WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Leading the trembling animal away from the cottage and into the thick copse of trees beyond, she pushed aside brambles that scratched her hands, tugging the goat through the greensward to the small hidden cave where she kept all her most precious belongings. Pushing aside a curtain of dead branches interwoven with moss, she led the skinny animal deep into the cave. A natural vent in the stone gave her enough light to see so she could secure the goat beside a small pool of water that had formed from the runoff of snow from Mount Kaule trickling through the vent. A small bale of straw she had dragged into the cave a month before would feed the goat until the danger of the Tarryn army had passed.

  "You'll be comfortable enough, girl,” she told the goat. “You've got rags to lie on."

  When she left, the little beast was happily munching straw. Carefully placing the barrier across the cave opening once more, Maire made her way back to the cottage. It was freezing cold, the wind whipping down from the mountain, and she was shivering—her lips blue—by the time she reached the warmth of her fireplace. Peeling out of the old coat, kicking off Phillip's oversized boots, she held her hands to the crackling flames to warm them, frowning at the bramble scratches across the backs of her work-reddened hands. Her fingers were stiff with the cold—her gloves having disintegrated long ago. One look told her she needed to bring more wood in before the snows came again, but she hated to go back outside. The light was rapidly fading. The wind skirled like a banshee—rattling the door and single window—and pushed savagely against the rafters. She could feel it seeping up through the warped floorboards as it whirled under the rickety old place.

  She used her apron to reach for the ladle to stir the vegetable soup that bubbled in a cast iron pot slung over the flames. The thin mixture of potatoes, parsnips, beets, carrots, onions, turnips, leeks, and cabbage seasoned with garlic, salt and pepper would be her one daily meal for the next several days. She had a single loaf of stale bread left before she'd need to make the trek into Norvus to barter for a couple more. With any luck, she'd be able to bring home a few eggs, a tin of butter, and a small bag of tea. As it was, all she'd be having with her meal for the next few days would be water from the well.

  She padded over to the creaky old rocker and sat down, reaching once more for the sewing that kept her in stable goods, she would otherwise have no way to obtain. Since her husband's death, her only means of support came from the sewing she took in—the mending of clothing and the occasional construction of a new shirt or gown. On occasion she knitted and crocheted, quilted and embroidered as well but those were frivolous things that were rarely requested of her nowadays. Paid in foodstuffs instead of coin, it was a hard life but an honest one. It left no room for non-essential things, for extravagances or luxuries like sugar or spices, but she managed to make do. At least she had not been reduced to bringing men to her bed in order to survive as some women had been forced to do.

  Her nimble fingers moving with care and precision to make tiny, almost invisible stitches in the mending, she hummed to herself to ward off the sense of impending doom, she sensed marching her way. With her fertile imagination, she could almost hear the tramp of their heavy boots, the rattle of harness and the creaking of war wagons.

  "Stop brooding on it,” she mumbled. “You're borrowing trouble, Maire."

  A small plinking sound against the window told her it had begun to snow. She cast her gaze to the doorway to make sure she'd brought the shovel in for she knew by morning she would be forced to dig her way out of the drift that would pile up at her door.

  Sighing, she wished she could journey to the balmier lands where snow was only a word spoken in passing instead of a way of life. She longed to see the sun shining all year long and feel the warm wind wafting over her upturned face. Once—when she was but a child—she had tasted a small rosy fruit from the distant lands of Tarryn. A merchant ship laden with all manner of tropical fruits had sailed into Norvus Harbor and the townspeople had been given samples of coconut milk, papaya, guava, and mango. Maire's eyes had rolled as she chewed the bright orange flesh of that rosy fruit, the juice dripping down her chin.

  "More, Papa. More!” she'd begged her father and laughingly, he had purchased two mangoes for his only child.

  Happier times, Maire thought as she paused in her stitching. A mist of sadness filmed her eyes—blurring her vision—but she lowered her head and swept the sleeve of her worn blouse over the tell-tale moisture. It was not good to remember happier times. It hurt far too much.

  For over an hour she kept at her sewing until she could no longer ignore the protests of her empty stomach. Sighing, she laid the shirt aside and stood. It was getting darker than the fireplace light could dispel, anyway, and would be time to light the single candle she allowed herself each evening. If not for the need to see the stitching, she would have made do with just the light from the fire for candles were a precious commodity and not to be wasted. Though she had lamps, there was no oil with which to fill them.

  Going over to the low table that served as her kitchen counter, she took down a wooden bowl and spoon and carried it back to the fire. Using her apron as a potholder, she ladled the piping hot soup into the bowl then set it aside while she went back for a small slice of bread and a glass of water from the pitcher. Taking those to the rocker, she sat, lowered her head to thank the gods for her skimpy meal, and then picked up the bowl.

  Chewing methodically, she stared into the shadows of her little cottage. There wasn't much to look at—no pictures on the rough-hewn walls, no curtain on the lone window, no rug on the uneven floorboards. The furnishings consisted of her rocker, a cast iron single bed with a cornhusk mattress, a small table that set between the rocker and the bed, the low table in what was the kitchen part of the one-room building, and a small tin tub for bathing. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. A trunk held Maire's small amount of clothing. That was all that had been left to her when the home she'd shared with Phillip had been sold to satisfy the undertaker's bill.

  "What's wrong with you tonight? Stop thinking such morbid thoughts!” she said aloud.

  Dredging the thin slice of bread through the soup, she felt tears prickling at her eyes again. It was rare she felt sorry for herself. There was no good purpose to be served by feeling such things. It only made her want what was no longer available to her. At twenty-nine she was too old for any middle-aged man to want as his wife and the young men of her country were away fighting the accursed war. All that was left were those males not fit for genteel female company—the drunks and bullies, the desperately insane and those slowly becoming that way.

  Sometimes, she thought as she finished that one bowl of soup she allowed herself to eat, she wished she could go to sleep beneath the worn coverlet, snuggle down in the thin cotton sheets, and never wake. Death had to be preferable to the miserable existence that had become her lot in life.

  Heaving another self-pitying sigh, she got up to take her bowl to the table and the basin of water she would use to wash it. As she did, she stared at the snow that had accumulated against the window pane. Beyond the glass, the sky was a deep purple. Snow swirled in thick bands to blanket the land, but it did not muffle the sound of harness and hoof coming down the road.

  She stilled with the dishrag in her hand, listening as the sound of men's voices could be heard over the noise of their mounts.

  "Over there!” she heard one yell. “There's a cabin!"

  Her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach, she backed away from the table, pressing her back against the wall as though by doing so she could meld into the very wood and hide. The dripping rag she held to her chest as though it was a war-shield to protect her soaked her blouse. Shuddering violently, she whimpered as the thud of heavy boots rapped on the porch floor. She whimpered as the door was kicked in—a rush of harsh wind swirling into the room.

  He filled the doorway almost completely—broad shoulders blocking out what little sky glow there was beyond. A black great cape swirled around his lon
g legs, whipped by the fierce wind. Snow caked the broad brim of his black cavalier's hat minus its plume.

  "It's empty!” he pronounced.

  The tramp of more feet rocked Maire's porch as two more brawny men entered carrying between then a fourth man. Blood dripped from the man's body as they took him to the bed and laid him down.

  "There's some kind of soup in the pot. Pour it out and fill it with...."

  "No!” Maire protested, coming away from the wall with her hand out in pleading. “Please, don't! It's all I have!"

  The man in the cavalier's hat spun around to pierce her with a steely gaze that might well have terrified the demon Yn Baase, himself. His hand had gone to the dagger at his thigh, and it was obvious her presence stunned him for he'd not seen her when he entered. He took a step toward her, sweeping off his hat to reveal a countenance so filled with fury it terrified her.

  "I've a wounded man here, wench. He needs seeing to. You can always make more gods-be-damned soup!"

  "No,” she said. “Please, milord. I have so little as it is."

  "From the looks of things, that is most likely the way of it, Jules,” one of the other men spoke up.

  "We need to heat water,” the one called Jules grated as he shrugged out of his great cape. “We need that pot, Guy!"

  "I've another!” Maire was quick to tell him. She scrambled away from the wall and to the table, pushing aside two wooden baskets of vegetables to get the smaller pot.

  "Give it here,” Guy said. “I'll fill it at your well. Where is that, lass?"

  Maire told him.

  "I need clean rags and a basin,” Jules told her.

  These were Tarryn troops and she hated to do anything to give aid and comfort to the enemy of her people but from the look on the leader's face, he'd as soon run her through with the black-handled blade strapped to his thigh as glower at her. Clenching her jaw, she hurried to provide the items for which he'd asked.

  "Do you have any spirits, wench?” the third man asked. He was younger than the other two with a lopsided grin that spoke well of his disposition.

  "I do not,” she answered. “The strongest thing I have is lye with which I make my soap."

  "Figures,” Jules growled. “I have some brandy left in my flask. It's in my saddlebags. Go fetch them, Andrew, and Dek's as well."

  "Aye, Captain,” the young man said and had the decency to close the battered door behind him as he left.

  Maire's eyes widened as she slowly shifted her gaze to the man on the bed. He was sprawled there with his face turned away from her. She prayed with all her heart that he bore only the same name as the demon laird of Tarryn and wasn't the beast, himself.

  "Help me get his clothing off,” Jules ordered, leaning over to shove his dagger into the coals of the fire. He thrust the fireplace poker into the coals, as well.

  Despite her fear of the speaker, the last thing she wanted to do was touch the male on the bed. If he was, indeed, Deklyn Yn Baase, she would just as soon skewer him as lay hands to any part of his loathsome body.

  "Woman, don't make me tell you twice!” Jules thundered, reaching out to grab her arm and propel her savagely to the bed. “Get his gods-be-damned boots off!"

  Shaken as though he was a terrier and she his prey, Maire stumbled against the bed, hands out to keep from falling. She grabbed hold of the wounded man's knee, heard him draw in a ragged gasp as pain no doubt rocketed through him.

  "Bitch!” Jules roared, drawing back his hand to hit her.

  "Don't do it,” came the weak command from the bed.

  Realizing she was a breath away from being mauled by the irate warrior, she hastened to draw off the muddy boots that had stained the soft white chenille of her bedspread. Groaning as she took in the mess, she knew the spread was ruined anyway for there was a large bloodstain spreading out from beneath the wounded warrior, but the sight of the mud only served to add insult to injury.

  Rather than drop mud all over her clean floor she moved to set each boot down carefully beside the hearth. Apparently not moving as fast as the one named Jules thought she should, he hissed at her, eyes blazing.

  "Woman, you are sorely trying what little patience I have left,” he warned her. He was carefully peeling away the wool great coat that covered his patient, folding it back to reveal a thick gray wool sweater that bore a broken-off quarrel shaft, the point obviously still buried inside the wounded man's shoulder.

  Staring openmouthed at the blood-soaked sweater, Maire jumped when the angry warrior ordered her to give him a pair of scissors to cut open the garment.

  "Are you feeble minded or just stupid?” he snarled, snatching the implement from her hand.

  "Jules, stop insulting her,” the man on the bed muttered. “I mean it."

  The door opened and closed and the two men who had left came in again. One carried the cast iron pot filled with well water while the other had several flasks in his hand.

  "I've enough booze to get four men drunk as skunks,” he told Jules.

  "We only need enough to get one man drunk,” came the brusque reply. “Get those pants off him, Andy. He'll be more comfortable."

  Maire stepped back, thankful her services would no longer be required. She moved to the other side of the small room, so she didn't have to see what was happening. The arrogant bastard was running the shears up the middle of the sweater and when he gently peeled the two sides away from the protruding shafts, she heard him curse.

  "The gods-be-damn it, Dek. What a mess you've made for me to clean up this time!” he complained.

  "You should feel it from my side,” the man he was tending quipped.

  "Just shut the hell up!"

  Guy had unhooked the soup pot from the fireplace crane to hang the pot of water there to boil. “Where do you want this, lass?” he asked.

  "On the table,” she mumbled, hating to talk to the bastards but afraid not to answer.

  "Smells good,” he complimented her. “Could do with a shank of meat, though."

  She wanted to tell him that, on account of men such as him, she'd not had any meat in over a year but wisely kept her words to herself. From the look on the face of the man in charge she might be spitting out a few teeth if she dared to criticize them.

  "We need to lift you so I can take your coat off,” Jules said.

  "Then do it,” was the weak reply.

  "Easy, now,” Jules said. “Guy, take his left arm and gently bring him up."

  Maire hoped the action would be agony for the wounded man. If, indeed, it was Yn Baase, he and his father and grandfather before him had caused so much pain and suffering over the last twenty years, he deserved to know some of it firsthand. She took a step or two to the side, so she could see his face when they levered him to a sitting position.

  With the sweater laid back, the wound was livid against the warrior's tanned flesh, and it pulsed dark blood as he was hefted upright. As the men quickly worked to rid him of his clothing, she could see the toll it was taking on him for he was shuddering violently. His face was turned down, forehead slick with sweat and jaws clamped so tightly together a white line had formed around his lips. His raven-black hair where it had come undone from its queue was plastered in thick waves to his forehead and cheek.

  "Gods!” he hissed as Jules pulled the sweater from the jagged shaft of the quarrel. He lifted his head and when he did, she gasped, staring into piercing green eyes that seemed to look right through her to her very soul. She was grateful when they rolled back in his head a few seconds before his chin dropped to his chest, dark hair swaying.

  "It is,” she whispered. “It is him!"

  She could hear the blood suddenly pounding through her ears as she stared at the handsome face she'd seen once before—ten years earlier in a dirty storeroom in Ghraih. She shook her head to rid herself of the illusion that the man she'd dreamt about only that morning was laying now in her bed.

  "He's out,” Andrew informed them.

  "Get that knife! Qu
ickly, man!” Jules ordered Andrew who took a rag and grabbed the red-hot weapon.

  They eased him to the blood-soaked mattress and set out to pull the quarrel from his shoulder, no doubt moving as fast as they could in the hopes he wouldn't regain consciousness.

  That was not to be.

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  Chapter Two

  Though Deklyn Yn Baase had been tripped up by the pain and had plunged into some dark, hideously brutal place in an attempt to avoid it, he carried with him the image of the one face for which he had been searching for ten long years. In every village, every town, every settlement, he and his troops entered, he ordered the women brought before him and looked closely at each of them. Every time he had been disappointed, his hopes dashed, his fears escalating that she was dead, lying in her grave all those years. Even so, now he had found her and in the blink of an eye, the same dream he'd had repeatedly during the years rose up to ensnare him.

  He had beaten Reese Fontyne nearly to death that night. When his best friend did not join him at the rendezvous point within the hour, he had grown worried and went back to look for him. Never would he have imagined Reese would be engaged in the savage act in which he'd caught him. When he'd seen what had been done to the Vardarian woman, Deklyn had unleashed the beast hidden within him. The true Black Baron of legend rose to the surface and lashed out with brutal vengeance.

  When Reese lay unconscious, Dek had gone in search of the girl, fearing she'd been hurt so badly she might not survive it. He had gotten only a glimpse of her battered face, but it would be enough to haunt his nightmares for years to come. Until dawn he searched for her but there was no trace. He'd gone back to his regiment and when they attacked the city, he had begun searching every female's face searching for hers but she had not been among the captives.

  Infuriated, terrified he'd never find her again, he'd sent his men through every building, hut, and hovel within a ten mile radius, yet she was nowhere to be found. No one knew her name, or else they were keeping it from him when he described her to the informants. For over two weeks he had his men searching, but it was all in vain. By the time the troop set sail for Tarryn, he had only her memory to take with him.