WindSeeker (17 page)

and his own grunt of disappointment. He vaguely heard the shouts of the men on the walls as they

gathered in front of Galen to protect him from further assault.

Conar’s lips pulled back over his teeth when, through the assembled men on the walls, he saw the

Master-at-Arms, Belvoir, catching Galen before he could tumble from the keep. He sucked in his breath

as another section of the high wall dropped into the moat. He peered at that section of open battlement

where Galen lay, as someone, no doubt the old healer, pulled the quarrel free of his twin’s flesh. He also

winced at the inhuman scream of agony that tore from Galen.

"I’m sorry, Conar," Chase told him.

"Damn you to the deepest pit, Montyne!" Galen shouted, struggling to his feet, shoving away the

Master-at-Arms. "I promise, you will pay dearly." He clutched his ravaged shoulder, blood coursing

through his fingers. "You will
all
pay dearly!"

Chase brought a freshly nocked weapon up to his face. "I’ll aim a tad lower this time!"

Galen took a hasty step backward, well away from the gaping hole in the battlement. "You’ll not get

another chance, bastard!" His gaze locked with Conar’s. "I’ll think of you while I am in her bed tonight,

sweet brother!"

Legion leapt forward, making a grab for his brother even as Grice did. Chase had thrown away the

crossbow and also hurried forward, blocking his friend’s suicidal rush. Arrows and lances quivered in the

sand within a few feet as they dragged the young Serenian toward safety.

Kicking and screaming, pulling against the three men, Conar was shoved into his tent and the exit

blocked by not only Grice, but Chase, Storm and Sentian, as well.

"Did you hear what that rotten bastard said?" Conar bellowed.

Legion stepped directly in front of him, denying his effort to get out of the tent. "Calm down, little

brother. You’ll accomplish nothing like this."

"Did you hear him?"

"We heard," Grice answered. "Just tell us what you want done."

Conar felt cold and hot at the same time. He spun on his heel and stared at the rear of the tent where his

grandfather’s sword gleamed in the candlelight. He took a long, deep, steady breath and turned to face

Legion.

"I want this rubble brought down about his ears!"

"There won’t be a stone left standing if that’s what you want," Legion said.

"That’s exactly what I want."

Grice nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll get."

"If we leave, will you behave?" Legion asked as he motioned Chase to follow him and Grice.

Conar nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The need to shed Galen McGregor’s blood filled his mind.

Grice firmly laid a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. "Don’t come out until you are sure you can

think rationally. We don’t need to be carrying you home on your shield, my brother."

Conar covered Grice’s hand with his own. "I’ll be careful." He tried to smile, but couldn’t. "Just get my

lady back."

* * *

By the morning of the fourth day of the conflict, most of the southern wall had fallen away to within ten

or so feet of the moat. Huge craters pitted the northern and eastern walls, and a section of the western

wall neared collapse. A barrage of stones, culled from the quarries near Dunswitch, was steadily thrown

against the keep day and night, assuring no rest for the inhabitants. The chunks of rock scattered in the

moat, and began to form a bridge three feet wide across the noxious water on the southern rim; reptiles

sunned themselves on the rocks and glared with disdain at the besiegers. A few of the scaly creatures had

arrows sticking out of their tough, leather-like hides.

"Keep those arrows flying!" the Rysalian captain shouted at his squadron of archers. "Keep those

bastards away from the eastern wall!"

Scaling ladders stood ready for use as soon as the defenders vacated their positions. Swords had been

honed, daggers sharpened, lances dipped in poison. The men of Conar’s force were ready. There was

no doubt in their minds that this would be the day Norus Keep fell.

"Have you seen him?" Grice asked Prince Tyne Brell of Chale. Situated on the Southwestern shore of

Lake Myria, the minuscule Principality of a hundred or so inhabitants sat on the spit of land between the

Serenian Zone of Zephyrus and Diabolusia.

The young prince looked up from his sword. "Conar?" When Grice nodded, Tyne shrugged. "He’s by

the eastern wall pacing a gully in the sand." He held up his weapon to the bright morning light and ran his

thumb down the finely honed edge. He put his thumb to his lips to draw on the slight trickle of blood that

gave proof to his sword’s deadliness.

"That’s a lethal-looking piece," Grice told him, admiring the broadsword.

"A gift from your father," Tyne said.

"Papa gave that to you?" Grice took the sword from Tyne and whistled. The blade was razor sharp, the

basket hilt in the shape of a three-leaf clover, the bladeguard curved and spiraled on either side to protect

the wielder’s hand. On the pommel was a multi-faceted crystal that caught the sun’s rays and sent a

prism of colors sparkling about the sand. Its grip was finely tooled brown leather, hand-stitched with the

young man’s initials, and decorated with other clover patterns.

Tyne smiled. "You like it?"

"I’ve nothing this fine." Grice handed the weapon back to his friend. "But then I don’t wield a blade as

well as you do, Brell."

"You do well enough," Tyne assured him. He stood and eased the sword into its scabbard and then flung

the leather baldric over his right shoulder, adjusting it to comfortably fit. He grinned at Grice’s frown.

"What’s your problem, Wynth."

"I do well enough. What you mean is I don’t injure myself."

"Just as long as you injure someone else, what difference does it make?"

"That piece of yours is a widowmaker."

The smile slipped from Brell’s lips. "It was meant to be, Grice."

Tyne Brell wasn’t a tall man. In fact, he was barely over five feet, but his prowess with a sword more

than made up for his lack of statue. He was as rapier-quick as the blade he carried. Light on his feet,

quick of mind, deadly of purpose, sure of aim. The ultimate swordsman.

His black hair, parted down the middle and slicked back with pomade, gleamed in the sunlight, and long,

spiky lashes framed his creamy brown eyes. A fine matting of hair covered his thin chest, hiding a heart as

soft as a feather, and as faithful as the sunset; but he could be as hard as stone when angry, and as

double-dealing as need be where honor and friendship was challenged. It might not show that Brell was

bothered, but you didn’t want to take the chance that he was. The Chalean brogue that so fascinated the

ladies, confused the men. How could such a sissy-sounding fellow, short of statue, thin of muscle, be a

danger? It was a question many a man had asked himself as he lay dying for having questioned Tyne

Brell’s honor.

"Legion wants you," Tyne remarked, nodding at A’Lex.

Grice glanced Legion’s way and then extended his hand to Brell. "If I don’t see you after the fight, then

I’ll see you when we meet Alel."

Tyne smiled and took Grice’s wrist. "I wouldn’t be so sure you’ll be heading that way, Wynth! Best

make your peace with the Wind here and now!"

Grice laughed and strode away, glancing over his shoulder at the small man who was grinning broadly.

"I’ll be wherever
you
are, Brell!"

* * *

It took nearly eight hours for the keep to fall. The sun had set by the time the first soldier scaled the

ladder and dropped into the outer stairway of the crumbling wall. Three floors of the keep could be seen

through the gaping hole as men flooded over the ladders and into the stairway, pushing and pulling more

stones out of their way as they reached the first of many blackened doors. Shouts came from the

southern wall as that ladder fell into place and the fight began in earnest. The clash of steel on steel and

the screams of wounded and dying rang out over the still desert night. The blood lust of men at war shone

in the wavering torchlight on the devastated battlements.

Splintering walls, crashing wood, falling timbers all made a racket that kept up long into the evening and

through the first rays of dawn. Torches and flaming arrows lit the faces of the warriors, lighting the cruel

countenances of men who would give no quarter; flickered off the faces of men who had come not to

expect any. Cries began to diminish; the clang of steel began to die away.

As the first spread of rose covered the horizon, a stillness settled over the desert.

Thom flashed a sooty grin to Teal du Mer. "They are giving up!"

Teal raised his eyes to the lintel of the doorway through which they had just entered the lower portion of

the keep. His mind swirled with pride at the men who were fighting so gallantly for Conar McGregor.

"He said not to be lenient with these bastards," Storm remarked as he stood his ground beside Marsh

and Sentian.

"I don’t intend to be." Marsh drove his sword forward and upward inside a Norus defender.

Standing at the edge of the moat, Conar waited impatiently for the massive drawbridge to come crashing

down. He heard the rusted chains screaming in protest as his men chopped at the hemp holding the

pulley. He had been listening to the shouts of victory, the screams of death, and the pleadings for quarter

he had denied his men to give. His fingers itched with sweat as he stared hard at the studded plank wall

that kept him shut out. When the wooden structure began to fall with a squealing protest, his heart

pounded harder. He didn’t even feel Legion’s hand on his shoulder.

"It won’t be long, now," he told his brother.

"Not as impregnable as we thought, eh?" Grice answered Legion’s remark.

"Not with the combined might of six kingdoms behind us." Chase glanced at Conar and wondered why

his friend looked so strange.

"It’s been too easy," Conar said quietly.

"Easy?" Aghast, Legion’s brows shot up nearly into his hairline. "Have you any conception of how many

men we’ve lost?"

"More than we should have," Conar answered. He felt cold. Cold and strange.

Chase looked at the keep. "Is it true that Norus has never been taken?"

"Not before today," Conar said, his voice as soft as the wind.

"And you think some demonic…" Chase was stopped as the clank of chain unwinding sounded and the

resounding crash of the heavy drawbridge came thudding to earth across the moat, kicking up a storm of

reddish dust and shaking the ground.

A cheer went up from the men and they began to pour across the wooden planks.

Legion started forward, Grice close behind, but he stopped and looked back where his brother and

Chase Montyne stood side by side. "Conar? Aren’t you coming?" When he noticed Conar’s pallor, the

intent way he was staring at his men as they surged into the outer bailey, he halted. The hand gripping his

broadsword with lethal purpose tightened. "What’s the matter?"

Conar slowly looked at Legion. His voice was a mere whisper, a shifting in the breeze around them. His

eyes were haunted. "There’s no need for me to go in."

"Why not?"

"She’s not in there."

"What?" Legion had to struggle to hear the man speak over the deafening roar of shouts and running

feet.

"Coni is right," Chase stated. "She’s not in the keep and neither is Galen."

Legion was about to argue the point, since no one could have possibly left the keep without the

hundreds of besiegers seeing them go. As it was, he never got the chance, for Teal’s shout drew his

attention to the guard tower to the right of the portcullis, and he looked up.

"I have a jackal here, Conar!" Teal shouted, and shoved a bound Jah-Ma-El to the edge of the short

wall rimming the tower. "Want to see how big a splat he can make from here?" He half-pushed

Jah-Ma-El over the edge before yanking the slender man back by his long, greasy hair. His grin as

Jah-Ma-El yelped in pain made Legion snort with laughter.

"Save his worthless hide for the hangman. The executioner needs the practice!" Legion shouted. "Bent

will see how tall he can make the skinny bastard!"

Conar stared hard at Jah-Ma-El. He could see the pleading in his brother’s eyes, although Jah-Ma-El

said not a word. The thin man’s mouth trembled; his big, black eyes widened with fright in a pinched

face. The slender body quaked with terror as Teal toyed with him, pushing him closer to the edge. But

still, Jah-Ma-El did not cry out, did not beg for quarter.

The Serenian prince did not see the grown man Jah-Ma-El had become, but the young boy he had

saved from death by hanging years earlier. He did not see the sorcerer who had no doubt helped Kaileel

Tohre abduct Liza, but the little boy who had used his sixth sense to send comfort to Conar on nights

when death would have been preferable to living. He did not see the pleading eyes of a treasonous

subject, but the wounded eyes of a kinsman.

"Should we hang him here and now and save Bent the trouble?" Legion demanded.

Conar felt numb. Dead. His heart ached so painfully he could not breathe properly. He ignored Legion’s

request and met Jah-Ma-El’s tearful gaze with calm acceptance. "Let him go, Teal," he said so softly no

one heard. When du Mer again pushed Jah-Ma-El to the short wall, taunting him with death, Conar

managed to raise his voice. "Du Mer! Let him go!" Conar turned to Sentian Heil. "Go get my brother,