WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "You have that much faith in a man you so obviously dislike?"

  "He's good at what he does."

  "He's not invincible."

  Legion kissed her cheek. "No, but he's the next best thing."

  * * *

  Amber-lea turned in her sleep and put out her hand. She felt only the cool fabric of the pillow and opened her eyes. A light, cast from the torch outside the cell, lit the tiny room, and she sensed someone sitting on the bench near her. She propped herself up on her elbow and stared into the dark corner.

  "He is well pleased with you," came a gruff, sneering voice.

  She pushed herself up in the cot and demurely covered her naked breasts. "I am here to help, not hurt."

  There was a derisive laugh. "And what do you get in return?"

  "I want nothing in return. I only want to help."

  The figure came to the cot, placed a hand on the wall above her head, and leaned forward. A face filled with scorn and loathing hovered inches from her own.

  "If you cause him a moment's pain, little girl, I will see that you regret it every moment you have left in this lifetime." A hateful smirk flowed over the figure's face. "And that time won't be long. I'll take that gods-be-damned whip he wouldn't let me destroy and flay the hide from your lying back."

  "If I hurt him, you have my permission to do whatever you will." She flinched as strong fingers took her chin in a punishing grip.

  "I don't need your permission, slut!" The angry voice was filled with promise. "You'll simply cease to exist if he is either compromised or hurt."

  "You love him, don't you?" Amber-lea asked, snatching her chin from the strong fingers. "Well, so do I!"

  "He fucked you and now you love him?"

  "He made love to me. There's a difference." She back threw the covers, heedless of her nakedness, and pointed at the bloodstain on the sheets. "I was pure. I gave myself to him and him alone. There will never be another man for me!" She drew up the covers. "He will have only me from now on."

  "What conceit! Do you honestly think he'll remain faithful to your body, you little bitch? There is only one woman who would garner that faithfulness."

  "And she is beyond his reach," Amber-lea said softly and saw him flinch. She laid her fingers on his steely forearm. "Don't fight me, Lord Brelan. Help me to help him. You know in your heart the chances he takes when one of you finds a woman to ease his needs. I can do that. I will never deny him the use of my body." She squeezed his arm. "Never. And never would I do anything to hurt him."

  * * *

  Brelan away snatched his arm. There was honesty in the girl's voice. An honesty he didn't want to hear. It was obvious Conar trusted her, but Brelan didn't. He didn't want to trust her any more than he wanted to see the truth of what she was saying. He backed away, fully aware of her great beauty.

  "If I hurt him, ever, Lord Brelan, then you be the one to relieve him of me." A single tear fell down her cheek. "If I ever hurt him, I would want to die."

  "Damn you to the pit!"

  He fled the room, his heart thudding painfully. His footsteps took him to the farthest reaches of the cold dungeon. He saw one of the cell doors open and walked inside. The place was cold, dirty, but he didn't care. He slumped down the wall and sat heavily on the floor. Drawing his knees into the protection of his arms, he pressed his fevered cheek to the moist, foul-smelling stone.

  For as long as he could remember, he had loved Elizabeth. When they were children, he had taken great delight in watching her antics. Part of the reason he had made friends with her brother, Grice, was so he could be near her. He thought, perhaps, Grice knew that, too.

  But Elizabeth had been engaged to Conar since birth. Brelan knew his anger toward Conar stemmed from knowing he would never have what he wanted most—Elizabeth's hand and heart.

  As the years passed and the time of Elizabeth's marriage to Conar drew closer, Brelan felt greater anger. It was more than just knowing Conar would have the sable-haired beauty all to himself. It was a belief that Coni was not worthy of Elizabeth's hand.

  But Conar had proven Brelan wrong.

  The man had fallen hopelessly, unrelentingly in love with the girl he had met that day in the stable of the Hound and Stag. Conar had been willing to risk the ire of his father, the king, and the retribution of Kaileel Tohre to keep her at his side. He had loved her so dearly he had given himself willingly into the hands of the Domination to keep her safe. Such love was rare that a man would forfeit his soul for the woman he loved.

  But now Conar was betraying that love in the arms of a stranger.

  Brelan pounded his head against the wall, welcoming the pain, for it was minuscule compared to the pain in his heart. "Merciful Alel, Conar!" he said, tears falling down his cheeks. "What are you doing, brother?"

  Because he understood Conar's needs, Brelan had said little about the wild promiscuity that had become his half-brother's way of life. Though he did not approve, Brelan understood and knew he would behave no differently were the situations reversed. Yet he sensed a change coming in Conar, and that both alarmed and angered him.

  There should be only one woman for Conar McGregor and the flame-haired beauty in Coni's bed was not her.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  On the crest of Mount Serenia sat a bulwark against the forces of good and right. Its secret entranceway, known only to a few of the initiated, lay within a mist-shrouded atmosphere of intense cold and gloom. Swirling black storm clouds obscured the giant ebony wood gates from view. Steam rose from the stonework as though the edifice itself was alive, breathing evil in the chill air. The smell of decay and burning flesh permeated the air around the fortress of the Brotherhood of the Domination and wrapped its vile stench around all those who neared it.

  Sometimes a howl of agony arose from the structure, trilling long and high-pitched, carrying on the still and frozen air. Sometimes the sound of thunderous drums and chanting voices could be heard. It was the Premier Gateway, this odious building, to the Abyss, and once having entered its gates, no man ever returned unchanged.

  Spiraling up from the foothills of the mountain range, a rock-strewn pathway, only a few feet wide in some places, coated now with treacherous snow and ice, led the way to the monastery of the Domination. A whirling mist of gray and white filled in the deep drop beyond the pathway's edge and anyone traversing the path had to be cautious. And not a little frightened.

  It was nearing the false dawn when Conar, Roget, and Belvoir found the hidden crevice in the rock face, which led into the mountain fortress. They probably would never have found it except for the high-flying black shadow that loomed suddenly out of the white mist, cawing and calling out to the men as they neared the entranceway.

  Conar recognized his kinsmen, felt the ache in his sword arm as the black scavenger soared overhead. He turned a watchful eye to the bird and watched it descend toward a rippling crack in the side of the mountain. It had been a long time since he had been here, and then he had been heavily drugged. When the bird disappeared through the crack, he grinned.

  He motioned his men. "Through there."

  The tunnel was narrow, tight with slime looming all the way up from floor to ceiling. A ripening smell of rot made the men gag. It was colder inside the tunnel than it had been outside.

  "What the hell is this stuff?" Roget asked as his hand slid through some of the noxious slime.

  "I don't know," Conar answered. He touched the slick material and cringed. It felt alive on his fingertips. He wiped his fingers on his heavy cloak. "Try not to touch it."

  "Don't worry," Belvoir said grimly, avoiding the mess as he squeezed his huge bulk through the crack. "There's a lever here somewhere. This place is big enough to house the horses."

  Conar ran his hands over the rock face, searching, until he found a loose rock. He pushed and a wide doorway swung open on silent hinges.

  Taking their mounts through the low archway, the men saw precious little in the dark antecham
ber. They fumbled around until Belvoir found a bundle of rushes set into the wall. He struck a flint and a glow illuminated the low room.

  "Where to?" Roget inquired, eyeing several off-shooting tunnels.

  Belvoir walked to the darkest tunnel. "This one."

  For Conar, this was living hell, second only to the Labyrinth prison colony. He had to force himself inside the tunnel. Intense fear gripped him. He made his feet move, willed his lungs to breathe. His body trembled with the force of his phobia, and sweat began oozing down his taut backbone. His heart thudded painfully against the suffocating horror, the illusion that he was entombed alive within this constrictive place.

  He could almost feel the air around him closing in, thinning, his lungs straining to take in life-giving oxygen. A scream was building, clawing at his throat, threatening to erupt. He forced it down with fervent concentration. He felt himself being pushed to the limits of his endurance and steeled himself. He had fought this dragon before and it had always won, had almost killed him three times. It had weakened him, humbled the fighter in him, but he was determined that it would not be so this time.

  Not today, he cried to his fear. You will not win today!

  Roget gripped Conar's shoulder. "We're here with you."

  Conar could do nothing but nod. He didn't know if Roget or Belvoir could see that nod in the dimness, but he knew Roget understood. He only prayed they didn't know how close he was to surrending to his fear. It seemed an eternity before the tunnel began to widen and a faint light lit up the not-too-distant end.

  Getting into the temple, itself, wasn't nearly as hard as staying in unnoticed. Dispatching two temple guards was easy enough, since the men had expected no treachery within these secret walls. Disguising themselves in the guard's clothing, Roget and Conar, his mask in place beneath the cowl of the uniform, each took a different direction in search of the boy.

  * * *

  Belvoir stayed in the shadows of the hidden tunnel, peeking out from behind a statue of the god Hyce, the Giver of Illness.

  Ironically enough, it was he who found their target.

  Or rather, the boy found the warrior.

  A reed-thin child of eight shyly ventured toward the statue and gazed at the horrible face on the black marble. He mumbled what must have been prayers or chants to the deity, then in a low voice, he asked, "Are you looking for me, Sir?"

  Belvoir had flattened his broad back against the wall just inside the partially opened doorway. He had been watching the boy approach, but had not seen the child's face. Craning his head around the opening, he was stunned. The tousled blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and open, honest face were so uncannily like those of Conar McGregor that Corbin could be none other than Coni's son.

  "I don't know," Belvoir said in his thick, deep voice. He stooped down inside the doorway. "What's your name, little one?"

  "I think you already know, sir." The boy cocked his head to gaze into the big man's face. "Tell me who sent you."

  "What if I told you it was someone very close to you?" Belvoir felt no fear at the boy's obvious knowledge that he was there to find him.

  "Then I would say we had best hurry, sir. Kaileel Tohre is in meditation and I've been waiting all night for you to come." He looked around. "With my meager skills, I can't delay him for long. There are others with you?" He stepped closer to the statue.

  "You have magic powers, little one?"

  "Something I inherited from my mother and father." After giving a fleeting sad smile, he stepped to the statue and put his hand on the marbled surface, inches from Belvoir's hand. "Move back, sir, and I will join you."

  "The others are still looking for you."

  "I will call them," was the adamant reply as the boy slipped through the crack and passed Belvoir.

  The warrior shook his head. How could the child have known they were coming for him? He heard soft whispers and looked at the boy. The lips moved; the tiny hands were clenched into fists at his side. A long moment passed before the boy looked up at Belvoir. "They're coming."

  Roget was the first to return. He slipped into the tunnel, looked at Corbin, and came to a dead halt. He obviously recognized who had fathered the boy.

  "He knew we were coming," Belvoir explained.

  "He has his father's skills," Roget whispered. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Your mother will be happy to see you."

  "You are my uncle Teal's brother, aren't you?" Corbin inquired.

  Roget grinned. "Uncle Teal? You claim that gypsy thief as an uncle?"

  "He is one of my father, Legion's, best friends. He is my uncle!" the boy said with determination.

  "Then that makes me an uncle, too, doesn't it?" Roget laughed softly.

  "My mother spoke to me in a dream. She said to be watching for the Darkwind. You aren't him."

  "How do you know that, little one?" Belvoir asked.

  "The Dark Overlord will be here, soon," Corbin said, glancing at the hidden doorway. "I feel his anger."

  A sound from outside, a half-smothered mumble, made the two men and the boy flatten themselves against the wall. A shadow loomed ahead of them, then Conar's low whistle issued from the silent place beside the statue. Roget answered with a low whistle in a different pitch.

  "Have you found that damned brat?" Conar snarled, coming up short when he saw a boy clutching Roget's hand.

  "He found us," Roget said. "Are you ready to go? This place is wearing thin."

  Corbin gazed up into the dark cowl of the uniform. "I can only hold Tohre so long, Milord. He is distracted now, but soon he will think of me."

  Belvoir watched closely as Conar stared at the boy. But for some reason, it seemed that Conar saw no resemblance to himself in the calm little face. If anything, he saw the image of Galen, for his eyes narrowed with hate and he turned his back on the boy. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  It also puzzled Belvoir that Conar didn't question how or why the boy had found them. It was as though he had been expecting it. Still, Belvoir would have wished him more curiosity concerning the lad, since it was plain whose child he truly was. He looked at Roget, who seemed to share his thoughts.

  * * *

  Corbin fell into step beside Roget, gazing up at the Darkwind's back as he strode ahead of them. He had been expecting the man's anger and animosity.

  His mother had warned him of it in his dream—"Don't be frightened of him, Corbi. He is a hard man who has led a hard life, I fear. It has made him cold and immune to the feelings of others. Don't anger him and don't speak to him unless he speaks first to you. Answer him with kindness and respect and you might receive a grudging kindness in return, although I have my doubts. But most important of all, my son, remember whose son you are. Make your father proud of you by doing exactly as the men say. They are there to bring you home safely. Don't endanger their lives. Help them to the best of your ability."

  Now, Corbin felt something he had never felt before: a closeness, a bond that puzzled him. There was so much more to this man than even his beloved mother suspected. Corbin was old enough to comprehend that, as it is with beasts and children who are free of the complexities of an adult world, they see things their elders overlook. They feel things their parents have not the time to feel. They can sense evil in a person—or good.

  What Corbin sensed in Lord Darkwind was imperfection. He was neither good nor bad. It was a strange concept for a boy who, for the past six years, had been systematically treated to every perversity a human being can witness. He knew evil from Kaileel. He knew goodness from his memories and his dreams of his mother. Lord Darkwind, however, confused him, for he felt the man thought of himself as being evil. Corbin knew better. There was a goodness in him that might be lacking now, but it was there.

  It wasn't until there was nothing between them and freedom but the silent space of the narrow tunnel that Corbin realized what it was about the Darkwind that made him seem so imperfect. The disguise. If he could but only see the man's face, he knew he would s
ee the goodness blazing there.

  * * *

  As they entered the tight tunnel, Conar felt his throat constricting once more. He took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and took a step into the darkness. But a sound from behind made him turn back.

  Roget knelt beside the boy, talking urgently to him, trying to calm him. The child trembled from head to toe and his face was stark white in the glare of Belvoir's torch. His little eyes bulged with fear, and he tried desperately to pull free of Roget's grip.

  Annoyed at the delay, Conar cursed beneath his breath. Unthinking, he angrily pushed back the cowl and tore the mask from his face. "What the hell's wrong now, Hawk?"

  "It's the tunnel!" Roget snapped. Conar's snort of anger had sent the boy into fresh spasms of terror. "He's afraid of it. You can understand that, can't you?"

  Conar ignored the sarcasm and glanced at the boy. The small chest rose and fell with struggling breaths. Sweat shone on the boy's brow before his blond head bowed in fear.

  Something painful turned inside Conar's chest, stilling the sharp, bitter retort he had been about to make. Instead, he knelt in front of Corbin and, none-too-gently, lifted the boy's chin.

  "I can't, Milord," Corbin whimpered. "I can't go in there!" Tears squeezed from between his thick, golden lashes.

  "Aye, you can," Conar tugged on the boy's chin.

  * * *

  At first, Corbin was confused by the sudden gentleness of this man's tone. Then, with perfect understanding, he knew this man had the same fear. The Darkwind had come through the tunnel earlier, and would have to go through it again. If he could do it, Corbin hoped he could, too. "I'll try."

  "That's all anyone can ask of you." The Darkwind stood and held out his hand.

  Corbin followed close behind the tall man. He clung to the strong hand, feeling the reassuring pressure of the long fingers. Even in his child's mind, he knew the man was receiving as much comfort from his hand as he was from the Darkwind's. The scream that was lurking at the back of his throat didn't come. His breath didn't stop. His demons did not come rushing out of the darkness to impale him with unsheathed claws. For the first time in his life, the suffocating feeling of confinement left him stronger instead of weaker. He was beating back the demons because the man whose hand he held was fighting with him.