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

by Don McQuinn

  Warriors danced with heads hung forward, bobbing. When the two dance leaders met in their circuit of the fire, the columns wove through each other with the untroubled acceptance of criss-crossing pond ripples.

  Acceptance.

  The word resonated in Conway’s mind. He sagged, wanting to believe. Believe what?

  His eyes smarted, demanded rest. He thought of the dancers, so relaxed, so calm. He felt them.

  An impossible knowledge told him that, awake, moving together, the Smalls reposed together. He sensed minds expanding. Yet simultaneously they were all taking in. Accepting.

  Accept.

  Conway thought of Lanta. He was fading, abandoning her. The Smalls were taking his mind. He wanted. Feared. Sweating warriors swayed in front of him, steaming in the cold. Unseeing eyes stared out of slack faces. Hair hung lank and soaked. The music shrilled. Conway retreated from it. His eyes fell shut.

  He couldn’t leave Lanta. Not with such powerful mystery dragging him away.

  He looked up again. The warriors were replaced by the costumed dancers. They held spear-blowguns to their mouths, distorting the cloth masks into ill-formed skulls. Chests swelled as they inhaled. They aimed the weapons at Conway.

  He struggled to rise, to shout. There was no strength in him. He heard laughter. Carefree, unrestrained. There was a voice behind it, speaking. The words sounded as if they came through a smile.

  Accept.

  He had to.

  Chapter 32

  Conway reached to scratch his neck. His hand touched cloth. The itch wasn’t bad enough to warrant disturbing the bandages. It was barely noticeable, actually.

  He didn’t want to waken. Sleeping while sitting up shouldn’t be so comfortable, he told himself. The cold was there, too, of course, but not a problem. It felt strange, as though it hovered around him, not quite in contact with him.

  There was a reason why he shouldn’t sleep. Like a small, frightened animal, the memory skittered across the back of his mind, always just out of reach.

  It was important. It was time to stop being lazy, time to reenter the world.

  A strange thought; sleeping was hardly leaving the world.

  Masks. Blowguns.

  Conway jerked awake. He rolled forward in a swift, smooth rise that brought him upright with hands outstretched to defend. Ten paces away, Fox crouched, pure malevolence. Conway lunged for his throat.

  Lanta’s shout checked the unthinking charge. Coming to an awkward, off-balance halt, Conway struggled with both mind and body. Limbs reacted slowly. The earlier lassitude and well-being alternated with the burning hatred and aggression.

  Once more, Lanta called to him. Reluctant to take his eyes from the strangely immobile enemy, Conway was startled to realize Fox was bound. Looking for Lanta, he was further astonished to discover her within arm’s reach, smiling easily. More than that, Tate was next to her, flashing a grin almost as mischievous and bold as ever.

  His head swam. When it cleared, the change was instant. He was alert, confident.

  Lanta’s smile broadened. Conway understood she’d read the change in him. He laughed aloud. “All right. As always, I’m the last to know. What’s going on?”

  “Minding.” Lanta pointed. Following in the direction she indicated, Conway saw Tinillit. The Small leader’s grin was pleased, but diffident, almost shy.

  Conway looked back to Lanta. “What’s ‘minding’? It has to do something with that dance; I’m sure of that.”

  Tinillit answered. “The dance. The music. More; the mind. All of our minds.” He swung an arm to include his group. Pride rose from them almost palpably. “Smalls dance healing. That’s part of minding.”

  “I do feel better.” Conway’s hand went to his throat. The bandages were there, but the pain was almost gone, replaced by a faint itching sensation. Awed, he said, “The wounds are already healing. I can feel it.”

  Tate interrupted. “Look at my hands, Matt. Can you believe the difference?” She displayed them proudly. The fingers were stiff, fat in their bandaging, but they moved. Conway was even more impressed by her manner. She was clear-eyed, strong. It was as if the debilitating sickness never existed. He faced Tinillit again. “How do you do this?”

  For a moment, Tinillit stared. He guffawed, then, “Ask me how I see. Ask me how I think.” He tilted his head to the side, birdlike. “Yes. Ask me how I think. Minding is thinking. It’s sending the mind to another place. It’s hearing the mind of another.”

  Chill touched the base of Conway’s spine. If Tinillit believed what he was describing, he was inferring an entire community of telepaths. Logic refuted that notion, however. True telepaths would certainly never be enslaved; who would capture them?

  Tinillit explained more fully. “Smalls don’t see inside the mind of other people. There have been some…” He frowned, let the sentence die. “Intrusion is rude. Worse, it’s wrong. You remember I told you forest is our friend? We live off forest’s animals. Because they are gifts, we thank them for giving us life. When we pass among the animals, we make them know we mean no harm. When we hunt them, however, we must never do that. Hunting and killing are done with an empty mind. The hunter thinks, but he does not hate. Or love. The one who kills must go outside himself, become that which is not. To kill, one becomes the most vulnerable of all. To remain a real person, one must be forgiven.”

  Conway said, “Anyone regrets killing, but it must be done. You’re saying a man should do it like a falling tree, without anger or fear or anything else. I can’t accept that.”

  “When you woke from the minding sleep, did your mind know peace?”

  Grudgingly, Conway nodded. Tinillit remained stoic. “The minding dance is community. It cleanses. No soul can live where the mind is fouled.”

  Faceless men wavered in Conway’s mental vision. He thought they beckoned. He blinked away the image.

  Tinillit was saying, “For us, the greatest warriors of our tribe are the dance leaders. They take us to a place where we all become one again. They see who is closed, who cannot reopen. You and your friend Tate have never allowed yourself to be cleansed. The dance leaders even used weapons to drive out the harsh thoughts in you both. They asked me to apologize for not being completely successful.”

  A twinge of expression, too quick for Conway to identify, slid across Tinillit’s face. Conway asked, “What of the leaders, then? I mean, they clean warriors who kill men. What happens to the dance leaders who fight and kill the things troubling the warriors?”

  “They move in honor among us. Dance leaders are the most respected and most humble of the Smalls. Their lives are short.” His quick glance at Conway was pregnant with accusation.

  Understanding, Conway said, “They spent a lot of energy on us, didn’t they? On me and Tate.”

  It was a visible effort, but Tinillit recovered most of his good humor. “They told me they’ll recover. You and your friend puzzle them. One of them said you both regret what you do more than almost anyone. He also said you swallow regret as if it were food, and, like food, it strengthens hatred and violence. The ferocity of your emotions grows ever stronger with every conflict.”

  Conway looked to Tate. Her grin was self conscious now, apologetic. She shrugged. “When he’s right, he’s right.” Then, to Tinillit, “What do we do about all this? After all, we’re fighters. And what about yourselves? You did a pretty good job of uncleansing yourselves right here, just last night.”

  “If you were Smalls, you would grow up learning the minding and the dance. Perhaps you could, still. But we are Smalls. We keep our distance. I don’t believe your path is to join us, live as one with us. The minding is not any one person. It is us, the Smalls. We fight, just as you. You honor the killing. We forgive it.”

  Irritated by Tate’s clear discomfort with Tinillit’s answer, Conway was abrupt. “You might ask yourself sometime if the dead forgive it.” Instantly, he was sorry. He tried to make amends. “I shouldn’t have said that. What I really
want you to know is how grateful we are for the healing. I don’t exactly understand what you did for us, but we appreciate it very much. You saved our lives, you took a great load from our minds. We’re indebted to you.”

  “We wanted to help. The dangers facing the Three Territories threaten us, as well. We know nothing of the Skan, except an occasional Peddler’s tale, and who can believe those people? Please, tell Gan Moondark we would be friends. Perhaps even allies. He’ll let us live in the Enemy Mountains in peace?”

  Conway laughed. “Anyone who can ambush Fox is too good to question. He’ll welcome you. But tell me, were you the owl I heard? And the wolves, so far away? How could you fool a man as experienced and cunning as Fox?”

  “We know the animals better than any. We don’t sound like them; we become them. We wanted to be closer, but Fox is very, very dangerous; he sees everything.”

  “Not everything. He never saw you, never suspected last night’s attack. You did it to him, didn’t you? Somehow you ‘minded’ him, and all the others.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Tinillit colored. “Sometimes we can affect our enemies. We can’t make them see what isn’t there, but maybe, sometimes, if conditions are right, we can possibly suggest they look somewhere where we aren’t.”

  “Or not look at all.” Tate’s wry suggestion featured a broad wink.

  Squirming, Tinillit’s head jerked in what could have been an affirmative nod. Or just a tic. An arm flew out in flailing gesture. “Our riders overtook Fox. We give him to you.”

  “We have to cross the Enemy Mountains. The first snows are here. Two of us are injured. What can we do with Fox?”

  If Tinillit was distressed before, now he was outright agitated. The slight pink of minor embarrassment flared to bright red. He swiveled to send mute appeal to his companions. They met his gaze with resolute refusal to help. Fox’s rasping laughter broke the impasse. “All that jabber about killing requiring an empty mind, and souls that go wandering off when it’s time to strike down your enemies. Look at him. See how he hates. Oh, he wants to kill me. He’s afraid to. Look at them. Rabbits. They can’t explain me away with their woman’s weeping about dirty souls. What frightens them is they know they’ll enjoy it.” He whirled on Tinillit, spittle flying from his lips, unshaven, soiled features poisonous with rage. “Weak-hearted little dung maggot. Think how your soul will sing to see me coughing my blood out. Imagine the way I’ll jerk, how my heels will hammer. You like it. Admit it. For once in your miserable, slave life, be a man. Kill me. Enjoy doing what a man does. Enjoy!”

  Conway found no pity for the Mountain’s obvious discomfort, his crablike scuttle as he shouted at Tinillit Before Tinillit could speak, Conway interceded. “You’ll die because you deserve it. Come to that, a quick death’s better than you deserve.”

  “Ah, you see? You want to do it, too. Make your new friends happy. Why not give me my ma? I’ll fight you. You’re a warrior. Not like these little lice.”

  Lanta stepped forward. “Matt. Don’t listen. He has nothing to lose. You have nothing to gain.” To Tinillit, she said, “My friends aren’t executioners. You yourself said they have much to learn about cleansing themselves. You can’t ask them to do this.”

  “It was our only hope. Usually we can cleanse what happens in the heat of battle. Anything else is very difficult. Windband has caused us so much suffering. To execute Fox may be too much for the dance leaders to overcome.”

  Softly, Conway said, “So you decided that since my soul’s already torn up, one more little trick wouldn’t hurt. Is that it?”

  Tinillit hung his head. “Until I saw the pain. Until the dance leaders fought for you, and mourned over how little they could help.” When Tinillit looked up, it was with sorrow and defiance. The mix gave him an oddly appealing look, like a man who needs another’s approval, but isn’t sure how far he dares reach to achieve it. “I made a mistake.”

  “Your mother made a mistake.” Fox’s snarl sullied the air.

  Tinillit sent him a glance of yearning hatred, then looked back to Conway. “We can‘t just kill him.”

  Once more, Fox laughed. The forest rang with triumph. “I knew it. Cowards, all of you.” Crafty, cruel, he waggled the hands bound behind him. “Cut me free. You can’t just kill me. I’ll curse you for a dozen generations. A hundred. You’ll never get your souls back, clean or dirty. I’ll need a faster horse, too. The last one was slow as a badger.”

  One of the Smalls moved up on Tinillit’s signal, prepared to cut Fox’s bonds. Conway stopped him. “Wait. Get him mounted, first. Hobble the horse.” The Small hesitated until a nod from Tinillit approved. Fox swung into the saddle confidently, smirking. In an aside, Conway told the Small holding the reins, “Hold on tight. Be ready for trouble.”

  Moving swiftly, Conway grabbed a looped leather throwing line from a nearby saddle. Before Fox could properly react, Conway wound a loop around Fox’s closest ankle, binding it to the stirrup leather. By then Fox was alert to his danger. He kneed the horse viciously. Restrained as it was, the animal jerked about as best it could. Conway darted around to its other side. Fox kicked at him. Conway quickly had that foot secured like the first one. Smalls raced to help him draw the line taut.

  Fox was bound to the animal.

  Coolly, Conway tossed a loop around Fox’s neck, then hauled him backward until he was bent across the saddle’s cantle. Handing off the line to two Smalls, Conway drew his knife. Fox was rapidly turning purple. Slits opened Fox’s trousers, sleeves, and the sides of his jacket. With a few tugs, Conway stripped away the leather and coarse homespun. He signaled the Smalls to slack off on the throwing line.

  Gasping, Fox rose, sucking in air. Once he could breathe well again, he straightened. He looked at Conway, baleful. Conway said, “Go back to Moonpriest. Without your men. Naked. How Moonpriest will brag of his war chief. His naked, tied-like-a-market-hog war chief.”

  Disgrace seized Fox’s mind. “This is worse than killing, Conway. I’ll be waiting for you in the Land Under. My curse on you.”

  Conway stepped back. Lanta moved to his side. “Matt. There are dangers. Bears. Remember, the horse can eat and drink. He can’t.” Conway continued to stare at Fox. Lanta pressed ahead. “What Tinillit said is true. You run the risk of becoming as evil as he is. I couldn’t stand that. Not now.”

  Tinillit said, “Matt Conway.”

  Conway turned. Tinillit’s gaze was locked on Fox. “Remember the nomad you freed. Remember what his gratitude cost you. Remember what Fox planned for all of you. And learn something from me: Do you remember the Small girl you met in Windband camp? The blinded one?”

  “Certainly. She drowned. I always thought she was murdered.”

  “My aunt’s daughter. I watched her grow up. Until Windband captured her. There have been many like her, Conway.” Tinillit pretended to be hard. Still, Conway saw more pain than vindictiveness.

  Conway stepped forward, removed the horse’s reins and bridle, then the hobble. He slapped the horse on the rump. Fox rocked as it leaped forward.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Fox managed to stop it. Rising in the stirrups, he twisted to face the camp. “You’re the same as me, all of you! For all your talk, you enjoy my pain, my humiliation, my dying. Pray that I die, because if I do, you need fear only my spirit. If I live, you’ll learn how Fox Eleven pays his debts.”

  Using knees and feet, he turned his mount and rode south.

  Only after the forest swallowed Fox did Conway speak to Tinillit. “Life has many debts, doesn’t it? Many recoveries.”

  “Yes. You’ve risked much. For us. Our dance leaders are too weak for another minding. Perhaps one day soon.”

  Conway was abrupt. “Perhaps. We have to go, anyhow. The passes are already difficult.”

  Tinillit said, “Until you’re on the sunset slope, some of us will screen you. Others take our prisoners to Windband, exchange them for Smalls.”

  Lanta came to speak to Tinillit. The Small was barely the
taller. She said, “You know Church’s trouble. You know Sylah has revived the Teachers.” Nervously, Tinillit nodded. Lanta went on. “Church will survive. It will grow. Our Teachers can help your people. We’d like to learn more of the minding.”

  “The tribe must decide. But I have seen powerful things here, and I will speak of them.” Tinillit straightened as he faced Conway. “Many will say what you did was vengeance. Some will say justice. I say necessary.”

  “And I appreciate your understanding.”

  Before leaving to salvage the weapons and ammunition, Conway and Tate agreed that once they reached the passes, everything the three humans couldn’t carry through the snow must be off-loaded and hidden. Leaving Lanta and Tate with the Smalls, Conway took three packhorses to load the equipment. He was back by nightfall, and the evening passed quietly.

  Breaking camp went smoothly, despite Tate’s still clumsy hands. The dogs seemed to sense they were going home. When Conway sent them ahead to scout, they frolicked like puppies at first, settling to business almost reluctantly.

  Much later, with the sun below the crests to the west and darkness honing the cold, Lanta trotted her horse forward to join Conway. He waited patiently while she wrestled with whatever it was she meant to say, trying not to smile too obviously at her inconsequential small talk. Finally, she blurted her question directly. “Would you have killed Fox, if Tinillit directly asked you to?”

  “No.”

  “What would you have done if Tinillit wasn’t there?”

  “We’d all be dead now. Or wishing we were.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. If Fox were your prisoner, after what he almost did to Tate, after everything you know, would you kill him?”

  At last, he turned, looked her in the eye. “I wanted to. I don’t know if what I did was right or wrong. I let a man live I could have killed. I’ll be feared for what I actually did, instead. All I’m sure of is, Tinillit’s right. Combat risks a man’s soul even more than it risks his life. As much as I want to live, it’s more important that I can live at peace with myself. I need you for that. You hold me in place.”