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

by Don McQuinn

  Tate mulled over Lanta’s remarks. Was it possible there was something in her manner toward Nalatan that suggested stress? Distrust?

  Impossible. She loved the man. Completely. Unquestioningly.

  Black woman. White man. Pounding in her head. Black woman. White man.

  Was that why she insisted he stay behind? Did she, in her heart of hearts, need to test him?

  Something checked her internalizing. Ahead, Conway was stopped. Concerned, he looked back past an equally disturbed Lanta, on beyond Tate herself.

  The flute. Behind them, close. The tone was lower than before, richer. Gentle melody sighed through the forest told of loss, dismay. Rising in the stirrups, Tate sought the source. There was only the music.

  The end came as a rising, spiraling sound that stretched upward, upward, until it was a shrill, stabbing whistle. And then, achingly abrupt, it was as though it had never been.

  Chapter 14

  Tears of Jade hugged herself under the whitebearskin cloak. She wore boots and hat of the same material, the latter with flaps that covered her ears. A band across her face covered everything but her eyes. They blazed at the storm-racked sea. Wind scratched their tenderness. Features compressed in blinking pain.

  When she forced her lids open again, sea and horizon melded into a gray blur. She murmured nervously when that nothingness was suddenly shot through with light dazzles.

  Occasionally, when her true sight was blinded, she saw other things.

  Tears of Jade decided not to be frightened this time. Huddled in her warm clothes, she abandoned herself to a preening, snug pleasure. Visions were, after all, a gift of the god, and he was far more jealous than generous.

  Tears of Jade smiled. Many thought her mad. She heard some of the whispers. Informants seeking favor scrambled to expose others. All the insectlike skittering only proved no one could be trusted.

  Only the god.

  As if expressing approval, the god drew her attention to the sea, gave her vision through the waves, into the deep. There, in the swaying kelp and seaweed gardens, she saw the obscene revels that presently beat the ocean to wild frenzy. Ugly, deformed things frolicked, dancing around huge underwater fires of ice that lofted rolling plumes of freezing water. Tears of Jade thrilled, knowing that she was a favored one, that the horrors being visited on the victims would never be hers. Still, the monsters laughed at her, hated her. Reached. Tentacles. Claws. Red, pincer-mouths. Hands of rotting flesh. The sea clouded, closed her out.

  Another vision. A sharker came dead east, driven by a storm that sang death in harp-taut rigging. Skan sailors, men who knew the sea better than most men know a lover, crouched against the gunwales and listened to water and wind wrenching their ship apart.

  Tears of Jade’s inward-turned gaze brought her the bow of the sharker. The figurehead. Lorso.

  For a moment she thought fear transfixed him, but a second, closer look showed fury. Eyes bulged. Jaw jutted. Fists of ice, blue-white and glistening, battered his way through a towering wave. The next wave was larger; he clawed his way up the face of it, dove headlong down the opposite side.

  Behind the man-ship Lorso, cowering in the hull that was his body, the crew called his name. Lorso himself bellowed into the storm. The power of his voice blasted wavetops into silvered spume. Shattered waves fell toward him, only to cleave and let him pass.

  Pounding her walking stick into the scant soil crowning the overlook, the old, bent woman whirled away from the apparition.

  She cautiously opened her eyes to the real world. All was as ordinary people saw it.

  What did the vision mean? Never, ever, had she seen Lorso so suffused with wrath. Not even when he was transported with religious fury, killing for Sosolassa.

  Painfully, the twisted figure pulled itself fully upright. Aching joints and brittle tendons conformed to indomitable will.

  A blast of wind howled in from the sea, nearly bowled her over. From within her thick furs, her night-dark eyes sparkled. She crooned softly, the wordless singsong of a mother jollying an infant. Another gust, weaker, buffeted her. She laughed happily, reeling at the thrust. Loving Sosolassa. So wise. Willing to be playful with a slave.

  Far to sea, Tears of Jade thought she saw a wave crest move at a wrong angle. Cupping a hand at her brow, she stared. A sail. Reefed, little more than a speck against the tumult. Quartering across the wind driving from the southeast.

  “Lorso.” The single word reeked pride. “The son of Tears of Jade. Only my son could survive.” She stopped. There was such a thing as too much ability.

  Tears of Jade made her halting way down from the overlook. Men gathered in trees at the base of the knoll shifted uncomfortably as she drew closer.

  Domel broke the apprehensive silence. “Does the god choose to instruct us?”

  Indicating her ornate sedan chair with the walking stick, Tears of Jade waited for two of her bearer team to come help her into the seat before answering. “Lorso comes. We must hurry. I must be there when he arrives.”

  Domel bowed silent assent. He cut his eyes at the sedan chair bearers, saw the apprehension. Their burden was painfully heavy. Being slaves, they knew what was in store if their pace faltered on the long return to the harbor. What would happen to all of them if one stumbled, much less fell, didn’t bear thinking about.

  Tears of Jade shouted orders. The eight bearers shouldered the chair. The slave at the right front called a cadence. In a short distance, they were moving at a surprisingly swift pace. The men accompanying Tears of Jade followed on horseback.

  The longitudinal poles of the sedan chair rested on massive pillows. That combined with the peculiarly loose-kneed stride of the runners, provided a jolt-free ride. Still, a constant barrage of criticism rasped through the fur curtains enclosing Tears of Jade’s compartment. Sensitive to every nuance of the men’s movement, she criticized each by position, even though unable to see them. “Second forward left. You’re a full half-step off first forward’s rhythm. You, left rear leader. I feel you bending away from your share. Get your shoulder into that pole, or I’ll have it broken for you. Heave! Lazy piece of filth.”

  Sweat poured off the straining bearers. Expressionless, precise, they churned along the trail back to the Skan village.

  On arrival at the harbor beach, they slowed to a careful stop. The leader called hoarse commands. Pivoting in unison, each bearer grasped his pole in both hands. When they bent to lower the chair, they sank into clouds of steam rising from their bodies. Second right forward and right rear leader pulled back the curtains to lift their passenger free of her chair. Exiting, Tears of Jade inspected them. They stood erect, eyes straight ahead. Their limbs trembled, and their chests rose and fell rapidly. One struggled to contain a cough. To Domel, she said, “Grain them well tonight. Put a flax poultice on right forward leader; he’s trying to hide a limp. I want them cooled out right and then rubbed down. By a man. They’re treacherous brush stallions, and I won’t have them wasting their strength on some slave mare unless I want them bred.”

  Domel turned to one of the boys gathered to watch the group. “You. Take this team to Tears of Jade’s stables.”

  The boy, bold-eyed as a jay, leaped to obey. In fact, he vaulted to the roof of the sedan chair. From his perch, he grinned at Tears of Jade, a shifting, nervous mix of daring and trepidation. Domel tensed. The bearers started, gawked.

  Tears of Jade deliberately removed her veil. Then she laughed, a rustle that bared her teeth. “You’d test your luck would you? Get away. Take good care of my stock.”

  Shouting commands in a cracking voice victimized by hormones and excitement, the boy drove off the team. His smile for his friends was triumph. Still, he kept a wary eye on the bent old woman. Tears of Jade spoke to Domel. “Get that brat’s name. I want to know more about him. Now, where’s my son?”

  As if in answer, Lorso’s sharker surfed into the entry of the narrow coastal indentation leading from open sea past the mouth of Skan’s protecte
d harbor. The Skan called the channel the Throat. With the wind flogging her, the sharker sped down its length as if, indeed, being swallowed. The steely waters leaped and tumbled in a welter of crosscurrents. Under Lorso’s sure hand, the sharker danced along as if the Throat were mere play. She heeled over to dash into the quiet waters of the harbor with a flip of her stern.

  Domel said, “He handles her gracefully. You must be very proud.”

  She turned, peered up at him. He smiled, sent a small gesture toward the ship. “The hand of Sosolassa is surely on him. Stormtime is always deadly. He always survives. People say he’s blessed. It must be comforting.”

  “You can’t imagine.” Tears of Jade smiled, looking away to assure Domel couldn’t catch the sarcastic twist of it.

  The beaching went smoothly. Slaves lay smooth logs in place while others waded out to attach lines to the hull. The fat beachmaster, grizzled and wrinkled from a lifetime of outdoor exertion, slashed speed out of his workers with a heavy sealskin whip. A multiple pulley system, one of the many fixed to tree trunks buried in the earth, greatly facilitated outhauling the vessel on the log rollers. As the sleek vessel rose from her natural element, suddenly tentative on her narrow bottom, the roller-placement crew returned with long, forked poles. These fit the oar holes, and the slaves holding them kept the sharker upright. When she was sufficiently clear of the water, the poles were wedged into the earth. Braced, her seaweed cloaked barnacled hull dripping, the sharker’s ferocious bear figurehead was suddenly no more than a carving, frustrated and helpless.

  A crane swung over the side, dangling a large net. It was a short distance to the ground; nevertheless, when the line snapped and the cargo thudded to the rocky earth, Lorso bellowed anger. Slaves rushed to release the net. Open, it spilled its cargo of humans. Most struggled to rise, their bound wrists and ankles entangling and dropping them once more. The beachmaster sent his crew among them, separating one from another, pitching them free of the thrashing pile like ears of corn.

  Lorso’s dissatisfaction was reserved for his crane operator. “Any injured come out of your share.” The order still hung in the air as Lorso leaped over the side. He moved among the slaves, poking, prodding. There appeared to be little damage, and he left with no further recrimination. After embracing the unresponsive Tears of Jade and exchanging properly formal greetings, he told her, “Twenty adult males. Puked their brains out all the way from the Mother River. Call themselves River People. Don’t know any more about water than a rock.” Lingering excitement made his words staccato. Energy shone from his face like a fire devouring its last splinters of fuel. “Where’s Jaleeta?”

  Domel said, “Congratulations on a safe voyage, Lorso. I’ll see to the slaves, and leave you with your mother.” He had to pass Tears of Jade to reach the slave barracks. His departure had the rigid precision of a man who dares not run.

  Tears of Jade clutched Domel’s sleeve. He froze. Taloned fingers hooked in the material, she said, “Domel knows all about what happened.”

  Disbelief swamped Domel’s features.

  Completely unaware of the older man, Lorso repeated himself. “Where’s Jaleeta? I don’t see her.”

  “The girl betrayed me. She betrayed the Skan.” Tears of Jade freed the stunned Domel. She turned to lead Lorso away. He grabbed her shoulder, spun her around. Ignoring her quick bright fury, he snarled his questions. “Is she all right? Where is she?”

  Tears of Jade looked deep into his eyes. A curled, dry hand moved to disengage his grip. Lorso’s hard, callused fingers peeled back without resistance, limp as seaweed. She said, “No one has ever tricked me so. Hurt me so.” She ducked her head. Drawing erect after a moment, she was the proud, injured spirit woman. “I trusted her. So evil, Lorso; she never warned her mother. I had hopes for her. I’m old. Perhaps too old. She was so young, so beautiful. I hoped…” Emotion overwhelmed her.

  “Where? When?” Lorso’s words were more like groans.

  Domel was rigid. Afraid to leave, he acted as if immobility might make him disappear. Tears of Jade went on. “Somehow she escaped. Stole a boat. We know that. My spies tell me she’s safe in the castle of Gan Moondark.”

  “Safe? With our worst enemy? He’ll kill her when we move against him. He’ll make her hostage.”

  “Hostage? One who’s betrayed us? Who here, besides me, could ever care what happens to her?”

  Lorso gaped. The weight of his sin, his deception, his lost love—all coalesced in one instant into a huge, unbearable mass. His eyes rolled up, nothing but whites showing. Skin turned gray as ashes. Tears of Jade planted the foot of her walking stick firmly, slammed it forward. Lorso yelled, grabbed his battered forehead. Pain restored awareness.

  Tears of Jade said, “It’s not necessary to mourn so, my son. I know how you love me, but you must not be so distraught because a slave abused my affection. Yes, I was fond of her, but now I must think of the Skan. She knows little of our plans, and my pain at her deception is unimportant. Only I cared about Jaleeta, only I am shamed in the eyes of good men such as Domel and all the rest of the Skan. Isn’t that true?”

  Lorso looked into the eyes of the woman who spoke to a god. “She betrayed. You trusted her. She betrayed love.”

  No longer able to watch, Domel looked away. As much as he feared Lorso, there was something in this new agonized manner that repelled him.

  Tears of Jade saw only a creation responding perfectly. She smiled at the self-hatred in Lorso’s voice. She told him, “Never mind. If Gan Moondark, or one of his followers, thinks he can use her, we know how foolish that is. Anyhow, we’ll recapture her when we crush the Three Territories.” She paused, brightening. “What if we can recover her? And punish her.”

  From the corner of her eye, Tears of Jade saw Lorso’s hand twitch toward the hilt of his sword. She wanted to sing her joy. All her years of training was condensed into that one gesture, barely noticeable even to the most observant. Only Tears of Jade understood its significance.

  Lorso wanted to kill. Yearned to kill, as he yearned for the brainless slut who unwittingly bound him ever tighter to the one who understood his true destiny.

  The god was good. Sosolassa blessed.

  “Come to my cabin. We have many things to discuss.”

  Lorso, panting, followed eagerly.

  Chapter 15

  Domel, having escaped to shelter in the slave barracks, watched Tears of Jade lead her son away.

  The stink of danger burned his nose. In his mind he heard Lorso’s eager question: “Where’s Jaleeta?” Two words. A thunderclap. Expected. Unnerving nevertheless.

  At that moment Domel comprehended the mesh of the treachery that now ensnared him. Stomach churning, he cursed the old hag’s duplicity, his own unquestioning stupidity. His face wrinkled with self-contempt, remembering the seductive words of Tears of Jade as she described how Lorso would be eager to recapture Jaleeta.

  Lorso was besotted. He wasn’t mindless. Sooner or later he’d discover Jaleeta had help escaping. Blood would splash the earth in waves.

  Domel berated himself. He’d let himself be flattered by Tears of Jade’s wheedling insistence that only a man of his wisdom could assist in her plot. Fool. He’d thought to please her. And profit. Shameful. Words rang in his memory: “You’re the only one I can trust, Domel. It will be the same with my son. No one man can rule the Skan, and he’ll need your sure counsel. Help me, and I’ll know you and your sons are the ones to stand beside Lorso.”

  Domel’s hand crept up to stroke his chin. He stared at the distant treetops in deep contemplation. No one was more influential among the Skan than himself. There was reason to be apprehensive about her plans for him, but to become paralyzed by that fear was as dangerous as to pretend the plans didn’t exist. In fact, she might not be as clever as she thought. For all her powers, for all her hold over the Skan, she was very much alone.

  Alone. A woman. With a secret not even she dared reveal to her son. Nor could she afford to have so
meone else bring it to light.

  Rock-hard muscles slid toward relaxation. Whatever schemes Tears of Jade was hatching, she’d need help to bring them to life.

  Domel turned to face the inside of the barracks. Through his preoccupation, he saw the whites of terrified eyes. The curved roof arched high over the heads of the huddled slaves and the bored guards squatting against the walls. In the dusky light piercing the rents in the hide walls bared swords had a dull, sullen gleam. The smell of hopeless fear mixed with the stench of seldom-aired bedding and infrequently washed bodies.

  Domel’s attention locked on his own situation. Things weren’t too bad, he told himself. Not as long as he knew such a fearsome secret. A crooked bitter smile lifted a corner of his mouth. If there was something worse than knowing a secret that could harm Tears of Jade, it was not knowing such a secret.

  A good dagger would cut with either edge.

  Domel realized the guards were watching him, puzzled by his prolonged inactivity. He strode forward, growled orders. The bound captives were hurriedly formed into two lines, facing each other. Accompanied by two guards, Domel walked between them, determining crafts. Two woodworkers. One potter. One leather-worker. They were marched off. The rest identified themselves as fishermen, farmers, loggers.

  Domel’s next inspection was more meticulous. Guards ordered mouths opened. Some were pried open with knives. He checked teeth. Pinching, prodding, he examined muscle tone. Feet were lifted, examined. Fingers were counted, bent to evaluate strength and flexibility.

  Sixteen slaves watched Domel’s every move. He spoke to a guard. “Timberworkers first. Chained, working in the forest tomorrow. You understand?”

  The guard nodded. Domel faced the prisoners. His finger darted from one to another, each movement defining a lifetime’s servitude. “You. You. You.” He chose eight. Guards herded them away. “The rest to the sea-slave barracks.”

  Once again, bound, subdued men were led off.