Guardian (Book Two of the Spirits' War Trilogy)

by K. V. Wilson

  I already do. Lucky me.

  “Quiet, Ddraig,” I mutter, feeling me face grow hot. “It was not my fault ye decided to Shift right then an’ there! Maybe if we’d been sittin’ down like civilized folk, we would’ve sensed the Knights earlier and been out o’ there afore—”

  “Civilized folk!” Elspeth roars and I shudder as I feel the floorboards creak under the weight of her talons. “As if ye could ever call yerself—”

  “Elspeth!” A bellow from Ramsey silences the giantess, halting her in her tracks.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. In the state I’m in, I shouldn’t be pickin’ fights. But then again, it was through no fault o’ mine that we were all very nearly killed.

  “What is it, you old coot?” Elspeth hisses at her husband. “Ye can see it was hisss fault—”

  “Mac Tíre is not to blame, dear,” Ramsey says confidently. “If anything, the blame lies with me fer venturing out and getting me photograph taken.”

  Elspeth sighs. “Twas not yer fault, dearest. Ye were sssick.” Even with me poor eyesight, I glimpse the gaunt glow of Elspeth’s draconic eyes, her piercing gaze fixed upon me with utter hatred.

  I turn to MacLarty and Flint. I’m beginning to be able to sense their spirits again, and relief washes over me. “So, lads, how’d we all escape? Where are we now?”

  Flint sighs. “We’re—”

  “An’ don’t ye say we’re in a barn. That’s already been established.” I grunt, gritting me teeth through the pain of me wounded leg. Fer Pete’s sake, why can’t me powers hurry up an’ return? I haven’t hurt this much since the battle of Conwy.

  “We escaped on dragonback, in plain sight of the whole bloody town,” MacLarty informs me, his voice sombre fer once. I attempt to read his face, but I can only make out a slight flash of anger in his eyes before it fades to darkness once again.

  “And,” Flint adds, “we’re on our way to Edinburgh at the moment. I mean, as soon as you recover.”

  “What? We need to get ourselves right back to the Lìog Airgid, lads. No time wasted. They need to know!”

  MacLarty sighs. “They know already. I contacted them last night,” he informs me condescendingly, as a parent would to a wee one.

  I stare in the Lycan’s direction, surprised that he’d have already done so. “What’d ye tell them, lad?”

  “That yer a lousssy good-fer-nothin’ Guardian an’ we all hate yer guts.” Elspeth chuckles, her raspy reptilian voice eerily muffled within the confines of the barn.

  “Shut yer trap, dear,” Ramsey chides. There is no humour in his voice.

  “I’ll shut it when I’m good an’ ready,” Elspeth shoots back. “I’m goin’ outssside fer a refreshin’ breath of air.”

  Heh, that ain’t going to work. Wherever she goes, all she’ll be experiencin’ will be hot air.

  “Be careful,” Ramsey warns.

  “Yer comin’ with me!” the great beast commands, and I hold back a chuckle as the two of them sidle out of the barn, Elspeth slipping back into human form an’ Ramsey following her halfheartedly.

  Now who’s buck naked? I take a deep breath, enjoying the golden silence that the she-dragon’s absence brings.

  MacLarty clears his throat. “Anyways, I told the Silver League that we found two dragons, that we have some knowledge about where Nwy-fire could be—”

  “Noo-iv-ruh,” I mutter.

  “Right. And that we were almost destroyed by some mysterious cult.”

  “Good.” I nod, pleased. “These forces are ones ye don’t want to be reckoning with. Trust me, lads.”

  “I gathered that,” MacLarty says flatly.

  I shake me head, shutting me eyes and allowing an old memory to resurface.

  The bishop stood over me, face hidden in the shadow of his dark cloak. He laced his fingers together innocently over his swollen stomach. Patercius was never one to skip a meal.

  “Please. Don’t do this,” I pleaded.

  I ain’t one to plead, mind ye. So if this be happenin’, then it’s time fer drastic measures.

  With surprising speed fer one who devoted his life to priesthood, ol’ Patty unsheathed a sword from his side. Kind of strange fer a bishop to be keepin’ a weapon at his hip, now ain’t it? Ah well. That’ll be a question fer another lifetime.

  “What say ye, demon? Do you deny the king’s charges against you and your Druids?”

  Patercius lifted me chin with the tip of his sword. His followers were lined up behind him in two neat rows. Each one of them wore a hood to conceal his face. To hide the humanity in his soul.

  “Aye, that I do. An’ I be no demon, Patty,” I told the bishop firmly, peering up into his hooded face in an attempt to discern where his eyes may be. There was only darkness.

  “Insolent Pagan. Burn them,” he commanded, gesturing to our stack of written records.

  The only written records; most people in this day an’ age couldn’t read or write, especially not the heathens. A cry of horror emanated from the far corner of the room, an’ I echoed the Druid’s sentiment wholeheartedly. Truly a wicked deed, destroying knowledge was.

  Swallowing me fear, I raised me voice as much as I dared. Hard to be the brave soul when one has a sword pressed to one’s throat. Patty’s weapon wavered somewhat, and I guessed that his old hands were tiring of holding it up.

  “Burn these words fer all I care,” I said as confidently as I could muster. “The stories will live on. If not through them, then through me!”

  I wasn’t entirely sure that he knew what I was, but I’m certain he had some sort of inkling.

  Patty gathered his robes with his empty hand, kneeling on the stone so he was at eye level with me. He kept the blade pressed against me neck, rotating the tip ever so slightly. I winced at the pain; unable to make contact with Mother Earth fer some much-needed aid, I could not help meself now. A drop of blood oozed down, staining me tunic. I was tempted to make some sort o’ quip at that, but held me tongue; it wasn’t the time fer such antics.

  The sound of flint striking together reached me ears, and afore long I could discern the flicker of flames. The cornered Druids released moans of terror, but there wasn’t anythin’ I could do fer them.

  I gritted me teeth, steeling meself fer what was to occur. “Patty—”

  “Patercius. First Bishop to King Edward, first of his name.”

  “Quite the mouthful there—”

  “By orders of His Majesty, I am cleansing the world of your Druids. Servants of Hell are not fit to walk this earth. Now answer me this,” he commanded in that sickeningly sweet voice of his. “Where is Nwyfre? Where is the life-force now?”

  “I…” I choked on me words. Not something I’m proud of, but it happened nonetheless. “Yer no saint!” I croaked.

  “Mac Tíre,” he whispered tenderly as if he were me lover. I shuddered at the thought. “I will not rest until every last snake is dead.”

  I gulped. This may be my end, at least until the next reincarnation, but it need not be theirs.

  “Uisge!” I spat into Patty’s face, biting me tongue as he pressed the blade further into me skin. The blighter sputtered in disgust.

  “He has uttered a curse upon you, Bishop!” one of the priest’s followers cried in anguish. “Are we all to die?”

  Simultaneously with this dimwitted servant’s utterance, the doors flew open and a bitter maelstrom blew in. Not a moment too soon, I do say.

  Rain dampened the shelves and caused both Patty’s followers and my Druids alike to scream out in surprise. The flames that lapped at the pile of books fizzled out of existence, but I knew this diversion would not stop the Knights fer long. It also wouldn’t save the literature; sopping books were not much happier than burnt ones.

  “Run!” I called to the frightened Druids in a dialect only they would understand. “Shift and hide!”

  Patty pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head and a donkey’s cart more wrinkles than I had ever seen. This priest must�
��ve worried himself sick searchin’ the world fer Pagans to slaughter.

  Patercius’ face twisted into a grotesque snarl as he plunged his sword deep into me chest.

  He brought his lips up to me ear for one final taunt. “And thus the sacrilegious magitian descends.”

  I gasped fer air, feelin’ the life rapidly ebbing from me body. The last thing I could hear was the pounding of rain outside, matched with the slapping of bare feet switchin’ to padded paws as the Druids fled to safety. I may never know if they all made it out alive.

  But some o’ them had to, else MacLarty wouldn’t be standin’ here annoying the hell out o’ me.

  “Aelshen! C’mon. Wake up, old man!”

  I clench me fists. “’The earth, opening his mouth after a most strange manner, devoured the magitian, who descended alive downe to Hell.’” I open me eyes, frowning deeply at the Lycan. “Thrice-cursed Saint Patty.”

  MacLarty stares at me quizzically. “What?”

  “And thus it was written, detailing the acts of Patercius fer all to hear. John Heigham, 1625.”

  “Mac Tíre hates March seventeenth,” Flint says softly, fumbling with a piece of loose timber from the floor of the barn.

  I scoff. “An’ fer good reason. The damned oaf had it out fer me and me Druids of old, and now his followers are back. That’s the only holiday I won’t be drinkin’ to, if ye ask me.”

  “Saint Patrick? What’d he do, give you a shamrock?” MacLarty snorts. Flint elbows him in the stomach, giving him a warning glance.

  “Patercius murdered me,” I say simply. “Killed hundreds of me followers. Yer ancestors, lad.”

  Ace gulps, seeming to finally get the bloody point. Not as much as I’d gotten it, mind ye.

  “I thought them gone when Patty left this world. Or else, merged with the Earth’s Covenant, but I suppose I was wrong. I have more’n sufficient reason to believe that the Knights of Saint Patrick murdered Nwyfre, too, those twelve years ago…”

  The lads are silent for a while. I finally crack me knuckles an’ clear me throat.

  “Well, that’s enough of that fer now. Is the Lìog Airgid sendin’ help? What did they decide?”

  “They want us to meet with my relatives in Edinburgh,” MacLarty says, disappointment creeping into his words. “See if we can round up some recruits on our way back to England.”

  “Ye sound like ye’ve been slated fer execution, lad.”

  The dark-haired Lycan snorts. “Feels like it sometimes. My family doesn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, Mac Tíre.”

  If they have the attitude of this young man – not to mention that of his father – I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised.

  “At least you have one,” Flint mutters, turning away like a whipped pup. I squint me eyes, noting that it helps me to see a little better. Me vision is slowly but surely returnin’.

  “Don’t worry, Greg,” I tell him, giving the hatchling’s shoulder a pat. “We’ll find Nwyfre soon, I’m certain. Besides, we’ve just found more o’ yer kind. Here be dragons.”

  “You didn’t just say that.” Flint bites his lip, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. MacLarty snorts again.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I inquire of the group. “I’m getting me vision back, so we should start headin’ out within the hour.”

  “What about your leg?” Flint asks. “Can you heal it yet?”

  “He’s fine. I’ve had worse,” MacLarty grunts. “We should get going.”

  I nod, smiling at his abruptness. “Oh, one second. I should try to contact Ru-Yeva.”

  “Ru...oh, right.” The Lycan rolls his eyes. “Because Skye definitely wants to know about your injuries in excruciating detail.”

  “I’m sure she does. But that ain’t the priority. Priority’s lettin’ her know we’re all safe an’ sound. And that everyone had best be meeting up sometime soon. They should have plenty of recruits by now, I’d wager.”

  “What if they don’t?” MacLarty asks, and Flint slaps him on the arm.

  “Shut up. He’s trying to contact her.”

  I close me eyes, attemptin’ to drown out their chatter with the force of me own mind.

 

  No response.

  “Spiorad,” I whisper.

  “What?” MacLarty asks uncertainly. I ignore him.

 

  I pause for a moment, waiting for the young lass to respond. Still, nothing happens. I swear in Gaelic, not caring who hears. These buffoons wouldn’t understand it anyway.

  “I’ve lost contact with her spirit. I’ll have to wait till the effect of that bloody weapon wears off.”

  “Just our luck,” MacLarty spits.

  “And that means Nwyfre can’t hear us either,” Flint sighs, “even if he wanted to.”

  I shake my head slowly. “It’s all up to Skye an’ the others. If the Lìog Airgid can contact them, an’ if they’re able to head back to England as soon as they get the message, we can get our army goin’ an’ maybe stand a chance.”

  MacLarty nods, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “Not one, but two armies are hunting us now,” the Lycan states gloomily. “One with weapons that easily render our abilities useless. Just. Our. Luck.”

  “Well” – Flint takes a deep breath – “we do have the luck of the Irish on our side, thanks to Mac Tíre.”

  I sniff, amused yet oddly comforted by his faith in me. “Ah, lads. Ye can never expect luck to get ye out of these shenanigans. Ye’ve got to rely solely on experience and exceptional planning. There is no luck except where there is discipline.”

  22

  BUG-EYED

  Skye

  “Okay, Thirteen. Ready?”

  “Yup,” the Lycan grunts, meeting my eyes with his ocean ones. “Hey, are you sure you wanna do this, Red? I mean, what if—”

  “Life is full of what-ifs. I’ve got to live sometimes.”

  I smile mischievously, forcing myself to stop fidgeting with the edge of Sejka’s cloak. The truth is I’m not sure what I think of the plan. But there’s no going back now, especially considering it was my idea to begin with.

  “Remember when we did this the first time? When I couldn’t stop worrying about Xera?” I grin.

  Conall nods. “Yeah. Now I’m the worried one. What if you get stepped on? Or squashed by one of the baggage officers?”

  I roll my eyes. “You worrywart. I’ll be alright,” I swallow, glancing overhead. “Just make sure it’s me you’re letting in, and not some random insect.”

  “Skye,” Conall tells me sincerely, meeting my eyes. “I would do no such thing.” The corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile, making my heart skip a beat.

  “Well, here goes nothing. Literally. I’ll be hard to spot, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Right.”

  Conall pushes the curls from his eyes, standing guard as I follow Xera and Litu into the washroom. We all share a hug before entering our stalls for the Shift.

  “Be careful, girls,” Litu cautions us in Yeva’si.

  “Always,” Xera chuckles.

  I gulp. She’s been through this before, but I haven’t. I only hope I’ll be able to traverse the airport without crash-landing. Thankfully all that flight training with Litu and Xunnu had resulted in some improvement, or I’d be signing my own death warrant by going through with this plan.

  I flop my jeans and t-shirt over the stall door for one of the Lycan recruits. David and Margo had located her pack on the coast, up near the British Columbian-Alaskan border. The clan contains a good mixture of Americans and Canadians. Lycans do not care for borders; they go where they please and humans are none the wiser.

  I slip my finger around the lock, tapping it open as I Shift. My limbs shrink to minute proportions and my body sinks to the tiles. I wince as my shoulder blades sp
rout two sets of laced wings. I feel the urge to blink, but there are no eyelids to oblige; my vision is now multifaceted. I am now, quite literally, bug-eyed.

  I propel myself upward, getting the feel for my new form. Dragonfly.

  It amuses me that I’d chosen to mimic this particular creature; for the past few days, I’d been trying to contact the ancient Welsh dragon, Nwyfre. The third member of the Spiritborne had not given my telepathy a second thought, however. It was like talking to a wall. Aelshen, too, had not been responding to my attempts at communication. Part of me was beginning to wonder if it was just me.

  Perhaps I’ve lost my connection. Maybe I won’t be able to speak with the Father of Lycans again until I can meet with him in the United Kingdom. Normally, nothing will shut the burly Lycan up, so such a silence is definitely unnerving.

  “That you, Red?” Conall whispers as I attempt to zero in on him.

  I hover in front of the Lycan, gauging the distance to his shoulder. Damn these multifaceted eyes and tiny wings. I feel like a kamikaze.

  “I assume that’s a yes. Give me a…twitch of the tail or something.”

  I do as he says, lowering myself slowly to the fabric of his jacket and crawling onto the collar. He wears the same clothing he’d worn when we’d first joined the Silver League: a black jacket and dark jeans. I’d come to know it as battle garb. It meant camouflage in the pitch black. It meant we were there to survive no matter what the Covenant threw at us.

  “Good. Stay put till we get through,” he breathes, eyeing a security guard as he follows the other Lycans.

  We had tried to contact the Silver League again before booking our flights, but to no avail. David reassured me that my dad was probably in the middle of relocating his army and couldn’t keep tabs on us until they’d gotten themselves out of harm’s way. But the whole situation makes me uneasy. War does that to a person.

  Our travelling companions are antsy and I don’t blame them. We’d used the Silver League’s funds to pay for twenty-five plane tickets; one each for David, Margo, Conall, Damian and Jen, then one each for the twenty Lycans who’d elected to join our cause.