WindDeceiver (36 page)

Guil sniffed. “Maybe his mind’s gone.”

“No,” Jaleel drawled out. “He’s gathering his resources if I understand him as I think I do.”

“Well,” Guil replied, settling more comfortably in his chair, “you can’t play any more games with him until his hands heal anyway.”

Jaleel tapped his lower lip with the nail of his thumb. “That’s not entirely true.”

Instant interest perked up Guil’s ears. “What are you planning, now, Jaborn?”

“You’ll see,” Jaleel smiled. His eyes were evil.

He didn’t protest when they came for him. He didn’t struggle with them and he didn’t help them, either. He allowed them to drag him along the corridor and shove him into still another underground room, this one small and also containing a chair bolted to the floor. He grunted as they shoved him into the chair and yanked his arms behind him to tie them to the slats along the back; but he didn’t make a sound as his ankles were lashed to the chair legs.

After the guards left, he sat there, looking about him, wondering which of his friends they would bring before him here. He hoped with all his heart it wouldn’t be Wyn.

“Not yet,” he begged. “Please not him. Not yet.”

Somewhere deep in Conar McGregor’s soul, he knew he would be a raving lunatic long before they brought Wyn to his death. That he couldn’t help his son, or any of his other friends, he had already accepted. When the door opened, he was only mildly curious to know which of his friends’ death’s he would be responsible for this time.

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Jaleel Jaborn and Guil Ben-Shanar Gehdrin entered together, each looking at him as though he were the best of entertainments. He turned his head away from their intent stares.

“How are your hands, McGregor?” Gehdrin asked him, chuckling.

He would not answer them. He kept his eyes averted.

“Have you realized that with every pull of those pins on Hesar’s irons you lowered the platform into the water?” Jaleel asked him. “Or that with every tug on the ropes which held you yesterday you brought the rope closer to the flame?”

A thrust of pain drove deep in Conar’s battered heart, but he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing just how much those words hurt him. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let fly the vindictive curses that longed to break free.

“You caused their deaths instead of helping them, McGregor,” Jaleel was saying. “You have their souls on your conscience.”

He knew that was true. Hearing Jaborn voice the words was like pouring salt on an open wound.

“But you had to try, didn’t you, McGregor?” Guil sneered. “The warrior in you would allow for nothing less.”

“It did him no good,” Jaleel laughed. “He only caused his friends more pain than if he had not tried at all.”

Conar closed his eyes, trying to shut out the man’s cruel words.

“I’ve brought someone to see you,” Jaleel said in a pleasant voice. “Someone I know you’ll want to see.”

He would not look around as the door opened again. He heard shuffling footsteps, but refused to look to see which man would die this time.

“I had to have her door battered in in order to get her out of her room,” he heard Jaborn chortle.

Against his will, wishing he had the courage not to turn and look, Conar swung his head slowly around. The color drained from his face.

“I didn’t want her awake for what is going to happen,” Jaleel remarked as he began to untie the sash at his waist. “After all, we are to be married and such a thing as this could cause problems for us later on.”

She was being held in Belial’s thick arms, her head and feet dangling over the massive biceps. She was unconscious, that much Conar knew, and he thanked whatever deity looked after Catherine McGregor that she was.

Jaleel shrugged out of his robe, letting the heavy white folds pool at his bare feet. He stood there, his thickly-muscled body bare to Conar’s sight.

“Lay her down, Belial.”

“Don’t,” Conar pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Jaborn, I beg you.”

“Beg all you want,” Jaleel told him. “Although it will do no good, I will still relish hearing you plead with me.”

“Don’t shame her like this!” Conar begged.

“Oh,” Jaleel assured him, “they aren’t going to stay to watch this.” He motioned the others out of the room.

“She’ll never forgive you,” Conar promised.

“She won’t even know it’s happened,” Jaleel told him. “When she wakes, she will wake in her own bed.”

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“Jaborn,” Conar tried again, knowing it was useless, knowing the bastard was going to ravage Catherine right there on the floor in front of him. “I am begging you not to do this.” His voice was beginning to quiver with pain.

Jaborn went to her and knelt down between her legs, pushing them gently apart.

“Oh, my god, please don’t do this!” Conar pleaded with him.

“Not your god, but your master, McGregor,” Jaleel laughed. He leaned over Catherine and gently touched her face. “Don’t you think she is lovely, McGregor?” He looked back over his shoulder at Conar. “Not as lovely as Liza, but then I never got a chance to have her, did I?”

“Jaborn,

please!”

“Watch, McGregor,” Jaleel said, his mouth twisted in a vicious taunt. “Watch while I mate with your woman.”

He twisted against the bonds but the ropes were tight, so tight he could not work his wrists at all. He jerked against the bonds around his ankles, but they too held secure.

“Jaborn,

don’t!”

Jaleel put his hand on Catherine’s still breast and squeezed gently. “So lovely. So soft,” he whispered.

“Jaborn!”

The Hasdu slid his hand down to the hem of Catherine’s gown and slowly began to pull it up. “Her skin is like silk,” Jaleel remarked as he smoothed his palm over the crisp curls which nestled at the juncture of Catherine’s spread thighs.

“No!” Conar screamed, bucking violently. His blood was pounding in his temple and he thought he would pass out with the fear and horror filling his mind.

“Watch, McGregor,” Jaleel said and he took his manhood in his hands and lowered his body over Catherine’s.

Nothing yet had hurt him as much as watching his enemy take his woman. With every thrust of Jaborn’s shaft into Catherine’s defenseless body, a part of Conar’s mind disintegrated. A part of his soul was destroyed beyond repair. He looked away, unable to see the woman he loved shamed in such a manner. Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks and he hung his head as the sounds of Jaborn’s lust filled the small room. He whimpered, understanding this, too, was as much his fault as the deaths of Rylan Hesar and Tyne Brell.

As the last stroke of Jaleel’s revenge was thrust into Catherine’s unconscious body and the last grunt of pleasure escaped the man’s excited throat, the Serenian was brought that much closer to the brink of madness.

Celene walked down the corridor to the Outlander’s cell with four guards escorting her.

Strict orders had been given that she was not to be allowed to stay with him after he had been fed.

Once more chained hand and foot to the floor and walls of his cell, the Serenian posed no threat to her, but it was feared he would try to gain sympathy from her and His grace did not want that to happen.

“Feed him and then leave.” His Grace had been very explicit in his instructions. “I do not want you talking to him, Celene. Do you understand that?”

The only way she would be allowed to see him, to make sure he was all right, Rachel had warned her, was to adhere to the Prince’s instructions. Hating the man even more than she already did, Celene had bowed meekly to his demands, vowing she would not engage the Outlander in conversation.

“He is not to be given any comfort,” Jaleel warned her. “None at all!”

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As the door to his cell was thrown open, Celene saw the Serenian’s head come up, saw the terror in his glazed eyes, could almost hear the pounding of his heart, and she knew he had thought they had come for him to take him to one of the gaming chambers. When he saw it was only her, his rigid body seemed to relax, his clenched fist release, his shoulders sag with relief.

She walked into the cell, all four guards behind her, and knelt beside him, placing the tray on the floor. Glancing up at his face, she saw his dirty cheeks were streaked and knew such stains had been caused by tears. She ached to wash his face, to comb his matted hair, but it would not have been permitted even had she the means to do it. Instead, she took up the chalice of tepid water and brought it to his lips. She winced as his eyes leapt to hers as he realized there would be no more wine, no cool water to slack his thirst. She tried to convey with her expression that she was sorry and she thought he understood for his gaze slid away.

Lowering the chalice, she tore off a piece of the moldy bread and put it to his mouth. She felt like crying when he obediently opened his lips and took in the bread, chewing it as though it were freshly-baked and warm with butter from the oven instead of hard and dry and tasting of mold.

It didn’t take her long to feed him. There was only the few ounces of water and the heel of two-day old bread. When that was gone, there was no reason for her to stay. She took up the tray and turned to go. She knew he would understand that there would be no chamber pot allowed him this night. If he had to relieve himself, it would be where he sat.

As the door closed and the light was shut out, Conar leaned his head back against the wall, the musky taste of the moldy bread clinging to his teeth. It had been well over a week since he’d bathed or brushed his hair or his teeth. He felt grungy, alive with vermin, and itched in a dozen places where fleas had nibbled at his flesh. He hated the feeling. The rasp of his beard was bad enough, but the smell of his own body, and his breath, was enough to make his vision waver.

A week, he thought. He had been there at least a week by his reckoning. Two days ago--

His mind shied away from that thought. He refused to think of what had happened two days ago. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. Tomorrow, he thought, they will come for me again.

Tomorrow, he knew, someone else would die.

Meggie walked to the big studded doors and peered upward, impressed despite herself by the massiveness of Abbadon Fortress. There was a smell there, she thought. A smell of evil. It quivered the hairs in her nostrils and brought nausea to her gut. Laying her hands on one of the sharp spikes, she could feel the malevolence in this place. It throbbed against her palm and filled her mouth with the tang of metal.

“This Gateway is steeped in the mire of the Abyss,” she mumbled to Sabrina. “Can you sense the corruption here?”

“I have been inside these gates only once,” Sabrina answered, “and I had nightmares for years afterwards.”

Meggie nodded. “Aye, I can believe it.” She withdrew her hand. “When is the caravan due?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Sabrina told her.

Meggie stepped back and craned her neck to look up at the small oval openings which started on the third floor. “Where is his throne room?”

“There,” Sabrina pointed. “Just to the left of those first four windows.”

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The old woman squinted then turned away. “I can not feel my bonny lad’s presence in this pile of rocks.”

“The walls are layered with steel and iron plate,” Sabrina said. “The openings are lined with iron spikes. That’s why.”

“Maybe so,” Meggie agreed. Iron was a great hindrance to conjuring.

“Come tomorrow,” Sabrina reminded her, “we’ll find him, Mistress. Do you doubt that?”

“No,” Meggie answered. “It’s the condition we find him in that concerns me, girl.”

It concerned Sabrina, as well.

Chase squatted in the sand with Kharis and made sure the crystals the women had given him were still in the pouch that had fallen out of Chase’s robes.

“To lose these,” Kharis snapped, “could cost you your life, Your Grace.”

A faint blush of guilt seeped over Chase’s face. “I understand that, Kharis.”

Kharis finished counting the crystals then slipped them into the hide bag and pulled the drawstring closed. He double-tied the knot. “Then take better care of them,” he growled. He handed them back to their owner.

Chase slipped the bag into his pocket, nestling them deep down and patted them. “I swear I will.”

“You’re lucky you felt them drop out,” Kharis groused. “Else once we got to the caravan, the bastards would have seen you.”

Not accustomed to be berating by anyone, and accepting it, other than by Conar McGregor, Chase frowned at the man. “Don’t treat me like a child, El-Malick,” Chase sneered.

Kharis snorted, nervous as he was and fearful for the Ionarian’s life lest he let the man be hurt and have the Lady Sabrina carve the hide from his body piece by bloody piece. Sometimes being a Daughter’s Sentinel was not easy work.

“Do you think the others have missed us by now?” Chase asked, glancing at the heavy scowl on the Hasdu’s face.

“It matters not a whit if they have,” Kharis growled.

“They’ll know where we’ve gone,” Chase said.

“They won’t know in which direction and they won’t know about the caravan, either.”

“What if they try to go to the fortress?”

Kharis sighed heavily, rolling his gaze to the blue heavens. “You’d better hope they don’t, Your Grace. It’s secrecy we’re counting on to get us into the fortress. All we need is a group of would-be rescuers calling attention to the caravan. In the process, some sorceress not aligned with us could see me and you and the ladies and then all hell will break lose!”

In one of the lower chamber rooms of the second sublevel, Celene and a group of women, far more than Kalli would have imagined, were gathered around in a circle. Hands clasped together, the women were chanting softly. The rune was ancient, as ancient as time, and the words were so old few of the women even understood their meaning. It was the impact of the words, not the words themselves, that mattered.