WindBeliever (32 page)

“Things are heating up between him and the gel and he’s making friends with that young Inner Kingdom Prince,” Cayn translated.

Meggie glanced at the Healer. “Says he’s looking forward to some kind of games they’re going to be having and wishes he had some of my apple dumplings ‘cause they don’t know how to make ‘em over there.”

“There is to be a tourney in which, I would imagine, men will be vying for this gel’s hand,”

Cayn told them. “And, if I know women, the gel had some dumplings made especially for him and he didn’t like them.”

Legion stared at the Healer. “How can you read all that from the garbage that little twit wrote Meg and me?”

Cayn grinned. “Because I know Conar McGregor.”

“That still doesn’t explain why we haven’t heard from Storm,” Sentian remarked. “Do you think we should send someone to see about him?”

“Storm can take care of himself,” Thom reminded Sentian. “He may not have found a reliable source of getting his letters to us.”

Sentian turned to the window and stared out at the place where the old whipping post had stood for so many years before being chopped down at Occultus Noire’s command.

“Well,” he said, squinting, “if we don’t hear from him in another few weeks, I’m going to go after the bastard, myself!”

Storm Jale groaned and pushed himself wearily to his feet. The heat around him and the horrible stench of unwashed bodies made his hungry stomach lurch. He stared into the darkness, trying to find the one face that had befriended him the day before, but he could see nothing past the wavering press of the heat. He staggered for a moment, feeling the bite of the irons around his ankles, and cursed the very moment he had stepped onto Rysalian soil.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

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“One thousand Ryals!” the man had yelled as he had shoved Storm into the arms of the keeper. “Sold to Lord Hussein for one thousand Ryals!”

“You can’t do this!” Storm had yelled as he was taken away, his leg irons and the manacles around his wrists jangling.

“Fight Hussein, boy,” the keeper had told him, “and the man will cripple you.”

“I’m a free man!” Storm had protested as he was pushed along, stumbling beneath the thrust of the keeper’s calloused hands.

“You were a free man, Outlander,” the keeper had laughed. “Now, you are Lord Hussein’s slave!”

Four weeks, he thought, overwhelmed by the knowledge. For four weeks he had been held in this rat-infested shack with forty other men, barely room enough to stand among the emaciated and unwashed bodies. Four weeks of whippings and back-breaking work in the quarry. Four weeks of nights filled with a hopeless he hadn’t even experienced in the Labyrinth. There, he hadn’t been chained like an animal or whipped like a dog, but in this godawful place, he was treated worse than Conar had been under Lydon Drake’s less-than tender care.

At least in the Labyrinth, he had been allowed to roam free about the compound, to talk among the other prisoners. There he had had friends.

Here, in this place of horror, he had met only one man who would even speak to him.

“I am from Kensett,” the man had whispered as they toiled at the rock pile that morning. “I am told you are, too.”

“I was born there, but I am no Kensetti,” Storm had snarled, slamming his pick ax into the rock. “I am Serenian.”

“You are Rysalian, now, my friend, for it is a Rysalian who owns you.”

“NO man owns me!” Storm had snarled.

The man had spoken softly to him, encouragingly, until the overseer had separated them.

Now, trying to find that friendly face in the dark, needing the companionship of another human being, Storm Jale knew how Conar McGregor must have felt when the Labyrinth had tried to take away his humanity.

“I need you, Conar,” Storm whispered into the dark, feeling the overwhelming burden of his situation to the very dregs of his being. He hung his head. “I need you, my friend.”

He

tensed.

The keepers were coming to let them out to begin their day’s labor.

A single tear slid slowly down Storm’s cheek. “Please, Conar.” Another tear followed, leaving a wavering track against the filth of Jale’s flesh. “Please.”

“And I tell you he found a man to take him into the Outer Kingdom.”

Azalon Ben-Hasheed looked at his cousin and scowled. “You saw him leave?”

The innkeeper glared at him. “Would I lie to you, Azalon?”

The caravan master snorted. “I know you had better not, Achmed.”

Achmed Ben-Robenth turned his back on his cousin and began to sort the mail that had come in to the inn’s guests, pushing the letters into the slots with such force, he crumpled several of them.

“I told you the Serenian left with a guide, Azalon. I will tell you nothing more.”

There was something in his cousin’s eyes that bothered Azalon, but he had no time to pursue the matter. He had come to the Moon and Scimitar to get the man he had promised to take to the Outer Kingdom. The caravan was ready and the others anxious to be about their trip.

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“Are you still here, Azalon?” the innkeeper snapped as he turned back around and found the burly caravan master frowning at him.

“I am leaving, Achmed,” Azalon muttered, “but if that man is not in St. Steffensberg when I get there, I will be coming back here to question you about his whereabouts.”

“Me?” the innkeeper gasped, highly affronted.

“You!” Azalon snarled, then spun on his heel and left the inn.

Achmed watched his cousin through the opened door as the older man crossed the dusty street and motioned his servant to follow. The innkeeper bit his lip, his gaze shifting to the man sitting across the room.

“Don’t worry, Achmed,” the other man said. “There is no trace of the Serenian your cousin will be able to find.”

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On the second pass, McGregor’s lance broke in half as it struck the unknown warrior’s leather breastplate just at the midpoint of the man’s wide chest.

“He’s down!” Sajin shouted, coming to his feet as his fellow Inner Kingdom noble suddenly tilted sideways, unable to maintain his balance after the hit. As the warrior hit the dirt, he rolled, cursing the fates that had knocked him from his mount.

Conar reined in his steed and turned the Palomino around. He saw his opponent down and slipped his leg over the horse’s neck to slide easily to the ground. He barely glanced at his squire as the young man ran forward with Conar’s morning star.

“He means business, Your Grace,” the squire commented as Conar hefted the morning star.

The first hit had been stronger, more forceful than Conar had expected and he had known from that moment on the other man was out to draw blood or maim him. On the second pass, he began to realize the intent was far deadlier than that.

Catherine’s hands were clenched in her lap. Her full attention was on Conar as he and the other man began to circle one another and test the other’s mettle by swinging the morning star in a long circle above their heads, moving in closer to his opponent with each successive swing.

“I don’t like this,” the Tzar mumbled under his breath.

Jaleel Jaborn lashed out with his morning star and the weapon barely missed the Outlander’s head. He snarled behind the constriction of the heavy metal helmet that protected his head.

“Who are you?” Conar asked as he took a swing at the man, not really intending to do the fellow any harm.

“Your death, McGregor!” his opponent snarled. He swung the morning star in a tight spiral and then struck out with it, slamming the spiked ball into Conar’s unprotected side and putting several deep dents in the leather before the Serenian could jump back.

“No!” Catherine shouted, coming to her feet. She was not aware of Sajin’s white face and Sybelle’s victorious grin.

“Catherine! Sit down!” her mother snapped. She reached out to tug her daughter’s hand, but Catherine stepped off the carpeted floor of the pavilion and joined her brothers near the wooden rail separating the onlookers from the field.

“Son of a bitch!” Conar gasped, putting a hand to his injured side. Although the spikes had not broken through the barrier of leather to meet vulnerable flesh, the swing had struck him such a blow he knew there would be a massive bruise along his ribs. Nothing was broken, but the hit was throbbing.

“Come meet your fate, McGregor,” he heard the man sneer at him. “I will see your filthy Serenian blood flow before I am through with you!”

Conar’s sapphire eyes narrowed as he circled the man before him. His right hand was gripping the handle of the morning star so tightly he wasn’t even aware he held it.

“Then why don’t you use a real weapon instead of these toys” he asked, “if you think you can best me in a fight, you motherless jackal?”

Jaleel Jaborn straightened from the crouch he was holding, anticipating McGregor’s countermove. At the jeer, his lips pulled back over his teeth. His growl was like that of an enraged lion. He threw his morning star away, nearly hitting his own squire as the man jumped quickly out of the weapon’s heavy path.

“I can best you with any weapon you choose, you infidel dog!”

Sajin’s brows drew together. The man’s shout, his accent seemed familiar. He glanced at WINDBELIEVER

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Sybelle and saw that his sister seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. A faint nagging worry began to open in the rich, fertile soil of Ben-Alkazar’s mind and he slowly turned to look at the man whose taunts seemed to be taking a toll on McGregor.

“Knives?” Conar threw his own weapon away and reached up to snatch off his helmet. He shook his soaking wet hair from his forehead and blew a cooling breath over his upper face.

“Can you best me with a blade, you scum-sucking pog?”

A livid red haze shot over Jaborn’s vision and he yelled at his squire to bring him his dagger.

“Why don’t you take off that helm so I can see what you look like?” Conar taunted the man as his squire ran forward and seemed to be arguing with his opponent. “Or are you too ashamed of that butt-ugly face of yours?”

Jaleel spun around, furious at the remark. He felt his squire’s hand on his arm and tried to jerk away.

“Master, please!” the man hurried to say. “There is none better in all the world with a blade than Conar McGregor!”

“What’s the matter, pog?” Conar called out. “Do you gotta get permission to come play with me?”

“Oh, for the love of the Saints!” the Tzarina groaned. “Why do men insist on insulting one another like that?”

“It makes the blood boil hotter, Mother,” Mikel answered, grinning. “And I’ve heard there is none better at insult than our Serenian Windwarrior!”

“I can vouch for that,” Catherine murmured.

“And no better master with a blade, either,” his father put in. He got to his feet, not liking the turn of the events taking place on his field of honor. He cut his eyes to Misha. “Do we stop it?”

Misha shook his head. “Conar would be beyond controlling if you were to do such a thing.

His honor is at stake here.”

“His life is at stake!” Catherine growled as she turned to glare up at her father. “Stop this, Father. Now!”

The Tzar was undecided. On the one hand, he was regretting ever having listened to Peter and Mikel concerning this damned tourney in the first place. When would he ever learn not to listen to those two brats? Yet on the other hand, he was anxious to see the great Windwarrior he had heard so much about from Misha in action.

“Let’s wait,” he answered his daughter.

“For what?” Catherine shouted at him. “One of them to be taken off the field on a stretcher?”

“Have faith in your man’s ability,” Sybelle said in a calm voice. When Catherine glared at her, the Kensetti princess smiled. “If he’s as good as he thinks he is, he’ll win, now, won’t he?”

“You gonna play or you gonna let your squire talk you outta it?” Conar taunted his opponent.

Jaborn shoved his squire away. There was a roar of rage pounding in his head and he rushed forward with the knife, taking a mighty swipe with the blade as he came within striking distance of his enemy.

Conar jumped back, drawing in his breath as the arc of the weapon struck for his midsection.

He grinned at the man circling him, looking for an opening, paying special notice to the way the man held his weapon. He sidestepped another strike, then pivoted on his left leg and kicked out with a spinning jolt to connect his foot with his opponent’s head.

Jaborn saw stars as the unexpected hit caught him alongside his right jaw and dropped him to the ground like a felled tree. He landed hard in the dirt, then pushed himself up on his knees, kneeling in the dust, shaking his head much as a wet terrier will do. Slowly he lifted his face to WINDBELIEVER

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stare at the Serenian who was looking down at him with a taunting smirk.

“What’s the matter, pog,” Conar quipped, “don’t you know how to fight like a real warrior?”

Sybelle had come to her feet when Jaleel went down. She was staring across the field with the first real nervousness she had felt since McGregor’s lance had broken. Her attention was glued to Jaleel just as Catherine’s was hard on McGregor.

“You wanna cry quarter?” Conar asked, grinning.

Jaborn’s lips drew back over his teeth and his bellow of rage was muffled but ferocious as he lunged from his crouched position and flew at the Serenian, their bodies coming together with a meaty thud as the leather armor clashed.

“I don’t know what Conar said,” Peter remarked quietly to his brother, “but I don’t think the pog liked it.”

“If I’ve come to know Conar at all,” Sajin whispered to Yuri, “he just cast aspersions on that man’s bravery.”

“That man,” Yuri scoffed, “is a fool to take on Conar McGregor.” He folded his arms. “And he will regret it.”

Catherine’s nerves were drawn so tight she thought she would snap in two. Her attention was leveled on the two men who were struggling to gain the upper hand in their battle with one another. She had ceased to breathe normally from the moment Conar had taunted the man into fighting with his dagger. Watching them as they clutched each other’s wrists while the flashing blades were pointed straight downward toward the heart of their enemy, Marie Catherine felt sick to her stomach and more than a little afraid.