Guardian (Book Two of the Spirits' War Trilogy)

by K. V. Wilson

  I shake me head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Turning towards Patercius and Flint, I raise me voice. “Hey! You there, with the senseless armour and the daft expression! I be comin’ for ye!”

  As I approach the sorry excuse fer a human being, a new spirit crosses paths with mine and an arm darts out across me chest, halting me in my tracks.

  “This one’s mine.”

  “Well, then. Ye must be the free spirit Nwyfre told me about, ain’t ye?”

  “Aye,” the woman replies with a curt nod. “Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mac Tíre.”

  She lobs a white-hot jet o’ flame towards an attacker who then collapses in agony, dropping his longsword. Nessie stomps upon the blade – pressing it into the sodden earth – and the hilt flies up into her waiting palm. She spins the sword like the blade of a windmill, hypnotizing me with its brilliance. The wind tugs at the tears in her dark garb but she stands steadfast against the elements.

  I grin. “What say ye to taking down the monster we call Saint Patty?”

  The maiden of Loch Ness breaks into a wide smile, showing beautiful ivory fangs. “I say aye, lad. That is if ye can keep up with me.”

  55

  TYRONE

  Skye

  My limbs shudder with exertion as I succeed in blocking an oncoming blow from yet another Knight. I send a fireball his way and he dodges, sliding across the muddy ground and slamming into the stone wall behind him.

  Where are they even coming from? The supply is endless.

  Glancing at the corner where Ramsey had been imprisoned, I breathe a sigh of relief; Aelshen and the others have already freed him. Excellent.

  To my right, Xera is pummeling her opponent with gigantic ursine claws. She roars in agony as an arrow from above strikes her flank. I tear my gaze from the battlefield and peer skyward, gauging the angle of the archer above.

  The Knight I’d sent tumbling against the bailey wall races at me, blade aimed at my heart. I prepare to summon another fireball, but before I manage to send my fingers alight with flames, another body rams into mine. I grit my teeth as I smack hard against the earth and the breath is knocked out of me. I raise my hand, preparing to singe my attacker, when I glimpse familiar obsidian fur and azure eyes.

  Thirteen!

  The Lycan pulls himself off me, jerking his chin at the Knight.

  “I had it under control, Conall,” I mutter, too quietly for him to hear. Instead, I smile weakly. “Thanks for coming.”

  Don’t die on me, Thirteen. Losing you would break me.

  Conall leaps at my attacker, narrowly dodging the sweep of his sword. When the Knight pulls out a gun, Conall manages to duck aside. Like a flash of lightning, he’s enclosed the man’s arm in his jaws. Lycan teeth are no match for heavy armour, however. I summon up the courage to deal the final blow with a burst of flame; if not, this man would keep at it until we’re both dead.

  When the deed is done, Conall licks the blood from his maw. Then the Lycan bounds off towards the next soldier. Remembering the archers above, I train my eyes towards the top of the wall, hoping I’m not too late.

  The spirits of three individuals meet my mind’s eye as well as the weakened souls of eight more. The dragons must’ve singed them when they descended.

  I call to the moisture in the air and in the nearby river, willing it to rise above us and shroud the archers in a deep fog.

  I weave my way through the battlefield, palms alight with fire. Sensing the proximity of another spirit, I glance over my shoulder at Koyah while simultaneously erecting a barrier of flames between myself and the archers.

  “Let us fight together, sister,” Koyah says solemnly in Yeva’si.

  I nod and then gesture to the bowmen above us. “I was headed to the top.”

  “A fine plan.”

  I Shift as I break into a swift jog, feeling Koyah transform beside me into a lean lupine form. The breeze sifts through his silky ivory fur and my heart sinks.

  I will never get used to it; Sejka – the White Wolf, the Guardian of Nature before me – will always be alive in her brother.

  And in me. She lives in me.

  As if in response, images of Sejka’s past drift through my mind unbidden. Her father’s face as he tells her who she really is; her brother Koyah’s sobs as he holds in his tiny, unblemished hands the two halves of Wolf. And then, fifty years later, my own discovery of the same carving. Wolf was whole once again, a thin line of sap holding him together like the fragile bond between two siblings.

  Koyah and I round the last curve in the spiral staircase, our paws light upon the stone. I slow to a stop and he follows suit, slinking down into a tiny albino mink.

  Uisge, I command, peering around the corner where the archers still stand. The shroud of fog grows even denser, surrounding the top of the wall so it appears as if we are gods gracing the bridge to Asgard.

  The eight men peer warily at the vapour. They nock their arrows and step about blindly, half aiming at the far end of the wall, half aiming at where Koyah and I conceal ourselves. I push and pull the fog, forming it into a hazy blanket. The soldiers gasp, staring wide-eyed at the smoke as if it’s the last thing they’ll ever see.

  Under cover of vapour, Koyah sneaks towards the archers on tiny webbed feet. As the mink reaches the other side of the group, I Shift into bear form, stepping into the open. I pull upon the wind, forming it into great gusts and angling it in just a way that the soldiers are buffeted and Koyah and I are free to advance further. I curl my lips back, releasing a low growl as I amble towards the men.

  Unable to aim their weapons amidst the drafts, the soldiers hold their bows out in front of them as if they’re swords.

  “Please, bear. Stop!” one of them hollers, stumbling back and nearly tripping over his comrade.

  I take another step.

  Koyah suddenly leaps upon the archers, Shifting into a great ivory bear. His teeth sink into the armour of the nearest enemy. The mail clinks and bends in his jaws but does not break. The bear swipes at the soldier, sending him reeling into the wall. He slams all his weight onto the man, and I wince at the ensuing snap of brittle bones.

  The other men scatter at this new threat, and once they’ve torn their eyes from me, I Shift back into human form, pulling on the energy around me to gain new strength. I sear into their armour with fireball after fireball, wincing as the life leaves them.

  One fires at me, but the flames that lick up his arm sorely affect his ability to fight. He falls like the others do, spewing out a slew of profanity at me. I gulp, ignoring the rotten guilt that gouges my heart. I’m sorry. But this is war.

  And then I sense him.

  Sean’s killer.

  Flicking my gaze towards the bailey below us, I focus on the lone spirit. His name arises on the tip of my tongue and yet I can never utter it, for pure ire would consume me.

  Tyrone.

  Glancing back at the archers, I note that Koyah has taken down all but one.

  “Go,” the shapeshifter urges, now back in human form and wrestling with the final soldier as he clings to his bow for dear life. “I have him.”

  I nod in gratitude and then glance at the battle below. I’d allowed the fog to dissipate, and as I search for Tyrone in the crowd, a pair of accusatory eyes meets mine. The killer stares at me intently as if I were the one who’d committed such acts of treachery upon other living beings.

  This is the man who shot an eight-year-old Lycan boy in the back as he tried to escape from a life of imprisonment. This is the man who jubilantly watched as Thirteen’s mother was murdered under the light of a blood moon.

  His lips curl up into a slight smile as he stares into my eyes. My blood curdles and I seek out an animal form – one that can get me into the fray where I can make this man pay for his crimes.

  A flash of bright crimson sears against my night vision. Its sleek, scaled shape is illuminated by the firelight of Flint’s, Nessie’s, and Aelshen’s magic.

  Ramsey
pumps his wings harder, rising high above the battlefield. Another streak pursues him, and I smile as Elspeth releases a jet of flames upon a troop of soldiers who’d been emerging from the bowels of the castle.

  I close my eyes and picture their forms: mighty scaled beasts with razor-sharp teeth and leathery wings that catch the wind as easily as a barn swallow’s.

  The energy of the spirits syphons through my blood as I feel my flesh stretching and growing. My spine and shoulders creak as they pop into place, eight feet higher off the stone than they had been moments before. A rumble emerges from deep within my throat as I leap from the wall, extending my auburn wings to catch the updrafts I’d created.

  Spiralling down, I seek out Tyrone’s tiny form again amongst the hundreds of others. The infrareds of my reptilian vision blend together as the puny soldiers amass against our dwindling army. I narrow my eyes, ignoring the heat signatures of the dead.

  Tyrone yanks two guns from his armoured suit and aims them at my face.

  Those will not do a thing against scales like these, puny murderer. You killed a child. There is no honour in that, so why should I give you the mercy of an honourable death?

  As I descend with a deafening thud, the fear in Tyrone’s eyes turns my soul to stone.

  What have I become? Am I such a monster that I would throw away all that I’ve learned about life to see through with a terrible act of revenge?

  During my moment of indecision, Tyrone appears to gather his wits again and stands his ground, staring me down as if I’m a disobedient dog.

  A familiar spirit approaches, but I keep my eyes locked on Tyrone’s bloodshot grey ones. His gaze darts towards Conall’s as the Lycan edges forward in wolf form, and yet Tyrone doesn’t flinch. It’s as if he already knows how this will play out.

  “When I saw your face up there, I thought you looked familiar,” Tyrone says simply.

  I nod, frozen in place. The draconic words slip across my tongue like honey on toast. “You sssaw me in Calgary. You shot my friend. An eight-year-old.”

  The Covenant soldier frowns, scratching his stubble nonchalantly as if there isn’t a gargantuan dragon standing face-to-face with him. Conall reaches my side, body tense and hackles raised. The Lycan releases a soft growl as he stares into the eyes of the man who killed the boy he once loved like a brother.

  Tyrone clears his throat, displaying an air of boredom. “Right. I barely remember that, it was so long ago. I destroyed the spawn before he could become a monster like you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “And then again in England. You helped murder your comrade’s wife, right before his eyes.”

  “A demon, no less,” he retorts. “A monster. A seductress who swayed Richard’s mind and dragged him from reality, from all things holy. Where are you going with this?”

  I chuckle without humour. “Where am I going with thisss?” I shake my head. “I don’t know anymore,” I admit softly through clenched fangs.

  Give him a quick, painless death. Before you change your mind.

  “It’sss your turn to die, Tyrone,” I declare. Conall’s growl deepens as he winds up for the leap that will end this terrible figure.

  Tyrone merely grins, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. The wind sends his thickly-gelled coffee locks aloft to reveal his receding hairline.

  “I welcome the thought. The afterlife will take good care of me. I will die knowing I have worked to keep this world free from demons like you. I will die knowing my daughter – my last love in this cruel world – is safe from harm. I have but one regret.”

  “Stop,” I whisper to Conall as he takes another menacing step towards Tyrone. The Lycan eases his posture slightly. I jut my draconic chin out at the murderer. “What isss it? The Lycan blood that douses your handsss? Lives just like yoursss that you’ve destroyed because you thought us different than you are?”

  “Amongst all those demons I slaughtered over the years, I killed one human. I had to do it; there was no sparing her. She was a childhood friend of mine,” he says softly, and I swear a tear graces the contour of his bony cheek. “I once called her my wife, but it wasn’t to be. We met under rather unfortunate circumstances, many years later. I offered her the chance to live, but…she didn’t take it.”

  My eyes widen as I watch Tyrone’s face intently.

  “Eyes like emeralds and hair like autumn leaves,” he breathes. “Her name was Annika.”

  Mom.

  I lunge for Tyrone’s throat, aware of Conall’s presence beside me as my immense bulk descends upon the puny human, the assassin who ended my mother’s life and nearly snuffed out my father’s as well.

  The Covenant soldier neither screams nor fights back; he simply whispers a soft prayer. The words sear into my soul, seeping into my ears as if he’s shouting them at the top of his lungs.

  “Watch over my daughter. May her life be free from the demons that have plagued m-mine…”

  Tyrone sinks to his knees, gritting his teeth in agony as Conall leaps onto his fallen form, lunging at his exposed flesh.

  “May she walk the path of the light…aah…unlike her fallen mother, Annika. M-my first and only love…”

  My breath catches and my muscles grow weak as Conall finishes the job. The colours before me blend together into deep, contorted shadows and brilliant infrareds as inhuman tears pool in my eyes.

  My mother had another daughter before me.

  I have a half-sister.

  56

  FLIMSIEST OF ELEMENTS

  Aelshen

  Nessie glowers at her captor and raises her beaten-and-bruised arm, fingers alight with the majestic dance of flames.

  “Patercius!” she cries. The fiend glances at her before turning back to his conflict with Flint. “I no longer cower before you! Ye’ll pay for yer sins, lad, just as we all do. The Spirits always prevail!”

  Patty releases a chortle of amusement, easily deflecting a blow from the young dragon before him. He jerks his chin at Nessie as he simultaneously knocks Flint to the ground. Stepping over the fallen spirit, Patercius unsheathes another sword from his side, one I hadn’t seen in a couple centuries.

  “Recognize this blade, Mac Tíre?”

  Adhair. So that’s where ye disappeared to, ye treacherous armament, you.

  “Interesting, naming your sword after the flimsiest of elements. Air. Yet, you people pronounce the word ‘ire’. How quaint. And how unfortunate that your own blade will be the one to end you and those you hold dear.”

  How is Patercius so strong without the aid of Mother Earth to guide his actions and envelop his soul? How is he still standing, when the great dragon Nwyfre lies wounded beneath him?

  “I have waited centuries for this moment, and I finally have the three of you together again. Sixteen years I kept this wench imprisoned, hoping one of you would be gentlemanly enough to attempt to rescue the damsel in distress,” he crows. “But yet, you forgot about her meagre existence! You left her here to rot.”

  Nessie spits on the bloodstained ground, raising her sword to Patercius’ eye level. I clear me throat and she meets me gaze fer a split second, but the maiden ignores me warning glance. I feel her beginning to draw energy from the rain above us and the river below.

  “Ye’ve been constantly playin’ upon the Three, Patty,” she croons. “Fer sixteen years, I’ve been listenin’ to ye rant about the Spiritborne – a trinity prophesized to finally eliminate you from this earth to meet yer maker. Whoever that may be,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. “How arrogant and naïve it is to assume that there are solely three who have achieved this understanding, this connection to the natural world. Solely three guardians tasked with keeping the balance between our worlds. No.”

  Nessie shakes her head, twisting her sword as she advances upon Saint Patrick with the utmost malice. Her spirit grows stronger, and as I keep pace with the Loch Ness Monster, her lips turn up at the edges. She knows we are with her.

  “Our planet is full of spiritual energy, Paterc
ius. I have only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg. I left my home continent centuries ago in order to discover the secrets Earth has to offer. I tasted the sweet air of the skies. I explored the depths of the oceans and rivers. I fell in love.”

  At this, she pauses to meet eyes with Nwyfre, who has lifted his damaged frame from the ground and begun to draw upon the earth’s energy. He now stands by her side.

  “I hail from a mountain spring in the Andes. Yacumama, the Incas dubbed me. Mother of the Water. And Mother of the Water I shall always be, no matter if I am Yacumama or if I am the great monster of Loch Ness.”

  The spirit takes a sudden step forward, and Patercius nearly fails to deflect the thrust of her longsword. He grits his teeth, bracing his two weapons – his own sword and my Adhair – against the weight of his attacker’s blade.

  “Face the wrath of the Loch, Patty,” Nessie spits.

  Nwyfre releases a terrible roar as the Welsh Dragon Shifts into his true form, assailing the Knights at Patercius’ side.

  An’ as fer me, I call upon the spirit of the wolf.

  As me fangs enlarge to razor-sharp points and me fur grows long, I ask the wind to guide me. The Knights lose their balance amidst the gusts of adhair, the flimsiest of elements. As they collapse, one by one, I strike at their throats. The energy flows as easily as seasons change.

  Patercius spoke of the prophecy of the Three. I would not bother telling him that said prophecy was simply a poem. A ballad one of me Druids had sung a couple thousand years ago to chronicle the adventures of the three spirits. I recite it in me mind as I strike the soldiers down, working closer and closer to where Nessie now fights Saint Patrick.

  It began a long, long time ago

  When the earth was new and barren

  Unhindered by the footfalls of man and beast

  Long ago when the air was a tad clearer and the water even more so