WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  That smell had brought him back to consciousness, his heart thudding wildly in his heaving chest. He gasped for air, shut his eyes to the darting memories that loomed up to hurt him. He was helpless and vulnerable to the memories his mind tortured him with. He was as susceptible to the torment as he was the lash.

  He couldn't think of that smell, he told himself. He must not. He would not. It hurt him far too much, far too deeply. He had tried to force that memory deep down inside him. So far down the guards could never reach it and take it away. He wanted it to stay buried. Out of reach, out of his tormented soul. It would remain locked against this awful world in which he survived a waking death.

  Weak as he was, and trembling from the effort, he managed to sit up. He looked at the Healer as he slept, snoring lightly on a cot nearby. The man was good to him. As good as the Commandant would allow. It was a comfort Conar cherished.

  A loud shout caught his attention. He turned his head toward the open doorway. He heard angry voices, meaty thuds. From somewhere deep inside him came the overpowering desire to stop whatever was taking place, no matter how ill he was. Strong emotion shot through him; he heard it calling to him and knew he was the only one who could help. He felt compelled to be in that courtyard, to make right whatever was wrong.

  He took a steadying breath and swung his legs off the cot, nearly passing out as his head spiraled with a throbbing pain. He made himself stand on unsteady feet, his hand gripping the cot's frame in order to stay erect. Leaning heavily on the edge until he could still the spinning fury in his head, he straightened, grimacing at the terrible weakness in his limbs. He stood for as long as he dared, until he was certain he wouldn't fall, and then, clutching the wall for support, his fingers splayed out over the rough wood slabs, he stumbled to the open doorway where rain cascaded in.

  He squinted into the almost total darkness and could see the flaring pinpoints of overhead torchlight. Men had gathered around the sludge ditch and his blood ran cold. He knew what must have happened.

  There was no hesitation on his part. There was no turning back. What had to be done, had to be done by him. Taking a deep, wavering breath, he ventured into the deluge and was immediately soaked. His filthy breeches hung on him in baggy tatters, dark-stained with his body fluids and just as malodorous. He stumbled over the sucking, greedy mud, his eyes filling with rain, blinding him, stinging. He lowered his head and trudged forward, skirting the deeper puddles where he knew he would sink knee-deep into the earth.

  He tripped over something and went sprawling, landing with a splash of thick ooze. His face skidded into the slickness, plugging his nostrils and right ear and nearly choking him as it filled his olfactory senses with the cloying smell of wet sand and urine. He managed to pull his head clear, shake it despite the godawful agony it brought him, and then struggle to his knees, his hands buried.

  Angry shouts turned vicious, lethal. He raised his head and listened. Something stirred inside his soul, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, and he gained vigor from it, took courage from it. He gathered all his waning strength to heave himself unsteadily from the ground.

  He stood, wove like a drunkard as he waited to be sure he wouldn't fall, then started forward.

  So intent were the others on what was happening to the Necroman, the inmates and guards didn't notice Conar until he was almost to the ditch. He eased through their neck-craning ranks with the invisibility his presence at the Labyrinth had acquired for him. He slipped, unnoticed, unfelt, between the men, never touching them, never speaking, never looking at them, and made his way to the rock barrier near where Shalu knelt. When he was at last noticed, shocked gasps turned to incredulous silence and the prisoners began to back away from him in waves.

  The Necroman was still on his knees, his brawny neck exposed as two guards held back his head. The Commandant stood over him, a thin-blade dagger paused at the corner of one cinnamon-colored ear. Together, they looked as though they were posing for some gruesome portrait in a mad artist's gallery.

  Lightning flashed; rain gushed down in a solid sheet of ice-cold fury as thunder seemed to shake the very world. Another flash of lightning forked viciously across the heavens, arced out in several places at once, backlighting the scene with an eerie glow that turned those gathered to ghost-white figures.

  King Shalu Taborn went still as death as he saw the young man. Taking in Conar's appearance, the Necroman could see into the very soul of the man staggering toward him. He let his troubled gaze settle on the wounded, fever-ridden face, willed that face to look up, those heralded blue eyes to fuse with his own. "Look at me!" Shalu silently commanded. "Look at me!"

  Conar heard the command deep in his soul, recognized it for what it was, shook his head against the call.

  "Do it!" came the call once more.

  Slowly, he lifted his head, looked hesitantly to the Necroman, held the gaze only a fraction of a second and then looked away.

  Shalu wanted to scream with fury. How long had it been since the boy had been allowed to look anyone in the eye? A year? Two? Looking at the beaten-down sag of those once-proud shoulders set the Necroman's teeth on edge. He remembered another time, another rainy day, when this boy had done him a great kindness, had shown him unstinting respect. "Look at me," came the silent call again, soft, filled with emotion.

  Conar lifted his head once more; their gazes locked.

  The Necroman didn't speak; he knew there was no need for words between them. But for the first time in his life, he lowered his own eyes to another man. Unselfish courage was something the Necroman understood and he recognized it in Conar.

  Before anyone could think to stop him, yell at him, punish him for daring to interfere, Conar slipped over the higher part of the overflowing ditch and waded into the filth.

  Roget breathed a sigh of relief as Appolyon stepped away from Shalu and went to stand at the other end of the ditch, his attention riveted on Conar. Coming slowly to his feet, Shalu stared just as intently at Conar, now working to unclog the ditch.

  Mud and human waste covered Conar's bare arms and shoulders, plastered his breeches to his lean flanks. Offal smeared his face and freshly-washed hair.

  Shalu swallowed hard to keep from gagging. He gasped as Conar lost his footing in the rush of the water, went down on his knees, struggled up with a large rock clutched in his filthy hands. He held his breath as Conar hefted the rock and hurled it out of the ditch.

  Conar stumbled again, his blond head disappearing beneath the water.

  "No!" a weak, frightened voice spoke beside the Necroman. Shalu turned to look at Jah-Ma-El. The sorcerer started forward, but the black man put out a hand to stop him.

  "You want to die, Serenian?" the Necroman growled.

  Everyone waited in the pouring rain. Some with held breath, some anxious, some with looks of revenge on their beefy faces. A collective sigh of relief rushed over the compound when Conar surfaced, wiping muck from his face, spitting gods-only-knew-what from his gasping mouth.

  "What the hell is he doing out there?" an angry, horrified voice startled the men. They turned to see the Healer. "Get him out of there!"

  "Leave off, Xander," Roget warned.

  "He's sick, du Mer! He's barely able to stand!"

  "He's doing what he has to," Shalu answered. "It is his destiny and he knows it."

  "He's doing your job, darkie!" some inmate called. "Getting shit-slimed for you! And your worthless black hide ain't worth him dying for!"

  "Shut up!" Appolyon screamed, incensed that the men were defending McGregor.

  Angry eyes turned to the Commandant and then strayed back to the young man slinging rocks from the sludge ditch. The waters started to confine themselves to the banks, slipping down the stone barrier little by little. Finally, the last rock in the blockage was removed, the last obstacle in the free-flowing motion of the water overcome. Garbage and human waste swirled around Conar, speeding toward the lake. He lowered his head with infinite slowness and
then felt all his aches and pains settle once more on him. His shoulders drooped beneath the weight of his labors, his head sagged in exhaustion and the throbbing agony of the migraine came back full force.

  "Come on," a voice whispered, heard even over the rumble of thunder and cascade of heavy rain. "Get outta there."

  "Hurry up, boy."

  Conar took a step forward, went down beneath the fury of the rapidly flowing water, and came up coughing. He stood there, wavering, gathering his last strength. After a weary sigh, he tried to half-swim, half-stumble toward the lower bank. Time and again he slipped, but with strong determination, and draining strength, he finally made his way to the steep incline.

  "You can do it," came the soft, almost inaudible whispers.

  Conar's fever had returned with fiery vengeance. He was chilled to the marrow of his bones and smelled so badly he could breathe only through his mouth. He tried to climb from the ditch, to pull himself up the slick bank, but he slide down on his chest and belly, smearing himself thickly with even more human filth.

  "Get out of there!" the chief guard bellowed.

  He tried again, but his feet slipped out from under him, digging into the rapidly crumbling bank wall. He grabbed at a protruding rock, but it came loose and he fell backward, landing on his rump in the ooze. It took his last reserve of energy to pull himself free of the sucking filth and stand, weaving on legs suddenly devoid of purpose. He was too sick and much too weary to try again. He lowered his head. No one saw the tears on his cheeks as they mixed with the rain.

  "Don't give up, boy!" a man hissed from somewhere at the back of the crowd.

  Conar barely heard the various comments. He was so drained, was so lost in his private hell of pain, that when something dark flashed in front of him, his head jerked up in surprise, fear, and panic.

  A grunt of command, a non-verbal order came.

  Through the ring of faces above, Conar saw the Necroman at the top of the ditch. He was bent over the rim, his large hand extended toward Conar. The darkman grunted again, insistent, brooking no retreat and the hand stretched closer.

  Conar looked at the proffered hand as though he couldn't comprehend what it was. It was extended, not with anger, not to hit, but to help. It had been a long time since anyone had put out a hand to him with any intention other than to hurt. It had been equally as long since anyone had put out a hand to him in compassion. He understood what was being offered, but shook his head in denial. His face held a pleading look. He hoped the big man would heed the warning he was trying to convey—Don't help me. You'll suffer because of it.

  Shalu knew the very thoughts flooding Conar's abused mind. He also knew Conar would never be able to make it up the incline on his own, and knew the guards would hurt Conar if they had to be the ones to help. He thrust his hand out again.

  Conar refused to acknowledge the man's offer of assistance, the momentary spark of humanity. He would not allow another to suffer because of him.

  Then, in a soft, compelling voice, rich and deep, husky with respect, the Necromanian King spoke. "Give me your hand, son." Then he added a word he had never before used. "Please."

  "Do it," some unknown voice called out. "Give the darkie your hand, boy!"

  "Let me through, you bastards!" Appolyon screamed, but the wall of men stood firm against him. He shoved one brawny inmate, who turned a belligerent, deadly face to him.

  The inmate snickered. "You think Tohre would like knowing where that boy is now? Think about that, Commandant!"

  Flinching, his face draining of color, Appolyon waddled to his hut.

  One of the guards loyal to the McGregor family looked down at Conar. "You'll drown! Take his hand!"

  Conar didn't care anymore. If he drowned, maybe all the pain would stop. Maybe if he just walked into the center of the ditch, if he just sank beneath the water…

  "No! Give me your hand!" Shalu bellowed. "Now!"

  Conar raised his head. Anger was something he understood. He looked past the hand to the angry brown eyes.

  "Go on, Your Grace," the guard whispered, also holding out his hand.

  Conar stared at the guard. Something twisted in his gut, hurt him so badly he thought he would scream with agony. He saw pity, love, compassion, and worry in the man's pinched face. A hitching sob tore from him.

  Shalu felt the young man's uncertainty, felt his pain. The guard had unknowingly spoken Conar's title, starting a torrent of emotion flowing through Conar's vacant blue eyes.

  "Go on, boy!" someone shouted. "Take what's offered you! You're one of us!"

  "Aye!" several men shouted. "You've earned the help."

  Conar looked at his own hands, at the grimy, odorous filth clinging to them. He couldn't, he wouldn't, touch another with those hands.

  "It doesn't matter!" Shalu told him, understanding.

  "You can't stay in there, son," the Healer warned. "You'll only get sicker."

  "I…don't…care…"

  "I care," Jah-Ma-El said.

  Conar turned to his brother. The gaze was brief, but it was enough to let him know Jah-Ma-El still loved him. With infinite care, he reached up a tentative hand, trembling with fear and illness.

  When the strong brown fingers closed over his, Conar winced, feeling the squish of offal smearing the Necroman's palm. The firm grasp tightened in a steadying grip, refusing to let go. The guard who offered his hand grasped Conar's upper arm and helped pull him from the ditch.

  Soon, Conar felt other hands on him. On his back steadying him, on his shoulder patting him in relief, on his arms as Roget and Jah-Ma-El held him erect. It was the first time in more than two years that anyone other than the Healer had touched him with anything other than hatred.

  Shalu couldn't help but pity the ravaged lines in the young man's face. He hadn't been close to Conar since that first night when he had been brought into the Indoctrination Hut. There was such pain and anguish, terrible loneliness in that scarred face, a devastating need for the touch of human kindness, that it was almost unbearable to look upon. Still holding one of Conar's hands, the darkman reached out his free hand, ignoring the reflective flinch his action caused, and eased away an lock of wet hair from Conar's brow. "It'll be all right, son."

  Conar lowered his head. They would all pay for this one act of compassion, the Necroman worst of all, he feared.

  "No!" Shalu said. His strong fingers claimed Conar's trembling chin, forced up the sagging head. "I will be all right, too!"

  As they eyed each other, the two men each caught the fleeting glimpse of a kindred spirit. A flowing power that had once claimed them for Its own, an untapped energy still waiting for them to take it up again. And the look that passed between them made note of the other's abilities, qualities, strengths and weaknesses.

  It was a deep look that stirred the first faint embers of unswerving friendship.

  "Thank…you," Conar whispered, then collapsed into Shalu's arms.

  * * *

  "Have you been to the medical hut?" Roget asked Jah-Ma-El.

  "They wouldn't let me." Jah-Ma-El pulled on his breeches, stuffed his tattered shirt into the waistband and picked up his felt hat. "If he was worse, Xander would find a way to send for me." He jammed the sloppy-looking cap over his thin, greasy black hair.

  "I don't like going to work not knowing," one of the other men said as he looked toward the medical hut. "How do you think Shalu is?"

  Roget shrugged. "Cooling his heels in the Indoctrination Hut. If that's all Appolyon does to him, it'll be a miracle."

  "There's no such thing in this hellhole!" Jah-Ma-El snarled.

  The whistle that blew every morning signaling the men to assemble for work pierced the air with its shrill blast. The men shuffled out of their huts to gather in the courtyard. The rain still came down in a slash of beating force, but the guards were already motioning the men into the mines.

  "Xander will take good care of him," Roget told Jah-Ma-El.

  Jah-Ma-El nodded. "I know
."

  Deep in the tallest of the bluffs circling the Labyrinth, the men began their day's labor mining the rare ores that were shipped out of the colony twice a year. Guards ranged along tunnel entrances to keep them from escaping, although there was nowhere the men could run that would see them to safety. The sound of metal striking metal grew deafening. Carts creaking beneath the weight of heavy ores and the squeal of rusted wheels on equally rusted tracks blocked out any sound from the outside world.

  Appolyon rarely visited the mining operation, but he was here this morning. He walked among the men, inspecting their work, issuing orders that were little more than annoyances to men who knew what they were about. His beady eyes strayed often to Roget with pique, and du Mer knew he was contemplating the punishments they would receive for having shown Conar a semblance of humanity the day before.

  "Don't you have work to do, du Mer?" the Commandant snapped.

  "You told me to oversee my work group, Commandant," Roget grumbled. "I can't shovel ore and look after them at the same time."

  "All I see you doing is coming in here and looking around. I want to see less of you, du Mer!" Appolyon called as Roget made another trip into the section of mine to direct his men.

  "I'll go on a diet, then," Roget mumbled.

  "Tow the line, du Mer. I'll be in the last shaft and I'll know if you're towing the line or not!"

  Roget spat and turned away from the fat man's beady regard. He bumped into another inmate and reached out to shove the man away, annoyed that someone had come up on him without him hearing. "Get the hell out of my face!" He lifted his eyes. A quick smile shot across his mouth.