WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  * * *

  They sat before du Mer's hut and stared sullenly at guards who were standing at attention before the Commandant's hut. They could hear the fat man's insane tirades through the thick walls and could well imagine the men inside quivering.

  "How many has he hung, now?" Thom asked, looking at the two guards swaying lifelessly on the uprights.

  "Ten, I think," Hern answered, miserable with a head cold. He ran his sleeve under his dripping nose and sneezed.

  "Does that bastard think hanging his men will make the others find Conar any quicker?" Rylan Hesar asked. He had limped to the hut, his nerve-damaged foot bothering him, and had sat beside his young brother, Paegan.

  "Better he hang his own men than one of us!" Tyne snapped.

  "The longer it takes them to find Conar, the more men will die," another quipped.

  "Pray to Alel they don't find Conar!" Jah-Ma-El said.

  "It's been months," Roget said. "He's either managed to find a way off this island, or he's…"

  "Say he did find a way out of these bluffs," Hern said, "and say he made his way across the desert to a place where he had food and water—how do you think he's been able to allude them? They've been all over that desert searching."

  "He's found somewhere safe," Chase answered. "Somewhere they haven't looked."

  "Or he's with someone who's protecting him," Shalu added.

  "I hope you're right," Roget told him as he watched three more guards being dragged out of the Commandant's hut. The men were kicking and screaming, their bodies writhing in the hands of the other guards who were dragging them to their deaths at the uprights.

  "Too bad Lydon Drake hasn't had his damned neck stretched!" Hern snarled, watching the man who was now temporarily in charge of the guards since the Chief Warden had been hanged two weeks earlier.

  "It's a shame for a man to lose his life over something he can't help," Chand said.

  Hern sneezed again, then turned to the young man. "Would you rather they find him?"

  Sentian Heil spoke for them all. "No, and I pray to Alel they never do."

  * * *

  He had lost all sense of direction, wasn't even sure he wasn't moving toward the camp instead of away from it. He put up a dirt-encrusted arm to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. Ahead, shimmering sand stretched as far as he could see. Behind, lay the caves in which he had spent more than sixteen days living off rodents and reptiles and worms and insects, desert plants and the underground water inside the cave system.

  He was content to live out the rest of his life in those caves, alone and devoid of company—nothing new to him after these many years of imprisonment—had it not been for the prison guard who found the caves the same way he did, by falling through a section of the roof and plummeting into the dark depths.

  At first, when Conar fell into the cave, his throat had constricted with the old terror of confined places. But a light above him where the sand had given away, and a light farther along the tunnel into which he had fallen, made him move forward, his heart beating so hard he thought it would burst. When he found the wide cavern, larger than the Widow's Grotto at Boreas, he had made the semi-dark place his home.

  He heard the shouts in the deeper part of the cave, knew they had discovered his hiding place.

  "Why?" he had asked the unmerciful gods.

  It had been almost two days since they found his safe haven, and he'd had no water in all that time. His lips were cracked, his tongue was swollen and his throat felt like sandpaper. He had surprised himself with just how much strength he had as he kept moving through the desert. With dogged determination, he put one tired foot ahead of the other. If they were going to catch him, and he knew they probably would, for their shouts were getting closer, he wasn't going to make it easy.

  They would not take him back alive, he had decided; his life no longer meant anything to him. He had known they would eventually come after him, but had hoped to be only a festering corpse when they did. But when he found the caves, he'd had a glimmer of hope light his horizon. Now, that hope was dwindling away.

  Also, he knew if they took him back alive, there would be others who would pay for his escape. He didn't want that. He'd make his captors kill him.

  What did it matter if he died again? No one cared. A faint tremor went through his heart. That wasn't quite true, he heard a little voice remind him. There were those who still cared: Jah-Ma-El, Sentian, Hern, the others. Those who would mourn him again, but that didn't matter to him as much now as it once would have. Nothing mattered but the ultimate ceasing of the nightmare.

  He turned at a sound. A thin grimace of a smile stretched over his bleeding lips.

  They were very close now. Close enough for him to see the guards, and clearly recognize them. His eyes went to the tallest, biggest man in the trio and he gave a nod of satisfaction.

  "Lydon," he croaked around the constriction of his dry throat. Good. He had prayed it would be the sadistic son-of-a-bitch.

  He made his legs move faster in the shifting sand. His heart pumped furiously. He gasped for breath, but it wouldn't be long now.

  Lydon would kill him for sure.

  Something sharp and hard hit him squarely in the small of the back. He stumbled, putting one hand up behind him to ease the sudden, horrible throbbing. Something else grazed his elbow, making it go numb. He around jerked his arm; blood oozed from a wicked gash from his elbow to the middle of his forearm. Something sailed past his face, glanced off his cheekbone. He yelped, putting up a hand that came away bloody. When another hard blow struck between his shoulders, his legs went out from under him. Sprawling face down in the hot sand, he saw what had hit him. A caltrop—a spiked metal ball about three inches in diameter, the spikes having been rounded so as not to cause too severe an injury, just sharp, blinding pain—lay in the dirt beside him.

  He craned his neck and saw them within twenty feet. He pushed himself to his knees, willing his exhausted body to move. Staggering to his feet, he tried to gain a foothold in the sand, but his knees buckled and he fell. Before he could try to get up, a booted foot kicked him hard in the thigh and his leg went numb.

  "Going somewhere, Your Grace?" Lydon sneered.

  Two guards jerked him to his feet, twisting his arms behind him. They pushed him toward Lydon. He snapped up his head, glaring at the burly guard.

  "Lower your head, scum!" Lydon bellowed, reaching behind his back to withdraw the wicked-looking blade at his waist.

  Instinctively, Conar's head dropped, his gaze falling on the knife, but then moved slowly back to the vicious eyes boring into his.

  "Lower your head to me!" Lydon screeched, bringing the knife closer to Conar's gut.

  "Better not kill him," one guard warned, correctly reading the look on Lydon's face.

  The second guard chuckled. "Go ahead, Lydon. Who'd know?"

  Something dark and mad went through Lydon Drake. He placed the blade tip to Conar's jugular. His palm itched where the handle rested.

  "If we go back without him, the Commandant will kill us," the first guard said.

  Lydon dug the knife tip into Conar's flesh with just enough pressure to cause pain, but not enough to draw blood. "You don't mind if we take you back dead, do you?"

  After coercing enough moisture into his mouth, Conar forced himself to speak. "I don't give a damn what you do to me, you sorry piece of shit." It was difficult to make sense out of his garbled, croaking speech, but he could tell Lydon had understood.

  Drake pressed the knife into the flesh and a thin bead of blood welled along the nick. "I'm going to slit your throat!"

  "Then do it," the second guard sneered. "Kill the little bastard!"

  Conar jerked forward, trying to pierce his exposed throat on the knife point, but Lydon away snatched his hand.

  "No, I'm not going to kill you." He cupped Conar's chin with his free hand. "I have other plans for you, pretty boy."

  Although he struggled valiantly to get away from t
he hard hands, Conar was driven to his knees and his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to kick out at his captors, to dig his heels into the sand as they tried to drag him forward, but Lydon stopped the revolt with a meaty fist alongside Conar's jaw.

  The light overhead snapped out of his world.

  * * *

  "Do you think they'll ever find him?" Grice looked at Roget, who sat beside Sentian.

  An angry hiss escaped du Mer. He stood up so suddenly the bench crashed into the wall behind him. "Aye! They'll find him!"

  "No need to shout."

  "There's only so many acres on this godforsaken rock! Where the hell is there for him to hide? Aye, they'll find him. The question should be when? And in what condition?"

  "You think Chase and Shalu are right? Do you believe he could still be alive?" Grice asked.

  "I do," Chand answered for du Mer. "You have to have faith."

  Roget fixed Chand with a stormy glare. "Faith in what? In whether or not he had an easy death? In whether or not he'll be alive when they bring him back so that they can torture him?" He turned to Grice. "You've been like a stone sitting there. What do you think? Do you have faith that Coni will be found alive?"

  Somewhere along the line, Grice Wynth had lost what modicum of faith he had in his gods, himself, or anything else. "Why are all you men in this hut? Don't you have your own cots?" he asked on a sigh. He wondered why his hut seemed to be their gathering place. "I'd like to go to bed."

  "Fine, I'll leave," Sentian snapped. He stood and stretched. It had been a long day in the mines and his back was bothering him. He walked to the door and leaned on the opening's frame. His attention was caught by a new arrival in the compound. "Grice? Come here. Now!"

  Sighing, coming wearily to his feet, cursing Sentian for all he was worth, Grice grumbled his way to the door. "This had better be good, dammit!" He looked where Sentian was pointing. "Could it be?"

  Grice stared across the compound. Months of labor in a mine had effected his eyesight more than he was willing to admit. His far vision had gotten progressively worse over the last few months due to days spent in near-total darkness and then coming into blinding, searing light. "I think it is."

  The confusion in Grice's voice made Roget stomp over to them. "What the hell are you looking at?"

  "How many of Conar's brothers do you know?" Grice asked.

  "How many?" Roget bellowed. "By the gods, Wynth, he had a couple of hundred or more at last count!"

  "Be serious!" Grice hissed. "How many do you know by sight, man?"

  "Four! Five! What difference does it make?" Roget looked across the compound and saw several new men, men he had never seen before, standing together. All of them wore the arm bands of the camp guard, fresh, clean uniforms, so he did as he had always done and ignored them.

  "Did you know Brelan Saur?" Sentian asked.

  "I've met the man. What of it?" Roget snarled.

  "Get out of that damned pissy mood and take a good look at the man over by the porch railing, the one wearing the blue arm band of Chief Warden." Grice thought the man he was seeing was his best friend, his boyhood companion, Brelan Saur, but he couldn't be sure. Finding out was suddenly vitally important. "Is it him?" he shouted, waking all those in the hut.

  "Who?" Jah-Ma-El rushed toward the doorway.

  Roget narrowed his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about the fellow Grice had indicated, so he looked closer. He took in the dark hair, the build, the stance, added fourteen years to the man's age—the last time he had seen Brelan Saur—and frowned. Across the distance, he couldn't be sure. "It's been a long time. What the hell would he be here for anyway?"

  "Why, indeed?" came Tyne's voice. "You men woke me with your infernal hissing! Let me have a look. Saur was a friend." Shouldering Sentian aside, Tyne took a long look at the man across the compound who suddenly glanced their way.

  "It is him!" Jah-Ma-El whispered.

  "I'm damned sure going to find out why he's here!" Roget pushed past the men and strode toward the guards.

  Shalu came to the doorway and peered out. "I've been expecting him. He has been sent here as Chief Warden. Appolyon will have to keep him here so Saur can not go back to Boreas and reveal the Tribunal's secret."

  As he stalked toward the guards, Roget saw recognition in Brelan Saur's dark face, but he also saw something else—a warning. An astute man, Roget realized Brelan's warning was meant for him alone. As he drew even with the group, he heard his name.

  "What do you want, du Mer?"

  Roget turned to one of the long-time guards. "New group of sadists, Borg?"

  Borg didn't answer. Instead, the short, bald man turned to Brelan Saur. "Du Mer's a troublemaker, but he's harmless enough. He's the old man of the group; been around longer than anyone else. He should have gone back to the world, but since be couldn't bring himself to leave his pet behind, he's still here." He turned a hateful grin to Roget. "Ain't that right, du Mer?"

  Roget felt the muscles in his jaw hardening, but he didn't take Borg's bait. He looked to Brelan. "You're Brelan Saur." It wasn't a statement; it was an accusation.

  "And you're Cul du Mer's bad little boy," Brelan snapped.

  Roget made a rude, snorting sound and spat at Brelan's feet. "Here to inspect the facilities, Lord Saur?" he asked in an insulting tone.

  "Here to keep troublemakers like you in line, du Mer!" Brelan shot back with equal disdain.

  "And you'll no doubt enjoy it, eh?"

  "I'll try."

  Roget would have spoken again, but a shout rang out over the compound.

  The guard beside him chuckled. "Your pet's back, du Mer!"

  Roget felt every muscle in his body tense. His gaze flew to the hut where his fellow inmates were watching the approaching three guards dragging an unconscious man between them.

  "He ain't dead!" Lydon Drake called.

  Brelan couldn't help but notice the white line that had formed around du Mer's mouth. Nor the pain in the man's dark eyes. He spoke in a voice that carried no further than du Mer's ears. "Legion sent me to help. I'll do whatever I can."

  Roget let out a ragged breath although he didn't give away any reaction. He wasn't even looking at the man as he answered. "Then you'd better start doing something now."

  "I was sent to bring you men home."

  A stunned tremor went through Roget's body. He turned a startled stare to Saur.

  "You can trust me."

  "The gods know we're going to need you!"

  Brelan turned his attention from du Mer's strained face to the man being brought to the Commandant's hut. The prisoner was sagging between two guards, his head dropped to his chest, his legs limp. Filth covered his upper torso; sand streaked his hair. Only the movement of his thin chest proclaimed him alive.

  Commandant Appolyon came out of his quarters, belting his robe around his corpulent bulk. He smiled at Lydon. "Alive, Drake?"

  "As ordered, Sir!"

  "Good! Good!" Appolyon walked to where the two guards still held the prisoner. The Commandant cocked his head and smiled. "Welcome home, little one," he said gently and stroked the prisoner's back. There was a groan and a flinch, but the prisoner did not raise his face.

  "What's your pleasure, Commandant?" Lydon grinned, fingering the belt around his middle.

  Appolyon put his stubby finger to his lips. "I haven't decided, as yet. Awaken him."

  Lydon slapped the bound man across his face. "Wake up, pretty boy!"

  The man's sagging head shot sideways before falling back against his chest.

  Brelan could feel the rage building in Roget du Mer. The air seemed to be charged. Men Brelan knew all too well joined Roget in the yard. His gaze flickered over Grice and Chand Wynth, Sentian Heil, and the others he had been sent to rescue. He caught a glimpse of Hern in the doorway of a hut, several men keeping him there by force. He could feel the tension like flickering lightning. Familiar with the brutalities practiced here, Brelan wasn't surprised by the
abusive treatment the prisoner was receiving. He was, however, perplexed by the hate and rage on the faces of the others.

  Turning to Brelan, Appolyon inquired politely, "You're one of King Gerren's byblows, are you not?"

  Brelan felt his anger bubbling up, but instead of showing the slug how he felt about the intentional insult, he forced an obsequious smile to his tight lips. "One of several dozen bastards, Commandant!" he boasted, winking lewdly at the over-sized jackass.

  Appolyon grinned. "Proud of it? Doesn't it bother you?"

  Brelan chuckled. "Nothing bothers me, Commandant. I have thick skin."

  "I would imagine you have been insulted many times over the years." The smile was malicious on the thick lips.

  Saur's wide shoulders shrugged. "Sticks and stones, Commandant."

  "Yes, indeed." Venom laced his next question. "And how did you feel about your royal brothers? Although I hear there are none left."

  "I cared for them about as much as they cared for me."

  Appolyon folded his arms across his flabby chest. "I was told you had problems with one."

  Brelan felt as though his jaw would break as he struggled to keep the toadying grin on his mouth. "I had trouble with them all, Commandant."

  A crafty, evil glint crossed the pig-like face. "I was told you hated one in particular. Conar, I believe was his name."

  Brelan understood. If he was going to show his make-believe loyalty to the Tribunal, he had better start now. "Conar was executed by the Tribunal, but I know you are aware of that."

  "And how did you feel when he was executed, Lord Saur?"

  "He got exactly what was coming to him."

  There was an angry hiss from some of the men, a dry chuckle here and there, a guffaw elsewhere.

  "You think the lashing was suitable punishment for him, then?"

  Brelan nodded, ignoring Roget's steely glower. "Too bad it didn't last longer."

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" Sentian Heil leapt forward.

  Thom and Storm subdued him before the guards could turn on him with their swords.

  "Oh, let him have his say!" Appolyon laughed. "He knows he won't have to pay for his outbursts." He fixed Heil with an unwavering grin. "But he does know who will!" Appolyon walked to where Lydon and the two guards were supporting the limp man. He glanced at Brelan. "You don't think Conar McGregor suffered enough for his crimes against the Tribunal?"