WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  His honor was being destroyed. His good name had been questioned. His reputation would be besmirched for generations. He had been wrongfully accused, and even more wrongfully convicted, of crimes he had no part in committing. He wondered briefly if the real culprits would ever be found. He suspected Tymothy Kullen had been one of the men guilty of attacking his father.

  It wasn't the fear of the actual pain that turned his insides to jelly. It was the humiliation of being stripped and flogged like a common criminal that made him so afraid. It wasn't the pain of branding every seditionist received afterward that he feared. The searing of the iron didn't frighten him half as much as the mark proclaiming him a traitor for all the world to behold. Not that it would matter in his coffin, for no one would glimpse it anyway. But the gods would see it on his judgment day, a badge of degrading shame on his flesh for all eternity.

  Kaileel stopped him as they came to the middle of the platform on which the scaffolding stood.

  Conar looked at each of the six men whose necks were already encircled with hemp. Each of them braved a smile, and it tore at his heart. Tears welled up; his body quivered with heartfelt apology. His gaze went to the black-hooded executioner who stood holding the common lever, and he shivered.

  He was about to speak to his friends, these men of his Elite Guard, to beg for their forgiveness for having led them to this sorry pass, but two Tribunal Guards put their heavy hands on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in the dirt.

  Conar turned a confused face up to Tohre, wanting to ask what was happening, but Kaileel stepped quickly behind him, forced a black silk gag securely around his mouth, and tied it as quickly as possible before he could jerk away his head.

  "What are you doing?" Hebra hissed to his Master.

  "I want no words of apology from him to these men!" Kaileel whispered, fiercely.

  One of the men on the scaffolding called down in a pleading voice, "For the love of Alel, don't do that to him!"

  The crowd surged forward, pressing up to the platform, angrily hissing their disapproval.

  "Ain't you bastards done enough to the boy?" someone yelled.

  "Quiet!" Kaileel screamed. "For every word you speak in this bastard's defense, for every angry murmur, for each time you show him fealty, twenty lashes will be added to his punishment. It matters little to me if you have such low regard for him. His agony will be on your heads!" He grabbed a handful of Conar's hair and forced back his head. "Let's see how well your people love you, Conar!"

  The cords in Conar's neck stood out as his head was forced back even further. The pull on his scalp was a fiery agony. He sank on his haunches, tried to turn his head from the sight of his men staring down at him with pity, but Tohre tugged harder on his hair and flung up a hand to the executioner.

  "Wait!" Bending down, he placed his mouth close to Conar's ear.

  "What are you threatening him with now, Priest?" the same man called from the scaffolding.

  Tohre glanced up. "Ninety-five lashes, Armitage," he told the executioner.

  "You can't do that!" someone shouted.

  "One hundred and fifteen!" Utter silence plunged through the courtyard. When he was satisfied no more complaints were forthcoming, Kaileel put his lips to Conar's ear. His fetid breath fanned the young man's cheeks. "Pay close attention, Conar. If you so much as blink, I will have these men cut down before they strangle and they will be hoisted up again and again until you can keep your eyes steadily on them." He flung Conar's head away from his taut grasp.

  Conar groaned, for he had no doubt Tohre would do as he said. Glancing up at the leering man standing over him, he pushed up his body and looked to the platform. The only indication that he would behave was the slight sag in his shoulders.

  Kaileel laughed. "Good. Now see what your ambition has brought your friends!"

  With tears cascading down his pale cheeks, Conar watched helplessly as the black-hooded executioner loosened the rope that controlled the trapdoor lever.

  Unlike the normal apparatus that was quick-sprung, making the trapdoor fall sharply away and insuring the prisoner's neck were broken moments before they could strangle, this demonic invention was designed so the doors slid slowly away. The result was a slow, lingering death by strangulation as the victim's feet slid out from under them and the noose slowly tightened, cutting off their air.

  Beneath his gag, Conar's lips trembled; he knew their death would be terribly painful. His mind flew back through time, many, many years earlier, when he had saved his brother, Jah-Ma-El, from such a hanging when the older boy had tried to kill himself at the monastery. He wished with all his heart and soul and being that he could save these men, too.

  As the trapdoors began to fall, as the hemp began to tighten around their necks, as their feet began to slide out from under them, the six men, all faithful to their Overlord, waited until death began to hover over them, before they opened their mouths. In a strangled, gurgling, united gasp, their lips parted and their calls above the grinding gears lowering the trapdoors were like bolts of lightning from the heavens. "May the wind be at your back, Conar McGregor, Prince of the Wind!" they shouted as their life's breath was squeezed from their bodies.

  Conar's throat constricted. His mind had numbed itself to the horror he was being forced to watch, but the chant of the ancient battle cry, his own battle cry, brought him struggling to his feet, fighting desperately against his captors.

  He strained in their grasp, violently trying to free himself. He swung his wrist chain at two of the guards, hitting one in the face, smashing the man's nose and breaking his jaw. He caught a brief glimpse of Tohre's enraged face as the neck chain slid down his grasping palms, breaking open the mottled flesh on the High Priest's hands.

  Kaileel yelped but managed to continue gripping the chain attached to Conar's neck. He began to pull it hand over hand toward him, wincing from the links searing his palm. His only satisfaction was seeing Conar gasping as the chain kept him from getting free.

  "Restrain him! Restrain him, you fools!" he ordered the guards.

  The last words of his friends, their loyalty and faith in him made clear to all who stood in the Tribunal Square, set off an animalistic spasm of pain throughout Conar's entire body. The words rang in his ears and he fought hard to keep the guards from laying hands on him. Although Kaileel was jerking hard on his chain, Conar struggled, keeping the others from grasping him by swinging the heavy manacle at their heads.

  He was beyond caring about the physical pain he felt in his wrists and hands as the scraping of the irons broke open his flesh. The mental agony of seeing his friends hanging before his eyes, their bodies twitching in death, all but blotted out everything else. His only objective was to get to the bodies of his men, to try to save them before they strangled to death.

  Kaileel spun around, his hard gaze settling on Tymothy Kullen as he wove his way through the crowd to reach Conar.

  "Do something, you bastard!" Kaileel screeched. "Take him!"

  The executioner looked down at the man Tohre had spoken to and saw bloodlust in the man's eyes. He also saw a dagger.

  He looked to his Prince. The Temple Guards had managed to circle him and were pummeling Conar with fists and leather-wrapped clubs. Loathe to see the young man suffer even one more ounce of pain than he had to, Bent Armitage jumped from the scaffolding platform. He put out a long, thick arm to shove away Tymothy Kullen as he moved in with his dagger aimed at the Prince's back. With a heavy hand, Bent sliced down on the juncture of Conar's throat and shoulder and the young man's knees buckled.

  The crowd was trying to push through the cordon of guards who now formed a tight ring around Conar. They barred access to the Prince with lances and swords and drawn blades. Shouts and cries filled the air; rocks and refuse rained down on the guards as they valiantly tried to keep back the crowd. Those gathered were fast becoming an angry mob bent on the destruction of all those who had anything to do with the day's events. Their howling rage carri
ed into the very palace, bringing Legion, Thom, and Sentian at a run from the keep.

  By order of the Tribunal, Legion and any others who were directly connected with the Elite Guard had been forced, at swordpoint, to stay inside. Having been ordered away from the punishment yard did not sit well with them, but they realized the extent of harm it would cause Conar if he knew they were there watching.

  But now, hearing the angry, cursing voices, the men knew something was wrong. They pushed their way through the guarded doors, using fists and feet to gain their exit, and desperately tried to wind their way through the violent mob.

  Legion managed to leap upon the scaffolding platform, stunned by the sight of men he knew swinging side by side from the beam. He pushed aside guards who blocked his view of what was happening at the platform's steps.

  He saw Conar yanked to his feet. His brother looked dazed and disoriented, but he was struggling, nonetheless. He was being dragged toward the whipping post, his arms held by two men while Tohre tried to restrain him with a neck chain.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" Legion exploded, seeing the slave collar. He hit one guard who jumped to the platform to keep him at bay. "Get the hell out of my way!"

  Thom pushed through the crowd in time to see Conar trying to free himself from the men who were half-pulling, half-carrying him up the steps to the whipping post. He pushed two guards out of his way, kicked a third in the groin, and drew back a meaty fist to plow it into a fourth guard's jaw, opening the way for Legion to leap from the platform and run toward his brother.

  Conar tried to focus on the men holding him as he bucked in their grasp, but all he could see was a red blur of rage. He howled, spat, and snarled through the black silk gag, and fought ferociously with the men dragging him up the steps.

  He felt his shins scrape over the steps. His teeth clicked together as he was slammed hard into the black upright. His hands were jerked high above his head, his feet actually leaving the platform, as the men hooked the chain between the wrist irons over a set of double hooks in the whipping post. He felt something hard and agonizing ram into his left kidney and jerked his head around to see Tymothy Kullen's furious face.

  "Cry, you little bastard!" Kullen snarled and rammed his meaty fist once more into Conar's back. "Cry!"

  Kaileel managed to climb the steps, his ceremonial dagger in hand. He had let go of the neck chain as Conar was dragged up the steps because the pain in his hands was too great. Screeching obscenities at the mob, he shoved Kullen out of his way, took Conar's hair in his left hand, and yanked back the bound man's head. With his right hand, he brought the sharp, serrated-edged blade to Conar's exposed throat.

  "Quiet them!" he yelled at the executioner who had bulldozed his way up the steps. "Quiet them, now, or I will slit his throat!"

  Legion pushed aside men and women. He bounded up the steps and heard Kaileel's words, saw the insanity in the man's wild eyes and spun around to face the mob. He couldn't, he dared not, take chances with his brother's life. He waved his arms, began shouting at the mob to quiet it.

  His shouts could not be heard over the din, but one by one the crowd recognized what was happening. They stared in shock at the blade against Conar's flesh and the angry howls began to stop. There was a break in the hissing and Legion's words filtered back all the way to the Temple steps.

  "You'll do him more harm if you try to stop the punishment!" Legion said huskily. He jerked his head toward Tohre, thought briefly of trying to disarm him, but there were already eight to ten Temple and Tribunal Guards circling the platform. Four were standing with swords drawn on the, and he knew he didn't have a chance of trying anything before Tohre could drag the blade across his brother's exposed throat.

  He saw Tohre glaring at him with the promise of Conar's death and he looked back at the crowd. "This bastard will kill him if you cause trouble. If you value Conar's life, don't give Tohre the excuse he wants to end it!"

  "Spoken like a true diplomat!" Kaileel sneered.

  "Get that damn blade away from my brother's throat, Tohre, or I swear before the gods and man I will rip out your throat!"

  "Get off this platform," Kaileel warned, the blade pressed tightly to Conar's throat. "Now!"

  Legion knew if Conar stood any chance of surviving this evil, he had to be close by, to stop anything lethal from happening. He looked the High Priest in the eye.

  "I'm staying."

  Kaileel's face turned crimson with rage. "Get off this platform!"

  "I stay!"

  Tohre wanted to order the guards to drag A'Lex from the platform, but a fleeting thought went through his fevered mind. "If you stay, Lord Legion, you will be the one to strip his shirt from him!" He smiled evilly. "Bare his back!"

  Legion took a step toward Tohre, his hands itching to strangle the bastard. But the executioner stepped in front of him.

  "Do it, Commander," Bent Armitage pleaded, his dark eyes glistening wetly through the hooded slits. "Rip the shirt easily. Tohre might let that bastard standing beside him do it and I fear he will hurt the prince."

  Legion glanced at the red-haired man who stood beside Conar. Intuitively he realized he had an ally in Bent; something told him Bent would lash Conar as gently as he could, a feat the big man was quite capable of doing since he was an expert with the cat-'o-nine that lay draped over the railing.

  "Bent," Legion started to protest. He really didn't want to shame Conar in this way.

  "Just do it, man!"

  Legion nodded. He walked to Conar, staring at Kaileel until the man began to ease the knife from Conar's throat.

  "Get that red-headed son-of-a-bitch off this platform, Tohre. He's got no business here!"

  Kaileel shrugged indifferently. "You may leave, Mr. Kullen," he said smoothly. "Lord A'Lex will do your duty." He placed the dagger in his robe.

  Legion waited until Tohre had stepped back. He ground his teeth and moved behind his brother, grasped the neck of Conar's shirt.

  "I'm sorry, Conar," he whispered.

  Legion snarled, his hands tensing. Before he could give himself time to think, he pulled on the cambric and the shirt ripped until the bare expanse of his brother's back was revealed.

  "Now," Kaileel sneered. "You may remove the gag. I mean to hear him scream!"

  Legion spun around, his fists clenched, but Bent once more stepped in front of him. "I'll do it, Commander."

  Legion stepped back. With a bleak look, the executioner gently removed the black silk.

  Tohre nodded to the executioner. "Do your job!"

  With a look of apology, Bent took a broad leather strap from beside the cat-'o-nine. He looped it around Conar, belting it tightly against the post.

  "Forgive me, Highness," the giant said softly. "I do not want to do this."

  Conar pressed his forehead to the wooden post to blot out Kaileel's grinning face. The giant man's soft words made him turn to the executioner "There is nothing to forgive, Bent. I put no blame on you." He tried to force a smile, but it wouldn't come. His mouth was suddenly dry, his lips numb.

  The gentle giant reached out a trembling hand to stroke the bright blond hair. "Please forgive me," he whispered again and lurched away from the post, swooping down to pick up the nine-pronged whip that would destroy the flesh on Conar's broad back.

  The rawhide whip was braided from the hilt to within eight inches of the tips where it flared out into nine long strips of leather. Each strip was tied at the ends with chips of crystal and barbed steel. The whistling sound the whip made as Bent unwound it on the platform, the clanking noise made by the barbed tips as they struck the wood, brought total silence to those assembled.

  Legion looked at his brother's back, squinting as he caught sight of the faint white criss-crossed lines almost invisible now. He had once asked Conar why he had been punished at the Wind Temple when he was a child, and Conar had turned away. With his gaze going beyond the scarred flesh to Tohre's leering face, Legion thought he had at last found the answer. He had been pun
ished to satisfy Tohre.

  "Begin!" Kaileel shouted.

  Legion turned his head. It was not in him to see what was going to be done. The heart inside his chest was breaking. Tears slid silently down his cheeks as he heard the first swoosh of the whip, the crack of leather and steel-tipped barbs laying open his brother's broad back.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  King Gerren sat on the black crystal throne in his palace, staring straight ahead, his mind a confused veil of sorrow. He had been able to ignore the beat of the drums signaling the procession of the condemned men. He had tried to ignore the indistinct shouting of the High Priest as he screamed his defiance at the crowd. In his heart, he knew the shouting had either been a direct cause of something Conar had suffered or was about to.

  The sounds of the dying men as they chanted the Serenian battle cry had pierced his concentration; the angry cries of the mob broke his self-imposed catatonia. With hesitant steps, he descended the throne's dias and went to the balcony overlooking the Tribunal Square. Putting his suddenly sweating hands on the handles, he took a deep breath and then flung wide the filigreed doors, stepping onto the balcony where Hern already stood.

  "You don't want to see this, Gerren," Hern said gently. "Go back inside, my friend."

  With all his heart he wished he had not ventured outside, for the sight of Conar being forcibly dragged to the whipping post brought a tremor to Gerren. When his son's hands were jerked upward, spread wide apart and latched to the wooden beam, the King moaned deep in his guilt-ridden soul. He gripped the iron railing, his knuckles white.

  "Gerren, please don't watch."

  "I have to, Hern. I am the cause of it." Gerren watched as Legion jumped onto the whipping post platform.

  Legion was doing all he could to protect his brother and Gerren thought again of how his oldest son had argued with The Tribunal after the sentencing. Argued until the Synod had threatened to incarcerate him as well. He would always remember Legion's eyes as they bore into him, accusing, hurt, shamed that his father would do nothing to stop the severity of Conar's punishment.