Guardian (Book Two of the Spirits' War Trilogy)

by K. V. Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

  I grin in the darkness. An image of the young goth Lycan seeps into my mind, his red hair dyed jet-black and his cobalt eyes piercing deep into whoever is bold enough to lock gazes with him.

  he replies, and I stifle a chuckle.

  I ask incredulously.

  he tells me confidently.

  I continue, knowing there’s more to the story than what he’s letting on,

 

 

 

  I squint at the shadows in the corner of my tent.

 

  I gasp and then glance at Conall to make sure I hadn’t woken him.

  he says, and I feel what must be the mental equivalent of a shrug.

 

  Aelshen seems embarrassed to admit. he finishes smugly,

  I tell him, proud that I’d remembered the name of Flint and Flockhart’s signature beverage despite my lack of interest.

  I feel Aelshen swell with pride.

  I begin and then take a deep breath to clear my head.

  I really should be getting back to sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow trying to help Koyah return to his normal self. He’d been living as a bear for so long – fifty years – that I’m not sure whether we’ll ever be able to help him back into his human mind. He hasn’t begun to speak yet and he hasn’t Shifted to human form, but I swear I glimpsed a spark of humanity deep within those ursine eyes. I’d begun to see the young man from Sejka’s memories, hidden inside an elderly Kermode bear.

  the Father of Lycans prompts.

  I release the breath I’d been holding.

  He seems to think for a moment before continuing.

 

 

 

  Suddenly his voice is solemn.

  I bite my lip.

  The Father of Lycans sighs.

 

  Aelshen seems taken aback for a moment.

 

  17

  NWYFRE’S ARMY

  Aelshen

  I amble down the staircase, tryin’ to keep me footfalls silent so as not to wake up Elspeth and Ramsey. It’s a hard feat fer someone so large as me, mind ye. But I can’t wake up our hosts, now can I? O’course, it’s nearing noon now, but we were up in the wee hours talkin’, so we have every right to sleep in.

  Flint and MacLarty are already sprawled across the dragons’ furniture, old sewing mags strewn across their laps. Neither of them looks up as I make me entrance.

  “Oi, lads!”

  “Hey,” Flint calls out, but the Lycan beside him remains silent. MacLarty stares ahead blankly as if poinsettia wallpaper is the greatest thing since sliced farl.

  “Heh, heh. Ye want to learn how to sew an’ crochet, boys?” I ask, picking up one of the magazines. “Ye should! We could use a few more tea cozies fer the pub.”

  MacLarty rolls his eyes, shoving his magazine away so it hits the floor with a loud shlop. I wince, glancing upstairs to make sure it didn’t wake anyone.

  The pair of dragons had lent me their guest room, an’ it was the cream of the crop. Comfortable and homey. The only thing that kinda distressed me were the paintings. Everywhere ye look it’s either scenes of dragons rippin’ apart their prey or of creepy, lifelike dolls ensconced in such innocent activities as tea parties, their cute button-eyes all but poppin’ out as they sip daintily from their cups. I’d come to the conclusion that Elspeth had done the decorating.

  “There’s nothing to do here,” MacLarty grumbles.

  “That I can agree with.” I sink onto Elspeth’s prized crimson armchair, glancing around to make sure she hasn’t seen. That woman has a temper, she does.

  “Mac Tíre,” Flint begins, an’ I sigh at the fact that he’ll always be usin’ me formal title, “I don’t think we’ll find out anything else here.”

  “Ah, I’m sure we will if we beg fer it.” I smile, givin’ me armpit a quick scratch that causes MacLarty to wrinkle his nose in disgust. I grin even more widely. “Hey, it ain’t so bad. We’ve grown so close, just like—”

  “Three peas in a porridge hot.” MacLarty groans. “You’ve said that a hundred bloody times.”

  “Nah! I know now that it’s ‘posed to be ‘peas in a pod’. Bear with me, lad.” MacLarty sighs and rolls his eyes. I jut me finger at him accusingly. “Don’t ye be learning etiquette from this one here, Greg. He’s a bad egg, he is,” I warn Nwyfre’s descendant good-naturedly.

  “I think we should go,” Flint says softly, glancing upstairs, and I realize I’ve been talkin’ a wee bit too loudly.

  I gape at the young dragon. “But we’ve more to find out! There’s a dragon-hunting cult out there, an’—”

  “I don’t think Elspeth and Ramsey even know what happened to Nwy-fire,” MacLarty says, exasperated, and I wince at his mispronunciation of me old friend’s name. “They just told you that to mess with you, mate.”

  I shake me head. “I’m tellin’ ye, Flint. The cheek o’ this one.”

  The young dragon smiles. “Let’s stay a bit longer, but if they don’t have any more information, we should keep going. Do you know what Skye’s doing now? Maybe she can try talking to Nwyfre.”

  MacLarty sneers, “I’m sure she can. Nwy-fire probably just got tired of joining minds with you. He’s endured a few too many cent
uries with you.

  I glare at the Lycan. “I told ye, lads, I don’t think Skye can do it, either. Nobody can. Nwyfre’s closed himself off from the world. Ah, I feel like such a fool,” I sigh, running a hand across me face.

  “Well, you are—”

  “Shush, MacLarty. I didn’t ask for yer input.”

  The Lycan snickers, kicking the fallen sewing mag so it tumbles top o’er bottom, its spine bending in a rather painful-lookin’ way. I shake my head at him.

  “Go on,” he urges, eyes wide ‘n innocent. “I was listening.”

  I sigh. “What I mean to say is that all this time, I’d been lookin’ fer a man me own age, give or take. Nwyfre is but a twelve-year-old…”

  As my words dwindle into the silence of the room, I’m suddenly aware of a spirit in very close proximity. An’ I mean uncomfortably close proximity.

  “GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT OF ME CHAIR, YE LAZY, GOOD FER NOTHIN’ BUM!”

  I nearly jump out of me skin at Elspeth’s words but take a deep breath as I realize that merely jumpin’ out of her favourite armchair will suffice. Well, almost. The ol’ dragon woman gives me a swat o’er the head fer good measure as she takes her place on the Queen’s throne. I raise a hand to me heart, hopin’ it’ll slow down so I can speak.

  “My apologies, Mistress,” I mumble as I squeeze in between Flint and MacLarty on the love seat. I glare at the latter as he struggles to conceal his amusement.

  “I want you three out o’ me house within the hour!” Elspeth roars, adjusting her spectacles on her bony ol’ nose. She’s wearing the same mismatched cream housecoat and flowery apron she wore last night. I begin to wonder if that’s the only clothin’ she owns.

  “Understood,” I gulp.

  “Or a whippin’ be followin’ ye!”

  A sudden clomping on the stairs ensues and I breathe a sigh of relief as Elspeth’s good-natured husband enters the scene. Not a moment too soon, Ramsey. Not a moment too soon.

  “What’s all the racket down here?” Ramsey bellows, almost takin’ a tumble but grabbing hold of the weathered railing at the last second. He gently lowers his feet to the carpet below.

  “Dearest—”

  “Mornin’ all!” The elder dragon ignores his wife. “Ah, ye old toad, Elspeth! Ye didn’t even put on the coffee!”

  “I hate coffee!”

  Ramsey glowers at his wife. “For our guests.” He dodges the hand she swipes out at him and chuckles to himself as he shuffles into the kitchen.

  The four of us sit awkwardly for a few moments afore I attempt to excuse meself. “I should go an’ help him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing! No traitors allowed in my kitchen!”

  I debate whether or not to point out that it’s not really her kitchen at all; if anythin’, it’s Ramsey’s. He’s been doin’ all the cookin’ thus far. But I decide it’s best I shelve that comment. No sense in bein’ pounded to a pulp when we’ve finally got something goin’ fer us.

  My mind itches to hear the truth o’ where Nwyfre could be, and of who these mysterious dragon hunters really are. The two elder dragons had decided to call it a night after they’d let loose that not only had Nwyfre been murdered, but he had somehow brought on the wrath of yet another shapeshifter-hating organization. Cult. Whatever ye want to call it.

  “So!” Ramsey bellows as he finally rounds the corner into the living room. “How are we all this fine morn?”

  “Fine, thanks,” MacLarty and Flint mumble in unison, gaze locked on Elspeth. She nods at them approvingly, but when her eyes meet mine, they’re all fire.

  “Fine, thank ye.” I smile, glancing back at Ramsey.

  The old dragon offers me a stack o’ china plates. “Hand these to yer friends, will ye, Mac Tíre?”

  “O’course.”

  “Dearest! Yer using the good china! I told ye once, I told ye a thousand times!”

  “Well, what’s the point of havin’ the damned good china if ye never use it?!” Ramsey bellows, making everyone flinch but Elspeth. She stands rigid as a wall, but her face falters a little, taking on a hue not unlike the White Cliffs of Dover.

  “I don’t care what ye…” Elspeth begins, but is cut off by Flint, who seems to have a moment of clarity fer once.

  “Excuse me,” the young dragon says so quietly that his words can scarcely be heard. Elspeth and Ramsey train their eyes towards him like he’s an angel fallen from heaven.

  “Yes?” Ramsey’s polite inquiry is followed by a slightly less polite “What?” from Elspeth.

  Flint gulps, rubbing his hands together to gather his thoughts. “I…was hoping for some guidance. You know. I need some questions answered. Dragon to dragon.”

  For the first time – and boy, what a miracle it is – old Elspeth actually smiles. Sure, it’s not a thing o’ beauty as she’s prob’ly never tried it before, and it sends a chill down yer spine, but it happens. And that’s that.

  “Well, why didn’t ye say so, lad? I’ve got loads of answers.”

  “Do ye, now?” I whisper under my breath, turning so that only MacLarty can hear me. He snorts.

  “Shut yer geggy,” Elspeth warns, making me jump. “I’ve got the hearing o’ twenty flocks of sheep.”

  “Twenty?” I begin, but bite me lip as she narrows her eyes at me. Flames flash inside them, sending me body into an unwarranted shiver.

  “What do ye want to know, Master Flint?” Ramsey asks gently, handing out mugs of hot coffee an’ tea and passing the young dragon a bowl o’ biscuits. I eye the concoctions with care, knowing that whatever’s in them may very well kill me.

  “Well,” the young man begins and then stops to think for a moment. “I’m an orphan. As you know, I come from the Flint family – directly descended from Nwyfre. After my parents died, I was taken in by the new owner of my family’s pub, and then Mac Tíre when he bought it from her. But I really don’t know anything about how and why my parents died. Nobody knows the answer to that.”

  “Ah, the poor lad,” Elspeth croons, leaning forward in her armchair, “I feel for ye, son.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, we can’t help ye there, Master Flint, but we would if we could.”

  MacLarty snorts, reaching out for one of Ramsey’s hot biscuits. My eyes widen as he lifts the pastry to his mouth. “No!” I gasp.

  From her crimson throne, Elspeth clears her throat. “My, my. Is there a problem, Mac Tíre?”

  I bite me lip. “Ah, no ma’am. But before ye carry on, might I ask what’s in those biscuits? They look delicious, mind ye.”

  “It’s none of yer bloody business! An’ ye shouldn’t be eatin’ them anyway. They’re for the welcome guests.”

  At this, MacLarty smirks, shoving the biscuit into his piehole. I wince as I watch him swallow. Well, I tried to warn him. He deserves all that’s comin’ his way.

  “Elspeth!” Ramsey scoffs. “Everyone here is welcome, Mac Tíre. Don’t be listenin’ to her.”

  I nod at the old dragon in gratitude. Me stomach rumbles as I breathe in the scent of the fresh pastries before me, but I know they’re not all they’re cracked up to be; those biscuits have kick, ye can be sure. I peer at MacLarty out o’ the corner of me eye, waiting patiently fer his face to redden.

  “All right,” Elspeth continues, sinking back into her armchair. “Twelve years ago, back when me limbs were a bit more spritely…” She smiles at the memory for a few moments. I try to imagine a spritely Elspeth but fail miserably.

  “Get on with it, Elspeth, dear,” Ramsey coos, “or I’ll tell it for ye.”

  “Shoo. Only I have the memory to tell this one.”

  “Not since Mac Tíre cured me—”

  “Shut yer geggy. He did no such thing. Now, where was I? Oh yes, a young man came to our door askin’ if we knew about any more of our kind around. Said he was ‘repairing lost connections’ or somethin’. I could see the fire in his eyes and knew right away who he was—”

  “Ye didn’t kn
ow right away! It was me that said perhaps he’s Nwyfre ‘imself.”

  “Shut up I told ye!” Elspeth yells, rounding on Ramsey. Ramsey’s mouth is firm, but I can see the hint of a smile on his lips. He enjoys gettin’ on Elspeth’s nerves. “An’ then this young man says, ‘‘Tis true. I’m Nwyfre’s reincarnation’. And our eyes grew wide an’ we invited him in for tea, and the next thing he says is he’s hidin’ from some organization that’s out to kill him.”

  “Darn right! And so we ask him what we can do to help—”

  “An’ he says he needs an army,” Elspeth finishes, too enraptured in her own story to mind that her husband had interrupted her.

  I sigh. “So that’s what he was up to again. After all these years…he tried to make yet another army out of dragonkind. Did he mention what this nemesis was called? It canna’ be Patercius’ Order again, can it?” The thought of our ancient enemy brings a retched anger into me heart. “Or perhaps ‘twas the Covenant. They’ve resurfaced, as ye know.”

  Elspeth lifts herself out of her crimson armchair with astounding quickness, marches over, and jabs a finger at me. Her bony hand is millimetres away from me nose.

  “And you! You insolent, ruddy son of a goat!”

  MacLarty bursts out laughing beside me, but Elspeth pays him no heed.

  “Ex-excuse me?” I stammer.

  “You had the means to help him save his kind – a whole race of shifters! An’ yet ye sat on yer fat arse and twiddled yer thumbs as dragons were slaughtered left an’ right!”

  At this, I lift meself up from the love seat – a difficult feat as I’m wedged between two young lads – and raise my head to meet Elspeth’s. She stands slightly shorter than I do, but her eyes glow with an unbridled rage that could easily burn me to a crisp if she decides to Shift in here. I wouldn’t doubt it, despite her age.

  I clear me throat. It’s time to stand up for meself and what I believe in.

  “Ma’am, I have stood my ground fer generations on this subject. War is not always the way. Nwyfre kept his head held high but he was stubborn in his way o’ thinkin’. Ye can’t solve killin’ with more killin’. Ye can’t fight fire with fire.”