The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  At this point the crowd went wild and the master of the ceremony realised there would be no calming them for a while. A glance towards his Queen revealed she looked suitably self-conscious about her part in all of this. He waited patiently until finally lifting his hand again for quiet. ‘However, as with all young suitors in Briavel, our handsome King must earn the right to his chosen one.’ Clapping and whistles followed this reminder of the local ways. ‘It is of no matter that he is a sovereign,’ he said archly, making everyone laugh, ‘not to mention the reigning monarch of our powerful neighbour.’ Still more catcalls. ‘In this mission he is like any eager young fellow, keen to wed the most beautiful girl in the land.’ Valentyna was now blushing at the direct language. She had not sanctioned such freedom of speech but then again the people loved it and she was glad to see them so happy again after such intense mourning — though she would ask Liryk to keep an eye on the master’s liquid consumption for the rest of the day.

  ‘And so Celimus, brave King of Morgravia, has agreed to fight for the right to call our Queen his Queen.’ A long ooh murmured through the gathered. This was more intriguing than they had first thought. ‘The King will duel with the Queen’s Champion for her hand in marriage. Please make welcome our two opponents.’

  Wyl listened to the master’s theatrical introduction and with each word felt his fury intensify. After Valentyna had left him this morning, Wyl had felt suddenly bereft. Celimus had already taken too much from him. And now he was preparing to take Valentyna — the only woman he could ever love. His thoughts had become morose and convoluted with anger and grief; the faces of Ylena, Alyd, Gueryn, Lothryn, Elspyth, Valor, Magnus, his own father began to rear up demanding vengeance.

  ‘I don’t like this much, Wyl,’ Fynch now cautioned, listening to the frenzied cheering of the crowd.

  ‘You mustn’t call me that.’

  ‘I know, I know. Whatever is going through your mind, I don’t think Knave likes it much either.’

  ‘And Knave would know,’ Wyl replied sarcastically. He looked at the boy then and felt badly about how he had spoken. None of this was Fynch’s fault. Fynch was innocent, courageous and being drawn into this web of deceit and intrigue like water down a drain. And he was suffering for it.

  ‘Sorry, Fynch. I don’t mean to mock. I too accept that Knave knows more than we realise. No more visions?’

  Fynch shook his head.

  ‘Good.’

  Fynch was not to be deterred. ‘But my instincts tell me this is a mistake, Wyl.’

  Wyl dropped down to his haunches and Fynch was able to look him in the eye, marvelling at the dull black helmet which surrounded his friend’s face. ‘There is no other way. You have to trust me.’

  ‘I trust you, Wyl. I don’t trust Celimus.’ The boy locked his hand in Knave’s fur to stop himself from crying. He would hate it if he broke down now.

  ‘Keep the faith, lad,’ Wyl replied, hearing his cue to enter the arena.

  Dressed entirely in black, Wyl now pulled down his visor, completing the mysterious outfit which would hide his identity.

  ‘You two stay out of sight,’ he cautioned and then stroked Fynch’s hair. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

  As Wyl left the stone outhouse and began striding into the arena, Fynch felt the familiar and terrifying sensation of spinning. Suddenly his head hurt horribly and the overwhelming nausea arrived. The world he knew blanked out as he saw Romen bloodied and dying. There was a woman’s voice — it had to be Valentyna, not that he could see — but the voice was not frightened or weeping, she was whispering. Let go now, she said. Die bravely and quietly.

  A new voice floated in his head. A man’s voice: It has to be.

  Fynch passed out. When he fully regained his senses, it was already too late.

  As Wyl strode into the loud atmosphere of the arena, he could see Celimus already testing his sword, slashing the air. When the King caught sight of the Queen’s Champion he affected one of his most elegant bows in mock homage to the warrior. Wyl ignored him. He could barely bring himself to look at that face he loathed and instead turned towards Valentyna. She looked nervous but only to him. Her cheering subjects saw radiance and laughter. He felt proud of her in spite of his gloomy, simmering mood.

  He bowed before her. ‘A good luck talisman, my lady?’ he requested and she pulled an exquisite silk embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to him.

  ‘This was given to me by my father. You must cherish it as I have,’ she said, loud enough for all to hear. The roar from the crowd was deafening.

  As he took it, he kissed her outstretched hand. She looked deep into the visor looking for his eyes, looking for a sign that he would keep true to her. ‘Keep your promises,’ she whispered for his ears only, and he could see she was fighting back tears.

  Wyl turned away immediately to pull the crowd’s gaze back to himself and Celimus. No one must notice her anxiety at what was seemingly a piece of fun.

  But someone did notice. Jessom felt the Queen’s discomfort, saw the mist in her eyes and stored it away. He could not help but wonder whether here in front of them stood the reason why Valentyna had kept Celimus at such a distance. He would ponder it.

  ‘Queen’s Champion, eh?’ Celimus jibed as Wyl approached. He was enjoying today and presumed this fellow in black would put up a brave fight whilst contriving to lose theatrically and give Morgravia its confirmation of marriage. Not that I need any help to despatch you, the King thought, looking forward to the fun of the fight.

  Wyl said nothing as he drew his sword with the bluish tinge from its sheath. It made a sound like a chime as it pulled free. Lightweight and elegant, it felt as one with his hand. He wished he could run it through Celimus right now and wipe that unfaithful smile from his handsome, hateful face. He did not test the sword’s weight or movement through the air. Wyl already knew it was perfect.

  ‘Impressive weapon, sir,’ Celimus commented.

  Still Wyl held his tongue. He refused to look again at Valentyna. His gaze was for the King of Morgravia alone.

  ‘Is he mute, your majesty?’ Celimus asked loudly for everyone’s benefit and they all obliged with howls of laughter.

  ‘No, sire,’ she answered. ‘He speaks a strange tongue,’ she jested, begging inwardly for this mummery to be done.

  ‘Well, perhaps he understands the language of the blade better?’ And Celimus, still standing casually, turned like a cat and struck.

  Wyl was ready for him, however. He had seen Celimus use this trick so many times on unsuspecting opponents that he was not only waiting for it but was able to deflect the blow with ease and a staged nonchalance. Whistles and cheers from the crowd for their Champion followed.

  Celimus preferred it all to go his way. He thrust again, quickly following it up with a low swipe. Again Wyl was ready for him. He had fought him too many times in the Stoneheart training grounds to be caught out by such transparency.

  Celimus nodded towards the Queen. So, he was up against a skilled opponent. Perhaps she had not staged this for fun. Perhaps she was still reticent about accepting his proposal and would hide behind this contest. Well, they had no idea whom they had pitched this black warrior against. No one, save Wyl Thirsk, had ever bested him and that fool was ashes to the wind. He would show Briavel his prowess and he would claim his prize. The contest began in earnest.

  Valentyna held her breath but she was not sure whether it was from fear for Romen or simply for the beauty of watching these two dashing swordsmen display their skills. It was like nothing she had seen. Everyone else witnessing the fight felt the same way. Their adeptness was mesmerising. And what had started out as a piece of theatre, accompanied by the audience’s cheers and whoops, settled rapidly into a duel of such intensity that the voices of those watching died to a whisper.

  ‘They are like artists,’ Valentyna muttered to Liryk standing nearby as it struck her again how incredibly beautifully these two men moved. They moved with the
grace of the large forest cats her father had once shown her. They had been trapped in more exotic climes but a pair had been shipped to Briavel many years ago when she was but a child. They were wild and beautiful; they moved as fluidly as the molten gold she had seen being poured for sovereign coins at the treasury.

  ‘They are of a match, majesty,’ Liryk admitted, equally awestruck. ‘Neither has the upperhand on the other,’ he added before whispering, ‘Koreldy is amazing.’ Only Liryk and Krell had been permitted to know the secret of the Champion and Valentyna intended it remain that way.

  ‘Shh!’ she cautioned but, though quietly glad to see him flinch under her firm voice, she then made an effort to soften her warning. ‘It’s too dangerous for Romen to be exposed,’ she added in a whisper. The soldier nodded, abashed.

  The King had begun to perspire lightly with his efforts and the warmth of the afternoon sun. This was taking longer than he had planned. He had thought it a fun piece of drama to entertain the masses and an opportunity to show off. There was no one to match his prowess with a blade and yet this masked swordsman was parrying everything Celimus was throwing at him.

  A thought began to nag at Celimus. He could not focus on it for his opponent had begun to increase the pace at which he fought. That too reminded him of something familiar. What is it? The dance had taken on a darker feel too. The man fighting silently in such dedicated fashion opposite him had a stillness and a calm he felt he recognised. That is it! He felt he knew this swordsman. Flashes of familiar movement and balance in the man appeared beneath his flamboyant style.

  I’ll be damned, Celimus thought suddenly. He fights at times like the red-headed troll, Wyl Thirsk. And if the man opposite had not been so tall or lean, he might almost have believed it.

  Doggedly Wyl fought on. Looking for the opening. He was not permitted to draw blood but perhaps he could flick the King’s sword away. Whatever happened he would humiliate the man and send him on his way, his tail between his legs.

  Celimus was openly sweating now. The Queen’s Champion was relentless. He was no longer allowing the King to showcase his moves before responding with his own. He had just slipped up to full battle tempo. Celimus began to feel the first pinpricks of fear coursing through him. The man meant business. He was duelling seriously. No more posturing or swoops with the sword; no more looking for cheers and grins from the audience. The black Champion meant to beat him. Celimus would not let that happen.

  The silence about them had grown palpable and Celimus was grunting with each sword thrust. The more he thought about the orange-haired bastard who had brought him such grief at the royal tournament, the more anxious and ragged his own fighting became.

  Wyl, meanwhile, could see nothing but the blur of the blue sword. It felt to him as though he needed no sight. The sword knew where to move and he was one with it. He could kill Celimus now. The King was tired from the previous evening and early start. Wyl sensed his frustration. He knew that the Morgravian monarch had drunk ale and wine last night and danced plenty. The carousing at the banquet would rise up and become another enemy for him this afternoon in the heat. Wyl could see it occurring before his eyes as the sheen of perspiration on the King increased. He could kill him now and surely save Valentyna and Briavel, perhaps even claim the Legion? There was no heir for Morgravia. The realm would lose its momentum for a while until it found itself a new monarch through the various noble families with blood connection to the Crown. And whilst Morgravia panicked, Briavel would find strength and calm. Valentyna would have the time to settle into her rule and be stronger for it.

  Yes! Kill him. End it now, no matter what happens. Finish Celimus, he commanded himself, his wrath hard and complete.

  Wyl found a stillness within and his sword began to shine blue with the fast and furious strokes which he now punished Celimus with. He felt he was fighting with the strength of two men. Him and Koreldy. Perhaps even three or four, adding Valor and Gueryn to the list.

  It was all the King could do to fend off the killing blow.

  Wyl did not see Valentyna step hastily from the podium on which two thrones had been placed. He could not know she was running towards them now, terrified, absolutely sure that Romen was about to break his promise to her and spill Morgravian blood on Briavellian soil.

  All he could see through the grille of his visor was Celimus battling for breath, eyes darting, horrified that the next swipe would be the one to end his life. And then he had him. The King tried to feint but again Wyl knew the move, with Romen’s and his skills locked firmly into one now, there was seemingly no thrust or feint which he could not anticipate. With one sharp snap of his wrist, Romen sent the King’s sword tumbling from his grip and the sovereign of Morgravia was falling backwards, terror in his beautiful dark eyes.

  Now! Wyl and Romen seemingly said together, Wyl holding the blue sword in a double-handed grip, ready to plunge into the chest of the betrayer, the murderer, the faithless cretin who ruled a great nation. Wyl lifted his sword high above his cringing opponent who yelled cravenly, and then he heard the near hysterical shriek of a woman … a woman he loved who was now standing before him, eyes wild, breathing hard and screaming directly at him.

  ‘Liar!’ she hurled. ‘You traitor! Throw down your sword!’

  It was as if Wyl had snapped out of a trance at the accusation. He staggered backwards, letting go of the blade, stumbling away now. Celimus was on his feet in a flash. Valentyna was barely in control of herself, tears coursing down her face. The King was touching her, checking to see she would be well.

  Wyl hated him more than in any other moment of his life for that touch, that false concern. It was such a clever move to make. Why had he not thought to offer comfort? She would have pushed his treacherous hands away, that’s why, he told himself with immense regret. Wyl could hear himself breathing behind the visor — he could swear he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Suddenly guards surrounded him, swords drawn. Two grabbed his arms but he did not struggle; he felt useless, limp. He was no longer a threat to anyone. If only she had let me finish it.

  Celimus was white-lipped with fury despite his breathlessness. His face was still pale with terror. ‘He was going to kill me!’ he bellowed at the Briavellian Commander and Chancellor who were running to their Queen’s aid. Jessom slithered to stand by his King.

  Valentyna snatched away her tears and dug as deep as she could ever recall to find composure, to steady herself and be the Queen she was.

  ‘I noticed the aggression, sire,’ she replied. ‘He will be punished, of course.’

  ‘Aggression? Punished! I will execute him right now before you,’ Celimus raged.

  Valentyna turned an icy gaze on her royal guest. ‘You will do no such thing in my realm, majesty. No blood will be spilled in Briavel this day.’

  ‘Except mine!’ he roared, spit flying.

  ‘I see no trace of it, sire. Only your sweat of fear.’ Her words cut deep.

  ‘He must be executed,’ Celimus insisted, the gentle pressure from Jessom’s steadying hand, unnoticed by most, urging him to regain his composure. ‘I insist.’

  ‘King Celimus,’ Valentyna said, her voice as cold as anyone had ever heard it. ‘I alone have the authority to mete his punishment. Please withdraw.’

  ‘I demand to see his face,’ Celimus cried.

  A stillness overtook Valentyna. Anger — the depths of which she had felt only at the news of the way in which her father died — was her master right now. Romen had betrayed her. In spite of his declared love for her and hers for him, he still chose his own path. That path now moved away from the one she herself stood upon. Love so newly kindled became tainted. A sense of treachery ran through her veins to her heart like poison.

  ‘Lift his visor,’ Celimus demanded, impatient with Valentyna.

  The guards who flanked Wyl looked only to their Queen for permission. She had no choice. The safety of Briavel now rested on placating this dangerous King. Romen must bear the
consequences of his own stupidity and betrayal.

  She nodded and Wyl’s heart sank. He had lost her.

  FORTY-ONE

  CELIMUS STEPPED FORWARD, KEENLY feeling the triumph, and ripped back the visor on his silent foe. Wyl would later try to convince himself that the shock on his enemy’s face was worth the loss of the woman he loved. He forced himself to believe he had won and lifted his chin so Celimus could get a good look at the familiar face, the sardonic, easy smile.

  ‘Hello, Celimus.’

  ‘You!’ the King roared, disbelief claiming him. But then he surprised everyone, even Jessom who knew his turns of mood better than any, by bursting into laughter. It was loud and vicious … most of all it was confusing for Valentyna. She had no understanding of this.

  ‘Your majesty?’ she asked, an edge in her tone. ‘Perhaps you would share the jest with us?’

  ‘Oh, Valentyna, my poor, witless child,’ he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, not caring at the way she instantly bristled or that he had shocked her Commander and Chancellor with the pointed insult. ‘It is priceless, absolutely priceless that your Champion — the one who would protect your life, your virginity, your crown — turns out to be none other than the scum mercenary who ran your father through with a sword not so long ago.’

  ‘You dare to bring my father into this!’ she cautioned, her voice a knifing whisper.

  ‘Only to save you, my innocent,’ he said. ‘This man is Romen Koreldy, a mercenary, who came to me with his hands outstretched for a fortune in gold. He admitted to killing your father; he admitted to killing our very own General Wyl Thirsk. And then he dragged back our General’s body for good measure so we could see it with our own eyes.’