WINDREAPER (19 page)

When Conar and Legion ran into the garden where Storm Jale pointed them, they heard shouts of anger and horror near the majestic willow tree. Men mingled about, swords drawn, and Roget du Mer shouted orders to Sentian and Thom. The well-tended garden had an air of desperation.

Beside the stone fountain, Paegan, Tyne, and Shalu stood clustered over a prone man. Pushing Tyne aside, Conar came up short when he saw his boyhood friend lying on the flagstone, blood gushing from his chest, his head in Liza's lap.

She looked up at him as he knelt beside them. Silent tears ran down her pale cheeks. Blood smeared her bodice. Her hands trembled as they caressed Teal's white face, smoothed his wild shock of coal-black hair.

Conar searched Liza's ashen face. "Are you all right?"

She nodded.

He put a hand on Teal's shoulder. "Who did this?"

Teal grimaced. "I didn't know him. I think I killed him, but I'm not sure."

"Where's the bastard who did this?"

"He's dead," Shalu told him. "There was no identification on him."

"How'd he get past our sentries?" Legion asked as he knelt beside Liza.

When no one answered, Conar's voice carried loud. "Answer my brother! How the hell did that scum get in here?"

Sentian stepped forward. "We haven't been able to find out."

Conar snarled. "Then I suggest you find out what he was doing here and why he attacked du Mer!"

Liza looked at him. "He wasn't after Teal."

"Then who was he after?"

"Me."

"Tell me!"

"I was tending the flowers—"

"You have servants to do that!" he snapped.

Liza's chin rose. "They were your mother's flowers and no one tends them but me and the Head Gardener, and he's ill! Teal was at the door, going inside, when I heard a sound and turned. That man charged at me. I tripped over the rose bush and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed me from behind and cut me."

"Where?" Conar yelled.

Liza held out her arm.

There was a long, wicked scratch down her right arm, but it had stopped bleeding and looked more angry than painful.

Conar's eyes went back to hers. "You could have been killed."

"I heard the commotion," Teal mumbled. "When I saw that bastard kneeling over Liza with his knife—"

"Teal ran at him and they fought," Liza said. "When I saw Teal go down, I knew the son-of-a-bitch would try to finish him, so I jumped on his back. It gave Teal time to get to his feet and throw his knife. The man fell, but when I turned to thank Teal, I sank into my arms. I screamed for help and—"

"You put yourself between two fighting men?" Legion asked, aghast.

"That man didn't mean to hurt me. He said he'd been instructed to take me to—"

Conar glared up at Roget. "Take this stupid woman inside and have guards posted. I don't want her going anywhere without at least four men surrounding her. And she is not to leave this keep under any circumstances!"

"I'll not be kept a prisoner in my own home!" she shouted.

Conar turned to her. "Get inside!" When she didn't move, he took her arm in a fierce grip, drawing her up as he stood, ignoring her gasp of pain as his fingers closed around the scratch. He pushed her toward Roget. "Damn it, woman! I said get inside or I'll take my belt to your ass!"

"Do as he says, Liza," Legion said quietly.

Conar burned with fury when Liza turned toward the library. For him, the bitch wouldn't budge, but one word from Legion and she hastened to do as ordered.

"The blade hit nothing vital," Cayn said, looking up at Conar. "He'll be in bed a while, though."

Conar nodded absently, watching the dead attacker being lifted from the other side of the fountain. "Wait!" He stalked over to the dead man. Peering into the man's coarse features, he spoke through clenched teeth. "Have that vermin taken outside the keep and impaled on a pole. I want a reminder to every man, woman, and child that
no
one can threaten the members of this household and live to tell about it!"

He then sent his men an unwavering stare. "I want him." Just those three words, no more; staccato raps piercing the silence of the garden. They were spoken with a dogged determination that brooked no argument.

"You think it was Tohre?" Grice asked.

"Who else would wish her harm? To get to me, he'll try to go through those I love." He swung his gaze to Roget. "Have extra men brought into this keep, men you can trust. I want every nook and cranny searched for the way that rat got in. If you find he had help, I want that person brought to me. He or she will never again help Tohre!" He shifted his attention to Sentian. "I want bodyguards for every child in this keep. I want men watching Legion, as well. Put double guards on my son and wife and tell them if they so much as let one hair on their heads be harmed, they'll answer to me!"

"You have my word on it!" Sentian swore.

Sensing Legion's gaze, Conar turned. "Have you nothing better to do than gawk? I would think you'd want to be with your woman—"

"
My
wife," Legion corrected. "She is
my
wife, not yours!"

Conar looked at him. He didn't want to fight. He was tired and afraid. "Make her understand what a foolish thing she did, A'Lex. She won't listen to me, but maybe she will to you."

"I know how to handle—"

Conar held up his hand. "Peace, brother," he said quietly. "Peace."

He headed for the sea gate. He had a hunger in his soul, deep to the roots of his foundation, that only liquor could assuage. He knew he was as enslaved to his lack of willpower as he was to his love for a woman he could no longer claim. But he couldn't stop himself from heading to the Ruck's tavern for the answer to his problem.

* * *

"Go after him," Shalu said with a disgusted snort. "He's heading for the closest bottle!"

Two members of the Force nodded and headed after their leader.

"Is that all he knows how to do?" Legion snapped. "Crawl inside a bottle of booze?"

Grice laid a hand on Legion's shoulder. "What happened today scared him. It's his way of dealing with it."

"I know he was afraid for her, but—"

Grice squeezed his shoulder. "He would die for her. There wouldn't be any hesitation. Without her, he doesn't seem to feel as though he fits in anywhere. Her being with you is tearing him apart." Wynth shook his head. "He'll love her to the day he dies."

"Well, at the rate he's going," Shalu grumbled, "that won't be long!"

After assuring himself the keep was secured and his family protected, Conar led a well-chosen, deadly force of men to the Wind Temple at Corinth. They rode all afternoon until they came to the copse of trees that hid the Temple from the road. After dismounting, they clamped together their nags' jaws with their sweaty hands, seeking quiet and stealth.

"Not one of them is to get out alive, understand?" Conar asked.

The men nodded.

During the following engagement with Kaileel's men, Conar fought like a demon, battling two, three Temple Guards at once, cutting down each of them. His sword ran red with Domination blood. On the one occasion when his magic was needed, he summoned demons and creatures so vile and so vicious, his enemies were reduced to pulpy ooze.

Not a living thing was left alive inside the Wind Temple after the fires set inside the earth-bermed building caught and held. As the building began to go up in flames, Conar stood, arms folded across his chest, and listened to the ghostly tinkle of a hundred little boys' laughter.

"Rest easy, children," he said through clenched teeth. "You have been avenged."

* * *

About ten miles to the west of the smoldering Temple sat a small town called Lakeland. The upper part of the town lay along the farthest shore of Lake Myria and was known only for the fine tavern that was set back on a spit of land overlooking the lake. Called Pigeon's Roost, the tavern boasted the finest mutton chops and spoon bread on that side of the Four Zones. With their killing and looting completed, the men of the Raven's troop made their way to Lakeland and the food that would fill their guts.

As his men swilled down food and drink, Conar gazed about the dark taproom, spying several professional wench's glancing his way. He smiled at one in particular. She cast a triumphant look to the other women before heading his way. He watched her hips sway in the dark blue skirt, appraised the jiggle of her lush breasts in the nearly transparent white lawn blouse. She put her red-tipped nails on the scratched surface of his table and leaned forward, affording him an unobstructed view of her unbound breasts.

"For you, Lord Darkwind, it's on the house," she said breathlessly.

His grinned over the brim of his tumbler of ale. He brought it to his lips, drank, then cocked an eyebrow. "And if I require
all
of you, mam'selle?" he asked in a low, throaty voice.

She looked over her shoulder toward a dark-faced man in the corner. At his nod, she turned back to Conar. "Not a penny from your pocket, Milord, to have the five of us for as long as you want."

Conar dug into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew five brass coins, one for every two tumblers he had consumed. He pitched them on the table, then stood, scraping back his chair. "Where to?"

She smiled and sidled close to him, took his arm in her hands, her fingers caressing the hard, bunched muscles. "Upstairs, Milord."

"Call me Conar."

* * *

The next morning, with their eating and drinking and whoring done, the men of the Wind Force sat in the tavern's common room and waited for their tardy leader. They grew a bit worried when one of the women who had filed up the stairs with Conar the night before, amidst laughter and ribald comments, told the men their Overlord would be spending the next few days at the Pigeon's Roost.

A warrior of some experience, Conar's second in command, climbed the stairs to his leader's room. He knocked politely, then entered. He found Conar in bed with three women, two lying beside him, one atop him. "I wanted to make sure you were all right, sir."

"Shut the door, Starling."

The warrior nodded and left.

* * *

For days, Conar did not come down from the room. He stayed in a perpetual state of drunkenness, his throbbing headaches and retching becoming a morning ritual. Whatever whore found her way into his bed was ill-used during the night, then passed among his men the next morning while he watched. But even that bizarre entertainment waned and he looked elsewhere for relief to his boredom and pain.

On the morning of the fifth day, Conar met the man who governed the girls of the Pigeon's Roost, a procurer named Sern Jamar.

Having imbibed all his system could handle and still not numb from his suffering, Conar sat moodily by the tavern window and stared at the rain. He didn't even bother to look up as the man came to his table and bowed.

"I am told you are bored, Lord Conar," the man said in a thick accent. "I have means that will relieve your boredom."

Conar looked up and frowned. He didn't like what he saw. The man was a nomad, probably from one of the Emirates near the coast. His hair was black and greasy, slicked back from his high forehead and worn long in lank strands to his shoulders. A thick, black beard, as ill-kept and greasy as his hair, covered most of his face. Red and angry-looking pimples dotted a huge, bulbous nose, a sloped forehead, and his cheeks, while his deep brown complexion had been pockmarked from years of little or no care for his skin. A large gold hoop hung from his left earlobe, while his blue and white striped burnoose bore an overpowering smell of curry.

"I have a woman from my homeland who will thrill you as no other ever has," he said in an effort to entice.

Conar leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "And how much will this
goddess
cost me?"

The nomad grinned, showing teeth both too large and too yellow for his face. He raised his hands to shoulder height. "Have I asked you to pay for the delights of my other ladies, Milord?"

Conar snorted. "If they had delights, nomad, I certainly didn't see any. But then, I suppose any whore's cunt can delight a drunken man."

A light chuckle came from the desert traveler. "Ah, but Shasamie is different, Lord Conar. She has been trained especially for men such as yourself."

One brow cocked with displeasure. "Men such as what?"

The nomad dipped his head in tribute. "Men of discriminating tastes who want a lady to pleasure them." He smiled. "Shasamie is such a lady." He put his fingers together and kissed the tips. "She is exquisite, Lord Conar. Long black hair, eyes the color of the most precious of emeralds, a body to—"

"I'll take her."

* * *

True to Sern Jamar's word, Shasamie provided him with sexual delights that left him weak and drained the next morning. He drifted through the following day in a state of semi-consciousness, then barked at everyone for the least little thing the day after that.

"Did Shasamie please you?" Sern Jamar asked upon entering the tavern, returning from a two-day absence.

Conar had been nervous and cranky during those two days, constantly asking when the procurer would return. He had paced the tavern, shaken his head against the offers of ease from the other whores, and found himself eagerly awaiting the sound of Sern's oily voice.

"Where is she?" Conar snarled, grabbing the nomad by the front of his burnoose.

Sern smiled. "Do you wish her to come to you again?"

And the woman did.

As the nomad instructed, Conar went to his room, undressed, and stretched out on the lumpy bed. His eyes shifted time and again to the door, anticipating, worrying she wouldn't come. But when the door opened and the tall beauty slipped inside the room, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Shall I pleasure you, my Dark Lord?" she purred, drifting gracefully to the bed.

He trembled, watching her prepare for their night together. She withdrew a small packet of powders from her silken skirts and poured the contents into the chalice of ale beside his bed.

"What is that?" he asked.

"A panacea for your troubles, my Dark Lord Conar." She took a sip, then handed him the chalice. "Nothing that will harm you. It will increase your pleasure and make you wild with passion."

Conar grimaced at the taste, but he swallowed it in one gulp. He held the chalice out to her, barely aware his hand was shaking.

She took a vial from another hidden pocket among the silk scarves that made up her skirt. After uncorking it, she poured a small amount of pungent oil into the palm of her hand, then sat the vial on the night table.

"Are you ready, my Dark One?" she asked, running her hands together.

He could only nod, because what he had drunk coursed through him like liquid lightning. He sucked in his breath when she began to smooth the heated oil upon his rigid manhood. Soon, she climbed atop him. Her gentle ministrations both heightened the power of his sexual need and stimulated him to such a point he was unable to reach the climax he strived to attain. The oil caused his shaft to become so rigid it was painful.

"Please," he begged, trying desperately to bring himself to climax.

"Just a while longer," she crooned, skillfully tightening the muscles of her vagina around his swollen flesh.

He moaned, whimpered with the need to release his seed. "Please!"

She held him to her, her tongue darting into his ear, sending chills down his body, awakening his lust.

He rolled her over and thrashed on top of her, ground his body against hers, thrusting himself as hard and as deeply as he could into her willing body. "Please!" he begged, fearing he would remain as he was forever.

Sern suddenly appeared beside the bed, a leering grin on his face. "I have something for you, Milord." He held out a golden chalice.

Conar didn't bother to ask what was in the brew. It might well have been poison, for all he cared. He took the chalice, drained it, and hurtled it across the room. Almost instantly, he felt his eyes glaze over.

"Take her," came the insinuating voice as Sern bent over him. "Take her, Lord Conar. Take the whore!"

The drug released his seed with a wild abandon and sharp sensation that left him reeling from the intensity. He screamed,
screamed,
his release, then collapsed, weak and in agony, his heart thumping wildly, his breath coming in great gulps against the woman's soft breast.

* * *

In the nomad's room the next morning, Conar tried to strangle the pharmacist. But Sern whispered that there were drugs that could lessen sexual desire or take it away altogether. There were drugs to make one forget; drugs that could make one remember; drugs that could do whatever one desired. With his mind on the agony of his troubles, Conar allowed the man to mix him a potion that wiped away—for a time—the pain in his heart.

* * *

Later, Sern Jamar looked at the ceiling and smiled. Skilled in the use of wild plants that grew in his native region, he kept a stock of medicines that could taint the mind with their potency. Hallucinogens, sedatives, sleeping potions, aphrodisiacs, even poisons, lined his pockets with more gold than he would ever be able to spend in his lifetime. The whores were merely a sideline, bringing in a copper here, a gold coin there. Shasamie, however, earned for him in any single evening more than all his other women combined would earn for him in a month. It was her talents, and his potions, that gave him a rich living among the richer men of the Seven Kingdoms.

But Sern wanted more.

His ambition had always been to make himself indispensable to powerful men, men who could provide luxuries and accommodations he so richly deserved for his talents without having to worry about the law and angry customers who ran him from town to town. Sern didn't want to concern himself with where his next meal would come from, or where his next pillow might lay. Despite the money he had earned through the years, he did not wish to spend it. Such was for his golden years when his eyesight might fail him, or when his mind began to mix potions that did more harm than good.

It was the aphrodisiac he administered to a drunken, unsuspecting Conar the night he took five women to his bed that had formulated the plan in Sern's mind. What had begun as a tribute to the Dark Overlord—a gift in appreciation for the man—soon became a means to a future filled with the pleasures of court life and the mind-pleasing position of being a friend to the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms—Conar McGregor.

Seeing that neither the vast amounts of liquor his new friend consumed, nor the dubious talents of the whores draping themselves over him, could erase the bored look and pain in the Darkwind's eye, Sern had known a way to bring peace to that hard face.

The nomad smiled again. The Dark Overlord of the Wind had fallen susceptible prey to the world of forgetfulness that only his drugs could bring.