WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Tarnes, too, got to his feet—although not nearly as quickly or as painlessly as did his captain-to-be—and stood there wavering for a moment as his old bones adjusted.

  “I think I'll see to the horses,” Nick said, pointing to the stove. “How about making us up something to eat on the way?” He clapped his hands. “Come on, Brownie! Let's go out, girl!"

  The big dog woofed once then trotted eagerly to the door beside her new friend. Brownie's tail thumped rapidly against one of the cabinets.

  Lumley nodded. “Sandwiches is about all I know how to make, Cap'n,” he said and watched as pride spread quickly over the young man's face.

  “Then sandwiches it will have to be, Master Tarnes!” Nick said, and there was more spring in his step as he swiped his great cape from the hanger and swung it around his shoulders. Not even the slight drift that had piled up at the kitchen door overnight had the power to dampen his mood. He just plowed through it like The Revenant through a swell and waded his way to the stables, Brownie leaping the drift at his heels.

  “What kind of captain will the lad make, Master Tarnes?” Brother Herbert inquired.

  “A right good Ones if'n I'm any judge,” Lumley replied as he sliced his dagger into what was left of a juicy baked ham Nick had procured from Titus Neils’ inn.

  “Although,” the cleric remarked as he straightened his robe and looked eagerly at the meat on Lumley's platter, “I don't believe in thieving of any kind.” He took a chunk of red, stringy meat and began to munch happily upon its salty texture. “The Diabolusians are a heathenish bunch of demon-worshipers and are not opposed to stealing, themselves."

  Lumley grinned around his pipe stem as he slathered butter on a slice of thick bread. “They be cutthroats, that's a fact."

  “The question is, I suppose,” Brother Herbert commented as he snitched a prepared sandwich, “whether or not the lad can make a decent living on the seas."

  A snort of humor puffed from the side of Lumley Tarnes’ mouth. “More money than he can being a politician like his pa wants him to be!” the old salt sneered.

  “I don't know,” the clergyman denied, shaking his head. “Most politicians I know are worse thieves than the Diabolusians!"

  Laughter met Nick as he burst into the warm kitchen. The laughter stopped abruptly when the two men saw the paleness of their young friend's face and the wild glaze in his stare.

  “Riders,” the Chalean man spat out as he and the big mongrel hurried into the room.

  “How many?” Tarnes asked, dropping the sandwich he'd just made and picking up his serviceable dagger.

  “Three,” Nick answered. “Brownie smelled them, I guess. While I was taking a piss, I saw her hackles up.” He ran the back of his hand under his dripping nose. “She led me about half a mile upwind of us—near the pond—and I saw three men digging a passage through the drifts. I ran back here and hid the horses at the mouth of the tunnel, but if those men are heading here..."

  “Where else would they be going Cap'n?” Lumley snapped.

  “They'll see where the horses have been,” Nick continued. “You can't hide the signs of five horses in the stable out there.” He looked up quickly at the ceiling. “I've got to tell him.” He turned and took the servant stairs two at a time.

  “I'll see to the two of us!” Lumley called after him.

  Not long before midnight—and the Joining that had made Kaelan and Gillian one—the Viragonian prince had shown the others the false cellar where the Outlaw had hidden while he raided the Tribunal coffers.

  “This is the way out,” Kaelan had explained as he'd shown them the bolt hole, a cleverly-concealed false panel behind the cellar door. “There are three steep steps before you reach the ground. A short tunnel opens up into a cave then there's another tunnel beyond. By the time you reach the end, you're about eighty yards out into the woods.” He pushed on the wall and the panel slid upward with only a slight squeak.

  “Kept it well-oiled, he did,” Tarnes had marveled.

  “So have I,” Kaelan had replied. His grin was nasty. “Just in case they ever came to burn me out again."

  He'd shown them bundles of rushes jabbed into the shored-up walls of the tunnel: “Every twenty feet or so.” And where the Lucifers were kept so that when the panel slid back into place, the hidey-hole would not be plunged into total darkness for very long.

  Now—sweeping most of the provisions into burlap bags—Lumley ordered the priest to follow him to the cellar stairs.

  Grabbing up his bundle of belongings, Brother Herbert waddled after the sailing man, puffing as his short legs pumped. He was already worrying about getting himself down through the trap door which led to the false cellar. The first trip down had been both embarrassing and painful as he had squeezed his considerable mass through the hole. He had not been able to make his way back up through the trapdoor hole and had to walk the length of the cave and tunnels with Lord Cree and traipse through the snow all the way back to the warmth of the kitchen. Luckily, the bright moonlight had lit their way and they had not had to rely on the faggots Lord Cree had stamped out as they left the tunnel.

  Now, moaning as he watched Lumley reach under the dusty, moth-eaten rug which covered the trapdoor's position and lift the stapled rug and hatch, the priest exhaled a long sigh of self-pity. He actually winced as the much-smaller—although many years older—man made his way lithely down the steps into the false cellar.

  “Stay close to the steps, Brother Herbert,” Lumley warned from the seven-foot depth where he stood. He had already opened the bolt hole panel and was lighting the first bundle of rushes. “I'll light the others for us."

  Brother Herbert sucked in his gut as Lumley disappeared into the bolt hole. With one final look to the heavens for help and comfort, he put his foot carefully on the first step and descended with less constriction than he thought possible.

  * * * *

  Kaelan's eyelids opened at the first urgent calling of his name. He heard the light scratch at the door and heard Nick call again: louder and with more immediacy.

  Gently removing his arm from beneath his wife's head, Kaelan eased back the covers and swung his legs from the bed, wincing only slightly at the immediate pain in his left thigh. With as little noise as possible, he drew on his breeches and grabbed up his shirt as he stood and hobbled to the door, drawing back the bolt Gillian had insisted he shoot the evening before. Nick's anxious face met him as he opened the door.

  “Trackers,” Nick said immediately. “One of them is Duncan's best man, Utley. They're at the pond."

  Kaelan cast a quick look at his sleeping lady then slid soundlessly out of the room, easing the door shut behind him. “How many are there?” His voice was calm and his eyes steady.

  “Three, but I'll wager de Viennes can't be far behind and with him? Who knows?” There was great strain on Nick's face and in his voice as he waited for Kaelan to speak.

  Kaelan held his brother-in-law's gaze for a second or two more, then clenched his jaw. “I won't let them take her, Nicholas,” he said through his teeth.

  “Then we'd better get going!” Nick stressed. “I've got the horses at the tunnel, already."

  Kaelan didn't answer. Instead, he shut the door, limped to the bed, bent over and shook Gillian gently, but firmly. When she opened her eyes to find him hovering over her, she began to lift her arms up to him.

  “Good morn, milord,” she whispered. “Have you..."

  “They're here,” Kaelan interrupted her and watched instant fear replace the drowsy passion of a split-second before. “Get up and get dressed. We don't have long."

  Gillian threw the covers back and lunged from the bed. Even as her new husband stuffed what few belongings she and Nick had brought with them into an old canvas tote, she was drawing on a pair of his worn breeches.

  “Is Rolf with them?” was all she asked as she hastily drew on an oversized shirt that fell almost to her knees.

  “More than likely.” Kaelan was scanning
the room for any sign that she and her brother had been there. Satisfied there was nothing left, he told her to hurry with her boots and waited impatiently for her to drag them on.

  Nick was waiting at the door as his sister and the prince came out.

  “Get her to the cave as quickly as you can,” Kaelan ordered, gently pressing his wife into her brother's arms.

  “What about you?” Nick asked, shushing Gillian as she would have protested.

  “I'll join you as soon as I get rid of them."

  “The hell you will!” Gillian exploded, twisting out of her brother's hold. “You'll come with us now, Kaelan Hesar!"

  Kaelan was already shaking his head. “They'll see there's been someone living here, Gilly.” He held up his hand to forestall another outburst. “If they come in and find no one here, they'll spread out and start searching the rooms. Chances are they won't find the trapdoor, but if Sinclair has told them where it is or is with them, you'll stand less of a chance.” He reached out and took her upper arms and shook her as she began to

  protest once more.

  “And,” he said with force, “if they find no one in the manor house, they'll damned sure start looking outside as quickly as they can. What kind of chance would you have, then, Milady Hesar?"

  At the sound of her new name, Gillian stilled. She studied her husband's steady eyes and calm face—not knowing he was even more frightened than she—and made her voice as matter of fact as his had been.

  “Rolf hates you, Kaelan,” she said. “He could do you a harm if he suspects I have been here or that you helped Nick and me in any way."

  A crooked smile lifted one corner of Kaelan's mouth. “He hates me no less than I hate him, Gillian.” He looked up from her worried face to her brother's. “Take her down to the tunnel."

  “Kaelan....” she protested, but already Nick was pulling her toward the servant's stairs.

  “Don't worry,” Kaelan told her, limping a little toward her as her brother continued to drag her with him. “I'll be all right."

  “I love you!” she said.

  “I love you, too,” he responded as sister and brother began to descend the stairs.

  For a long moment he stood there, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He could taste the sour bile of fear flooding his mouth as he drew in ragged shallow breaths. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side and his left thigh stabbed with ungodly pain.

  He was unarmed and outnumbered, but before he would let Rolf de Viennes take what now belonged to Kaelan Hesar-and Kaelan alone-Lars Utley and his men would have to kill him.

  * * * *

  Gillian had mouthed her dissension all the way down the cellar steps and into the false cellar until her brother had hushed her with a hastily-raised arm.

  “Shut up or by-the-gods, Gillian, I'll hit you!” Nick spat at her. He marveled that his sister did not flinch at his threat until he realized she knew gods-be-damned well he wouldn't belt her. He lowered his arm with a snort of disgust. “One day I might surprise you,” he complained, pushing her toward the opened bolt hole panel.

  The new Duchess of Winterstorm clamped her lips together and glared at her brother, but she had enough presence of mind, despite her near-lethal worry for her husband's safety, to understand Nick was being cautious. No one knew exactly how near the manor house Duncan's men were at that moment.

  “I know you don't want to leave him,” Nick said as he joined her and slid the panel shut behind him. “I don't, either, but what he said was true: Utley's a bulldog.” He started into the cave, but stopped when he realized his sister wasn't following.

  “He did not say to leave,” Gillian said stubbornly. “He just said to get me to the cave.” She looked beyond her brother to the cave, then folded her arms over her chest. “Well, I am where he told you to take me, but I won't go another gods-be-damned step without him!"

  Nick groaned—recognizing all too well her militant stanch and expression. In order to budge her, force would be necessary and he wouldn't put it past the little hell-cat to scratch and fight. But if he could reason with her....

  “Gillian...” he began only to have her shush him.

  “Listen!” she whispered, going up the three steep steps and pressing her ear to the wood.

  Nick eased up the steps and also put his ear to the bolt hole door.

  With a sinking heart, he could clearly hear Brownie's frenzied barking, signaling a stranger's imminent approach.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  Kaelan ordered his mutt to cease barking as he hobbled toward the kitchen door. Beyond the glass pane, he recognized Lars Utley's haggard, weather-beaten face, and felt a momentary leap of fear deep in his gut. There was no better tracker in the Seven Kingdoms than Lars Utley.

  The Viragonian prince had bolted the back door as soon as he'd gone down into the kitchen. Each door into the manor house was either boarded up—as was the front door—or securely latched as this one was, although a hard fist and a groping hand could make it easy to gain entrance to Holy Dale through the glass-pane kitchen door.

  Drawing in a deep breath as he reached the door, Kaelan nodded curtly at the man standing alone on the stoop. “Utley,” he said.

  Lars Utley lifted a single finger to his temple. “Good morn to you, Your Grace.” His eyes shifted past Kaelan and into the recesses of the kitchen before sliding easily back to Kaelan's face. “Might I be having a word with you, milord?"

  “Concerning?” Kaelan asked, striving for normalcy in his voice-with just a touch of irritation for being bothered-that his thundering heart gave lie to.

  Utley frowned. “Will you just open the door, Your Grace?"

  There was no need to make the man any more suspicious than Kaelan could already see he was. With as much disdain as he could manage, he lifted his shoulders with unconcern and unbolted the door, opening it slowly as he stepped back. He tried not to show anything but annoyance and arrogance as Utley came quickly into the kitchen, almost brushing him aside in his haste.

  “Mind if I have a look around, Your Grace?” Utley questioned. The inquiry was a moot point since the tracker was already moving through the kitchen and into the adjoining eating chamber beyond.

  “Be my guest,” Kaelan ground out, laying a hand on Brownie's golden-brown head for the mongrel was growling low and menacingly in its throat.

  “A real beastie you have there,” Utley commented as he walked back into the kitchen and cast a sidelong look at the big dog.

  “She's harmless,” Kaelan stated.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but she don't look it to me,” Utley defended the unease that was prickling at his neck as the dog's angry eyes followed his progress from kitchen to the hallway that led to the front parlor where no one had been in nearly four years, not even his recent guests.

  Kaelan waited indifferently—keeping his gaze from straying to the cellar door—for one of Utley's men had stomped into the kitchen.

  “Your Grace,” the man had acknowledged him with a hasty nod.

  “Borden,” Kaelan replied.

  “What did you find outside?” Utley asked as he came back from the front parlor and dining room.

  “There's been three to five horses out in the stables until just this morning.” Borden glanced at the young prince, who was looking back at him with a blank expression. “Fresh shit on the ground and oats still in the bin."

  Another man—one Kaelan didn't know—came hurrying in. “Traced them horse tracks, Lyle,” he said, breathlessly. “They vanished up around the base of the mountain over yonder. There's got to be a way to get into that mountain, but I didn't find it. ’Tis like them horses just up and disappeared into solid stone!"

  “One of the Outlaw's hiding places out in the woods, eh, Your Grace?” Utley inquired. He didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Instead, he turned to Borden. “You and Landers look upstairs. I'll wager they're long gone by now, but check anyway."

  Bo
rden and Landers headed for the servant stairs; Utley looked down at his hands and began to slowly draw off his heavy leather gloves. “Which way are they heading, Your Grace?” he asked in a conversational tone, never looking up at his host.

  Kaelan's left brow crooked upward. “Who, Utley?"

  Lars Utley smiled as he removed the last glove and—crumpling them both in his right hand—began to tap the leather into his other palm. He finally lifted his eyes to the prince's face. “The King will be here shortly,” Utley informed him.

  Kaelan's right brow jerked upward. “Come to visit me?” he asked in an incredulous tone, hand to his heart. “To what do I owe the honor?"

  Utley's little burst of snorts were not disrespectful but rather humorous. “You've always been the cool one, haven't you, Prince Kaelan?” He cocked his head to one side in compliment. “I will give you that."

  “How generous of you,” Kaelan answered with a yawn that wasn't entirely pretend.

  “Ain't nobody up there,” Borden reported as he and his partner came tripping down the servant stairs. He cast a quick glance at the prince, then looked to Utley for instruction.

  “We're to hold His Grace in the cellar ’til the king gets here,” Utley reminded them, still smiling at his prince. “Go light some lanterns down there, Landers."

  Kaelan blinked as though greatly surprised by such a thing. “Why am I being held hostage in my own home, Utley?” he asked.

  The smile slid slowly from Utley's weathered face and he stopped slapping the gloves into his palms. He lowered his hands and started toward Kaelan only to be brought up short by the prince's dog's deep warning growl. He stilled instantly, his angry glower jerking immediately from the dog to its master. “Either put that bastard outside, Your Grace, or I'll have Landers put a quarrel through its worthless hide here and now!” Utley warned.

  Kaelan's eyes went as hard as flint and his spine grew rigid as his head came up and shoulders went back at the threat. A muscle bunched in his jaw, but he lowered his head just a fraction in compliance, for the sake of Brownie's safety. Bending, he looped his hand under the mutt's leather collar and pulled, knowing the dog wouldn't leave him to the strangers without force.