Guardian (Book Two of the Spirits' War Trilogy)

by K. V. Wilson

  I Shift and shrug off me pack, pulling on my cloak. “Is everyone here?” I mentally take attendance of the Lycans. One missing… “C’mon, MacLarty. We haven’t all day!”

  The goth Shifts to his pale, scrawny human form, wiping sweaty locks from his eyes. I smirk and he rewards me with a scowl, still catching his breath.

  “You’ve waited how many centuries to see this friend of yours? Couldn’t wait ten more minutes?”

  “Certainly not! Ye should understand. Imagine being separated from yer twin. Would be torture, now wouldn’t it?”

  Ace glares at Damian. The latter gives him a shove, teasing, “You know you love me, Junior.”

  “Shut up,” Ace retorts. “Life would be much better without you, mate. More food for me, for one. You eat a ton.”

  “But I need it. I actually burn off the calories,” the redheaded twin points out with a snort.

  I clear me throat, scanning the skies in case Nwyfre is already descending. He hadn’t mentioned where he’d be travellin’ from, but if the past is any indication, he could be here right soon; that dragon is fast as lightning, I tell ye.

  The twins continue arguing. I ignore them, pulling open the heavy door.

  To me surprise, most of the Lycans have returned, as well as the flight squadrons led by Quinn Rhys and Xunnu. Not that it’s much of a surprise; Skye had flown out to inform them of the Great Ddraig’s return. They’d probably arrived hours before us.

  This would have been much more enjoyable if I’d been flying too. But at least we’ve accomplished what we’ve set out to do, more or less. Nwyfre is on his way to meet with us after all these years in hiding. Too bad it took such an unfortunate event as the destruction of our beloved pub to bring him out of his shell, so to speak.

  “Greetings, all!” I bellow.

  Todd Matthews takes a step forward, inclining his head in respect. “Welcome, Mac Tíre. Has everyone made it back? Perfect.”

  His daughter Skye appears at his side, a slight smile on her face. “Any sign of him yet?” she asks, eyes flicking back and forth as if the mighty dragon will crash through the wall at any moment. I wouldn’t be all too surprised if he did; Nwyfre seemed quite the picture of fury when last we spoke.

  “I’m a bit afeard to try contactin’ him again, if truth be told,” I whisper to the Ru-Yeva.

  She shakes her head, smiling despite the truth of the situation. “He’ll forget his anger when he sees us again.”

  “A centuries-old grudge doesn’t just fizzle out,” I observe, wincing and stretching a hand behind me neck.

  “He’s right,” Quinn adds, joining us. “However, we Ddraig shouldn’t be blaming Mac Tíre for what happened long, long ago.” She narrows her eyes, staring at one of the torches in the barn with the utmost malice. “The Knights are to blame.”

  “When’s he gonna get here?” Ace asks from behind me. Can I ever escape that incessant whining?

  I shrink back as I sense a familiar spirit getting uncomfortably close. I spoke too soon.

  “When he’s good an’ ready!” Elspeth nearly screams at me. She sniggers at my reaction.

  I turn towards the elderly dragon. “It wasn’t me that asked!” I inform her with a glare, hands on me hips.

  “Who flippin’ cares?” she retorts. “I knew he’d come to help us! And defeat those terrible Knights of…”

  “Saint Patrick,” Ramsey adds.

  “I know that!” Elspeth spits. “Stop finishin’ me sentences, ye old toad!”

  Ramsey opens his mouth to retaliate, but stops short as another shout takes precedence over his. It’s a familiar sixteen-year-old voice, an’ it brings a smile to me face.

  “Mac Tíre!”

  “Ah, Flint. Good to see ye, lad.”

  Gregory approaches me, head held high. That’s a tad unlike him; he’s always been more of a shy type. Perhaps flying around with the noble dragon Miss Rhys has done the boy some good.

  I raise a hand in greeting so he can grasp it like he always does, but afore I can take another breath, a sudden force pummels me squarely in the eye. I fall back, catching meself against a stack of hay bales. The bales topple over with the force of me full body weight and some nearby shapeshifters squeal in surprise, nearly getting squashed by the packaged grass.

  I sink to the floor, rubbing me eye and stretching me neck from side to side as I struggle to see things clearly. I blink and stare up into the eyes of Gregory Flint, the young dragon who’d lived at me pub fer longer’n I’d worked there. In this life, at least.

  Me eyes are suddenly drawn to the dragon’s hand as he shakes away the shock of the punch.

  “Flint…?” I attempt, but the words won’t come. I regard him with a new interest. “Greg, what’s gotten into ye?” I ask rather groggily.

  “Tha cuimhne agam,” he says in perfect Gaelic.

  I remember.

  Skye takes a step forward, gaping. “Nwyfre?” she asks, recognition dawning upon her face.

  Nwyfre smirks but keeps his gaze locked on mine. He stands above me as if he’s the centre of the universe itself. “Bloody git,” the dragon breathes.

  “He was s’posed to be twelve years old,” I say slowly, rubbing me eye. That’s going to leave a mark. An’ more than just a black eye, mind ye; my pride’s been harmed beyond repair tonight.

  “HA!” Elspeth crows, a big ol’ grin on her wrinkled face. “This just keeps getting better an’ better, doesn’t it, Ramsey?”

  “That it does,” her husband replies. “Mac Tíre, are you all right?”

  “He’s all out o’ sorts!” Elspeth squeals, her grin growing even wider and more unnerving. “Just what he deserves! See? I told ye there was something about that young Flint boy.”

  I stand and whirl upon Elspeth. “Nwyfre died twelve years ago, ye said! Ye seem to be flippin’ terrible at telling time, eh, she-dragon? This lad’s sixteen!”

  “Twelve, sixteen…‘tis all the same when yer old. You should know that better than all of us put together, Guardian!” she retorts with a cackle.

  I turn back to Flint. “So. Nwyfre. Ye’ve decided to show up again, now have ye? It’s about bloody time if I do say so!”

  He smirks again, an’ the malicious expression seems rather unsettling upon the face of one of me closest acquaintances. Gregory sends his palm alight with flames as he inches closer, eyes narrowed.

  “Now, lad, p-put that away. I don’t want to hurt ye.”

  He snorts. “Like you could so much as scratch me. Mac Tíre, who would’ve thought it was me?” He shakes his head slowly, ignoring the fire that threatens to burn us all to a crisp. “I’m Nwyfre. I would thank you for helping me remember, but I’m a little too livid at you now.”

  Elspeth releases another cackle, causing Flint to turn towards her. She quickly clams up again, nodding for him to continue. She’s really enjoying this.

  “Let me get this straight, Flint,” Ace pipes up. “We travelled all across Scotland and Wales searching for you, and you were right there with us the entire time?”

  Thirteen laughs. “Not to mention, you’re your own great, great, great, great, great—”

  “That’s not true,” Flint snaps, extinguishing his flame. I breathe out a sigh of relief, wiping the perspiration from me brow. “I’m my own person. Just with the same spirit inside me.”

  “An’ I practically raised ye!” I boom, standing to me full height and rounding on the lad. “Ye had a wealth of inspiration right in front of ye yer whole life! Paintings and murals depicting yer adventures adorned the walls of the pub ye lived in, and ye still didn’t clue in!” I point out. “How’s that even possible?”

  “Late bloomer,” Ace offers. Flint sends a swirl of wind towards the Lycan, making him sputter and shake the bangs from his eyes. “Hey! Jerk! Why do you people always go for the hair?”

  Both Thirteen and Damian burst into laughter, earning them a glare from Ace.

  “It took a tragedy to allow it to sink in, I guess,” Sk
ye offers. “Even with Greg’s mind closed to the Spiritborne connection, he got a little spark of emotion from Aelshen when the memories of the pub came flooding back. He had to have felt something, cause I relived that memory along with you in vivid detail,” Skye tells me, her face etched with pity. She glances at Flint sheepishly, perhaps wondering if he’d felt just as empty as I had when we’d parted ways.

  “So, what now?” Thirteen pipes up, clearly hopin’ to get the conversation back on track.

  I clear me throat, eyeing Flint to make sure he doesn’t want to answer the question himself. He nods at me and I sigh in relief. Perhaps he’s finally put this grudge behind him. A good thing too; if sweet Skye was capable of nearly burning Xáan to death, what would this dragon do to me? Even though we’ve been pals since the earth was young, he feels that I’ve wronged him. An’ perhaps I have. But me intentions were good, and that’s what really counts.

  “We prepare fer battle,” I say solemnly.

  Flint raises his eyebrows at me. “Do you mean it this time?”

  I give him a pained look. “O’course I do, Gregory. I once said ye can’t fight fire with fire, did I not?”

  The dragon rolls his eyes. “On many occasions.”

  “Well, this is one of those situations. Our goal as Spiritborne has always been to bring about balance, to keep the earth at ease and with all manner of creatures thrivin’.”

  “Aye,” he prompts. “Go on.”

  I clear me throat, searchin’ fer the right words. “We need to think of a way to take ‘em down without using brute force. What I mean to say is, ye can’t fight fire with fire, but lightning is a sure substitute. It occurred to me when I got attacked by Mrs. Andarsen here,” I whisper, giving Elspeth a pointed glance.

  “Right,” Nwyfre says.

  “That wasn’t funny, Flint. Stop grinning,” I chide, unable to prevent me own mouth from breaking into a smile. “We need to be smart about this. We need to use all the tools at our disposal an’ think of new ways to take down the soldiers. After all, they’ve developed a weapon that can take away our links to the Spirit World. Such weapons will be our downfall; we have to stand up and fight fer our right to live.”

  Flint nods in approval. I flash him a grin before continuing.

  “These thrice-cursed nobodies are threatening us shapeshifters!” I bellow, addressing all inhabitants of the barn. “The Earth’s Covenant has hunted Lycans fer centuries, an’ the Knights of Saint Patrick have nearly brought the Ddraig to extinction!”

  “The Druids gave me the name ‘Nwyfre’,” the great dragon interjects, raising his voice. All traces of Greg’s previous uncertainty is gone; he’s truly remembered who he is. “The life-force, they called me. Patercius made it his life’s ambition to rid the world of the ‘snakes’ – the shapeshifters and spirits of Earth. Those that didn’t think the same way he did. Those he saw as inferior, as demons. His followers have tracked us down many times before, and it’s only a matter of time before they’ll find this hideout.”

  A round of gasps and cries emanates from the room and the rafters above. The barn is full to the brim with Lycans, Yeva’si, and the few Ddraig who have joined us. Namely Elspeth, Ramsey and Quinn.

  “The Knights of Saint Patrick cornered me sixteen years ago,” Flint says ominously. “They did so with a weapon that subdued my abilities, and then they went in for the kill.”

  “I can confirm the existence of such a weapon,” Ramsey says. “An’ this young man saved us those twelve years ago.”

  “Sixteen,” I hiss.

  The dragons ignore me, but soon a different voice speaks up. How I’d missed the beauty of that voice…

  “Let’s squash them like the vermin they are!” Quinn Rhys cries, pounding her fist into her palm with enough vigour to make me jump. The brunette shrugs off her leather jacket and holds it up, letting out a loud “whoop” and proudly displaying the emblem on the back of it – the Great Red Dragon of Wales. Y Ddraig Goch.

  Nwyfre.

  “The Guardians have returned!” Matthews roars, causing a wild cheer to erupt from the gathered shapeshifters. “Who will follow them? Who will join us in defeating the Covenant once and for all?”

  “And those wretched Knights of Saint Patrick!” Quinn adds with a flourish. “It’s time the snakes started standing up to the rats! We may be fewer in number, but we’re strong! Who’s with me?”

  I can quite honestly say that no voice is silent tonight. Me heart swells with pride. The Spiritborne are finally reunited and we’re on the road to rebuilding the Ddraig race. Little by little until it’s standing strong once again. I owe it to Nwyfre to help him see it through.

 

  Nwyfre meets my gaze, teeth flashing and eyes shining with a light I haven’t seen in far too long.

  42

  IMPULSE

  Skye

  The barn erupts into rounds of rowdy cheering. The Lycans open barrels of wine and ale for all to celebrate. I sink to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. I flick my gaze towards Xáan. He’s still lying motionless on one of the hay bales, hands joined over his stomach. Alive, but barely. Despite my best efforts, and those of Aelshen and Flint, the burns were not healing well.

  I reach out with my mind, dreading the possibility that his spirit has left him. To my relief, I can discern the faint beating of his heart. I shut my eyes, withdrawing back into myself. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of the image of his burnt flesh, the flames dancing across his fragile frame as I’d called out again and again for the fire’s aid.

  I had gone too far.

  He tried to kill Xunnu, all those years ago.

  You don’t know that, Skye. For all you know, his words were merely threats. You acted upon an impulse, a lone memory from fifty years past. A memory that wasn’t even your own. You had no right to meddle in another’s life.

  “Skye. You okay?”

  I start at the sound of his voice. Conall squats beside me, holding a mug of a strong-smelling liquid. I shut my eyes again, trying to drown out the sounds of laughter and cheering. All that’s left is the relentless image of Xunnu’s younger brother, holding on to dear life as the flames engulf him.

  “No,” I admit.

  “Want some?” he asks innocently. I open my eyes wide enough to see what he’s offering me.

  I accept the mug gratefully, taking a long swig. As the liquid rolls across my tongue, I grimace and purse my lips at the stale taste. Gratification always comes with a price, it seems.

  “Careful. It’s supposed to make you feel better, not worse,” Conall says with a laugh. He leans back, rubbing his shoulder against mine.

  “Not sure if I can feel any worse,” I mutter, taking another sip.

  “Tell me what happened. Maybe it’ll help.”

  Why do people always assume that talking about a bad situation will make it better? It just makes you relive the memories.

  “Fine.” I hand the mug of Lycan’s Head ale back to him and cross my arms over my chest. “This is painful for me to repeat, but I deserve all the pain I can get after what I’ve done.”

  Conall doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out and encloses his fingers around one of my hands.

  “Okay,” I begin, gathering my thoughts. “Fifty years ago, the Yeva’si held a ceremony to welcome Xunnu into manhood. He was to become the new chieftain of the Yáahl, the Raven tribe. But his father wasn’t happy with that; he thought his second son, Xáan, was better fit to lead the shapeshifters.”

  “Seriously?” Conall bursts out. “Xunnu is a great leader. He understands us better than…”

  “Than my dad. I know. Xunnu makes an effort to walk in other peoples’ shoes. He always has. But his father thought it made him weak.”

  “So what happened?” the Lycan asks carefully, making an effort not to look at me. Perhaps he’s w
orried he’ll deter me from finishing.

  “Xáan and Koyah became close friends over the years, while Sejka and Xunnu did the same. Well, more than that, really,” I add, feeling my cheeks begin to flush. Conall gives me a sideways glance and I wince at the grin that creeps across his face.

  “Oh, damn. You and Xunnu?”

  “Sejka and Xunnu! And obviously, it didn’t last,” I state bitterly. “Anyway, Sehwen, Xáan and Koyah got it into their heads that Xáan should take control of the Raven tribe. So they started plotting to overthrow Xunnu.”

  Conall’s eyes grew wide. “Wow. I had no idea.”

  “Xáan told me – he told Sejka – that if she interfered, he’d kill her. If she and Xunnu left the tribe peacefully, they’d spare the two of them.”

  “They threw them out.”

  “Yeah. Or at least, they planned to. So when Koyah and Xáan showed their faces here, I couldn’t stop myself from attacking Xáan. Not when my spirit felt such hatred towards him.”

  “But what about the accusation?” Conall asks suddenly. “The first time he ever spoke to you, Xáan said Sejka killed his father, remember?”

  I nod. “Indirectly. As Xáan lay there…after I’d attacked him…he told me the truth. That the Covenant had arrived at the settlement. They’d attacked everyone and Sehwen – Xáan’s father – died as a result. He blames me for that. Says they were there for me.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. The Covenant was targeting Lycans. Not Yeva’si. And how did they know about the Ru-Yeva? They seemed pretty surprised when she started controlling the lightning during the Battle of the Ritual, didn’t they?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the Covenant that showed up fifty years ago, Thirteen.”

  Conall squints as he stares into the light of a fading torch. “You’re saying it was the Knights?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  The crowd begins to dwindle as the various shapeshifters bid each other good night and head off to their tents in the field beyond the barn.