Windlegends Saga - The Windhealer Part 9

Something dark and mad went through Lydon Drake. He placed the blade tip to Conar's jugular. His palm itched where the handle rested.

"If we go back without him, the Commandant will kill us," the first guard said.

Lydon dug the knife tip into Conar's flesh with just enough pressure to cause pain, but not enough to draw blood.

"You don't mind if we take you back dead, do you?"

After coercing enough moisture into his mouth, Conar forced himself to speak. "I don't give a d.a.m.n what you do to me, you sorry piece of s.h.i.t." It was difficult to make sense out of his garbled, croaking speech, but he could tell Lydon had understood.

Drake pressed the knife into the flesh and a thin bead of blood welled along the nick. "I'm going to slit your throat!"

"Then do it," the second guard sneered. "Kill the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Conar jerked forward, trying to pierce his exposed throat on the knife point, but Lydon away s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand.

"No, I'm not going to kill you." He cupped Conar's chin with his free hand. "I have other plans for you, pretty boy."

Although he struggled valiantly to get away from the hard hands, Conar was driven to his knees and his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to kick out at his captors, to dig his heels into the sand as they tried to drag him forward, but Lydon stopped the revolt with a meaty fist alongside Conar's jaw.

The light overhead snapped out of his world.

"Do you think they'll ever find him?" Grice looked at Roget, who sat beside Sentian.

An angry hiss escaped du Mer. He stood up so suddenly the bench crashed into the wall behind him. "Aye! They'll find him!"

"No need to shout."

"There's only so many acres on this G.o.dforsaken rock! Where the h.e.l.l is there for him to hide? Aye, they'll find him.

The question should be when? And in what condition?"

"You think Chase and Shalu are right? Do you believe he could still be alive?" Grice asked.

"I do," Chand answered for du Mer. "You have to have faith."

Roget fixed Chand with a stormy glare. "Faith in what? In whether or not he had an easy death? In whether or not he'll be alive when they bring him back so that they can torture him?" He turned to Grice. "You've been like a stone sitting there. What doyou think? Doyou have faith that Coni will be found alive?"

Somewhere along the line, Grice Wynth had lost what modic.u.m of faith he had in his G.o.ds, himself, or anything else. "Why are all you men in this hut? Don't you have your own cots?" he asked on a sigh. He wondered why his hut seemed to be their gathering place. "I'd like to go to bed."

"Fine, I'll leave," Sentian snapped. He stood and stretched. It had been a long day in the mines and his back was bothering him. He walked to the door and leaned on the opening's frame. His attention was caught by a new arrival in the compound. "Grice? Come here. Now!"

Sighing, coming wearily to his feet, cursing Sentian for all he was worth, Grice grumbled his way to the door. "This had better be good, dammit!" He looked where Sentian was pointing. "Could it be?"

Grice stared across the compound. Months of labor in a mine had effected his eyesight more than he was willing to admit. His far vision had gotten progressively worse over the last few months due to days spent in near-total darkness and then coming into blinding, searing light. "I think it is."

The confusion in Grice's voice made Roget stomp over to them. "What the h.e.l.l are you looking at?"

"How many of Conar's brothers do you know?" Grice asked.

"How many?" Roget bellowed. "By the G.o.ds, Wynth, he had a couple of hundred or more at last count!"

"Be serious!" Grice hissed. "How many do you know by sight, man?"

"Four! Five! What difference does it make?" Roget looked across the compound and saw several new men, men he had never seen before, standing together. All of them wore the arm bands of the camp guard, fresh, clean uniforms, so he did as he had always done and ignored them.

"Did you know Brelan Saur?" Sentian asked.

"I've met the man. What of it?" Roget snarled.

"Get out of that d.a.m.ned p.i.s.sy mood and take a good look at the man over by the porch railing, the one wearing the blue arm band of Chief Warden." Grice thought the man he was seeing was his best friend, his boyhood companion, Brelan Saur, but he couldn't be sure. Finding out was suddenly vitally important. "Is it him?" he shouted, waking all those in the hut.

"Who?" Jah-Ma-El rushed toward the doorway.

Roget narrowed his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about the fellow Grice had indicated, so he looked closer. He took in the dark hair, the build, the stance, added fourteen years to the man's age-the last time he had seen Brelan Saur-and frowned. Across the distance, he couldn't be sure. "It's been a long time. What the h.e.l.l would he be here for anyway?"

"Why, indeed?" came Tyne's voice. "You men woke me with your infernal hissing! Let me have a look. Saur was a friend." Shouldering Sentian aside, Tyne took a long look at the man across the compound who suddenly glanced their way.

"Itis him!" Jah-Ma-El whispered.

"I'm d.a.m.ned sure going to find out why he's here!" Roget pushed past the men and strode toward the guards.

Shalu came to the doorway and peered out. "I've been expecting him. He has been sent here as Chief Warden.

Appolyon will have to keep him here so Saur can not go back to Boreas and reveal the Tribunal's secret."

As he stalked toward the guards, Roget saw recognition in Brelan Saur's dark face, but he also saw something else-a warning. An astute man, Roget realized Brelan's warning was meant for him alone. As he drew even with the group, he heard his name.

"What do you want, du Mer?"

Roget turned to one of the long-time guards. "New group of s.a.d.i.s.ts, Borg?"

Borg didn't answer. Instead, the short, bald man turned to Brelan Saur. "Du Mer's a troublemaker, but he's harmless enough. He's the old man of the group; been around longer than anyone else. He should have gone back to the world, but since be couldn't bring himself to leave his pet behind, he's still here." He turned a hateful grin to Roget. "Ain't that right, du Mer?"

Roget felt the muscles in his jaw hardening, but he didn't take Borg's bait. He looked to Brelan. "You're Brelan Saur." It wasn't a statement; it was an accusation.

"And you're Cul du Mer's bad little boy," Brelan snapped.

Roget made a rude, snorting sound and spat at Brelan's feet. "Here to inspect the facilities, Lord Saur?" he asked in an insulting tone.

"Here to keep troublemakers like you in line, du Mer!" Brelan shot back with equal disdain.

"And you'll no doubt enjoy it, eh?"

"I'll try."

Roget would have spoken again, but a shout rang out over the compound.

The guard beside him chuckled. "Your pet's back, du Mer!"

Roget felt every muscle in his body tense. His gaze flew to the hut where his fellow inmates were watching the approaching three guards dragging an unconscious man between them.

"He ain't dead!" Lydon Drake called.

Brelan couldn't help but notice the white line that had formed around du Mer's mouth. Nor the pain in the man's dark eyes. He spoke in a voice that carried no further than du Mer's ears. "Legion sent me to help. I'll do whatever I can."

Roget let out a ragged breath although he didn't give away any reaction. He wasn't even looking at the man as he answered. "Then you'd better start doing something now."

"I was sent to bring you men home."

A stunned tremor went through Roget's body. He turned a startled stare to Saur.

"You can trust me."

"The G.o.ds know we're going to need you!"

Brelan turned his attention from du Mer's strained face to the man being brought to the Commandant's hut. The prisoner was sagging between two guards, his head dropped to his chest, his legs limp. Filth covered his upper torso; sand streaked his hair. Only the movement of his thin chest proclaimed him alive. Commandant Appolyon came out of his quarters, belting his robe around his corpulent bulk. He smiled at Lydon.

"Alive, Drake?"

"As ordered, Sir!"

"Good! Good!" Appolyon walked to where the two guards still held the prisoner. The Commandant c.o.c.ked his head and smiled. "Welcome home, little one," he said gently and stroked the prisoner's back. There was a groan and a flinch, but the prisoner did not raise his face.

"What's your pleasure, Commandant?" Lydon grinned, fingering the belt around his middle.

Appolyon put his stubby finger to his lips. "I haven't decided, as yet. Awaken him."

Lydon slapped the bound man across his face. "Wake up, pretty boy!"

The man's sagging head shot sideways before falling back against his chest.

Brelan could feel the rage building in Roget du Mer. The air seemed to be charged. Men Brelan knew all too well joined Roget in the yard. His gaze flickered over Grice and Chand Wynth, Sentian Heil, and the others he had been sent to rescue. He caught a glimpse of Hern in the doorway of a hut, several men keeping him there by force. He could feel the tension like flickering lightning. Familiar with the brutalities practiced here, Brelan wasn't surprised by the abusive treatment the prisoner was receiving. He was, however, perplexed by the hate and rage on the faces of the others.

Turning to Brelan, Appolyon inquired politely, "You're one of King Gerren's byblows, are you not?"

Brelan felt his anger bubbling up, but instead of showing the slug how he felt about the intentional insult, he forced an obsequious smile to his tight lips. "One of several dozen b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Commandant!" he boasted, winking lewdly at the over-sized jacka.s.s.

Appolyon grinned. "Proud of it? Doesn't it bother you?"

Brelan chuckled. "Nothing bothers me, Commandant. I have thick skin."

"I would imagine you have been insulted many times over the years." The smile was malicious on the thick lips.

Saur's wide shoulders shrugged. "Sticks and stones, Commandant."

"Yes, indeed." Venom laced his next question. "And how did you feel about your royal brothers? Although I hear there are none left."

"I cared for them about as much as they cared for me."

Appolyon folded his arms across his flabby chest. "I was told you had problems with one."

Brelan felt as though his jaw would break as he struggled to keep the toadying grin on his mouth. "I had trouble with them all, Commandant."

A crafty, evil glint crossed the pig-like face. "I was told you hated one in particular. Conar, I believe was his name."

Brelan understood. If he was going to show his make-believe loyalty to the Tribunal, he had better start now. "Conar was executed by the Tribunal, but I know you are aware of that."

"And how did you feel when he was executed, Lord Saur?"

"He got exactly what was coming to him."

There was an angry hiss from some of the men, a dry chuckle here and there, a guffaw elsewhere.

"You think the lashing was suitable punishment for him, then?"

Brelan nodded, ignoring Roget's steely glower. "Too bad it didn't last longer."

"Son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!" Sentian Heil leapt forward. Thom and Storm subdued him before the guards could turn on him with their swords. "Oh, let him have his say!" Appolyon laughed. "He knows he won't have to pay for his outbursts." He fixed Heil with an unwavering grin. "But he does know who will!" Appolyon walked to where Lydon and the two guards were supporting the limp man. He glanced at Brelan. "You don't think Conar McGregor suffered enough for his crimes against the Tribunal?"

In for a penny, in for a pound, Brelan thought dismally. He let his grin fade and locked his stony gaze with the pig-like malicious...o...b... "If it had been up to me, he wouldn't have died." "And what would you have done, Saur?" The fat jowls quivered in antic.i.p.ation. Saur could feel the anger directed at him by more than a few men. "We'll never know, will we? He'd not have cared for it, I a.s.sure you, but I wouldn't have let him die." Appolyon cupped the chin of the prisoner, caressed the face with its ragged growth of beard. "Would you have tortured him, Saur?" "Possibly," Brelan answered, thinking that had it been up to him, he would have spirited Conar out of the country, well away from Liza. That would have been a torture of the first order to Conar McGregor. "Would you have enjoyed it?" Appolyon tugged gently on the prisoner's chin.

"Probably," he said, thinking that, at that time, he would have enjoyed Conar's mental torture. The Commandant ran the backs of his fingers over his prisoner's cheek, chuckling as the sagging head pulled away. He realized the man was aware of what was being said. His voice was oily as he spoke. "Did Conar McGregor's great pain please you, Saur? Did his pain amuse you as the flesh was stripped from his body?"

"It..." Brelan strove for the right word. "It intrigued me, Commandant." "How so?" "I wanted to see just how much pain he could stand before death." Brelan felt his stomach lurch at the lie. "Then this should please you greatly, Saur!" Appolyon crooked one stubby finger at Brelan. Brelan stepped forward, no thought in his mind other than the fat man was even more gross than the Commandant who had preceded him. As he drew near the prisoner, his nostrils quivered at the rancid smell. He let his scrutiny wander from the bare, blistered, heavily callused feet, to the ragged breeches that barely covered legs and hips, to the filthy chest criss-crossed with the scars of old lash marks, up the sunburned shoulders and neck to the dirty, snarled hair. He had to steel himself not to flinch as the Commandant grabbed a handful of the man's hair and viciously jerked up his head.

"Well, Saur?" The fat man chuckled. Brelan Saur's mind ceased to function. He stood perfectly still, unable to move, staring into the face of a ghost.

Chapter 8.

Conar felt the vicious tug on his hair as Appolyon jerked back his head. He gritted his teeth against the fiery pull on his scalp. He was fast approaching the limits of endurance and knew it. He could feel his life ebbing away, could feel his willpower, his desire to go on living, draining. If he had to suffer even one more day of this brutal existence he knew in his heart and mind he would go stark, raving mad. He groaned, thinking not of what was going to be done to him, although that would be bad enough, but of what might be done to his friends because of his futile attempt to escape this h.e.l.lish, nightmarish life.

He heard Appolyon's snide voice, but he was beyond understanding the words. He was beyond feeling anything except the vile touch of the fat man's slimy hands on him. He was beyond caring if he survived the coming ordeal.

What did it matter? he thought. His life was over anyway. Death was close, calling to him. Might as well look it in the eye and embrace it as though it were a welcome lover, accept it as a man instead of the quivering animal he had become.

Calling on what little reserve of dignity he had left, he forced himself to open his eyes.

Conar saw total recognition flooding Brelan's startled face, saw terror, panic, sheer disbelief flit across the pallid plains. Then he saw the pity, and he lowered his gaze.

Conar wanted to sink into the sand never to rise again. Such pity, never seen before in Brelan's eyes, had cut him to the quick and his heart was bleeding, crumpling inside him like the dried remnants of his former life.