Romen clearly intended to kill, Wyl knew, unless he could strike the death blow first.
They fought on, both their minds blanked of thought other than the focus on their opponent’s weapon and movement. The moon had risen high and the Briavellian Guard had almost returned to the city gates. Aides would have come looking for their King if any were alive or well enough to do so. The pair of swordsmen had no witnesses to their life and death struggle.
Both were showing their fatigue; hair damp with their efforts and faces shining with sweat, they knew it would be only moments now before one made the fatal error. Tiredness prompted mistakes and, although they redoubled their concentration, their bodies were beaten and could not respond as well as they hoped. Evenly matched, neither was getting ahead. Each recognised the signs in themselves of slowing down and knowing this alone would probably cost them their lives. It was the first time in their lives either of these men had felt true fear that the other man might prevail. It showed on their grim expressions. Gone was the almost permanent amusement Romen Koreldy carried on his face and Wyl had long ago withdrawn completely into himself.
It was Wyl who ultimately made the bad decision. He knew it the second he lunged hard after feinting twice. He saw the slight opening and decided if he was fast enough, he would have Romen impaled on his blade. He made his attempt but although his mind still worked at a high speed, his body was no longer working in tandem.
Romen anticipated what was happening. It was as though he was watching Wyl come at him at a speed ten times slower than normal. His mind was playing tricks but he had heard men say that when the death blow comes, the world around you slows down. It was happening to him now. This was the stab of Wyl’s sword which would kill him. Somehow — Shar alone knew how — he managed to drag himself just enough off balance to dodge the blade so that it only skimmed his side, ripping through surface flesh. And then, as Wyl followed through, Romen struck.
Romen’s blade ran General Wyl Thirsk of the Morgravian Legion through, its fierce tip emerging on the other side of its victim’s body. Wyl’s eyes widened in shock and pain but mostly from the realisation that he had lost his fight.
It was up to Romen now to save the two women Wyl loved. ‘Keep your promise,’ he gurgled as he dropped his sword and Romen pulled his own back and out of the dying man.
Wyl slid to the floor, closed his eyes and waited for his heart to stop beating and the pain in his belly to leave him. Death felt welcome.
But a new sensation suddenly gripped his body, and without knowing it he arched his back high from the floor in the spasm of that acute pain. At first he thought this was how death must feel as it gathered him into itself but the intensity of the surge forced him to open his eyes … his two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.
Romen too was staring at him in shock, but bent double in his own agony. It was as if they were both sharing the same convulsive pain. Wyl felt himself lifting now; all of what was him was being pulled, dragged from his shell in a tearing, ripping sense of departure. If this was death, why was Romen wearing a mask of such terror and agony?
The suffering mounted towards a crescendo and just as Wyl knew his life was about to pass over to Shar’s keeping, he glimpsed what he grasped was the soul of Romen Koreldy as it too crossed over in terror and disbelief.
But Wyl was not passing to Shar. Only Romen’s soul was being given up. And Wyl himself — all that made him in mind and spirit — was actually crossing into the body of Romen Koreldy. He thought he mouthed something. Could not be sure if he had, yet he wanted to say something to Romen.
Was this death or life?
The sensation of pain and confusion continued for what felt like an eternity until Wyl suddenly became aware of himself again as being alive. He was the one who staggered backwards to clutch at the table, letting go of the sword, dragging in his breath as though he had been drowning. No longer drowning in pain, now he broke the surface and came out of his swirling agonies and confusion. Wyl looked down upon the body on the floor.
He was unaware that he stared through ill-matched eyes but he did know that he looked down upon the corpse of Wyl Thirsk.
Wyl, residing in the trembling, still-shocked body of Romen Koreldy, rubbed at those ill-matched eyes now to make sure he was not dreaming this, was not in some sort of death stupor. He held out his shaking hands. They were the long, neat fingers of Romen, not his own short fingers with the soft ginger hair just below the knuckles. And then he looked at his side where he bled. This was the near miss and testimony to how close Wyl’s blade had come.
No! His blade had come, damn it!
It was true, then. Beneath him, his own body was already cooling and with it, he believed, it had taken the soul of Romen.
Dumbfounded and disoriented, he stumbled around the room taking in the scene of death. He heard voices, men’s voices; guards were running through the corridors. In the bedlam that was his mind he realised they would hit the stairs in moments and he would be trapped. Forcing himself out of the chaos of his thoughts and not daring to think anything through further, Wyl grabbed the arms of his previous body and dragged it towards the privvy. It was his only chance.
He threw his sword down the hole and then heaved the corpse over the lip of the lavvy. He heard it land at the bottom with a sickening crunch. The voices were at the top of the stairs now — he was just moments from discovery. No time to climb down with care. Wyl clambered into the drophole and, holding his breath instinctively against the assault of its smell, he let go. He too hit the bottom of the drophole hard, having jumped from such a height. But his landing was softened by the body. His true body.
With no thought beyond the moment and working purely on instinct, he settled Wyl Thirsk’s corpse on his shoulder and set off at a laboured trot. Moving awkwardly in Romen’s body, he wondered what in Shar’s Name had happened to him.
FIFTEEN
WYL TOOK COVER IN a small grove of trees he remembered passing on the journey into Briavel. It was the first time in hours he had taken a rest.
One stroke of luck a little earlier was coming across the mercenaries’ horses and a mule which had seemingly meandered over to join them. It occurred to Wyl that this had to be Fynch’s animal. He had untethered two of the horses and slung his corpse over the back of one. He would take the other horse for himself and, not wishing to abandon the animal which had effectively saved his life, he attached the mule to the horse carrying the body and the small party set off. Food was in the saddlebags and life-giving water too. It was urgent that he get the body to Pearlis. If he could just cross onto Morgravian soil, he would feel safer. When he had spotted the grove, he had cried out with relief. His nerves were in shreds, his mind felt stewed from the shock of what had occurred, and during the journey thus far he had spent the hours keeping up a string of nonsense-talk to the animals to deliberately stop himself from thinking on the shocking events. He had resisted glancing towards the body. His body.
Wyl slid the corpse off the horse and unsaddled the animals. Exhausted but still not prepared to think on his troubles, he spent time rubbing the beasts down. He finally hobbled his companions with a generous length of rope and lay down, hoping to drift off before he was forced to face the bleak truth. The moon was fat and high in a cloudless sky, denying him the total dark he craved, and despite his exhaustion sleep refused to rescue him. And so he finally confronted his fear … the terror that was surely Myrren’s gift. Her true gift, he now realised with a deep sob.
He stared at his hands, eerie in the moonlight, and accepted that these were indeed the large, well-kept hands of Romen Koreldy, still wearing the small, elegant signet ring. Wyl tentatively reached those long fingers to the face he now wore. His touch told him the once familiar roundish features were now angular. He possessed a neat, clipped beard and moustache.
He could not help but enjoy the lustrous feel of his hair when he loosened the thong which bound it and it fell to his shoulders. He recalled admi
ring it when he was an orange-haired General and envious of Romen’s hair in comparison to his own, coarse thatch. Wyl knew his eyes were now a clear, silver-grey. He even allowed himself the rueful grimace that his features were no longer ordinary and forgettable but were now remarkably striking. A face to turn heads.
Romen’s smile had been bright and quick. He tested it now, daring to touch the smooth, even teeth he recalled grinning back at him from the mercenary’s generous mouth. And his legs! Now Wyl did make a sound. It was a nervous laugh but nonetheless genuine as he stared at the new length of his legs which now surely stood him as tall as Valentyna … taller than Alyd … perhaps even taller than Gueryn.
He thought of these people now and the wave of grief he had kept at bay crashed against his mind. Both the men he loved were dead, or as good as, whilst both the women he loved were living through enormous fear and loss. Ylena, he imagined, was probably still unable to come to terms with what she had witnessed in the courtyard — perhaps she never would. Valentyna, his love, was no doubt wondering whether her father still lived as life’s strange turns threw her onto a new and frightening path. The pain of loving her so immediately and with such intensity frightened Wyl but he knew his heart belonged only to her now.
He remembered how he had made Romen promise to protect her, swear that he would lay down his life for her. Romen had given that oath with blood. It would now be up to Wyl to keep it.
He considered the man he had known so briefly and yet could not help liking so much and wondered if there was anything left of him inside. He probed gingerly and was rewarded with a vague touch on memories and ideas, thoughts and inclinations. It was not easy to reach and his instincts were to pull away and yet he glimpsed that the private nuances which made the man were still there, albeit dimly. It was similar to how a woman, walking past, leaves that faint and usually tantalising waft of her scent after she has gone.
Romen’s spirit lingered like perfume.
And yet the very essence of Romen was long gone. His soul had passed to Shar. Wyl remembered it crossing to die in his shell as his own life force entered Romen’s body and became one with it. Wyl decided to seal away what was Romen for now. He was not ready to delve into his life. In this shocking time of confusion he needed to sort out his own life first. He felt the first feathery touch of sleep and yawned, welcoming its escape.
It was a cold, hard bed tonight but he was alive. And he was angry. Angry and confused. He recalled the dream he’d had about dying, and yet not being dead — it seemed now to be a premonition rather than a simple nightmare.
Wyl pushed his confused thoughts aside. He had plenty to do in this new body, not the least of which was finding Valentyna and Fynch, but first there was unfinished business back in Morgravia. As his eyes closed he whispered a final farewell to Romen who unwittingly gave his life, an assassin Wyl could not help but like … and the man he had now become.
As he gave in to sleep, he realised now what he must do. It was suddenly as clear to him as the sharpness of the moonlight that there was only one course of action he could pursue. He would take his own body back and present it triumphantly to Celimus, going through all the motions required of him. He would trick the King into believing the Crown was rid of Wyl Thirsk. And then as Romen he would collect his purse, make provision for Ylena — please Shar, let her live this long — and then depart Morgravia to formulate a plan to make Celimus pay for his sins.
Its King slain. Its heir missing. Werryl was silent and stilled with shock.
Commander Liryk sat with Krell, the dead King’s Chancellor. Krell was a man of few words but when he spoke he made sense and people paid attention. He had been in Valor’s service for more than two decades and was the former sovereign’s most trusted counsel and confidant. He tried to comfort the old soldier who sat now in his study with his head in his hands.
‘I’ve lost her,’ Liryk whispered repeatedly.
Krell had allowed the man his sorrow. They were all grieving, all shocked at the previous night’s events. It was Krell who had had the presence of mind to contain the damage within the palace walls as best he could. As soon as Liryk and the main Briavellian Guard had returned from the hoax, Krell had insisted Liryk dismiss all but his most trusted men.
Liryk, too shocked to do much more than stare down at the corpses of his slain soldiers and the neatly laid out body of his King upstairs, heard the hiss of the Chancellor in his ear.
‘It must be contained, Liryk. Tongues must not wag until we make decisions. Move!’
And move he had, coming out of his stunned stupor to issue orders. Two captains he trusted implicitly were taken upstairs. They alone knew the fate of their King as they struggled to haul his dead bulk via the secret passageways of Werryl to the chapel which was then bolted for the first time in its history. No one else was aware of the King’s death … yet.
The soldiers’ corpses were taken to the castle morgue and their passing kept quiet until plans could be fashioned between the Chancellor and head of the army — now effectively running the realm. The mercenaries’ bodies were stripped of all telltale evidence of who they were and slung onto a cart to be taken to the city’s crematorium for immediate burning.
‘I would appreciate your thoughts,’ Krell said evenly into the silence.
The soldier looked up from his hands, face puffy from helpless tears shed intermittently these past hours. Dawn was threatening and decisions needed to be made.
‘What do we have thus far?’ he replied.
‘The diversion of the Guard was deliberate, we know that now. That and the drugging of the palace staff suggests this was a well-planned raid.’
‘Which succeeded,’ the old soldier said bitterly.
Krell nodded. ‘Or did it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Others know the truth, I suspect. There were two other men here this night past, the most important of our visitors, and their bodies are not amongst those dead.’
‘Of course, Wyl Thirsk,’ Liryk admitted.
‘That’s right and his companion, although I’m unsure of their relationship. A man by the name of Romen Koreldy.’
Liryk shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.
‘Wyl Thirsk, one presumes, is a formidable warrior, as his father before him.’
‘So?’
‘Who do you think killed all the mercenaries? Hardly our King, I’d suggest.’
Liryk nodded. ‘Valor was a fine warrior in his time, but no, he could not have taken on ten men single-handedly.’
‘Exactly! I think one, possibly both of these two younger men, assisted.’
‘You think the mercenaries killed our soldiers and —’
‘And Valor, aided by Thirsk and possibly Koreldy, despatched the foreigners.’
‘Why would Thirsk travel with a mercenary?’
‘That is a mystery. I can’t imagine that he would agree to come onto Briavellian soil with anyone but his own men.’
‘A trap by the Morgravian King?’
‘Possibly. I’m thinking that if Thirsk was forced to travel with mercenaries on his mission, it would account for the thanks I read in his eyes when I separated him from what to all intents and purposes looked like his captor.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Thirsk was given a private audience with Valor. He seemed relieved that he would have this time. The other fellow had to wait outside the chambers but he insisted on doing so. There was no sense of companionship between them, although there seemed some sort of attachment. By the way, Thirsk took no weapons in with him.’
‘But there are weapons stored in Valor’s chambers.’
‘And a key was correctly used to release those. Valor would never willingly give over the key — you know that.’
‘And neither would Valentyna,’ the soldier said and frowned in thought.
‘That’s true. The doors to the case are not smashed. The key is in the lock.’
‘Suggesting it was all done
with the King’s sanction. You think they fought alongside Valor.’
The Chancellor nodded. ‘I do. And I suspect they may well have helped Valentyna escape.’
This shocked Liryk. ‘Was she inside with Thirsk and the King?’
Krell smiled. It was the first reason to do so in many hours. ‘That headstrong young woman comes and goes as she pleases. She knows the secret passageways better than any. I know her father expected her to attend the supper so I suspect it’s highly likely she was present.’
‘But surely Koreldy could have smashed the door through with the other mercenaries?’
‘Yes, he could have. But there are three swords missing from the case and its door is closed neatly again, the lock turned. You don’t do that when your life is being threatened. Koreldy’s sword was not on his person.’ Krell tapped his lip. ‘No, I’m guessing the King or Valentyna furnished the men with swords — Thirsk worked with Koreldy and they both fought with the King’s agreement.’
‘Set aside their differences you mean?’
The Chancellor shrugged again. ‘I’m guessing. Perhaps the new Morgravian King is more cunning than we give credit.’
‘A double cross?’
‘On Thirsk, for sure. I don’t think for a minute that Thirsk came here to take the life of Valor.’
‘What was he here for then?’
The old man gave a slight shrug. ‘Perhaps he came for Valentyna,’ he suggested carefully.
Liryk was startled. ‘Valentyna?’
‘Think about it,’ Krell said, sitting forward as he warmed to his theory. ‘This King Celimus could well have his sights on her — and why not? It makes perfect sense. He might consider that a marriage would amount to a bloodless conquest of Briavel — something we’d all surely support. And rumour has it that the new young monarch is ambitious. Perhaps he sent Thirsk here with a proposal.’ He sat back, satisfied he had released the thought which had been gathering momentum in his mind for a few hours now.
The Quickening Page 21
