Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (51 page)

Hall's entry wall. The gaping mouth and staring eyes of the brother he hadn't seen in over twelve years

were hideous to behold.

“Rot in hell, you turd,” Heil sneered, then turned, hawked a large wad of phlegm and spat on the ground.

He made to leave, but Syn-Jern shook his head.

“My lady is still in there,” Syn-Jern said.

The doors to the Tribunal Hall opened again and Syn-Jern was surprised to see Demonicus standing in

the opening. Automatically, he shut down his thoughts, tamping them like a smoldering fire. Concentrating

on the black dirt at his feet, he slowed his breath and heartbeat.

“I know you are listening, Syn-Jern!” Demonicus called out. “Where else would you be but near your

whore?"

Heil jerked and would have fled had Syn-Jern not clamped a staying hand on the man's arm to prevent

him from doing so. Though Syn-Jern said nothing to Heil, the other man understood and tried to relaxed,

plastering himself against the wall behind them to stay out of any errant beam of light.

“Hear me, Sorn!” Demonicus called out. “At seven of the clock, I will bring your woman to the Bone

Yard under ample guard. There, I will have her bound to the stake and burned as the witch she is!"

Syn-Jern bit his lip, dug his nails into his palms, and stopped breathing altogether so his presence would

not be ‘felt’ by the warlock.

“She will die screaming in agony, Sorn, unless you turn yourself in to me!"

Heil turned and looked at Syn-Jern. The man beside him was trembling with the effort of keeping his

thoughts hidden.

“Suit yourself!” Demonicus snarled. “Watch her die. It means nothing to me!"

The priest swept through the doors, lifting his hand to indicate they were to be locked behind his passing.

As the heavy oak portals slammed shut, Syn-Jern was out of the alley and making his way to the horses.

“Where are we going?” Heil asked. He watched the Outlaw vault onto the back of his horse.

“Where does the Captain of the guard live?” Syn-Jern snarled.

“Loure?” Heil asked. “You mean Anson Loure?"

“Aye!"

Heil scratched his head. “Down at the end of the lane leading out to Veldon. Why?"

“Is he married?” was the growl.

“Aye,” Heil said reluctantly. “He's not a bad sort though."

“Children?"

Heil stared into the enraged face of Syn-Jern Sorn and thought he saw death hovering there. He crossed

himself then nodded. “Three little ones."

“Mount up,” Syn-Jern ordered.

“You're going to take his children?” Heil asked, his disapproval tight on his lean face.

“He took my wife, I'll take his!” Syn-Jern responded. “Mount up!"

“You won't to harm the children?"

A wild streak of fury was pulsing through Syn-Jern and at that moment he would have slain a dozen men

to free Genny, but he drew the line at harming children. “I'll harm no one unless I'm forced to, but I will

have my lady free. Mount up or get the hell out of my way!"

Heil searched his leader's eyes for the answers he sought and decided he knew Sorn well enough to

know he'd not harm an innocent. Without another comment or question, he mounted his steed.

* * * *

Anson Loure read the note.

He read it again, then slowly lowered the parchment roll to his lap. He stared across the room, his heart

thudding painfully in his throat. Turning his head to the door behind which lay the interrogation cells, he

felt the weight of the world settling on his shoulders.

“What does it say, sir?” one of the guards asked.

Anson had two choices as he saw it: he could turn the note over to Demonicus and allow his wife to be

executed by the Outlaw or he could turn the prisoner over to the Outlaw's men and be executed himself

for treason. The decision wasn't all that hard to make for Anson Loure adored the mother of his children.

Re-rolling the parchment, Anson shrugged indifferently. “It says we are to escort the prisoner to the

Carbondale Gate and exchange her for the Outlaw."

“Lawh!” the other guard whispered. “He really gonna turn himself in for his doxie?"

Anson nodded. “It would seem so.” He stood, walked to the fireplace that provided the only warmth in

the Interrogation Facility and tossed the parchment into the flames. “Bring her out,” he ordered.

The guards left their captain standing at the hearth, his attention on the leaping fire. He was sweating

profusely, though his body was as cold as ice. He was peripherally aware of the ticking clock across the

room and looked that way, stunned to see it was closing in on five o'clock. He had less than two hours to

get the woman out of the facility and into Serenia before his own wife was murdered. They would have to

ride as hard as they could to make the deadline and he had to hope Demonicus was not an early riser.

“Here she is, Captain."

Anson had not seen the prisoner and was surprised to see she bore a resemblance to his beloved wife.

His heart melted a bit at the sight of the prisoner's bruises and tattered clothing.

“It seems you are to be traded,” he informed the woman.

“For whom?” she was quick to ask, her face turning pale.

A part of him wanted to hurt her, to punish her for being the reason his own wife was in dire trouble, but

he knew if the tables were turned, he'd be just as uncompromising and vengeful as the Outlaw.

“What does it matter?” Loure snapped. “Shackle her."

“I'll not go if it is Syn-Jern you mean to take!” she told him and struggled with the men trying to slip the

heavy manacles into place around her wrists. “Do you hear me?"

Anson had no choice but to have her gagged. One scream from her mouth; one shrill protest could bring

Demonicus down on them. But even her scrambling was distracting and would draw attention so he went

to her, doubled his fist and slammed it into her chin, rendering her unconscious.

“Lawh,” the guard laughed as the prisoner sagged against him. “You know how to handle ’em, don't

you, sir?"

“Just get her the hell up and let's get out of here!” Anson growled.

Heil waited until the three horses had cleared the Tribunal grounds before he lifted his fingers to his

mouth and whistled softly. From down the street a ways, he heard the answering whistle. He was about

to turn to his horse when he saw the door to the inn open and the tall cadaverous priest exiting the

establishment.

“Hell!” Heil breathed and started to whistle again. Just as he put his thumb and forefinger into his mouth,

he saw Demonicus turn toward him. Dawn was just breaking over the dome of the Tribunal Hall and he

knew the priest could see him where he stood. He froze, unable to move, and felt a trickle of urine

seeping down his leg. Groaning at the humiliation of pissing his breeches, he felt his face flame.

“Are you afraid of me, little man?"

The thought snaked through Heil's head. The sorcerer's mouth had not opened; he had not spoken. But

as surely as the sun was rising higher in the sky, the priest had spoken to Heil and the words brought on

an avalanche of piss.

Demonicus threw his head back and laughed. It pleased him to know men feared him and his power so

greatly they would do what that one had just done. So filled with his own self-importance, the warlock

was still chuckling as he entered the Tribunal Hall. Two minutes later, he was back outside, his face rigid

with fury and his hooded eyes seeking the man who had been standing across the square.

“Find him!” Demonicus ordered. “Now!"

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Angie Loure accepted the water from her captor and drank slowly. She watched him as he paced like a

weretiger from one side of the clearing to the other. His handsome face was drawn, his eyes haunted, and

she felt a great pity well up inside her.

“You love her very much, don't you, Milord?” she asked.

“More than my own life,” he answered. He stopped pacing, listened, and his frown grew darker when

there was no sound coming from the direction of the village.

“I am not sure my husband will do as you ask,” she said quietly, though she knew that was a lie and from

the look her captor gave her, she knew he realized it was, as well.

The Carbondale Gate was less than ten feet from where she sat and it would have been easy to get up

and run to the other side. Not that his long legs could not easily catch her if she tried such a ploy, she

thought as she took another sip of water.

“Do you smell that?” Syn-Jern asked her.

Angie sniffed. “Smells like rotten eggs,” she commented. “Mayhaps there is sulfur water nearby."

Syn-Jern put a hand to his forehead. Over the last half-hour, he'd developed a wicked headache and the

strong stench of sulfur was making the pain worse. “Where the hell are they?” he asked. “They should be

here by now."

Angie yawned and wondered how her mother-in-law was coping with the bantlings. The woman was a

selfish sort and had not appreciated being roused from her bed to baby-sit while her son's wife was being

kidnapped.

“Where is that smell coming from?” Syn-Jern grated.

His captive started to reply when the sound of thundering hooves shook the ground beneath her feet.

She shot up from the log upon which she'd been sitting, and would have thanked the gods for her

husband's arrival had the racing horses not been coming from behind her on the Serenian side of the

border instead of in front of her from Virago.

Syn-Jern drew his sword and ran to the woman, grabbed her arm and pulled her with him into the safety

of the trees. He had no idea who was in such a gods-be-damned big hurry but a lone man and woman

against so many weren't the kind of odds that were in his favor. He yanked her down beside him so that

they were hidden in the undergrowth beneath a gnarled cypress tree. Too late, he realized her mount and

his were tied right out in the open. The passersby had no chance of missing them. He groaned, slapping a

hand to his forehead.

“Milord!” Angie whispered. “They're stopping!"

Syn-Jern's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword and he looked at her. “Run,” he told her. “Get as

far from me as you can!"

Angie opened her mouth to protest, not wanting to be separated from him, but he was already up,

moving away from her. She looked around her, saw a pathway through the trees, and scrambled to her

feet, moving as quickly as her long skirt would allow.

“Syn-Jern!"

Angie stopped, looked behind her, and saw Kerm Gill dismounting. With a sigh of relief and a hand to

her wildly beating heart, she stayed where she was, watching the men—there were close to a hundred of

them—filling the clearing beneath the Gate.

Relieved the horsemen were his own men, Syn-Jern sheathed his sword and pushed his way out of the

thick growth into which he'd hidden himself. “By the gods, but it took you long enough to catch up with

me,” he grumbled. He wasn't surprised to see Weir and Tiernan with the men, but didn't see Patrick

among them.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Weir barked, flinging a leg over his horse's head. “Where is

Genny?"

The sound of riders coming from the Viragonian side of the border put the sword hand of every man

there on the hilt of his weapon. The skirl of blades being drawn from their sheaths rang on the morning

air.

Angie backed into the darkening shadows of the forest. She was of the opinion that she would not make

her presence known to even her husband until the matter of the Outlaw's woman was settled. With all her

heart, she wanted the tall blond man to gain his lady, cross over into the sanctuary of Serenia, and flee to

some distant shore where they could live happily ever after.

“Tribunal guards!” Neevens called out. He was standing in the stirrups, peering down the road. “Three

horses, two guards, one...” He stopped, then smiled broadly. “One awfully mad-looking woman!"

Syn-Jern was standing directly beneath the arch of the Carbondale Gate. He wasn't listening to

Neevens. His full attention was on the cloud of dust being thrown by the hooves of the advancing steeds.

The sun had gone behind a cloud and the air was chillier than it had been a few moments before. That vile

stench of sulfur was even more pronounced and made his eyes water so badly he had to rub away the

moisture.

“Anson,” Angie whispered as she recognized her husband when he rode into the clearing. With him was

his second in command, Rynen. She braced her hand against the bole of a huge white oak tree and

peered from behind it.

“I've your woman,” she heard Anson shout when he was a hundred yards away. “Where's mine?"

Syn-Jern glanced toward the spot where he'd last seen the Tribunal captain's wife. He was not surprised

to see her making her way toward him. He'd not abused her in any way so she had no reason to fear him.

“She's here,” Syn-Jern replied. “Bring my wife to me!"

Anson saw Angie coming from the trees and breathed a sigh of relief. The sky was lowering, the light

fading. He looked up, stunned to see the sky boiling black as midnight in places. If it was going to storm,

he wanted to get his lady home to safety before the vicious Viragonian weather started zinging and

popping all about them.

“I'll bring her to the Gate,” Anson answered. “Angie, are you all right?"

“I am fine, husband,” Angie replied. “I am happy to see you, though.” She came to stand beside

Syn-Jern, smiling shyly at him.

“Thank you, lady,” he whispered for he knew she could have made matters much worse if she had been