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

by Don McQuinn

  He held his fire while the first elements of battle-mad Blizzardmen ignored arrows and missiles to clamber through the gap. Screaming war cries, shouting their names for glory, they appeared in the irregular hole like creatures boiling up from hell itself. The drop to the ground inside was the height of a man; it lessened quickly as the bodies of Blizzardmen and Wolves piled there.

  As soon as Blizzard established itself on the remaining battlewalk, they passed up shields and archers. The latter attempted to isolate the battle, raking reinforcements with plunging fire. Other nomads, totally ignoring everything else, worked at the edges of the rupture, prying at stones, pounding with sledges and wedges, struggling to enlarge the opening.

  Tate’s rifle roared. The shield of a nomad archer on the battlewalk jerked backward. The man crouched behind it leaped to his feet, screaming disbelief at the shredded mass of flesh where his left arm used to join his shoulder. He toppled into the maelstrom below, shrieking a name. Conway wondered who it might be.

  Tate was immediately the focus of attention. Blizzardmen in possession of a captured catapult narrowly missed her. For a horrible moment, Conway thought she was hit. Unaware of her situation, Nalatan fought at the penetration. He was destruction incarnate. The heavy parrying bar whipped like a willow wand. Where the iron ball on either end struck, bone broke, swords shattered, helmets caved in. The conical handguard punched open vicious wounds. His sword reaped a fearsome harvest. Nevertheless, he was forced back with the rest of the Wolves.

  Leclerc appeared, standing at the flank of a line of spearmen protected by full leather and steel plate armor. Clearly terrified, he held his position with the fierce determination of a man past his limits. He flanked the advancing Wolves. Their twin-tined spears glinted. Burdened by the heavy backpacked capacitors, they moved with almost comic deliberation. Their fellow Wolves ran headlong out of their way. Blizzardmen, certain they were seeing retreat, charged the spearmen.

  Those touched by both prongs died. The surety of the thing was eerie. There were few dramatic sparks or reactions. Nomads touched by the prongs jerked and dropped. Few even screamed. Some took the contact on a warding shield or a sword blade and shorted the circuit. As Tate once pointed out, the tines served quite well in that extremity. In short order, the survivors of the first Windband wave were fleeing.

  Fresh attackers poured in, shouldered them aside.

  With the capacitors exhausted, the electric attack was spent. Covering his men’s retreat with the wipe, Leclerc moved them out of the fray.

  Other spearmen, using the weapons attached to the new, more powerful generators, were in position on the battlewalk by then. Conway, from his roof, admired the teamwork in their effort. Men pushed the pumps and water wagons toward the action, protected by the bulk of the equipment. Partially sheltered by the same gear, the horse drawn generator wagons and their two-man crews followed. The pumps sprayed to their farthest reach. The smell of salt water in such an environment was most peculiar, but Leclerc had pointed out that it was a far better conductor.

  The nomad warriors cared nothing for that. Once they realized they were simply being wet down—something the rain had already accomplished—they continued their attack. In the melee there was no time for learned discussion. Somehow, however, there was a communal, almost psychic, awareness that a different, not-understood menace stalked them.

  The new spears, spitting bright blue fire, defined that subliminal apprehension. On the battlewalk, advancing behind shields proof against anything but catapults, the spearmen advanced with stolid patience. On the ground, ten formed a line. The cracking, blasting power killed everyone the spears touched. Nevertheless, they could only advance so far, restricted by the vulnerability of the generator crews. They couldn’t stop the masses of men now tumbling through the increasingly large gap. It was the situation that made Conway seek the roof. When the first Blizzard signal flag went up, he shot the flag-bearer. Without tactical instructions, the incoming Blizzardmen milled in confusion.

  Off to his left, Conway heard Tate’s contribution. At every blast of her weapon, another Blizzardman fell.

  In spite of everything, the invaders were getting into the city. The battle degenerated into isolated groups colliding with each other, fighting until one defeated the other. Survivors stumbled off to reunite with another group. And start the butchery again.

  Twice Conway caught sight of Gan. He tore through the streets of Ola, a living flame, organizing, directing, fighting. Once Conway saw him gather wandering Wolves into a unit, send them into battle. The other time, Gan and his dogs were part of the fight. The glimpse lasted but a few heartbeats. In that length of time, Gan, Shara, and Cho surrounded themselves with carnage.

  In the end, the numbers of Windband hemorrhaging into Ola doomed that defense. The units on the east and north walls were in great danger of being cut off from the castle. Wolf drums and warhorns rumbled the melancholy rhythms of retreat. Conway hurried down from his sniper’s post, each inhalation aflame in his lungs. He wondered if he’d be able to fight the following day.

  The withdrawal was stubborn, starred with heroism. Wolves knowingly abandoned no wounded or dead. Street by street, house by house, they gave ground. At the cleared fields in front of the castle walls, they held for the generator wagons, pumps, and water trucks to cross before following. From the castle defenses, catapults covered the final retreat of the terribly reduced Wolf units.

  A few berserk nomads tried to charge after the rearguard. They went down under so many arrows they and the cropped grass around them seemed to magically sprout feathered shafts. The Wolf archers were pleased to display their willingness to fight on.

  Day ended with the defense confined to the castle. Ola’s gutted buildings shimmered heat waves that disdained the drizzling rain. The city’s treasures were reduced to a greasy black pall drifting sluggishly east. The drums of Windband mocked from the remaining city walls, as if Moonpriest pleased himself by emphasizing their failure. The gaping wound torn out of the south wall by the wallkiller was pillowed at its base by dead Wolves deemed irretrievable and Blizzardmen, embraced in a brotherhood of loss.

  Fists clenched, Gan burned with the mindless waste of it. Beside him, ever aware of her husband’s deepest concerns, Neela said, “It’s the right fight, for all the right reasons. Those men understood.”

  He was silent but he reached to squeeze her hand. Hoping to provide him some relief, she said, “Many wives of Wolves stayed behind to help Sylah and Lanta and the rest of Church’s Healers in the healing house. Wal’s sharkers evacuated the worst wounded to his island. His men are raiding behind Windband; the warehouses and sea access are unaffected. We’re going to win.”

  Gan continued his silence. He seemed to be listening. Neela asked what troubled him. He pointed his chin generally southwest. “Digging. That squealing and deep groaning can only be heavy wagons. They’ll move the wallkiller tonight, so it can strike all the castle. The air-poison will come.”

  Leaning against him, Neela said, “I’m glad Coldar is with Wal’s people.”

  “I wish none of us were here.” His belated sardonic chuckle brought Neela’s head around, expectant. He continued to stare out into growing darkness. “That’s a lie. I’m glad I’m here. I fear dying. I hate the deaths of my friends; there are times when I hate the deaths of my enemies, because I feel their lives were taken for nothing. Yet I’m drawn to this, as helpless as any moth. I believe my mother’s prophecy is real, that I’m meant to seek glory for my people, but I’d find a path to war if my mother had never spoken a word. It is me.”

  A lone Windband drum pounded a slow, solemn beat. Gan and Neela faced it, ignoring the Wolves lighting the torches that illuminated the walls against surprise attack. Then Neela pulled away, the contact lingering in shared warmth, in the slow slide of his arm from around her shoulders. She said, “You have things to do. I’ll see how I can help in the healing house.”

  He kissed her, a gentle touch, so ina
ppropriate to the situation that she stepped back too quickly, awkwardly. Her departing smile was perfunctory. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. It was out of the question for her to turn and attempt to explain, or wave. Or anything. Not when she was so entangled with frustration and relief and pride and fear that she had no idea how to express herself.

  Chapter 23

  Catapults dueled into the night. The heavy bolts did no appreciable damage to the stone of the castle or the other buildings clustered around it. Twice they struck the large illuminating sconces outside the wall. Both times, answering shots from Wolf weapons disrupted Windband’s following cheers. Casualties were minimal on either side, but the goal of the contest was primarily to harass.

  Genuine dread was reserved for the dark-rending slam of the repositioned wallkiller. At each report of the throw arm, everyone within the castle walls flinched. There were no fires yet, so there was no concern about the hydrogen jars. The boulders elicited fear. There was no attempt to concentrate on a particular area. Again, the boulders were meant to harass, terrorize. Actual casualties were a side issue.

  Not so with the chlorine jars. More than the crushing boulders, the defenders feared those agonizing fumes. Each new crash stoked the panic within the walls. Merely waiting ate deeply into resolve.

  Gan looked away from the lights of Windband’s campfires and was surprised to see Nalatan had come up undetected while he was distracted. Nalatan said, “I come from the healing house. Four Wolves have died of the air-poison. Two wives. One Priestess; I saw her go. It’s a bad way to die. Like burning alive, from the inside.”

  “It’s how Moonpriest means to break us. He’ll keep sending his filthy jars until we’re used up.”

  “At least he hasn’t started any fires in here.” Nalatan indicated the town. “Still a west wind. I hope it holds.”

  The tone alerted Gan. “Why?”

  “I’m going out.”

  “I forbid it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. If you forbid, I have to disobey. I’d dislike that.”

  “You’d dislike? I’d dislike losing the best fighter in my camp. I’d dislike explaining to my friend Tate that I stood by while you threw your life away.”

  “It’s because I’m the best you have that I’m going. They’ve moved the wallkiller missiles to the new sites.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Smell, earlier, there was grease and wax. To silence the wheels. It’s gone now. No horse noises, either.”

  Gan swallowed chagrin. Those were things he should have noted. Still, it was foolish of Nalatan to try a one-man raid. “What would you do?”

  “The wallkiller is wood. I’ll burn it. And the jars full of whatever helps fire.” In the dim light, his features took on a coldness harder than the stone beside him. “Think of the other jars, Gan Moondark. Think of them smashed, air-poison drifting east. Where those who brought this curse lie sleeping. A thing to poison air is evil beyond mercy. It must be destroyed.”

  A catapult bolt sighed overhead, struck the castle, shattered. Splinters hummed warning, clattered on the ground. At last Gan said, “It’s a bad idea.” Nalatan’s agreeing nod was barely visible. Gan went on. “It’s too much. One man can’t do it.” Nalatan said nothing. Gan shifted uncomfortably. He sounded irritable. “Who’d watch your back? Cover you? There’s no one here with your combat skills.”

  “There’s one.”

  Gan turned to look more closely at his companion. “I’m responsible for every soul here. I can’t go prowling around in the dark like some night raider.”

  “No one said you should.” The innocent tone was sarcasm at its highest.

  “You baited me, didn’t you? You learned your Church lessons well, monk. You’re as devious as a weasel.”

  “The better to stalk the nomads, wolf-talker. I’ll wait for you at the door through the south gate while you tell your wife.”

  “You’ve already told Tate?”

  There was a very pregnant pause. “She sleeps. I thought it best to let her rest.”

  “So I’m to tell Neela, and she’ll tell Tate what happened if we don’t come back. Is that it?”

  “Well, yes. After all, you’re Murdat, in charge of things. All that. Someone has to know where you went.”

  “I’m sorry I called you devious. The word falls short.” Gan rolled upright. “Come on, we’ll get ready. I don’t relish choking to death like a snared rabbit, either.”

  At the south gate’s small door, Gan ordered the illumination torch refueled. He and Nalatan sprinted for the exit. As soon as the basket was hauled up and the light gone, he and Nalatan let themselves out with Shara and Cho. Away from the wall, they all flattened in the grass to crawl forward. Both men carried bows and quivers of arrows, as well as close combat weapons. Nalatan was further equipped with a goatskin of lamp oil slung on his back.

  At the decreased distance, the sounds of the wallkiller crew were obvious. Muted mechanical noise suggested it was being readied. Hushed commands and men grunting in exertion confirmed it.

  The crew worked without lights, but Gan and Nalatan discovered no further security. The mounds of gas-laden jars, tucked into two revetments dug into the side of a low knoll, were unguarded. Up close, their size surprised Gan. He ran his hands over them, familiarizing himself with the tubular protrusions and their hammered-in wooden plugs. A sniff at the latter revealed they’d found the chlorine first. He and Nalatan eased away.

  East of them by a few paces, the unsuspecting crew strained at the arming winch. With the massive machine silhouetted against the stars, both raiders watched in awe as the huge arm crept back. The man issuing commands rode the platform. He lit a small lantern, its dark side to the castle. When he moved to inspect the machine, his actions were crabbed, but quick, assured. He bent down, swinging the lantern to eye level.

  Gan and Nalatan recognized Fox immediately. Nalatan’s exhaling hiss was no more than the whir of a mosquito. It was charged with a yearning bloodlust that underscored Gan’s own dark-shrouded sigh.

  Very carefully, Nalatan readied the goatskin full of oil. Gan nocked an arrow. They nodded at each other. Releasing the shaft, Gan shouted, “Fox!”

  The twisted figure spun about almost too quickly for the eye. Not too quickly for the arrow, however. It struck his chest, the impact like a fist. He staggered backward, caught himself, dropped to his knees.

  The skin was already hurtling through the air onto the carriage of the wallkiller. Oil gushed out, soaked into the checks and cracks of the wood. Gan’s fire arrow whirred. Flame engulfed the timbers. Fox struggled to rise, got to his knees. Fire engulfed him. Soundlessly, he crumpled, lying in the center of the conflagration.

  Gan released the dogs on the stunned wallkiller crew. He arrowed four more men. The dogs were demonic, leaping from darkness to rend and tear, then fading away. Crewmen attempting to escape became disembodied screams from the night; most such cries ended abruptly, horribly.

  Nalatan busied himself at the revetments, packing black powder charges in the stacks of round jars. He lit the fuses with a coal from a small carrier. As soon as they were sputtering, he whistled to Gan. In turn, Gan used his silver whistle to bring in the dogs.

  They were barely started back to the castle when the mounted patrol bore down on them.

  Yelling, firing arrows as fast as possible, the nomads charged. At Gan’s signal, Shara and Cho circled to the flank, then drove at the horses. Between that attack and the accurate return fire of Gan and Nalatan, the charge erupted in pandemonium. Horses reared, screaming, falling. Riders tumbled to be seized by the raging dogs. When attacked the animals simply fled into darkness. Meanwhile, Gan and Nalatan held off the milling, cursing crowd.

  A commanding voice named riders, told them to keep the dogs at bay. He called for the rest to follow him. Gan and Nalatan raced for the castle, shouting for the illuminating torch to be extinguished. Confused yells answered. The torch continued to burn, exposing the two running men
cruelly.

  Nalatan stopped. Wheeling, he loosed an arrow. The closest nomad jerked back in his saddle, flopped loosely, the shaft protruding from his throat. The four remaining riders swerved wide. Nearby, reinforcements shouted encouragement.

  The remaining riders fired arrows at Nalatan. He dodged one, called to the now-stationary Gan. “Run. Quickly. If you delay, I won’t have a chance to lose them in the dark. Don’t let me die here for nothing. Save yourself. Run.”

  Gan twitched, ripped by indecision. Shara and Cho raced to him from the darkness. Once more, Nalatan demanded he leave. With a wordless cry of loss and fury and pain, Gan ran. Calling his own name to the men on the wall, he sped to the door and tumbled through with his dogs. He turned to see Nalatan dashing away from the wall, into darkness, toward the sea.

  Windband was entirely awake. The burning wallkiller was a fiery stick poked at a hornet’s nest. Torches flared. Horsemen raced from the forest to intercept their tormentor.

  The black powder exploded. The effect of the hydrogen was thunderous. Rather than one massive blast, it seemed to build, rising to a terrible, spectacular crescendo of sound and light. Blue-violet flame balled, billowed to red, leaped into the night. Jars rocketed across the fields, exploding in a glory of fire and sparks.

  From the chlorine revetment, an infinitely more insidious power oozed across the landscape. Invisible, utterly silent, it crept the dark, revealing itself only in the sudden agonized screams and rales of its victims. Maddened horses stampeded. Panicked men cried for help, for mercy, and ran blindly away.

  In the middle of all of it, the towering arm of the wallkiller leaned to the side. Creaking, cracking, it crashed to earth.

  Inside the castle wall, a disheveled Tate, sleep swollen face masked in horror, stood between Neela and Sylah. Their strength held her upright. In a voice wretched with disbelief, with accusation, she begged Gan to tell her that it wasn’t true, that the man left outside, alone among the nomads of Windband, wasn’t her husband.