WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Spying an empty flask on the floor, Brelan plucked it from the floor, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. His nose wrinkled. "What is this, Sern?"

  Sern slid to the floor with hands extended, warding off the men. "I just gave him that last eve! I told him not to…he must have taken it all!"

  Jah-Ma-El dragged the man from the floor and slammed him against the iron bars. "What did you give him, you bastard?"

  "He must have spilled it, Lord Jah-Ma-El!" Sern stammered. "He must have spilled the rest of it. Surely he didn't take the entire flask. He knows how deadly the brew can be!"

  Marsh Edan, his own addiction to a drug that had nearly taken his life when he was younger, seemed to realize what had happened. His voice sounded dull, lifeless. "Get him up. If he sleeps on, he'll never wake."

  Jah-Ma-El looked to Bent. "Get ready the room he used as a boy. And send someone for Cayn." He turned to Marsh. "Have Gezelle make pots of strong tea. Legion, Brelan—get him to the showers. And you, you despicable little shit," he said, grasping Sern's burnoose, "show me what you gave my brother!" He shoved the nomad into the hallway. No one questioned Jah-Ma-El's instructions.

  Together, Legion and Brelan lifted Conar, draping his arms over their shoulders. His feet sagged against the floor, while his head bobbed against his chest as they turned to leave.

  "The water in the showers should be ice cold this time of year," Brelan quipped, shivering despite himself. "I don't fancy getting wet, but it's worth a try."

  "Then we'll try," Legion answered, grimly.

  They carried Conar through the dungeon's twisting passageways and into the back rooms of the jailer's barracks. His dead weight was hard to control. When they neared the closed doorway into the showers, they hesitated.

  "Can you hold him?" Brelan asked.

  "I—" Legion jerked as a disembodied hand reached past him and took hold of the doorknob.

  He was tall—seven feet of hulking, menacing muscle as he opened the door and stepped inside the shower room. His bulk blocked the way.

  "He has to be—" Legion began.

  The strange man held out his arms. He put one giant hand behind Conar's neck and stooped to put the other under Conar's knees. He shifted the limp weight against him and swung around, heading for the showering chambers.

  "Who the hell is that?" Brelan whispered.

  The stranger positioned himself under one of the turned off showerheads. A second man, even larger than the first, slid past Brelan and turned on the flowing jet of ice water over Conar and the man who held him. They spoke to one another in a strange, guttural language, then went silent as three more hulking figures joined them.

  Brelan's mouth dropped open when he recognized their loose-fitting trousers and tunics. "Outer Kingdom," he said in awe.

  The three newcomers stepped into the shower and took Conar's limp body. They stood under the water, getting soaked.

  Outside the showers, men milled about, speaking in low terms to one another, pointing at the Outer Kingdoms warriors, nodding in appreciation of their stamina as they took turns holding Conar beneath the ice-cold water.

  "Heard tell they ain't human," one man said.

  Brelan turned a sharp gaze to the man, who ducked his head in embarrassment. To Brelan, the news seemed to have spread like wildfire—Lord Conar had accidentally taken too much elixir the nomad had brewed for him. Brelan knew Conar would have been appalled if he'd known how much his secret doings were common knowledge.

  Looking at the intense, eager faces, Brelan realized something Conar had not—his men loved him no matter what. There was no animosity in their looks, but only fear for Conar's safety engraved on their hard faces. Brelan had no doubt that a few of the more intelligent had figured out the overdose had been no accident.

  Thom Loure and Storm Jale edged past the others.

  Thom's big face scrunched into a worry line that obliterated his forehead. "How is he?"

  One of the Outer Kingdom warriors spoke, his accent hard to understand, but one of the others haltingly translated for his fellow countryman. "He…go…around."

  "Go around where?" Thom repeated.

  "Come…around?" the man said painfully, stressing each word as though it were being pulled from his lips.

  * * *

  Conar groaned, shivering against the mighty chill cascading over and around him, saturating his clothing, dripping down his face. He jerked in spasms, his teeth chattering. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids only fluttered.

  "Keep…under…shorter," a warrior said.

  "Longer," another corrected.

  Conar felt darkness reaching out for him with icy fingers. Grating, gruff voices spoke around him in a language he didn't understand. Their voices drifted away, but then he heard words, words spoken from far away…

  Incantations…mantras chanted in dual voices…begging words, pleading words.

  The two voices speaking were familiar to Conar's ear. He tried to make out what they were saying, but his mind refused to function. One part of him wanted to wake; the other part wanted the surcease the darkness offered.

  Then he heard another voice—chanting, enjoining, and he strove harder to hear this voice, for it was as dear to him as the very life he had tried to throw away. He strained to hear, willing his malfunctioning mind to clear itself of its drugged cobwebs.

  "Be…all…good."

  The voice above him spoke in that strange, alien tongue, not pleasant on the ears. His eyelids fluttered open once, twice, three times. He tried to see who tortured him with such teeth-clenching words, but his eyes closed again.

  He heard two more voices—voices he knew well. They added their spells to those already being intoned. The words began to blend instead of overlap. Conar again tried to wake, to see who was speaking.

  "Open…eyes. Wake…soon…now."

  Conar heard the chants coming to a close. The voices—two male, three female—reciting their words of protection over his soul, grew weak and tired. His lids swept upward. He looked up into a strange, unsmiling face.

  * * *

  "By all that's holy! Keep him awake!" Teal yelled as he came running forward. "Cayn's on his way, but says Conar will die if you let him sleep!"

  "Know…what…doing…Romnie!" one of the Outer Kingdom warriors spat with dislike, glaring at Teal.

  Teal glared back at the man who had called him the slang for gypsy. "Why you—"

  Legion's upraised arm stopped him. "They're taking care of him."

  Just then, Conar's body jerked in the men's arms.

  "He's going into convulsions," Legion said softly.

  Conar began to buck in the warrior's arms.

  "Get him on the floor!" Cayn shouted, shoving his way into the room. "Put him down, now!"

  By the time the men laid him on the wet floor, Conar had obviously bitten through his tongue. One warrior stripped a wide leather belt from his tunic and thrust the strap between Conar's teeth to keep him from swallowing his tongue, smearing blood along Conar's chin and cheek.

  The warriors held him as convulsions bucked his body in spasm after horrible spasm. His limbs jerked and pulled against their hold, but they only seemed to tighten their grip.

  "It's going to be a long, long night," Marsh sighed and turned his back on the scene.

  Legion needed no reminder of what lay ahead. Yes, it was vital to keep Conar awake. Shaking his head, he sat on a chair some thoughtful soul had scooted under him.

  It would be a long night, indeed.

  Chapter 24

  * * *

  Separated by hundreds and hundreds of miles, two men sat brooding in their conjuring rooms, contemplating the cowardly thing Conar McGregor, Lord Darkwind, the Dark Overlord, had done. Neither felt the presence of the other in his moody thoughts, but each felt the need to intercede in the destructive path Conar had set his feet upon.

  Earlier they had put on their robes of magic at the same time, had gone to their respective altars, and had began the r
itual that would placate the Deathbringer, the Taker of Life. Although the rituals were similar in content—both had trained under the one great sorcerer of years past, Yhouir—the way they went about the conjuring was entirely different. One followed the Right Hand Path to the Deathbringer, and the other slipped along the Darker Way.

  They had thrown their hands wide to the heavens at the exact same time, and both Occultus Noire and Kaileel Tohre felt the embodiment of pure evil pass through them. While Occultus let the spirit pass, Kaileel embraced it, reveling in the further taint it spawned in his black heart. Chanting in a dialect unknown but to a select few, the sorcerers had began the lengthy and complex ritual that would stave off the Deathbringer.

  The conjuring lasted four hours, and at the end, both men were exhausted, weakened to the point of death. But they each had a reason for enduring the ordeal and thought only they could stop what was destined.

  Occultus needed Conar alive to crush the power and might of the Domination. The young man was the last, and only, hope of the people of the world against the forces of the Abyss. His conjuring was methodic, rational, quiet, with only a hint of the desperation he felt. His words of pleading for his cause were filled with love for Conar, respect for the man's abilities, and he begged the Gray Ones to help him in his intercession with the Deathbringer.

  Kaileel Tohre needed Conar alive so he could eventually exact the revenge he so craved. The man was the last vestige of obstruction standing between the Domination and the complete enslavement of the world as he knew it. His conjuring was erratic, insane, screeching, but fervent. His words of demanding for Conar's life were filled with hate and anger. He pleaded with the Great God Raphian to whisper His support into the ears of His fellow Destroyer to keep Conar alive long enough to pay the ultimate price for having offended the gods of the Dark Way.

  Each man had his reason to keep Conar alive, and each strove hard to do so. They started another round of sorcery, and long into the night, both chanted other spells, more complex, using intricate incantations in the language of the Ancients. They made appropriate sacrifices. At times their voices blended; at others, the words overlapped with different names and vowel sounds, but the intent was identical.

  As their second set of enchantments drew to a close at the same moment, both bowed their heads in tired fear, and prayed to their special deities that the ritual would work. For each, if the Deathbringer turned a deaf ear to their pleas, a young man's untimely, selfish death would mean defeat.

  Now, with two rounds of magic done, they sat, waiting. Neither heard the female voices raised in chant. Neither knew other magic-sayers were hard at work to save the life they, themselves, tried to protect.

  But the Gray Ones had turned away from Their amusement at the expense of the young couple, and a slight crack appeared in the altar stone inside the Wind Temple at Boreas Keep. It made a quiet sound, but audible to the young woman kneeling at the altar to pray.

  Inquisitive, she got to her feet and ran her hand over the crack, surprised when a tiny piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Bending, she picked it up and was shocked to see Hern Arbra's unmistakable scratching scrawled across the parchment.

  It was as though a hand had parted the curtain of time and space, reached beyond the grave to deliver a message to the world of the living, and to Gezelle, as superstitious as she was, she realized the importance of something such as this.

  Hiding the paper within her bodice, she hurried to Liza's room, where her mistress was lying quietly, her great green eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Gezelle never hesitated at the door. She stepped into the room, calling to Liza. "Milady! You must see this. I found it in the Temple when I went to pray for His Grace!"

  * * *

  Lying in bed, Liza was tired, sore, and soul-sick at what Conar had tried to do to himself. Her own conjuring had left her exhausted, but something odd was happening inside her, and she didn't understand it. She felt more drained than normal.

  It was early evening and her lassitude was growing. There was a slight itch in her chest and arms that she could not account for. Her head seemed light, spinning. She felt feverish, her head ached miserably, and she was colder than she could ever remember. It had been a long time, indeed, since she had felt such stirrings and was barely aware she was experiencing Conar's physical discomforts.

  "Leave me alone, 'Zelle," she muttered, her stomach heaving.

  "But Milady! It is a note from Hern!" the servant called, taking her mistress by the hand and pulling her up. "You must read this!"

  It was on Liza's tongue to tell Gezelle to read it to her, but one look at the girl's face told her the words would fall on deaf ears. Sighing, she took the note, glanced at it, and smiled. "His handwriting is worse than Brelan's."

  "Read it!" Gezelle shouted, shaking Liza's shoulder. "Just read the damned thing!"

  Liza looked at the note. "I could never read his slanting scrall, 'Zelle. Where's Cayn? He used to interpret Hern's writing for Legion and—"

  Before Liza could finish, Gezelle ran out of the door. Within minutes, she returned, literally thrusting the aging Healer into the bedchamber. Cayn bumped heavily into the ornate desk beside the armoire.

  Gezelle grabbed the note out of Liza's hand. "Read it!"

  Cayn held up the note. His eyes widened. "Where did you get this?"

  "In the temple, you dolt!" Gezelle screeched.

  Cayn's mouth snapped shut with a click. He narrowed his eyes at the servant girl just long enough to let her know he hadn't appreciated her tone nor name-calling. He turned up the note, gathering it close to his face.

  He read it. Then again.

  Finally, he looked at Liza, tears in his eyes.

  "What is it?" Liza whispered, standing, walking to him. Her heart thudded, for she felt the import of what he was going to say long before he spoke. "What does the note say?"

  "It says…it says he has found Prince Conar McGregor's marriage bracelet and tells where he has hidden it. He says he's not sure, but thinks the essence of the Prince's power is in the bracelet, and bids whoever finds it to guard it well for the Prince's son, Corbin."

  Liza's hand went to her chest. Feelings washed over her with wave after wave of understanding. She staggered to her bed, gasping for air.

  Outwardly alarmed, both Cayn and Gezelle went to her, but she motioned them away. Her mind reeled. She looked at Cayn. "Show me!"

  Obviously with no doubt in his mind what she meant, Cayn escorted her and Gezelle from the room and to the stairs, leading them to the chambers where Liza and Conar had slept as man and wife. He opened the door, ushered the women inside, then held the note to the light. "It says there is a lock on the inside of the—"

  "Armoire!" Liza hurried to the tall cabinet's oak doors. She opened them, fumbled at the back of the armoire for the hidden lock. Flipping open the hasp, she pushed the false back. "Through here!"

  With heart hammering, Liza led the way to the trap door leading to the wine cellar. She sighed with relief when she saw a new and shining bolt thrown back on the door, knowing who had placed it there.

  Cayn pulled open the trapdoor. "Hinges have been freshly oiled."

  Inhaling the pungent smell of lubricant, Liza knew who had done that also. She followed Cayn into the wine cellar and went straight to the hidden door where she and Conar had once entered the grotto together.

  "It must be near mine," she whispered, remembering when she'd lovingly removed from her arm her bracelet and hidden it. She had wrapped it in a square of silk, and stuffed both inside an oilskin pouch, then painfully laid to rest, kissed goodbye, a woman who longed desperately for the man who had given it to her. She pointed.

  Cayn walked into the main section of the grotto. "There! The largest stalagmite! It's beneath there?"

  Liza still saw the swirling lines her body had made on the sand beside the pool. The tall lime formation to which Cayn hurried was just to one side of the thick stalagmite where Conar had tied her hands.
In a daze, she watched the Healer lift the formation clear of the cavern's floor.

  "He chiseled it away. Do you see?" Cayn set the large cone-shaped formation to the side and reached inside the hole. Bringing up an oilskin pouch, he blew loose sand from the packet.

  "It's almost alive, isn't it?" Gezelle whispered, as if seeing the emotions flooding Cayn's wrinkled face.

  "Aye," the old man said reverently. He held up the packet to his Queen.

  As the pouch settled into her hand, Liza's fingers tingled. She closed her eyes with rapture, feeling the immense power flowing from the pouch to her. "His familiar fled into the metal when it was cut from him," she told them. "Tohre didn't think about that."

  The sweet scent of lavender filled the air. Untying the drawstring, Liza pulled from the pouch a square of bleached muslin, yellowed with age. After unfolding the square, she let out a moan as his bracelet, the circle sheared in half between the initials of her name, came into view. Bringing it to her lips, she began to cry, her tears sliding down her cheeks. "I never thought to set eyes on this again."

  "You can save him now, can't you, Milady?" Gezelle asked in a awe.

  Liza nodded. "With a little help." She walked to a place near the archway leading to the outside, then ran her hand along the wall until it disappeared inside the rock surface. "I hope this is where I hid it."

  She brought out another oilskin pouch.

  "Her bracelet," Gezelle said.

  For the first time in many years, the two lovers had been in the same place at the same time, and the powers within their respective bracelets, heart-mates, glowed and called out to the other. Having lain dormant for so long, their voices were rusty with disuse, but as the climax of lust poured from Conar to Liza, the voices grew stronger. Liza's familiar, untainted by the drug controlling Conar, pulled free of her bracelet and reentered her body. It was her powers returning that she had been feeling all that day, but so unaccustomed to feeling any more, she had not recognized it for what it was.

  Now, she did.