WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "I have a woman from my homeland who will thrill you as no other ever has," he said in an effort to entice.

  Conar leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "And how much will this goddess cost me?"

  The nomad grinned, showing teeth both too large and too yellow for his face. He raised his hands to shoulder height. "Have I asked you to pay for the delights of my other ladies, Milord?"

  Conar snorted. "If they had delights, nomad, I certainly didn't see any. But then, I suppose any whore's cunt can delight a drunken man."

  A light chuckle came from the desert traveler. "Ah, but Shasamie is different, Lord Conar. She has been trained especially for men such as yourself."

  One brow cocked with displeasure. "Men such as what?"

  The nomad dipped his head in tribute. "Men of discriminating tastes who want a lady to pleasure them." He smiled. "Shasamie is such a lady." He put his fingers together and kissed the tips. "She is exquisite, Lord Conar. Long black hair, eyes the color of the most precious of emeralds, a body to—"

  "I'll take her."

  * * *

  True to Sern Jamar's word, Shasamie provided him with sexual delights that left him weak and drained the next morning. He drifted through the following day in a state of semi-consciousness, then barked at everyone for the least little thing the day after that.

  "Did Shasamie please you?" Sern Jamar asked upon entering the tavern, returning from a two-day absence.

  Conar had been nervous and cranky during those two days, constantly asking when the procurer would return. He had paced the tavern, shaken his head against the offers of ease from the other whores, and found himself eagerly awaiting the sound of Sern's oily voice.

  "Where is she?" Conar snarled, grabbing the nomad by the front of his burnoose.

  Sern smiled. "Do you wish her to come to you again?"

  And the woman did.

  As the nomad instructed, Conar went to his room, undressed, and stretched out on the lumpy bed. His eyes shifted time and again to the door, anticipating, worrying she wouldn't come. But when the door opened and the tall beauty slipped inside the room, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Shall I pleasure you, my Dark Lord?" she purred, drifting gracefully to the bed.

  He trembled, watching her prepare for their night together. She withdrew a small packet of powders from her silken skirts and poured the contents into the chalice of ale beside his bed.

  "What is that?" he asked.

  "A panacea for your troubles, my Dark Lord Conar." She took a sip, then handed him the chalice. "Nothing that will harm you. It will increase your pleasure and make you wild with passion."

  Conar grimaced at the taste, but he swallowed it in one gulp. He held the chalice out to her, barely aware his hand was shaking.

  She took a vial from another hidden pocket among the silk scarves that made up her skirt. After uncorking it, she poured a small amount of pungent oil into the palm of her hand, then sat the vial on the night table.

  "Are you ready, my Dark One?" she asked, running her hands together.

  He could only nod, because what he had drunk coursed through him like liquid lightning. He sucked in his breath when she began to smooth the heated oil upon his rigid manhood. Soon, she climbed atop him. Her gentle ministrations both heightened the power of his sexual need and stimulated him to such a point he was unable to reach the climax he strived to attain. The oil caused his shaft to become so rigid it was painful.

  "Please," he begged, trying desperately to bring himself to climax.

  "Just a while longer," she crooned, skillfully tightening the muscles of her vagina around his swollen flesh.

  He moaned, whimpered with the need to release his seed. "Please!"

  She held him to her, her tongue darting into his ear, sending chills down his body, awakening his lust.

  He rolled her over and thrashed on top of her, ground his body against hers, thrusting himself as hard and as deeply as he could into her willing body. "Please!" he begged, fearing he would remain as he was forever.

  Sern suddenly appeared beside the bed, a leering grin on his face. "I have something for you, Milord." He held out a golden chalice.

  Conar didn't bother to ask what was in the brew. It might well have been poison, for all he cared. He took the chalice, drained it, and hurtled it across the room. Almost instantly, he felt his eyes glaze over.

  "Take her," came the insinuating voice as Sern bent over him. "Take her, Lord Conar. Take the whore!"

  The drug released his seed with a wild abandon and sharp sensation that left him reeling from the intensity. He screamed, screamed, his release, then collapsed, weak and in agony, his heart thumping wildly, his breath coming in great gulps against the woman's soft breast.

  * * *

  In the nomad's room the next morning, Conar tried to strangle the pharmacist. But Sern whispered that there were drugs that could lessen sexual desire or take it away altogether. There were drugs to make one forget; drugs that could make one remember; drugs that could do whatever one desired. With his mind on the agony of his troubles, Conar allowed the man to mix him a potion that wiped away—for a time—the pain in his heart.

  * * *

  Later, Sern Jamar looked at the ceiling and smiled. Skilled in the use of wild plants that grew in his native region, he kept a stock of medicines that could taint the mind with their potency. Hallucinogens, sedatives, sleeping potions, aphrodisiacs, even poisons, lined his pockets with more gold than he would ever be able to spend in his lifetime. The whores were merely a sideline, bringing in a copper here, a gold coin there. Shasamie, however, earned for him in any single evening more than all his other women combined would earn for him in a month. It was her talents, and his potions, that gave him a rich living among the richer men of the Seven Kingdoms.

  But Sern wanted more.

  His ambition had always been to make himself indispensable to powerful men, men who could provide luxuries and accommodations he so richly deserved for his talents without having to worry about the law and angry customers who ran him from town to town. Sern didn't want to concern himself with where his next meal would come from, or where his next pillow might lay. Despite the money he had earned through the years, he did not wish to spend it. Such was for his golden years when his eyesight might fail him, or when his mind began to mix potions that did more harm than good.

  It was the aphrodisiac he administered to a drunken, unsuspecting Conar the night he took five women to his bed that had formulated the plan in Sern's mind. What had begun as a tribute to the Dark Overlord—a gift in appreciation for the man—soon became a means to a future filled with the pleasures of court life and the mind-pleasing position of being a friend to the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms—Conar McGregor.

  Seeing that neither the vast amounts of liquor his new friend consumed, nor the dubious talents of the whores draping themselves over him, could erase the bored look and pain in the Darkwind's eye, Sern had known a way to bring peace to that hard face.

  The nomad smiled again. The Dark Overlord of the Wind had fallen susceptible prey to the world of forgetfulness that only his drugs could bring.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Cold, moist wind blew down from Mount Serenia, howling about the battlements, snapping the pennants flying atop the crenellated walls, bringing with it the taste and feel of an early frost. It was late fall, the day crisp, the sun, a fading red ball in the western sky. Villagers stood with hands thrust into their coat pockets, huddled together, eyes watching the winding road. Torches had been lit, casting a mellow, welcoming glow along the lowered drawbridge, lighting the way for the stream of horsemen making their way toward Boreas Keep.

  Riding headlong into the claw-sharpening breeze, the men of the Wind Force shivered in their great capes. Steam billowed from their mounts' nostrils, as well as their own, and many a tired body longed for a roaring fire as the chill north wind spat moisture into their faces. Occasionally, a w
arrior would raise his chin from the confines of his high fur collar, lift his eyes to the battlements, and breathe a sigh of relief knowing he was finally home.

  The horses were tired, the men, exhausted, and here and there along the straggling column of riders, a horse sat empty. Here and there, a blanket-wrapped body lay slung across a mount's back. Seven months and fourteen deaths, nine skirmishes with Temple troops, one encounter with bloodthirsty Hasdu nomads, the destruction of two Temples, and the liberation of three Domination-held strongholds, had kept these men from their families and hearth far too long. Making their way home seemed to be the only thing that kept them on their horses.

  * * *

  "They look battle-scarred," Roget du Mer remarked as he joined his friend and King atop the battlements. He rested a light hand on Legion A'Lex's shoulder. "Thank the gods they're finally home."

  Legion braced his cold hands on the half-wall and leaned over the battlements, straining to see one particular man amidst the throng of returning warriors. The sun was rapidly setting in the pink chablis sunset and visibility was poor. He scanned the bays and roans, the dappled grays and chestnuts, the pintos and palominos, searching for that one mighty black brute of a steed whose appearance would herald the return of the man for whom Legion waited.

  "I don't see him." He shuddered, his body trembling with a fear he felt all the way to his soul and beyond.

  Roget squeezed his shoulder. "If anything had happened to him, you'd have been told."

  Legion glanced at the tall mountain range behind him and shuddered. He let his gaze fall on Roget. "If there's bad news, ff something's happened to him, I want to be the one to tell her."

  "I understand."

  Legion looked back at the returning troops. He shook his head at the column of weary men, taking note of injuries, empty horses, nags whose burdens were the blanket-encased bodies of their dead owners. "Alel, be merciful to them."

  The portcullis groaned as it began to lift. To Legion, the shriek of grinding chain and creaking timber sounded like the piercing moan of a great dying entity. The first horseman had disappeared under the flaring arch of the gatehouse. A soft, muted cheer shot up from the outer bailey as servants ran to help the warriors dismount.

  "Have preparations been made for their welcome?" Legion asked.

  "Teal wasn't the wisest choice in regard to organizing a party." Roget chuckled.

  "Why not?"

  Roget shrugged. "He got off on the wrong foot when he went to Liza for help."

  "What did he do?" Legion asked in a resigned, sighing voice.

  "He suggested setting up tables for gambling."

  Legion's eyebrows shot up. "In Liza's keep?" At Roget's nod, the brows drew together in a deep scowl. "Stupid jackass!" he hissed, returning to his vigilant watch of the incoming men.

  Spying a large black horse lumbering toward the drawbridge, Legion braced his hands on the half-wall and leaned out for a better look. His scowl deepened as the horse and rider proved to be unfamiliar.

  He let out a long breath. "I don't see him." He ran a hand over his eyes and drew in a long, wavering breath. "Why wasn't he at the head of the column?"

  "Maybe he stayed at one of the inns in town."

  "No, he'd be with his men. Conar would want to make sure his wounded were cared for and his dead laid out decently." He pushed away from the wall and let out a grunt of frustration. "Where the hell can the bastard be?"

  "You're getting yourself all worked up for nothing. Knowing Conar, he's probably holed up at a tavern with a bottle and a bawd, and not necessarily in that order!"

  It was getting harder by the minute to distinguish the colors of the horses. The torchlight had become a feeble, wafting light in the stiffening breeze.

  "The man's made annoying me his life's work!" Legion pounded the fieldstone half-wall with a hard fist. "Sometimes I could—"

  "Highness?"

  Legion's head snapped around, his breath catching in his throat as he eyed a newcomer to the battlements. He knew the man, but could not recall his true name. All he knew was his Force name was Starling, Conar's second in command.

  "What's wrong?" Legion demanded.

  Starling doffed his cap and limped forward, ducking his head to his King. "Might I have a word with you, Highness?"

  Legion looked closely, unable to fathom Starling's expression in the dying light. It might have been simple tiredness on those gaunt features, or a spasm of pain that made the returning warrior seem distressed, but Legion sensed otherwise.

  "What happened to your foot?" Legion asked, wanting to forestall the bad news he could feel coming.

  "It'll be fair by morning, I reckon. Just took me a spill from the nag. Nothing serious."

  Roget snorted. "You fell off your horse, Lanyon?"

  With the mention of the name, Legion remembered the man and his family. This was certainly not a man given to plunging from his mount.

  Starling blushed and, even in the fading light, Legion saw his acute embarrassment. "Well, I had a little help in falling, you see."

  Roget chuckled. "Who'd you piss off, Lanyon?"

  "Well, it was like this," Starling answered, addressing Legion. "Somebody else was falling and I tried to help him."

  A'Lex understood. He swung his gaze to du Mer. "Find out how many men need Cayn and how many need a priest or undertaker. Let me know as soon as you get the names of the dead."

  Roget gave a quick nod and hurried away.

  "Where is he?" Legion asked Starling. "Is he wounded?"

  Starling twisted his cap in his hands. "He'll be along shortly, I would think, Highness. He was only a mile or two behind us. And no, Your Grace, he ain't wounded."

  "Drunk?"

  "No, Your Grace," Starling answered in a drawn-out sigh. "Not drunk." He threaded blunt fingers through his crop of dark brown curls.

  "But not sober, either, eh?" Legion turned to stare down at the road, now empty of riders.

  "He's been acting a bit odd of late, Highness."

  "In what way?"

  "Well, it's like he's drunk. but he ain't—you know what I mean, Highness?"

  Legion glanced at the man. "No."

  "It's like he takes a drink, you know, but don't get drunk with it. Then he starts raising hell like you wouldn't believe!" Starling rolled his eyes. "The things he does just boggle the mind, they do!"

  Legion's firm lips turned hard, the muscles in his cheek grinding. "Either the fool's drunk or he isn't. Which is it?"

  Starling took a step backward from the heavy impact of Legion's words. "I don't rightly understand it, myself, Highness. I surely don't."

  "I do," came a voice from behind.

  Legion turned, recognizing Marsh Edan's broad frame. "You need something?" he snapped at his Master-at-Arms. "If not, I'm busy."

  Marsh came toward him, his face set in a lowering scowl. He nodded at Starling. "The returning men have been talking—"

  Legion held up a hand. "There he is."

  Legion saw the big black steed Seachance galloping up the winding roadway toward the keep. Pale dust billowed up from behind the mighty hooves, and the jingle of harness and thundering horseshoes penetrated the silence on the battlements. The horse sped past the guard house torches. Plank timbers thumped as the devil steed shot across the drawbridge. After being reined in, the horse dug in its back legs, sat back on its haunches, and lifted its flashing front hooves high in the air. As the beast hopped forward a pace or two on its hind legs, a cheer sprang upward from the outer bailey.

  "Only he would race his horse on a pitch-black pathway!" Legion grumbled with disgust, gripping the battlement half-wall. "The man has no care for his safety. No care at all!"

  "He thinks he's invincible," Marsh grunted, folding his massive arms across his chest. "But he ain't."

  As Seachance dropped his hooves to the drawbridge, Conar glanced up at Legion. Even from a distance, and in the darkness, their gazes locked. Blood recognized blood. For a long, silent
moment, the men looked at one another—Legion, his grip tight on the wall, Conar, his thighs controlling the steed, now edging in a sideways prance toward the portcullis entrance. Conar leaned forward, patted the horse's sleek neck, never taking his eyes from Legion. With contemptuous slowness, he straightened, turned his mount's head, then clucked as he kicked his heels into Seachance's flanks. The horse leapt forward, and rider and steed disappeared beneath the archway.

  Filled with pain and remorse, Legion stared off across the valley beyond the keep. When he eventually faced Marsh, he saw understanding and compassion on the man's ordinarily stern features. "You found out something?"

  "Yes, his men have been talking, and what they tell me hasn't set well. You aren't going to like it."

  Legion knew he wouldn't.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  "Are you going to the party?" Brelan asked. He sat on the cot next to Conar, who was pulling on a pair of woolen socks.

  "Nope."

  "The men would like it if you did."

  "They'll get over it." Conar stood, jerking his breeches from the dungeoun floor. A muscle ground in his cheek as he thrust his long legs into the cords.

  "Don't you want to see—"

  "I've got other plans."

  Saur bit his tongue to keep the anger from spilling out. Answering his brother's stubbornness with insult would accomplish nothing. Instead, he tried reasoning. "I thought you wanted to speak with Roget."

  Conar scooped up a wrinkled black cambric shirt. He yanked it over his head and tucked the tail into his breeches. "It'll keep."

  Brelan stared at his brother's tall frame. There was a gauntness to Conar's face, a leanness to his body, that hadn't been there when he'd left a half a year before. Also, a slight tremble in Conar's hands worried Brelan. "Have you been sick with the fever again?"