WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Appolyon chewed on his rubbery lip. "What do you suggest?"

  "He is non-productive. Let him die, starve to death, and tell Tohre he died of natural causes."

  The fat man gasped. "I thought you cared for him?"

  "I do. But I don't like seeing him the way he is and neither do the others. It's bad for morale. After a while, they'll lose interest and abandon him. That will leave his care entirely up to me." He shook his head. "No. No, I can't handle him alone. You'll just have to let him die." He put his hand on the knob but didn't get a chance to open the door.

  "Then, do what you have to do! Talk to him, wake the bastard up!"

  With his back to the Commandant, Xander smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

  * * *

  "It's no use," Hern said in a choking voice. "The brat just don't respond to nothing." His wide shoulders sagged with fatigue.

  "There has to be something that will bring him out of this!" Thom snarled. He paced from one end of their hut to the other. "Sometimes I just want to slap him as hard as I can. Maybe that would get his attention!"

  Jah-Ma-El looked up at the tall, rubber-faced man. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me, you son-of-a-bitch!" Thom flung himself down on his bunk.

  "That may be the way to bring him around."

  "I'll be damned if I'll let anyone slap my boy!" Hern bellowed, striding to where Jah-Ma-El sat. "You try hitting him and see what I do, you vile-smelling warlock!"

  Conar's brother angrily shook his head. "No, not physically hit him."

  Roget looked around from his place at the open doorway. "I think I see where you're going."

  "I don't!" Hern shot back. "If he tries to hurt—"

  With a snarl of rage very much unlike Jah-Ma-El, the gangly man stood and glared into Hern's beefy face. "What's the best way you know to make Conar angry?"

  "What the hell difference—"

  "How did you make him angry?" Jah-Ma-El shouted.

  So surprised by the backbone this thin, unwashed man had developed, Hern could only gape.

  "How, dammit? How did you make him mad? How did you get him to do something he didn't want to do?"

  Hern's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He narrowed his eyes. His stare was meant to quell Jah-Ma-El, but the little man held his ground. "When I wanted him to shape up, I insulted him."

  "I don't think that would help now," Storm said. "He's so accustomed to being humiliated, it just might push him deeper into oblivion."

  Jah-Ma-El turned. "I wasn't thinking of insulting him."

  "Then, what?" Hern asked, his voice tight with annoyance.

  "There's only one person we could slur," Storm whispered, "that will make him angry enough to respond."

  Hern sighed. "His lady."

  * * *

  He was sitting up in the cot, hands in his lap, staring straight ahead. He didn't seem to be aware of the men working in the hut. There were three of them, strangers to him, men who volunteered to work in the hut to be near him. They were speaking about inconsequential things, joking with one another, their cheerful voices filled with laughter.

  "I hear she's as ugly as they come," one of the inmates said in a conspiratorial voice. "She's so damned ugly, her parents won't let her out in public without something over her head!"

  "That bad? No wonder they can't find a husband for the bitch."

  "I heard she's deformed."

  "That's worse! How the hell are they going to get rid of her if no man will court her?"

  The first man looked at the patient. "I hear they got this fool lined up to marry her."

  "Who'd marry a ugly, deformed hag?"

  "Some noble down around Serenia. McGregor be his name. His parent's set the thing up."

  Conar's fingers jerked in his lap.

  "Poor fellow. Don't he have no say in it?"

  "Likely as not he don't. I hear he sent one of his friends down there to get a look at her and when that fellow came back there was hell to pay! That young nobleman told his papa he wouldn't have that toad frog if she was the last woman on earth!"

  Conar's lashes flickered.

  "Well, if he don't have no choice, he don't have no choice. I guess he could always stick a burlap bag over the hag's head."

  Another flicker.

  "I heard he already has a light-o'-love. A choice morsel. One of his many whores, I suppose."

  Conar's lips closed.

  "The same girl they say rides with him and his men?"

  "Rides with his men or is being ridden by them?"

  Conar's jaw clenched.

  "Bet he shares her. I hear she's kind of partial to one of his kin. Lord Saur, I think his name is. Saur be one of the fool's brothers, I'm told." The speaker cast a look at Conar's face and nearly laughed with happiness when he saw the young man's narrowed eyes.

  "I saw her with that one once. They was having a merry old time! That Lord Saur is a handsome cuss. Don't blame the gal for wanting him instead of the fool."

  Conar's fists doubled.

  "And that nobleman thought nobody knew where his light-o'-love was when she went a'missin', huh? She was out riding his brother, I guess!"

  Conar's body twitched; he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, let it out, drew another sharp, quick breath, let it out with a rush.

  "The man must have been a blind fool to think that tart was being faithful. He should have stuck with his Toad. At least no man would fool with such a ugly bitch!"

  "He'd rather have his whore, I reckon."

  Conar trembled from head to toe, his eyes angry, his lips drawn back. He swung his head, found them staring at him. His breath came in sharp intakes of fury and when he saw them laughing, he bounded up and lunged at the closest one.

  "She's no whore!" He wrapped his fingers around the man's neck. "She's my wife!" He was only vaguely aware of the arms that had gone around his waist, someone pulling him away from the object of his anger.

  "Stop it!" someone screamed in his ear. "You're all right. Just stop it!"

  He spun around in the arms holding him, glared into a face he recognized all too well. "They called my lady a whore, Hern!" he spat. "No man calls my lady a whore!"

  "And no man in his right mind would let them, either. Are you in your right mind, now?"

  Conar stared at him, so furious he was barely cognizant of his surroundings. He gasped for breath; his chest heaved in the constriction of Hern's arms. He caught movement to his right and jerked his head to see Thom and Storm watching. He looked back at Hern.

  "Are you in your right mind, now?" Hern repeated.

  "He will be," Jah-Ma-El said.

  "We didn't mean no disrespect to the Queen," one of the others said.

  Conar searched Hern's heavily wrinkled face, wrinkles he knew he had helped carve. "Hern?" he asked softly, not understanding.

  "Welcome back, son."

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  Six months after Hern's arrival at the Labyrinth, Princes Grice and Chand Wynth, the Hesar brothers, Rylan and Paegan, Sentian Heil, Tyne Brell, and Chase Montyne arrived on Tyber's Isle. It was in the middle of summer, the windless region stifling with heat.

  Sentian Heil, along with former Elite Ward Summerall, was assigned to the same barracks with Thom, Storm and Hern, but was kept in the indoctrination hut that first night. The noblemen: Grice and Chand, Paegan, Tyne Brell, Chase Montyne, were assigned to the same hut as Shalu, Roget and Jah-Ma-El. Only one bunk remained empty in the barracks and they were told the bunk was occupied.

  "He'll only be here during the day," Roget informed them as he led the men to the barracks. "They allow him five hours sleep a day, between one and six. They wake him up when we're about ready to leave the mine."

  "Why?" Grice wanted to know.

  "So there won't be any contact between him and us."

  "Is that the man we saw being brutalized this afternoon?" Tyne asked.

  Roget nodded. "You'll meet him."

  "For now," Shalu warn
ed, "you'd better get some sleep. They'll have us up at daybreak."

  "I have one question," Chase said.

  "And that is?" Roget asked.

  "Who does the laundry?"

  Du Mer stared. Montyne's face was carefully blank. If Roget had not known this man, known him like a brother, he'd have thought the young Ionarian Prince was serious. "You, of course," du Mer answered with a straight face. "The Ionarians always have laundry detail."

  "I thought that was the Viragonians," Shalu remarked.

  "No, the Ionarians," Jah-Ma-El corrected. "It says so in the tour guide."

  Chase smiled and it was the first smile he had had in a long time. He held out his hand to du Mer. "Just thought I'd check."

  Roget looked at the hand. He had hated this man once, had hated him badly, since Chase Montyne had helped put him in this terrible place. But Chase had once been his friend, too. He took the proffered hand. "I like just a tad of starch in my shirts, Montyne."

  "But, of course." The Ionarian pulled du Mer into his arms and held him. "Anything else?"

  "Aye," Roget said, tears forming. "Take a bath!"

  * * *

  It was the second day of his internment at the Labyrinth and Prince Grice Wynth was tired. He had never worked so hard, or so long, in his life. He had trained under a tough Master-at-Arms at Seadrift Keep, the capitol of Oceania where he was regent to his father, but that old warrior's tutelage had been nothing compared to the physical labor he had endured in the mine shafts that day.

  He trudged out of the mine along with the other inmates and wearily sat on a dilapidated wooden bench near his barracks, bent forward, and hung his head.

  "We'll have muscles on our muscles when we get home," Prince Tyne Brell of Chale remarked as he sat beside Grice.

  "Where would you put muscles?" Grice quipped, eyeing the effeminate-looking Chalean.

  "That's just it," Brell said in a chipper voice. "I figure I'll develop quite nicely while I'm interned." He lifted one slim arm and tried to make a muscle. He couldn't. He shrugged. "They'll pop up eventually." He leaned back on the bench and let out a tired sigh. "I heard Hern Arbra is here. Has anyone seen him, yet? He'll help me beef up."

  "He's in the Indoctrination Hut for picking a fight. I heard he's to get out this afternoon."

  "What do you think that fellow did to warrant such punishment?" Chand asked as he joined the men. He had not gone to the mines with the others, but had spent the day in the cook tent. When his brother and Tyne looked up, he pointed to the lone man behind the row of huts.

  Stooped over, picking beans in the garden, the man paused, straightened, bent backward in an obvious effort to relieve the strain on his muscles, then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm before bending down again.

  "I was watching him for almost two hours while I was peeling spuds," Chand remarked. "They haven't let him take a break." He pointed to the guards who stood close by the man.

  "And they won't," a passing inmate said.

  "Why?"

  The man shook his head. "Because of who he was."

  Sentian and Chase joined them at the bench. He looked up at Chase.

  "Did I hear you say something about laundry last eve?" He plucked at his filthy, sweat-encrusted shirt. "Do you have any freshly ironed tunics available?"

  "Eat shit and die, Wynth," Chase said wearily, sliding to the ground beside Brell's feet. He ran a dirty hand through his equally dirty blond hair.

  Sentian Heil plopped down, too. He was more used to physical labor than the noblemen, but he was just as tired. His head ached and his hands were already forming blisters. He looked in the chapped, cracked palms and had a vivid memory that made him look away.

  "I'd hate to be him," Chand said. He was still watching the man laboring in the garden. His tender heart was aching for the inmate.

  "Must be hard picking beans with one hand," Paegan Hesar replied as he slid to the ground.

  "Have they allowed you to see Rylan, yet?" Grice asked. He was speaking of the Viragonian prince, Paegan's older brother, whose foot had been injured when these new men had arrived.

  Paegan shook his head. "They wouldn't even let me talk to the Healer."

  A loud roar shattered the quiet words. They men turned to see huge boulders crashing down the side of the bluff just beyond the huts where the solitary man was gardening. Standing, they watched with horror as the man glanced up at the careening rocks and tried to dive away from the avalanche. With ear-splitting shrieks, more rocks split apart from the bluff and cascaded into the compound with a thundering crash that shook the earth.

  Men and guards ran away, their hands thrown up to protect their heads from falling debris. A massive thud shook the ground as the last large boulder hit. Then the screaming began.

  At first, it was a sharp, quick stab of sound, and then another and still another, ripping out of a tortured throat, hanging on the still air. The inhuman cry of unearthly agony pealed out over the stupefied men who had stopped running and turned to stare.

  Guards made toward the area where the rocks had settled. Roget du Mer and Shalu Taborn crashed out of their barracks, their faces stricken. Anyone watching them would have sworn their feet never touched the ground as they sprinted toward the pitiful screaming.

  "Wynth! Montyne! Hurry!" Jah-Ma-El yelled as he ran by, his thin legs pumping furiously.

  It was the first time in nearly three years Sentian Heil had seen Thom and Storm. He looked at them, smiling his greeting, but neither noticed him. Their full attention was on a large boulder and what lay beneath it. Storm bent down, digging at the loose sand cradling the rock; Thom fell to his knees, scooping sand away as fast as his big hands could move. Others scrambled down beside Storm: Shalu, Roget, Jah-Ma-El, and a newly-released Hern Arbra. They dug frantically at the boulder partially blocking the trench that had been dug the day before. The screaming still poured from under the rock and the men dug faster as the screaming began to weaken.

  The Commandant ran foward. "Get him out!"

  Sentian knelt beside Thom and began to dig. He saw Thom recognize him and then the big man began to strive harder to clear away the sand. "Dig, Heil!"

  A man's arm, the flesh hanging in tatters from elbow to wrist, could be seen from under the rock as more sand was cleared. The fingers flexed, once, twice, then shook, before going still. A soft keen replaced the horrible screaming, and the keening was losing volume.

  Storm drove his hands into the sand all the way up to his elbow. "I have hold of him!"

  Roget du Mer and Shalu put their backs to the boulder. Thom scooted joined them. They braced their muscular legs against the side of the trench and heaved. Sweat ran down their dusty faces; veins in their necks, arms, and thighs bulged. Hern added his back to the effort and grunted as he shifted his weight against the rock.

  As the boulder moved, a hideous cry tore from under the rock.

  The men stopped, afraid to lift the boulder any higher.

  "You can't leave him there!" Appolyon screamed. "Drake! Get down there and help them!" At first Lydon Drake refused, turning a sullen, hateful face to the Commandant. "If he dies, you die!"

  Cursing violently, the ex-Temple Guard wedged his massive shoulder under the boulder. He took a deep breath and pushed upward, the cords in his thick thighs bunching up like iron pilings.

  Blood gushed from a torn artery in the arm beneath the boulder. The fingers flexed once more and then lay still.

  "Heave!" Hern groaned, seeing the man's life-blood soaking into the sand.

  As the rock eased back, Storm tightened his grip on the victim's shoulder. Thom got down on his belly, reached for some of the tattered bulk of clothing beneath the rock, and pulled at what he reckoned to be the man's hips. He saw another body lying directly under the boulder and guessed that man was dead. He could see only crushed skull and a glob of red ooze.

  "I've got him!" Storm shouted, pulling with all his might.

  Thom tugged hard on the fabric
covering the man's hips. The body began to slid toward him from under the massive stone. Others helped him lift his burden from the trench and they laid the man on the ground, turned him onto his back. What Thom saw made him cry in frustration and fear.

  "It's not him," Storm whispered, his gaze going to the other body beneath the rock.

  It was, in fact, one of the two guards who had been assigned to the solitary prisoner. He was indeed dead, his neck bent at an odd angle. There was utter stillness as the man's identity passed back along those gathered.

  "It ain't the boy. It's that Johnny fellow."

  No sound, no movement, came from beneath the massive stone. The rock could not be completely lifted out of the trench unless one of the heavy lifts was brought up from the mineshaft, and that would take the entire night. Even as the men watched, the stone was settling in the loose sand and would become the burial vault for the any man who was still trapped beneath it.

  "No!" Jah-Ma-El screamed, scampering across the sand. Using his hands like shovels, looking for all the world like a thin, mangy dog burying a bone, he began to claw at the dirt. "No! Get him out!"

  Roget grabbed him, Shalu did, too, but Jah-Ma-El surprised them with an inhuman strength that no one would have believed existed in his frail body. He kept digging even as Storm and Thom dragged him away by his ankles. The sorcerer cursed, shrieked at them to let him go. Finally, Roget effectively silenced Jah-Ma-El's wild cries with a short jab to the nape of his neck.

  Appolyon's face lost all of its color. His pig-like eyes strained out of his head and he continually ran a nervous tongue over his rubbery lips. His breathing was quick, and there was a noticeable tremor in his hands. His look turned to Roget and what he saw made him back away, a hand up to ward off the murderous glare. "Not my fault!" he screeched. Urine squirted down his fat legs as Roget stepped toward him.

  Sentian Heil wasn't sure if he had actually heard the soft voice as it cut across the highly charged air, or if he had merely sensed it. He remembered turning toward what he thought he heard and shielding his eyes to the glare of a sun setting on the horizon. He thought he heard a sigh of, what…relief?…thanks?…from some of the men closest to him.