WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Those who loved him watched in worry as he stood and walked to the edge of the precipice that overlooked the Valley of the Gods. He stared, unblinking, at the tall Serenian mountain range beyond and his stare grew colder than the air.

  The scene repeated itself night after night as they made their way through the now-deep snows. Laboriously, the horses struggled through the banks, up rapidly inclining pathways, through heavy curtains of blowing snow, down descents so treacherously slick with ice the horses skidded and their legs swept out from beneath them. Then they would reach the next pass, the next campsite. Conar would eat, then turn his silent, angry gaze to the peaks of Mount Serenia. He would shun idle conversation, ignore the few remarks sent his way, answer only questions that didn't set his teeth on edge. His full attention was riveted on what lay beyond the snows of Chrystallus.

  The last camp was made near Shiku Pass. They found the cavern where many ancient Chrystallusian and tribal warriors had passed their days and nights in preparation for harmless cattle raids against neighboring countries of Necroman and Serenia. The cavern was big enough to house all the men and animals.

  Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the men settled down in heavy furs to wait out the storm that had begun earlier in the day. Winds whistled like demons and a crisp, chilling breeze blew through the entranceway where some horses were tethered to make room in the farther reaches of the cavern for the troops. Steam rose from the nostrils of man and beast as the wind raced along the corridor and hovered at the wide entrance into the largest portion of the cavern.

  "It's a good thing we made it here before that storm struck," Grice told his brother, Chand.

  "How long do you think we'll have to stay?"

  "We may be here awhile," Shalu answered. He handed Conar's meal to him.

  "Three, maybe four days from the looks of it." Conar nodded his thanks as he accepted the food. He shoved a large mouthful of beans and pork in his mouth. "It'll give the men time to rest."

  "What about you?" Shalu inquired, searching the tired face that glanced at him with annoyance.

  "I'm fine."

  "I see," Shalu snapped, bestowing a warning look on his daughter as she nudged his knee in exasperation. "He's starting to annoy me!" the Necroman replied to Kym's look of chastisement.

  Several men carrying firewood came through the cavern. They stamped snow from their boots and dumped their loads of fuel near the big campfire around which Conar and the others sat.

  "There's lots of wood, Lord Raven," one informed his leader.

  Conar nodded, continued to eat his food without looking up. "When you go out again, make sure you tether yourselves to one another. There'll be a whiteout by morning. I don't want anyone getting lost."

  "Aye, Milord!" the man said. No one needed to ask how Conar knew about the whiteout.

  "Don't you be going off out there either," Shalu said, "without one of us attached to you."

  Conar looked up, a forkful of beans half-way to his mouth. His face went granite-hard. "I can take care of myself."

  "Go to the pit!" Slau snarled. He had better things to do than spar with Conar.

  Kym ducked her head, biting her lips to keep her smile from showing. When she looked up through the black fringe of her lashes, she saw Conar frowning at her.

  "You should have stayed at the palace."

  "You should have let Wyn come and I wouldn't be getting into anyone's way," she said boldly.

  The dark eyes, eyes others were afraid of but she found heavenly to look into, softened. "And neither he nor you would have gotten a damned thing done for making goo-goo faces at each other!"

  He put down his plate and walked to his pallet. He threw off his fur cloak, then plopped down. Restless, cold, and angry at having snapped at Shalu and Kym, he found he couldn't sleep. He drew the fur cloak over his shoulders and turned from one side to the other until he was exhausted; he punched the rolled fur he used for a pillow so many times he lost count. Finally he sighed. He found he just wasn't sleepy. His eyes rolled to the heavens and he threw off the fur with a disgusted snort. He sat up, raked his hand through his hair. He looked about the cavern, heard snores that made him growl beneath his breath.

  He had forbidden anyone to sleep near him, desiring the solitude he knew would be afforded him once he pressed the point; and press the point he did. The company only seemed to make him nervous, and less inclined than usual to be civil. The nightmares had fled, but he found sleep more elusive the closer he got to the high peaks of the Serenian mountains.

  There was a jerk to his body movements that had not been there before leaving the palace. Everything he did, he did with haste and rapidly decreasing patience. His horse's saddle wasn't as quick in coming off as he thought, and he would push aside the man doing it and finish it himself. If he didn't get his meal ladled out first, he would spoon it into his own plate, shoving aside whoever got in his way, snarling like a beast protecting his food. The men understood, but he didn't.

  He sat a long time and watched his men sleep. He made note that Grice slept on his right side; Chand slept on his back, mouth gaping, snoring; Jah-Ma-El was hunched down into his furs and seemed to be sleeping on his belly with his ass in the air like a little child. Roget was curled up in a fetal position, his ass to the fire. Tyne and Chase slept near one another, facing in opposite directions. He swung his inspection to Sentian, finding the source of the worst snoring.

  Early the next morning, after a night spent watching others sleep, he was out of the cavern, his nerves to the breaking point. He knew just how many seconds there were between Sentian's first intake of breath and his godawful snore. He knew just how often Shalu had sighed, Thom had burped, and Belvoir had farted. He knew just how many times Chand had mumbled and how many times Tyne had smacked his lips. He knew if he didn't get out, he'd start on a killing rampage that would seriously reduce the amount of leaders among the Wind Force.

  It was right after the false dawn and the snow was thick on the ground, some soft flakes still randomly falling over the pristine surface. He stood with his back to the mountain and glared over the distance that separated him from the frosty peaks of his birth.

  He stood with his booted feet planted apart in the deep snow, the insteps of his leather boots covered with the sparkling white fluff. His hands were on his hips, his unwavering dark gaze glued to the tallest peak, Mount Serenia, where he knew the Monastery of the Domination was located. He was heedless of the cold, although he had left his fur cloak in the cavern. The thick quilted lining of his black silk tunic and breeches did nothing to eliminate the chill, but his body temperature was like his temper—red hot and oblivious to cold. So steady was his gaze, so concentrated his scrutiny, so lost were his memories in that dark, hell-hole of an abbey, he failed to hear the furtive crunch of snow behind him. So intense was his anger at what he was feeling, all danger was ignored. It wasn't until he felt the pain, heard his name shouted in warning, that he became aware that anything was wrong.

  * * *

  Roget had awakened only moments after Conar had left the warmth and safety of the cavern. He turned toward the place where his friend had been sitting and, upon seeing the furs thrown back, knew instinctively Conar was outside, staring at the mountains as he did every idle moment.

  Sighing, Roget sat up. He could account for everyone with one scan of his trained eyes. He frowned. Conar had gone out on his own. Reluctantly flinging aside his furs, he got up and stretched, annoyed that he had to leave a warm pallet to babysit a man who should know better.

  "Went out on his own?" Shalu grumbled, sitting up. He scratched at his wide chest.

  "Looks that way." Roget picked up his fur cloak, flinging it around him.

  "I'll go with you. I gotta piss." Shalu stood, dragging his fur blanket around his wide shoulders. "Sometimes I think that boy has shit for brains!"

  Chase Montyne came wide awake, probing the intrusion that had awakened him from a sound sleep. He sensed a disquiet, a quiver i
n the air and he stood up. He didn't see Conar, didn't see the Necroman or du Mer. His gaze swung to Jah-Ma-El and he wasn't surprised to see the man sitting up with a blank look on his thin face. Chase didn't bother picking up his fur. He started toward the cavern's entrance, his bare chest gleaming in the faint light cast by smoldering campfires.

  Both Roget and Shalu exited the cavern just as the first rays of the sun came up behind the mountain. The rounded hump of Mount Hesnu's shadow flowed out to where Conar stood looking over the dark valley below. But the mountain was not the only shadow cast. Silhouetted on the southern slope of the mountain's shadow was the unmistakable shadow of an archer. Turning puzzled eyes to the overhang above, expecting to see one of their men guarding Conar's back, Shalu was the first to see the stranger, a quarrel nocked in his crossbow, his aim leveled at Conar.

  "Conar!" Shalu shouted, but too late. The quarrel sang through the still air and the sound of a dull, meaty thud echoed over the precipice.

  Du Mer had already begun to run toward Conar. There was a distance of perhaps ten yards separating them. The thought of a quarrel finding its way into his own back didn't even occur to him. He was intent only on reaching Conar, on protecting him. He saw the impact of the missile as it struck his friend and thanked whatever god was looking on that Conar had pivoted reflexively at Shalu's shout and his right foot sank deep into the snow, twisting his body sideways and downward, making him stumble.

  Bewildered, Conar looked when the searing pain registered in his left side. He had felt the impact, heard the thud, but the pain hadn't come for he was numb with cold. He didn't actually feel the fire of the black-fletched quarrel until he saw the damned thing sticking out of him in the fleshy part of his side near his hip. His first thought was of his torn breeches. He was just getting them broken in. His second thought turned his blood to ice. The quarrel sticking out of his ruined breeches, sticking out of him, was one of his own! Puzzled, he looked up at the mountain, saw the archer fleeing, then glanced at Roget who seemed to be running toward him in slow motion.

  "Hey, du Mer! That son-of-a-bitch tore my breeches." He reached for the quarrel, putting his hand on the shaft. He squinted, meaning to pull the thing free, but the pain was so intense he nearly vomited. His knees buckled. He felt an excruciating jolt of agony as he slammed into the snow on his knees, his teeth clicking, tasting blood where his back molars clipped his vulnerable tongue.

  He heard Roget screaming his name, over and over again, the words echoing off the mountains, but there was a loud buzzing in his ears, as well. He saw Shalu running toward him, caught a glimpse of Chase and Jah-Ma-El tearing out of the cavern, saw their shocked faces. The world began to turn, spinning, pain ripping down his thigh and leg.

  Roget slid forward on his knees, his arms reaching for Conar.

  "That miserable cocksucker tore my breeches, du Mer," he hissed, then pitched forward.

  Roget caught him under the arms as he fell.

  * * *

  "Hold him still," Shalu ordered. "It may break off when I pull it."

  Roget had carried Conar into the cavern, shouting at several men milling about the entrance to find the man who had tried to kill Conar. He had gently laid his leader beside the fire on a pallet Kym had rushed to make ready with layers of borrowed furs. Kym slid her legs beneath Conar, cradling his head in her lap, her soft hands sweeping back the thick mane of loose blond hair.

  "What if the shaft does break, Papa?"

  Shalu grimaced. "Then I cut it out, girl!" His words were staccato rasps of anger. He grasped the six inches of protruding shaft and glanced at the men who held Conar down. He knew they would do as he asked. Taking a deep breath, thanking every deity he could name that Conar was still unconscious, he slowly pulled on the shaft. He felt it give, sweat popping out on his face. His lips moved, praying again that the shaft would come out intact.

  That wasn't to be.

  As the quarrel came free, Shalu cursed. The head of the shaft was still inside. "Damn, damn, damn!" He swung his fierce gaze to du Mer.

  Roget had been told to heat a dagger just in case this happened. He had also prepared a needle and thread. If Shalu had to probe for the shaft's head, Roget knew the only way to properly close the wound would be to cauterize it and suture it closed. He drew the dagger from the coals beside him and held it so Shalu could gingerly take the wrapped grip.

  Gritting his teeth, Shalu brought the dagger to Conar's exposed wound. He felt like screaming when he saw the dark eyes flit open. They were dull with pain, but they were conscious of their surroundings. His hand poised, unwilling to inflict any more pain on the man beside him.

  Conar's eyes cleared. He saw the knife. He swept his vision around the men holding his arms and legs. This was too much like his nightmare for him not to be aware of it. Sweat poured from his flesh. He felt the telltale signs of Labyrinthian Fever crawling over him with sticky fingers. He felt cool hands on his brow and flinched, his head tilting back to get a look at who was above him. He saw Kym Taborn's tearful face and almost smiled. Not quite like his nightmare, he thought fleetingly. Turning his gaze to Shalu, he nodded.

  Shalu took another deep breath. Before he could lose what nerve he had, he wedged the hot knife through the puckered slit in Conar's hip, feeling the rigid muscles tense with pain.

  Conar's neck arched back against Kym. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out. It felt as though his entire left side raged with an internal inferno. He saw pinpoints of light behind his tightly closed lids.

  "Oh, Papa. You're hurting him!" Kym cried, her fingers threading through Conar's hair to keep his head still.

  "Shut up!" several men shouted at once.

  The cords of Conar's neck stood out sharply against the pallor of his skin. He was barely aware of Kym's tears falling in his face, her hands pressed tightly on his scalp.

  Shalu's face glistened in the glow of the campfire. Not a sound, save the labored breathing of the man lying at his mercy, penetrated the silence. He was aware of the men watching from the shadows of the cavern, could feel Roget's intent gaze on his hands as he probed the wound. He could feel the obstruction of the steel quarrel tip and felt it move as he slid the knife deeper.

  The thing was wedged tightly in the flare of Conar's hipbone. Blowing breath over his upper face, Shalu eased the knife deeper, hearing Conar's gasp of agony.

  "Faint, boy!" he begged, unaware he had spoken aloud. "Dammit, faint!"

  "I…can't…"

  "Papa! Please! You're hur—" Kym felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked up into Thom's face. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he kept his huge hand on her, warning her not to speak. She cradled Conar's head tighter to her.

  Shalu wasn't aware that Kym had spoken. It was doubtful he would have heard an explosion going off in his ear. His total concentration was on the quarrel tip. He was oblivious to the men crowding closer, didn't hear Tyne Brell telling Chase Montyne that they had found the archer, his throat slit by some unknown accomplice.

  "One of ours?" Grice asked.

  "Never seen the bastard before. A nomad." Tyne glanced at Conar's straining face. "A Hasdu, I think."

  Shalu wasn't even aware that Conar's gaze was glued to him. He eased the dagger to the left, felt it give and held his breath.

  Conar's lower jaw trembled. His head shook from the awful effort to keep quiet and as still as possible. He saw the exact moment Shalu found the tip, although the pain was so intense he didn't feel it dislodge.

  Slowly, Shalu began to drag the steel back through Conar's side. He eased the knife out of the wound and his face fell. The very tip of the missile was still inside the bone. There would be no way to retrieve it short of surgery, and there was not a surgeon among them. Even if there had been, there were no instruments, no medicines to utilize.

  Everyone knew that. So did Conar.

  "Close it," he said softly.

  "But Conar…" Shalu began.

  "You've done all you can. Close it and be d
one with it." Conar's voice was weak, hoarse and his face was flushed with what Shalu recognized as the onset of fever.

  "I won't do it!" Shalu shouted, coming to his feet in one lithe bound. "I'm not hurting you anymore! You do it, du Mer!" The Necromanian King began to sob, his face crinkling, and he ran from the cavern, his roar of misery echoing through the cavern.

  Never would Kym have imagined her father doing such a thing. The man had always prided himself on his detachment, his control. Necromanian men did not cry. Not even for their dead. She looked at Conar. She wasn't surprised to see them staring up at her.

  "Not a sign of weakness," he seemed to need to tell her.

  She nodded. She knew it wasn't weakness. Her father must love this man very much to feel for him the way he did. She caressed Conar's fevered face. She managed a wavering smile when he turned his cheek into her palm.

  "Are you ready?" Roget asked, kneeling beside him, the glowing blade of another dagger held in his hand.

  "As I'll ever be," Conar assured him, keeping his gaze on the lovely young woman above him. When had her short crop of tight black curls relaxed and grown so long? When had she gotten older? When had her dark complexion lightened to a creamy perfection of Oceanian ivory and Serenian rose? When had the brown depths turned emerald green?

  "Relax, Beloved," he heard a faint whisper drift through his fevered brain. "Relax and feel no more pain."

  The red-hot dagger was thrust into the wound. But he didn't feel it. Instead, he slipped slowly over the edge of consciousness.

  "Sleep, Dearling," the same voice crooned.

  He had the uncanny feeling that he could smell the sweet scent of lavender wafting above him as his world spiraled into blackness.

  It was a scent he had grown to hate.