The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  The room had become still with tension. Cailech stared at Rollo and then back at Aremys. His silence was telling as he considered his options. Finally he nodded wearily. ‘Go. Bring them both here.’

  Relief flooded the warrior at the King’s capitulation; inside, he was still reeling from his stand against Cailech. He wasted no time and nodded to his second to follow and then to Aremys, who would have liked to thank Rollo for his courage. It was pointless though. As he stared at Cailech and the King returned the glare, both knew the Grenadyne would not live beyond a few moments of the two warriors’ departure.

  Aremys could have said as much, and perhaps changed the course of how things unfolded, but he had seen something out of the corner of his eye, something everyone else had missed. It might work. He cast a prayer to Shar and, just in case, one to Haldor as well, then left it to the gods to decide which would answer it.

  When the two Mountain men had departed, Cailech rounded on Aremys.

  ‘I know you don’t intend to let me live long enough even to clap eyes on Myrt again, sire,’ Aremys said, playing for time.

  ‘How instinctive of you, Farrow. I’m glad we understand one another. You have betrayed my trust.’

  ‘Lothryn got to be a horse. Nothing so exotic planned for me, Cailech?’

  ‘Nothing leaps to mind,’ Cailech growled, stepping closer.

  ‘Or do you have to wait for the puppeteer to arrive in order to make the decision for you? So he can cast his magic and make you dance precisely as he wishes?’

  Cailech shook his head in mock disgust but Aremys could see him grinding his jaw so hard, he felt sure teeth were being shattered in the process. And then his plan was destroyed. Cailech turned nonchalantly to gaze down at the figure of Ylena Thirsk, who had painfully and silently crawled the length of the room, a trail of blood behind her.

  ‘Ah, Ylena, good. You’ve arrived painfully I see and just in time to watch your rescuer die. I think Aremys was counting on you to divert me, although I have to wonder what, without a weapon, he had in mind. Perhaps he was going to bite me to death.’ He laughed. ‘Here, my dear, let me help you,’ and he reached down almost tenderly to pick her up.

  Aremys felt his gut twist. It was over then. He had been counting on Wyl to achieve some diversion. Between them they might have been able to get the blade from Cailech and hold him off until the others returned. It was a stupid idea, but desperate people conjured desperate thoughts in desperate times.

  ‘There we are,’ Cailech said, placing a grimacing Ylena into a chair just in front of Aremys. ‘Now you have a good view.’ He lifted her skirt to look at her leg and made a tutting sound. ‘Nasty. That must really hurt. I’m constantly impressed by your courage, Ylena.’ He returned a savage gaze to Aremys. ‘How would you like this done, my friend? Throat? Gut? Heart?’ he asked, irony lacing his voice.

  ‘May Haldor rot your heart, Cailech!’ Aremys said, helplessness washing over him. He looked once more upon Ylena. ‘I’m sorry I failed you.’

  ‘You haven’t yet,’ Wyl answered. ‘Remember who I am. Use me!’ he urged.

  Cailech smiled. ‘Such a brave pair. What is it between you two? I could almost feel jealous. You seem to have one another in some sort of thrall. It’s not ardour or lust, for I would have sensed it. It’s more than that —’

  Aremys was not going to listen to it any more. ‘Get on with it then and look to your back, Cailech. Celimus will never allow you or the son you foisted on Lothryn’s wife to live.’ He rolled the die once more. Perhaps there was a chance yet. ‘I’ve already told Celimus about Aydrech. Security, in case you did not keep faith with me. He will come looking for both of you. The boy will not live to see a year.’

  Cailech’s howl at the biting threat was filled with a venom that Aremys had only previously experienced in battle. It was beyond anger or fear; it was a state in which a man cared for nothing else except the kill. Many hardened fighters spoke of the moment when nothing but blood — the enemy’s blood — could cleanse them of that wrath.

  Aremys saw the blade rise in tandem with the King’s howl of despair and took his chance, feeling sickened as he did so. It was up to the gods now.

  It was no god that came to his rescue that day but a damaged man trapped in a woman’s body. Broken and bleeding Wyl allowed Ylena’s slight frame to be wrenched up by Aremys with perfect timing and thrown between the blade and the place where it was meant to bury itself.

  The mighty blow nearly cleaved Ylena in two, cutting flesh and sinew, cartilage and bone, finally coming to rest buried between her breasts.

  Her sad, lovely eyes met Aremys’s as she fell to her death at last. Her gaze was triumphant.

  Cailech groaned. The sound was deep and guttural, and filled with rage. He was bent double, his body was shaking and his large hands clutched at his head as it swung angrily from side to side as if in denial. The Mountain King suddenly arched his back, fists clenched, his expression a contortion of such pain that Aremys took a step back. Cailech let out a final low and desperate growl, slumping forward before he straightened, staring at the bright blood on the hand and arm that had dealt the murderous blow. The King took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his formerly light eyes to meet those of Farrow.

  Aremys, hating to have put Wyl through more pain, noted their curious ill-matched colour and did not know whether to cry with relief or share the despair of loss. He laid his hand onto the hard, muscled arm of King Cailech and whispered, ‘Welcome back, Wyl.’

  Wyl Thirsk, now King Cailech of the Razors, flexed his broad shoulders and sighed. ‘Let’s go find our friends,’ he growled in Cailech’s deep voice.

  THIRTY-TWO

  FYNCH SAT CROSS-LEGGED, STARING at the man who had brought so much hate and potential destruction into the world. Now he must die.

  Rashlyn did not know Fynch could see him, but he could feel the boy, sensed his powerful presence here amongst the Razors. He looked so small and helpless; how could a child possess such potent magic?

  Rashlyn had fled without thinking, but leading the boy into the small wood behind the fortress now seemed like madness. Perhaps the child would die of cold. Perhaps he might. He summoned a spell to warm himself and pondered his next move.

  It was not in Fynch’s nature to be violent, but he was a destroyer whether he cared for the role or not. The blood of the dragon line pounded in his veins and the Dragon King himself demanded this of him. He would not fail. He might die but he would not let them down.

  Not far away from him sat Knave, silent, filled with dread and powerless. His part in this adventure was over. He had guided Fynch to Rashlyn and now all he could do was bear witness.

  It seemed to Knave that the barshi had disappeared, but still Fynch sat and waited.

  How do you feel? Knave could not let go of his concern.

  Well enough to face what I must.

  Does your head still pain you?

  Yes. There is no more sharvan, before you ask.

  Where is he?

  Hiding, he thinks. He is confused and frightened but he will face me soon enough.

  Are you frightened?

  No.

  I am.

  Don’t be. This is what you and I were meant to do.

  Who are you, Fynch? Please share it with me before… Knave hesitated.

  Before I die? Knave did not reply and Fynch did not force it. I am the son of King Magnus of Morgravia, half-brother of Celimus. I am of the dragon’s blood.

  Is that what the King saw in you?

  Fynch nodded.

  What does it mean?

  Nothing really, Fynch said, shaking his head gently. Hardly anyone knows. My mother, and she’s dead. The Dragon King, you, and me. Magnus perhaps, but he is cold in his tomb.

  Shouldn’t you tell someone?

  Fynch smiled and shrugged. Best kept between us. I know who I am now and where I belong. It is enough. I am one with the Dragon King. It’s why he took me away as I slept — he wanted me
to know the truth before I faced Rashlyn. He restored me temporarily so I could fight a King’s fight.

  So where is the barshi?

  Over there, Fynch said, pointing to the wooded area. He thinks he is hidden.

  Invisible?

  Apparently. But I see him.

  Fynch, what are you planning to do?

  Nothing.

  What does that mean? You won’t fight him.

  He must attack me.

  But you’ll then respond?

  Wait and see. Be brave now, Knave, you’ve told me that often enough.

  I don’t want to see you die.

  Hush, here he comes.

  When Jos arrived at the antechamber outside King Cailech’s meeting room he was greeted by a look of disdain from the servant who manned the desk. Guards were posted as normal.

  ‘Are they sending halfwits to the King now?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Jos growled, towering over the man and glad to note the words sounded perfectly enunciated. ‘Do your job and let me do mine.’

  The man sneered but backed away and knocked at the door. Curiously, the King opened it himself. This dismayed the servant. He was not used to talking to his majesty in person. ‘Er, sire, there is a messenger for you.’

  Wyl looked over the servant’s head to the bear of a lad behind him. No memory of his face registered within Cailech. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jos, sire. I’ve been sent by Rollo.’

  The King looked back into the room, spoke briefly, then nodded. ‘Come in.’

  Jos entered to find the Grenadyne wiping blood from his face with a dampened linen and a woman, clearly dead, laid out on the floor with the King’s cloak covering her face.

  The King looked at him with a stony expression. ‘I believe you know Aremys,’ he said. Jos nodded, his eyes riveted on the dead girl. ‘This is Ylena Thirsk. She was not a good choice in the end as a bride,’ Cailech said.

  ‘What did you have to tell us, Jos?’ Aremys prompted, the blood finally cleaned away although the wound still seeped slightly.

  The warrior turned his confused gaze on his King and bowed. ‘Apologies, your majesty,’ he said, remembering his manners and the message he had been sent to deliver. ‘Rollo sent me. They’ve found Myrt, he’s badly injured. Borc is dead. Rashlyn is nowhere to be seen.’

  Wyl sighed. ‘Where is Myrt?’

  ‘In the barshi’s tower.’

  ‘All right. Jos, I would consider it a personal favour if you would have Ylena Thirsk’s body shrouded and readied for travel on horseback. I’m returning her to Morgravia where she belongs. Please use people we trust; no one with a loose mouth — you understand?’

  ‘Of course, your majesty.’

  ‘Good. Then can you ready some horses for myself and Farrow.’

  Jos’s eyes sparked with pleasure. He was rarely involved in any tasks other than lifting, carrying and general menial duties around the fortress. ‘Certainly, your majesty.’

  ‘And, Jos, after we depart, I am leaving Myrt in charge. Rollo will be his second and I am appointing you as Rollo’s deputy.’

  The hulking lad looked towards Aremys and could not subdue a beaming grin. It did terrible things to his already twisted mouth — which was why he rarely smiled — but that did not matter any more. ‘Thank you, your majesty,’ he repeated, bowing again. ‘You carry on, I’ll fix everything here,’ he added, hoping the King understood him.

  He did. ‘Good lad.’

  The King and Aremys left hurriedly, with strict orders that only those whom Jos permitted were allowed to enter the King’s meeting room. Jos gave a twisted smirk towards the servant who was not quick enough with his bow to miss the young man’s sarcastic gesture.

  ‘How do you feel — or is that a stupid question?’ Aremys asked as they strode through corridors.

  ‘Shaky, but I’m getting used to this strange arrival into another’s body. Relieved to be a man again.’

  ‘A King, don’t forget.’ Aremys watched Cailech’s face break into a reluctant grin. ‘You wear him well.’

  Wyl took no pride in knowing he had just destroyed another life. ‘I didn’t think I was going to make that leap.’

  ‘Neither did I. When I heard you scream, I just figured you’d used the wrong leg.’

  Wyl could not help but laugh. Aremys had good timing for his jests. ‘Cailech fought me. I wasn’t sure I could win.’

  ‘Inside do you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘Such anger. I don’t know what he saw — presumably me, the real Wyl Thirsk, but perhaps he glimpsed Romen as well. I certainly saw him. Whereas the others capitulated in shock, he was savage in his intensity to hang onto life. But Myrren’s gift was too strong.’

  ‘It’s a pity he had to die. Cailech had admirable qualities. He was a good King most of the time.’

  ‘Without Rashlyn he would have been the greatest sovereign of his time,’ Wyl agreed.

  ‘We have another King to worry about now,’ Aremys reminded.

  ‘Poor Ylena. I so wanted to keep her whole.’

  ‘You did her proud, Wyl. Don’t dwell on it. She’s at peace now and we aren’t. I presume we’re headed to Pearlis?’

  Wyl shook Cailech’s proud head. ‘Werryl. I have to see Valentyna, if I can make it before she leaves for Stoneheart and Celimus.’

  ‘You can’t prevent the marriage,’ Aremys warned, knowing it was a useless waste of breath.

  ‘I know. I just have to see her. Do you know where we’re going?’

  ‘Yes. Up these stairs and then out across the courtyard towards that tower over there. And what makes you think the Queen of Briavel will take kindly to a visit from the King of the Razors?’

  ‘Valid question. I’ll think of something. Knave is here by the way; I saw him before we arrived at the fortress.’

  ‘Does that mean the boy is here as well?’ Before Wyl could answer, Aremys added beneath his breath, ‘Remember to acknowledge your people, King Cailech.’ He nodded towards a group of warriors approaching.

  Wyl received their salutations appropriately, Cailech’s essence guiding his gestures and facial expressions. He answered Aremys: ‘Yes, Fynch is most likely here too, though I can’t for the life of me think why.’

  More people, more polite salutations, and then Firl, the lad Aremys had allowed to beat him during swordplay when he first arrived in the Razors, greeted them. ‘Your highness; Farrow,’ he said breathlessly and bowed.

  Wyl nodded. ‘How bad is he?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sire. We can’t find Rashlyn to help.’

  ‘Have any other healers been called?’ Aremys asked.

  ‘Arrived a minute ago.’

  Wyl pushed Cailech’s tall body past the young man and ran up the stairs with Aremys directly behind. Rollo’s men were guarding the door but automatically stepped aside at the sight of the King. Wyl entered the chamber. He had anticipated the worst but was surprised to see Myrt sitting up.

  It was Aremys who spoke first. ‘I hope you haven’t made us run up those fucking stairs for nothing, Myrt.’

  It broke the tension and Rollo and Myrt grinned whilst Cailech’s face twitched in that way it did when he was amused but thoughtful. Wyl realised he still had to win Rollo’s trust and clear up the business of the barshi and his effect on the King.

  He immediately addressed Rollo. ‘We need to speak.’

  Rollo raised his hands. ‘The fact that Farrow is still alive, sire, says plenty. Forgive my insubordination of earlier.’

  ‘Already forgotten, though we will speak more about your concerns shortly,’ Wyl replied. He moved towards Myrt and glanced at the dog lying on the floor, Borc’s body next to it. The dog did not seem to be breathing and had puncture wounds on its body. For some reason Wyl felt dizzy and nauseous. It was not the sight of its blood, but the feeling that the animal was tainted with magic.

  ‘Are you all right, sire?’ Aremys asked, noting the King’s sudden change in demeanour.

  ‘Is that Ras
hlyn’s dog?’ Wyl said, fighting back an urge to throw up.

  Myrt had already received a signal from Aremys that the King was on their side; was to be trusted. He did not understand what had changed but he trusted the Grenadyne and desperately wanted to trust his sovereign. He glanced towards Aremys now, then nodded at Rollo who moved to shut the door. ‘Best to keep this between ourselves for now, sire.’

  Wyl frowned. ‘Speak,’ he said, moving away from the animal and positioning himself where he could suck in some fresh air from the open window.

  ‘According to the barshi, the dog is…’ Myrt hesitated, looking embarrassed, and glanced again at Aremys. The mercenary had only just become aware of the smell of magic. He no longer had to touch the beast to know it; he could sense it. The reek was not as bad as it had been with Galapek but it was there all right. He despaired for Wyl at what was surely coming.

  Wyl followed Myrt’s gaze, sensed the awkwardness. ‘Say it, Myrt.’

  ‘Yes, sire. Um… Rashlyn was boasting that the animal is the Morgravian prisoner. He used sorcery to turn him into a dog.’

  The King’s face was suddenly a mask of anguish. ‘He what?’

  Aremys moved to his side. ‘Careful now, Wyl,’ he muttered. ‘You mean like Lothryn?’ the Grenadyne said aloud, already knowing the truth as he looked back to Myrt. The big man nodded, his eyes fearful.

  Aremys decided to impress some reassurance on these men, now so apprehensive around Cailech — and with good reason, he thought. If only they knew who Cailech’s puppeteer was now. ‘We can speak freely,’ he said to the Mountain warriors. ‘The King has accepted that he’s been entranced by Rashlyn on occasion and magically urged to agree to things he would normally never entertain. We’ve deduced that the spells only work if the barshi is near to the King, or his majesty would never be free of his hold — as he is now. He will execute the barshi when and if we find him.’

  He looked directly at Rollo now. ‘It is because of this sorcery that our King has been duped into allowing Lothryn to be… changed,’ he said carefully. ‘It was not his idea. He would never have agreed to something so horrific, so against our law of honourable death for our own.’