It had been too long now, he reminded himself. Too long that he watched Conar undergo abuses and degradation that had become a way of life. Du Mer and Jah-Ma-El had tried to make him understand that it was for Conar's safety to overlook petty torments he had been suffering. Hern no longer agreed. He had spent the last three days chained to the wall, his wrists bleeding, his gut seething with the injustices that were constantly being piled on his former pupil, and now this, this horrible thing that had turned Conar still as death.
"I'll not let it happen again!" Hern bellowed.
Foot tapping impatiently, Hern's eyes furiously darted around. He caught sight of Conar, standing in the hot sun. The boy looked weak, and they were making him scrub pots in the broiling sun! Hern's lips drew back in a grimace. The boy was too sick!
Then, he saw them. Two of them, at least.
They were standing together, laughing, talking, eating, scratching. They looked healthy. They looked clean. They looked…
Hern growled. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails drove into the flesh. He glanced to the man he thought was guarding Conar. He recognized Herndon and knew him to be loyal to the McGregors. He nodded, looked back at the two men, who were now glancing toward Conar.
One of them laughed.
Insides boiling, Hern headed toward the guard standing a few feet from Conar. As Hern used a forced jovial tone filled with false camaraderie, all surrounding talk stopped. Every eye flew to where Conar was kneeling, scrubbing out a wash pot.
"What harm would it do if he was to rest awhile, Herndon? Eat with the rest of us?" Hern asked when Roget, Shalu, and Sentian joined him. "He's been a bit under the weather."
"Under something, I reckon!" one of the two men Hern had spied called.
Hern ignored the jibe and the nervous laughter that followed in sporadic bursts.
"Now, Arbra, you know he can't," Herndon said, uneasily, eyeing Hern's clenched fists that belied his smile. "Why don't you go get you a plate and forget about it?"
"It's a mite hot, don't you think?" Hern's lips froze in a twitching grin meant to reassure the man of his good humor. "A brief lay down is all I'm asking you to allow him."
"I'll lay down the pretty boy!" the guard who had made the earlier vulgar comment said.
"Hern, go, now," Roget pleaded, speaking above the snide comments of the others. "You know Herndon can't allow him to rest. Don't cause trouble. You know what'll happen…"
Hern faced du Mer. "I've let too much happen already."
"I said to let him rest, Herndon," Hern ordered, his face losing its smile.
Lydon Drake stepped out of the Commandant's hut where he had been having his morning meal in the luxury of Appolyon's bedchamber, and looked out over the men. He stepped off the porch, his grin wide.
Hern grew louder with his comments. "Don't you think you and your family owe him a scrap of compassion, Herndon? Wasn't it your lady-wife who he helped get that job in the keep when her family was put off their land by one of Tolkan's kinsmen? Didn't he make your cousin David one of his Elite? Why don't you let him rest?"
"I'll tell you why not," Drake shouted, pushing men out of his way.
Hern turned, seeing the one man he hated almost as much as Kaileel Tohre.
"He's a slave. Not a prisoner, a slave! He was sent here to work, not be mollycoddled. Make one more remark about that little prick, and I'll work him into tomorrow night!" Lydon saw Conar making his way toward them and knew what the boy feared, and he knew the fear wasn't for himself, but for Hern. "Get that traitor back to work," he snapped to Herndon.
"You got a lot to atone for," Hern said, quivering as he shoved Lydon's shoulder.
Drake swung around, pushed Hern. "You want him whipped, buck naked? If not, keep your mouth shut and get the fuck out of my way!"
Hern started forward, then felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun to look into Conar's eyes.
"I can fight my own battles, Hern," Conar said.
In that brief moment before Lydon Drake reacted to the breaking of the rule, Conar shook his head in warning, silently pleading with Hern to leave well enough alone. The words were not there, but the look, scalding Hern Arbra like burning pitch, said far more than words ever could.
Herndon placed himself in front of Conar, not daring to speak to him. He reached out a hand to head Conar back to his work, and was shocked when the young man knocked it away.
One of the two men who had enjoyed the side show caught Conar's arm and shoved him. Conar went down hard in the sand. There was broken pottery on the ground; Conar's hands scraped over the larger pieces. He grunted, then stared at his hand. Blood oozed over the torn flesh.
"Look what you done!" one guard taunted. "You went and made him bleed again!"
Hern roared forward, pushing men out of his way, heading for the man who had shoved Conar. Despite the shouts of guards and prisoners, Shalu's hands grasping for him, Hern plowed into the guard just as Conar struggled to his feet.
"Hern, don't!" Conar yelled.
Another guard kicked Conar, sending him crashing to the sand. He rolled, came to his knees and crouched, shaking his head from the impact of the kick. He swung his head, saw Hern knocking down the guards like dominoes. He tried to speak, but saw Drake going for the knife strapped to his huge thigh. Conar's eyes went wide with stark terror. "No!"
Before he could pitch forward and impale himself on Drake's dagger, before he could save Hern's life, Conar watched in silent horror as Drake buried the knife in Arbra's broad back. Watched as it twisted viciously to the side before being withdrawn.
Hern gasped, plummeted to his knees. Drake pulled back Hern's head, and sliced through the tendons and arteries in the big man's neck.
Conar scrambled on all fours to reach Hern, catching him as he crashed hard to the ground. Conar managed to ease his old friend down on his side. He felt Hern's hand tight around his upper arm, holding himself up with what draining strength he possessed. Blood bubbled out of Hern's mouth and nose, sprayed Conar's chest as he tried hard to speak. A whistling sound came from the gaping cut across Hern's throat; blood poured over Conar's arm.
Conar brought up a trembling hand to stroke Hern's now-white face. The roughness of his fingers bothered him as he tried to smooth the age crinkles around Hern's sad eyes. He was barely aware that he was crying or that his tears were mingling with Hern's.
"I love you, son," Hern managed to whisper.
Conar wished with all his heart that it was him who lay spreading blood into the hard red dirt. Death and dying had become a part of him, a way of life. But it always hurt. It always tore at his vitals with steel claws ripping, shredding each remaining bit of humanity from him.
"You're my son, you know," Hern croaked.
Conar's voice broke. "I know." He'd always felt that Hern was more father to him that his own had been.
"I loved her as much as you love your lady. I loved her as much as I love you."
"I love you, too," Conar said, not really knowing what that word meant any more, almost positive it meant terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He felt Hern's grip on his arm tighten, then fall away. Hern's body sagged in his arms; Conar knew still another part of his life was gone. Gone, forever.
With infinite care, he lowered Hern, cradling one big, strong hand.
Roget and Shalu moved forward, intent on getting Conar away from Drake before there was additional trouble. But a guard's sword brought them up short.
"Get up!" Sentian cautioned Conar.
"Where the hell is Saur?" someone called.
Conar felt a blade caress the side of his neck as though it were a lover's lips searching for the warmth of an artery. He felt a slight sting, a warm trickle of his blood, felt the blade slide shallowly across his flesh enough to scratch it, and barely noticed.
"For the love of Alel, get up, Conar!" Grice warned.
Conar looked directly at the man who had once told Conar he would find him, gut him. The same man who had held his head, staring
into his eyes, while five men raped him, abused him.
"Stay there," Lydon said calmly, staring at Conar with ill-concealed humor.
"Get up, boy," Shalu warned. "Don't give him the satisfaction."
"Shut up, nigger!" Lydon screamed.
A guard pushed Shalu, blocking him from getting any closer. A sudden spark of defiance filled Conar's heart, one that had not been there since he had first come to this evil place.
Lydon must have seen it, recognized it for what it was, for he caught Chand Wynth, putting the blade to the boy's throat and snarled his hatred. "Get up! I'll kill this little bastard if you don't!"
Very slowly, like a jungle cat uncoiling its body, Conar got to his feet, his eyes locked on Lydon. "You want me, Drake," he said so quietly the men had to strain to hear. "Come and get me."
Drake dropped the knife. He lunged at Conar, but the smaller, quicker man sidestepped out of the roaring man's path. Lydon went sprawling in the dirt.
"Clumsy bastard!" Conar taunted.
A quick smattering of laughter came from the prisoners, but it died quickly when they saw the murderous intent on Lydon's face as he spun around and glared at Conar. All sanity fled the beefy face, replaced with the vileness of an evil so rampant the man reeked of it. He sprang to his feet, bowled his head into Conar's stomach, sending the younger man onto his back.
"Brelan Saur!" someone shouted as the two men rolled in the dust. Feet moved quickly aside, making room for the combatants.
"Get him, Drake!" one of Lydon's cronies bellowed. "Beat the shit out of him."
Conar got in a few jabs before Lydon's fingers closed around his windpipe. He struggled for air, but the unrelenting fingers were pressing the life out him. He's going to kill you, his inner voice warned. Stars filled his vision; his world went pitch black for an instant before returning to glaring white light. He looked up, gasping for air, as he saw Brelan dragging Drake off him, then he sank into darkness again.
Chapter 7
* * *
Two days passed before Conar was allowed to return to work. Not doing the heavy lifting he had been forced to do since being sent to the penal colony, but at odd jobs Brelan thought looked demeaning. It was on a Wednesday, just after dawn's first light, on the twentieth of March, that Brelan finally found a way to get Shalu and Conar together.
"Hey, you! Darkie!" Brelan shouted and wasn't surprised to see Shalu turn immediate, lethal fury his way. "Help that fool with the Commandant's laundry!"
Shalu glanced at Appolyon's quarters where Brelan stood beside the squat fat man. He lowered the pickax from his shoulder, leaning on it as the other men filed into the mines. "I am no washer woman!"
"Do as you're told or I'll have your little puppet strung up on the whipping post!" Brelan snarled, hitching a thumb toward Conar. "That what you want?"
"It's what I want!" Appolyon giggled and nudged Brelan in the ribs.
Shalu hesitated, just as he thought he should. He snorted at Brelan's answering laugh and knew that laugh was genuine, not feigned. Saur was enjoying his predicament. The Necroman ground his teeth, made a mental note to avenge that laugh at a future date. He stalked to where Conar knelt beside the wash tubs, scrubbing the Commandant's laundry.
"No talking unless you think the bastard ain't doing it right!" Brelan shouted as he and the Commandant walked into the command hut.
It was all the permission Shalu needed. He tore off his shirt and threw it to the ground with a mighty show of disgust. He grabbed one of the Commandant's nightshirts and plunged it into a cauldron of steaming water. Though he appeared to be looking around to see if any of the other prisoners were observing his disgrace, in actuality, Shalu Taborn was looking for unfriendly eyes, gossiping tongues. Seeing only guards and prisoners loyal to their cause, he grinned. He hated to admit it, but Saur was good.
"Today, we change the fate of the world, fledging," the Necroman said through clenched teeth as he rubbed the nightshirt on the washboard. He saw Conar start.
"I don't understand," Conar mumbled.
"You will."
* * *
"Do you understand what it is I have been saying?" the Necroman asked as Conar mended one of the Commandant's tunics.
"I understand what you plan to do, but I don't think I'm the one you need." Conar winced as he poked his finger with the needle. "How do women do this?" he mumbled and sucked away the blood beaded on his finger.
Shalu leaned back in the sand and crossed his ankles. "Why don't you think you're the one?"
Conar inspected the tiny prick on his finger, squeezing the flesh until it stopped bleeding. He was stalling for time and didn't look at Shalu. Despite Shalu's reassurances that no one was listening to or observing them, he couldn't shake the fear that had held him in its grip for years. His fear was an answer in itself to Shalu's question. There had been a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about defying authority.
"I'm not what I once was," he finally admitted.
"You were the Chosen One long before now. You are still the Chosen." The black man squinted. "Does that bother you?"
Conar shrugged, but he still would not look at his companion. "I believe you think higher of me than you should, that's all."
Shalu uncrossed his ankles and sat up. "What makes you think so?"
Conar wished the man would stop talking. He didn't like taking chances. Additionally, his throat was unaccustomed to so many words coming from it and he was getting hoarse. But what hurt him, alarmed him most, was having to explain that he just wasn't up to leading the men from the Labyrinth once Holm arrived.
"To do what you and the others have planned," he said, clearing his throat, "you need a strong fighter, a warrior. Someone who can lead and not be afraid of leading, who won't falter at the wrong time." He stuck the needle into the fabric and drew the thread through.
Shalu felt a pain shoot through his heart. The boy looked so vulnerable doing work a woman should be doing. There was bleakness in the tortured blue eyes, a giving up that pained Shalu.
"You are no longer man enough to lead other men. Is that it?"
The boy's lids fluttered, what was left of the old pride. "Not anymore."
"You have let them win."
Conar turned to Shalu and held the dark man's gaze. "There was never a contest."
"I see it is pity you want, not encouragement." Shalu felt satisfaction as Conar blushed a dull red and an alien line of anger formed around his tightly pursed lips. He'd finally struck a live nerve. "You're right, we need a man, not a sniveling coward."
A stab of fury went through Conar. He clutched the shirt in his hand, mindless of the needle jabbing his palm. "I'm not a coward."
"Then what are you?"
"I… I'm not sure anymore." The blond head raised a fraction. "But I know I'm not a coward."
"Then fight, boy! Help us!" He took hold of Conar's upper arm. "Lead us!"
"How?" Conar croaked, his voice so scratchy it was giving him a headache. "I'm not strong enough." His eyes filled with tears. "I've let them make me weak."
Shalu shook him as though he were a limp rag. "To have done otherwise might well have gotten you killed! To have fought them was to be punished. To see others punished, as well. Your concern for others does not make you weak! Knowing when to back down doesn't make you weak!"
"But it doesn't make me fit to lead, either! You need a man ruthless enough to dare the gods themselves. I am not him!"
Shalu's face glowed. There was finally fire in the boy's words, the first real anger Shalu had seen. The Necroman took a deep breath and aimed for the jugular. "You don't necessarily have to be ruthless to fight. Sometimes compassion is needed toward the enemy. Sometimes it is the gentle man who wins because he is the one with the most to lose. Or a man who has already lost everything."
"Then I qualify in that respect."
"You are the one destined to do this. Our god-chosen champion."
"Then the gods had better help you find another. I
can't."
Shalu looked at him with contempt. "You won't!"
"What the hell is it you think I can do?"
A jolt of joy ran through the Necroman's veins. No longer was the boy furtively watching those milling about the compound. No longer was his head down. Gone was the fear of being caught. His fury was there in the way his voice rang out strong, despite the gruffness of seldom use. His ire was directed at Shalu, and hopefully, so was his full attention.
"You have to be obedient to the will of the gods!" Shalu snapped. "They rule us, not the vulgar excuses of humanity in this hell-hole!"
"It was the gods who put me here!" Conar snarled, his anger flowing between him and Shalu like a sentient life form crackling in the still morning air. "Why? What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?" He dropped the shirt in his lap. "Tell me that!"
Shalu schooled his face into a line of disdain. "You may regard your internment as a penance for all the transgressions and privileges you had prior to the day you were cast down from your former life of luxury and excess."
"Is that why you are here?" Conar shot back, the old stamina and fighter surfacing after so many years.
"I led no such life of waste and debauchery."
"Then why are you here?" Conar challenged, stung by the truth of Shalu's charges even though he knew that was not why he had been sent to the Labyrinth.
A hard look came over Shalu's face. "Because of you."
Conar's mouth dropped open. "You blame me for your being here?"
"The Tribunal did not kill men and women indiscriminately. They were slaughtered like cattle, exterminated because of one man. Tohre led an internecine war against all who had ever been loyal to the McGregor line, and you are the McGregor line!" A blaze of vengeance on Shalu's face turned it ugly with hate. "Those who were spared, were spared for a reason. You are that reason!"
"You're out of your mind!" Conar threw away the shirt and tried to stand, but Shalu yanked his arm and pulled him down.
WINDHEALER Page 17