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

by Don McQuinn

  By helping destroy Church, Gan undercut the one force that could keep social balance.

  Grudgingly, Emso conceded that the black powder was a good thing. Still, like reading or numbers, it was something that had to be understood for exactly what it was. At least Gan realized it was a weapon. Leclerc was brilliant to create it, a fool to think ordinary people could use it to break ordinary rocks and so forth. A stupid concept. Then he made things worse. The coke, for making steel. Cut the ground right out from under the charcoal makers, that did. Worse, it made it too easy for just anyone to get his hands on better steel. Smiths were turning out far more quality material.

  Now it was a pump. Typical. No understanding of people. Anyone could see; once people knew there was a way to put out a house fire, everyone’d want a pump for his part of the city. Or one for every neighborhood. Or more than one. There’d be no end to it. They’d get careless. Whole place would go up.

  Emso felt ill. It seemed everything conspired to move Gan further and further from the truth. Further from the real Gan.

  Chapter 21

  Emso bristled at his first sight of Baron Ondrat’s fortified village. The ugly heap shouted presumption, squatting broadly on its knoll, lording it over the small walled town. An ostentatious banner flew from the castle’s central tower. Emso conceded there was a certain rightness in the design, at least. Whichever ancestor chose a boar’s head as the Ondrat totem must have anticipated his presiding descendant.

  The outer defensive wall was made of huge vertical logs. Emso sniffed. Although they’d require great heat to ignite, once aflame, they were certain to set off the buildings behind, which were far too close. Secondly, the rank vegetation growing in the fields around the walls was untrimmed and ungrazed. There was abundant cover for a surprise attack. Grass even hung over the outer edges of the downed drawbridge, proof that it hadn’t been raised and the mechanism checked for a long time. There weren’t even guards on the wall. A muddy trail led from the east gate to a mounded midden at the edge of the forest. Rats scampered on the accumulated offal in broad daylight. Emso muttered, “This kennel belongs to the man who thinks to correct Gan Moondark? Agh! Ten hungover Wolves, that’s all I’d need. Flatten this festered wart before breakfast. Needs burned just to get clean.”

  “You spoke?” The Violet Abbess fixed him with a challenging glare.

  “Only thinking what to say to the Baron when we discuss military matters.”

  “We’re here to speak of helping Gan. There won’t be any need of that.”

  “Oh, there may be,” Emso said easily. Ondrat’s slovenly barony was the only hopeful subject to come along all day, he considered sourly. More, it was the first thing he’d completely understood. And now there was going to be more discussion, more argument. He fell in listlessly behind the Abbess. She led the way across the drawbridge. A lone guard, slouched inside the wall, picked his teeth with a twig as they rode past.

  Despite the general decrepitude of the buildings, despite the litter cluttering the streets and narrow alleys, Emso smiled, tried to appear friendly. The people of the town who bothered to meet his gaze did so with blunt curiosity. Emso felt it as half antipathy, half repressed hostility.

  A man bellowed angrily. Emso turned to see him standing over a woman. Disregarding a veritable rain of shouted abuse, she scrambled on hands and knees, snatching at a spilled basket load of apples that bounced and rolled brightly in the street rubbish. Another woman, accompanied by a man Emso assumed to be her husband, bent to help. Her escort yanked her uptight. She yelled at the pain, but that was all. The man making all the noise looked to the husband who smiled openly. “All alike,” he said, jerking a thumb from his wife to the other woman. “Always in the way. I saw what happened. You all right?”

  The angry man grunted. “Ran right into me. Lucky I didn’t get juice on me, or something. Ought to put them back in the women’s market, where they used to be.” He obviously had more to say, but he caught his new friend’s warning lift of the chin. Turning, the offended one looked directly up at Emso. He set his jaw in sullen defiance before turning away. At his feet, the market woman was struggling to rise. He said, “It wasn’t my fault. You should have looked where you were going.” With a sidelong squint in Emso’s direction, the man strode off. The husband and wife beamed smiles for the Abbess and Emso as they, too, left.

  The woman, finally upright, and with most of her apples back in her basket, bowed low to the Abbess. Freeing a hand, she made a clumsy three-sign. The Abbess acknowledged it with a tiny nod. The woman said, “I tried to get out of his way. I really did. He was too big, going too fast. I think my skirt’s torn.” Distracted, her head swiveled constantly as she tried to combine propriety and the search for lost fruit.

  “It’s the price we pay for equality.” The Abbess edged her mount closer to the woman. It lowered its head, nuzzling aside a noisome pile of decaying cabbage. After a loud snuffle, it rose with an apple. The fruit disappeared in a satisfied crunch. Pretending not to notice the market woman’s expression, the Abbess went on. “Equality means men no longer protect us from other men. It means if you wish to sell your apples in what used to be the men’s market, you should expect no favoritism. It’s wrong for women to be unequal, of course, but now that we have equality, we must be careful to be fair. We’re not as strong as men. It’s our responsibility to remember, and avoid conflict.”

  The woman paused in her search. A minute gleam flicked across her eyes. “I was trying to avoid conflict. I was trying to keep from getting dumped on my a… apples.”

  “You must forget the incident, remember the principle. Without equality, you wouldn’t be allowed to sell here, where the men have traditionally been. Equality means you share the best selling place, and the hazards thereof.”

  “The old place was a muddy sinkhole. No one came to buy. What good’s this equality thing if all we get is more work and more abuse from the likes of that hog that knocked me down?”

  “Oh, that’s beyond me, beyond Church. The rule of the land says it must be so, and I can only try to explain to those Church used to protect.”

  Thoughtfully, the woman nodded. The Abbess spurred her horse forward.

  Coming abreast of her, Emso said, “I never thought of that, what you told that woman. With someone like Gan to make sure equality worked, it seemed flawless. There are problems I never thought of.”

  “That’s not your responsibility. Sylah and her alien friends started all this when Gan first assumed power. That was in your own home; Jalail, wasn’t it? Your traditional Baron died. Or was killed. Something.”

  Before Emso could respond, they were at the gate of the castle. The encircling defensive wall was a simple raised mound of dirt with a few rock-faced emplacements. The best Emso could say for it was that it was commanded by arrow slits in the stone walls of the castle itself.

  Two towering doors, painted red, decorated with black boars’ heads facing each other, admitted directly into the great room. It was cold, dank, dark. Tattered banners and weapons hanging from the walls and cross beams celebrated past Ondrat triumphs. Emso noted their age. Victory in battle appeared to be a thing of memory. The nearest wall held a collection of armor, in the Olan style. The heavy metal torso pieces and leg shields were suspended from hooks. Above them, polished helmets with flowing horsetail plumes sat on a shelf.

  Smoke backdrafting from a series of fireplaces thickened air already cloyed with mint and soap. Emso smiled to himself; Ondrat was making an effort to live up to Gan’s insistence on cleanliness.

  Ondrat entered at the far end of the great room. He greeted his guests warmly, dressed in surprisingly formal attire. His russet wool shirt was clean, quite probably new. Over that was a gleaming leatherjacket well-oiled and rubbed. Boots complemented the jacket’s quality workmanship; they were laced up the side, highly polished. Wool homespun trousers were tucked inside in order to display the striking circlet of bluejay feathers at the top of each boot. On his left
wrist, clamped outside the shirt, was a huge silver bracelet. It featured the same boar’s head as the flag. On his right wrist was another bracelet, steel, large enough to be considered an arm guard. In fact, Emso noticed with increased interest, there were several deep scars in the metal.

  Once the Abbess and Emso were comfortably seated in soft leather sling chairs in front of the largest fireplace, Ondrat carefully inspected the entire room. It took long enough to try the patience of the Abbess. “Surely you don’t suspect disloyalty from your house people?”

  Finishing, Ondrat said, “I don’t suspect, Abbess; I expect. That way all my disappointments at least have a pleasant aftermath.”

  The Abbess took charge of the conversation. “I’ve already told Emso about your concern for Gan and Church. You know Emso. You, a warrior and a noble, can most appreciate the loyalty that’s made his name the most honored in the Three Territories.” She looked directly into Emso’s eyes. “I say these things not to embarrass you, but to emphasize the purity of what we discuss here today. Of all men, you are the last to tolerate any mark on the honor of Gan Moondark. We mean to lift him to greater glory. We mean to bring him to Church.”

  Emso looked away. “I love Church, Abbess. As does Gan. And, in her way, so does Sylah.” At the Abbess’ recoil, Emso stuck out his chin. “Your feud with the former Rose Priestess has spilled over into your relationship with Gan, and that pains me more than I can say. There’s good reason for Sylah to be uncertain. Disaffected, even. The one called the Harvester, who rules Church as Sister Mother now, tried to kill Sylah. Not after Sylah was cast out, but when she was still a Rose Priestess. The Harvester tried to kill Violet Priestess Lanta when she was still one of yours.”

  Tenting her fingertips under her chin in a prayerful attitude, the Abbess shed anger, grew solemn. “Corruption at such levels as Sylah and Lanta occupied is unique in the history of Church. It shattered the Sister Mother. She reacted badly, and has repented at great length.” Then, shifting expressions with dazzling speed, she was confiding. “But what repentance from Sylah? She who sullies the souls of our innocent Chosens, leads our beloved Gan to contaminate all the old ways. When you see her and the alien women, with their unknown ways and histories, who else do you see? Leclerc.” The Abbess sat back in relaxed triumph. “What friend for a witch if not another witch?”

  This time Emso didn’t bother to hide a jerky, darting three-sign. Still, he refused to abandon a friend. “I know Sylah. Gan trusts her.”

  Ondrat showed a feral smile. “Without trust there can be no closeness. Without closeness, no betrayal. What witch admits her condition?”

  “Or her conversion.” The Abbess’ sly suggestion made Emso blink. She attacked. “When Sylah led Lanta, Conway, and Tate south, her quarrel was with the Harvester, not with Church. Since returning, however, has Sylah ever affirmed loyalty to Church? Church was—is—her only family. Is that a natural thing? Sister Mother said what she’s become, and Church speaks truth. Eat the pain of the truth, admit the truth. Witchcraft.”

  Emso shook his head, mute, miserable.

  The Abbess looked to Ondrat. Her nod was almost infinitesimal. He said, “There’s proof, Emso. If you’ve the heart for it.”

  Red-rimmed eyes fixed Ondrat with a look of murder. The Baron took a quick step backward, raised the hand with the steel wrist guard. “I meant no wrong word, friend. What I can show you is harsh. I want your word you’ll draw no weapon in my castle.”

  “So long as I’m not attacked.” The words could have blown in from a cave, chill with implication.

  Ondrat spun on his heel, practically trotted to the door. Flinging it open, he gestured for someone to enter.

  Domel stepped into view.

  “Skan.” Emso spat the word as he rose, hand to sword.

  Waiting for just that move, the Abbess reached to check him. “It’s all right. He’s one of us, now.”

  Emso made a growling noise deep in his chest. The Abbess tightened her grip. As Ondrat approached cautiously, she continued. “Listen to Ondrat. Meet this man. He’s come to help us, risked his life for us.”

  Domel stepped forward. “My name is Domel, a Navigator of the Skan People. Baron Ondrat tells me you are Emso, right hand to Gan Moondark. Yours is a name all Skan know.”

  “There’ll be a lot fewer to know it after the battle this spring.”

  Domel held his composure. “I tested my god. I rejected the god’s spirit woman. I put to sea in a boat that weighs little more than your home, and I dared the god to take me. I beat him. His wind and waves and his stormwitches failed. Do not try me. Not until you’ve bested a god, as I have.”

  Ondrat, nodding furiously, grinning, forced his way into the discussion. “A family of clamdiggers brought him to me. They found him on the beach, more dead than alive. I—”

  Emso cut across his contribution. “Your name’s Domel, you said. Very well. Why come to the Three Territories, to Gan Moondark? Skan have no friends here.”

  Visibly relaxing, Domel answered in a confiding manner. “When I made landfall on Baron Ondrat’s coast, I was so weak I thought I must die. But I made land: You understand the significance? I defeated Sosolassa and his sea. Healers, including the Violet Abbess, saved me. If I’d been able to fight, I’d have killed the fishermen who found me, but I lived, robbed of my tribe, my honor, my family. Why help your Murdat? To help myself. To bring down those who chained me to a false god. Just as Gan Moondark is humiliated without knowing it.”

  “Careful.” Emso’s word was a growl.

  Imperturbable, Domel continued. “You doubt? Know, then. Our war leader is named Lorso. He made alliance with Windband and most of the River People. They mean to finish the work started by the Kwa. Devastation. Slavery. Once that task is complete, Sister Mother will be killed. A new Sister Mother is to be empowered.”

  “Who replaces her?”

  “There is the master treachery. Do you really believe that three warriors and two Priestesses defeated the nomads of Windband without witchwork? Can you believe that these aliens, who kill with thunder and lightning, are satisfied to give away all their power to further Gan’s ambitions? My friends, the Violet Abbess and the noble Baron Ondrat, tell me there is an alien named Leclerc who creates strange things, things no man has ever seen. Can you believe this power, like the knowledge being forced on the Chosens, exists solely to benefit Gan? Witches roam your lands. Imagine a witch as Sister Mother.”

  The Abbess interceded. “We’re not without hope or resources. Gan Moondark’s heart is without actual sin. We may save him yet. You may.”

  Emso looked to her. She smiled. “The Skan sharkers won’t mass to strike us until spring. Domel volunteers to lead a strike against the main village.”

  “To destroy his own people? With what forces? What boats?”

  “My boats. My men.” Ondrat threw out his chest. “We are more than fishermen, Emso. Once Ondrat sailors roamed as fiercely as the Skan.” He turned, indicating the aged trophies.

  He missed the quick dismissal that passed between Emso and Domel. From that mutually attuned glance, Emso seemed to take strength. He straightened, so slowly it was almost unnoticeable. The minute, gloating smile that touched the Violet Abbess’ lips was proof that she saw. And understood.

  Emso asked Domel, “You’re sure it can be done?”

  “With luck. Once I’ve disposed of Tears of Jade and her usurper son, the Skan will know that the old god is overthrown. They’ll come to Church. I’ll cancel the Skan attack on the Territories.”

  “If I work behind my best friend’s back, even to his advantage, I trust nothing to luck. I will know every move, every decision made. Nothing is done without my approval.”

  Ondrat and Domel looked at each other, turned to the Abbess. She clapped her hands, childlike in her glee. The angular face crackled into myriad lines of laughter. The sound pealed through the room, echoing wildly. “Wonderful, Emso. Oh, wonderful, my staunch friend. But now I have better news
. Hear Domel.”

  Sitting down, Domel waited for Emso to do the same. Then he said, “I arranged escape for the girl Jaleeta. I’m a recent convert to the true Church. She always believed. She must not know I’m here. She can’t reveal what she doesn’t know, and I fear for her if Sylah learns her true faith. Of all of us, she is bravest, risks the most. Who would dare deceive a witch like Sylah, live in her very shadow? Jaleeta confirmed that Moonpriest and Sylah conspire to replace the real Church. Remember, Moonpriest is an alien, too, yet I’m told Sylah even saved his life, once. There was no real escape with the treasure of the Door. It’s all treachery, lies within lies. Once we eliminate the Skan attack, Gan will turn all his attention to Moonpriest. The cowardly plans of Sylah and the anti-Church will be forced into the open. You’ll be waiting for them. To save Gan from himself.”

  Domel leaned back, satisfied.

  A gnarled, scarred hand worried at Emso’s kneecap. He studied it as if it revealed deep truths. “Everything fits. Except Nalatan. He’s a warrior-monk. He’s no alien. He may be bewitched by Tate, but nothing else. If there was no fighting, no escape, how do you account for him? Are you saying he’s a traitor, too?” He looked up at last, sharp, predatory.

  The Violet Abbess answered before Domel could. “Only a few breaths ago, you defended Sylah. We’ve demonstrated how viciously cunning she is. We know what she’s done to poor Gan’s mind. You realize now what she’s done to yours. What horrible things have she and Lanta done to that monk? He knows nothing of women. Or witches.”

  “Tate loves him. And him her. There’s no mistaking that.” Emso gripped the edge of his chair as if that hold were the only thing keeping him from falling off the earth.