WINDHEALER Read online

  Thom Loure grinned. "Make me."

  Roget grabbed his best friend's brother in a bear hug. "You son-of-a-bitch! How the hell did you manage to get yourself put in here?"

  "Lack of mental function," Storm Jale quipped as he came up to them.

  "I can understand that," du Mer said and chuckled. He held out his hand to Storm. "You're an ex-Elite, right? You're needed here, my friend. We have someone who…"

  "Roget!"

  Du Mer saw a guard hurrying toward him. From the look on the man's face, something was wrong. "What's happened?"

  "They've put the bars across the outside entrance to shaft one." The man was nearly out of breath. "The bastards have locked us in!"

  Roget stilled while his mind worked. He looked toward Jah-Ma-El. The thin man had stopped work and was listening. Roget turned back at the guard. "Do you know why?"

  "No, but I do know they brought out the Necroman and lashed him to the whipping post about twenty minutes ago."

  "Appolyon is in here, in shaft five. Who's in charge out there?"

  "Lydon Drake."

  Roget's knees felt weak."Shit!" He started down the tunnel that led further into mineshaft number five.

  Storm and Thom looked to the guard for an explanation.

  "Lydon Drake hates the Traitor," the guard snapped. "It was him who sent Drake here. He'll hurt that boy for sure!"

  "You think he went to the medical hut?" Jah-Ma-El yelped, his face going pale as a sheet.

  "Don't know," he answered, but his eyes, as worried as Jah-Ma-El's, gave lie to his words.

  "I've got to get to him!" the sorcerer shouted, throwing down his pick ax.

  Storm and Thom knew and hated Jah-Ma-El. They had ignored him all morning and now wondered at the emotions crossing his face.

  "Has this got something to do with the commotion we heard last night?" Storm asked. He and Thom had been locked inside the Indoctrination Hut and had been unable to see.

  "It's got everything in the world to do with it!" the guard replied.

  Thom turned as heavy footsteps and shouted obscenities came blasting from farther back in the tunnels. Roget and the fat man hurried past, several guards behind them. Jah-Ma-El followed the last guard. Thom shrugged. "Might as well go see what's happening."

  It took the men ten minutes to wind their way to the mine's main entrance. Straining bodies blocked their way, a wall of sweaty backs and raised fists. A cacophony of angry shouts and whistles—fury and sound—greeted them.

  "What's going on?" Thom yelled above the noise. He could hear the beating of iron to iron as the men in front pounded on the bars blocking the entrance.

  "They're beating them," one of the inmates answered.

  "Who?"

  "The Traitor and the darkie."

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Lydon Drake nearly killed Conar and the Necroman.

  The savage beating left them each hovering over that fine line separating the living from the dead. Conar, already so ill, suffered the most. His back, scarred from so many past beatings, looked like raw meat by the time Lydon was stopped. Blood streamed down his breeches, was washed away by stinging rain. He was unconscious long before Lydon finished, had been from the first searing stroke of the lash that caught him low around his waist where little scar tissue had formed. He hung loosely from the uprights to which he had been strapped, his head sagging between his close-bound arms, his body swinging as driving rain battered it, his hair dripping wet over his fevered forehead.

  Not having fared much better, Shalu didn't lose consciousness until after the thirtieth blow. He made no sound as the flesh was ripped from his body and knew Conar had felt nothing at all from the first. For that, Shalu was grateful.

  Shalu had heard the shouts from the mine, craned his neck to see the entire entrance jammed with bodies, could see fists stuck through the bars as the men shouted at Lydon and the handful of guards he had assembled to help him.

  "Drake!" Appolyon screamed. "Unlock these gates!"

  Lydon ignored the Commandant's orders and drew back the whip to hit McGregor again.

  "If you kill him, Lydon," one of his men said, "who'll you play with next time?" His grin was evil. "Why don't you just leave him there?"

  Lydon looked at McGregor's bloody body and then back to the men jerking on the gate.

  "They'll have to stay in there all night and see him hanging here in the rain."

  "I want McGregor in pain!" Lydon bellowed.

  "He don't feel nothing!" one of his other men scoffed.

  Lydon grabbed a handful of wet blond hair and dragged back his captive's head. "Dammit!"

  "Leave him until morning. When he wakes up, go at him again!"

  Lydon grinned.

  They left the two prisoners hanging from the uprights. The rain slacked off, but the flashing lightning and rolling thunder shot in ever-increasing volume over the compound. It reverberated through the mineshafts and shook the walls. The men inside worked feverishly to unlock the heavy iron wrought bars.

  "He could be dead," Appolyon grieved, staring at Conar's still form. He turned his pig-like eyes to du Mer.

  "If he is," Roget snarled, "you're dead, too!"

  "Aye, Tohre will see to that!" Jah-Ma-El agreed.

  Thom and Storm pushed their way through the heavy cordon of men and were near the front of the crowd when the first shriek of iron pulled free from its barrier and the gate moved a little.

  "At this rate it'll take us the whole damn night to get out!" a guard shouted.

  * * *

  Shalu awoke, blinking against the pounding rain streaming down his face. He looked to the man hanging beside him. "McGregor?" There was no answer from the limp form.

  "Shalu? "Is he alive?"

  The Necroman recognized du Mer's cultured voice coming from the mine. He looked at Conar, and could barely see the rise and fall of the young man's belly. "Aye! He's breathing!"

  A worried frown formed over Shalu's sable features. When a man's arms were tied above his head for any period of time, his chest was constricted and his breathing was hindered. It was not uncommon for a man tied in such a fashion to suffocate. He kept his gaze on the steady rise and fall of Conar's chest and began to hope it wouldn't take the men long to free themselves from the mine. But he knew hoping wouldn't help; he had to do more.

  In the litany of his native tongue, in timeless runes handed down from father to son from time immemorial, Shalu began to pray.

  To chant.

  To beg and plead and cajole.

  To bargain.

  To threaten the old gods of his darkworld homeland.

  Long into what seemed like a never-ending eternity, alien words flowed from his mouth in an unceasing rhythm, for he was not by nature a man who prayed. But his entreaties were not for himself; they were for the man beside him. His worry for the boy, for anyone outside his own family, was unusual for him. For a white man, exceedingly unique.

  "McGregor?" he called again.

  His worry turned to genuine fear as the rain-drenched night drew on and Conar remained unconscious. There was not even a flicker of an eyelid; not even a sound.

  Shalu moved his head toward the mine. He could see Jah-Ma-El's anxious face peering at him through the rain. He shook his head in mute answer to the man's terrified look. Another face caught his attention and he looked that way. The face was as familiar to him as his own. He had smashed that beak of a nose once, long ago. Had smashed it just yesterday. A grim smile of satisfaction lit the dark features as he saw the tall, rubber-faced man grimace at him.

  "Troll," Shalu mumbled, sniffing, for he was beginning to feel the cold settling in his bones. If he didn't catch a fever it would be a wonder.

  * * *

  Thom eyed the Necroman through the pelting rain and hated him more than ever. He put a hand up to his aching nose. "He doesn't appear to be hurt all that much," Thom mumbled.

  "Too bad," Storm hissed, remembering the trouble the
Necroman had given them a long time ago and then again yestermorning. He rubbed his jaw where a mighty black fist had rammed home.

  "But I think the other one's dead," Thom added, watching the limp body swaying in the rain.

  "Probably the best thing. The beating must have been bad from the looks of his back."

  "No worse than what they did to…"

  "To His Grace."

  Thom winced; a powerful stab of pain went through him as it always did when he remembered Conar. He turned his eyes away from Shalu as a second bar pulled free of its housing.

  "Two more and I think I can squeeze through!" Jah-Ma-El told the men working on the bars.

  Another hour passed as the third bar proved to be harder to loosen than the ones preceding it. The men worked diligently, worrying the bar in its socket, trying to lift it free of the slot in which it rested. Groans of exertion and disgust filled the late night. Grunts of exhaustion drifted off as other men took an inmate's place working on the bars.

  * * *

  Shalu saw Conar's lids flicker open, then close. He felt his heart start to thud within his massive chest. "McGregor?" he called, his voice low, no longer masked by the pouring rain, for the deluge had trickled to a slow sprinkle.

  Conar's body quivered from fingertips to bare toes, and then he groaned softly.

  "McGregor!" Shalu insisted. "Can you hear me, boy?"

  Conar couldn't move his head enough to nod; he wasn't sure he could open his mouth to answer. He looked at the darkman for just a flicker of a moment and then let his gaze slip away.

  The impact of those lost blue eyes pierced Shalu through the heart. The Necroman knew he had looked into the eyes of a man already dying in his own mind. "Don't give up, boy. You're not alone. We're not going to let you be alone anymore. Do you hear?"

  A tremor ran through Conar's body again. He jerked, his fever lapping at his flesh with flame-like intensity.

  "Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?" Shalu queried.

  Conar was too tired to look at the man. His lips were cracked, bleeding, and he couldn't seem to open them. His head throbbed with an unmerciful agony that seemed to be blinding him to everything but the pain in his throat and chest.

  "I am Shalu, McGregor. I am your friend."

  Conar tried to smile, but smiling was something only living men did. He was dead. Had been for a very long time. He fell headlong into the black, bottomless pit that waited for him.

  * * *

  Just as the first rays of dawn lit the sodden sky, the fourth bar came from its socket. Jah-Ma-El wiggled out of the eleven-inch space. He stumbled as he started to run for the whipping posts, went down on one knee in the mud, but managed to push himself up without breaking stride.

  "Can you get through, Johnny?" Roget asked one of the guards.

  "Think so." The man sucked in his gut, squeezed through and unhooked the keys to the gates from their niche on the rock face of the mine entrance. He inserted the thick key and the gate's catch popped free.

  "Roget!" Jah-Ma-El yelled. "Hurry!"

  Men stood aside to let du Mer and Commandant Appolyon pass, then hurried after them, their faces set and hard. Angry mumbling broke the early morning silence and the sound of running, scuffling feet brought Lydon and his cohorts from the barracks.

  "I did what you wanted me to do, Commandant, but didn't dare say!" Lydon shrieked as five of the guards who had spent the night in the mineshaft rushed to overpower him. He stared at them as though he had done nothing wrong.

  "Get him locked up!" Appolyon snarled as he waddled toward the whipping post.

  Jah-Ma-El was standing before Conar, cradling his brother's head against his shoulder, his hands smoothing back the wet hair. He looked up as Roget joined him. "He's burning with fever!"

  Roget turned to Thom and Storm. "Hold him, men. Be careful with him." He extended his hand to a guard. "Give me your knife, Nyles." Without hesitation, the guard handed his weapon to Roget, handle first. Du Mer stood on his tiptoes and sliced through the hemp around Conar's wrists before doing the same with Shalu's rope.

  Thom and Storm held the unconscious man's sagging body between them.

  Thom had little time to wonder about the looks they received from Jah-Ma-El and Roget, for his attention was on the bloody mess that had once been human flesh and muscle. His jaw tightened as he glanced at Jah-Ma-El. "These bastards like to beat helpless men, don't they?"

  "Especially this one."

  "Where the hell is the Healer?" Appolyon bellowed. His face was devoid of color, his thin lips twitching as he searched for Xander Hesar.

  "Locked in the Indoctrination Hut," one of Lydon's men said.

  "Go!" Roget ordered Nyles Belyeaux, the guard closest to him, who set off at a loping run. He turned to Thom. "Get him to the medical hut. Jah-Ma-El, run ahead and make sure things are prepared for Xander."

  "Be careful with him, boys!" someone yelled from the crowd.

  "Aye! He be precious cargo, is that one! You better hope he don't die!"

  "Shut up!" the Commandant demanded, shoving men out of his way.

  Storm glanced at Roget. "He's coming around."

  Roget let out a long breath. "I'd hoped he'd stay out until you could get him on the table."

  "We'll be gentle," Thom said as he shifted the dead weight. He heard a soft groan. "Hang on, lad, we got you." Loathe to walk any faster for fear of hurting the man more, Thom stopped and looked to Storm. "Can you hold him by yourself?"

  "I think so." Storm ground his teeth as he stepped in behind their charge and slipped his arm under the man's right arm. He took the entire weight against him as Thom lifted the man's legs.

  Thom Loure was almost seven feet tall. He weighed close to three hundred pounds. He kept his head shaved because he thought it best should he get in a fight, which he did more often than not. Although his black eyes were beady and cold-looking, and his rubbery face constantly scrunched into a hard mask of impatience, he had the disposition of a child and a tender heart. Other peoples' troubles often effected Thom more than he let on, and the physical pain of someone such as the man he was helping to carry tore at his heart.

  So it didn't register much to Storm when Thom gasped, his big rubbery mouth dropping open, his brows shooting up with sudden shock, when he looked into the man's face. "Oh, my god!"

  "Get him in here, you overgrown beanstalk!" the Healer hissed at him.

  Thom, stooped over, his wide back arched like a spitting cat, couldn't move. He couldn't speak; he couldn't shut his mouth; he couldn't take his eyes, now perilously close to tears, from the unconscious man's face.

  "Loure!" Storm snapped, panting with the dead weight. "Get a move on! I can't hold him all the gods-be-damned day!"

  "I… I…" Thom's voice was shrill, choked. As the blue-tinged lids of the prisoner fluttered, then opened and pain-glazed eyes fastened momentarily on Thom, the big man whimpered and fell to his knees in the mud, one large hand going up to clamp across his trembling mouth.

  "Help him!" Roget told one of the other inmates. The man pushed Thom aside and scooped up Conar's legs.

  "What the hell's the matter, Loure?" Storm snapped

  Jah-Ma-El rushed out of the medical hut, wringing his hands in agitation. "For the love of Alel, Jale, just go! Never mind Loure!"

  Wanting to put his fist through the sorcerer's face, Storm hoisted the limp body against him and, with the aid of the other inmate, carried the beaten man into the hut. Storm had some difficulty easing the man onto his side so they could keep his ravaged back from coming into contact with anything. He jockeyed himself close to the table and managed to gently flip his charge onto the surface without much trouble, but he heard a faint gasp coming from the semi-conscious man. Storm apologized, his voice tight with concern.

  "He knows you don't mean to hurt him."

  Storm turned to Jah-Ma-El. "I ain't never liked you and I won't ever like you."

  "I can't tell you how much that knowledge hurts me!" he
said sarcastically.

  Storm took a step foward, but Roget stepped in front of him. "Not here, not ever!"

  "If you men can't behave, then get the hell out of here!" the Healer shouted. He ran his fingers down the side of the man's face and groaned. Touching Conar was like touching red-hot embers. He looked over the red, pulpy carnage of the boy's back and shuddered.

  "I'm staying." Jah-Ma-El's lower lip was thrust out in a pout.

  "Will he be all right?"

  Xander Hesar looked at the man everyone else was ignoring. "You'd better hope so, Commandant!"

  Appolyon saw hostile faces and angry eyes. He tore his gaze to Roget du Mer. "Keep me informed?" When du Mer didn't answer, the Commandant backed out of the room.

  "The boy may have to be tied down again. The tremors are starting," Xander told Roget.

  "Don't do it if unless you must. You know how he reacted before," Jah-Ma-El warned.

  "Don't tell me my business! I know how to handle your brother!"

  Storm's head jerked around; he looked at the examination table, to the man's head. All he could see was dirty, dark blond hair. "Which brother?" he demanded.

  Jah-Ma-El retrieved a wash basin and a handful of soft fleece clothes. "The only one that counts."

  With his hand, Storm captured one of Jah-Ma-El's reed-like arms. "Coron?" he asked with worry, for he had heard the younger McGregor brothers had not been found. "Dyllon?" He'd always been partial to that Prince.

  Thom was like a waking dead man as he stumbled into the hut. His face was parchment-white, his eyes red from crying. There was a visible tremor in his hand as he gripped Jah-Ma-El's shoulder. "Will he live?"

  "Aye," Jah-Ma-El answered, his stare on Storm, who still had a firm grip on his upper arm. "Let go, Jale."

  Storm jerked on the thin arm. "Which brother, you son-of-a-bitch?"

  Jah-Ma-El dragged his arm from Storm's grip. "See for yourself."

  Roget moved to the table, glanced at Storm. "Help me get his clothes off."

  Jale came around the table to see the prisoner's face. He stiffened, stumbled back, slammed into the wall. Shaking, his face filled with stunned surprise. He furiously shook his head, denying what he had seen. His mouth opened and closed without producing sound; his chest rapidly rose and fell as though he'd just run a long race. He stared at the floor, his eyes shifting back and forth as though looking for an escape in the planking.