Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (14 page)

“Are they gone?” she whispered.

He shook his head, not knowing. He eased away from her, feeling the cotton of her shirt sticking to his

bare chest.

“You've got to get back to the village and warn them,” he told her.

“Me?” The one word was a mere hissing of breath but it conveyed to him her surprise and fear of going

on alone.

“Listen to me!” he whispered. “With my ribs like this, I can't make good time. You can. You've got to

get back and let them know these bastards are close by."

She turned around and faced him, looked up into his face and was stunned to see stark terror

registering. He was quivering so violently; his teeth were clicking together.

“They're on the other side of the peninsula,” she reminded him. “Weir won't sail without us. If those men

sail at the tide..."

“Damn it, woman, think!” he spat at her. “Two of the other ships are also sailing at the tide! They'll cross

paths down by the reef! Do you want that?"

Genny flinched. She hadn't thought of that. “What if they catch me?"

For a long moment he didn't speak, just looked into her face, searching, not finding what he truly wanted

to see there. He shook his head. “They won't."

Why she trusted his words she didn't know, but trust them she did. She made up her mind. “Don't leave

this spot,” she warned him. “I can find my way back here after those motherless bastards are gone. Do

you hear?"

He nodded. His gaze swept her face and then he seemed to change before her very eyes. A raw, animal

brightness came over his face. “Go,” he said, his lips drawn back over his teeth. “Now!"

She slipped away from him, as quietly as she could. Her boots made hardly any sound at all as she

threaded her way under low branches and faded from sight. He heard her for a moment more and then

there was no sound of her leaving at all. He was beginning to relax, beginning to feel everything was going

to be all right, when he heard a crash, a soft, feminine sound, and knew she'd fallen.

“What was that?"

His head snapped around toward the shout from beyond the stand of taller palms. They'd heard!

“Over there! Through that clump of bushes!"

For one heart-stopping moment he stood there, his head turning from side to side, his breathing harsh,

drawing into his lungs so quickly he could feel himself getting lightheaded. Adrenaline was pumping

through his system; sweat was oozing out of every pour.

“Do you see anything?"

The voice was close, too close, to where he knew Genevieve had fallen. If they caught her, there was no

doubt in his mind what they would do first before asking questions.

“I hear running!"

“Go, Genny,” he whispered. “Run, girl, run!"

“Which way is the sound coming from?"

He knew it wouldn't be long before they caught up with her if they kept on the same path they were

going. If they caught her...

Syn-Jern stepped out from where he was hiding. He took a deep breath and bellowed as though he

were in great pain.

Genny stopped, spun around. The sound that had brought her up short came again and she heard a

voice shout: a voice only a few feet from her.

“Over here! He must have fallen!"

“Syn-Jern, no!” she hissed. She looked toward the path that led back to the village, looked back to the

place she figured Syn-Jern to be. She hesitated, listening to the voices moving away from her, knew he'd

sacrificed himself so she could get away. Her world whipped to a halt when she heard a gruff voice call

out in triumphant:

“I've got him!"

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There was so much pain in his body he could barely move. They dragged him up from the ground where

they had found him kneeling and thrust a torch to his face.

“Who are you?” the man with the gruff voice snarled at him. “Where is the rest of the crew of the

Tamarind?"

He tried very hard not to groan, not to show the pain he was feeling. He knew better. Men such as these

fed on pain, thrived on it, devoured it. To show pain before them was to invite more.

“I'm the only survivor,” he managed to whisper through teeth clenched hard against the agony in his side.

The two men holding him by his upper arms pulled him up straighter and his groan of pain was like a

burst of sunshine on the gruff-speaking man in charge.

“You hurt?"

He shook his head, tried to block out the ripping, tearing agony now spreading all the way down his right

hip.

“Aye, but you are, aren't you?” The man ran his attention down Syn-Jern's naked chest and noticed the

way the man before him leaned to the right. He snaked out a hard, callused hand and placed it none too

gently on Syn-Jern's right ribcage. The instant flare of a groan seemed to please the gruff man.

“Favoring his side, is he, Commander?” one of the men holding Syn-Jern laughed.

“It appears that way, Mister Hawkins."

Syn-Jern's gut clenched. “Don't,” he begged, fearing what this man's knowledge might do to him.

“What you afraid of, boy?” the guard on his right giggled. He twisted Syn-Jern's arm cruelly and had to

brace himself quickly for the young man's legs went out from under him with the pain. “Here now! Stand

yourself up!” He yanked fiercely on Syn-Jern's arm and cast a quick, sadistic grin to the man in charge

when the prisoner screamed in agony.

“It appears our survivor hasn't fared all that well, Mister Hawkins,” the gruff man chortled. “Let's get him

back to the ship and see if we can't make him feel better."

“No,” Syn-Jern whispered.

“You got reason to fear us, boy?” Hawkins snarled in his ear. “Maybe you jumped ship, eh? Maybe

there was a mutiny on the Tamarind and you was the only one to get out of it alive?"

The Commander of the Tribunal Transporters was peering closely into the prisoner's face and he

recognized fear when he saw it. After all, he'd shipped many a prisoner to the Labyrinth and that was

where fear was a priceless commodity. A sudden thought came into his head and he suddenly reached

out his left hand to grip Syn-Jern's right arm, pulling it up and outward, turning it over so that the

underside of the prisoner's arm was facing upward.

Syn-Jern screamed again, his ribs an excruciating band of burning fire all along the right side of his body.

His knees buckled and he was dimly aware of the men having trouble keeping him from sagging to the

ground.

“Hold that torch down here!” the Commander ordered as he bent forward over Syn-Jern's right wrist.

He peered closely at the dirty flesh that was smeared with caked mud. Once the torchlight illuminated the

extended arm, he used his thumb to rub at the mud.

“Is he marked, Commander?” Hawkins asked.

A slow, malevolent smile touched the gruff man's lips. There was a look on his face that would have

rivaled any demons this side of hell. “Aye, you're marked, aren't you?” The smile grew as he noticed pale

lips begin to tremble with sheer panic. He brought his other hand up to grip, to open, Syn-Jern's clutched

fist and bend the fingers back, ignoring the groan his action caused. The fingers of his callused right hand

patted the tattoo on the prisoner's wrist, trailed down into the flexing palm, probed.

“Please,” came the feeble cry for leniency as he felt the man's index finger making a tiny circle in his

palm.

The Commander clucked his tongue, shook his head as though chastising a wayward child. “You've run

away before, haven't you?"

Syn-Jern wanted to cry. “Please.” His voice was lost and it sounded so young and so terribly without

hope.

The Commander nodded. He removed his hand from Syn-Jern's palm and reached up to caress the pale

face.

“Don't worry,” the gruff man said in a soothing voice. “We're going to take you home."

He chuckled as Syn-Jern whimpered. “Now, don't you worry! I'm sure the Commandant will be only

too happy to see you."

“We gonna get to crucify him, Commander?” Hawkins asked. His voice was eager, almost panting with

glee.

The Commander gently stroked Syn-Jern's face. He smiled. “Of course."

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She came stumbling into the village, her long dark hair flowing behind her, her gray eyes huge in a face

gone pale with fear. She'd been running for nearly an hour, crashing through the jungle, dodging trees and

low-hung branches she had only narrowly missed in her headlong rush for help. She'd dared not call out,

scream for help, for she knew she would be heard. Her feet could go no faster in the muck of rotting

foliage, scattered branches, up-thrust roots, and creeping vines. Before she'd gone very far, a stitch of

pain whipped up her left side and brought even more tears. By the time she stumbled into the clearing

where the huts of Montyne Cay lay scattered in a half-moon sweep before the moonlit sea, she was

panting, exhausted, and more afraid than she had ever been in her life.

“Get Saur!” she heard someone shout as she began to plummet forward. Strong hands reached out to

break her fall, lift her gasping, trembling body from the ground.

“Genny!"

She turned her head and saw her brother running toward her, Paddy close at his heels. Her lips moved

before her straining throat could call out.

“What happened?” Weir was at her side.

“Syn-Jern...” she gasped, one hand going out to her brother in pleading.

“Must ... help ... Syn-Jern..."

The man holding Weir Saur's sister could feel the young woman quivering in his arms. He looked to

Patrick Kasella for direction and the Ionarian leapt forward, whipped Genny out of his arms.

“Where the hell were you?” Weir shouted at her.

“You've ... got ... to ... help ... him,” she whispered, her breath not having returned, her exhaustion

making her entire body numb with fear.

“Where is he, Genny?” Patrick asked as he shifted her light weight in his arms. He was staring down at

her, his lips pursed. “What happened out there."

From the tone of his voice, Genny knew he thought she had harmed Syn-Jern in some way. She shook

her head violently. “Have ... him. Captured ... him."

“Who? What are you talking about?” Weir hissed, reaching out to grasp her arm.

“Transporters...” she managed to say. “Serenian."

Patrick's blood ran cold. He gripped her closer to him. “Where? Here? Here on the peninsula?"

“Found ... the ... jolly ... boat."

Weir blanched white, shifted his eyes to Tarnes who was standing behind Patrick. There was no

accusation on the old man's face, but there was a look that Weir understood all too well.

“Where is the ship docked?” Patrick asked her.

She shook her head. “Never ... saw ... it."

“We've got to find him!” Jarl Stevens reminded them. “They'll see that damned tattoo on the boy and

you know what they'll do to him!"

Patrick knew. He swung Genny down, shoved her gracelessly into Norbert Tarnes arms. “Who'll go

with us?” he called out for every man on Montyne Cay had gathered around them by this time.

“Me!"

“I'll go."

“What are we waiting for?"

“Let's go after the lad!"

Genny pulled away from Tarnes and grabbed Patrick's arm.

“You ... don't ... know ... where!"

He didn't even think before he reacted. His hand shot out and he gripped Genny's shoulder in a

punishing, painful clasp, spun her around, and shoved her toward the jungle. “Show us!"

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The first lash took him low across the small of his back. The second trailed from the nape of his neck to

his left shoulder. The third cut a skipping line close beside the second.

“Ain't he a pretty sight!” one of the crewmembers giggled as the fourth and fifth lashes tattooed an X

from shoulder to hip, opposite shoulder to opposite hip.

It wasn't so much that he could feel the lashing: his back had been covered with built-up scar tissue long

ago. And it wasn't even that he could feel the godawful tearing in his palms anymore, either; that had long

ago subsided to a dull ache. What hurt him the most was the pull of his body as he sagged from the

yardarm.

“Make him scream, Hawk!” someone called out. “Make him scream!"

The spikes through the backs of his hands as he was nailed to the wood had hurt far worse than the first

time he'd been crucified. That time, the Captain of the Vortex had hammered the dull spikes through his

palms. The pain had been bad, but not nearly as bad as this time.

“Bet you can't stripe him wrist to shoulder, Hawkins!"

The sailor would have lost the bet.

“How ‘bout straight across his shoulders!"

Hawkins showed his expertise with admirable skill.

His ribs were a pain separate from everything else. The sagging of his body was putting more and more

pressure on ribs he knew were broken. If they hadn't been before they'd dragged him on board, they

sure as hell were when they'd kicked him a few times.

“Open your mouth and scream, pretty boy!"

“Cut his ass down and I'll give him something to scream about!” one of the older crewmembers leered

as he rubbed the filthy crotch of his tattered breeches.

His breathing was beginning to fade, now. It wouldn't be long before he passed out. He hadn't been able

to draw a decent breath into his lungs since the tenth lash had curled around his left forearm.

He was suffocating and he knew it.