WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Now they'll try to say it's another man the king is after Joining her to, but you let the townsfolk know that's just a subterfuge, understand?"

  Kinion blinked. “A subter..."

  “A gods-be-damned lie,” Nick stressed. “Knowing how good upstanding folk feel about Kaelan Hesar, do you think they're apt to admit it's the Demon Duke they mean to hand my poor innocent sister over to?"

  “I'll reckon they wouldn't!” Kinion guffawed.

  Gillian was standing impatiently at the inn's door, tapping her booted foot furiously. What the hell was taking Nicholas so long and what was he talking to the boy about? Why, he was even putting his hand on the young one's shoulder and....

  Her scrutiny of her brother and the boy became a thin slit of rage. “Oh, you're the clever one aren't you, Nicky?” she seethed. Warning the lad—paying him, she thought as she saw money change hands—not to help me! No doubt asking him to watch her while they were in town.

  “Well,” she said under her breath, “that is not the only stable in town nor the only place a person can get a horse!” With a flounce of fury, she entered the inn, slamming the door behind her.

  Nick's head jerked around at the sound of the slamming door.

  “Reckon she be spitting mad, eh, milord,” Kinion chuckled. He put a finger to his right eye and drew down the lower lid. “Fit to be tied, I'd say!"

  “In more ways than one,” Nick muttered. He decided he'd better let the lad know who he was before Duncan's men did. “You tell the townsfolk I am the son of the Chalean ambassador."

  “You be Chalean?” Kinion inhaled on an awed breath. His attention went to the man's saddle but he saw no lethal blade and was disappointed. Everyone knew how expert at swordplay the Chalean's were.

  “I am Count Nicholas Cree,” Nick answered, waving away the title. “Tell them I would take it as a personal kindness if they would help me keep my poor, bewitched sister out of the Demon Duke's hands. For her own safety, you see?"

  Kinion drew himself up, puffed out his scrawny chest, and jabbed a dirty thumb into his chest. “You can count on me, milord! I'll see to it everyone in town knows them snakes for what they are and that nobody helps your sister leave Ciona!"

  Relief shoved away the weight from Nick's tired shoulders. “Perhaps the constable might see fit to escort them back across the border, do you think?"

  “I'll go straight to him soon's I tend your horses; Milord!” He started to walk the horse toward the stable, but Nick called him back.

  “They weren't far behind us, lad. Perhaps you should go see the constable first?” He eased the reins from the boy's grubby fist.

  Kinion voiced his agreement and took off running to do the lord's bidding. He wouldn't let the Chalean sword master down! He'd make sure everyone in town knew the danger involved!

  * * * *

  The constable and his men stood at the border of Serenia and Virago, under the infamous archway known as the Carbonham Gate, with their arms folded across their chests. There was murderous intent in their stony glowers as King Duncan's men came thundering toward them down the border road.

  Behind the constable was a contingent of volunteers—thirty in all—each holding a weapon of some sort in their gloved hands: axes and picks; shovels and hoes; gleaming swords and sharp wooden pikes, pins and grappling hooks. They, too, had stubborn looks upon their faces and the gleam of battle in their eyes: There had never been any love to lose between the men of Ciona and their Viragonian neighbors.

  Sergeant Hans Richter of the Royal Guard Elite of the Court of Storms, Tempest Keep, saw the welcoming committee fanned out along the border between his country and Serenia and ground his teeth with fury. He held up his hand, signaling his men to a slow trot.

  “You ain't coming across,” the constable warned the Viragonians as the horses drew within shouting distance. “Just go on back about your business."

  “Our business,” Sergeant Richter barked in a tight voice, “is in Ciona!"

  “No, it ain't,” the constable replied. “You ain't got permission from the McGregor to come into Serenia."

  Clenching his jaw, Richter swung down from his mount and strode arrogantly to the very limit of his side of the border crossing. His steel-gray eyes cut into the chubby constable. “There are no guard posts here to restrict travel from my country into yours,” Richter snapped. “I know of no law preventing me and my men from coming over."

  The constable arced an arm behind him, indicating his fellow townsmen. “There's the guard post. See you there the law, as well, sergeant?"

  Hans Richter's jaw tightened. “We are after a runaway bride whose...."

  “We know all about that!” the constable cut him off. “And if'n you Viragonians don't mind forcing a woman to Join up with the likes of that jackanapes your king intends for her to be shackled with, us Serenians do!"

  “We don't force our women!” someone from the crowd yelled.

  “We don't have to force our women!” said another.

  “And the lady ain't even one of you Viragonians, anyway!” the constable put in. “She's Chalean and the Chaleans are our friends."

  “Unlike the Viragonians!” came the insult.

  Richter glared at the obstacles in his way, then turned his head and spat on the ground in insult. “This isn't the end of it!” the sergeant promised and he spun around and jammed his spurred boot into the stirrup. As he flung his leg over his horse's rump, he speared his tormentors with another disgusted look. “Not by a long shot!"

  “Get your arse back to your fancy keep!” a voice from the crowd taunted. “We ain't letting you Viragonians take no woman under our protection ever again!"

  A chorus of ‘ayes!’ rang out from every Serenian throat assembled.

  The Elite sergeant sawed on his mount's reins and led his men back up the border road, the sound from their horse's hooves bringing a cheer of victory from the townsfolk of Ciona.

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  Chapter Thirteen

  Rolf de Viennes was not happy with his king's plan nor was he at all sure he could win in a contest of bared fists with Kaelan Hesar. The few skirmishes the two of them had had back at the Keep had ended in only minor black eyes for the prince and more than a few lumps for de Viennes.

  But, Rolf thought as he took his place in the clearing behind the stables and watched Kaelan Hesar limping toward him, that had been before the man had been crippled.

  And five years ago.

  De Viennes studied his opponent closely as the king explained the rules of the contest to those gathered.

  It was the prince's left leg that troubled him, de Viennes noted. That was a weakness that could not be overcome, and one to which Rolf would address himself.

  “No tripping,” Duncan was saying.

  Rolf frowned. Well, there was tripping and then there was stumbling.

  “No hitting below the belt."

  That went without saying. There was no honor in dirty fighting and Rolf intended to beat the man fair and square.

  If he could.

  Hesar was shivering, Rolf noted. His eyes were watering and his nose was red. He'd been coughing and sneezing, too. Had he been sick, perhaps? Just now coming out from under the effects of a bad winter's cold?

  Another weakness to be registered. The lungs were above the belt and a few vicious jabs to the older man's chest might facilitate an easier victory.

  And—upon first notice—amused Rolf de Viennes, but now made him believe he had more than a good chance of beating the fellow.

  The young prince was underweight and didn't appear to be all that steady on his feet. His clothes hung like rags—looked like rags, too—on his thin body and surely did not give off the warmth Rolf's own woolen garments provided else why was the man shuddering so with the chill of the air?

  “No biting, scratching, or gouging!"

  Rolf grunted with disdain. One or two well-aimed jabs—one to the belly, one to the jaw—should stagger the pri
nce and leave him wide open for further intense pummeling.

  The thing of it was: could he get close enough to land the wicked punches he planned? Hesar's arms were longer than his and the man was taller.

  Though Hesar was older by nearly eight years, Rolf's senses encouraged him. The younger Viragonian prince would be sorely out of practice.

  In Rolf's estimation, he, himself, might take a few hard hits at first, until Hesar wore himself and his neglected body down, but he knew he was in top form. His body had been honed to perfection. He was well-nourished; in excellent health and-despite the frigid chill and snowflakes falling sporadically around them-as warm as could be expected.

  All in all, he expected to win the fight with a total and demoralizing asswhipping of his opponent. Flexing his fists, he also meant to leave as much damage on Hesar's hated face as the gods would allow!

  Kaelan's teeth were chattering as he stood there. His lungs were burning from the intake of the cold mountain air washing over his chilled body. He knew he had a fever and his cough was more ragged than ever. Being outside in the arctic air, feeling the snowflakes wetting his hair, would not help in his convalescence. Running the arm of his tattered shirt under his nose, he clamped his jaws tightly together to keep from sneezing again. He'd seen the light of speculation in Rolf's eye; he knew the man understood he had been ill.

  And his leg, he thought with a grimace of hopelessness, was paining him something terrible. The cold had set into the bone and the throbbing agony that was every step he took, threatened to buckle his left knee. He resisted the urge to bend over and rub his thigh for that would only have given de Viennes more satisfaction, something that was already blazing across his handsome young face.

  “I can't take him,” Kaelan reminded himself. “No way in hell can I come out of this the winner.” He was sick, not to mention underfed and weak. He was hurting. He feared for Gillian's safe escape into Ciona; that particular worry was a sharp stake being driven through his heart.

  He was out of shape and many years older than his youthful opponent. “I can't win,” he sighed. “But maybe I can land a few blows hard enough to hurt the little bastard."

  Yet when he took de Vienne's first hit, Kaelan crumbled like a card house in a light breeze.

  * * * *

  Dakin wondered how long the king was going to allow this insanity to go on. Twice he had spoken up, asking for an end to the brutal beating. He doubted very much young Kaelan's ability to see, much less speak. Both the prince's dark eyes were swollen shut, his lips split and bleeding almost as profusely as his battered and—no doubt—broken nose. The young man was wheezing badly, sucking air into his bruised lungs. He was pale, though a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his gaunt face.

  “The man is ill,” Dakin insisted. “Put a stop to this, Your Grace."

  “All he has to do is hold up his hand to me and I'll stop the fight,” Duncan grunted.

  Dakin had heard tales of Duncan's dislike of his brother, but in actuality, he'd never seen it. The few times at Court Dakin had been witness to the king's chastisement of his brother, the punishments had been rather lax. More mental than physical, done almost with a grudging regret that such was necessary. Even this morning, hadn't Duncan shown some concern for his brother when he thought Kaelan had been tortured? Had that been all for show? For Dakin's benefit?

  The Duke didn't think so. He believed the king had some grudging care for his young brother. Grudging care mixed heavily with a great deal of envy and covetousness of Kaelan's easy ability to make and keep admirers.

  No, the Duke hadn't really thought Duncan hated his brother as so many people had intimated.

  Until now.

  Kaelan was staggering blindly about the clearing, blood splattered all along the front of his worn cambric shirt. He was trying to lift his head, trying to see, but he missed the jab that caught him savagely on his left cheekbone and jerked his head around. The prince stumbled—and with a sharp, cut-off cry of agony—went down on his left knee. Another cry was forced from him when he dropped to the ground, falling over to his side almost immediately in a vain effort to protect his injured leg.

  “Ask quarter, Your Grace,” the Duke heard Utley advising. “Ask quarter and it will stop."

  Rolf was dancing about the clearing, making fancy steps on the packed-down snow. His bruised fists were still up, jabbing now and again at the air.

  “Ask quarter,” Landers, the other tracker whispered.

  Dakin watched with astonishment as the young prince pushed himself up from the ground, pausing to draw breath into his bruised lungs. His head hung down wearily for a moment before he shook it to rid himself of the pain. His shoulders gave way—only a little—but every man there knew it was a sign that the prince was almost at the end of his endurance.

  “Ask quarter, Your Grace,” Utley repeated.

  The harsh sigh that came from the prince was heard as clearly as a shout would have been. Then he pushed himself the rest of the way up, favoring his leg, and bringing his tired arms up to continue.

  “Shit,” Utley mumbled and turned away, shoving Landers aside. “I can't watch this!"

  Rolf danced toward his opponent—feigning a jab here, a hook there—but never landed a blow. He circled the staggering man who turned clumsily with him, knowing Hesar sensed his presence even if he couldn't see him, and laughed when a weak jab came toward him. The younger man feigned lefts then ducked in and drove a vicious right fist into the small of Prince Kaelan's unprotected back.

  Dakin sucked in his breath—feeling the agony, himself, of that brutal hit—and watched as Kaelan's body twisted painfully toward the left.

  Kaelan cried out at the pain the movement caused in his leg.

  Rolf landed a hard blow to his opponent's gut and the prince's body folded down upon itself.

  “Quarter!” Landers said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Retching from the pain in his belly, Kaelan straightened only to have a fist driven into his face. He stumbled back, dazed and disoriented.

  “Quarter!” one of the men who had stayed behind to guard the king echoed.

  There was another jab to the prince's left kidney.

  “Quarter! began the chant.

  A savage blow to the other kidney.

  “Quarter!!"

  Rolf landed a heavy-handed pop to Kaelan's temple which spun the older man around and slammed him face down into the snow.

  “QUARTER!"

  The chanting was coming from every throat save the four royals.

  Kaelan tried to push himself up and couldn't. He fell back to the snow—his battered face turned toward Dakin—and lay there.

  “QUARTER!

  Dakin turned and looked at Duncan. The king was just standing there-arms crossed over his chest-staring down at his own flesh and blood, beaten to the point of being barely recognizable.

  “Sire?” Dakin prompted, bringing Duncan's gaze to him. “The man is down."

  Duncan turned his head away. “He has not begged quarter."

  Dakin gawked at the king. Was the man going to allow his brother to be beaten to death? Gillian's love? Not if her father had anything to say about it!

  “Is it his admission of defeat at the hands of your champion you seek, Majesty, or his total destruction that makes you allow this savage torture to go on?” Dakin spat. When Duncan's head snapped around toward him, the Duke smiled hatefully. “He is beaten; he can not go on. But he is still very much a warrior for he will not ask for something he knows you don't want to give him anyway!"

  Duncan's nostrils flared with outrage and he took a step toward the ambassador before stopping himself. Was it really Kaelan's complete annihilation he wanted? His brother was down; defeated; beaten so badly it would take weeks for him to heal, if he ever did. Wasn't that enough? Hadn't both his and de Vienne's honor been avenged?

  Turning his gaze once more to Kaelan, it was almost on the tip of Duncan's tongue to demand his brother say the humiliati
ng words; but the men gathered around were watching him. They had been spectacle to—not a fight—but a beating and they knew it. It had not been a contest between two evenly matched opponents; it had been a sentence of punishment for one and high enjoyment for the other. As king, he could lose their respect—if he hadn't lost of some of it already by subjecting their beloved Kaelan to Rolf's tender ministration—and that was to be avoided.

  “Mount up,” Duncan said, striding toward the horses that had never been unsaddled. As Utley and Landers started toward his brother, the king bellowed: “Leave him be! He is a warrior, as the Duke so graciously pointed out to me! Allow him the dignity of caring for himself!"

  “But he is hurt, Your Majesty!” Utley called out.

  “MOUNT UP!” Duncan roared. He was already in the saddle.

  Dakin began to walk toward the fallen man, but the king's harsh words brought him up short: “If you help him, he will not appreciate it, Cree,” Duncan grated. “Believe me: he will not!"

  The Duke hesitated. He had all but made up his mind to ignore the warning when Kaelan managed to ease himself up and turn a badly disfigured face toward him.

  “Go, Your Grace,” Kaelan asked. His voice was weak, infinitely tired and filled with pain.

  “But, you are hurt, son,” Dakin protested, tears forming in his eyes for that face might well be beyond return to normal.

  “Please go,” came the labored request. “I've given her time to get away."

  The rumble of horses coming up the road from the village drowned out Dakin's reply, but the Duke nodded once in understanding and stalked angrily to his horse. He did not want to leave this hurt man lying in the snow, but neither did he want to shame him in front of the pompous bastard who was his brother.

  Richter's men galloped up and the sergeant doffed his fur hat.

  “Well?” Duncan shouted to Sergeant Richter, looking beyond him to see if the Cree siblings had been found and brought back. When he did not see them among the troop, his face grew dark as sin. “What happened?"

  “They wouldn't let us cross over,” the Elite reported with a flaming face. “There were armed men waiting for us at the Carbonham Gate."