Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (15 page)

“What's the matter, Your Lordship? Cat got your tongue?"

The howling laughter at the remark jarred through his brain, penetrated the white fog of his agony. His

eyes flickered open and he stared sightlessly ahead of him. Tiny darts of red light played just outside the

perimeter of his vision.

“Slap that lash up side his pretty face, Hawk! He didn't shave so close this morning!"

The Commander had been standing close by, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms crossed over his

chest. He thoroughly enjoyed watching Hawkins wield the cat-'o-nine. The man was an expert. He'd

once seen Hawkins flay a man alive, inch by bloody inch, scream by blood-curdling scream, until there

was nothing left but a pulpy ooze running the decks. There was nothing like observing a man who knew

his job and did it well.

But the last remark cut through the Commander's pleasure and he frowned. He turned his head toward

the speaker.

“What did you say, Jamison?"

The sailor cut a quick look to the Commander and then at his fellow shipmates. “I just told him to..."

“You said something about him not having shaved?"

Jamison ducked his head, not seeing what harm the remark could have caused. “Well, he ain't got no

beard, just a wee bit of stubble, Commander; I don't see—"

“Stop!"

Hawkins arm stilled in mid-strike and he jerked his head toward the Commander. Blood from the whip's

thongs slipped down the rawhide and trickled down his upheld arm. He lowered it, shook off the telltale

red wetness.

The Commander trod heavily to the prisoner, grabbed a handful of thick blond hair, and dragged the

man's head back.

“How many others are back there?” he bellowed into Syn-Jern's pain-ravaged face. When there was no

answer, he twisted his fingers viciously in the thick mass. “How many?"

He knew he was moments away from dying. He could feel the wings of death flapping around him,

fanning the air, waiting to take him. He tried to focus on the swimming face hovering over him, but the

effort was too great. His lids slipped closed.

“Damn you! How many?” He gave the prisoner's head a cruel shake. “You weren't alone! I want to

know how many?"

“Sail ho!"

With his fingers still clutched savagely in Syn-Jern's hair, the Commander jerked in surprise, turned, and

looked up at the watch.

“Where away?"

“Off the larboard beam, sir!"

“Pirates,” the Commander spat, letting go of the prisoner's hair. He walked to the rail and snatched the

spyglass from his First Mate's hand. Training the glass to the place where the watch had told him the sails

would be, he found the sweeping canvas of a brig, every sheet to the wind, bearing down on them.

“These waters are full of pirates, Commander,” Hawkins informed him as he joined him at the rail.

“Well,” the Commander said, drawing himself up. “We'll see to that scurvy bunch first and then head

back to that damned cove. Our man wasn't alone there and I'd stake my life on it!"

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Weir stood at the rail, focused sharply on the brig lit by the high-riding moon. He didn't need to use his

glass to know the crew of the prison transport ship was scurrying about the rigging, pouring on every

spare inch of canvas the ship had.

“Run you bastards,” he swore under his breath. “Run all you want. We'll catch you."

Patrick gripped the shroud beside him, his knuckles white and standing out sharply against the tan of his

flesh. His heart was in his throat.

“They're running ‘fore the wind,” Tarnes spat as he took his place by the men. “She's full-rigged."

“And she'll be forty fathoms beneath the sea when I catch her!” Weir snarled.

Jarl Stevens nodded. “A right good place for the black bitch."

“She's got two hour on us,” Neevens reminded the men. “Maybe more."

“We will catch her!” Weir shouted.

Neevens nodded. He had no doubt of that. If the Wind Lass didn't, someone else would.

“He's going to be all right,” Tarnes said to no one in particular. “The boy will be all right."

But none of them were really sure of that. When thirty men had finally reached the spot where Genny

had last seen Syn-Jern, there was no trace of him or the men who had captured him. When they finally

wound their way down to the hidden cove where the jolly boat had been beached, the sight that had

greeted them was one of pure frustration and galling fury.

“She's set sail!” Weir Saur seethed.

Only a half mile or so out to sea, the prison ship was tacking south, her sails gleaming an ivory white in

the glow of the rising moon.

“What do we do now?” someone asked.

Weir Saur answered for most of them: “We go after him!"

“Aye!” the men shouted.

It seemed to Patrick to take less time to get back to the village than it had to go in search of Syn-Jern.

“We're going to fetch him back,” Weir told those assembled in the village common yard that had not

gone with them into the jungle. He stalked past the villagers and headed for the Wind Lass, his crew

close on his heels.

“What can we do, Cap'n Saur?” one of the pirates inquired. “We like the boy."

Patrick answered for his friend. “You can pray, Spaulding."

“Hell, lad!” the man shot back. “We can do better than that!"

Genny tried to board the ship, but Weir's bitter words stopped her.

“Hell, no, you aren't going!” He shoved her at one of the men who would be staying behind. “Keep my

sister here!"

“Weir!” she shouted at him, struggling with the tall, thickly muscled man who had a tight,

uncompromising hold on her. “I have to go! It's my fault they caught him!” She was sobbing. “He tried to

save me; I have to help!"

“You've done enough already!” her brother snarled. His face was hard, furious beyond anything she had

ever seen and she had actually backed away from the scorn. “You'd better hope he's alive, Genevieve!"

“Weir, please!” she begged, her words following him even after they weighed anchor.

He could hear her shouts across the water. “Weir! I have to be there! Weir!"

He turned a deaf ear to her, the sight of her struggling with his man. He resolutely put her guilt behind him

and faced the open sea.

“They'll already have done it to him,” Jarl sighed as he ran a wrinkled hand over his whiskered face.

“Stow that!” Patrick bellowed. The expression he turned on the old man was lethal. “We don't need

your comments, Stevens!"

“What we need is the luck of the Chales,” Tarnes murmured. He let out a long sigh.

“That boy don't deserve any more pain in this life time."

Paddy's face dimpled with frustration. They had a good wind; they had expert seamen on board. They

had anger and right on their side, but none of that would matter if Syn-Jern Sorn were dead or dying. He

looked up into the shrouds and, for the first time in a long, long time, he prayed. “Keep him safe. Please

keep him safe until we can get to him."

“We're gaining on her!” the helmsman shouted. “The bitch wants to turn and fight!"

Weir turned his head and looked aft. A grim smile of satisfaction spread over his tight lips as he looked

at the fleet of pirate ships riding in his wake. Facing the prison ship once more, he nodded. “Come dawn,

that bitch will be history!"

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Syn-Jern opened his eyes to the noise crashing around him. Vaguely he could make out men pouring

over the sides of the ship, daggers clutched between snarling lips. He was floating in a lassitude of pain,

beginning to sink beneath waves of disinterest. Whatever was happening around him had little or no

meaning to a man who had one foot in the hereafter. The sounds of men fighting, dying, came to him as

though he were already a full fathom under death's waiting waves; the screams, the snarls, the shouts of

victory were muted, wavering, distorted.

“Weir! Can you get to him?” Patrick Kasella shouted as he lunged forward, his saber neatly skewering

his opponent, who turned a surprised look of disbelief on his executioner.

“No!” Weir sidestepped a well-aimed parry. “Tarnes!"

Busy with a man of his own, Tarnes couldn't answer. He shook his head vigorously. He was getting to

old for this, he thought grimly. He managed to gut his foe, but the effort it took was telling on him. He

staggered against the railing and nearly went down on the slippery blood and gore running the decks.

Something bumped into Syn-Jern's legs and he gasped, coming awake with a renewed throb of pain in

his hands. Dragging his tired eyes open took a great effort; sliding them down to the deck to see what

had struck him took even more out of him. What he saw dimly registered on his numb mind, but it wasn't

enough to pull him from languor into which he had slipped. The gaping mouth of the dead man lying

crumpled at his feet confused him; but he wasn't interested enough to try to hang on to the flitting question

of what was happening around him. He licked his dry, cracked lips, tasted blood, and fainted once more.

“Kill that bastard, Dixon!” Paddy bellowed at the sailor who was only a few feet behind his own

opponent. The sailor was valiantly trying to spear the prison guard who was between him and Syn-Jern.

“Gut him!"

Weir glanced over his shoulder and saw the sailor feign to the right, saw the prison guard go in low,

trying to thrust his saber through Dixon's lower belly. He had little time to gasp as Dixon spun around a

mast and skewered the guard in his left side.

Paddy finished his man off and rushed forward, colliding sharply with Harding as the sailor engaged

another guard who had popped up to replace his fallen comrade. He didn't dare shove Harding closer to

the man, so instead, he ducked under the sailor's left elbow and came up hard against the railing behind

the yardarm where Syn-Jern was hanging. He spared a glance around him to make sure no enemy was

close by and then stood up.

“Syn-Jern?” he whispered, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the man's face.

Around them, men fought on, died, shouted with triumph, screamed in pain. The sound of battle coming

to an end, winding down, had no impact on Syn-Jern, who was unconscious. Paddy heard them only

peripherally, as though from a great distance, as he stared into his friend's too white face. He turned a

vicious snarl to the heavens when his gaze was torn to the blood running down Syn-Jern's naked chest

and sides.

“Is he alive?” somebody asked.

Paddy didn't hear. He gently eased Syn-Jern's head back, felt for the pulse along the column of his neck.

Holding his breath, his fingertips pressed to Syn-Jern's throat, he felt the faint thump of blood pushing

through the carotid artery.

“We've got to get him down!” another voice whispered close to Paddy's ear. “He's suffocating!"

Paddy turned his head slowly, his gaze meeting Jarl's. He stared at the old man, not understanding what

had been said to him, seeing the lips move, but not hearing the words. He swung his head back just as

slowly to Syn-Jern's lax face.

“Kasella!” Jarl said more forcefully. “We've got to get the lad down! Move out of the way!"

Paddy felt hands on him, easing him to one side, but he found he couldn't move of his own volition. He

was pushed away from Syn-Jern, men moved into the vacuum he had left, but still he couldn't seem to

force himself to become involved in what was taking place before him. Idly, he watched the men use a

crowbar to pry loose the thick iron spikes that had been driven through the backs of Syn-Jern's hands.

He winced as blood rushed from the gaping wounds, trickled down the unconscious man's raised arms.

“Easy with him!” he heard someone say. “The lad's coming around."

Patrick Kasella watched the torn lips open, heard a low groan. “It'll be all right,” Paddy heard himself

say. “We'll take you home."

The cracked lips tried to form words, and couldn't.

“Be careful with him!” Weir shouted to the men who were supporting Syn-Jern. He reached out a hand

to steady Stevens as the old man staggered beneath the weight of Syn-Jern's limp body.

“Get a plank. A wide one,” Tarnes yelled to one of the sailors who had boarded the prison ship. “We

can rig up a gurney to swing him from this bitch to the Wind Lass."

“I have such an apparatus already on board my ship,” a voice shouted. “We can take him on board the

Silver Dawn."

Weir glanced around at the speaker. “I'll go with you, then."

The captain of the Silver Dawn nodded. “Of course."

Patrick could not drag himself out of the lethargy into which he had sank. He stared at Syn-Jern's limp

form being supported by Tarnes and Stevens, looked down at the puddle of blood at his feet, wincing at

the knowledge that it was Syn-Jern's blood that stained the deck. “Hurry,” he whispered, clearing his

throat to be heard as he said the word again.

Weir looked at his friend, understanding the horror stamped on Paddy's face. He walked to Kasella and

laid a reassuring hand on the man's taut shoulder.

“He's going to be fine, Patrick. Just fine."

“We can't let him die, Weir."

“We won't."

“He's one of us,” Paddy said.

“Aye. He is."

Very gently, with infinite care, Stevens and Tarnes eased Syn-Jern around to allow Harding and another

sailor to take his ankles. With held breaths, the men at his feet lifted Syn-Jern, and walked carefully