Windlegends Saga - The Windhealer Part 50

But Wyn was not so handicapped, and had revolted at the idea of being left behind.

"Dammit, Papa! I want an answer!" The strong young arms of a swordsman-in-training folded over a chest starting to widen and thicken like his father's. He tossed his long blond hair out of his eyes and braced his feet wide apart. "Why can't I go?"

Conar was vividly reminded of similar arguments he'd had with this boy's grandfather and that knowledge ate at him. I'm turning into my father, he thought dismally. He fell back on one of his father's favorite excuses: "I don't have to give you an answer!" Conar shouted. "I only have to give you an order and I expect it to be obeyed!"

"That's not good enough! I'm too much my father's son to meekly accept what I'm told without comment or thought. I'm just as much my own man as he is!"

"You smarta.s.s!" Conar took a step toward his son. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Ithought I was speaking to my father, but I can see I'm speaking to the Raven, instead. So, I'll ask him. Why can't I go to Serenia?"

Conar looked at his brothers-Jah-Ma-El, Coron, Dyllon. He looked at his cousin, Rylan. He glanced at his uncle. He didn't see any help in any of their faces, and suspected he wouldn't have received any had he asked or had they been able to provide it. He turned back to his son. "You want an answer? As the Raven, I say you are to remain in Chrystallus to help train the men your uncles will be recruiting. We cannot train them in the field. We don't have the time or resources to do so. To send them into the field ill-prepared, up against seasoned Temple Guards, would be dangerous for them and even more so to the men on the Force. I need men I can trust at my back. Men I can trust with our lives!"

Wyn nodded. "As a member of the Wind Force, I can accept that, but as your son, I cannot. Any man can help my uncles train. I would rather be with my people, fighting for my country. That is my birthright. Now, as my father, tell me why I can't go!"

Conar took another step toward his son, aiming to hit him. Any other man would have backed down, but not Wyn. He didn't even flinch as Conar cruelly gripped his shoulder. "As your father, you little snot, I say o remain in Chrystallus because I..." The blue eyes flickered, the hand on Wyn's shoulder tightened even more, but the boy showed no signs of pain. Conar stared into Wyn's stormy face and saw himself eleven or so years earlier, standing before his own father, demanding to know why he couldn't venture out in the midst of a killing storm to be with Liza.

"Because what?" Wyn prompted.

Conar saw his father's face superimposed over Wyn's, staring at him with a knowing look that had once warned him just such a day, just such a scene as this, would one day be his to play. Had it really been this hard for his father? Conar thought. Did I give him just this much trouble when I was young? If I did, he prayed silently, I am sorry, Papa. I'll make it up to you.

The pain of knowing he would never see his father again this side of heaven made him falter, made his words heavy in his throat. His voice was softer than the men had heard it in a long time. "Because I have already lost everything I have ever held dear. You are my only son, Wynland, my only child. I will lose no more." He crushed Wyn to him in an embrace that squeezed the air from the boy's lungs. "I would lose what sanity I have left if I were to lose you."

Wyn's arms went around his father. They clung to each other as though gripping a lifeboat in stormy seas.

"Let me go, Papa. I want to be there for you. I don't want to lose you again, either!"

Conar shook his head. "If I had to worry about you, what good would I be to my men?" He pushed Wyn. "Here, with our aunt and uncle, with my brothers, you are protected. Here, you are safe. Here, I would not worry about you. Don't make this any more difficult for me than it already is. It will be hard enough to leave you behind." He swept a lock of blond hair from his son's forehead. Whenhad the boy gotten taller than him? "Let me have at least some measure of peace in this lifetime."

Wyn buried his face in his father's shoulder. "I love you," he whispered, giving in to tears he hadn't wanted to shed.

"And I love you."

Jah-Ma-El turned away. He'd seen the look in Conar's eyes when he said the word "love." He didn't think Conar knew what the word meant anymore.

Chapter 18.

"As soon as I leave, I want you to send the message to our men in Virago, Chale, and Ionary. Tell them to meet you in Boreas on the fourth day of August."

Rylan nodded, watching Conar tighten the cinch on his black stallion. "You'll watch your back, now, right?"

"Don't worry about me." He made sure the cinch was secure, then turned to Rylan. "Just make sure you keep yourself safe, Hesar."

"I plan on going to the palace as soon as I reach Boreas. Brelan will need to know about the latest. Is there anything you want me to do until you get there?"

There was a snort of contempt from the finely chiseled mouth. "Keep her warm for me!" He swung up into the saddle. He looked at the hand Rylan had placed on his thigh.

"Don't keep doing that, Conar."

"What?"

Rylan let out a tired sigh. They'd all been through this before. "Elizabeth is part of the past. Let her stay there."

Conar's look would have quelled a normal man, but Rylan simply stared at him with worry.

"She's very much a part of my future, Cousin. She just doesn't know how much!" He jerked on the horse's reins and dug his heels into the wide flanks, clicking his tongue.

He had named the big black steed Seachange and had once chuckled evilly when asked what the name was supposed to mean. "I named my Serenian mount Seayearner for I longed for something only the sea could give me. The sea gave me something all right. A b.i.t.c.h who broke my heart! Once more the sea has provided me with a mount and this steed bears the name that has brought forth the Dark Overlord of the Wind! I have been changed by the unfaithfulness of the sea."

Rylan watched him gallop to the head of a column of men. There was dismay on Hesar's face as he turned to the men behind him. "Let's get going."

He and eight others would be leaving for Boreas on a pirated Diabolusian galley, since that vile country was still on friendly terms with the Tribunal regime. No one would think to stop a galley that flew a Diabolusian banner.

Hesar glanced back from the gangplank. Conar sat ramrod straight in the saddle, his spine taut, his shoulders squared. With his blond hair glimmering in the harsh winter light, he sat with gloved hands crossed over the saddle horn and waited until the last of his men had moved into line behind him. The heavy fur-lined cloak that covered him from high collar to boot and lay draped over his stallion's rump blew back with the stiffening breeze. Rylan saw the black shirt and breeches that were now Conar's only color of clothing.

"Take care, Cousin!" Conar called, lifting his hand. His steed pranced sideways, straining at the bit, and he clucked his tongue, stilling the ma.s.sive animal's instinct to break into a run. He pulled on the reins; the beast obeyed.

The jingle of harness and the plop of hooves on stone carried in the chill air. A light snow was already falling and it was predicted that a heavier fall would come before evening. The men were anxious to depart before the mountain pa.s.ses to the south became slick with ice.

Gathered along the northern wall of the palace, along the road that led down to the pa.s.sageway to Necroman's border, were the many peasants and bondspeople who had worked to make this campaign a reality. They forged weapons, housed recruits, broke horses and helped train them, fed and clothed the more than one-hundred men who would be making the trek to Necroman behind Conar. These people had been loyal and friendly, and he was determined to show them respect and thanks despite the cold numbing his lips, hands, and toes.

He looked up at the high palace walls and waved to his aunt and uncle. There was no moisture in the hard depths of his cold eyes-he had vowed to shed no more tears in his lifetime-but there was a dragging pain in his heart at leaving his relatives, at leaving behind his brothers, his son, the two nephews and one niece-the new generation of the McGregor line. He wondered at the feelings, amazed he could still feel anything after his bargain with Alel, or whatever G.o.d he had found that day in the sanctuary.

"Maybe it's only her that's been erased from your heart," an inner voice taunted. He thought her name, her face, and found nothing. He was satisfied. With a grim nod of pleasure, he hoped she'd been removed from his caring.

He looked at the people who had braved the frigid temperature to bid him farewell. He put his right hand over his heart. "You have my eternal grat.i.tude for all you have done. We take with us your kindness and love!" His words were chips of ice, but no one heard the coldness. They did not want to. They smiled as he put his heels to his horse and the long line began to move.

"May the Wind be favorable to you, Lord Raven!" a woman's warm voice rang out over the chill air, and her chant was repeated here and there until every throat was alive with the words. It would become his new battle cry.

"May the G.o.ds ride with you, my darling," the Empress Dyreil whispered through tears.

Her husband's arm draped her shoulder. "He'll be all right, Dy," Tran said and kissed her forehead.

Dyllon patted his aunt's shoulder. "He rides with the Wind."

"Heis the Wind," Wyn corrected. He watched until the troop of men were no longer visible as they wound their way along the serpentine pathway into the white mist of the snows. "May the Wind be favorable to you, Papa."

Wyn turned away, his mind divided between the man he loved and the slim Necromanian girl who had captured his heart and had left with her father on the trek. She had been the real reason he had wanted to go, but had dared not tell that to the Raven.

His father might have understood, but the Raven wouldn't have.

The last thingthat man would understand would be young love.

They made camp for the night at the entrance to Miku Pa.s.s, the first of five treacherous switchback pa.s.ses that would lead them through the mountains to Necroman. Snow had yet to reach this first pa.s.s, but already the air was becoming thick with cold and damp. The swirling snows they had left in the foothills would soon catch up with them.

Cook fires were set and the meal began. In all, one-hundred-and-three men and six women were making camp on the overhang of Shiku Pa.s.s. The campfires ranged over a fifty-yard stretch of frozen ground and sent small spirals of smoke into the darkening sky. Twenty-seven pack animals were scattered along the long line of troop mounts, and because taking care of so many animals was a major ch.o.r.e, the men ate in shifts, lookouts posted to keep away predators and spies.

Conar was restless as the men set about their tasks and ate. He had eaten his meal in silence, striding away from the others, plate in hand, gaze on the far peaks of his homeland as he stood and mindlessly shoveled food into his mouth. No one had bothered him on the trail; no one bothered him now as he sat well away from his men and their chatter. His black-booted feet were spread apart, his hands dangling between his open thighs. He stared at the snow at his feet. His silences were becoming as much a part of him as the frown on his face.

Those who loved him watched in worry as he stood and walked to the edge of the precipice that overlooked the Valley of the G.o.ds. He stared, unblinking, at the tall Serenian mountain range beyond and his stare grew colder than the air.

The scene repeated itself night after night as they made their way through the now-deep snows. Laboriously, the horses struggled through the banks, up rapidly inclining pathways, through heavy curtains of blowing snow, down descents so treacherously slick with ice the horses skidded and their legs swept out from beneath them. Then they would reach the next pa.s.s, the next campsite. Conar would eat, then turn his silent, angry gaze to the peaks of Mount Serenia. He would shun idle conversation, ignore the few remarks sent his way, answer only questions that didn't set his teeth on edge. His full attention was riveted on what lay beyond the snows of Chrystallus.

The last camp was made near Shiku Pa.s.s. They found the cavern where many ancient Chrystallusian and tribal warriors had pa.s.sed their days and nights in preparation for harmless cattle raids against neighboring countries of Necroman and Serenia. The cavern was big enough to house all the men and animals.

Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the men settled down in heavy furs to wait out the storm that had begun earlier in the day. Winds whistled like demons and a crisp, chilling breeze blew through the entranceway where some horses were tethered to make room in the farther reaches of the cavern for the troops. Steam rose from the nostrils of man and beast as the wind raced along the corridor and hovered at the wide entrance into the largest portion of the cavern.

"It's a good thing we made it here before that storm struck," Grice told his brother, Chand.

"How long do you think we'll have to stay?"

"We may be here awhile," Shalu answered. He handed Conar's meal to him.

"Three, maybe four days from the looks of it." Conar nodded his thanks as he accepted the food. He shoved a large mouthful of beans and pork in his mouth. "It'll give the men time to rest."

"What about you?" Shalu inquired, searching the tired face that glanced at him with annoyance.

"I'm fine."

"I see," Shalu snapped, bestowing a warning look on his daughter as she nudged his knee in exasperation. "He's starting to annoy me!" the Necroman replied to Kym's look of chastis.e.m.e.nt.

Several men carrying firewood came through the cavern. They stamped snow from their boots and dumped their loads of fuel near the big campfire around which Conar and the others sat.

"There's lots of wood, Lord Raven," one informed his leader.

Conar nodded, continued to eat his food without looking up. "When you go out again, make sure you tether yourselves to one another. There'll be a whiteout by morning. I don't want anyone getting lost."

"Aye, Milord!" the man said. No one needed to ask how Conar knew about the whiteout.

"Don't you be going off out there either," Shalu said, "without one of us attached to you."

Conar looked up, a forkful of beans half-way to his mouth. His face went granite-hard. "I can take care of myself."

"Go to the pit!" Slau snarled. He had better things to do than spar with Conar.

Kym ducked her head, biting her lips to keep her smile from showing. When she looked up through the black fringe of her lashes, she saw Conar frowning at her.

"You should have stayed at the palace."

"You should have let Wyn come and I wouldn't be getting into anyone's way," she said boldly.

The dark eyes, eyes others were afraid of but she found heavenly to look into, softened. "And neither henor you would have gotten a d.a.m.ned thing done for making goo-goo faces at each other!"

He put down his plate and walked to his pallet. He threw off his fur cloak, then plopped down. Restless, cold, and angry at having snapped at Shalu and Kym, he found he couldn't sleep. He drew the fur cloak over his shoulders and turned from one side to the other until he was exhausted; he punched the rolled fur he used for a pillow so many times he lost count. Finally he sighed. He found he just wasn't sleepy. His eyes rolled to the heavens and he threw off the fur with a disgusted snort. He sat up, raked his hand through his hair. He looked about the cavern, heard snores that made him growl beneath his breath.

He had forbidden anyone to sleep near him, desiring the solitude he knew would be afforded him once he pressed the point; and press the point he did. The company only seemed to make him nervous, and less inclined than usual to be civil. The nightmares had fled, but he found sleep more elusive the closer he got to the high peaks of the Serenian mountains.

There was a jerk to his body movements that had not been there before leaving the palace. Everything he did, he did with haste and rapidly decreasing patience. His horse's saddle wasn't as quick in coming off as he thought, and he would push aside the man doing it and finish it himself. If he didn't get his meal ladled out first, he would spoon it into his own plate, shoving aside whoever got in his way, snarling like a beast protecting his food. The men understood, but he didn't.

He sat a long time and watched his men sleep. He made note that Grice slept on his right side; Chand slept on his back, mouth gaping, snoring; Jah-Ma-El was hunched down into his furs and seemed to be sleeping on his belly with his a.s.s in the air like a little child. Roget was curled up in a fetal position, his a.s.s to the fire. Tyne and Chase slept near one another, facing in opposite directions. He swung his inspection to Sentian, finding the source of the worst snoring.

Early the next morning, after a night spent watching others sleep, he was out of the cavern, his nerves to the breaking point. He knew just how many seconds there were between Sentian's first intake of breath and his G.o.dawful snore. He knew just how often Shalu had sighed, Thom had burped, and Belvoir had farted. He knew just how many times Chand had mumbled and how many times Tyne had smacked his lips. He knew if he didn't get out, he'd start on a killing rampage that would seriously reduce the amount of leaders among the Wind Force.

It was right after the false dawn and the snow was thick on the ground, some soft flakes still randomly falling over the pristine surface. He stood with his back to the mountain and glared over the distance that separated him from the frosty peaks of his birth.

He stood with his booted feet planted apart in the deep snow, the insteps of his leather boots covered with the sparkling white fluff. His hands were on his hips, his unwavering dark gaze glued to the tallest peak, Mount Serenia, where he knew the Monastery of the Domination was located. He was heedless of the cold, although he had left his fur cloak in the cavern. The thick quilted lining of his black silk tunic and breeches did nothing to eliminate the chill, but his body temperature was like his temper-red hot and oblivious to cold. So steady was his gaze, so concentrated his scrutiny, so lost were his memories in that dark, h.e.l.l-hole of an abbey, he failed to hear the furtive crunch of snow behind him. So intense was his anger at what he was feeling, all danger was ignored. It wasn't until he felt the pain, heard his name shouted in warning, that he became aware that anything was wrong.

Roget had awakened only moments after Conar had left the warmth and safety of the cavern. He turned toward the place where his friend had been sitting and, upon seeing the furs thrown back, knew instinctively Conar was outside, staring at the mountains as he did every idle moment.

Sighing, Roget sat up. He could account for everyone with one scan of his trained eyes. He frowned. Conar had gone out on his own. Reluctantly flinging aside his furs, he got up and stretched, annoyed that he had to leave a warm pallet to babysit a man who should know better.

"Went out on his own?" Shalu grumbled, sitting up. He scratched at his wide chest.

"Looks that way." Roget picked up his fur cloak, flinging it around him.

"I'll go with you. I gotta p.i.s.s." Shalu stood, dragging his fur blanket around his wide shoulders. "Sometimes I think that boy has s.h.i.t for brains!"

Chase Montyne came wide awake, probing the intrusion that had awakened him from a sound sleep. He sensed a disquiet, a quiver in the air and he stood up. He didn't see Conar, didn't see the Necroman or du Mer. His gaze swung to Jah-Ma-El and he wasn't surprised to see the man sitting up with a blank look on his thin face. Chase didn't bother picking up his fur. He started toward the cavern's entrance, his bare chest gleaming in the faint light cast by smoldering campfires.

Both Roget and Shalu exited the cavern just as the first rays of the sun came up behind the mountain. The rounded hump of Mount Hesnu's shadow flowed out to where Conar stood looking over the dark valley below. But the mountain was not the only shadow cast. Silhouetted on the southern slope of the mountain's shadow was the unmistakable shadow of an archer. Turning puzzled eyes to the overhang above, expecting to see one of their men guarding Conar's back, Shalu was the first to see the stranger, a quarrel nocked in his crossbow, his aim leveled at Conar.

"Conar!"Shalu shouted, but too late. The quarrel sang through the still air and the sound of a dull, meaty thud echoed over the precipice.

Du Mer had already begun to run toward Conar. There was a distance of perhaps ten yards separating them. The thought of a quarrel finding its way into his own back didn't even occur to him. He was intent only on reaching Conar, on protecting him. He saw the impact of the missile as it struck his friend and thanked whatever G.o.d was looking on that Conar had pivoted reflexively at Shalu's shout and his right foot sank deep into the snow, twisting his body sideways and downward, making him stumble.

Bewildered, Conar looked when the searing pain registered in his left side. He had felt the impact, heard the thud, but the pain hadn't come for he was numb with cold. He didn't actually feel the fire of the black-fletched quarrel until he saw the d.a.m.ned thing sticking out of him in the fleshy part of his side near his hip. His first thought was of his torn breeches. He was just getting them broken in. His second thought turned his blood to ice. The quarrel sticking out of his ruined breeches, sticking out ofhim, was one of his own! Puzzled, he looked up at the mountain, saw the archer fleeing, then glanced at Roget who seemed to be running toward him in slow motion.

"Hey, du Mer! That son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h tore my breeches." He reached for the quarrel, putting his hand on the shaft. He squinted, meaning to pull the thing free, but the pain was so intense he nearly vomited. His knees buckled. He felt an excruciating jolt of agony as he slammed into the snow on his knees, his teeth clicking, tasting blood where his back molars clipped his vulnerable tongue.

He heard Roget screaming his name, over and over again, the words echoing off the mountains, but there was a loud buzzing in his ears, as well. He saw Shalu running toward him, caught a glimpse of Chase and Jah-Ma-El tearing out of the cavern, saw their shocked faces. The world began to turn, spinning, pain ripping down his thigh and leg.

Roget slid forward on his knees, his arms reaching for Conar.

"That miserable c.o.c.ksucker tore my breeches, du Mer," he hissed, then pitched forward.

Roget caught him under the arms as he fell.