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

by Don McQuinn

  Gan said, “I wasn’t sure you’d be here so soon, Nalatan. I intended to review the meeting with you later. Now that you’re here, we’ll all discuss the news together.” Leclerc drew close quickly. Nalatan noted that Emso merely shuffled about, remaining in the same place. Nalatan also noted Emso’s homespun woolen shirt, marred by yarn of indifferent spinning, with wide variations in the size of threads. Numerous nubs, where broken strands had been tied back together, exploded from the surface like fuzzy buds. Toggles of carved bone, rather than buttons, closed it. His leather trousers were neat, somewhat better made. The effect was an insistent ordinariness that became, perversely, ostentatious.

  Oddly, Emso’s grizzled beard was well trimmed. More, for the first time in Nalatan’s memory, there was no shaggy hair hanging down his neck.

  Sylah’s voice broke Nalatan’s inspection. She said nothing he hadn’t already heard; Moonpriest’s wallkiller threw strange jars, Moonpriest’s men shot huge arrows from catapults, Moonpriest killed men with lightning. The tales lacked shock value after a while. Nalatan already thought of them as stories to frighten recruits.

  Leclerc was much more interested. Standing on the same side of the table as Nalatan, he edged ever closer to Sylah. Such intensity surprised Nalatan. Leclerc was no warrior, as Tate and Conway were, but he was brilliant. He didn’t swallow wild tales.

  Sylah finished. Leclerc straightened, a shadow of frown rippling his brow. For several heartbeats, no one stirred, caught up in Leclerc’s concentration.

  Emso’s harshness rasped across the silence. The grizzled warrior still maintained his separation. “Magic. It’s coming against us, Gan. It’s a test. Look at what’s happened. When we fought Altanar, the magic was given to us. Lightning weapons did us no harm at the battle of the Bear Paw, when Altanar controlled them. When Altanar’s armies could have stopped us, the strangers gave us the lightning weapons to defeat them. When Altanar’s walls stood in front of us, it was a stranger who gave us magic to break the gates.”

  Gan frowned. “There’ve been no spells, no chants or charms. Our friends know how to do things we don’t.”

  Emso took an awkward backward step. The move edged him into greater darkness. “Moonpriest brings light from the sky to kill his enemies. The snakes of the desert poison them. He has new weapons. Tears of Jade calls demons from under the sea. Can’t you see it? We’re not just fighting, we’re being fought over. There are powers we can’t imagine, Gan; strange powers, good and evil. When we were in the right, good protected us, helped us.”

  Gan’s voice was metallic. “I don’t think I’ve become evil.”

  Sylah spoke up. “Emso, I understand. And agree with you. The war against Moonpriest and Tears of Jade is a battle against evil. We’re fortunate to have a man as skilled as Leclerc to help us confront them.”

  Dismissing her without a glance, Emso continued to confront Gan. “It’s the things we can’t see, or won’t see, that threaten us the most. All I’m asking is that you look at our problems the way you used to, hard-eyed and hard-minded. We named you Murdat. You’re the weapon that freed us. But no weapon stands against a witch. As a friend who’d die for you, I’m asking you to think about what’s happening to us.”

  “Did all of Windband move to the seacoast?” Leclerc’s jarringly inappropriate question startled everyone. Gan stared at him as if he’d sprouted a horn from his forehead. Nalatan was round-eyed with disbelief. Emso’s knuckles gleamed white where he squeezed the handle of his murdat. Sylah looked relieved. And amused. It was she who answered. “The reports say so.”

  Still distant, Leclerc nodded shortly. “Why would he move? Why change camps in the cold and wet? What’s so important about the coast?” He rubbed forefingers at his temples, then wandered to the fireplace.

  Intrigued, Gan rose, came around the table. Beside Leclerc, he said, “Yours are inland people. Moonpriest was one of you, once. Why is he attracted to the sea?” He turned to Sylah. “Is there anything in Moondance that speaks of the sea?”

  “Only the moon mother’s power to call the tide.”

  Muttering so softly the words were practically incomprehensible, Leclerc spoke to himself. “Think, Louis; use your mind. Moonpriest’s crazy, not stupid. He’s got a static electricity generator. All this other mumbo jumbo is probably some offshoot. The so called wallkiller’s no problem. My catapults will knock that big pile of junk out of action in no time. But why move? What’s that maniac up to?” Breaking off the self-aimed conversation, it took him a moment to focus on Gan. His question was plaintive. “How long before Conway and Tate get back? I need them.”

  Emso moved sideways to the failing edge of the firelight. “They’re already being tested, just as the rest of us will be. There have been storms in the mountains, earlier and fiercer than anyone can remember. They’re trapped between unknown intruders and killing weather. If they were sent as gifts from the good power, then we should understand their loss is a sign.”

  “A sign? A sign?” Leclerc swiveled around slowly, unsteadily. “You’re saying if my friends die it’s a sign? It’s a tragedy, you idiot. You can’t imagine what a loss they’d be. You don’t have the brains to begin to… to…”

  Gan grabbed the stammering Leclerc by the upper arm, whirled him around, slammed his back against the stones of the fireplace wall. “No more.” Gan’s words grated. “No man insults Emso in my hearing. You will forgive what he said and the way he said it.” Keeping Leclerc pinned with one hand Gan looked to Emso. “You’re speaking of this man’s people. You’ll forgive his outburst.”

  While Leclerc repeated “yes” and “of course,” without stopping, Emso’s jaw twitched in bitter silence. At long last, he managed, “I said more than I should.” Then, surprisingly, he broke into coarse laughter. The sound further wounded the tense unhappiness in the room. He broke it off abruptly. “It’s always that way. The least important thing becomes the most important, the least considered words the most clearly heard.” He saluted, the clenched fist raised to the right jawbone. Gan released Leclerc, and without thinking, Leclerc returned the salute in the same manner. The action earned a raised eyebrow from Gan, followed by a broad smile.

  Resentment sparked in Leclerc. He saw the smile as condescension, the renowned warrior pretending to acknowledge the scruffy thinker as equal. That tiny flare found eager fuel in the sense of humiliation that came from being manhandled and scolded for daring to speak out. Leclerc told himself he was imagining melodrama; Emso would never harm him. Still, when he stole a glance at the fuming older man, who continued to cloak himself in darkness like some dreadful portent, the hair on his arms tingled.

  Gan turned back to Emso, walked the length of the table to stand in front of his old friend and companion. He said, “I know your heart. And you know mine. We fight in the name of those who need us. We rule because we feel it’s an obligation. You know the prophecy that drives me.”

  “I fear it.” The truth of that was plain in Emso’s voice and features. “Your mother said you would always face two paths, one to glory, the other to shame. You must always move forward, always choose. I taste the air on this path and it has the foul grease of disgrace on it.”

  “So be it.” Gan’s words were uncompromising, but they were spoken gently. “I can only die. Men like us don’t live with shame.”

  Sylah stormed toward the pair, fists clenched in front of her. They were ludicrously ineffectual weapons aimed at the men suddenly turned to confront her. The tough, hardened faces grew alarmed. Sylah was a thing of quaking fury. “Is death all you understand? You measure life by the way you leave it. You make me sick. I will hear no more of glory or shame. You will live. For your wife and son, even if you lose all else. And you, Emso. Are you mad? Gan Moondark needs you. Perhaps you’ll never find it in your heart to accept me, but never speak of this man and disgrace at the same time. So long as you stand beside him, nothing will harm his honor.”

  By the time she finished, Gan was grinning. E
mso, on the other hand, visibly blanched. When Gan attempted to speak, Emso drowned out the effort, seemingly not even aware Gan was talking. The words were uncharacteristically high, coming with staccato rapidity. “You’re right. He has his fate. That path is mine, as well. Whatever happens, no one will ever question my faithfulness. Everyone knows these things. Especially you, Rose Priestess.”

  Sylah said, “I’ve caused you much pain. I never wanted to. Someday you’ll see. I’m right.”

  Emso shook his head. He faced Gan. “I’ll be off. Before I go, though, I’ll tell you words you must not forget. The first is magic. The other is witch. What else is Tears of Jade? What else is Moonpriest? Ask yourself why such strange powers come against us. Ask why now. Remember; only you can choose your path.”

  He left, the rustle of the rough cloak making a sound like smothered language. The breath of his hurried passage set the flame of the exit sconce dancing. The ensuing pall hurried the departure of the rest. Leclerc was first to excuse himself. Nalatan offered to walk along with Leclerc. The shorter man accepted gratefully. Once the meeting room’s planked door closed behind them, Leclerc glanced up at Nalatan. “Do you believe all that talk of witches and magic?” The light in the long hall came from fat candles cupped in widely separated sconces. Their flickering seemed to trap the question in midair. It hung there, heavy with possibility.

  Nalatan laughed. At the same time, he made a surreptitious three-sign. “I’m—I was a monk, remember? I answer as Church would have me answer.”

  “No, no. Answer as Nalatan. Tell me the truth.”

  “I believe in power for evil, just as I believe in power for good.” Nalatan was surprised to feel comfortable speaking of these things to this man. “I believe people have great powers in them. I’ve seen men watch without flinch while their own limbs were amputated. I’ve seen people hate so strongly the power of it sickened and killed others. Take Sylah, who fought harder than any man to find the Door. She’s a Rose Priestess, a War Healer—but she led warriors. Conway, with those huge dogs; he brings death like a winter storm. My Donnacee. We followed a Priestess into battle. She demanded it, because Church needed the secret of the Door. And we obeyed her. That’s controlling power.”

  “The power of the mind.” Nalatan turned sharply at the amusement in Leclerc’s voice, but the man’s smile was introspective. Leclerc continued. “You wonder about the why of things. That’s important. It’s basic, is what it is. Perhaps that’s why I like you. I sense curiosity. I have the feeling you were born to be more than a fighting machine, just as I…” He stopped abruptly, then resumed, ignoring his own interruption. “I confess I wish I could be a warrior like Conway, or you. I can’t. But I can do other things. I deserve better treatment. Well, never mind. I’ll tell you this, though: simple strength isn’t going to beat Windband and the Skan. Maybe Gan needs Emso. He certainly needs me. More than anyone realizes.” For some reason, that struck Leclerc as funny. He laughed long and loud. Nalatan wished there was enough light to study the face of a man who could warp the sound of merriment, make somber stone echo with buried loneliness.

  Chapter 38

  Darkness mocked Nalatan. Restful scents of sea and land taunted him. His mind was a cauldron of inchoate thought. Inevitably, everything resolved to images of his wife. In her absence, memory polished every moment of their time together, until thinking of her was a bright, blinding thing that delighted and pained unbearably.

  He flung aside the blankets on his bed and rose. Cold wind from the sea drove through the open window. He welcomed its waking shock; better to be fully awake and cold than warm and groggy. He had no trouble finding his clothes. The position of everything in the room was too well known, and he’d spent too many similar nights. He smiled faintly. The castle guards hated his night forays. They were good, conscientious men, but merely troopers, for all their training. It upset them to know that someone came and went among them unheard, unseen. After having spoken from the dark a few times and startled a few guards absolutely witless, he tried to explain to them about the skills trained into a warrior-monk. He only offended them further. Now he made it a point to reveal himself quickly when he found it necessary to prowl away his sleeplessness.

  Once out of his room, with its wide-flung window shutters, the rest of the castle smelled of herbal-scented soap and damp stone, with a lingering taint of burnt candles. It was all very clean, if a bit dank, but in his nostrils it stank of confinement. Hurrying outside, Nalatan savored the stiffness of the sheep-cropped grass underfoot and the weight of the whispering north wind. Far away, a dog howled. An even thinner call answered. Nalatan listened with a longing that had no name.

  Benches marked the grounds, each carefully sited to provide the best view of some aspect of the buildings or plantings. In the dark, that was no benefit. He chose one at random.

  When he saw the figure creeping along the wall of the castle, he doubted his eyes. When it moved again, he instantly cast off lovelorn cares, gripped his sword.

  Stealthily, the other person pressed along the wall. Nalatan wondered: One of the servants? A lover bound for a tryst? The figure moved awkwardly. The right arm, only dimly observed, was raised, bent at the elbow, held back at the shoulder. The left hand was extended, feeling, scouting. A man, then. Armed. Who? A rogue guard? A spy, leaving to report?

  Nalatan dropped low, the better to silhouette his quarry. Together, the two men paralleled each other through the night.

  A pair of guards threw open a door mere paces in front of the man against the wall. Torchlight flooded out in a golden wave, puddling on the stone walkway and flanking shrubbery. The prowler huddled in those bushes. Nalatan determined to cut them back the next morning.

  Flat against the short grass, Nalatan watched the guards exit, slam the door behind them, and stride away. They turned toward Nalatan. Chatting, chuckling, the pair walked within his arm’s reach. He stifled a wild urge to leap up and whack them both from behind on their gleaming helmets.

  The man in the shrubbery waited patiently before rising again. Nalatan’s opinion of him improved. Whoever he was, he understood night work.

  The figure took no logical course to an exit from the castle grounds. The stables were ahead, a bit to the right. No one would attempt to flee on horseback, however. There’d be no getting through the gate.

  The Violet Abbey. Nalatan’s gaze went to the steep, sharp roof pointing at the stars.

  Sylah.

  A Church fanatic, making a move to murder Church’s most hated foe. They’d tried once already. Nalatan winced at the ignominy of it, a man stalking a sleeping woman, a Priestess.

  Then the man was away from the castle wall. He moved low to the ground. Nalatan lay on his stomach to watch, tracking now as much by sound as sight. When the other man moved, so did Nalatan. Once the sound level dropped, so did the hunter, becoming part of the earth. Just as Nalatan prepared to move closer, to apprehend the killer before he reached the abbey, the man nearly escaped. Suddenly he was moving away from the abbey, toward the sea and the rear wall of the castle grounds. Confused, Nalatan hurried to follow.

  Intent on what the man might do, rather than on what he was doing, Nalatan’s concentration slipped. All at once, he realized that the only sound in the night was that of his own movement. Instantly, he lowered himself to a taut, coiled squat. He settled there, with no option but to wait. Had he been heard? Or seen? How skilled was this other man?

  Senses singing with stress, Nalatan waited. Slowly, he swiveled his head, trying to get an image. Instead, a strong, unmistakable scent rolled over him. The stables. There was a sound as well, like an immense exhalation. The stable door, opening and closing.

  Nalatan remembered a rope outside the high hayloft window. Hoping against hope that it was accessible, he scuttled to it. A tug indicated it was secure at the top. He warmed his hands in his armpits until the stiffness of cold was gone, then hauled himself up. He swung through the loading port onto the loft floor. Stretched
out on the soft, welcoming hay, luxuriating in the warmth, he waited for his breathing to steady. Then he moved to explore.

  Flame burst to life immediately below. He nearly ran. In the moment, he realized he was standing directly over the tack room. Below him, dressed in black, someone moved about in the cubicle. Strung blankets covered the walls. It was a clever arrangement. The man had light, but the thick blankets were a perfect shield. The figure defied identification.

  In the darkness outside that tiny square, something moved. The light died in a puff of breath. From the front of the barn came the sound of the high, wide door swinging on oiled hinges. This time there was a thump when it closed. The newcomer was unaccomplished.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” Nalatan’s neck hair rose in alarm. Jaleeta.

  A horse snuffled, stomped irritably in its stall.

  Jaleeta made a tight, squealing sound. A deeper, gruff male voice said, “Be quiet, child.” In sickening certainty, Nalatan recognized Emso.

  From his position on the edge of the loft floor, overlooking the ground-level section of the barn, Nalatan slowly eased back against the mounded hay.

  Nalatan, the man who disdained to ask questions and report the answers. A confirmed spy now, a skulking, dark crawling thing, perched above two fools guilty of nothing more than ordinary lust and foolishness. Jaleeta, feeding an old man’s folly. Emso, chasing after youth as though it could be transferred from the owner to the needy.

  A degrading scene, about to be fully played out for Nalatan the noble. He despised himself. The tiny light flared again. Nalatan faced the other way.

  “It’s worse than I feared,” Emso was saying.

  Nalatan cocked his head to the side, listening. Those weren’t words associated with lovemaking.

  “Gan said something about Leclerc? About giving me to him?”

  All it took was a mere bending of the body, and Nalatan was looking at the tops of their heads. They almost touched beside the flickering flame.