WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Let him go, bitch!" Raphian ordered, furious that the glow around Conar was now almost lavender, signifying defeat. He howled with rage as He was expelled from the vulnerable flesh he had invaded.

  "Go to hell!" she shouted back and fumbled for Conar's hand. She placed his fingers to her breast, molding them around the softness. "I am flesh and blood, Conar. I am mortal. I am real!"

  Conar felt a heady sense of immense power shoot through him. As she gripped his hand, he knew the absolute endowment of the mystical knowledge that had lain dormant within him all those years, and knew, beyond a doubt, that he had held those powers in check since birth and beyond. His head cleared. His pain fled. His body swelled with love. He turned to his woman, a wavering smile on his cold lips.

  "Aye!" she cried with happiness. "Aye, Conar, aye!"

  He felt at long last the Omnipotence of a God-Chosen WindWarrior filling the sails of his soul and knew he could soar with the eagles in the sky if he wished. So great was the power flooding through him, he knew he could fade from where he lay and blend into the very keep at Boreas if that was what was needed. He pushed away the impaling thrust of Raphian's call.

  "It is called teleporting, Milord." Liza laughed, seeing the amazement of his ability reflected in his eyes. "It was how I could hide from you when I wanted!"

  Conar heard his men's anxious voices. He saw them scurrying about to make the ship ready to ride out the storm. The knowledge that his power was even greater than expected suddenly thrilled him to his very core. "I can fight him, now, Liza!" he shouted over the keening wind. "I can fight Tohre!"

  "Aye, my love." Her fingers gripped his. "And you will!"

  He brought her fingers to his lips and placed a fierce kiss on her knuckles. "One, Elizabeth!" he said through clenched teeth. "You and I: We are One!"

  The air turned sharp as ice around them, the stench of brimstone inundated the frigid air with its foul smell, yet underneath the cloying sulfur aroma lay the sweet scent of lavender. A stealthy silver, phosphorescent fog spread toward the ship from the port side.

  Liza shivered from the cold blast of foul wind buffeting them as Conar gained his feet and stood braced against the heaving deck. His blond hair whipped about his head and he turned a grim face to her.

  "It is in our destinies, Beloved," she yelled. "We make our stand, together, here and now."

  Conar gripped her hand and turned to face the black boiling rumble of clouds filling the heavens. The dark cloud shimmered with red streaks like the fine capillaries in his flesh. "Come at me, you bastard," he growled. "Come at me and see what we have for You!"

  Streams of red fire shot toward the ship's deck from the black cloud hovering so close to his head Conar could reach into it. The cloud was alive with the determination to destroy the ship and all within, for the fireballs landed on deck, scorching everything, catching the wood on fire.

  A heavy blast of sulfur swept over the deck. A thick coating of pale yellow dust settled around Conar and Liza's feet. Sharp crackles of lightning singed the sky. Zigzagging ever closer to the vessel, the bolts hissed into the straining waves, lit the storm-darkened sky. The two lovers were illuminated in the flare of the electric flashes. They stood like roadblocks in the storm's way.

  "Give yourself up to the storm, McGregor, and I will let the woman live," the booming voice thundered. "Give yourself to us and the others on this ship will be saved, else I will turn it into floating cinders!"

  The siren song rose in a crescendo, vibrating the air, turning the sea to a solid sheet of silver fog. From the corner of the prince's eye, he saw the fog rise from the depths of the waters in ever-increasing height, lap at the ship's sides, crest on the heaving waves, then begin to seep slowly over the ship's rail. It flowed onto the deck, spreading along the wood, running through the thick yellow dust, pushing it aside as it floated toward Conar and Liza. It swirled upon the deck, circling Conar's ankles, flowed around the hatchways, lapped at the spars and ran into the belly of the ship, seeping silently, steadily, through the hatchway to the deck below.

  With it came the scent of lavender, growing heavy, blocking out the stench of hell-stone. With it came the soft tinkling of tiny silver bells and the seductive laughter of the goddesses who protected the ship and all those within her.

  An angry blast slammed from the boiling mass of clouds; falling missiles rained upon the sails and spars. Hail as big as Conar's fist struck the deck and tumbled about the ship's wake, plopping into the waves with dull thuds.

  "Conar!" Liza breathed with fear, for the hail struck with enough force to crack away part of the railing near her. She jerked back her hand.

  Conar turned, furious to see the falling balls of ice. He watched in horror as the crow's nest and its sailor got struck with a heavy barrage. The young man tried to shield himself, then screamed in agony as he fell backward, landing on the deck with a meaty thud, his head at a sharp angle to his body.

  "Damn You!" the Serenian Prince shouted to the snapping fire and ice pelting his ship.

  "Damn you!" the gruff voice of Conar's mortal enemy thundered back.

  "Beloved!" Liza screamed, sensing his fury. "Think not of anything but turning the mist around us warmer. Think of melting the ice rain!" Her hand jerked within his, effectively gaining his full attention.

  Conar glared with hatred as another sailor ran for cover, falling prey to the sharp, lethal ice that struck with deafening thuds against the deck. Looking at his wife, the screams of the dying sailor echoing through him, Conar squinted. "I will not let this happen!"

  "Then, stop it, Beloved!"

  Gathering his fury into one tangible line of thought, Conar willed the pulsating mist around his legs to gather the heat of his anger into itself. He felt a sharp impact on his left shoulder and flinched as a hailstone bounced off him.

  Pulling his wife with him as he bent to scoop up the frozen mass, he took it in his right hand, closed his fingers around the white-ice pain of it, thrust his fist toward the heavens, then squeezed as hard as he could.

  With his full attention on the ice, it instantly began to melt in his hand. He used his power to conjure warm winds and warmer seas. He felt the water running down his arm, the painful freezing of his flesh beginning to lessen. He felt warmth around his ankles where the silver, sparkling fog had once been chill and alien. He felt the mist heating, absorbing his red-hot fury, turning the air around him as warm as an early spring day. The perfume of lavender grew so intense it made him giddy.

  He squeezed the hailstone harder and the air heated to the temperature of a late spring day. The perfume of lavender grew overpowering, making him giddy; he felt as though the aroma might put him to sleep.

  Although he heard Liza yelp when one of the flying missiles struck her, he didn't move. His full concentration stayed on the warmth.

  His breathing slowed; his heartbeat, once erratic and thundering, became a steady, rhythmic beat. He felt immense energy running through him and his hand no longer felt numbing cold. The fog lapping at his calves became as crisp and incandescent as a midsummer's morn. The hailstone in his hand had nearly evaporated and the air was almost sickeningly permeated with the too-sweet smell of lavender.

  "You're winning. Listen to the Great Lady, my child." His mother's voice was soothing. "She loves you well."

  When the last of the ice inside his fist disintegrated, the hail stopped.

  An angry hiss came from the mass of boiling clouds. Conar turned, triumphant, to the swirling blackness. His face took on an eerie green cast from the clouds. He glared into the looming face of the Storm God. The leathery, triangular head shot from the clouds and came nose to nose with the Serenian warrior.

  Conar smiled. "I win again, Raphian!"

  The slitted eyes tried to pull his soul into their hell-fire depths, but Conar stood his ground, fusing his stare with Raphian's. The demon bellowed with rage.

  Thunder boomed out of the tortured sky and swept over Conar with enough force to stagger h
im. The strength of the aftershock rocked him, and he lost his grip on Liza's hand.

  A foul smell, like nothing ever imagined this side of the deepest pit of hell, spewed out of the demon's gaping maw, covering Conar, leaving him wet, slick with its vileness. It lashed over him, sucked his flesh, tasted; it oozed down the waistband of his breeches and flowed down his legs, reaching with vile tendrils to caress his manhood.

  The stench made him heave with nausea, made him sick to his very soul. He felt the prickling sting of a million ant bites and groaned from the sudden, unexpected agony, going to his knees in pain.

  "Just a taste, my pretty!" the demon promised. "A taste of the hell you will soon know!"

  The heavens turned brilliant red, swirling in frustration. With a high-pitched screech, the clouds began to disappear into the vortex of the heavens, scuttling away from the ship like vermin deserting a plank of sinking driftwood. Scarlet from horizon to horizon, turning the churning waves a deep blood red, the sky pulsed brightly, blinding them, and then retreated, gathering into itself until the red tint was vacuumed into the heavens like a reversed waterspout.

  As the vortex fled to the far southern expanse of the heavens, the wind and noise ceased; the air grew tropically warm; the seas calmed; the sky became the soft color of Conar blue eyes.

  The siren song diminished, changing to the gentle trill of wind soughing through palm fronds, then drifted to the north like the mysterious St. Elmo's Fire sailors see in the distance of a late autumn day.

  At their feet, the mist swept back from Conar and Liza, receded along the deck, eased over the side as silently as it had come, and sank into the depths of the ocean. With its passing, the smell of salt spray returned, leaving only the barest hint of lavender wafting on the air. The sea resumed its normal shade of greenish-blue, and the waves lapped gently at the ship's hull.

  Conar stood on trembling legs, feeling the after-bite of insect stings tingling his flesh. Despite the filth coating him, he gathered Liza to him. He felt her shiver, knowing it was more from the exhilaration of their combat than any fear.

  He felt clammy with the smell of Raphian on his flesh, and knew he reeked of it, but he needed Liza's touch; he craved the comfort of her arms to remind him that they had won, together.

  His attention was locked on the section of sky into which the vortex had been sucked. A deep, abiding fury, an unnatural wrath, welled up inside him and he could tell Liza sensed it. His face was etched with hard lines; his breath was shallow, his heartbeat now erratic, faltering. He blinked as the silver mist that had been at his feet pulsed once, far out to sea, gaining his gaze as though in warning, and he looked at his wife, his hand cupping the nape of her neck.

  "Conar?" Liza asked, worried.

  "Tohre has done many things to me, Liza," he said so softly his voice was but a whisper. "He has hurt me in ways too numerous to count. Now, he has killed because of me." He looked away from her anxious face to the two fallen sailors being carried away by crewmen. "He will have to be dealt with as soon as we get home."

  Liza shuddered. Something in his voice was foreign. His dispassionate, cold tone—colder than the hail that had fallen —was filled with an emotion she feared.

  "You cannot let anger control you, Milord. An angry man makes mistakes. We have to carefully plan our attack on Tohre so no others will be hurt by his evil."

  As she looked at him, she sucked in her breath.

  His face glowed with the promise of death.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  Kaileel Tohre, High Priest, Cardinal of Ordination for the Brotherhood of the Domination, the evil sect of sorcerers intent on destroying mankind, sat before the altar stone as his followers unstrapped the wrists of the hapless victim who had died for nothing.

  Aware of the other priests' feelings of outrage, fear, and disbelief, Tohre knew a frustration such as he had never before experienced. His defeat, as well as Raphian's second defeat, at the hands of Conar McGregor, was written on his craggy features. Beneath his scarlet robes, his body shook with impotent anger. The rage in his black soul screamed for vengeance.

  His hooded eyes followed the corpse as it was carried from the conjuring chamber and he looked at his hands, coated with blood.

  "What now, Kaileel?" Tolkan Coure, Arch-Prelate of the sinister sect, asked as he came to stand over Kaileel.

  Slowly Tohre looked at the Prelate. Intense hatred filled him, for he knew that he, himself, would have to pay for this. It would be his body that would be sacrificed to Tolkan's fury. It would be his flesh stripped away this eve. "I will bring him to his knees, Holiness."

  Tolkan turned his head, a lethal smile on his wrinkled, evil face. "Can you?"

  Kaileel stared at the old man; a sneer jerked his lips into a semblance of a grin. Spreading apart his hands, Tohre came to his feet and laid a hand on Tolkan's withered cheek. "With your help, of course, Holiness."

  A vengeful smile touched Tolkan's thin lips. It had been years since Tohre had admitted needing his help. "You underestimated him again. But something tells me you won't make that same mistake next time." He reached out a long, taloned finger to smooth Tohre's lower lip. "Will you?"

  With his gaze as steady as his stomach would permit, Kaileel took Tolkan's hand and kissed the chapped fingers. "No, Master. I shall not."

  "You see he can no longer be treated with any semblance of compassion, can't you, Tohre?"

  "Aye, Master.

  "He must be treated now as any enemy is treated. As Occultus Noire was treated."

  A lurch went through Kaileel's soul, but he bowed his head, knowing this would be the only way from now on. Conar signed his own death warrant when he aligned himself with the Multitude to defeat Raphian.

  "You can see that, can't you, Tohre?" Tolkan prompted.

  Raising his head, Tohre nodded. "He has forfeited any right to leniency, Holiness. I shall see he receives no quarter when we go after him."

  Hours later as he lay on his bed, his scarred back ministered by servants, washing away blood caused by Tolkan's lash, Tohre stared into the distance. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth. "No, Conar. I will not make the same mistake with you again. This time, you will pay."

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Conar and Liza were unprepared for the welcome they received as they anchored in the harbor at Boreas Keep.

  It was dark, close to midnight, when the Seachance dropped anchor, but lights ranged all along the steep pathway leading from the docks, across the long wharf, out along the quay that led into the deeper waters where ships rode easy anchor in the North Boreal Sea. The stone barrier that separated the keep's crenelated defense walls from the wharf was dotted with burning rushes and lanterns, campfires.

  The people of Boreas, candles in hand, stood about the ledge between the defending wall and the waist-high wrought iron railing. The Serenian Guards, dressed in full regimental tunics, stood two feet apart along the stone steps winding up to the sea gate of Boreas Keep.

  A loud cheer went up as Conar's personal pennant was raised to the high mast, signaling the prince's arrival. The cheering grew even louder as Liza's own pennant ran up below it.

  "She's home!" a loud voice barked. "Our prince has brought his lady home!"

  Sentian Heil was the first to step foot on the wooden gangplank. He raised his left hand over his head, arched it to the right, then smiled, his loud voice calling over the sudden stillness. "Belias A Tobin!"

  The crowd roared in answer. "Belias a Tobin!"

  The war cry, Prince Conar's own, combined with the salute, filled the night like the boom of thunder. It was the symbol of Serenian might, a visible, vocal reminder that had served the populace of the land for centuries. It belonged to the firstborn male child of the royalty and stood for an allegiance signaling the force of arms wielded by the owner of the war cry: The Prince of the Wind.

  Conar looked at his wife with pride. He returned her radiant smile and let out a wavering sigh o
f relief. He was home; home, at last, with his woman at his side.

  Gezelle, Liza's maidservant, held out her arms to Liza. "She's awake, Your Grace."

  The birth of this babe had not been announced to the people. There had been no way to send word to either the keep at Boreas or to Seadrift, the Oceanian capitol. Even the arrival of the Seachance might well have escaped notice if a fishing trawler had not come up alongside the schooner earlier that afternoon. Forgetting all about their daily catch, the fishermen made a hasty trip back to Boreas with the news of the Prince's imminent arrival. Word spread along the docks like wildfire and by evening the keep's inhabitants were already lining up along the wharf. By nightfall, nearly the entire populace of Boreas Keep and the surrounding towns were waiting.

  "There is a babe!" one woman shouted, craning her neck to see around the tall man in front of her. "Our lady has a babe in her arms!"

  People shoved, jostling to see better, expectant, inquisitive looks on their stunned faces. There was not one among them who did not know of the princess' miscarriage and the death of her firstborn. Their loud buzzing sounded like the disturbed hive of a massive bee colony as they craned to see the bundle in Liza's arms.

  "She does! She does!" someone yelled and people drew in their breath. "The Princess has had another babe! Look!" The speaker pointed to the high mast where a smaller banner fluttered under Liza's.

  A war cry shook the timbers of the quay as people voiced their happiness. Stamping feet shook the docks.

  * * *

  King Gerren McGregor turned to his eldest illegitimate son and raised one thick silver brow. "It seems your brother wasted no time."

  Lord Legion A'Lex glanced at his father's stony face. "Does that bother you, Papa?"

  Gerren shrugged his massive shoulders, kept his eyes on the ship where his firstborn legal son and heir stood. "He needs to get his life in order before bringing babes into this world." The King looked at Liza's face and then at Gezelle's. "And for Conar's sake, it had best be Liza's bantling!"