WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "The Wind be at your back, little brother!" he shouted and turned, running as hard and fast as he could away from that terrible place.

  * * *

  "He will pay for it!" Tohre shouted at Tolkan. "I will see he pays for every moment of comfort he received!"

  Tolkan sat in his chair and regarded Tohre as though he were observing a bug in a specimen bottle. The old man's fingers were clasped lightly in his lap, the long nails curled upward. "I have more bad news for you, Tohre."

  "What?" It was a measure of Tohre's full fury that he dared to shout at the Arch-Prelate. As he watched Tolkan's eyebrow lift, he knew he would pay dearly for such a breech of etiquette. "What bad news, Your Holiness," he mumbled.

  Tolkan unlaced his fingers and adjusted the sleeves of his robe, flicked a piece of lint from one cuff. "It seems the other two members of my Tribunal panel fear retaliation if the punishment tomorrow should, well, shall we say, incapacitate our prisoner? They feel, as do I, that the people might well revolt if such a stringent lashing is applied to their beloved Prince." He glanced up to see Tohre's furious face. "We have reduced the quantity of lashes to seventy-five."

  "That's half the amount passed!" Tohre exploded.

  Tolkan grinned. "I am glad you know your math, Tohre."

  "But why?" Tohre placed his hands on the top of the Arch-Prelate's desk. He bent toward the old man. "You agreed he should suffer."

  "He shall, Tohre. He shall. But we do not need to cripple him. He will suffer even more after his punishment than before it." He folded his hands again. "This is the Tribunal's decision to make and we have decided. Seventy-five lashes and exile."

  Kaileel seethed as he walked from the Prelate's office. If seventy-five were all the boy would get, they would be the very harshest seventy-five ever applied!

  * * *

  He knew they were coming for him.

  He heard the creaking of rusty hinges on the door leading into the punishment cells. He tried to picture her face to draw strength from it. He could almost smell her lavender, could almost feel the soft, shining silk of her raven black hair. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his fraying nerves, to keep the picture of her precious face before him to sustain him during what was coming.

  Booted, shuffling feet stopped outside the door to his cell. He held his breath, squinted against the click of the key in its lock. Although he tried with all his might, he could not still the trembling in his hands nor the erratic beat of his heart. The door swung wide. From his place on the mattress, he glanced at the four guards and blinked rapidly against the flare of a torchlight.

  "It's time," one man said with an undertone of pity in the controlled words.

  He heaved himself painfully from the floor. He walked to them, ducked under the doorway and waited. He felt hands on his upper arms, heard the clink of manacle chain, and held out his wrists. The iron cuffs were slipped into place, snapped shut. He look at the man on his right, recognized him, but the guard wouldn't meet his eye. None of them would. He was struck again by the sheer agony of that one small gesture. He bowed his head. With one man ahead of him, one behind, and the other two to each side holding his arms, he was led into the inquisition chamber.

  The heavy iron door banged shut behind him. They led him to the iron chair in which he had been forced to sit many times before. The clank of iron chain puzzled him. He turned to see one of the guards coming toward him. The man pushed up the cuffs of his breeches. He felt the tight pull of legs irons being locked on his ankles.

  They were taking no chances, it seemed. When a guard slipped the leather strap around his chest to lash him to the chair, he looked up in confusion. He wanted to ask why they were doing this. Were they going to torture him again? Wasn't the beating going to be enough to satisfy them?

  But his tongue had become thick in his dry mouth. Liza's beautiful face wavered in his vision and he was striving hard to keep sight of it. He could taste the tart, watery spit of fear filling his mouth and tried to swallow, only to find it impossible. As the door into the inquisition chamber opened and Tohre walked through, he could not stop the groan.

  Tohre held up a vial of green fluid. "I have something for you, Conar."

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  People began arriving in the square long before dawn. The executioner uneasily eyed the growing number of men and women, even children, who milled silently in a semi-circle around the Tribunal Hall steps, and knew crowd control would be a problem if people took it in their minds to stop the proceedings.

  The crowd stretched back in the courtyard as far as the scaffolding, but no one went near the long whipping post that stood off to one side, although the executioner noticed furtive, sidelong glances at the tall black structure.

  Even though he knew these people were here under Tribunal edict, the black-robed giant instinctively felt they would have come anyway. Perhaps he alone was the only one wishing to be as far from this place of death and destruction as possible. He could see them eyeing him with hate and disgust, and he realized deep in his soul that he was hated more than usual this day.

  Bent Armitage swept his obstructed vision around the crowd, then adjusted the eye-holes of his hood. He knew his duty to the Tribunal, but he knew the man about to be lashed to the whipping post was innocent. He had slept fitfully the night before with visions of the Prince's smiling face intruding into his nightmares. Somewhere toward the designated dawn hour, the giant man, seven foot nine in his stocking feet, four hundred pounds soaking wet, wept like a baby at the task forced upon him.

  Some of the men to be hanged were companions of his, boyhood friends with whom he had played. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he would be the one to end their lives. But his worst agony was in recognizing how much pain he would feel in his mind by what he was being forced to inflict on the young Prince.

  Every lash of the steel-tipped, crystal-barbed whip would cut as deeply into his soul as it did into Conar McGregor's flesh. Hopelessly, the man had turned his head to his chamberpot in order to relieve his gut of the bitter bile bubbling out of his mouth.

  Among the throng of humanity that kept vigil alongside the scaffolding were five of Conar's former mistresses. The women cried softly, clinging to one another or the men in their lives. They had forbidden their children to come to this vile place; the Commander had informed them of the Prince's request that his children not see him beaten.

  Out of respect for him, they were an orderly bunch, but just below the surface, their minds raged with the injustice they knew was being perpetrated against a man they loved. Despite what they had heard about him joining the dreaded Brotherhood of the Domination, they reasoned he must have had good cause. Seeing the vindictiveness with which the Tribunal used to deal with him, even the slowest one among them realized the Prince was on the receiving end of the Domination's revenge.

  There had been no executions in this courtyard in more than twenty years. The people were not happy with the sentences and had been vocal about it. Their grumbling comments were heard during the week since Conar's sentencing; they had been called together and told, if they dared attempt a rescue of any prisoner, Conar would be the first to die. It had been the shouts and vitriolic fury at those words that caused the Tribunal to shear in half the amount of lashes to be applied to the Prince's bare back.

  "He can stand seventy-five lashes!" someone had called to the crowd. "He can't withstand a blade dragged across his throat like his wee daughter had done to her!"

  Mumbles of agreement ran through the crowd. The Prince could survive the lashing. Through no act of his people would they allow him to suffer and die in an attempt to save him from his fate. They had disbursed.

  Now as they stood waiting for him to appear, many wondered if they had been right in not trying to rescue him. Their looks skipped to the whipping post and slid nervously away. Could any man survive, intact, seventy-five lashes with a cat-'o-nine?

  The sudden loud bang of a gong made everyon
e jump.

  The doors to the Inquisition Facility opened. Every eye focussed on the narrow black portals. A trio of drummers emerged, the steady beat of a dirge bringing the hair on everyone's arms to attention; the slow, muffled rap on the drum-heads sent shivers of fear down every spine.

  A quartet of guards followed the drummers.

  In their hands, they held pikes. They walked down the seven steps leading from the portico to the flagstone pathway. It was evident in their stance and stare that, if trouble came, they would use the deadly-looking pikes whose tips gleamed sharply in the early morning light.

  Behind the guards, walking single file, the six Elite who had been sentenced to die walked as proudly as their wrist manacles and leg irons would allow. They held their heads high and managed to show contempt for their situation in the erect bearing of their tired, tortured bodies. As they descended the steps, they cast looks among the crowd for the faces of loved ones. When such a face was found, a gentle smile lifted the Elite's mouth before looking away. They had found their strength; they had found their comfort.

  As they were led up the steps to the scaffolding, they never once looked at one another, never looked at the wooden structure of their death, never looked at the solitary post of wood standing ten feet away. Their attention stayed riveted to the pathway leading to the big double doors of the Tribunal Hall.

  Tension mounted as the big doors remained closed. The sun was well past its birthing and still no sound could be heard behind the tall panels.

  Guards had been placed every two feet along the perimeter of the Tribunal Hall's steps. When the door opened, they came to attention, their swords raised and crossed in front of their chests. They scanned the crowd for troublemakers.

  These men were members of the King's Vanguard, the special unit of soldiers assigned to guard the keep. None of them believed Conar guilty of the crimes, for the man's punishment was far too severe to be anything but what the village and keep folk already knew—revenge. But it was vital to the King, and even more so to the Princess, that no one attempt to disrupt the proceedings and, in the doing, jeopardize the Prince's life. It became obvious these men still thought of him in that light by the small strip of black material looped around their sword arms in sympathy with Conar's plight.

  From the Tribunal Hall's dark interior, the clank of chains could be heard. All breath stopped; heads craned; bodies twisted; people strained to see inside the door's opening. An incomprehensible order was shouted from within, followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of flesh against flesh. The chains clattered again, sounding much like metal hitting marble, the tinny pitch echoing off the floor of the vestibule.

  "They've knocked him down," someone near the steps said. Murmurs of protests ran though the people assembled.

  The guards looked warily about, their arms tensed, their hands clutched around the hilts of their weapons. The crowd surged slightly forward; soldiers strained to contain them.

  Once more the chains clattered and a soft groan wafted out to the crowd. A shouted, "Get up, damn you!" rang out and the chains rattled again. Then, the shuffling of feet scraping along marble could be heard until, finally, Conar was led out into the light.

  A gasp went through the crowd, a choked-off cry here and there. Eyes misted and faces were temporarily averted as their Overlord was pushed forcefully into the midst of the guards.

  "Was that necessary, Priest?" a man shouted.

  A woman's voice echoed, "He ain't no dog!"

  Those in the crowd who didn't have a clear view stood on tiptoe to see what caused the sudden rush of emotion. Upon seeing what the others had, they hissed and booed.

  Around his throat, a wide metal collar attached to a long chain held by the High Priest Kaileel Tohre restrained Conar. His hands were manacled in front of him with a thick, heavy, black iron chain; the very weight pulled painfully at his arms and dragged his shoulders down so far he had to hunch in his effort to stay erect.

  "Where the hell did you think he could run, Priest?"

  "How the hell did you think he could escape?"

  "Aye, look at them leg irons!"

  Angry shouts flew through the crowd and bounced off the walls surrounding the courtyard. Curses rained down on Kaileel Tohre's blond head.

  Conar was barely aware of the shouts. His head was bent against the harshness of the bright light and he blinked rapidly to adjust his vision to a sun he hadn't seen in many weeks. The wristbands were clamped so tight, his fingers were already turning blue and throbbing, the veins on the backs of his hands standing out in sharp relief. His shoulders felt as though they were being pulled from the sockets.

  "Look at them!" Tohre shouted, and jerked sharply on the chain around Conar's throat.

  Conar's head snapped back, his face straining against the agony of constriction. He lost his balance from the suddenness of Tohre's action and stumbled, but the guard walking directly behind him kept him upright.

  Winding the chain around his fist until his knuckles were tight against the side of Conar's neck, Tohre forced up the prisoner's head so he was looking directly at the crowd.

  "Look at them! They are here to bear witness to your downfall!" Kaileel hissed, pulling on the chain. "I want them to see a traitor!"

  But it was not a traitor these people saw. They saw a man, barely able to stand. The once-proud Prince they had admired and respected all of his life now gazed forlornly back at them with humiliation.

  Conar could hardly breathe for the tight compression around his throat. He coughed against the pull on his windpipe and felt Tohre's knuckles grazing his flesh.

  "Get down those steps before I pull you down!" Tohre snarled. He placed his hand in the small of Conar's back and shoved.

  Although he stumbled, Conar kept himself from falling. Slowly, painfully, taking as wide a step as the leg irons would permit, he made his way down the staircase. His chest burnt with every breath, two of his ribs grating against one another where Kullen's boot had connected with his ribcage late the evening before.

  It took a great deal of effort just to hold his aching shoulders back as far as he could, for the chains on his hands were pulling them down farther with every step. He forced himself to endure the horrible pressure without moaning, knowing it had been Tohre's intention to humiliate him in this fashion.

  If he could only continue to keep his head up, his shoulders back, then maybe he could prevent his spirit from being broken. They could beat him until his flesh hung in shreds, force him to watch the murder of his friends, but he was damned if he would allow them to bring him to his knees before his people.

  No one, as yet, had ever had the power to do that.

  Conar had made up his mind to show his people a courage he didn't truly feel. He wanted to keep the pain he knew was coming from showing as long as he could humanly do so. He didn't think he could keep from screaming, that was inevitable, but he wanted to prolong that as long as he could.

  Liza's name crossed his troubled mind and he drew strength from it. As long as she was not a witness to this and as long as she did not hear his groans, he could endure. Her face flashed in his mind and he took a deep, steadying breath before stepping from the last riser and onto the gravel pathway that led past the scaffolding.

  Complete, utter silence settled over the courtyard.

  As he cleared the last step and walked by the first brace of guards he was surprised to see the people begin to go down on their knees as he passed, their heads bowed, their right fists clenched over their hearts. Men, women, and children alike showed their loyalty in the time-honored tradition of serf to master, subject to monarch, and made it plain that they still saw him in that light.

  Kaileel came to a halt, glaring at the people. "Get up! This man is a commoner! A traitor!" When the crowd raised their heads and stared at him with hate, he grew livid. "I told you to get up! You cannot show this man homage! I will not permit it!"

  Conar felt the surge of pride in his people, and this cal
m rebellion told him eloquently in deed what they could not say in word; their act brought his head a little higher, a slight smile to his lips.

  "I demand you get to your feet!" Kaileel shouted and brought back his hand to strike Conar.

  Hebra, the Chief Temple Guard, stepped forward, grabbing his upraised arm. "The crowd will revolt, Your Worship!"

  Impotent fury lit Tohre's cadaverous face and he yanked hard on Conar's chain. His face came close so that only the prisoner could hear his words. "I promise you. After you are gone, they will pay a dear price for having shown you such misguided loyalty!"

  People stood as he moved past them, turning so they could follow his progress. They were silent, their eyes speaking words they dared not utter. It was more than obvious to all that Tohre wanted an excuse to hurt their Prince. If Conar could bear such pain without speaking, they could watch.

  The nearer he came to the platform where his men stood waiting for their lives to be snuffed out, the harder it was for Conar to force his body on. He was brave, and no one ever had reason to doubt his courage, but inside, deep in his gut, he felt the drowning pain of his fear and cowardice raising its betraying head.

  He knew what the pain of losing his friends was going to be like, for he had lost friends over the years: men like Rayle Loure. It was never easy to accept. At least in war or, even in a fight such as the one in which Rayle had died, a man's life was taken for the good of his country or his King.

  In this obscenity of justice, six innocent men, six good men guilty only of their love and loyalty to him, would die traitor's deaths for nothing. Their blood would be shed, their lives lost, due solely to their association with Conar. It was almost too much for him to bear.

  There would be more lost here today than just the lives of his friends, he thought dismally.