WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "An hour?" Conar asked as he jammed the knife into the waistband of his breeches. He headed for the door.

  "Aye," Brelan answered, knowing his brother was asking when they'd be leaving. He couldn't look anymore into that vengeful face, so he looked away until Conar left. Brelan slumped into a chair. There had been a portent of things to come in Conar's eyes—the man who had been carried into prison was not the man who would be walking out.

  * * *

  Conar stopped at the hut where Drake was being held. Before the door, his brawny arms crossed over a wide chest, stood one of the few prisoners Appolyon had not been able to make cower in this hell of hells.

  "Stand aside," Conar told the dark-haired man. "I've business with Drake."

  "I expect you do, Milord." He unfolded his arms. "I've been waiting for you to come."

  "Really?"

  "The honor of dispatching Drake should go to none other than you."

  "Who are you?"

  "Kyman Cree."

  "Rysalian?"

  "Aye. I was brought here from Asaraba."

  Conar stuck out his hand. "I hope to go there one day."

  "Pray to the Prophets you will." Cree took the proffered wrist in his strong grip.

  "Are you planning on going with us when we leave, Ky?"

  Cree shrugged. "As much as I enjoy this piss pot, I am in need of a vacation." He grinned.

  "Have you a lady back home?"

  Cree nodded. "I pray to the Prophets that she is still there. She's a Chalean lass. Who really knows with them?" His grin grew wicked.

  "My lady is Oceanian," Conar sighed. "I hope she is waiting, as well."

  The Rysalian warrior put a hand on Conar's shoulder. "The Wind be at your back, Prince of the Wind." He cocked his chin toward the door. "Twist the dagger in his gut for me while you're at it."

  The tall man walked away, his lips puckered as he whistled "The Prince's Lost Lady."

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  "As soon as we've finished setting the charges, we'll leave," Shalu told Holm van de Lar. "We've gathered up the weapons Appolyon had. They won't need them after we're gone."

  "What about those you've got locked up? How will they get out?" Holm inquired.

  "We'll free them before we go. Not even I would leave a man caged in a place such as this."

  Holm liked this tall dark man. He had surprised the fellow by sticking out his hand in greeting when Mister Tarnes introduced them. That particular thing must not have happened to the Necroman often, for the massive warrior had simply stared until the sea captain had taken Shalu's hand in his own and shaken it. "Glad to know you!" Holm had grinned and Shalu had hesitantly grinned back. Something else Holm was sure didn't occur often.

  Shalu had taken van de Lar's measure and was satisfied he was exactly what he appeared to be—honest, forthright, unprejudiced, and sincerely glad to make his acquaintance.

  "My Grandpappy told me he met up with a Necroman once," Holm had said, nodding. "The old salt got shipwrecked on that little island off your southern tip."

  "Bethany."

  "That would be it!" Holm laughed. "Grandpappy told me this big man came out of the bushes and near scared him to death! And my Grandpappy was one of the bravest men I've ever seen! That fellow countryman of yours was lost on that island, too."

  "An easy thing to do if you get caught in the falls at New Church."

  Holm shrugged. "Don't know if that was the case. All I know is they got real close until a ship came by. They lit a bonfire and got rescued, but not before they taught each other about the other's culture and such."

  The image of the white sea warrior of an old Necromanian tale flitted through Shalu's mind and he knew it was the gods way of putting Their stamp of approval on Holm van de Lar. Shalu hadn't thought of that tale since childhood.

  "Did they ever see one another again?" Wyn asked, interested.

  Holm shook his head. "But Grandpappy told me on his wedding day, he received a…" He lifted his cap and scratched at his thick mane of white hair. "…I can't rightly recall what that little carving was called."

  Shalu nodded. "A gris-gris."

  "That's it! That little thing was supposed to bring good luck and…" He blushed. "…Fertility to my Grandpappy."

  "And did it?" Shalu asked.

  "Fourteen children!" Holm snorted.

  "It was a great honor your father received from my tribesman. We do not give gris-gris to outsiders unless they have done something extraordinary."

  "They was just friends."

  Shalu looked at him. "Such as you and I will be."

  "I can see that happening."

  "We've made sure there's enough food to last them a year," Tyne Brell commented to the men as he strolled up. "We've left salt pork and cured ham. The meat won't last long, but they have seeds for the corn and vegetables." He shrugged. "If they don't learn farming, they'll die."

  Holm regarded the small man with admiration. There was a lot of spit in this little fellow. He hadn't been introduced, but looking at the sword now strapped to his short thigh, Holm couldn't help but wonder if the man knew how to use it, or even had the strength in his slim hands to wield it.

  "His name is Tyne Brell," Shalu remarked.

  Holm whistled. "A pleasure, Your Grace. A real pleasure, indeed. I've heard all about you."

  Tyne put out his hand. "Call me Tyne. There's only one true Prince here."

  As his wrist settled in the small man's palm, Holm raised one brow at the fierce grip. Thinking Brell had meant Coron, Holm nodded. "We'll be putting the rightful King of Serenia on the throne one day!"

  "Aye." Tyne looked at Shalu. "That we will, eh, my friend?"

  "Without doubt," Shalu swore.

  Holm rubbed his hands together. "There's just one thing left to do before I leave." He swung his large head about the compound. "Where's the graveyard, gentlemen?"

  "Graveyard?" Tyne echoed in puzzlement.

  "You don't think I intend to leave him buried here in this evil place, do you?" Holm asked.

  Thom, standing nearby, thought he understood. "You mean Hern Arbra? He's buried—"

  "We'll take him along, too," Holm interrupted. "I was referring to His Grace's coffin. Tell me where it is and I'll see to it myself."

  "His Grace?" Thom asked, his forward crinkling.

  "He means my father's coffin. Conar McGregor's coffin," Wyn said softly, joining them.

  Shalu looked to Tyne. "Hasn't that been seen to already, Brell?"

  "I believe so," Tyne agreed. He looked at the captain. "See Brelan Saur concerning that."

  "That I will!" Holm replied, grinning.

  It took van de Lar nearly twenty minutes to find Saur. He looked in every hut and shed except those containing prisoners, ducked into the mine, tried the door to the Indoctrination Hut only to find it locked and silent, glanced about the compound, his beefy face growing set and hard. When at last he came to the Command Quarters, he found Saur packing documents into a valise.

  "Everything about ready?" Brelan asked.

  "I reckon." Holm walked up to the smaller man and glared down at him, his big hands on his sturdy hips. "Where is it, Saur?"

  Brelan's brows drew together. "What?"

  "The coffin, man! I've looked everywhere and I ain't seen any sign of it. The Necroman said things had already been taken care of. Where did you put the boy's coffin?"

  Brelan glanced past Holm's shoulder and smiled. "Well, it's like this…we won't be taking his coffin back with us."

  "The hell you say!" Holm exploded, savagely grabbing Brelan's left arm. "That was the only condition I had to risking my hide for you! I want his coffin taken to home soil! And it will be if I have to dig it myself from this wretched sand with my bare hands! Don't be looking for excuses!" He shook Brelan. "And I don't care who is standing behind me, he can't help you none, either! So, you'd just better be explaining real hard why you ain't answering my question."

  "Wouldn't
you rather have the living man than a dead one?" a voice asked.

  "I'd rather you minded your own bloody business!" Holm shouted, spinning to fix his steely-eyed glint on the man who dared to intrude. When he saw the man, the old tar staggered, gripping Brelan's arm tighter to keep from pitching to the floor.

  "Hello, Holm."

  "It can't be!" Holm whispered. taking in the long blond hair, the build, the heralded blue eyes, the scars on the man's cheek.

  Conar walked forward. In his hand was the wicked-looking dagger. He held it out to Holm. "I wanted to kill him. No one would have blamed me if I had; but I remembered you were here and that right should go to you."

  Holm heard the words, but they made no sense to him. At that moment, nothing save a hard punch to his granite-like jaw would have intruded into the close scrutiny he was giving Conar.

  "Here," Conar said, placing the dagger in Holm's hand. The grip was sticky with blood. "The bastard who raped your daughter is in the Indoctrination Hut. If you don't want to do it, I'll finish what I started." He turned to Brelan. "He wasn't as good with a knife as he thought."

  For the first time, Brelan noticed the blood running down his brother's left arm and the thin streak of red on the front of Conar's shirt. "You let that bastard loose and fought with him, gave him a knife?"

  "I gave him more of a chance than he's ever given me."

  "He could have killed you!"

  "I could have killed him, but didn't."

  Holm managed to nod. "I'll be seeing to that son-of-a-demon," he stammered, gripping the knife. He walked on unsteady legs to the door, looked back, saw the young Prince watching him. "And it will give me the greatest pleasure to take the live man home, Your Grace."

  "Conar is my name," came the quick reply. He swept his hand toward the courtyard.

  A knowing grimace touched Holm's face. "I'll see to it, Your…" He smiled. "Conar."

  Brelan was silent until Holm left. "He could have killed you, dammit! How could you have taken a chance like that?"

  Conar smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. "Don't you know," he said, looking at Brelan through the golden gleam of his long lashes, a mischievous boy's look aimed at allaying Brelan's fears, "I'm a were-tiger. I'll live long enough to see Kaileel Tohre in hell!"

  Brelan let out an angry sigh. "Don't take any more chances."

  Conar was about to admonish his brother, to tell him it was his life, not Brelan's, that hung in the balance, but movement at the door brought his head around. He instinctively stepped back, into the deepening shadows of the afternoon light, wary of the threat of stomping feet and an explosion of furious breath.

  "Dammit, Brelan!" a young voice snapped, "You could at least have come out to meet us instead of having us worry about you! Why'd you make us come looking for—" He stopped as he spied another man in the room. "Who's he?" Dyllon asked his brother.

  "Oh, my god!" came a flat, disbelieving voice from the doorway.

  Brelan looked at Coron's stunned face, realized from the position where he stood he could see Conar's face clearly.

  Dyllon turned to Coron. "You look like you've seen a ghost!" Dyllon snickered, then saw the man stepping out of the darker portion of the room, his face lit by a beam of sunlight through the window. Dyllon's mouth dropped open. He looked for all the world as though some ancient sorcerer had turned him to stone.

  Conar entered the full shaft of the sunlight and stopped. The sight of his youngest brothers was like land to a drowning man. He let his gaze wander over them, seeking its fill. Their stunned looks amused him, but as he felt their scrutiny crawling over the destruction of his face, he knew a moment of shame that pierced him to his core. He tried to speak through a throat closing with pain.

  He couldn't.

  Coron shook his head as though to clear it. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.

  Dyllon could. "This can't be Conar."

  Conar stared at his youngest brother. "Dyllon, I know it's been a long time, but do I look that bad you don't recognize me?"

  "Bad?" Coron's attention drifted over the ravaged face. "I've never seen you look so gods-be-damned good." His eyes flooded with tears. He pulled Conar into his arms, hugging him with every ounce of strength in his body.

  Conar took his left arm from around Coron, held it wide for Dyllon.

  "Oh, sweet Alel!" Dyllon went into the embrace crying.

  Brelan also went to them and put out his arms, hugging Coron and Conar, touching Dyllon's arm with his hand.

  "Papa?" came a timid voice.

  All three men moved aside so Conar could see the son he had not seen in six years.

  He wasn't sure he knew this tall young man. There was a strong resemblance to himself. But the boy was taller than he, thicker in build, darker in coloring. The blond hair was the same ripe shade of wheat, worn the same way he had once worn his own—short and framing his face; there was a cleft in this stranger's chin that looked a lot like his own had at that age. But he couldn't believe this man was his son, his flesh and blood.

  "Wynland?" Conar questioned. He couldn't move. He wanted to, but couldn't. The boy came toward him, hesitantly, awkwardly, shyly, looking at him with disbelief and confusion. A quivering smile pushed against Conar's lips. "Only yesterday you were looking up at me; today, I am looking up at you."

  "You're alive. You're alive, Papa!" Wyn's shoulders trembled with emotion. He buried his face in his father's shoulder and sobbed.

  Brelan looked up and saw another man standing in the doorway.

  "I bathed," Jah-Ma-El said softly.

  Brelan smiled. "Come on in. You're one of the family, too, aren't you?"

  * * *

  The last thing Sentian Heil saw as the Boreas Queen raised anchor was the fog rising into the cooling cloudiness of a pardoning gray sky. As far as his eyes could see, there was ocean, shimmering, dark blue ocean. Limitless, soft ocean. No sand. No towering bluffs. No barracks. No dead men. Only a vast expanse of ocean.

  What he smelled first was the prevailing aroma of ocean. Something less recognizable wafted under his nose and he sniffed, not sure what the pleasant odor could be. His nose crinkled with delight. He looked at Grice Wynth, leaning on the rail next to him, and smiled.

  The first thing Sentian Heil had felt when he and the others set foot on the crowded deck of the Boreas Queen had been the intense coolness rising up from the ocean. It had been a lung-filling coolness, sliding over them as though a goddess was plying her fingers on their bodies. It made it so easy to breathe, for the very air felt light and thin.

  For two hours they had trekked away from the desert, the old guards from the penal colony behind them carrying every available pike, sword and whip they had confiscated.

  Black smoke poured out of the central bluff and hung in the air. The smell of gunpowder from the charges drifted across the air and made their eyes water with relief.

  One guard laughed. "Resurrection day. That's freedom you boys are smelling."

  The smell grew more wonderful the closer it wafted to them. The coolness was, too. They could feel it through the soles of their boots, soothing coolness, overriding. Those unfortunate enough not to have had boots to begin with were laughing and joking that the sand was cool on this trip. The guards had helped them to wrap burlap sacks around their feet when they had left the Labyrinth, but the fabric wasn't needed now.

  Close to sundown, a full three hours after they had began their walk, some eighty-nine prisoners and twelve guards approached the first of the two waiting ships.

  Towering and beautiful, they looked like the antidote for all their troubles riding anchor on the glistening water. The two ships stretched out, long and lean, from the dwindling masts at the tops of the spurs to the broad hull that was two hundred feet across. A wall of soft wood, at least forty feet high, rose straight up on each side of the ship and connected with gleaming brass rails. A smell of tar permeated the outside of the ships and a dark black powder was lodg
ed in the cracks and crevices of the wood.

  "Up you go!" the captain bellowed, pointing.

  Sentian was second in line, behind a man all of them knew although he had not had to introduce himself. He saw the man looking to the place where the captain pointed; there was nothing to see on the man's face as far as Sentian could tell. All he saw was a craggy face of darkly-tanned stone. But upon looking closer, he finally saw a break in the stone, an almost well-hidden crack spreading over the man's face. Before he could question the captain, a guard eased past him and took the man's arm.

  "I'll help you, Your Grace."

  Obviously the crack had been an illusion and was far thinner that Sentian had thought. Thin enough to let the brave man come through.

  Climbing the gangplank, the man at the head of the line of free men stepped onto the ship and turned, waiting for the others. He held out his hand to keep Sentian from falling, bracing himself against the rail as the ship rolled.

  Sentian withdrew his hand with a sigh of pleasure. "Thank you."

  "Not a sailor, are you, Sentian?".

  "No, Conar, I'm a landlubber."

  "What the hell?" Grice mumbled.

  Holm turned and saw Grice staring at the ball of fur that had flung itself at him.

  One of the crew laughed as he held up a wiggling form none of the men had ever seen, plucking it off Grice's chest where it was clinging. "Better tell them about these critters, Cap'n!"

  The Captain folded his arms over his brawny chest and stared straight at Grice. "That's my pet monkey. His name is Jo-Jo and there are two more like him on board." He eyed the other men at the base of the gangplank. "They're friendly little chaps. They'll wrap their tails around your legs and hang on. If you don't pet them, they'll make you wish you had!" His lips twitched with glee. "My advice to you is not to ignore 'em!"

  As the men came up the gangplank, they laughed and petted the little critter clinging now to the Captain's shoulder. Even Grice tentatively stroked the simian's fur.

  The animal shot out a thin black hand and gently gripped Grice's hand.

  Conar chuckled. "He likes you."

  Grice frowned. "He's…sort of cute, I guess."