by Don McQuinn
The Abbess nodded, kind. “Wouldn’t you have to be witched before you’d let your wife go off into the mountains with another man? Poor Emso. You want so much for others to be as trustworthy and loyal as you. It cannot be, my friend. There are none like you, and you have fallen among the worst of the worst.”
“But Conway and Tate said their trip was a religious thing. A quest.”
Domel broke in. As he spoke, his eyes flicked at the others. Quick, erratic, they were like twinned, glittering insects. “Religious, indeed. Moondance. Lorso said all the aliens living under Gan Moondark’s protection are Moondance.”
The Abbess sent Domel a look of approval. “There you have it.”
“Gan’s a good man. Good.” Emso’s jaw jutted. He turned away.
The Abbess suffered with him. Tears misted her eyes. “We must get him back, Emso. He belongs with Church. We can save him.”
The trio watched in eager silence as he rocked back and forth.
* * *
From atop the castle tower, the Abbess and Ondrat watched the lone rider wend slowly down the track to Ola. Emso was almost within the forest, more than two bow-shots away. Ondrat still whispered his question. “Do you really trust him?”
Not bothering to look at her companion, she said, “Trust him? Of course not. He’s using us, just as we’re using him. In good time, we’ll destroy him. Or he’ll destroy himself. I don’t believe I ever saw a man so full of hate.”
“Him?” Ondrat pointed, startled.
The Abbess rounded on him. “Emso? Of course not. How could you ask? That fool’s a trussed hog. No smarter than the sword on his hip. Mighty warrior, hah.” She turned back for one last look as the forest absorbed the rider. “Watch Domel. He’s the one. Befriend him. Keep him hidden. And above all, keep a sharp knife at his back.”
Chapter 22
Tate came on Conway silently. He leaned against a tree, staring into a fiery dawn. Far below, coursing the valley as if pulled along by its tumbling stream, a wedge of ducks sped past. The oddly heavy bodies blended almost to invisibility against the green-black backdrop of forested mountainside. Without turning, Conway waved over his shoulder, then pointed directly overhead. Chagrined at having been detected so easily Tate ignored his gesture. “You’re getting as spooky as Nalatan and Gan. You couldn’t hear me coming.”
He faced her, grinning. “I knew someone was there. The dogs’ ears have been jerking around. They stayed relaxed. It was either you or Lanta.”
Tate walked to the animals, ruffled a huge head with each hand. “Big old tattletales.” Karda accepted the affection stoically. Mikka wagged her tail. Twice. An extravagant display. Tate asked, “What were you pointing at? You see something in the clouds?”
He nodded, pointing. Small, soft puffballs hurried along busily, generally southwest to northeast. “Rabbits, Gan calls them. They roll through first. Then come the wolves, the big clouds. It’s a weather front. We’ll get the wind soon.”
“We’ve got warm clothes. We’ll be all right.”
“Snow makes it hard to travel. It could get dangerous.”
Tate made a derisory sound. She whistled softly, the tune of the mysterious flute music of a few days prior. “This trip’s already dangerous. Anyhow, it’s too early for snow.”
“Tell the clouds. And my nose. I smell it.”
“We’ll be all right.” She faced east, stretched, took in a huge breath. The lithe body twisted and turned, luxuriating in the easy flow of muscle, the stimulated rush of blood. Sagging against a neighboring tree, she said, “Dangerous or not, it’s glorious. That’s what you were doing, isn’t it? Just looking?”
Conway chuckled. “You got me. I was trying to remember an overture.”
“A what? You?”
“Don’t be smart. I liked classical music. I was thinking of Berlioz’s overture to ‘Les Francs-Juges.’ This dawn is that music. The strings seem to mourn. Chilling, a sense of women lamenting. The brasses come in then, heavy. Tubas, trombones. The strings are absorbed, you know? The deep, heavy notes surround them, sound as if they’re crushing the orchestra, the audience.” He colored slightly. “Anyhow, that’s what I was thinking about.”
Tate’s smile broke open slowly. “You and Nalatan. Like two butter patties, slick as you can be. Just when I think I’ve got one of you all figured out, you slip something like this into the game. I’m out here in the middle of Woods-R-Us, wound up two turns tighter than the manual allows, and you’ve taken to hearing symphonies nobody’s played for five centuries.”
Conway’s laughter mingled with hers. He called the dogs, started back toward camp, Tate beside him. A noise like a sigh drifted lightly down from the distant tops of the trees. Continuing to match his stride, she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself while she craned upward. “I believe you called it,” she said. “I think I just heard your violins.”
Lanta looked up from the firepit as they arrived. A pot of water boiled over the flames. Pale smoke gently angled northeast. It dissipated before it was as tall as Conway.
Tate said, “Conway’s predicting snow. What do you think?”
Pouring a fine powder from a leather bag into three wooden cups Lanta nodded. “It could be heavy.” A gust of wind far above grunted agreement. A gray-and-black bird, somewhat larger than a robin, ghosted through the trees to land sideways on a huge fir. The deeply fissured bark, cracked like sunbaked mud, provided excellent footholds for the tiny, needled feet. It squawked. The dogs watched it intently.
Tate said, “Here he is. First bold eye of the morning. Good name for the greedy beggar. Listen to him.”
Lanta added water to the powder in the cups. Frowns marked her audience as the fire’s smoke verified greater wind strength. Conway said, “Let’s get moving. I’d like to be down the mountain when the weather breaks.”
Everyone picked up the pace of breaking camp. Instead of heated porridge, the meal of choice was a thick slab of bread and cheese, with pemmican. Conway sawed off chunks of the latter. The shredded meat, heavily herbed, was mixed with fat and smoked after it was packed in the cleaned gut. Its sharp scent saturated the campsite. The dogs begged with dignified eloquence. Conway threw them each a chunk, then sliced up leaf-thin bits for the half-dozen boldeyes now fluttering eagerly from tree to tree nearby. They called constantly, anticipating. Conway flipped morsels that were adeptly taken in midair.
Lanta scolded. “It’s bad enough to spoil the dogs. You shouldn’t spoil the birds, too.”
“I want them close. I listen for them. If something disturbs them, they’ll make noise.”
Tate paused in loading her packhorse to send him a surprised look, then went about her business. Lanta was more forthcoming. “I thought you were just amusing yourself.”
Conway grinned. “Well, some of that. There’s no harm in some fun.”
This time Tate’s look was outright astonished. In a voice only her horse heard, she said, “That’s the very limit, that is. Until she showed up, he was all business. Now he gets up in the morning to listen to symphonies no one else can hear. He makes nice-nice with our woodsy friends. What a change. The big question is, does he know it?”
Conway called to her, “What’re you mumbling about, Donnacee?”
“The meaning of life. Mind your own business. You ready to go?”
“Whoo. Touchy.” Conway mounted smoothly, gestured Karda ahead, sent Mikka loping down the back trail.
Tate moved to help Lanta with her problem pack mule. This morning it was suspiciously docile. Now, heaving on the cinch looped under the animal to secure the pack saddle, Lanta’s exasperated wail announced the devilment the beast had in mind for today’s trial. “She’s breathing. Like before. I knew she was being too quiet. Dumb mule.” The last was imprecation.
Tate grabbed the leather strap, pulled with Lanta. The mule grunted. “Maybe it’ll exhale if we wait.” Lanta’s suggestion carried no hope, and Tate answered accordingly. “This hammer-headed oatburner
will stand here with a gut full of air, taking teeny-tiny breaths, until we buckle the cinch and start walking. You know it. I know it. The mule knows it. We’ll get five steps down the trail and it’ll breathe out in one big ‘whoosh,’ and the whole load’ll be in the dirt.” She gave Lanta a look of resignation. “I’m going to have to do it again.”
“Are you sure?” Lanta put a feather-light hand on the mule’s flank. The skin quivered. “It seems so harsh.”
Tate sighed. “It does to me, too, but it doesn’t seem to bother the mule as much as it does us.” Tate bent her knees, bringing her shoulder level with the mule’s belly. Lanta grasped the loose cinch, planted her feet. Rising swiftly, Tate drove an elbow into the mule’s side. Compressed breath exploded from the animal in a lip flapping, nostril-flaring rush. The other end of the creature erupted in a ghastly, burbling bugling.
Both women yelped dismay, but gathered themselves quickly to yank on the cinch. It drew several holes tighter. The mule danced, an intricate piece of footwork that took it absolutely nowhere, but brimmed with immense self-satisfaction. Then it turned to fasten a sardonic, one-eyed gaze on Tate and Lanta. Moving so quickly the animal had no time to escape, Tate had it by the nose, opened its mouth. She peered inside. Wide-eyed with disbelief, Lanta asked, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for the problem.” Tate let go, stepped back. “This brute’s too mean, nasty, and crude to be just an ordinary animal. There’s got to be a man in there somewhere.” For a long moment, Lanta was frozen. Then, blushing wildly, she clapped her hands to her mouth. Laughter squealed past.
Continuing to break into repressed giggles from time to time, they mounted quickly and set off after Conway.
The descent soon turned sharply steeper. They saw where Conway’s horse slipped, ripping chunks out of the forest duff, and dismounted.
They came to a point where the grade was easier. Two small streams joined to create a third, larger and more boisterous. One felt the air now, a pulsation that labored along the ground, forging passage through the massive trunks.
Conway’s marker, a broken branch, indicated his path. For a while they paralleled the stream. Soon, however, they were directed across. The grade of the slope eased more. Lanta and Tate remounted. It was darker. The sky was a shroud of black, plodding clouds. Thunder muttered. Under her, Lanta’s horse shied nervously, pecking at the soft forest floor with quick erratic hooves.
When the snow came, it whirled through the branches on a suddenly raging wind that made the forest groan. Lanta looked back. Something moved in pursuit, a shadow against the snow-hazed darkness. Her heart leaped, a cry of warning seized in her throat. Then she recognized Mikka. Lanta waved at the dog, feeling foolish.
After that first roaring gust, the wind trailed off a bit. The snow continued, a swirling beauty that denied its deadly capabilities. The women admired it as they feared it, riding in silence, hunched over. The posture was a mental response; their fur, wool, and leather clothing could withstand far worse conditions.
Still, it was the bent attitude, with eyes cast down, that saved Lanta’s life. Had she been erect, attentive to the trail ahead, instead of her mount’s forefeet, the footprint would have escaped her attention. It was a large track, a man’s. No heel detail showed in the snow. A running print. A moccasin. Clear, only now smudging with soft, downy flakes.
All that information reached Lanta’s brain and was recorded and analyzed practically instantaneously. She threw herself onto her horse’s neck, digging in her heels. Startled, the animal bolted forward.
The arrow that sang out of the snow plucked at her robe. She pulled her racing horse aside, hurtled past Tate. The latter was already slinging her wipe into firing position. She charged in the direction of the archer, shrieking above the wind. Lanta whirled, saw a man struggling to reach cover behind a tree trunk. Before Tate could fire, her horse was on him; the man went down in a tumbling mass, trampled. Tate spun to return to the attack. Lanta saw there was no need. Heels beat the ground. Hands and arms stroked in a macabre swimming. Snow rushed to cover accusing blood.
Lanta slowed, dismounted. If there was life in the man, it was her responsibility to tend to it.
She heard the blow before she felt it.
There was a sound of exhalation. Then metal on metal, high-pitched; chain mail. A burst of pain, bright and sharp as the strike of a noon sun. Blessedly, that was gone as quickly as it came. It left a dull ache that sucked her strength away. She reached for her horse for support. She watched, dumfounded, as useless, dead fingers slid along the glistening flank.
Her knees buckled. Kneeling, she looked into Tate’s terrible expression. Agonized, helpless. Lanta wanted to tell her friend it was all right. It wasn’t as awful as everyone said. Only sad.
The face that wouldn’t let itself be seen earlier came back. Hateful as ever, it remained hidden. But it laughed.
A scream drowned that noise. It embarrassed Lanta. She’d meant to go bravely, silently. Or had it been poor Tate, watching a friend’s going?
No matter.
Chapter 23
Lanta cried out against consuming black heat.
Coolness touched her forehead. It was marvelous, sustaining. She reached to capture it. Her hand moved, but it was slow. She wanted to scream that the cool touch wasn’t needed just for the head, but for the whole body. Tears of joy filled her eyes when she realized the goodness was moving to her face, her neck.
“Her hand moved. I’m sure of it. And look; tears.” Wonderment mixed with relief in Conway’s voice. “Can you hear me, Lanta? It’s me, Matt. We’re right here, me and Tate. Can you hear me?” Her hand was swallowed in his. He practically shouted. “Donnacee! Donnacee, she’s squeezing my finger. She’s coming back.”
Lanta heard deep, unintelligible rumbling, more vibration than anything. Good feelings came with them. The lovely coolness continued on her burning skin. She felt something else, too, a pressure on her hand. Whatever it was, she wanted it, needed it. With all her strength, she clutched at it.
A horrible, mocking face tried to force itself into her mind. Before she could fight it, she heard the bass rumble again. And then there was another face. Indistinct as the first, it was kind, and worried. Loving. The bad one snarled, catlike. The good one persevered. The bad one withered. She was exhausted. But protected. Safe enough to let herself drift away.
Tate rose from her position against the wall of the tiny dome-shaped hut. Halfway erect, her head touched the sea-smelling For cloth ceiling. Its odd quiltlike construction was good insulation. Irregularities dimpling the inner surface indicated the camouflaging fir boughs outside. Stepping around the three small candles that provided illumination, Tate knelt beside Conway. Taking Lanta’s other hand, she bent close to her ear. “Welcome back, little buddy,” she said. It was a crooning, lullaby sound. “You scared us half out of our minds, you know? You took a bad, bad hit. It’s over now. You’re all right, hear? We’re with you. Everything’s fine. Under control.”
Tate rocked back on her heels. Lanta’s released hand sank slowly back to her side. “See that?” Tate pointed. “Yesterday that would have just flopped wherever you dropped it. She’s lots stronger.”
Conway maintained his hold on Lanta. His face was wounded when turned to Tate. “This makes three days. All she’s had is drops of water on her lips.”
“We’re doing what we can.” Tate was transparently brusque. “She’s in good shape, strong. She’s coming back.”
“It’s just that seeing her like this…”
Tate patted his shoulder. “Do us all a favor. Take the dogs, scout around. Get some air. Make sure no one’s looking for us. Or the two warriors.”
Glum, not arguing, Conway busied himself getting ready. At the entry, he started out, then pulled back in, replacing the cloth door. “Snow’s melting fast. By tomorrow we won’t leave tracks.”
“Not in snow, maybe. You said those two warriors were Windband. Are they good trackers?”
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“They’ve got a few.”
“That’s who’ll come looking for their missing scouts, then, isn’t it? So we’re going to be followed.”
He shook his head. “Of all the lousy luck. If we’d been a little earlier, just a little later.”
“If wishes was wings, frogs wouldn’t bump their butts when they hop. But they ain’t, and they do. So that’s that. But we’ve got to get out of here. We’re probably very lucky we didn’t have to use a wipe. I’ll bet there are people close enough to hear.”
Conway looked away. “They must have heard the one screaming, then. The one Mikka killed.”
“You feel sorry for him?” Tate scowled. “I saw his warclub go up, man. I saw it come up for the second shot, saw it hang there, aimed to kill her. With a horse between me and the man raising it. There was nothing I could do but watch. If it wasn’t for Mikka, she was gone. Your Lanta. So what if the man died hard? He had it coming.”
Conway was quiet a long time, his gaze fixed on the tent entrance. When he spoke, the words were careful. “You’re right, of course. We all do, though, don’t we? Have it coming, I mean. Except the ones like Lanta and Sylah. Kate, Janet, Susan. They want to help everyone. Improve lives, save lives. But the ones who do the killing are respected warriors. The good people, they’re the ones everyone hates the most.” He was outside before Tate realized that was all he had to say.
Remaining crouched, Conway took three ungainly steps into the presunrise twilight before rising to full height. He continued to move, even then, turning, scanning the surrounding forest. Exiting the shelter made him feel vulnerable. He knew that if he discovered such a hiding place, his own action would be to wait, kill the first man out, then attack.
There were no bold eyes at this lower altitude, but Conway still cultivated the presence of birds. Several crows perched in surrounding trees, shifting and muttering guttural expectation for the routine handful of grain. They weren’t completely dependable as guards. They’d already scolded once. Investigation revealed an intruding bear’s tracks. Fortunately, it was a black, and not one of the fearless prairie bears. Those monsters had no respect for puny humans.
