Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (40 page)

“And you think you can stop it?” she asked with a snort.

“Not alone, no,” he replied. “But if we band together; if there are more who think like me; if we have a

leader who knows what it is to suffer at the hands of the Tribunal, we just might put a dent in the

Tribunal's armor."

“You think His Grace is the one?” Sara queried. “The one they called the Dark Overlord of the Wind?

The one the Talespinners have predicted?"

“Who better?” Weir asked, never having considered the old tale.

“What is it you think he can do?” Sara demanded, having always dismissed the tall tales of the Dark

Overlord.

Weir grinned. “Take from the ones who came by their riches at the expense of others and give it to those

who need it to hold onto what they otherwise might lose!"

“Rob the Tribunal coffers,” Sara said slowly. “That is what he intends?"

“Aye,” he said, his grip tightening on her chin. “Plunder their ships and raid their caravans and do unto

them what they are doing to those who get in their way!"

“Though none of us lifted a finger to help him ten years ago?"

“He doesn't blame the townsfolk for what happened to him,” the Serenian replied.

“He should,” Sara said, moving away so that her back was to him. “He was our rightful liege lord."

“There was nothing any of them could have done to save him, Mam'selle,” he reminded her. “Do you not

realize money had to have changed hands between Trace Edward Sorn and King Innis? Syn-Jern's

sentence was up two years ago, but he was not pardoned. Why do you think he tried to escape?"

Sara turned. “Two years ago?” she whispered.

“Aye, but they had no intention of allowing him to ever leave the Labyrinth."

She stared at him for a long time, then nodded.

“All right, Milord. You'll get the proof you need to hang Trace Edward Sorn. My brother and I will do

anything to see the bastard get his rightful due!"

Weir heaved a sigh of relief, then his face crinkled. “Do you always put rat turds in their food?” he

asked.

“No always,” Sara answered. “Sometimes I put piss, snot and puke in it, but there's always something

special to flavor the vittles."

The Serenian's face turned green. “And tonight?” he said, swallowing. “Did you put any of that in their

food tonight?"

Sara lifted her chin. “What do you think?"

Weir gagged. “I think I'm gonna be sick!” he said, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Sara Gill watched the handsome ship's captain trotting down the hall. She wasn't surprised when he

didn't make it all the way to his assigned room before the sounds of violent retching echoed back to her.

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One week after Weir Saur's violent night with his head stuck in a chamber pot, the raiding of Tribunal

wagon trains and couriers began. Trunk after trunk of gold was lifted from stunned guards who found

themselves facing heavily armed bandits dressed entirely in white. No words were ever spoken by the

masked men. Riding down on the Tribunal shipments on steeds as white as the flowing Hasdu-like

garments the thieves wore, the guards were relieved not only of the gold they carried, but important

papers as well.

Nor did the Tribunal ships escape the wrath of the NightWinds as every villager in Virago now named

the mysterious bandits. Sailing out of a moonless night, the solid white ship seemed to materialize from

thin air, her silent, menacing crew cutting a swath of terror through the sailors of the Tribunal navy. After

chaining the prisoners and blindfolding them, the Tribunal sailors were put in a long boat and rowed to a

second ship that carted them to only the gods knew where.

The Tribunal ships were then torched and left to burn as a warning to those who would defy the

NightWind Force.

Only a handful of trusted Viragonians knew for a certainty who was behind the attacks and Sara Gill, her

brothers, and Kerm's best friends were among them.

It had not been easy to bring Kerm and his drinking companions into the fold. Sara's arguing had not

swayed them. It had taken Weir Saur's unexpected arrival at the secret meeting place the men went to

drink and play cards of a Friday evening to convince Kerm, Dano, and Andrew that the ghost ship of the

NightWinds actually belonged to Syn-Jern Sorn.

Each time she thought of it, Sara laughed. She had taken Weir Saur to the place her brother and his

friends didn't know she knew about. Kerm had nearly fainted when the white clad Saur stepped from

behind a huge oak tree and called him by name.

“NightWind!” Dano had proclaimed, shrieking like a woman as he made to run away.

Andrew had choked on the wine he was consuming and stumbled into the fire, setting his pant leg on

fire. Hopping about the clearing like an intoxicated toad, he had finally run into a tree and knocked

himself out.

A comedy of errors, Sara remembered when she thought on it.

But once the men were firmly under Bryce Heil's command, the comedy ceased and the real operation

began.

While Prince Tiernan lazed at Holy Dale, supposedly sending the captain of the Revenge on missions to

catch the marauding NightWinds, Weir Saur's crew was actually rendezvousing with the Revenant,

captained by Norbert Tarnes. The two crews would then combine to attack Tribunal ships or drop off

men who rode the night skies in flowing white robes. Tribunal prisoners were transported to Montyne

Cay and left there at the mercy of the pirate confederation.

Each time another shipment was taken, another foreclosure notice failed to reach its destination before

the family about to lose their property to Tribunal taxmen could pay, Sara would say a silent prayer for

the man her countrymen were calling The Outlaw.

And the handsome ships’ captain whose face she saw each night in her dreams.

* * * *

Syn-Jern lifted a hand to his forehead and rubbed at the band of pain over his right eye. He was not well,

but dared not mention it to McGregor's man, Heil, for fear the mission would be compromised. It was

vital they reach Heathenstead by mid-afternoon else a family who took in orphaned children would lose

their property to the Tribunal bullies.

“Are you all right, Milord?” Bryce Heil inquired.

“Aye,” Syn-Jern responded, not daring to look at the man. “Let's saddle up."

Heil's forehead wrinkled with concern. All morning, he had been watching the leader whose own men

called him The Outlaw rather than risk speaking his name for fear the wrong ear would hear. Sorn's face

was infused with color and his eyes were glazed in pain. Twice, he'd seen his leader stagger as though

exhausted and that worried Bryce greatly. They were a long way from the main brunt of the NightWind

Force and with no way to contact them immediately. It would be days before a message could be sent to

the Weir Saur, who was leading a group of NightWinds on a raid of a Tribunal warehouse in

Delbenshire. Although they were only an hour or two from Holy Dale, word could not easily be sent to

Tiernan without suspicion being cast on the McGregor, himself.

“I said saddle up, Heil,” Syn-Jern ordered.

Heil nodded without replying. He grabbed his saddle horn and vaulted onto the back of his steed, easily

controlling the massive animal with an expert squeeze of his thighs. “Milord?” he asked, seeing Sorn reel

as he took his own mount.

“Aye?” Syn-Jern snapped, clenching his jaw tightly to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Milord, you must—"

Those words were the last Syn-Jern heard before his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed sideways

from his steed.

* * * *

Sara shivered as she stood outside the entrance to the cave. She had wrapped her shawl around her, but

having to hold the lantern up so the men could make their way over the rocky ground allowed chill air to

flow down her arm. Her teeth were clicking together, her knees knocking, but it wasn't altogether the

cold Viragonian wind that was making her tremble so. She cast wary eyes about her, praying to whatever

gods might be listening that no Tribunalist was lurking about Holy Dale this night.

A soft three-note whistle came from the fog hovering about the mountain scree littered underfoot.

Sara answered the whistle with a four-note trill.

“Is the door open, Sara?” her brother, Kerm, whispered.

“Aye,” Sara whispered back. “Hurry now before the Eel or his Viper comes looking for me!"

“They don't know of the cave,” Kerm said.

“You'd best hope they don't!” Sara snapped. She looked past her brother to the men who were with

him. “Where is he?"

Kerm jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Andrew and Fiels is bringing him along. He ain't woke up yet."

Sara bit her lip. “How sick is he?"

Kerm shrugged his broad shoulders. “Sick enough, I reckon."

There was a crunch of stone then two men carrying a makeshift stretcher of canvas and poles came

trudging out of the fog.

“Through here,” Kerm ordered and took the lantern from his sister so he could light the hidden entrance

to the cave.

“Lord, this boy be heavy,” Fiels grumbled. “He be a tad bigger than when he left here, I'm thinkin'."

“That be twelve years ago,” Andrew Spiel reminded his father. “I've growed some since then, meself."

“Ain't got no smarter, though,” Fiels complained. He stumbled under the weight of their burden and

would have fallen to one knee if a third man with them hadn't made a grab for the pole Fiels had in his

hand.

“Will you be careful?” the man grated, taking the pole handles from the old man.

“The hell with you, Bryce Heil!” Fiels snorted, but he was relieved he no longer had the weight of the

unconscious man.

Kerm Gill led them down a tight passageway cut through the mountain and into a cave where burning

rushes lit the walls. “Put him there,” he said, pointing to a pallet Sara had struggled to bring to the cave

from the hidden room beneath the cellar of Holy Dale manor.

Bryce Heil and Andrew Spiels gently laid Syn-Jern on the pallet, rolled him until they could get the

makeshift stretcher from beneath his limp body, then eased him onto his back once more.

“He's got the fever,” Andrew commented.

Bryce placed a hand thick with calluses on Syn-Jern's forehead. “Aye,” he agreed. “Labyrinthian

Fever.” He knelt on one knee, then turned to look at Sara. “Best get some quinine if you got it and lots of

water, Sara. He'll get worse a'fore he gets better."

Sara cast a glance to her brother and at his nod of approval, she hitched up her skirt and headed back

down the corridor. It was safer—and quieter—to go outside to fetch water from the well and quinine

from the stables than to open the squeaky door to the hidden room, make the trek up the stairs into the

kitchen, and hope like hell the Eel or the Viper didn't catch her.

Ten minutes later, Sara brought a pail of water and a dipper to Bryce and squatted beside him. She got

a good look at the unconscious man's face for the first time and frowned. “You sure this is Syn-Jern

Sorn?” She was just a child when the Lord of the manor had been dragged in chains to the harbor and

manhandled on board the Boreal Star; her memories were of a larger man with hair the color of

burnished gold.

“It's him, all right,” Kerm answered for Bryce. “I remember him well."

Daniel Dunne wet his kerchief and began to wipe the glistening sweat from Syn-Jern's face. “I remember

him, too. We're of the same age.” His memories were of the young boy he wasn't allowed to play with or

even smile at as they grew up on different sides of the manor walls. Dano had always felt sorry for the

boy no one seemed to want around. But it would have meant a whipping if any of the servants’ children

made friendly overtures to the sad-eyed boy who spent most of his time on the balcony overlooking the

forest.

“They say he's got the sight,” Fiels mumbled. “Can kill with just a look."

“Be quiet, old man!” Kerm warned. “That's talk what can get a man burned at the stake in these times!"

Fiels sniffed, his crooked nose lifting in the air. “I heard it told that he killed a man what tried to do him

in.” He shrugged his frail old shoulders. “Don't know if that be the truth of it, but t'was what I heard."

“What the hell difference does it make?” Bryce countered.

Kerm lifted his head, cocked it to one side, then frowned. “I hear horses."

“No, hell you don't,” Fiels guffawed.

“If he says he does, he does,” Sara stated. “It's more'n likely that bastard Eel coming back from his

gaming hell.” She pushed to her feet. “I'll get them all settled in then bring down a meal to His Grace.

Maybe he'll be awake by then."

“Make gods-be-damned sure the trapdoor is hidden before you come back here,” Kerm told his sister.

“Don't be coming down through it."

“I won't,” Sara replied. She looked at Bryce. “You come on into the kitchen in a bit with some

firewood. I'll send you down to the cellar for something and you can put the table back over the

trapdoor. I dragged it out of the way to get down here, but I don't dare drag it back for fear of someone

hearing. I'll come the back way when I bring his food."

Syn-Jern had been awake for quite some time, listening. A part of him was amazed these people were

willing to risk the hangman's gibbet to protect him. He remembered the tall man, Daniel something; had a

vague recollection of the red head that was obviously the woman's brother, but could not recall the