WindDeceiver (33 page)

“The sea can take his life,” Rylan heard Occultus saying to the men of the Wind Force long ago. “Water can claim him. He must be taught to swim better than any man alive to stay alive should the water try to take him.”

Hesar could see Conar’s straining face as he tried to dislocate the pin; but he knew even if McGregor was able to do so, there was still one more pin holding him to the slab.

“Give up, Conar,” he thought, loosing the last of the air in his lungs. “Give up, my dear, dear friend before you die, too.”

He shot up to the surface, gasped for air and then dove, scrambling for Rylan’s back. He braced Hesar’s body with his own and levered up, pushing with all his strength so Rylan could take in air.

The platform moved, sinking all the way to the bottom of the pool.

Instant despair took hold of Conar McGregor. He knew at that moment, as he had known all along but refused to accept, that Rylan Hesar was going to die. He could feel the man twitching as he held him and felt hands clawing at his own, trying to push him away. He tightened his hold, clutching Rylan to him, refusing to let go. Nails gouged into his hands, hurting him, raking across his knuckles, but still he held on.

Rylan no longer had feeling in his body. He was losing consciousness, the blackness already speckled his peripheral vision. He was losing strength, as well, as he tried to unhook Conar’s hands from around his middle. He slapped at those strong, powerful hands, then grasped his friend’s right wrist and yanked, hoping Conar would understand.

Something tore lose inside Conar and he released his hold on Rylan. His air was almost gone and he knew his battle to keep Rylan Hesar alive was almost over. He felt Rylan pulling on his arm and he kicked out, moving through the water until he was in front of his old friend.

Rylan used the last of his waning life to reach out to Conar. He laid his hand on Conar’s scarred cheek, smiled, then shook his head, his gaze pleading with Conar to understand.

“It’s not your fault, my friend,” he thought, then he opened his mouth to let the water in.

Conar’s eyes went huge in his pallid face and he violently shook his head, denying what Rylan was trying to do. Even though he knew it was over, that there was nothing he could do, he shot to the surface, drew in breath and would have plunged back down into the water had not someone grabbed a handful of his hair and stopped him. Other hands went under his shoulders and began levering him up.

“Let go of me! Let go!”

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Yelping with fury and pain, he fought the hands that pulled him out of the water, kicking and screaming and lashing out as though the hounds of hell were attacking him. He gouged and hit and twisted viciously, cursing the hands that held him back.

“Rylan!” he screamed, struggling to break free and help his friend.

Belial drew back his fist and brought Conar McGregor’s screaming to an end.

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The early afternoon sun bore down hot on the encampment of the Samiel. Beyond, in the shimmering sands of the desert, spirals of heat danced about the dunes and tiny whirlwinds skipped about playing tag. Occasionally, the palm fronds over the tents would clack against one another and an errant breeze would tiptoe through; but for the most part, the heat ruled the encampment, making tempers short and bodies sweat.

“We have been at this all night, nomad!” Shalu protested, tipping his water skin over his glistening face to cool himself. “We are no closer to finding a way inside that bastard’s lair than we were at midnight!”

“Even if we were to get inside those damned walls,” Rupine cautioned, “what are the odds of us finding Khamsin and getting him out?”

“Little to none,” Asher grumbled.

“You men are pathetic!” Sajin shouted at them, directly his heated glare at Shalu. “Did you give up so easily when the Domination had control of Serenia?”

“We had Conar to leave us, then!” Shalu shot back. “And all his powers in the bargain!”

He slammed his water skin down beside him. “We, Montyne and myself, had powers in Serenia.

Here, we have nothing!”

Sabrina swung her head and looked at Chase. Her lover’s face was bleak, his heart showing in the pale blue of his eyes. She knew he was worried that his friends were being mistreated and that he could do nothing to help them sitting here with the men of the Samiel. Also, she knew he was trying to put himself in Conar McGregor’s place, trying to feel what that warrior was feeling and beginning to understand just how hopeless the situation was for him and the men sitting here arguing. She turned her gaze to Meggie Ruck and was found the old woman watching her.

Meggie cocked her head toward one of the tents and Sabrina nodded. She glanced around, caught Kharis’ eye and looked toward the same tent. At Kharis’ almost imperceptible lowering of his head, she got up and followed Meggie.

“Chaseton?” Meggie called out as she held open the tent flap. When Chase glanced up at her, she smiled. “Could I speak with you a moment, lad?”

He wanted to stay with the others, try to figure out a way they could get into the fortress.

He shook his head, but Sabrina called him, as well, and he sighed with impatience. Getting to his feet, he looked an apology at Sajin.

Meggie’s face was stern when he entered the tent for she had seen that look. Nothing angered her more than a man thinking he was being put upon by a woman. As he entered the tent, somewhat surprised to see Sabrina and Kharis there, as well, she tore into him as though he were a feast goose set before a starving peasant.

“Let me tell you something, Chase Montyne!” Meggie snarled, pointing a finger at him.

“I’ve never thought you to be one of them mindless men who thinks a woman’s place is at the stove and on her back, but watching you just then giving Ben-Alkazar that condescending look as if to say you’re patronizing me, I ain’t so sure no more!”

Chase stared at her, his jaw dropping open. He swung his attention to Sabrina and found her glaring back at him like he had just committed the most vile of social blunders.

“And one more thing,” Meggie snapped. “When you’re called, boy, you’d best come right then from now on. Do you take my meaning, Montyne?”

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He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click and his pale blue eyes narrowed into thin slits of pique. He looked at Sabrina, seeing her regarding him with a steady warning, then jerked his gaze to Kharis. He saw the man shrug.

“You’d better listen to her, Your Grace,” Kharis told him.

“Sit yourself down,” Meggie commanded, annoyed with him. “It fair puts a crick in my neck to be staring up at you.”

Chase’s mouth tightened for just a second, then he opened it to bellow at the old woman, but Sabrina’s cool voice cut across his hot temper like a smithy’s hammer.

“Do as she says, Montyne,” Sabrina ordered.

“Now, just one damned minute!” Chase yelled.

“Now, boy!” Meggie shouted back and glanced at Kharis just long enough for that man to walk to Chase and push him forcefully down onto a stool.

“Goddamn it!” Chase hissed, more furious than ever. He craned his neck to glare at Kharis and would have berated the man for daring to lay hands on him had Meggie not stepped forward and grasped his chin, pulling his head around and not giving him a chance to do so.

“You knew Hern Arbra,” Meggie said, staring down into his face. “And Brelan Saur.”

“Of course--“ Chase tried to say but the old woman’s grip, more powerful than he would have imagined, pinned his mouth shut.

“And you know Sentian Heil and Andre Belvoir,” Meggie interrupted.

“Aye!” Chase managed to growl through his clenched jaw.

“And would you be knowing what all them men had in common?” the old woman queried.

“They are in the Wind Force,” he bit out, snatching his head from her control. “What of it?”

“That ain’t all they had in common, Montyne,” Meggie said. She narrowed her gaze. “You think about it a minute and then I think you’ll remember what it was that forged a common link between all them men!” She folded her arms over her ample bosom.

“They were Conar’s men,” Chase snapped. “They all loved him.”

“And?” Meggie prompted.

“And what?” Chase exploded. “I don’t know what the hell it is you want me to say!”

“Think, Montyne,” Sabrina encouraged him. “Think of the women those men were close to. Each of them was. Each of them had a special lady to whom he owed his allegiance.”

Chase flicked his annoyed stare from Meggie to Sabrina. “I don’t know what you’re--“ He stopped, his face suddenly registering confusion, then brightening as he realized what it was they wanted him to remember. “They were all Sentinels,” he whispered.

“Aye, lad,” Meggie sighed. Sometimes, she thought, trying to get a man to use his brain was like pulling eye teeth.

He looked over at Kharis. “You?” he questioned. At Kharis’ nod, he turned his gaze to Sabrina. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His lady fanned her hand. “You had no need to know at the time, Montyne.”

“The only Sentinel in that Abbadon place is Sentian Heil, but even if the abilities granted to him by Elizabeth McGregor were still available to him, he couldn’t use them there,” Meggie reminded him. “No more so than my bonny lad can use his in this heathen land.”

“Once inside the walls of the fortress,” Sabrina said, “one of the Daughters who resides there can link with this Heil and, through her, he can be granted a limited amount of power in order to help us.”

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“Us?” Chase questioned, beginning to feel a cold finger of warning scraping down his spine.

“Meggie and I,” Sabrina answered. “We can get past the guards easily enough--“

“Wait a minute!” Chase thundered, coming to his feet. “Wait just a damned minute! Who the hell said you women could go to Abbadon?”

Meggie cast an irritated look at Sabrina, then unfolded her arms and pointed a wrinkled finger at Chase.

The Prince of Ionary sailed backwards through the air, flying over the stool on which he had been sitting, and crashed down on the sleeping pallet at the rear of the tent. He opened his mouth to speak, but found his arms and legs flung wide, lashed down to the pallet by unseen hands and held there. His eyes went wide as saucers as Sabrina and Meggie walked over to him and stared down at him with the same kind of look his mother had bestowed upon him as a child when he’d disappointed her.

Meggie leaned over him. “Any questions, lad?”

Chase’s face was bright red with surprise. “You, Meg? You’re a Daughter of the Multitude?”

The old woman’s slow, victorious grin was not that of a old woman. It was the teasing moue of a young girl.

“Fooled you all, didn’t I, lad?”

Montyne just stared at her for a long time, trying to grasp the implications of Meggie Ruck being a sorceress. When he finally found his tongue, he asked in a little boy’s contrite voice if he could get up now.

Meggie waved her hand over him and the invisible restraints were removed. “Now,” she said as he sat up, “this is what we’re gonna do, lad.”

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When Conar came to, his head was hanging on his chest and he was sitting in a wooden, straight-back chair which was bolted to the floor. He swung his head, trying to shake away the grogginess of the blow that had damned near broken his jaw. Flexing that jaw, he grimaced, feeling the bruise that pulled at his chin. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head and tried to focus.

His vision was blurred and the horrible aching in his temple signaled another one of his headaches that seemed to be coming too frequently and too violently of late. He tried to put a hand up to his face and found he could not.

He was tied to the chair, his arms behind him.

“Damn,” he breathed, pulling against his bonds.

For the longest time, he could not remember anything but the wicked hit that had put out his lights. Nothing before that flashed across his memory as he tried to wiggle his wrists free of the hemp which bound him. Finally, sighing with defeat, he let his head slump to his chest once more and stared down into his lap, trying to make the headache go away.

“Is it bad?”

Conar raised his head and tried once more to focus. The strange aura that always proceeded the worst of his headaches was making it supremely difficult to focus. Little squiggles of light were zapping from the corner of his vision, making his nausea worse and causing the blinding pain in his right temple to pound more furiously.

He squinted one eye and turned his head, searching for the source of the voice that had spoken. Finally, he caught just a bulk off to his right and swung his head gingerly that way until his tunnel vision could zero in the speaker.

“How’s it going, brat?” Tyne Brell asked him.

Conar blinked, squeezing his lids together for a moment until he could finally focus. He shook his head, gagging at the intense sickness that movement brought, and the agony, but his vision cleared somewhat and he could finally make out Brell lying on the floor about thirty feet away, watching him.

“You don’t look none the worse for wear, Conar,” Tyne said conversationally.

He

strained

against

the ropes binding him.

“I don’t think you’re going to have any more luck than I did at getting free, old friend,”

Tyne chuckled. “These bastards tie a mean knot, they do.”

Conar let out a weary breath and squinting at Brell, seeing the ropes anchoring his friend to the floor. Tyne’s wrists and ankles were spread so far apart, the man had to be in excruciating pain.