WindSeeker (11 page)

"Damn your black soul to hell, Tohre!" Conar screamed, then hissed, "Tormenting a child is not love!

Raping a six-year-old is not love! I wasn’t so young that I didn’t feel the shame and humiliation of what

you made me do, and I am not so old that I don’t still feel your vile hands on me in my dreams!" He took

a step closer. "And they had better
be
dreams and not your filthy hands." His face went livid with fury.

"Touch me ever again and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear!"

Conar stalked from the room, slamming the Temple door behind him.

Kaileel sat down heavily in a chair by the baptismal font. When had the boy developed such a

backbone? When had he become so immune to the Domination’s threats and presence?

He let out a wavering sigh. The woman, of course, he thought with disgust. She, who had forged

Conar’s will from iron to tempered steel. She, who had stolen Conar’s love away from Kaileel.

"I do love you, Conar," he whispered. "I will always love you, but I will destroy you."

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

"Master?" a soft voice called.

Tohre raised his head and stared at the young acolyte waiting to be acknowledged. "What?"

"It has been done, Master."

Kaileel wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Prince Galen sent word a moment ago." The young man walked to Tohre and knelt beside him. "Is

there nothing I can do to ease your pain, Master?"

Kaileel’s eyes leapt over the lean, tawny-haired, blue-eyed boy. He reached out a hand to touch the

smooth cheek. "Aye, Robbie. I think, perhaps, there just might be."

"There’s a man waiting outside to speak with you," Legion informed his brother. "He’ll not give his

news to anyone but you." He glanced at Conar’s rumpled appearance, his week’s growth of beard, the

dark circles beneath the blue eyes, the unmade bed. "Have you had any rest?"

Conar sent him a damning look. "Where is this man?"

"I think you should rest. I think you should—"

"I think you should mind your own gods-be-damned business, A’Lex!" Conar screamed. "Get the

bastard in here!"

Legion’s mouth turned hard, but Teal shook his head in warning, and Legion didn’t say what he had

intended. He spun on his heel and jerked open the door. "Storm! Bring that man here!"

Like a snarling, caged tiger, Conar stalked the length of his chamber until the villager entered. Not even

giving the man a chance to say anything, Conar was on him, pinning him to the wall, his hands wrapped in

the man’s shirt. "Tell me what you know!" There was an angry, haunted, terrified look on the young

prince’s face.

The villager trembled as he began to speak, but his words were strong, the recitation no doubt repeated

many times between his home and the keep. "A man came to my village early this morn, before the sun

rose, Your Grace. He said you would remember him from Norus Keep. His name is Belvoir, André

Belvoir. He said to tell you he is, and always has been, a servant to the royal household of Oceania and

that Norus is where the princess is being held. He bids you know she is well, but that they are drugging

her to keep her from escaping until Prince Galen can make plans to flee Serenia."

"My wife is at Norus?" Conar’s face turned hard.

"Aye, Highness," the villager told him. He was breathing hard, for he had run most of the way from his

town to the keep. His sides heaved and his eyes were filled with concern for Conar.

"We searched Norus," Teal snapped.

"Aye," Legion said, "but it makes sense if you think on it. When we sent men there, Galen was too damn

obliging. Where the hell they could have put her while we searched is a mystery."

"If Galen took her, then Jah-Ma-El must have hidden her," Conar said, releasing the villager.

Legion made a rude sound. "You really think Jah-Ma-El capable of doing any real magic?"

"The question is, where the hell does your brother plan on taking her when he flees?" Teal asked.

"To Diabolusia," Conar answered. "Where else could the bastard go? No one else would dare give him

sanctuary."

Legion glanced at the young villager. "What’s your name?"

"Sentian, Lord Legion. Sentian Heil."

"You have our thanks, Heil. You will be rewarded if we find your story to be true." He dismissed the

man with a wave of his hand, for he was concerned only with the grim look of desperation on Conar’s

pale face. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "We’ll get her back."

The villager cleared his throat, bringing Legion’s attention back to him. "Is there something else?"

"I beg your pardon, Lord Legion, but will you be sending troops to Norus Keep?"

"What concern is it of yours what we do?" du Mer asked, not particularly liking the way this man was

looking at Conar.

"I am no soldier, Lord du Mer. I am no spy, either. I seek no reward, nor want one, for bringing this

news. All I ask is that he let me be among those he sends to Norus to back bring his lady." He looked at

Conar. "I am loyal to you, Your Grace. As loyal as any man in this room."

Conar held the man’s gaze. "What is it you do, friend?"

"I sharecrop for my father-in-law, Felias Spiel, Your Grace. He has the old farm near Wixenstead, the

one that once harbored the Viragonian outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn, during the Holocaust." He smiled

tentatively, for his Overlord’s face was no longer hostile.

"You are married then?" Conar asked.

Disappointment came over Heil’s face. "Aye, Your Grace. Does it matter?"

"I will personally lead the troop to Norus," Conar began. "I will need good men at my back."

"Conar!" Legion warned, but Conar’s hand silenced him.

"It is not an easily taken stronghold and the siege will be long. I ask you if you are a family man because

every man who marches at my side is entitled to have provisions supplied to his family in his absence.

And, the gods forbid, if something should happen to him while in my service, to have his family taken care

of for the rest of their lives. I would see his family lacked for nothing."

Conar held out his hand to the villager. "If you want to come, I would consider it a blessing. We will

need every sword arm we can find to take Norus. Good men are hard to come by, Sentian." He

managed a weak smile at the stunned look on the villager’s face.

Sentian didn’t know how to respond. Did he drop to his knees to kiss the hand offered to him? Did he

grip the prince’s wrist in his hand as one did a valued friend? Did he bring those strong-looking fingers to

his forehead as one does an honored family member?

"Your Prince is offering you his sign of peace, Heil!" Teal smirked. "Will you let him stand there all day

like that?"

Sentian slowly lifted his hand. The prince was offering him the sign of peace as though he were an equal?

He hesitantly gripped his Overlord’s right wrist and felt a thrill of emotion run down his spine. "I am

honored, Highness," he whispered in awe. Such strength in that wrist! he thought. This was the sword

arm, the right hand of the Serenian throne!

"He’ll lose that worshipful look after training with the Elite for awhile, eh, brat?" Hern growled from the

chair by Conar’s bed.

Sentian’s mouth barely functioned. His voice was a squeak of sound. "The Elite?"

"What did you think?" Conar laughed, the first real laugh he had had in over a week.

"But the Elite…"

Legion laughed, too, and slapped the man so hard on the back he stumbled under the assault. "He does

as he pleases, Sentian. You’re one of his precious Elite whether you know one end of a sword from

another." Legion glanced at his brother. "And I pray to the gods you do."

"My life is yours!" Sentian swore to Conar. "I am fair enough with bow and arrow. Better than most at

horse-breaking and training."

"Pack your things, Sentian," Conar said as he walked to the window and drew the drape aside to look

into the garden. "We will leave within the next few hours."

"Aye, Your Grace!" The man turned to go.

"And Sentian?" Conar said over his shoulder.

"Aye, Your Grace?"

"Kiss your wife and let her know you love her before you go."

Teal watched the door close. "Do you trust him, Conar?" He had reservations about the man, who

looked like the kind who would cheat at cards.

"He can be trusted."

"I believe so, too," Legion echoed. "If he proves otherwise, I’ll kill him."

* * *

separated the Northern and Southern Zones. Still another twenty-five would come from Downsgate, the

du Mer stronghold, and one hundred each from the Eastern and Western Zone capitals. Oceania would

send more than three hundred soldiers, archers and cavalrymen within the week; and the Principalities of

Chale, Ionary, and Virago would swell the regiment to over twenty-five hundred who would make the

trek to the arid lands that held Norus Keep. Even the Inner Kingdom emirate of Rysalia, a life-long

enemy of Serenia, but friend to Oceania, would send two dozen of their best archers to lay siege to

Norus Keep.

Forty-nine battle wagons, sixteen supply carts filled with weapons, twenty-two ration carts, and twelve

water wagons would roll behind the main troop. A cook wagon supplied with utensils and braziers rolled

first in line beyond the column of troops. Close behind came the armament wagon, carrying extra javelins,

quarrels, bows, and maces.

At the head of the columns, Conar sat his black destrier, Seayearner. Both he and the steed were

dressed in full battle armor: thick brown leather and bronze chain mail, for Conar’s men strongly

suspected an attack on the road. On the steed’s saddle was draped the black crystal crossbow that

belonged to Liza, and on his own back, Conar had slung her quiver of quarrels. His grandfather’s

broadsword crossed over the quiver and rode high above his right shoulder in a fancy baldric that had

once belonged to the Outlaw. Within the cowl of his tunic, Conar’s blue eyes slitted with revenge.

The men who rode with Conar McGregor were, for the most part, seasoned warriors. Most came from

the King’s Force, either active duty or retired, but numbered among them were some seventy of Conar’s

own Elite Guard, all deadly men with the hard resolve of revenge turning their faces to granite. All had

gone to their knees to swear fealty to Conar and his lady-wife before leaving Boreas Keep. Now, they

rode behind their young Overlord with blood in their eyes and palms that itched to take lives.

Legion had spoken little to his brother on the trek. Speech wasn’t easy over the stamping hooves and

jingling harnesses, the creak of battle wagons bringing up the rear, and it wasn’t really necessary. He

knew all too well what his younger brother was thinking. The trek would take four days, if they did not

wait for the wagons and carts; six to eight, if they did. Legion could see from Conar’s expression that he

had every intention of reaching Norus Keep by dawn of the third day as if he had made this journey

alone.

Thom rode beside, and a little behind, Conar. His beady black gaze never left his commander’s back,

nor did his big hand stray far from the bow at his thigh. His hearing was cocked to catch even the faintest

sign of danger and his back was ramrod-straight in the saddle so he would stay alert.

At noon on the second day, the force crossed the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed named Lucifus, and

they entered the Southern Zone. The air became stagnant with heat, despite a cooling mist that had

showered them as they left Boreas the day before. Strange, twisted plants with sharp, deadly thorns grew

out of the barren wasteland. Venomous reptiles peered at the passing horsemen with hungry, hopeful

eyes. Huge arachnids scuttled about the hot sand and seemed to disappear as though the land had

swallowed them. A lone scavenger would stop to watch, but it would keep its distance, its mouth

slathering for the taste of the sweaty flesh moving close to its lair.

When sunset came, the troop passed through the tall dunes bordering the road. It was the spot where

Rayle Loure had been slain. Thom’s lids flickered with remembered loss, but his attention remained on

his Prince’s back. His huge hands tightened on the braided reins, but he gave no other sign of the terrible

pain in his oversized chest.

"He wishes us well, Thommy," Conar said softly, never turning to look at the man behind him. His own

gaze was on the high dunes from where the killers had come.

"Aye," was all Thom could reply, thankful he wasn’t alone in his grief.

Winding close to the thick forest near Rommitrich Point as darkness fell, the men dismounted and let

their horses water at the shallow stream near the old ruined abbey. Conar glanced toward the fallen-in

roof and looked away, his heart heavy. He patted ’Yearner’s head as the great black horse drank from

the stream, but he didn’t speak to his men as they cared for their own beasts. Mounted again, his silence

preyed heavily on those around him, but his privacy was inviolate to them all.

Toward midnight, the troop reached the pathway of cobbles that marked the entrance to the Hound and

Stag Inn. Conar gave it a cursory glance as he pushed his horse past.

"The men need rest, Conar. I’m sure the wagons stopped long before now," Legion told him in a quiet

voice. They had long since outdistanced the rumbling, creaking war caravan. Only the cook wagon had