Warrior: The Moondark Saga Books 1-3 Read online

  Warrior: The Moondark Saga, Books 1-3

  Escape To Challenge copyright 2011 by Don McQuinn

  Warrior’s Gamble copyright 2011 by Don McQuinn

  Who Dares Define Victory copyright 2013 by Don McQuinn

  www.DonMcQuinn.com

  Omnibus Edition Published by Raven’s Call Press 2014

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9903489-2-4

  Warrior

  The Moondark Saga, Books 1-3

  Escape To Challenge

  Warrior’s Gamble

  Who Dares Define Victory

  Don McQuinn

  Contents

  Map

  Start Reading Book 1

  Start Reading Book 2

  Start Reading Book 3

  The Story Continues

  Contact Information

  Full Table Of Contents

  The Moondark Saga: Book 1

  Escape To Challenge

  Map

  To view the map at full resolution, visit: www.DonMcQuinn.com/map

  Prologue

  The sleeping child stirred fitfully, one small hand reaching out from under the fur blanket as if she would hold off the things scratching, scuffling, whispering across the darkness.

  Little by little the sounds grew louder, and at every gradual increase they seemed to spread, so that by the time she was fully awake, it was impossible for her to say exactly where any came from. For several long, heart-thudding moments, she listened.

  Even the steady breathing of her parents on their bed against the opposite wall of the hut failed to comfort her, and the assorted sniffs and sighs of her four brothers and sisters were useless.

  She’d had bad dreams before. When she cried out, everyone was angry. She bit her lip and told herself she had to be brave.

  But this was no dream. The things outside—by now she was certain there was more than one—were real. The four walls that had always been her warm, safe, home-place suddenly seemed flimsy and vulnerable. Something huge and terrible stalked them, crouching to leap and rip them apart.

  The image broke her nerve. She called her mother. Instead of a concerned mumble, reassuring in its waking drowsiness, coarse shouts answered from outside. Her mother was up and scrambling across to the children before her father could reach the door. Even as she was being lifted out of bed, the girl watched him, excited and very afraid, but aware. She knew he was reaching outside for the axe he kept by the chopping block.

  The light of flames from a burning thatch roof played across his bare back.

  Then he was coming back, shouting, holding the axe in front of him with one hand. The other hung at an angle, moving in pained jerks, the way flying ducks flopped out of the sky when a hunter’s throwing stick hit them.

  Two men lunged at him with swords. One carried a torch. The light flickered across his horrible painted face. He shrieked and stumbled away as her father swung his axe. The other plunged his sword into her father.

  She saw no more for a while after that, because her mother dropped her, and it hurt. She cried then. When she pushed herself to a kneeling position and opened her eyes again, her mother was lying down, making a sound she’d never heard before. Worse than that was the wet stain on her chest that grew and grew. The girl knew it was blood, because she’d seen many animals killed. It had never occurred to her that the same thing could happen to her mother. The shock of the idea stopped her tears.

  A hand reached for her, and she jerked away with the instinctive quickness of a cat. Before the hand could come at her again, she was between the blood-spattered legs and out the door. A loud shout followed her, but not the man. Then she heard the screams of her brothers and sisters.

  Sick with fear, she knew only that she had to be with her family.

  She ran back into the hut and threw herself at the man’s legs from behind. As she did, she saw the rest of the children on the floor. They neither moved nor cried. Something deep within her told her they never would. Her father groaned. Her mother strained to get up.

  She bit the man as hard as she could.

  He yelled and grabbed her arm and heaved her high in the air, all the way up, level with his terrifying, painted scowl. Looking into his eyes, the only thing she saw was her own face, reflected so small she looked like a bug. When he raised his sword, it gleamed terribly, red and steel together in the firelight of the burning hut.

  Another man came in, roaring, and grabbed the sword at the handle. The swordsman lowered her.

  She thought he was going to give her back to her mother, and as soon as her feet touched the pounded earth of the floor, she tried to go to her. The man’s grip was unbreakable.

  Her mother rose on one elbow, the other hand clawing the air in the effort to reach her child. She called her name, and then fell back.

  The girl was very disappointed by that, and angered, because she was trying as hard as she could to get away from the awful, awful man, and her mother wasn’t helping. She started to cry again.

  And then her mother tried to speak once more. She failed. Instead, she made a sound that pierced the girl with a spike of ice. It was a different thing, a hoarse sigh that knew no other breath would follow.

  The child intuitively knew what the sound was. She stretched her own mouth until it hurt and she screamed and screamed, and nothing came.

  Rough, hard hands dragged her outside. The whole village was aflame, making the night into day. Unresisting, the girl was jerked off her feet once more, tumbled into a basket strapped to the side of a mule. There were three other children in the basket with her, wild, hysterical with despair. The girl was numb, almost unaware of them. Nor was she troubled, then, by the coarse weave of the basket, so open that tiny arms and legs slipped through the gaps to chafe on the rough slats. She barely noticed as someone stuffed in yet another child and lashed down the top on their cell.

  A whip cracked. The mule humped and started forward. The girl looked back at the burning village. All the huts were on fire, collapsing, fountaining sparks high in the air to be swallowed by smoke and darkness.

  She couldn’t tell which one was hers.

  Chapter 1

  A silver blade of dawn slit the gray cloud mass to create a horizon. Gan shivered, pressing his body flatter against the graveled hilltop. The searching light seemed to bring on greater cold, as if it helped the wind find gaps in his furs to sneak through and dull his mind. The thought brought on a quick thrill of increased awareness. Nightwatchers held the camp in their hands. It was a sacred trust.

  Some resented the loneliness and discomfort of Nightwatch. He was used to being alone. Long ago, he’d convinced himself it gave him time to think, to observe. More than that, he secretly relished the responsibility and the skin-prickling sense of danger when he thought of the hostile world waiting for his smallest mistake.

  The first curve of the rising sun bloodied the new day, and Gan lifted his torso to make the Three-sign in the prescribed manner of his clan, right hand first touching his forehead, then to left and right of his heart. Silently, he mouthed the required words. “I greet you, the One Who Is Two, and the Father, One in All.”

  He inched back from the crest, still prone. One hand carried his bow, the other assured the belt-slung sword made no noise. Once downhill, he lowered the weapons, stood up, and peeled off the fur jacket and trousers. He stretched luxuriously.

  He was tall, fair-haired, lean rather than slender, with long muscles stretched across heavy bones. It was a youthful body at the edge of powerful manhood. Drawing the sword from its wooden scabb
ard, he began a series of limbering movements. The weapon was called a murdat. It was two feet long, including the grip with its hand-protecting metal shield. The blade widened gradually from the tip along its length like an elongated spearhead, ending with a dramatic flare at the butt. It slashed or stabbed with equal deadliness.

  Lost in contemplation, he was caught unaware by the sound of another presence approaching the hillcrest from the far side. Instantly, he charged.

  A shaggy, brindled gray hound peered down at him, fangs bared in what could have been laughter. Yellow eyes gleamed. “Raggar!” Gan lowered the blade, chagrined. “You surprised me, boy.”

  The huge dog listened impassively, red tongue lolling. Gan realized it was alone. “Where are the others? Is someone coming?”

  Raggar shifted his weight from one foreleg to the other, impatient. Gan hurriedly replaced his outer clothing and fell in behind the animal. They moved at a trot, the only sound the whisper of the winter-struck grass that came to the dog’s shoulder and the top of Gan’s thighs. A few patches of snow gleamed in shaded hollows. Sullen clouds warned winter could still strike. Nevertheless, tender green shoots struggled for sunlight, tinting the rolling land with an eager glow.

  Raggar slowed, testing the air, then struck off to the right.

  Gan fitted an arrow to his bow and followed, bent forward until he was not much taller than his dog. From a distance, anyone seeing his furs move through the growth could easily mistake him for one of the fearless great bears that prowled the grasslands.

  They finished the climb to the top of a knoll in a crawl, side by side. A tan dog almost as large as Raggar lay there. It acknowledged them with a quick look, then resumed watching a hooded, cloaked figure on horseback in the distance.

  “Good girl, Rissa,” Gan said, patting her head. The heavy tail thumped once.

  The horse was small, ill-favored. It picked its way along in nervous twitches. Gan sneered. The Horse Chief would never tolerate such an animal.

  From under his blouse Gan drew a silver whistle on a leather thong and put it between his teeth. When the rider was within fifteen yards, he rose, bow and arrow in hand. The rider reined in sharply. The horse reared, snorting and rolling its eyes. The whistle’s silent commands sent Raggar and Rissa running to positions at the front and flanks of the intruder. Two more dogs appeared in the distance, running flat out. They stopped at a discreet range to bar retreat.

  The rider was very good. Even while fighting to control his mount, he swung in the saddle to mark the approach of the other two dogs. Once he had his horse under control, he advanced to greet Gan with both hands over his head, forefingers and thumbs forming a circle in the sun picture of peace. A heavy ring and gold bracelet glinted boldly.

  When the rider was a few feet away, Gan whistled again. The dogs moved closer. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The rider threw back the hood. Shining black shoulder-length hair cascaded free to frame the fine-boned features of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He caught his breath while eyes the color of summer’s hottest sky sought his, challenging. Her voice was husky. She said, “I am a War Healer. I am a Rose Priestess and my name is Sylah. I seek the camp of the Dog People.”

  Her haughty pride reminded him he was staring like a dolt. He straightened. “We have our own Healers. And we are not at war, so need no others. Why should we welcome you?”

  The Rose Priestess smiled. Despite her beauty, it was not a completely pleasant expression. “Because Dog People never turn away a hungry traveler. Because I have news and gossip to entertain your Elders, who would discipline a young Nightwatcher who sent me away unheard. But mostly because I bring a message from the place you call the Enemy Mountains.”

  The bow jerked threateningly. “From the Devils!”

  Her smile had been disturbing, like ice stilling a singing stream, but hearing the wildness of her laughter was worse. She said, “I come with their warning.” Suddenly she gestured at Gan’s weapon. “Put that away. You know I’m not to be harmed. Every hand in every tribe that prays to the One in All will be at your throat.” She waited, imperious, until he quivered the arrow, then went on. “I come from the kingdom of Ola on a mission for Church and my king. On the way, I have lived with the Mountain People, those you call Devils. The summer will bring them down from the mountains.”

  She paused to swallow, and when she spoke again she was pale. “War is coming to you, as never before. The Devils mean to destroy you, to kill all who resist and carry those who survive back to the mountains for their amusement. Your living will curse your dead for their good fortune even as they watch the coyotes and magpies fight over the bodies.”

  Chapter 2

  The soft noises of the cave slipped through the darkness, hinting at secrets they wished to share. There were lights, as well, hundreds of them in rows, emerald dots of a cold smoldering.

  One blinked. For a few seconds it was as if it had never been, and then it came on for a brief while and went out again.

  It flickered spasmodically, with no rhythm, no pattern, but in the complete blackness of the place there was a desperate, struggling quality to its efforts.

  Then it was gone.

  Another sound entered the easy constancy of the other noises. The new one was no louder, although it seemed so because it overrode everything else. High-pitched, its two notes exactly an octave apart, it called.

  In that place that knew no time, the sound went on monotonously until, abruptly, it stilled.

  Something different came to life in the blackness, something that hissed and moved with careful stealth. Its progress was marked by occasional grating, as even its measured course discovered litter to crush. More, it carried a single, dull red light that cast about continually, seeking. It stopped at the place where the green light had been. Clicks and hard, gnashing noises marked invisible activity. The hissing resumed. The thing retreated, cautious as before.

  A smell lingered behind it, a weight on the air rather than a definable substance. It was a thing that touched deeper than senses.

  A man who breathed there would have known what it was. He would have felt his skin tighten, would have braced mind and body against the ice-chill that clutched his spine. He would have fled with his knowledge.

  Death walked that place.

  Chapter 3

  Gan and Rose Priestess Sylah breasted Tiger Rocks Plateau two miles from camp, and he called a halt. She turned from her position a few paces ahead to watch as he called Rissa. The dog loped through the tall grass. Diamond glints of frost sprayed around her, starred her coat. Gan tugged her ear, smiling, then took some string from a belt pouch and secured it to her collar, leaving one end hanging longer than the other. He tied two knots in the longer one and a single, more complex knot at the end of the shorter. Finished, he ordered, “The Watch tent. Rissa, go!”

  The Priestess turned a questioning half smile on him, and Gan was certain he saw a touch of warmth behind the unwavering superiority. Unreasonably, it made him feel shy. His tongue stumbled over his explanation. “Rissa’s got pups. That’s why I sent her ahead.”

  “You sent the string message report so they can prepare to welcome me? How long before we arrive? Where can I wash and prepare?”

  Gan’s face warmed. “I said I bring a prisoner.”

  “Prisoner?” Her quick aggressive posture alerted the dogs. She failed to notice them crouch. The horse did, however, and jittered as she added, “When I speak to your Chiefs—” she broke off, heeling the horse forward. “I told you I’m a War Healer. I’ll enjoy watching you apologize.”

  “Then know me; Gan Moondark, son of Col, a Nightwatcher of the North Clan.”

  “Col Moondark? War Chief?”

  “Yes.” Gan resisted asking what more she knew of his father. He wanted to speak of Col Moondark’s many honors, and those of all the North Clan, because this was a most irritating woman who badly needed educating. He clenched his jaws, remembering his father’s constant
admonition to trade on no reputation but his own.

  He wished he had one.

  White, even teeth worried at the woman’s lower lip. When she swiveled back to the front, her cape made an audible swish. The touchy little horse hopped into a trot. Raggar growled at the quick move, and the horse shied. The Priestess wrestled it under control, determinedly giving no sign of concern. Raggar looked to Gan, who hid a reluctant admiration for her as he hand-signaled the dogs to bracket her in a moving square.

  Jogging at her side, he felt her stare. He looked up into hard blue eyes studying him with the routine condescension of one who rides toward one on foot. She said, “You have no mount. Don’t they trust you with one of the Dog People’s fabled horses?”

  Gan ran easily. It was a soft pace, as natural to him as walking, and he could have gone much faster for a full day. He said, “Horses draw tigers and the young wolves.” He gestured behind him, checking their back trail as a matter of course.

  There was movement two hills away, something furtive. Calling to the Priestess to stop, Gan whistled at the dogs. A male nearly Raggar’s size trotted forward, tail wagging. Gan pointed. “Kammar, search,” he said.

  Obediently, Kammar ambled back the way they’d come. Responding to the silent whistle, he angled off to his right. Within seconds he was hidden by the brush. Gan drew an arrow from his quiver.

  The Priestess said, “You hunt? You have a visitor to escort!”

  He continued to watch the distance. “I’m not hunting, and you’re a prisoner, not a visitor.” He motioned for the woman to come with him to the tumble of huge rocks that gave the place its name. Hidden among them, he made her dismount and sit before he took up a watching position.

  She scoffed. “There’s no one back there, and if there is, what do you think you can do about it?”