WINDREAPER (20 page)

Cold, moist wind blew down from Mount Serenia, howling about the battlements, snapping the pennants flying atop the crenellated walls, bringing with it the taste and feel of an early frost. It was late fall, the day crisp, the sun, a fading red ball in the western sky. Villagers stood with hands thrust into their coat pockets, huddled together, eyes watching the winding road. Torches had been lit, casting a mellow, welcoming glow along the lowered drawbridge, lighting the way for the stream of horsemen making their way toward Boreas Keep.

Riding headlong into the claw-sharpening breeze, the men of the Wind Force shivered in their great capes. Steam billowed from their mounts' nostrils, as well as their own, and many a tired body longed for a roaring fire as the chill north wind spat moisture into their faces. Occasionally, a warrior would raise his chin from the confines of his high fur collar, lift his eyes to the battlements, and breathe a sigh of relief knowing he was finally home.

The horses were tired, the men, exhausted, and here and there along the straggling column of riders, a horse sat empty. Here and there, a blanket-wrapped body lay slung across a mount's back. Seven months and fourteen deaths, nine skirmishes with Temple troops, one encounter with bloodthirsty Hasdu nomads, the destruction of two Temples, and the liberation of three Domination-held strongholds, had kept these men from their families and hearth far too long. Making their way home seemed to be the only thing that kept them on their horses.

* * *

"They look battle-scarred," Roget du Mer remarked as he joined his friend and King atop the battlements. He rested a light hand on Legion A'Lex's shoulder. "Thank the gods they're finally home."

Legion braced his cold hands on the half-wall and leaned over the battlements, straining to see one particular man amidst the throng of returning warriors. The sun was rapidly setting in the pink chablis sunset and visibility was poor. He scanned the bays and roans, the dappled grays and chestnuts, the pintos and palominos, searching for that one mighty black brute of a steed whose appearance would herald the return of the man for whom Legion waited.

"I don't see him." He shuddered, his body trembling with a fear he felt all the way to his soul and beyond.

Roget squeezed his shoulder. "If anything had happened to him, you'd have been told."

Legion glanced at the tall mountain range behind him and shuddered. He let his gaze fall on Roget. "If there's bad news, ff something's happened to him, I want to be the one to tell her."

"I understand."

Legion looked back at the returning troops. He shook his head at the column of weary men, taking note of injuries, empty horses, nags whose burdens were the blanket-encased bodies of their dead owners. "Alel, be merciful to them."

The portcullis groaned as it began to lift. To Legion, the shriek of grinding chain and creaking timber sounded like the piercing moan of a great dying entity. The first horseman had disappeared under the flaring arch of the gatehouse. A soft, muted cheer shot up from the outer bailey as servants ran to help the warriors dismount.

"Have preparations been made for their welcome?" Legion asked.

"Teal wasn't the wisest choice in regard to organizing a party." Roget chuckled.

"Why not?"

Roget shrugged. "He got off on the wrong foot when he went to Liza for help."

"What did he do?" Legion asked in a resigned, sighing voice.

"He suggested setting up tables for gambling."

Legion's eyebrows shot up. "In Liza's keep?" At Roget's nod, the brows drew together in a deep scowl. "Stupid jackass!" he hissed, returning to his vigilant watch of the incoming men.

Spying a large black horse lumbering toward the drawbridge, Legion braced his hands on the half-wall and leaned out for a better look. His scowl deepened as the horse and rider proved to be unfamiliar.

He let out a long breath. "I don't see him." He ran a hand over his eyes and drew in a long, wavering breath. "Why wasn't he at the head of the column?"

"Maybe he stayed at one of the inns in town."

"No, he'd be with his men. Conar would want to make sure his wounded were cared for and his dead laid out decently." He pushed away from the wall and let out a grunt of frustration. "Where the hell can the bastard
be?"

"You're getting yourself all worked up for nothing. Knowing Conar, he's probably holed up at a tavern with a bottle and a bawd, and not necessarily in that order!"

It was getting harder by the minute to distinguish the colors of the horses. The torchlight had become a feeble, wafting light in the stiffening breeze.

"The man's made annoying me his life's work!" Legion pounded the fieldstone half-wall with a hard fist. "Sometimes I could—"

"Highness?"

Legion's head snapped around, his breath catching in his throat as he eyed a newcomer to the battlements. He knew the man, but could not recall his true name. All he knew was his Force name was Starling, Conar's second in command.

"What's wrong?" Legion demanded.

Starling doffed his cap and limped forward, ducking his head to his King. "Might I have a word with you, Highness?"

Legion looked closely, unable to fathom Starling's expression in the dying light. It might have been simple tiredness on those gaunt features, or a spasm of pain that made the returning warrior seem distressed, but Legion sensed otherwise.

"What happened to your foot?" Legion asked, wanting to forestall the bad news he could feel coming.

"It'll be fair by morning, I reckon. Just took me a spill from the nag. Nothing serious."

Roget snorted. "
You
fell off your horse, Lanyon?"

With the mention of the name, Legion remembered the man and his family. This was certainly not a man given to plunging from his mount.

Starling blushed and, even in the fading light, Legion saw his acute embarrassment. "Well, I had a little help in falling, you see."

Roget chuckled. "Who'd you piss off, Lanyon?"

"Well, it was like this," Starling answered, addressing Legion. "Somebody
else
was falling and I tried to help him."

A'Lex understood. He swung his gaze to du Mer. "Find out how many men need Cayn and how many need a priest or undertaker. Let me know as soon as you get the names of the dead."

Roget gave a quick nod and hurried away.

"Where is he?" Legion asked Starling. "Is he wounded?"

Starling twisted his cap in his hands. "He'll be along shortly, I would think, Highness. He was only a mile or two behind us. And no, Your Grace, he ain't wounded."

"Drunk?"

"No, Your Grace," Starling answered in a drawn-out sigh. "Not drunk." He threaded blunt fingers through his crop of dark brown curls.

"But not sober, either, eh?" Legion turned to stare down at the road, now empty of riders.

"He's been acting a bit odd of late, Highness."

"In what way?"

"Well, it's like he's drunk. but he ain't—you know what I mean, Highness?"

Legion glanced at the man. "No."

"It's like he takes a drink, you know, but don't get drunk with it. Then he starts raising hell like you wouldn't believe!" Starling rolled his eyes. "The things he does just boggle the mind, they do!"

Legion's firm lips turned hard, the muscles in his cheek grinding. "Either the fool's drunk or he isn't. Which is it?"

Starling took a step backward from the heavy impact of Legion's words. "I don't rightly understand it, myself, Highness. I surely don't."

"I do," came a voice from behind.

Legion turned, recognizing Marsh Edan's broad frame. "You need something?" he snapped at his Master-at-Arms. "If not, I'm busy."

Marsh came toward him, his face set in a lowering scowl. He nodded at Starling. "The returning men have been talking—"

Legion held up a hand. "There he is."

Legion saw the big black steed Seachance galloping up the winding roadway toward the keep. Pale dust billowed up from behind the mighty hooves, and the jingle of harness and thundering horseshoes penetrated the silence on the battlements. The horse sped past the guard house torches. Plank timbers thumped as the devil steed shot across the drawbridge. After being reined in, the horse dug in its back legs, sat back on its haunches, and lifted its flashing front hooves high in the air. As the beast hopped forward a pace or two on its hind legs, a cheer sprang upward from the outer bailey.

"Only he would race his horse on a pitch-black pathway!" Legion grumbled with disgust, gripping the battlement half-wall. "The man has no care for his safety. No care at all!"

"He thinks he's invincible," Marsh grunted, folding his massive arms across his chest. "But he ain't."

As Seachance dropped his hooves to the drawbridge, Conar glanced up at Legion. Even from a distance, and in the darkness, their gazes locked. Blood recognized blood. For a long, silent moment, the men looked at one another—Legion, his grip tight on the wall, Conar, his thighs controlling the steed, now edging in a sideways prance toward the portcullis entrance. Conar leaned forward, patted the horse's sleek neck, never taking his eyes from Legion. With contemptuous slowness, he straightened, turned his mount's head, then clucked as he kicked his heels into Seachance's flanks. The horse leapt forward, and rider and steed disappeared beneath the archway.

Filled with pain and remorse, Legion stared off across the valley beyond the keep. When he eventually faced Marsh, he saw understanding and compassion on the man's ordinarily stern features. "You found out something?"

"Yes, his men have been talking, and what they tell me hasn't set well. You aren't going to like it."

Legion knew he wouldn't.

"Are you going to the party?" Brelan asked. He sat on the cot next to Conar, who was pulling on a pair of woolen socks.

"Nope."

"The men would like it if you did."

"They'll get over it." Conar stood, jerking his breeches from the dungeoun floor. A muscle ground in his cheek as he thrust his long legs into the cords.

"Don't you want to see—"

"I've got other plans."

Saur bit his tongue to keep the anger from spilling out. Answering his brother's stubbornness with insult would accomplish nothing. Instead, he tried reasoning. "I thought you wanted to speak with Roget."

Conar scooped up a wrinkled black cambric shirt. He yanked it over his head and tucked the tail into his breeches. "It'll keep."

Brelan stared at his brother's tall frame. There was a gauntness to Conar's face, a leanness to his body, that hadn't been there when he'd left a half a year before. Also, a slight tremble in Conar's hands worried Brelan. "Have you been sick with the fever again?"

"Nope."

"You've lost weight—at least ten to fifteen pounds."

Conar's eyes flickered with annoyance. "So what?"

"You didn't have all that much extra weight to lose, that's what!"

A heavy uplift of Conar's shoulders was his only reply. He sat on the cot to draw on his black leather boots, then slipped one lethal-looking dagger into one boot. Its mate he thrust behind him through the sheath of his belt.

"Are you going out?" Brelan asked with alarm.

Conar frowned, looking about as if trying to remember what he was forgetting. Then, swinging his great cape from where it was wedged between the iron bars, Conar slung it over his shoulders. "What do you think?"

"You can't be serious!" Brelan shot up from the cot. "It's raining cats and dogs!"

"So, I'll be careful where I step."

"There's a gale brewing. You want to go out on a night like this?"

"If the rain was going to hurt me, it would have done so on one of the many occasions Appolyon left me chained out in it."

"You're determined to have your own way, aren't you? It doesn't matter what anyone says or how they worry about you—"

The words came as a quiet warning. "I can take care of myself."

"And you're doing a good job of it, aren't you?"

"Leave off, Brelan. You aren't my nanny."

"You sure as hell need one! Where are you going that's so damned important, anyway?"

"Your spies will tell you where I've been," Conar answered, his face unconcerned, almost expressionless, as he walked out of the cell.

"You can't face her, can you?"

Conar halted in mid-stride.

"That's why you won't attend the party! You can't face Elizabeth!"

Although Conar didn't turn, Brelan knew his brother's face had finally formed an expression. The evidence of that was in his tightly controlled voice as he resumed his walk. "Go to hell, Saur."

The distant echo of clanking iron told Brelan that Conar had left the dungeon. He heaved a disgusted sigh. He knew Thom and Sentian, or the unseen Shadow-warriors from the Outer Kingdom, would be close on Conar's heels, but such knowledge did not set Saur's mind to rest.

* * *

Liza jumped as lightning flared beyond the windows of the covered wooden walkway. She waited for the heavy rumble of thunder, and felt the floor move as it finally came. Taking a deep breath, she hurried across the walkway toward the kitchens, trying to ignore another lightning bolt weaving its way to land. She was, however, aware of her wildly thumping heart, her sweaty palms, and mentally kicked herself for having gone to the stables to see the Tucker's new brood of strays. The warmth and safety of Sadie MacCorkingdale's haven couldn't come soon enough.

The old cook glanced up with obvious annoyance when the door to her private kingdom opened. Seeing Liza in the doorway eased the scowl from her weathered face. "Milady, why in the good gods' names did you go out in that hell-storm! Humping hippo, will you look at you!"

Trembling, Liza let the woman escort her to a seat, felt the fingers twisted with arthritis smoothing her hair. She leaned against Sadie, flinching as another burst of fire slashed through the heavens.

"I hope them pups was worth it," Sadie mumbled. "Good for nothing but shitting and pissing, if you ask me!" She patted her Queen's shoulder. "But I suppose if you care for such things, it was something to take your mind off your troubles."

"Troubles?"

"The grand lord's home. If that ain't trouble, I don't know what is!"

"I haven't seen him yet."

"Well, it's best you don't. Nothing good ever comes from the two of you being anywheres near one another."

A sharp pain of loss went through Liza's heart. "I suppose you're right."

"You got a good man," Sadie went on as though she hadn't heard. "Legion A'Lex was always a good man." Her face hardened. "Not like some I could mention."

Liza was barely listening. She had only meant to be gone from the party a few minutes, but she'd been absent nearly an hour and knew she'd be missed. Heaving a tired sigh, she eased out of Sadie's light hold, stood, and smiled. "You always make me feel so loved."

Sadie's age-marked face turned red, and she ducked her head with its fine, straggling mist of white hair. "You
be
loved," she answered vehemently. "I look at you and see my Joanie, sometimes." A shadow crossed over her features. "My Joanie was a good girl."

"I'm sure she was, with a mother like you." Stooping, Liza planted a loving kiss on the woman's cheek. "Well, I've played hooky long enough, I suppose. Don't you stay too much longer, Sadie. Go home and go to bed!" With that, she turned and left the room.

* * *

Sadie stood with a crippled hand placed lightly on the spot where her Queen had kissed her. For a long time after her mistress had gone, she could feel that sweet act of love and affection touching her flesh.

"You don't deserve the likes of him," she whispered, looking toward the pantry, where all manner of vengeance could be found. "And I'll help to see he don't ever,
ever
hurt you again!"

* * *

Sentian and Thom trudged through the pelting rain and chilling wind, cursing the man whose footsteps they dogged. The cowl from Conar's great cape was thrown back from his rain-wet blond hair, the edges of the cape billowing out as he hurried through the storm.

Sentian ran the sleeve of his woolen jacket under his dripping nose. "He's going to catch the damned fever out in this muck."

Thom flicked an annoyed glance at his companion, but didn't speak. The back of his neck prickled with unease and he snapped his head around to catch sight of the shadows he knew were following their quarry.

"They're back there," Sentian told him. "I can feel them, too."

Thom hunched down his thick neck into the wet collar. "Just
once,
I'd like to see those bastards!"

"Don't hold your breath. Besides, I'm not so sure I want to see them." Sentian looked at Thom. "
You
didn't meet Misha!"

"Did, too! He might have been big, but I could take him in a fair fight."

"They
don't
fight fair!"

Ahead of them, Conar darted from one archipelago of dry land to another as he made his way toward the muted glow of yellow tavern lights.

"I'll lay you odds he goes to the Green Horned Toad," Thom prophesied, although he truly didn't care where their leader went so long as he hurried up with it. Wet from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, the warrior was fast becoming chilled and more than a little put out.

"We could be at the party," Sentian snarled, his hands digging deeper into his coat pockets. "We could be drinking warm ale and eating venison. But noooo. We're traipsing around in a gale, following a man perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

"That's a matter of opinion." Thom nodded his head toward Conar. "See! Didn't I tell you? Meggie's Ruck's kitchen."

* * *

When the door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and rain, Meggie Ruck looked up from her baking. The anger lines on her aging face smoothed out once she recognized Conar, and a welcoming grin slipped into place. But she clucked her tongue as she looked him over, head to foot.

Aware he was dripping water on her clean floor, a small puddle forming around his mud-encrusted boots, he screwed up his face into a mask of contrition. "Uh, oh," he mumbled and started to sidestep the mess.

"Don't move!" she said, wagging a finger at him. "Sit yourself down and take them boots off!" As she spoke, she snatched a towel from a drying rack beside the blazing hearth. Her lips pursed with disgust. "Only a fool would go out on a night like this!"

"You've always told me I wasn't too bright."

Though it was difficult to remove his water-soaked boots, Conar finally managed to pull them off. Looking around for a place to set them, he glanced at Meggie, standing with her hands on her more-than-ample hips and glaring at him as though he were an addled child. The end of her towel tapped against her thigh.

"Over there!" she snapped, pointing to the stone fireplace. "I'll have Dorrie clean them."

He padded to the fire and placed his boots on the hearth.

"Now get that cape off 'fore you catch your death, boy!"

His fingers stiff with cold, wet with rain, he fumbled at the closing of his cape, thrusting the thick brass button through its hole until the sodden clothing swung free of his shoulders.

"You're soaked straight through!" Meggie scolded as she grabbed the great cape. "Get that bloody shirt off, too!"

Conar heaved a long sigh, but he pulled the shirt from his breeches.

Meggie went to the swinging door leading into the common room. Conar winced when her voice carried over the sounds of clinking mugs and mumbling men. "
Harry! Harry!
Get me one of your shirts!"

"What for?" came the puzzled voice.

"Never you
mind
what for! Just get it." Meggie let the door close, but immediately swung it open again. "And bring me a clean pair of woolen socks!"

"Socks?"

"You heard me, old man!"

Conar's lips twitched as he pulled the damp shirt over his head. He was chilled and wasn't surprised to see goosebumps covering his chest and arms. He started to use the shirt to wipe at the moisture on his face and neck.

"
Don't
do that! Use this!" She thrust the towel at him, then grabbed the shirt he had dirtied with muddy fingers. "Don't you
ever
take mind of your clothes?"

"I…"

She waved an imperious hand. "Sit by the fire until you thaw out!" She pushed him none-too-gently into a straight back chair. "The socks. Take 'em off!"

Knowing better than to argue, Conar pulled the sopping wool from his cold feet and laid the socks on the hearth. He looked up at Meggie, feeling like a little boy.

Her mouth tightened with annoyance. "Don't be giving me none of them cow-eyed innocent looks," she warned, lifting a flour-speckled finger. "I'm wise to you."

The right side of his mouth lifted in a cocky grin; his left brow arched.

"Oh, no, you don't! You can grin at me like that until doomsday, lad, and I won't be charmed. Understand?"

"Aye, Milady," he answered, his lips twitching.

Meggie folded her arms over her abundant bosom and fixed him with an unwavering stare. "What are you up to now?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, my Aunt Daisey's hind end. You had nothing better to do than skip about in the storm, I suppose."

When he put up a hand to wipe the moisture from his face, she threaded her fingers through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. Grimacing, she snatched the towel from him.

"It's a wonder you didn't drown out there!" she mumbled, vigorously appling the towel to his hair.

"Well, I really—"

"Stupid thing to do! One of
many
stupid things you've done of late. Why aren't you at the party?"

"I didn't want to go."

"Why the hell not?"

He winced as she tugged on his hair. "I had other things that needed doing."

"Such as?"

He looked up at her when she took away the towel. "Such as eating supper."

Meggie eyed him with a bland expression. "There's food up to the keep."

He frowned, looking away. "I wanted your cooking."

She snorted. "You wanted to sneak off, you did. Ain't that the truth?"

"No, I—" He stopped as the towel was again draped over his wet hair and strenuously applied.

The swinging door opened and Meggie's husband of fifty-five years stepped into the kitchen. His angry gaze flicked over the scene. "Who's that?" Harry snapped, jutting his chin at Conar.

"Where's the socks and shirt?" Meggie asked.

"Who's
that?"

"
Where's
the socks and shirt?"

Harry folded his arms over his scrawny chest and glared back at her. "I ain't supplying none of my possessions to nobody!" His eyes and tone suggested it wasn't just the clothing that he wouldn't supply. "Who is he?"

Under the canopy of the thick towel, Conar's lips stretched into a wide mischievousness grin. He leaned against Meggie, wrapping one long arm around her hips to draw her closer. In his best Chalean brogue, he raised the timbre of his voice and spoke to his hostess. "Meggie, m'darling. Who is that bellowing jackass that would dare to speak so rudely to my Sweeting?"

Harry's face reddened. "Sweeting, did you say?" His arthritic hands curled into fists at his side. "Jackass, you say?"

"Send him away, Meg," Conar cooed, holding her fast to his side. "I thought we was to be alone this eve."

"Alone?" Harry took giant steps forward and dragged the damp towel from Conar's head. His scowl turned to jaw-dropping horror as the Dark Overlord of the Wind grinned and winked.

"Good eve, Harry."

"Old fool!" Meggie teased, but there was pride and great love in her face. Her breasts jiggled as she laughed. "Did you think I'd been messing around on you, then?"

Harry snapped his mouth shut, glanced at his Overlord, and chuckled. "Shame on you, Milord. You're an imp, you are!" With the long-standing friendship and love between them, he gently squeezed Conar's shoulder. "You had me going there, you did."