Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (34 page)

stirrup. As he flung his leg over his horse's rump, he speared his tormentors with another disgusted look.

“Not by a long shot!"

“Get your arse back to your fancy keep!” a voice from the crowd taunted. “We ain't letting you

Viragonians take no woman under our protection ever again!"

A chorus of ‘ayes!’ rang out from every Serenian throat assembled.

The Elite sergeant sawed on his mount's reins and led his men back up the border road, the sound from

their horse's hooves bringing a cheer of victory from the townsfolk of Ciona.

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Rolf de Viennes was not happy with his king's plan nor was he at all sure he could win in a contest of

bared fists with Kaelan Hesar. The few skirmishes the two of them had had back at the Keep had ended

in only minor black eyes for the prince and more than a few lumps for de Viennes.

But, Rolf thought as he took his place in the clearing behind the stables and watched Kaelan Hesar

limping toward him, that had been before the man had been crippled.

And five years ago.

De Viennes studied his opponent closely as the king explained the rules of the contest to those gathered.

It was the prince's left leg that troubled him, de Viennes noted. That was a weakness that could not be

overcome, and one to which Rolf would address himself.

“No tripping,” Duncan was saying.

Rolf frowned. Well, there was tripping and then there was stumbling.

“No hitting below the belt."

That went without saying. There was no honor in dirty fighting and Rolf intended to beat the man fair and

square.

If he could.

Hesar was shivering, Rolf noted. His eyes were watering and his nose was red. He'd been coughing and

sneezing, too. Had he been sick, perhaps? Just now coming out from under the effects of a bad winter's

cold?

Another weakness to be registered. The lungs were above the belt and a few vicious jabs to the older

man's chest might facilitate an easier victory.

And—upon first notice—amused Rolf de Viennes, but now made him believe he had more than a good

chance of beating the fellow.

The young prince was underweight and didn't appear to be all that steady on his feet. His clothes hung

like rags—looked like rags, too—on his thin body and surely did not give off the warmth Rolf's own

woolen garments provided else why was the man shuddering so with the chill of the air?

“No biting, scratching, or gouging!"

Rolf grunted with disdain. One or two well-aimed jabs—one to the belly, one to the jaw—should

stagger the prince and leave him wide open for further intense pummeling.

The thing of it was: could he get close enough to land the wicked punches he planned? Hesar's arms

were longer than his and the man was taller.

Though Hesar was older by nearly eight years, Rolf's senses encouraged him. The younger Viragonian

prince would be sorely out of practice.

In Rolf's estimation, he, himself, might take a few hard hits at first, until Hesar wore himself and his

neglected body down, but he knew he was in top form. His body had been honed to perfection. He was

well-nourished; in excellent health and-despite the frigid chill and snowflakes falling sporadically around

them-as warm as could be expected.

All in all, he expected to win the fight with a total and demoralizing asswhipping of his opponent. Flexing

his fists, he also meant to leave as much damage on Hesar's hated face as the gods would allow!

Kaelan's teeth were chattering as he stood there. His lungs were burning from the intake of the cold

mountain air washing over his chilled body. He knew he had a fever and his cough was more ragged than

ever. Being outside in the arctic air, feeling the snowflakes wetting his hair, would not help in his

convalescence. Running the arm of his tattered shirt under his nose, he clamped his jaws tightly together

to keep from sneezing again. He'd seen the light of speculation in Rolf's eye; he knew the man understood

he had been ill.

And his leg, he thought with a grimace of hopelessness, was paining him something terrible. The cold had

set into the bone and the throbbing agony that was every step he took, threatened to buckle his left knee.

He resisted the urge to bend over and rub his thigh for that would only have given de Viennes more

satisfaction, something that was already blazing across his handsome young face.

“I can't take him,” Kaelan reminded himself. “No way in hell can I come out of this the winner.” He was

sick, not to mention underfed and weak. He was hurting. He feared for Gillian's safe escape into Ciona;

that particular worry was a sharp stake being driven through his heart.

He was out of shape and many years older than his youthful opponent. “I can't win,” he sighed. “But

maybe I can land a few blows hard enough to hurt the little bastard."

Yet when he took de Vienne's first hit, Kaelan crumbled like a card house in a light breeze.

* * * *

Dakin wondered how long the king was going to allow this insanity to go on. Twice he had spoken up,

asking for an end to the brutal beating. He doubted very much young Kaelan's ability to see, much less

speak. Both the prince's dark eyes were swollen shut, his lips split and bleeding almost as profusely as his

battered and—no doubt—broken nose. The young man was wheezing badly, sucking air into his bruised

lungs. He was pale, though a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his gaunt face.

“The man is ill,” Dakin insisted. “Put a stop to this, Your Grace."

“All he has to do is hold up his hand to me and I'll stop the fight,” Duncan grunted.

Dakin had heard tales of Duncan's dislike of his brother, but in actuality, he'd never seen it. The few

times at Court Dakin had been witness to the king's chastisement of his brother, the punishments had

been rather lax. More mental than physical, done almost with a grudging regret that such was necessary.

Even this morning, hadn't Duncan shown some concern for his brother when he thought Kaelan had been

tortured? Had that been all for show? For Dakin's benefit?

The Duke didn't think so. He believed the king had some grudging care for his young brother. Grudging

care mixed heavily with a great deal of envy and covetousness of Kaelan's easy ability to make and keep

admirers.

No, the Duke hadn't really thought Duncan hated his brother as so many people had intimated.

Until now.

Kaelan was staggering blindly about the clearing, blood splattered all along the front of his worn cambric

shirt. He was trying to lift his head, trying to see, but he missed the jab that caught him savagely on his left

cheekbone and jerked his head around. The prince stumbled—and with a sharp, cut-off cry of

agony—went down on his left knee. Another cry was forced from him when he dropped to the ground,

falling over to his side almost immediately in a vain effort to protect his injured leg.

“Ask quarter, Your Grace,” the Duke heard Utley advising. “Ask quarter and it will stop."

Rolf was dancing about the clearing, making fancy steps on the packed-down snow. His bruised fists

were still up, jabbing now and again at the air.

“Ask quarter,” Landers, the other tracker whispered.

Dakin watched with astonishment as the young prince pushed himself up from the ground, pausing to

draw breath into his bruised lungs. His head hung down wearily for a moment before he shook it to rid

himself of the pain. His shoulders gave way—only a little—but every man there knew it was a sign that

the prince was almost at the end of his endurance.

“Ask quarter, Your Grace,” Utley repeated.

The harsh sigh that came from the prince was heard as clearly as a shout would have been. Then he

pushed himself the rest of the way up, favoring his leg, and bringing his tired arms up to continue.

“Shit,” Utley mumbled and turned away, shoving Landers aside. “I can't watch this!"

Rolf danced toward his opponent—feigning a jab here, a hook there—but never landed a blow. He

circled the staggering man who turned clumsily with him, knowing Hesar sensed his presence even if he

couldn't see him, and laughed when a weak jab came toward him. The younger man feigned lefts then

ducked in and drove a vicious right fist into the small of Prince Kaelan's unprotected back.

Dakin sucked in his breath—feeling the agony, himself, of that brutal hit—and watched as Kaelan's body

twisted painfully toward the left.

Kaelan cried out at the pain the movement caused in his leg.

Rolf landed a hard blow to his opponent's gut and the prince's body folded down upon itself.

“Quarter!” Landers said loud enough for everyone to hear.

Retching from the pain in his belly, Kaelan straightened only to have a fist driven into his face. He

stumbled back, dazed and disoriented.

“Quarter!” one of the men who had stayed behind to guard the king echoed.

There was another jab to the prince's left kidney.

“Quarter! began the chant.

A savage blow to the other kidney.

“Quarter!!"

Rolf landed a heavy-handed pop to Kaelan's temple which spun the older man around and slammed him

face down into the snow.

“QUARTER!"

The chanting was coming from every throat save the four royals.

Kaelan tried to push himself up and couldn't. He fell back to the snow—his battered face turned toward

Dakin—and lay there.

“QUARTER!

Dakin turned and looked at Duncan. The king was just standing there-arms crossed over his

chest-staring down at his own flesh and blood, beaten to the point of being barely recognizable.

“Sire?” Dakin prompted, bringing Duncan's gaze to him. “The man is down."

Duncan turned his head away. “He has not begged quarter."

Dakin gawked at the king. Was the man going to allow his brother to be beaten to death? Gillian's love?

Not if her father had anything to say about it!

“Is it his admission of defeat at the hands of your champion you seek, Majesty, or his total destruction

that makes you allow this savage torture to go on?” Dakin spat. When Duncan's head snapped around

toward him, the Duke smiled hatefully. “He is beaten; he can not go on. But he is still very much a warrior

for he will not ask for something he knows you don't want to give him anyway!"

Duncan's nostrils flared with outrage and he took a step toward the ambassador before stopping himself.

Was it really Kaelan's complete annihilation he wanted? His brother was down; defeated; beaten so

badly it would take weeks for him to heal, if he ever did. Wasn't that enough? Hadn't both his and de

Vienne's honor been avenged?

Turning his gaze once more to Kaelan, it was almost on the tip of Duncan's tongue to demand his

brother say the humiliating words; but the men gathered around were watching him. They had been

spectacle to—not a fight—but a beating and they knew it. It had not been a contest between two evenly

matched opponents; it had been a sentence of punishment for one and high enjoyment for the other. As

king, he could lose their respect—if he hadn't lost of some of it already by subjecting their beloved

Kaelan to Rolf's tender ministration—and that was to be avoided.

“Mount up,” Duncan said, striding toward the horses that had never been unsaddled. As Utley and

Landers started toward his brother, the king bellowed: “Leave him be! He is a warrior, as the Duke so

graciously pointed out to me! Allow him the dignity of caring for himself!"

“But he is hurt, Your Majesty!” Utley called out.

“MOUNT UP!” Duncan roared. He was already in the saddle.

Dakin began to walk toward the fallen man, but the king's harsh words brought him up short: “If you

help him, he will not appreciate it, Cree,” Duncan grated. “Believe me: he will not!"

The Duke hesitated. He had all but made up his mind to ignore the warning when Kaelan managed to

ease himself up and turn a badly disfigured face toward him.

“Go, Your Grace,” Kaelan asked. His voice was weak, infinitely tired and filled with pain.

“But, you are hurt, son,” Dakin protested, tears forming in his eyes for that face might well be beyond

return to normal.

“Please go,” came the labored request. “I've given her time to get away."

The rumble of horses coming up the road from the village drowned out Dakin's reply, but the Duke

nodded once in understanding and stalked angrily to his horse. He did not want to leave this hurt man

lying in the snow, but neither did he want to shame him in front of the pompous bastard who was his

brother.

Richter's men galloped up and the sergeant doffed his fur hat.

“Well?” Duncan shouted to Sergeant Richter, looking beyond him to see if the Cree siblings had been

found and brought back. When he did not see them among the troop, his face grew dark as sin. “What

happened?"

“They wouldn't let us cross over,” the Elite reported with a flaming face. “There were armed men waiting

for us at the Carbonham Gate."

“Damn that gods-be-damned son of yours, Cree!” Duncan threw at Dakin. “He'll have us at war with

the McGregor yet!"

The Duke glared at the king, but did not answer the insult.

Hans Richter glanced at Kaelan Hesar and winced. The two of them had been friends for many years

before Kaelan had been banished from the Keep. The Elite started to dismount to help his friend, but his

king's command froze him in the saddle.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” Duncan bellowed. He stabbed a hand toward the village. “LET'S