The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Wyl spoke up as if in a trance, stunned at the horrifying news about Gueryn. ‘He will never have that effect on me again. I am free of him. Do you men believe me?’

  Something in the timbre of his voice, its ferocity, and his cold, hard gaze had the right effect. Both Myrt and Rollo nodded.

  ‘I will find Rashlyn and kill him,’ he added and they believed him. He moved to crouch by the dog and stroked it tenderly, battling the revulsion the magic caused. ‘Gueryn still breathes.’

  ‘He saved my life, sire. Borc would have killed me if not for the animal’s courage.’

  Wyl stopped himself from saying all that he wanted to about Gueryn’s bravery; he was ferociously fighting back the tears and took a moment to compose himself. ‘I will personally deliver Rashlyn to whichever god will accept him,’ he said.

  ‘No need, sire,’ Myrt said. ‘You haven’t heard the rest of my story.’ And he described the mysterious arrival of the boy through the tower walls, bathed in light and claiming to be Rashlyn’s destroyer.

  Wyl closed Cailech’s eyes. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘His name is Fynch,’ he said into the heavy silence that followed Myrt’s startling revelation. ‘He is known to me.’

  No one dared ask how or why, which was fortunate, Aremys thought, because he could not imagine how Wyl would explain it. Cailech looked haggard, he noted. It had been one shock after another for Wyl: his sister, then Gueryn, now Fynch… not to mention another death, another body, another person to learn about.

  ‘And you are recovered?’ Aremys asked Myrt, taking the attention off the King so Wyl could gather his thoughts and emotions.

  ‘Rashlyn used his filthy magic on me to weaken me but the effects are wearing off. I’m ready to do your bidding, sire.’

  ‘Good!’ Wyl growled. ‘Because you and Rollo are being left in charge here.’

  ‘Where are you going, sire?’

  ‘To Briavel,’ came the reply. It provoked surprise and confusion on the men’s faces but Cailech’s tone suggested it would be imprudent to argue. ‘Call for the animal physic,’ Wyl commanded.

  Rollo nodded and opened the door to the guards. ‘Get Obin. Hurry!’

  ‘Gueryn’s life is to be saved, so help you all,’ the King muttered. Rollo and Myrt exchanged another confused look. ‘Where did Rashlyn and Fynch go?’ Wyl continued.

  ‘Sire, as I said, one floated out of the window, the other through the walls,’ Myrt said, shaking his head. ‘I still think I was seeing things.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ the King replied, deadly cold. ‘You were witnessing two sorcerers throwing down the gauntlet at each other in a fight which has nothing to do with us.’

  It had come to Wyl now what this was about. He sensed it related to the sense of doom he had felt for Fynch when he left him in the Wild. He pieced it together as he paced the room, waiting for the animal doctor. Elysius had said they would not meet again. The sorcerer had died, Wyl guessed, and he remembered now a strange sensation of loss he had felt when he first arrived into Briavel, courtesy of the Thicket. He had dismissed it as worry at leaving Fynch and his fretting over Ylena, not to mention being magically tossed hundreds of miles across the land. But perhaps Myrren’s gift had kept him linked with Elysius and when the strange little man died, Wyl had felt it. But you didn’t die without luring Fynch into your web of despair, did you? he thought savagely, hating Elysius in that moment.

  He addressed the men again, his anger at what was happening to Fynch and what had been perpetrated on Gueryn spilling into his tone. ‘Everything which has occurred tonight stays between us and a young warrior called Jos, whom I’ve appointed as your deputy, Rollo. In my absence, Myrt makes the decisions for our people. Agreed?’ The Mountain men exchanged worried glances. ‘Is that clear?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, sire,’ they said in unison, neither wanting to point out that nothing was clear about tonight. Not the King’s strange behaviour; nor the incredible sight of a ghostly boy appearing through granite walls or Rashlyn jumping through an open window and hovering outside; nor talk of sorcery or men being changed into beasts. Nor why Myrt, who really did not want the task, was now leading the Mountain People.

  ‘What about Lothryn, my lord?’ Myrt risked.

  ‘I’m going to find Rashlyn. Before I kill him, he will restore Lothryn and Gueryn le Gant.’ No one wanted to ask what would happen if the magic could not be reversed.

  ‘Aremys,’ Wyl said.

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘Stay with the dog for me. If he dies…’ Wyl could not finish. ‘Just see him cared for. I’ll meet you all at the stables in one hour.’

  Fynch bowed, much to Knave’s surprise. ‘Rashlyn,’ he said. ‘I have been sent.’

  The barshi had appeared as if out of nowhere. He looked rattled.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Can you not guess?’ Fynch asked, echoing a King, a dragon, who had promised him so much not long ago.

  ‘Elysius?’ Rashlyn whispered in wonderment.

  Fynch nodded.

  ‘Why could he not face me himself?’ the barshi demanded. He sounded deranged, his voice controlled and soft one moment, high and angry the next.

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Then I do not fear you,’ Rashlyn cackled.

  ‘You should,’ Fynch said, unfazed by the madman’s baiting. ‘Elysius was not the only one who wishes you destroyed.’

  Rashlyn sounded arrogant now. ‘I know dozens just amongst the Mountain People who would slit my throat happily, if not for the King. I have his protection.’

  ‘Not any more, I’m afraid.’

  That won the barshi’s attention. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cailech is dead.’

  Rashlyn could not speak as he tried to absorb the terrifying news. Then, ‘I don’t believe you — you’re just a child.’

  ‘You should. My age makes no difference. You have no protection now; Cailech will not save you. In fact, I would imagine the King of the Mountains is stalking you this very minute for the abomination you have imposed upon two men.’

  Rashlyn began to yell at Fynch and then stopped. ‘You just said he’s dead. How can a dead man stalk me?’

  Fynch just grinned.

  ‘Why are you here?’ the barshi screeched. ‘If Cailech is dead then I am lost anyway, as good as dead.’

  ‘Not good enough. We wish to destroy you.’

  ‘We?’

  Fynch nodded. ‘The Dragon King.’

  The sorcerer looked at the boy, puzzled by the riddles he was giving for answers. He regarded the self-possessed child from beneath hooded lids and asked the obvious. ‘Who is the Dragon King?’

  ‘He is the King of the Creatures.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am the Dragon King,’ Fynch replied and opened a bridge to the Thicket.

  Wyl ran on long, muscled legs which covered the hard ground easily. Before leaving the tower he had taken a deep breath and laid his hand once more on the barely breathing dog. Its eyes were glazed and blood seeped from its nostrils. Its tongue lolled on the floor from between its jaws and it was all Wyl could do not to weep as he whispered to Gueryn to hold on. The dog did not move and Wyl left, not risking another word for fear of his voice breaking.

  ‘Let him live,’ he prayed to Shar as he ran now. He felt the wood calling to him; sensed the hum of a powerful magic. It was the Thicket, he recognised its trace. And something else. Something bright and powerful and good, overlaying an ugliness which he presumed was Rashlyn.

  He burst into the clearing, drawing his sword, and pulled to a sharp stop when he saw Fynch standing there, bathed in a fierce glow of golden light. Knave was nearby and instantly covered the gap between himself and the new arrival, nearly knocking the King over with his welcome.

  ‘Hello, Wyl,’ Fynch said, not turning his gaze from Rashlyn. ‘I’m sure you know who this is,’ he added.

  ‘Fynch,’ Wyl replied, feeling a new sense of awe as he lo
oked at the small gong boy suddenly so infused with power, so composed… so brave.

  ‘King Cailech, I —’ Rashlyn began. He looked still more confused, his gaze darting between boy and man.

  ‘I am not Cailech,’ the familiar voice said, turning a hard gaze on Rashlyn. ‘I am Wyl Thirsk.’

  The man groaned. ‘The General? You can’t be. I… I would know it.’

  ‘Your eyes deceive you, Rashlyn,’ Wyl replied. ‘You didn’t know me when I came here as Romen Koreldy either. Your brother’s magic has given me this power to possess others. Clever, eh?’

  ‘No! I won’t believe this,’ the man said, shaking his head against what he knew to be true. It looked like Cailech but did not behave as Cailech; worse, Rashlyn could almost taste the magic emanating from his former protector.

  ‘You know I speak the truth,’ Wyl said.

  ‘Tell me how,’ the barshi begged. ‘I must understand it!’

  ‘Not until you lift the spell on Gueryn le Gant,’ Wyl demanded.

  The wild man’s mouth split into a thin, cruel smile beneath the tangle of his beard. ‘I cannot. It is irreversible.’

  Wyl had to fight his urge to rush at Rashlyn and cut him down.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fynch warned, reading his thoughts. ‘It is what he wants.’

  ‘And Lothryn?’ Wyl asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Even more of a problem. At least with your friend le Gant, I knew what I was doing. Didn’t hurt him as much. But Lothryn — that was horrible, even for me. He could not have survived it anyway. You’re wasting your time. The barbarian scum is dead.’

  It was Cailech, not Wyl, whose anger rose now, who raised the sword and ran at the barshi. Wyl could not help but join with Cailech’s lust to hack the magic man from skull to feet.

  ‘No!’ shouted Fynch and Wyl felt Cailech’s body slammed high into the air. It felt as though he had hit a stone wall. ‘Do not attempt to kill him. That is my job,’ the little boy commanded. His tone demanded respect.

  Rashlyn screeched with laughter. ‘Now even your own people work against you, Thirsk. Perhaps I should kill you.’

  ‘You cannot. My protection will repel anything you cast against him.’

  Rashlyn did not believe Fynch. He moved his hands and a huge flaming ball roared towards Cailech’s suspended body. Wyl held his breath. There was no way he could escape this, even if he had free movement. But the ball of flame bounced against something Wyl could not see and fell away helplessly to extinguish itself in a pool of thawing snow nearby.

  ‘Wyl, I want you to go now,’ Fynch said.

  ‘I can’t leave you.’

  ‘You did before and you will again. We walk different paths now.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Fynch —’

  ‘Don’t, please. There is nothing more to say except that I have loved you as a brother. Go now and do what you must.’

  ‘I need Knave.’

  ‘I know. He will go with you.’

  I am not leaving you, Fynch, the deep voice growled in the boy’s head.

  You must. It is the only way we can save Wyl. You are his guide now.

  I don’t understand.

  You will. Now go.

  Fynch …

  Knave, go!

  ‘Rashlyn is running,’ Wyl warned.

  ‘He cannot escape me.’

  ‘Why do you have to do this?’ Wyl’s tone was pleading.

  ‘Because no one else can.’

  ‘Let me go then,’ Wyl said wearily and felt Cailech’s body being lowered gently to the frosty ground. ‘What about Gueryn and Lothryn?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Fynch said, knowing he broke Wyl’s heart. ‘I must deal with Rashlyn.’

  And you will die, Knave crashed into Fynch’s mind.

  So be it.

  ‘Do you and Knave talk?’ Wyl wondered, noting the odd silences and the expression on Fynch’s face.

  ‘Yes, ever since Elysius passed his magic to me.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ Wyl said, feeling helplessly sorrowful.

  ‘Wyl, Valentyna is to marry Celimus in a matter of days. You cannot save her that trial, you know that, don’t you?’ Wyl nodded. ‘But I know you wish to see her and you have something to tell her.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Tell her everything. Let there be no secrets between you. She must understand who you really are.’

  ‘I cannot!’ Cailech’s expression became dismayed.

  ‘You must. Please, trust me,’ Fynch urged. ‘And in turn she will trust you.’

  Wyl had no answer to Fynch’s request. The boy had never been wrong before.

  ‘Now please go. It is time I faced the barshi.’

  ‘Who are you, Fynch?’ Wyl asked, fearfully.

  Fynch’s face broke into a beatific smile. His golden hair seemed to radiate a bright glow which spread to outline his tiny frame. ‘I am the Dragon King, Wyl,’ he said, and vanished.

  Knave threw back his huge black head and gave a chilling howl. It silenced the twittering birds that had come home to roost amongst the trees and echoed throughout the Razors.

  It was the heralding of death and Wyl knew he would never see the brave boy again. Somewhere deep inside he felt a part of his heart had been cut away. No tears and no amount of time would ever heal the loss.

  THIRTY-THREE

  OBIN HAD TAKEN ONE LOOK AT the grey dog and shaken his head. Aremys nodded, sad for Wyl. Another death he had not been able to prevent and, knowing his friend as he did, Aremys was sure Wyl would blame himself for this one too. One man; so much sorrow. Myrren and her father had plenty to answer for in Shar’s plane. Aremys thanked Obin and then, wrapping the dog in a sheet he found in Rashlyn’s rooms, he hefted the animal into his arms.

  ‘I’ll take you to Lothryn,’ he murmured to the dog, who was still breathing in short, desperate pants. The dog whined but its eyes did not open.

  When Aremys finally made it to the stable, staggering under the seemingly dead weight of the large dog, he heard Galapek whinny. The horse knew; Lothryn knew. Another man had been broken by Rashlyn’s twisted magic.

  Aremys lay Gueryn down in some fresh straw and lit a lamp. He explained to the horse who this was; all self-consciousness about talking to a horse had ceased. The animal reared, angry, and Aremys tried to calm him with soft words and soothing hands. As he touched the stallion he sensed the enormous and agonising effort it took for Lothryn to communicate with him. The horse begged to be set free. Aremys was torn with indecision as to what was best. Footsteps approached and the new King of the Razors stepped inside the stable and immediately flattened himself against the wall.

  ‘Fight it, man,’ Aremys said, realising Wyl was overcome by the tainted aura of magic. ‘You’ll get used to it, as I have.’

  Wyl lost the battle momentarily, gagging and then retching into a corner. ‘Oh, Shar,’ he groaned. ‘What has he done to them?’

  Galapek whinnied again, a sound which nearly broke Wyl’s heart and his spirit. He forced himself to find composure, wiping his mouth on Cailech’s sleeve. He saw Gueryn lying in the straw.

  ‘Could Obin save him?’ he asked.

  Aremys shook his head. No point in lying.

  Wyl leaned against the wall again, closed his eyes and groaned. It was so filled with anguish, Aremys had to look away. How much more could Wyl take, he wondered, before he gave up on his fight. Or, more likely, found a way to take his own life.

  A huge black dog entered the stable, startling Aremys out of his bleak thoughts. ‘Shar’s wrath!’ He had never seen a dog so big.

  ‘Meet Knave,’ Wyl said, flat-toned.

  ‘Ah, the famous beast,’ Aremys replied. ‘May I?’ he asked Wyl, his hand reaching to stroke the animal.

  ‘Knave alone decides,’ Wyl said, and Aremys detected a hint of humour in the tone. Perhaps Wyl would get through this.

  ‘Hello, Knave,’ the Grenadyne said and riske
d touching the great head. Knave growled with pleasure as Aremys scratched his dark brow.

  ‘Welcome to the chosen few,’ Wyl said, coming back from the dark place he had been moments ago. ‘Knave is particular about who he lets touch him.’

  The black dog gave a deep-throated, suspicious bark and walked over to the horse first. Galapek did not flinch. Knave sniffed the creature and whined gently. He knew. Then he padded over to where another dog lay dying. This time he growled softly and began licking at the wounds of the grey dog.

  ‘Speak to Lothryn,’ Aremys suggested, wanting to divert Wyl’s gaze from the touching scene in the straw. It was too painful to watch. ‘Breathe through your mouth, it makes it easier.’

  ‘That’s how Fynch overcame the major hurdle of being a gong boy,’ Wyl said, his mind going back to a time when he lived the simple life of a Legionnaire.

  ‘Where is Fynch?’ Aremys wondered.

  The fragile shell Wyl had built around his emotions fractured again. ‘Gone to his death, fighting Rashlyn.’

  Aremys wished he could bite his own tongue out. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t have to. None of us do, except perhaps Knave. It is not our battle.’

  The big man had no idea how to respond so he left it as yet another heart-wound for Wyl to cope with. ‘Come, Lothryn can talk to us.’

  Wyl stepped up to the horse. ‘He’s beautiful despite the repulsive magic.’

  ‘So true. Touch him.’

  Wyl did so and his eyes widened. Startled, he fought the reek of the evil magic and laid his head against the sleek forehead of his rescuer and friend. ‘Lothryn,’ he wept, ‘it’s me, Wyl.’

  The magnificent horse nuzzled him, as if in thanks, and Aremys too felt the sting of tears. This was so moving and yet he knew in his heart that worse was surely to come for Wyl and those who supported him.

  Wyl, the horse whispered weakly into his mind, I knew you would come. Didn’t expect you to look as you do now.

  ‘I’m sorry I took his life.’

  Don’t be. He lived it fully. Paid the price for his decisions.