strides. Even, heel and toe; no hurry.”

  Tate used her foot to measure. “Not a big man. Shoe size about the same as mine.”

  Straight-faced, Conway said, “Some people would question that deduction.”

  Tate’s eyes narrowed. “Some people might mourn a man who made snotty remarks about the size of a woman’s feet. I wouldn’t.”

  “Point taken.” Conway moved to trace the mysterious flutist. Tate followed. The dogs ranged ahead on the flanks. They were relaxed. At the edge of the snow, Conway’s tracking abilities fell short of further pursuit. He said, “We can put the dogs on him.”

  “Why? He did no harm. And if he wants to draw us into an ambush, what better way? Anyhow, we’ve got our own fish to fry.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Conway rubbed his jaw. “The dogs certainly don’t know what to make of this. What bothers me is knowing there’s been someone on the back trail. This could be connected with that.”

  “We don’t know someone’s following us. We saw a fire one night and smoke the next morning. That’s it.”

  Stubbornly, Conway disagreed. “No one lives up here. Or hasn’t since the Mountains were crushed. And you’ve seen the way the dogs keep dropping behind us, sniffing like crazy every time the wind blows from the west. They know.”

  “They know doodly. Have they gone on alert the way they did when they got wind of our flute player? No. Because there’s no one back there.” Gesturing at the rectangular carrying case lashed behind Conway’s saddle, she went on. “Even with the scope on the sniper rifle, we saw nothing. An hour scanning, at least, and all we proved is that the solar panels still drive the computer sight.”

  “We’ll see. You’re right about one thing; we have to get moving. I don’t want to get caught up here when the bad weather hits.”

  They were halfway back to the trail when both dogs warned of a presence ahead. Again they behaved as if their hearts weren’t in their work. They shifted uncomfortably. Hackles remained down. Dark eyes flicked continuously between Conway and the unseen intruder.

  Conway readied his wipe. Over his shoulder, he saw Tate do the same. She moved into position abreast of him. At Conway’s signal, the dogs led, ghosting from cover to cover. The riders followed, weapons ready.

  A lone figure waited. For a moment, Conway thought he was looking at a bear. Only when the person shifted did he realize he saw a bearskin draped over someone hiding among the rocks. It was the same place Mikka had used for shelter.

  Tate leaned against a tree, braced to provide covering fire. Conway dismounted, moved forward.

  The figure jerked. Reflexively, Conway flung up his wipe. An instant before firing, he was amazed to realize that whoever was wearing the bearskin cover was fighting sleep. Now that he was closer, he saw the general outline of a drooping head, a body sitting with knees drawn up, arms folded across them.

  Tate had spoken of ambush. Conway realized his vulnerability. The dogs were preoccupied. Tate was so close she’d be involved, couldn’t provide backup.

  Piercing, the flute called. Closer. The singular note again broke apart into warbling variations. The figure stirred.

  The dogs watched Conway. Panting, eyes round with expectation, they crouched. White fangs framed lolling, red tongues.

  Conway decided. If this was to be an ambush, he’d trigger it on his terms, not his opponent’s. He launched the dogs. Roaring, they charged. Long, pistoning legs devoured the ground to their victim.

  The bearskin robe flew to the side. Disbelief twisted a face pale as the snow of the mountain. Hands outstretched in pitiable plea, Lanta shrieked terror.

  Chapter 13

  Conway screamed at the dogs to break off the attack. Karda planted his forelegs, locked the knees. Mikka was fractionally slower. Her bulk slammed into the larger male. She bowled him sideways. Unable to regain her own balance, Mikka tumbled onto her side, skidding through the forest duff.

  With both huge animals scrambling to their feet, jostling her, Lanta’s screams choked to a breathless stop. Conway was with her as fast as he could move. Barely in time, he caught her as she gave way.

  Clumsily, he lowered her to a sitting attitude, Tate, not troubling with discussion, adjusted Lanta into a prone position, feet raised. Rushing to her horse, she yanked a heavy blanket from a saddlebag, returning to swaddle the small, still figure. Little by little, color returned to Lanta’s cheeks. Pale lips regained tone.

  Conway’s gaze locked with Tate’s. They stared at each other across their patient. Almost inaudible, Conway said, “I almost killed her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You had no way of knowing it was her.”

  “That’s the whole point. I had no idea who it was. But I set the dogs on her, anyway. Just to be sure. What am I, Tate?”

  Tate bowed her head, busied herself tucking
the blanket under Lanta. “What are you? You’re alive. And unless you want to become dead, you’ll keep on doing what you did. These aren’t called the Enemy Mountains because people ran out of names. We don’t have any friends here.”

  “Lanta’s not a friend?”

  “Don’t play games with me. You did what was right. It won’t be Lanta, next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time. I’m taking her back to Ola.”

  Tate was cold. “Whatever. Leave the sniper rifle.”

  “I have to take her back. She’s cast out. No one’ll hesitate to kill her, now that she doesn’t have Church protection.”

  Tate didn’t trust herself to speak further. Feelings raged through her, whirlpools of frustration, anger, confusion. Of all people, Conway should understand the importance of denying the contents of the crèche to Moonpriest. Instead of leaping at the opportunity to help, he’d been unenthusiastic from the start. Now he was being obstructive. It wasn’t fair.

  She’d left Nalatan because this mission was so vital. Her marriage might be mortally wounded. Yet Nalatan stepped aside for her. Lanta broke that bond of mutuality between Conway and herself, and all Conway wanted to do was protect her. The best chance Church—and a reasonable civilization—had was the survival of the Three Territories as a haven. Lanta was endangering that concept.

  Lanta was with her man, in spite of everything. Conway was creating a romance while Donnacee Tate might very well be destroying hers. It wasn’t fair.

  Eyelids fluttering, Lanta inhaled deeply, exhaled in a long sigh. She looked up at Conway. A delicate smile brushed across her features. Suddenly, her eyes flew wide and she lunged upward.

  Tate and Conway restrained her. Conway said, “It’s all right. You’re safe. Unhurt. You fainted. You’re all right now.”

  Craning about, Lanta located the dogs. They returned her frightened stare with studied disinterest. Karda yawned. At the sight of the teeth, Lanta hastily looked away. She focused on Conway. Her voice was shaky. “I was afraid to follow you up the mountain. I heard something—music—up there. I knew you’d come back down. I waited. I must have fallen asleep. Why…?” Her gaze went to the reclining dogs again, making it unnecessary to finish the question.

  “I’m so sorry.” Conway put his hand to her cheek. “The bearskin cloak confused me. I was afraid of an ambush. I’m ashamed.”

  Lanta’s protest was alarmed. “No, no. You were right. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, I’d have heard you, called out. It’s my fault. But we’re together now. Everything’s all right.”

  “We’ll be back in Ola in a few days. We’ll always be together.”

  Lanta insisted on rising. Conway and Tate watched uneasily until she was fully erect, braced against the rock behind her. Voice steadied, Lanta said, “I’m here to go with you.”

  “Impossible. No one outside our tribe can go where we’re going. It’s forbidden.” Tate’s words grated. Her look at Conway demanded he concur.

  Conway addressed Tate. “It makes no difference. I told you, Church’s life protection doesn’t include her anymore, so I’m taking her back to Ola.”

  “I won’t go back.” The calm assurance broke the confrontational pressure building between Conway and Tate. Lanta continued. “I must go with you, Matt Conway. I care nothing for your secrets. I care nothing for the edicts of a false Church that denies me my due. My life is unimportant unless I live it as a complete person. I can never be that until this matter between us is resolved. We’re one, or we’re not. This mission of yours will tell us.”

  Harsher than ever, Tate said, “You Saw? Peeked into the future?”

  “If I knew the future, I’d have no need to be here. Nor would you.”

  Furious, Tate glared. The unshakeable determination of the smaller woman fueled her resentment. If Nalatan had been so quietly insistent, would it have made a difference? If he suddenly appeared, as committed as Lanta, what could she do about it?

  Words burned on her tongue. Just as they were about to be unleashed, Tate truly saw the other woman. The cruel, barbed phrases died. There was something in Lanta’s pinched, pale features that dashed the angry things she yearned to shout. Tate realized she was seeing the gamble of a person whose emotional losses demanded one final try. Lanta, the woman everyone half-feared because she might already know their future, was betting her own.

  Conway said, “Tate’s right, Lanta; there are too many good reasons for you to stay in Ola. The most important one is, I love you.”

  Tate stifled a groan. If either Conway or Lanta heard, they gave no sign. Lanta said, “The risk is to our life. If you go without me and don’t come back, what do I have? If you go back to Ola with me, what value is your friendship to Tate? If you refuse me the right to come with you, what does it say of your confidence in me?”

  Like a fighter unable to fend off all the blows aimed at him, Conway could only blink and dodge. Wearily, he concentrated on the one thing he felt he could contend with. “I’m worried about your safety.”

  “And I told you I care nothing for it. I don’t want to die. But I’d rather that than go on loving you and fearing you and loving you and fearing you and…” She turned away. A tear ran wet silver down her cheek. She brushed it off with a distracted, jerky motion.

  Conway looked to Tate.

  Tate wanted to speak to him as badly as she’d wanted to berate Lanta, earlier. In truth, the heat of resentment still brought hot, smoky words of criticism to her mind. She pulled free of them. Nevertheless, she forced herself to confront Conway’s beseeching with a face like stone.

  At last, he turned back to Lanta. “Have you thought what it’ll do to me if you’re hurt?”

  Lanta balled her fists. “Will you never understand? We must do this together. This is our test.”

  “I don’t need any test. I love you. I want to see you safe.”

  “And I love you. For us, though, love isn’t enough. We’ve hurt each other too much. Can’t you see I can’t be safe inside myself until I know I trust you, that you trust me? Without something to share, we’ll never heal the wound that holds us apart. It’s like cautery; no matter how badly it hurts, sometimes it’s the only cure we have.”

  Conway’s gaze dropped. Slowly, he turned from Lanta. His shoulders rose and fell in a long, time-consuming breath. He walked away bowed, legs working stiffly.

  Tate watched, still silent, thinking how worn out he looked. Lanta, on the other hand, was taut. Birdlike, she appeared poised for flight. Tate’s mind went to the huge rafts of ducks that banded together on the lakes of Ola. Just before migration, there was a nervous energy in those flocks that one could feel. Tate remembered watching the birds only a few days before this trip, thinking how one sensed in them that trembling urge to simply go.

  Tate’s earlier anger collapsed. Quietly, unwilling to disturb Conway, Tate eased up against Lanta. The smaller woman’s expression didn’t alter, nor did her focus leave Conway’s back. Still, there was an almost-imperceptible responsive lean into the contact.

  Conway said, “I don’t see how this can help.”

  Tate felt a shock of defeat run through Lanta. Fumbling, she reached down, took Lanta’s cold hand in her own.

  Conway continued. “The dangers are too many to list. We can’t let you know exactly what we’re doing. But if you believe it’s what we need, I’ll do anything.”

  Lanta seemed to fly to him, reaching to take his face between her hands. “I told you, I don’t want to know anything. Except about us.”

  A wan, baffled smile lifted Conway’s features. “Why couldn’t we be like everyone else? Why couldn’t we just fall in love, be silly, say stupid things?”

  Examining Conway’s features as if he were some exciting new discovery, Lanta answered. Wonder and love overshadowed the prim Church-teaching of her words. “There are reasons for things that we can never comprehend. We are tested in order that we may succeed. We fail in order that we may learn to try again. There is a goal for e
ach of us.”

  “You’re my goal.”

  Lanta blushed. She smiled, a radiance of joy.

  Tate cleared her throat before attempting to speak. “We’ve lost a lot of travel time. Can we move out now?”

  Lanta whirled to face her. “My horse. I forgot. It’s hobbled, down the trail.”

  Conway was already on the way to his mount. “Stay here with Tate. I’ll get it.” He trotted off, the dogs racing to precede him.

  Lanta moved to stand in front of Tate. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What about? You two?”

  “That. And about Nalatan.” She winced at Tate’s frown, but plunged ahead. “I almost asked him to come with me to find you and Matt. Oh, you and Nalatan don’t have the trouble between you that Matt and I have, but you feared something about Nalatan when you felt yourself falling in love with him. Maybe you’re answering a question of your own with this journey. I don’t know. But I know I’m your friend. What you want for you and your husband is what I want for you.”

  Resentment flared anew, red-raw, uncaring. “What if I want you to keep your ideas about my life to yourself? What if I want you to straighten out your own messed-up romance and leave me and Nalatan alone?”

  If Lanta was affected by the hostility of Tate’s response, she gave no sign. “I wanted you to know. I want you to forgive me, to help me, so I can help you.”

  Tate retreated to her mount, cinching the girth with a jerk that made the poor animal snort with surprise. It turned to look at her, the huge, dark eye round with wounded disbelief. Under her breath, Tate muttered, “Don’t you start, horse. I’ll take it out on you if I want to. I’m riding into who-knows-what with Miss Lonelyhearts and Sir Gala-stupid-had; I don’t need sad-eyed trash from some slope-shouldered hay furnace. How can she say a dumb thing like that? Nalatan and me. How can she think there’s any problem with us? She wouldn’t know happiness if it was a rock the size of a barn. On her foot. Without a shoe. Crazy little twit.”

  The sound of conversation brought her up short. The others rode to join her. Conway and the dogs led. Tate dropped back to rear guard.