|
LENGTH: Full Novel--PLUS Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2006
|
Conar McGregor is obsessed with a woman he can't have, repulsed by a bride he doesn't want, and trying desperately to escape a mad sorcerer's perverted lust. He is a man running from desires he can't handle. Only the joining of the three will bring him the peace he seeks. Liza is keeping an explosive secret and it is the only thing that will save the heart and soul of Conar McGregor. In her arms he is able to hold the evil lurking around him at bay. Kaileel Tohre is tormented by the need to own McGregor body and soul and his vengeance knows no bounds when the young prince's heart is captured by a woman of mystery. The evil in Tohre will stop at nothing to make Conar his own even if it means stealing McGregor's soul. Rating: Contains graphic sexual content, adult language, and violence. (Please note: this title was previously released elsewhere but has been revised for its NCP release.) |
|
WindLegends Saga Book One WINDKEEPER
Reissued by New Concepts Publishing April 2006 © Charlotte Boyett-Compo Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright April 2006 ISBN 1-58608-872-6 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter 1
“You’ve time to turn around and leave before it’s too late, you know,” their intended victim warned politely. “You ain’t got nothing to be so confident about, boy!” the oldest of the three scoffed, coming closer. “You might be surprised,” was the roguish reply. The oldest of the three men--a miscreant who appeared to be in his late sixties although his massive build could rival that of a man half his age--seemed to be their leader. He was a burly man with coarse, flat features, and a beaked nose that dripped a constant stream of yellowish snot from its crooked, battered tip. The nose looked as though it had been broken many times, for it sat at a slight left angle along the man’s unshaven and dirty cheekbone. Scratching at the stained crotch of his equally dirty breeches, the man narrowed his drooping lids over dull, lifeless, rheumy gray eyes. “Hand over your gold, boy,” he sneered, “and we’ll let you live to get back safe-like to your mama.” From the corner of his eye, the youth saw the other two robbers easing away from their leader. He feigned a shiver of fear. “My gold, sir? But if I give you my gold, how ever will I get home to Mama?” His gaze was merry, innocent; but then the regard changed--quicksilver-fast--and the innocent look became a hot glare. The full lips lifted with contempt. The amused voice turned cold and deadly as the smile faded. “If you men think you can take my gold from me, then by all means go ahead and try,” he drawled. “I have no intention of giving you bastards anything of mine.” The leader’s expression turned hard. Encouraged by the grunts of laughter from his two companions, he smiled a gap-toothed sneer. “Well, now, boy. If that’s the way of it, then you have seen the last of your mama and she of you.” “Don’t make us have to hurt you none, boy,” one of the other men advised. “Or have to mess up that pretty face of yours.” The young man stiffened. He was very aware, and very sensitive, about his looks. He’d often considered his softly rounded face and pale blue eyes far too girlish. Despite the deep cleft in his chin--the only truly mature thing about a face that still sported a peach-fuzz growth of light beard--he thought of his face as a liability rather than an asset. The mop of thick, golden hair that fell to the right over his high forehead annoyed him even more, for he thought blond-haired men were too often considered effeminate and ineffectual. He was just a tad over six feet and he’d often complained to his brothers that his lack of height made him feel more boyish yet. His shoulders were broad beneath the soft sheen of his leather jacket and his chest was developing nicely; but he had not been able to add bulk to his muscles yet. His long legs were tapered and well-proportioned in the tight fit of his dark brown leather breeches, but he wasn’t all that good a runner. His hands were strong, though, and that--combined with the lethal expertise that governed his sword--gave him an advantage these men could not see. “A scar or two on that lily-white puss might give the boy some character, huh, Tymmy?” one thief said and giggled. “Make more of a man of him, you reckon?” The man’s taunt brought another blush of anger to the lad’s face. “You gods-be-damned bastards have bitten off more than you can chew this time.” “When we get through with you,” the leader chuckled, “not even a diseased whore will look your way, son!” The lad crossed his hands over the jade pommel of his sword and leaned on the weapon. Lifting one golden brow, he let a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Now is that so?” A wicked gleam entered his sky-blue eyes. “And I suppose the three of you are thinking yourselves worthy opponents for me and my blade?” Snarling, the leader put his beefy hands on his hips and glared. “You’re a bigger idjit than I thought you were, boy, if you don’t think we can spit you and roast you ‘fore we’re done!” “An idjit?” the lad repeated, clucking his tongue in mock dismay. “I’ve been called many things, gentlemen, but never an idjit!” “You be one, that’s a truth!” one man dared to chime in, puffing out his scrawny chest. “We’re gonna roast you for a certainty!” “Let’s see you try,” the young man scoffed. “The only idjit here is the man who thinks I’ll let him take anything that belongs to me. What is mine, is mine. And mine it will stay.” “Brave words for a man alone and outnumbered,” one of the robbers reminded him. “That’s because you men pose no threat to me.” The leader took a step toward the youth and raised a gnarled fist, a meaty chunk of scarred and rough flesh. “You just signed your death warrant, you crazy little bastard!” A short, balding man with only a fringe of orange hair ringing his shiny pate, the third thief had legs that were badly bowed. He looked as though he sat astride a keg of ale. His lurching walk would have been comical if it had not been so pathetic to watch. As he’d waddled closer to his victim, his stench came rolling across the stables in waves of noxious fumes. His torn and greasy garments looked alive with vermin. “He’s about to meet his maker, he is.” “Then let’s do it,” the blond lad said, shucking off his leather jacket. He threw away the jacket, spat into his left palm, then brought up his sword. Grasping the blade in his left hand, he bent and flexed the tempered Chrystallusian steel, his gaze never leaving the burly leader’s face. With a furious grunt, the leader drew a short sword from the belt of his pants and lunged at the young man, staggering by his victim as the youth had stepped easily away. The thief yelped as the flat of the sword struck his rump. “You sorry little....” he gasped, rubbing his backside with his free hand. “You’ll pay for that!” The remaining thugs turned their own weapons on the youth, striking out with little or no expertise. True amusement flitted across the youth’s merry, grinning face at the robbers’ clumsy efforts to impale him. He met their frenzied, ill-timed attack with offhanded skill; pushing one man away with his foot while sending the other crashing woefully to the ground with a well-aimed backhand. With a snarl, the leader struck out with his sword while the youth was doubled over with laughter. He managed to slice a thin slit in the billowing cambric sleeve of the young man’s shirt. Looking down at the tear, the youth ceased to laugh and a heavy scowl came over his handsome features. Sighing heavily as he plucked at the rent, he slowly lifted his gaze to his attacker’s face. “Well, hell,” he said with exasperation, letting the words drop like heavy stones. “This was a brand new shirt.” With a low hiss of spite, he lunged forward and engaged his attackers in a shrill clash of blades. In the shadowed confines of the stable’s loft, a watcher peered over the edge and took in the drama. As the one-sided fight lingered on, the watcher followed the exchange of swordplay; keeping a close surveillance on the young man as his opponents clumsily circled him. But then something just outside the watcher’s vision nudged that sixth sense most people have when danger is lurking near, and the onlooker’s attention turned from the fight to scan the partially opened side door leading to the tavern’s kitchens. A search was made for what had caused the sensation of wariness. Seeing nothing immediately in need of attention, the watcher pulled closer to the edge of the loft and finally spied the stealthy approach of a fifth man entering through the sun-darkened doorway. The innkeeper, no doubt anticipating a quick end to the objective he and his cohorts practiced on a regular basis, had ventured from his establishment as time lapsed onward. Taking in the situation in a glance, he reasoned his own brand of intervention was needed. Easing himself over to a pitchfork leaning against the wall, he crept up to the wicked-looking implement and grasped the handle in his flour-caked paws. Grossly fat and squat, short legs waddling beneath his long, dirty apron, the innkeeper nevertheless moved with a grace and speed that belied his bulk. His pudgy face was creased in a scowl and shone with sweat as he sneaked up behind the youth. The sentinel studied the situation with concern and growing anger. A man who would stab another in the back was a coward and as vile as they came. “I don’t think so,” the watcher growled quietly through clenched teeth. Silently and swiftly, the watcher drew a thin black blade and expertly flipped it over in a practiced hand so that the sharp blade rested lightly along the palm. A callused thumb eased down the blade until the very tip was held firmly by the heel of a flexed thumb and crooked forefinger. Intent on disarming--and disrobing--the man who had torn his shirt, the youth saw no real danger in a man advancing on him with only a doubled fist as a weapon. He glanced quickly at the man and then turned his attention back to the robber with whom he was sparring. He had felled the leader just moments before and that mischief-maker now lay huddled against a stall, his greasy red hair plastered with horse droppings from where he had skidded on the floor. A well-timed kick knocked the orange-tufted, bowlegged man’s weapon from his hand and a look of shock passed over the robber’s grimy face as he scurried after his blade. With his back still to the lurking innkeeper, the youth now had only one obvious opponent: the man who was within boxing distance of him, fist doubled. Confident that he could take the robber, that no actual threat was forthcoming from those arthritic-looking hands, the young man laughed. He was still laughing as dirt was thrown into his face, effectively blinding him. He twisted away from hands that grabbed at his shirt and felt the material rip. Less concerned now with his clothing, he stumbled back, shook his head to clear the watery vision that blinded him to the men around him. “Oh, no you don’t!” The thief who had thrown the dirt laughed. “You ain’t getting away from us, boy!” He made another attempt to grab the young man’s shirt, and then grunted as a lantern crashed down from the ceiling. He wobbled to the floor, unconscious, his eyes rolling back in his head. Mouthing an obscenity, the innkeeper craned his head up to the loft. The dirty little bugger had an accomplice up there. With an intense scowl of hatred on his beefy face, he kicked out at the red-haired leader who was slowly, groggily coming awake. “Get that bastard in the loft, fool!” he shouted to the bowlegged man. Hearing a voice so close behind him, the young man spun around, his blurring, stinging vision only able to make out the bulk of someone coming toward him. He shook his head once more to clear it and then his eyes flared as the tines of the pitchfork gleamed in a ray of sunlight peeking through the loft’s planking. Losing his balance, he fell backward, sprawling to the ground at the mercy of the rapidly advancing pitchfork. Landing painfully on his tailbone--the stall in which his own steed was sequestered blocking his movement backwards and an upright keeping him from twisting to the left--he found himself wedged against the stall and a wheelbarrow filled with grain. His face paled with an unaccustomed look of fear and he swallowed hard. With a silent prayer on his taut lips, he took a deep breath and waited for the piercing agony he knew the tines would bring. “You’re a dead man!” the innkeeper said and chortled. He started toward the youth, the pitchfork aimed at the young man’s chest. With a suddenness that chilled the air, something hissed through the morning rays and the advancing innkeeper stilled, a look of astonishment on his pudgy features. He half-turned, rasping in a low breath, and raised his eyes to the ladder. He looked down at the youth sprawled at his feet and then cursed. “You little bastard,” he mumbled as he let go of the pitchfork, his knees giving way as he tumbled sideways, the handle of a black crystal dagger protruding from his chest. The youth’s blue eyes bulged; the sensuous lips parted as the pitchfork sprang forward with its own momentum, its sharp tines arcing downward. Light shone eerily on the lethal-looking spear; flashed in a bright sparkle of danger as the implement came down with a thud. The tines buried themselves in the hard-packed dirt between the youth’s spread legs, just inches from his groin. The wooden handle bobbed back and forth. “It missed you!” a voice spoke from the loft. The young man’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He could hear the handle squeaking as the pitchfork wobbled, but he didn’t feel pain. He forced open one eye and swallowed loudly as he scanned the tool from top to handle, to tine, to the juncture of his open thighs. He didn’t recognize his own voice as he let out a softly quivering, “Oh, shit!” “Is the innkeeper dead?” He opened his other eye and glanced at the innkeeper. One look told him all he needed to know. Frothy red foam had bubbled out of the innkeeper’s slack mouth and was dripping to the ground beneath his head. The dead man was staring sightlessly at the loft as though in mute disapproval. “Deader than a door nail,” the young man whispered. “Good! What about the others?” was the question from above. Sweeping his attention to the man whose head had been dented by the lantern, the young man thought that robber no longer posed a threat, for blood poured from the wound in his greasy pate. Apparently the leader had awakened and fled when the innkeeper met his untimely end, for that one was nowhere in sight. That left only the bowlegged thief whose whereabouts were uncertain. The youth pushed himself from the ground and cast a quick look around him. “I don’t know,” the young man replied. He felt his shoulder nudged and absently reached over to pat his horse’s nose. “I’m all right, boy,” he said softly in answer to the steed’s inquiring nicker. The youth gently pushed his stallion’s inquisitive face from his own. A muffled oath and a snarl of rage from the loft drew his attention upward and the blond lad leapt for the ladder. Just as he reached the wooden steps, the bowlegged robber came tumbling head over heels to the ground to land with a mighty thud at the young man’s feet. “Oh, there you are!” The youth laughed, smiling benevolently at his dazed enemy. Totally ignoring the man who was gasping for breath from his fall, the youth was about to climb the ladder to thank his accomplice when something sailed past his ear. He reacted with quick reflex by spinning around to the opposite side of the ladder, nearly breaking his ankle as he pivoted on the bottom rung. He glanced down and could not credit what he was seeing. He blinked and looked again. The man with the bloody head wound was clutching a wicked, double-edged dagger that he had obviously been about to plunge into the young man’s exposed back. Now, his wrist was pinned to the dirt floor by the shaft of a gleaming crystal quarrel. “Did I get him with the crossbow?” “Aye, you did,” the lad whispered. Whistling to himself, he glanced up with admiration and then turned with laughter to the leader of the thieves. “Merciful Alel, but I bet that hurts.” The young man smirked. He stepped down from the ladder and nudged the pinned wrist with the toe of his dusty boot. “Mercy, Milord!” the robber screeched as his free hand grasped the bleeding wrist of his injured one. “Have mercy on me, Sir!” All amusement left the young man’s face and his eyes took on the hard glint of steel. “Mercy such as you were about to show me?” He shrugged indifferently. “Don’t worry. I won’t slit your dirty throat.” “You ain’t gonna kill me, Milord?” The thief breathed a too-hasty sigh of relief as the youth shook his head. “Why should I?” came the terse reply. “I’ll let the Tribunal see to you.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “I hear the Labyrinth is nice this time of year.” Fear blazed across the man’s face and he jerked in horror. “Kill me, Sir!” he pleaded, his free hand going up in submission. “I’d rather die than go to Tyber’s Isle!” Stooping over his captive, the young man grinned. “Do you know who I am?” he asked pleasantly. He hunkered beside the man. “Have you any idea at all?” The thief vigorously shook his head. “No, Milord,” he said, his voice breaking. “Well, I think I should tell you,” the lad said with weariness. He leaned over and put his lips to the thief’s ear. As the name registered in the bowlegged man’s befuddled brain, he blanched white as freshly fallen snow and moaned in despair. There was no doubt in his mind the lad was telling the truth. He looked away and shuddered. “The gods have mercy,” he whispered. “They might. I won’t,” the lad said with a harsh snort. “And now you know why you’ll spend the remainder of your life in the Labyrinth,” the youth told his captive and then stood, his eyes going to the opened doorway where there was sudden movement. He frowned. “It took you long enough.” One of the two men who came hurrying through the doorway wore the livery of a military captain. The medallion of his rank was pinned to his wide chest. He was tall, over seven feet in height, with a shock of gleaming, bright red stubble on his oversized skull. His forehead sloped dramatically downward over small black eyes and his mouth was large with rubbery lips that were set in a prim line of worry. His big hands gripped a broadsword that required both hands to wield. “Are you all right?” With a shrug of disdain, the young man looked down his nose at the Captain of the Guard, not an easy thing to accomplish since he had to crane his neck backwards to do so. “Why wouldn’t I be?” The blond youth snickered. The captain let out a ragged breath and shook his massive head, glancing over at his companion, a man wearing the livery of a lieutenant. A look passed between them and both turned their attention back to the youth. “Me and Edan were worried about you,” the captain said, closing his eyes in thanksgiving and relief that his charge was in one piece. “There was, of course, no need,” the young man said haughtily, sniffing at the tall man’s concern. He pretended to dust an imaginary particle of lint from his torn sleeve. “I am quite capable of defending myself.” The second guard chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you what he’d say?” A heavy sigh of hopelessness gushed from the Captain of the Guard. He shook his head. “One of these days....” His rubbery face turned crimson with anger. “If you persist in going off on these forays by yourself, you’re gonna come up against the one man you can’t best!” A disdainful lift of the young man’s shoulders was his answer to the dire prediction. “Oh, the demons take you!” the captain spat and bent over the bowlegged thief. “What’s to be done with this one?” He gave the dead innkeeper a cursory glance then pointed to the unconscious thief. “Is that one dead, too?” “Nope. Take them back to Boreas with you.” The captain turned his head and looked at the youth. “Aren’t you coming?” “Yes.” Another sigh as he and the other guard unpinned the thief’s wrist, ignoring the man’s shriek of pain. “Any time soon?” Another shrug. “Maybe.” “Will you be riding with us?” the captain asked as he helped to support the thief’s limp weight. “I’ll catch up with you.” One more sigh at the futility of dealing with this boy and the captain dragged the thief out of the stable, casting a hopeless look at the young man as he went. “You will be careful?” There was a cluck of the youth’s tongue. “Aren’t I always?” “Oh, of course, you are!” the captain mocked. He pushed the bowlegged thief ahead of him and shouted at his fellow guard. “Truss up this bastard like a feast goose!” The youth walked to the opened stable doorway and watched the guards leading the thief to a group of horsemen milling around outside the tavern’s entrance, and grinned. Rayle Loure, the Captain of the Elite Guard, had brought ten men. When would the man learn that he was fully able to take care of himself? He shook his head and then looked up. “You all right up there?” he asked, leaning against the upright nearest the ladder. “Uh, huh.” “Well, then, I think I’ve made it safe enough for you to come down.” The young man laughed, and then frowned fiercely as a loud snort came from the loft. His ego stung at the reminder that he had not been the one to save the day. He pushed away from the beam, his mouth set in a mulish line. “You coming down?” “Aye.” Straw rustled in the loft and a few loose shards fell through the gaps in the wooden planks overhead. “Any time soon?” he mimicked in imitation of his captain’s question. “In my own good time.” The voice that had spoken was youthful, indeed: not more than thirteen, fourteen, at most. The young man was annoyed that the child in the loft, a stable boy, no doubt, had come to his aid. With the supreme arrogance of youth and masculinity, he thought he could have handled the threat of the pitchfork by himself if he had been given time to rationalize the outcome of his next action. That he had had no sense, and was at the mercy of the innkeeper, had somehow managed to slip his mind. He smirked, rather than smiled, at the thought of a mere stable boy coming to his defense, but then his frown tightened to speculation when he glanced at the dead innkeeper. No ordinary stable boy was this. He shrugged. A stable boy that could throw a dagger and use a crossbow was worth talking to, he supposed. “You’d make a fine soldier-apprentice,” he said begrudgingly. A light guffaw of laughter came from the loft, followed by the sound of boots crunching straws. The nicker of a strange horse broke through the youth’s moody self-absorption and he stepped over to a stall at the end of the stable. A small gray horse stuck its velvety nose out to him, a soft snort of welcome coming from its nostrils as he put out his hand. He spoke over his shoulder. “Does this mare belong to the innkeeper?” He put his hand on the sleek gray nose and patted the beautiful mare. She nuzzled the palm of his hand and laughed. “If she does, I claim her. She’s a beauty.” “Mine,” was the offhanded remark as the ladder to the loft squeaked. “Yours?” The young man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Not a stable boy, then; a guest at the inn, perhaps. He nodded his head in understanding. The young one was more than likely a boy traveling with his parents or a nobleman’s son on holiday. He nodded emphatically. That made sense. It would explain how the boy knew weapons such as the ones he had used. Sixteen seemed about the right age for a boy out traveling alone in this day and age. A booted foot crunched dirt beneath it as the sentinel dropped from the last two rungs of the ladder to land on the stable floor. “She’s a fine one,” the youth said, referring to the mare that was pushing her velvety head under his arm in immediate affection. He kissed her smooth muzzle. “What’s her name?” “Windkeeper.” The young man tightly compressed his lips to keep from laughing at the rather elegant name. He silently mouthed the regal name to himself and shook his head, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Out of respect for the ego of youth, he managed to keep the laughter from his voice as he asked his next question. “An unusual name, don’t you think?” “Maybe,” was the short, miffed reply. “Is she fast?” “As fast as the wind, Milord, and twice as loyal. She can outrun any mare you put up against her.” The blond youth’s back stiffened. There had been something in the speech pattern, the tone, and the inflection that didn’t ring right. Turning slowly to face his companion, his brows shot up in shock. “You’re a gods-be-damned girl!” “It would appear so, Milord.” A wicked grin spread across the girl’s face and bright green eyes lit with humor. “I kinda like it that way. How ‘bout you?” “You’re alone?” His eyes went to the loft in hope of seeing the male who had, without a doubt, wielded the weapons with such precision. “Quite alone.” She propped the wicked-looking crossbow she had wielded with such ease against the wall and laid the bag of quarrels beside it. With barely a look at the dead innkeeper, she went to him, pulled her dagger from his chest, and wiped the blade on the man’s dirty apron. With a growl of disbelief, the youth ran his sword hand through his thick gold hair. “By the gods, girl. If I had known....”
|
|
