WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  His footsteps brought him closer to the future. With each step, he was shedding a portion of his other life, a life he hoped to leave behind forever.

  Gone would be the young man whose carefree lifestyle had endeared him to his people, brought smiles and laughter to those who knew him.

  Gone would be the young man who had wed the lady of his dreams. And lost her.

  Gone would be the heir to the throne of his homeland, for tonight he would denounce all claims on the McGregor name.

  Gone, too, would be the young man falsely accused of the seditious crime that had sent him to the whipping post, that had stripped him of his birthright and had tortured his body and soul, and had sentenced him to a living death in the bowels of Tyber's Isle.

  Gone would be the man who had allowed himself to be abused, who others had hurt, mocked, and bedeviled.

  Gone would be the man who'd had no control over his life.

  With each step toward the black marble altar, Conar McGregor shed his life as a young bird its birth feathers, and a young life would become an ancient one.

  He knelt before Occultus and bowed his head. "I am ready, Master."

  Unfolding his tall frame, Occultus came to his knees. With a thin hand, he raised Conar's face and scanned it. A stabbing bolt of understanding hit the sorcerer. "Oh, Conar," he whispered, his fingers tightening on Conar's chin. "What have you done, child?"

  Conar's gaze never wavered. "What had to be done, Master."

  Occultus shook his head. "I would have had it differently for you."

  "It could be no different."

  Occultus stood, his hands extended to the kneeling man. As Conar's strong, capable hands settled in Occultus', the sorcerer drew him forward and embraced him. "You are truly the Chosen, my son," he said in a cracking voice.

  "Stand!" Jah-Ma-El called. The men in the room came to their feet.

  Occultus released Conar and turned to those gathered. "You have come to witness the consecration of this man to the Master of the Wind. Is there one among you who denies his right to ascend to that honor?"

  Heads moved emphatically back and forth. No one spoke.

  "Then I declare the ceremony may begin!"

  Conar was told to sit, facing his men, and Occultus stood behind him, his arms spread wide. The sorcerer began to chant in a language not heard for more than two hundred years. The war chant filled the air with a singsong, monosyllabic hum that sent musical vibrations throughout the room.

  With his head thrown back to the heavens, the black war bonnet cascading down his back, Occultus called on the gods of The People to aid the Lost Warriors to the Wind Chamber. He begged Their blessing on the young man seated at the base of the altar. In an ancient tongue of the Great Tribes, he summoned the warriors of the past to join them, to add their voices to the blessings.

  Sentian Heil felt something brush past his face. He looked around and saw nothing, but others turned their heads as well, and Sentian knew something had flitted by him.

  Holm van de Lar was the first to see Them. He stared in awe as the walls seemed to ripple and the first of Them came through from the Other Side. "Sweet Holy Petunia!" He nudged Pearl Allegria. "Will you look at that?"

  Ghost-like images seemed to seep through the fieldstone walls. They soared upward as though caught by some alien current, streaking through the torchlight, haloed in the sconce light. They wafted upward with the smoke and incense and seemed to cover the ceiling, and then They soared downward and played about the heads of the men staring up at Them with gaping mouths.

  "Let us make welcome the Warriors of the Wind!" Occultus said in Serenian. "They are here to aid your Overlord!"

  Long dead voices spoke in different languages: Chalean, Ionarian, Viragonian, and Necromanian…the native languages of the men gathered. Their humming rose, Their voices singing in communion with Occultus who had resumed his war chant. They sang to a steady, hypnotic drumbeat that seemed to be coming from miles away.

  A soft throbbing began, like the sounds of a thousand horses' hooves. The walls and floor seemed to shake. The smell of sagebrush and mesquite mingled with the old smell of campfires and flaming wood. Thunder cracked outside the Wind Chamber and rain beat against the stone walls and cedar ceiling.

  "Come, Warriors of the Lost! Come and join us! Lend us Your wisdom and knowledge! Grant us Your protection for this man!"

  A howling wind ripped through the chamber and nudged the men against one another. Their hair was tossed wildly about their heads and their clothing rustled. They looked at Conar, sitting with a small smile on his face, and marveled that he seemed so serene.

  "Come, Mighty Warriors! Give him Your blessing! Let him know he is Your Chosen!"

  Conar felt eyes on him. White shapes moved about him, making him giddy as They spun and shifted, danced and whirled. He felt something touch his shoulder, his thigh, his ankle, his arm, and he inhaled deeply as an unseen hand smoothed his blond hair with a gentle, loving touch. He felt an invisible finger run down his scarred cheek, felt hands caressing his scarred back. Something touched his forehead, lingered, then moved on. A hundred times he felt touches that he could not see, but felt all the way to his soul and beyond.

  "Is he Your Chosen?" Occultus shouted about the keening wind.

  With a horrendous crash, a single bolt of lightning shot through the ceiling and struck the center of the black crystal altar, setting the silver cloth to glowing.

  "He has been accepted by us!" a moaning voice shook the room. The wind grew to gale force and then calmed to a stiff breeze.

  "Sweet Holy Petunia!" Holm whispered again and the altar cloth sizzled with a gleaming intensity.

  "Kneel before your champion!" Jah-Ma-El told the men.

  The men sank to their knees and looked at Conar with awe-struck faces.

  Occultus stepped forward and took one end of the silver cloth in his hand. He pulled and another burst of spectral light shot through the room, making the men cover their eyes.

  "Behold!"

  On the altar was an array of deadly-looking weapons, each unique, each designed especially for Conar McGregor.

  "Bless these weapons!" Occultus said in his ancient tongue, and each witness was surprised he could understand the words. "Bless and Protect the man who will wield them!"

  A spreading silver mist formed over the altar. It began to rise in a spiraling shaft of blinding light until it reached the ceiling, where it flared into a prism of bright, multi-colored lights that resembled the giant spokes of a spinning wheel.

  "It is the Circle of Life," Occultus said. "And from it will come the mightiest of weapons!"

  The ghost images converged along the high walls, standing shoulder to shoulder around the chamber and held up Their arms toward the wheel image that had formed on the ceiling.

  "This is the Mandalon! This is the Great Circle of the Lost! Let he who sees it, see the beginning of life!"

  The wheel began to rotate counterclockwise, seeming to pick up speed as the long dead voices began to chant in a keening wail that filled the room. Everyone put their hands over their ears to stifle the penetrating sound.

  All except Conar and Occultus, who were beyond hearing anything. Their concentration was on one another.

  "Are you ready to assume your new station in life, Conar McGregor?"

  He nodded.

  "Then humble yourself at the Altar of the Wind!"

  Conar knelt on the cold floor and waited. Surges of immense power flooded his body; his skin fairly crawled with electricity. When the wheel above shrieked, he looked up, realizing he was directly under the glowing hub of the image.

  "You are at the Center of the Wind, Conar McGregor," Occultus told him. "You are the Center of the Wind!"

  The wheel lowered as he watched. It shifted, tilted, straightened and moved closer. When the spokes began to break away from the central hub, Conar knew a moment's panic. The spokes turned, aimed at him, then began to move forward.

  A beam of l
ight snapped up from the floor and washed over him, then through him. A tremendous force jolted him. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but it rocked him to his core. He jerked, and expectant, he looked at the descending spokes and saw they were nearly on him.

  "Look not at the danger that is coming to you, Conar McGregor!" Occultus warned. "Look to the way to stop it!"

  The points of the spokes were razor-sharp and deadly-looking. They would penetrate flesh, bone, and marrow. His body glowed, lighting the way for the lethal missiles. He tensed, expecting to feel pain when the points made contact with him.

  The first one struck. He moaned as the shaft dug painfully into his shoulder. He could feel blood running down his chest and back.

  Spokes pierced his thigh, his side, his arm. He whimpered. The pain wasn't as bad as he had expected, but it stunned him. He was shocked to see Occultus grinning at him.

  "They strike and you are not mortally hit! Use your power to deflect the remaining spokes!"

  He saw two of the missiles aimed at his chest. He ground his teeth to his pain and held up his hands. When he did, he felt his entire being gripped by an unseen hand, squeezing his body.

  "You are in His hands, now!" Occultus said. "You belong to Him!"

  The Light pulsed around him, in him, through him, and he felt himself being claimed, branded, impaled with the power in that giant hand. His body felt fever-hot, then cold, then hot again. He trembled, he quaked, he stiffened. His breath caught in his throat, then rushed from him in a sudden burst. His heart pounded, his pulse slowed. He felt another burst of light shoot through him and then he felt an utter calm settle on him which he had long been denied.

  It was the peace of total and complete control. Of a mighty power that no other man had ever wielded or ever would. The energy flowing through him was impregnable, unconquerable, invincible.

  And he knew it.

  He reveled in it.

  He thrilled to the power that coursed through his veins. He felt, no, he knew, like the gods, Themselves, who sat in the vault of the heavens.

  Looking at his hands that somehow had nestled themselves within Occultus', he saw a silver glow racing along his flesh. He heard a voice coming to him from the depths of his soul.

  "You are the Chosen! The Warrior of Warriors. From the moment of your conception, you were marked with the power of the Great Ones. It is you who has been ordained as the Warrior Priest who will crush the Domination. Every pain you have suffered, you will be avenged. For every sorrow you have known, you will find release. For every man who has ever raised his hand to you, you will find ten thousand who will rally to your cause."

  Conar looked around, saw the men staring at him with love, respect, and awe. They were smiling, tears running down their faces.

  "You bargained for that which I had no desire to give you but I granted it unto you, Warrior of Warriors. From this night forward, you will no longer be the mortal, vulnerable man known as Conar McGregor. That man is no more. He is dead, as dead as the thorn bush. It is the spring of a new wind. It is the dawn of the Wind of the Dark!"

  Conar felt Occultus flinch. The sorcerer's hands jerked away from his. The pale blue eyes staring back at him with stunned disbelief and wariness were not the eyes of his teacher; they were the eyes of a man who fears and who knows why. He tried to smile at the sorcerer, to reassure him that he was the same man Occultus had trained, but the smile would not come to his lips.

  "What have you done?" Occultus whispered. "What have you bargained for, Conar?"

  He tried to smile again, but his lips felt frozen. He searched his heart to find the warmth that would reach out to Occultus, but found only cold and vacancy. He tried to feel compassion for the man's fear, but could not. He strove for any emotion and was shocked to find only hatred remained in his arsenal of feelings.

  "Oh, Conar," Occultus groaned. A tear fell down his lean cheek. "You are One with the Dark Wind, child. He has claimed you as His own." His shoulders slumped with misery.

  If the men gathered were aware of the great import of what had happened, they gave no sign.

  Conar reached out to Occultus.

  "Not now. Don't touch me now."

  Conar felt the hurt deep in his soul and yet he felt a glimmer of hope, as well. If he had been totally drained of the humanity he had sought to have taken away, would he have felt the pain of Occultus' rejection? He wanted to say something encouraging, but Occultus pointed to the weapons on the altar.

  "These are forged for the Overlord of the Wind. They are his alone. Look upon them and know their purpose is the destruction of the enemies of the Wind."

  Black-handle daggers made of the purest obsidian, their ebony grips molded to fit only one man's fist, were arranged in a circle at one end of the altar. Seven daggers in all. One for each of the Seven Kingdoms. In the center of the altar slab was a deadly ebony crossbow. The black quarrels were fletched with raven feathers that glowed blue-black in the silver glow of the revolving wheel hub. Black caltrops, Death Stars, spears, boomerangs, and blow guns were clustered at the far end of the altar. At the opposite side of the altar was a folded garment made of what appeared to be black silk. On it were boots of soft black leather studded with silver conchos and tassels of braided rawhide. Wide black leather gauntlets and a belt of braided black rawhide lay alongside the garment. Three black feathers attached to a silver concho sat on one side of the garment and a single black onyx bracelet had been placed on the other side. It was the arsenal of the Chosen.

  Occultus picked up the bracelet, seemed to flinch as it settled in his aristocratic fingers, then walked to Conar. "This is your new marriage bracelet, Conar McGregor. With the placing of this bracelet, you become the earthly consort of the Lady of the Waters."

  Conar stood, not knowing if Occultus had mentioned this particular part of the ceremony or not. He waited until Occultus motioned for to join them.

  "Remove his shirt," Occultus ordered.

  Jah-Ma-El unlaced the shirt from behind, slid it over Conar's shoulders and down his chest. Jah-Ma-El's hands were ice cold on Conar's bare flesh.

  Occultus slipped the bracelet up Conar's left arm and settled in above his elbow.

  "She is a demanding mistress, Conar. She is the Keeper of the Gate, the Mate of the Wind. She will either be your strongest ally or your worst enemy. Anger Her and She will destroy you." He stepped back, his face filled with great sadness. "I can only give you one warning concerning her, my son. She is not as she appears to be."

  Conar's heart lurched. "The Great Lady?"

  Occultus nodded. "You are now Her husband."

  Overhead a shrill squeal sounded. The men looked up. The hub had stopped spinning and was pulsing with a deep silver glow. The glow began to dim. The torches and candles went out one by one until the only light came from the hub.

  "There is one more weapon you will need." Occultus lifted a hand toward the ceiling. With a heavy crash of thunder that shook the room with a reverberating roar, one of the spokes that had been aimed at Conar—and which had stopped at his command—broke free of the rest. With a blinding ray of pure blue light, it shot toward Occultus, sliding into his outstretched hand. The spoke burst into a ball of flames that lit the sorcerer's face like a demon visage from the Abyss.

  Conar stared at the flaming brand in Occultus' hand and marveled that the man's flesh did not shrivel. He saw a pained expression on the sorcerer's face, but knew the pain was an inner pain, not a physical one. He looked into the sad blue eyes that met his.

  "Against all I have ever wanted, against that which should have been, you have been given, not the weapon I had asked for or expected, but this one." He held his two hands around the base of the flaming brand and moved his arms in a wide arc above his head. The flames vanished, leaving in their place a mighty broadsword, its glistening black beauty awesome in its deadly purpose.

  The men sat in silent rapture before all light was sucked from the room. Then, a solid band of blue light leapt up from
the floor and struck the tip of the sword's blade, ran down its length, encasing it in a starburst of blue light.

  The sorcerer held the blade straight up in the air, both hands tight on the grip. "Behold!" Occultus shouted. "Behold the Sword of the Dark Wind!"

  Chase Montyne flinched. His face turned as white as the snows of his homeland. He met Shalu's startled expression, turned and sought Brelan's wide and shocked eyes.

  Shalu buried his face in his hands. "By all that is unholy."

  "What's wrong?" Rylan asked, looking from Chase to Shalu. "What's happening?"

  Tyne Brell stared at the weapon in Occultus' hands. He had never seen its equal and knew he never would again. This was a weapon of such sinister beauty and awesome lethality, that he was afraid of it. He shuddered. This, indeed, was what his old fencing instructor would have called a "widow-maker."

  The pommel was black obsidian spiraled from tip to shank in a wide grip. A crescent of silver curved downward on each side of the pommel and to each side it swirled in twin arcs above the huge hilt. Each arc and the top of the pommel were embedded with gleaming diamonds that caught the light and refracted it around the darkened room. The hilt was fashioned like a stretched out "W," the bladeguard a double section of curving black onyx, and the X-shaped blade with its four deadly cutting edges was three feet of black carbide steel. Sharper that anything known to man, better than the best the mountains of Ionary could provide. The tip of the blade caught a fleeting beam of light and the point burst into a multitude of fiery shafts.

  "This is the Deathwielder!" a voice boomed from the four corners of the room. "It was the sword of the Dark Warrior who is death! Now, it is the sword of our Chosen! The man who wields this worthy weapon is death to his enemies!"