WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Damn that gods-be-damned son of yours, Cree!” Duncan threw at Dakin. “He'll have us at war with the McGregor yet!"

  The Duke glared at the king, but did not answer the insult.

  Hans Richter glanced at Kaelan Hesar and winced. The two of them had been friends for many years before Kaelan had been banished from the Keep. The Elite started to dismount to help his friend, but his king's command froze him in the saddle.

  “STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” Duncan bellowed. He stabbed a hand toward the village. “LET'S RIDE!” He kicked his horse viciously and the poor animal bolted up onto his hindquarters before plunging flashing hooves to the snow. With a mighty arch, he sprang forward and shot past Richter and his men.

  Utley swore beneath his breath as he trod heavily to his horse. He deliberately avoided looking at the young prince's prone body, but cursed every step of the way, damning Duncan Hesar to the Abyss. Vaulting into the saddle, he jerked on his horses reins and dug his heels into the animal's flanks, riding out with the rest of the King's men.

  Rolf was the last to mount. He had shrugged back into the warmth of his wool coat after it was clear his opponent either could not or would not get up again to continue the contest. Drawing on his gloves, he cast one final glance at the man he had defeated—and in the doing avenged his betrothed honor—and smiled.

  “I'll find her, Kaelan,” he promised. “If not me...” He turned his horse toward Wixenstead. “Then my men. But I will find her and erase all memory of you from her body."

  “Go to hell,” was the last thing Kaelan said before the gathering darkness tripped him up and he fell headlong into unconsciousness.

  “Coming, Father?” Rolf laughed at Dakin.

  Dakin had seen the men out of the corner of his eye. They were lurking in the bushes just beyond the stable; had been there for quite some time. It was obvious they didn't want to be seen by the king's men, their presence known.

  “Father?” Rolf inquired, oblivious to the other men's nearness.

  Dakin turned his head and spat. “Don't you ever call me that again!” he bellowed.

  They'll help him, Dakin thought with relief, kicking his mount into motion. Those men will help Kaelan.

  * * * *

  Jasper Kullen glanced at his son as they trudged through the deepening snow. The boy was grinning from ear to ear and whistling despite the heavy cascade of wet snow falling upon his uncovered head.

  “We fixed him, huh, Pa?” Royce Kullen chortled. “We fixed him good this time, didn't we?"

  The woodcutter grinned at his son. “Aye, boy. We did at that."

  It had not been Jasper's idea to go to the Tribunal representative in Colridge, but Hildy had insisted he accompany her when she'd gone to make her complain't about the Demon Duke. They'd told their tale to the magistrate, had their words written down in a big book; and been assured the matter would be looked into.

  “By the Brotherhood, itself,” the magistrate had stressed as though that were a great honor.

  Neither Jasper nor Hildy knew what the Brotherhood was, but it didn't sound like it boded well for Kaelan Hesar.

  “They'll send an Inquisitor out to question the accused,” the magistrate had assured them. “There will be an investigation into these charges."

  But the Inquisitor had never come and that had been nigh on two months ago that the two of them had gone to accuse Kaelan Hesar of being a warlock.

  “Won't get himself out of this one, will he, Pa?” Royce giggled, slapping his thigh.

  “Likely not,” Jasper smirked. The old man couldn't wait to find Hildy and tell her that the matter had been seen to. She'd be relieved and the townsfolk thankful that the Demon Duke would bother them no longer. The only worry in Jasper's mind was whether or not that Chalean fellow had seen him and Royce back at Unholy Dale.

  Jasper didn't think anyone had seen them while the beating was going on, although he'd had to slap his hand over Royce's excited mouth many the time to keep the little bastard from giving them away with his laughter!

  Had that fancy fellow on the big roan seen them hiding there by the stables, waiting ’til the gentry left so they could take care of the matter once and for all? If he had, he hadn't cared all that much for he'd left Hesar still lying there at their mercy.

  Jasper's grin became a predatory leer as he thought of what he an to walk backward in the drifts as he asked his expectant question.

  “Maybe we ought not to let on that we know who did it, Royce,” Jasper said with a touch of worry to his tone.

  Royce wasn't all that smart, but he wasn't stupid, either. He nodded. “Might be misconsidered, huh, Pa?"

  “Might be,” Jasper acknowledged.

  Royce walked beside his father for a few more feet, then once again spun around and skipped backward, his face eager. “How ‘bout we just bide our time ’til morning then mosey back up there with a few well-chosen folk a'wishin’ to go with us? What ‘bout that, Pa?"

  Jasper thought about that for a moment, stroking his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Aye, that might be the way of it, lad. Be just as surprised as the rest of ’em when we find him, eh?"

  Royce whooped with excitement and did a little jig in the snow. Despite the heavy-almost obscuring-fall of the now-thick snow, he could still see his father's jubilant face.

  “Happy, are you, Royce?” Jasper chuckled.

  “We got him,” Royce squealed with high merriment. “We really got him this time!"

  Jasper nodded and allowed himself to think back on what they'd done; it was worth remembering.

  He and his boy had followed the Viragonian Outriders from the Ciona Road all the way to Unholy Dale and it was a good thing they had else they'd have missed a rare opportunity to settle things proper-like.

  And missed the beating the arrogant royal whelp had taken at the hands of his hated enemy. The warlock had been unconscious when they'd got up to him there, lying sprawled in the snow. They'd flipped him over to his back, laughing at the mess the other man had made of Hesar's once-handsome face; even reached down to slap that battered cheek once or twice, themselves; hoping the bastard would wake up so he would know what they had planned for him.

  It had been Royce's idea, Jasper thought with pride, and he cast his son a look of intense love. Sometimes the boy amazed him.

  By then the snow was falling heavily, and the wind whipping like a Chalean banshee down from the mountains. It hadn't taken them long to strip the blood-splattered shirt from Hesar's body.

  Nor the boots from his feet.

  Nor had it taken them long to find a length of robe with which to bind his hands to an oak branch nearby.

  They'd left him hanging from the tree-his naked chest already turning blue with the cold-his bare toes not quite touching the snow.

  Come morning, the Demon Duke would no longer pose a problem for the village of Wixenstead.

  He would be frozen to death by then.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  There was a quietly-snapping fire in the ancient stone hearth; a kettle of dried herbs and sweet grasses dangling from its lug pole filled the little woodcutter's hut with a delightful aroma. A lantern kept out the total gloom of the stormy day and lent a cheerful halo around where the woman worked.

  As she went about her business—singing softly to herself—she would now and then cast an expectant eye at her visitor who lay immobile on a thick rug placed in front of the crackling fire.

  There had been no change in her condition for over two hours and, as the time passed, the likelihood of her recovery was dwindling. She feared she had not gotten to her patient in time.

  The woman sighed heavily. It was well within her powers to keep her visitor alive—to thaw the ice in her lethargic veins—and she had every intention of doing so. Hadn't she trekked through the blizzard just to bring her here to do just that? It was just going to take a little longer than she had thought.

  Her song muted to a hum and the m
elody—one from long, long ago—settled over her visitor like a soft, fleece blanket. Kneeling down in front of the hearth, she swung the small kettle away from the fire, peered closely into the swirl of limp vegetation and frowned: what she saw disturbed her and she lifted her head to stare blindly into the leaping flames.

  Outside, the wind skirled around the rafters of the little woodcutter's hut and shook the mottled window panes with their thin coat of dust and grime. The woman tore her gaze from the flames and looked out past the swirl of snow battering her little sanctuary and shivered: she did not want to venture out again, but she knew she'd have to.

  Her visitor stirred in her sleep and the witch lowered her head to look at her. A gentle smile tugged at the witch's mouth and she reached out to lay a soothing hand on her visitor's head.

  “You are with a friend,” she whispered softly. “Lie easy."

  Dark brown eyes fluttered open, closed, then struggled to open again. There was an attempt to get up, but the woman's hand would not allow it and when the woman spoke in such a quiet, reassuring tone of voice, the patient lowered her head and gazed up with mute pleading.

  “You will be all right; I promise,” the witch swore.

  Then in a language as old as time, the witch explained to her visitor where she was and how she came to be there. She moved her gentle hand to the wound in her patient's side and the flesh there tingled as it strove to heal itself at her touch. The witch knew her visitor was worried-so very worried-but she told her not to be. Things were going to be just fine, she said, and her patient believed her for she liked the witch's smell and her purple-colored eyes and her voice that was gentle and kind.

  The witch's visitor watched her as she stood up. Her dark eyes followed her healer closely as the witch wrapped herself in a thick fur coat, buttoning it from neck to waist. The witch told her where she was going and why.

  If the patient could have smiled, she would have. As it was, she weakly gave what evidence she could of her approval of the witch's actions.

  “Do not worry,” she said again in that lovely tongue that fell on her patient's ears like the tinkling of tiny china bells.

  One moment she was looking up at her rescuer with love and adoration in her febrile gaze, the next she was staring at nothing, the witch having vanished in a gentle whirlwind of sparkling motes of colored light.

  Brownie sighed, grunting a little as the wound from the bad man's arrow tugged at her chest wall. She licked her muzzle and only vaguely wished the pretty woman had had time to give her some water before she'd gone on her way. The big brown mutt thumped her tail once then relaxed. Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes for she felt very sleepy of a sudden. Maybe the sleep would stop her from worrying about Him or replaying in her canine mind the memory of the bad men riding up to His living place and of that one particular bad man who had shot her with the arrow when she'd tried to go to her master's rescue.

  Oh, that scream! Brownie remembered and in her dream shuffed and sharked and her paws arched and flopped in her dreamworld run as she raced to her master's side.

  “Have to get to Him!” she had thought at the time. “Got to make them stop hurting Him!"

  The big mongrel had not been happy when her master had put her outside. Those men who had stayed with her master did not smell right to Brownie nor did their eyes convey trust. In her agitation at being separated from Him, the dog had ran to the hidden tunnel and tried to gain entrance to the living place that way: scratching fiercely at the door and whimpering to be let in.

  And that was when she had heard his master's scream!

  A snarl of pure venom had peeled back the dog's lips and a howl of frustration and revenge had bellowed from her arched throat. Racing back as fast as her four legs would go, Brownie had leapt out of the forest and onto the road right in front of the bad men and the ugly, smelly things upon which they sat!

  “Got to get to Him! Got to get to Him!” was all Brownie could think.

  She had snarled at the bad men—warning them not to get between her and her master—and one had lifted a weapon and fired before Brownie could get away.

  “Fool! There was no cause to do that!” he had heard one of the bad men say, and thought perhaps that one might not be so bad after all.

  Brownie had fallen there by the road, the arrow buried deeply in her side. Heaving from the exertion of her run and the pain that was exploding in her rib cage, she had groaned more with disappointment and frustration than with the bad feeling in her body.

  “Who will help Him?” Brownie had asked the trees and clouds and animals hiding beyond the roadside. “Who will help Him?"

  One of the bad men had gotten off the ugly thing on which he sat and started toward Brownie, but that was when She came out of nowhere and took Brownie with Her to the warm place where she had awakened. Brownie somehow understood that none of the bad men had seen Her. In her dream, she snorted a canine version of a giggle. What must they have thought when she was there and then she wasn't?

  Brownie sighed again and went deeper in her dreams. This time He and She were together in this nice warm living place and they were all happy with full bellies. Brownie thought she might not even mind living in a place that smelled too much of cats if He and She were living there, too.

  Only a small frown of concern twitched the big dog's muzzle when—in passing—she wondered what the other She would say about all this!

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  Chapter Fifteen

  Thècion nudged Diarmuid, then cocked his chin toward the men hovering together outside the shipping office.

  “Hesar's men,” Diarmuid had agreed, noting the uniforms. “Court of the Storms."

  “Aye, I thought as much,” Thècion ground out. “The stench seemed familiar."

  Diarmuid grinned at his companion's dislike of the Viragonians. “Wonder what they're doing in a little pissant town like this on the morn of the Solstice?"

  The Serenian prince glanced behind him where the Boreas Wind lay at anchor in the harbor. Near her was a private schooner. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Taking a little trip, I suppose. Back to Tempest Keep for their own festival?"

  “They aren't going anywhere in this muck,” Diarmuid reminded him. “Had it not been for the storm, we wouldn't have made it here before tomorrow, either. They're closing the port."

  Thècion shivered, thinking of the icy gale that had blown the Boreas Wind far off course and brought her a day early into Wixenstead Harbor. “Lucky for us, though,” McGregor commented.

  “And unlucky for the Boreal Queen,” Diarmuid chuckled. “Aye, she'll be restricted wherever she is, as well."

  “Let's hope she made landfall before the storm hit,” Thècion replied with a slight crinkling of his brow. He thought of the priest on board and was concerned for that man's safety, though he couldn't have explained why, had someone asked him.

  “So,” Diarmuid said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “What now, milord?"

  Thècion looked about them. The snow was high and still piling up along the sides of the main street. The blizzard that had swept across Wixenstead had brought almost everything in the coastal town to a standstill. Everywhere, men were digging out around the buildings, and sleighs jangled as they sped across the stretches of cleared snow on the roads.

  “How far did the harbor master say it was to Kaelan's place?"

  “Four miles, I think,” Diarmuid sniffed, drawing out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.

  “Well, it's almost a sure thing we won't get to Holy Dale before tomorrow,” he snapped. He looked toward the local livery. “Let's reserve our horses and plan to set out first thing in the morning. They should have the roads cleared by then."

  “I'll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian jackass!” Diarmuid suddenly exclaimed, grabbing his friend's arm. “That's Duncan Hesar, himself, coming out of the shipping office!"

  Thècion held up his hand to ward off the glare of the snow and looked to the man jus
t stepping off the shipping office plankway. “You're right, Dear Mutt,” he acknowledged. He slowly lowered his arm. “Why the hell do you suppose he's here?"

  Diarmuid cast him a quick look. “Maybe he heard Kaelan was going to be arrested by the Tribunal."

  A deep scowl of concern brought Thècion's golden brows together over his nose. “Why come here, though? So he could make sure the man didn't run away?"

  “That's possible,” Diarmuid said, nodding. “Entirely possible given the nature of Virago's new king!"

  Thècion's scowl became a fierce narrowing of eyes and tightening of mouth at the grand title Duncan had taken for himself. “Let's just go see, then, all right?"

  The Chalean prince opened his mouth to protest such a move, but was left standing where he was for McGregor had set off at a deliberate pace that denied any resistance to his plan.

  “The gods help us!” Diarmuid muttered as he stomped after his friend. McGregor was setting a true course right for the king and his party.

  “King Duncan, is it?” Diarmuid heard Thècion call out in a harsh, somewhat disrespectful tone of voice, gaining the older man's attention.

  Duncan briefly turned toward the sound of his name being called, then dismissed the speaker as no one of importance, one not to encourage with even a nod of acknowledgment. He started to jam his foot into his stirrup when he felt a hand on his waist.

  “That's the McGregor's youngest whelp,” Rolf whispered. “Prince Thècion!"

  The Viragonian king's foot slid roughly from the stirrup and he turned to face the advancing young man again, scowling with distaste. He drew himself up and fixed the advancing man with a stony glower.

  “McGregor,” Duncan stated as though the word had caused a bad taste in his mouth and he wished to expunge it from his tongue as quickly as possible.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Thècion replied. He made a sketchy bow that was not quite proper, but adequate. Without looking toward Diarmuid, he swept an arm behind him in his friend's direction. “I believe you know Prince Diarmuid Brell."