While Fryda watched the exchange, she chewed on the last of the apples. The sweetness was mingled with frustration. Even if she tried to escape, the wyverns would find her. She might be able to hide, but what good would that do? She'd be no closer to finding Alfric. If she remained with the wyverns, and the queen agreed to search for Alfric, then he would be found.
But what would happen when they discovered he didn't have the dragon soul anymore?
She tossed the apple core away. It made a splash in a puddle of water. Something shone in the mud next to the puddle. Intrigued, she knelt and pulled the dirt away. Half-buried was Alfric's dragon pendant. Her heart raced as she scooped up the pendant along with a handful of mud. She brushed the mud away.
It sparkled in the sunlight. Alfric wasn't wearing the pendant. If the wyverns learned that she now had it, they wouldn't continue their search.
"You've found it," an awed voice said.
Fryda looked up as Tursn and Naeth landed in the mud beside her. Her heart sank.
"Quickly, put it away," Naeth said, her voice almost a screech.
Startled, Fryda shoved it into her left boot.
"Hurn mustn't see the dragon soul," Tursn said.
So Alfric's dragon pendant was the dragon soul. Now that Fryda had it, they no longer had any reason to pursue Alfric. The wyverns now had what they wanted.
"Do not speak aloud," Naeth said. "Hurn's ears will hear you."
"In the enclosure, I believed you, but Naeth said you lied," Tursn said. "The dragon soul couldn't possibly have left the reliquary. And yet here it is."
"My friend, you must find him." Desperation made Fryda reach out to Tursn.
The wyvern reared. "Do not touch me while you hold the dragon soul." He spoke again once Fryda stepped back. "There is no need to find this man. He has nothing for us. Moreover, the dragon soul’s presence here indicates that either you lied to us about him having it, or you possessed it all along. Which is it?"
"Do not speak," Naeth cut in. "There is no need to admit guilt."
"What do you mean to do with me?" Fryda eyed the hill. She might be able to run across the bridge into Eosorheim. She could tell Hurn all about the dragon soul, maybe even present it to him in exchange for refuge. But she would never outrun the wyverns. They would burn her to cinders before she ever reached the bridge.
"Hurn has granted us passage into Eosorheim," Tursn said. "We will fly to Dragir, where you will present the dragon soul to the Witch Queen."
"I don't have to go with you," Fryda said. She took out the dragon soul and held it out for them to take. "You can have it. Take it to your queen. You don't need me."
Naeth hissed at the sight of the pendant. "Stay back!" Red light burned between the scales of her neck. As fast as Fryda could manage, she slipped the pendant back into her boot. The light dimmed on Naeth's neck, though steam drifted from her nostrils.
"We cannot touch the dragon soul. Someone other than us must carry it to the queen. There is no one else. You must do it."
"And what happens when she learns I'm from Indham? Will I be punished for Idmaer's crimes?"
Tursn turned his back to her. "Tell her you are from the North. Maybe the Witch Queen will have greater faith in the words of a liar than I have."
Fryda could see there would be no convincing the wyverns. They thought she'd lied about the dragon soul, and she had. She had told them that Alfric still wore it. Now she would likely die for her deceit.
There was no way out.
"Step onto my back," Tursn said as he lay on his belly. "Ensure the dragon soul does not touch my scales at any time. We ride for Dragir immediately."
With one last look at the bridge and a final thought to whether she could flee into Eosorheim, Fryda mounted Tursn. The wyverns took to the sky and raced toward the mountain.
17
Jaruman
Jaruman released the power from his body. His senses dulled, becoming merely human again. The wards on his face brimmed with power. They reminded him of that time long ago when Peoh had warded him inside Mount Stowum. He had hated the feeling of foreign power then, and he hated it now. Still, it was necessary.
Before him lay a dozen warriors. They had braved the world outside Indham's walls to pursue those they thought responsible for their ills.
Jaruman hated that he had been forced to kill them. Well, not all of them. Peoh had felled five, and Hiroc's fire had consumed three.
He grabbed a sword and scabbard from a dead warrior and fixed it to his girdle. It was well-weighted, if a little short. Nothing compared to a good spear, or the sword he'd given Alfric. That sword could be anywhere in Aernheim now, just as Alfric and Fryda could be anywhere. In truth, Jaruman hoped she hadn't found Alfric yet. That was likely to be a meeting Fryda wouldn't survive.
Despite Peoh and Edoma's words, it was impossible for Alfric to live. Yet the man standing next to him, the great Archmage of Mundos, had been a skinwalker, too. But unlike Alfric, Peoh had been a mage of great power. If there was anyone who could overcome the possession of a wraith, it was Peoh.
Jaruman glanced at the dead warriors. They'd died for what they'd believed to be the right thing—hunting the men they thought had killed Aern. He turned to Peoh. "If Saega is the killer, as you said, then something must be done. Idmaer must be told."
"Idmaer is dead," Hiroc said. Despite the lack of inflection in his voice, there was pain beneath it.
"What happened? Was it a skinwalker?"
"He was executed for the crime of killing Aern," Peoh said.
"Idmaer helped Saega?"
"I don't believe so," Peoh said. "Saega's allies are far greater than the late High Priest of Indham."
"I never much liked Idmaer, but to be accused of killing Aern . . . and executed for it, too. Saega will pay for this."
"What does it matter?" Hiroc said, his tone frustrated. "My father is dead."
So Hiroc had finally found out the truth. For a son to learn the identity of his father, only to have his father executed, would be difficult. It might even break him. And yet Hiroc seemed collected. Something burned within him. Jaruman could only describe it as an inner fire, and one that hadn't existed before the wraiths had come.
"I'm sorry," Jaruman said. "No words will bring him back."
They left the dead men, their corpses offerings to the carrion beasts that would soon come, and continued east. An hour later, they came to the Edin River. River barges drifted at the dock, though no fishermen or merchants could be seen. Likely they'd abandoned their vessels and goods when the wraiths had come.
"This is where we part ways," Jaruman said. "I'll be traveling west. The last we saw of Alfric, he was not far from Eosorheim's border."
"Before Fryda left, she told me that he might still live," Hiroc said. "He doesn't. She chases a ghost."
"Even so, she is my daughter. It's my responsibility to keep her safe."
"She's not your daughter. She wasn't the fruit of your seed."
Jaruman bristled. "I raised her."
"Maybe, but she isn't your daughter."
For a moment, Jaruman considered strangling Hiroc. He took pleasure in the thought, even though he didn't act it out. It was enough to calm him. Hiroc had discovered his true parentage, only to see his father killed because of a trial his mother had attended. He couldn't be blamed for being a spiteful git.
"Enough, Hiroc," Peoh said, touching the lad's shoulder. "We are all sons and daughters of the One Who Is Lost. Enlil's fire burns too brightly within you. Take caution, lest it consume you."
Hiroc grunted and turned away, but not before Jaruman caught a light in the young man's eyes—a blue fire burning around the edges of his brown irises. He seemed perpetually on the brink of rage, barely containing a cold fury that burned so hot, it was blue. With a man like Peoh to guide him, as close to the edge of insanity as a man could get, Hiroc didn't stand a chance. As much as he needed a sane man to guide him, Jaruman couldn't remain. He had to find Fryda. He h
ad adopted her as his daughter, and he owed his help to her.
18
Alfric
"The hunger must be satiated," Bradir said. He was inducting the bar maiden into the ways of the pack. She had awoken an hour earlier, displaced and in shock.
Alfric knew exactly what was running through her mind, because he'd faced the same horror. Although she'd been unable to control herself, she had killed. The wraith had used her body, yet she still felt innocent life snuffed out at her hands. Worse—she had enjoyed it.
Alfric had seen hundreds die in a matter of weeks, and those were only the victims of a handful of skinwalkers. There were dozens, if not hundreds more. They had seen many villages emptied of life. How many would be left in a week? A month? A year? The wraiths had come to Aernheim, and no one could stop them.
At least the bar maiden's first time had only been a hamlet. Alfric's had been much worse.
Still, she sat on the ground, naked and staring at her hand. Her body had returned to normal, except her hands were a little larger, and coarse hair had begun to grow on the back of her thighs, reaching up to her rump and curving around her midsection. As if only now noticing the two men, also naked and more monstrous than she, she scuttled backward so her back lay against a stone hill. She held an arm around her breasts, and her other hand hid the spot between her thighs.
Bradir walked over to her. Still clutching her privates, she whimpered, but he reached up and took her hands away. "We have no concern for shame in the pack. Not now. Not when we are so close to the beacon. No more breeches. No more cloaks. We will not hide who we are—Eosor's chosen."
"You truly think Eosor has called us?" Alfric called out from across the stony outcrop. There was no challenge to his voice, only curiosity. His heart was calloused. The only thing that made him feel anything was thinking about Gos's death. He maintained a healthy distance from Bradir. He feared that he might attack Bradir if he got too close. That would be a mistake, as was proven yesterday. Although Bradir had spared Alfric a gruesome punishment for fleeing the pack, his patience would eventually wear thin.
"Eosor is the Guardian of beasts," Bradir answered. "The beacon we move toward is in Eosorheim. He is calling us to his home. For what, I do not know, but there will be a cleansing. The wraiths were but the first wave. There will be more. Last night, I had a vision of a new world. We will be the heralds of its coming."
Alfric didn't know what to think about any of that. He still thought the beacon could be nothing more than a fire seen from afar. Yet Bradir's theory, even if it seemed crazy, would grant meaning to his otherwise empty existence.
"Am I a skinwalker now?" the bar maiden asked as she dropped her hands. She seemed to take great interest in Bradir's face. She reached a hand and touched his braided beard. Her fingers slipped onto his chest and then took up one of his hands. She stared at his talons in awe. "I've never felt so strong," she said as she let go of his hand and looked down into the valley.
The hamlet smoked below.
"I . . . I enjoyed last night. You say Eosor has chosen me. I believe it to be true. I always thought I was special. My aunt Gillian never believed it so. I told her I wanted to be a shieldsister like her, and she told me I should find a husband. She forced me to work in that tavern. But now, I'm something so much greater than a shieldsister."
"You are so much more. Eosor has chosen us as vessels for his work. We are different from the other skinwalkers. What is your name?"
"Cyne," the bar maiden answered.
Bradir's head jerked up, and he sniffed the air. "It seems we have new prey. Good. You could use the lifesoul. Feeding makes us stronger by bringing us closer to our perfect state. I will teach you how to hunt."
The bar maiden nodded slowly. She glanced in Alfric's direction. He caught eyes with her, and guilt flooded him.
Gos had admired Alfric because he'd fought off the hunger for flesh and the thirst for blood. Giving in now, despite the urge, would mean spurning Gos's name and treading his death underfoot. Not only that, but Alfric owed Cyne that same opportunity. Together, they would be more capable of fighting the unseemly urges the wraiths inflicted upon them.
"You don't have to kill," he said to Cyne. "Not while you're in control. You might have no other choice when the wraith takes you, but you must hold on to your humanity."
"Horse shit," Bradir said with a snarl. "You have been part of the pack for days now; when will you start acting like our station is a divine blessing?"
"Never," Alfric said. Seeing the bar maiden completely broken by the change made him realize that he couldn't give up. He had to find a way to get to that strange world between worlds. There was bound to be more traveling pylons in Aernheim. He just had to find one that worked. But he didn't have much time. They would reach the beacon that night.
Alfric's nose had repaired that morning, and he could smell anew. The diverse scents of the dandelion fields filled his mind. He caught the thread Bradir had found. Humans. Soaked with sweat intermingled with fear.
"Come," Bradir said to Cyne.
She followed on all fours. Alfric trailed them. The landscape grew familiar. He remembered these same open fields and the road cutting through them when he’d traveled with Sigebert and Cenred. That seemed like so long ago, yet it was only a dozen days since he'd ventured from Indham. Now he bounded across the fields like a wolf, spurred on by the hunger for human flesh.
Bradir barked ahead, urging them onward. Cyne had trouble keeping up with him, not having changed enough to run like a beast. Still, she pursued him. A ravenous glow lit her eyes as they drew nearer to their prey.
The smell of humans grew stronger until it led them to a village of a dozen wooden huts with smokeless chimneys. The air was still, yet the smell was strong. Where were the humans?
A battle cry sounded, and armed men surrounded the three skinwalkers. The attack came swiftly. Alfric dodged a short-handled axe, the blade thunking into the wooden beam of a hut behind him. A second weapon found its mark. Cyne gasped, an arrow embedded above her right breast.
Bradir roared. He grabbed a warrior in one hand and tore out his throat with the other. A volley of quarrels snapped free of a dozen crossbows. Bradir took the dead man and used him as a shield. His body was too large to evade all the projectiles, and a quarrel pierced each shoulder.
Alfric, knowing that death was imminent should he choose not to fight, entered the fray. He swept aside three hunters and hauled Cyne's bleeding body over his shoulder.
Bradir had dealt with the other warriors, their corpses encircling him. Another war cry broke out, this one further away but quickly drawing closer.
"We can't fight them all," Alfric said. "There has to be at least forty of them."
"The hunters," Bradir snarled. He tore the bolts from his shoulders. Blood leaked from the wounds, darkening his orange fur. "They've been waiting for us."
Something flashed in the east. The beacon. It was the first time it had illuminated during the day. Before, it had been nothing more than a presence, but now it shone like a burning pillar.
"Eosor calls us," Bradir said, his eyes wide.
Alfric still didn't know what to think of the beacon, but if it would make Bradir willing to flee, then that was all that mattered. "Let's leave this place and meet Eosor. Better we do that while we're still in control."
"Aye," Bradir said, his eyes glistening with madness. Ignoring his wounds, he bounded down the road to the west. With Cyne over his shoulder, Alfric followed, running as fast as he could on two legs.
The stench of the warriors grew faint. Bradir stopped, a hand against a boulder holding him upright. He breathed heavily, and blood flowed from his wounds.
Cyne moaned while she lay across Alfric's shoulders. He hadn't removed the short-handled axe for fear that it might increase her blood loss.
"We need to keep moving," Alfric said. "They won't stop until they find us." He knew that because he would have done the same thing. The skinwalkers had kill
ed the hunters' families. They wouldn't stop until they accomplished their mission.
Horse hooves thundered. The hunters were now mounted. Even a skinwalker couldn't outrun a horse; at least, not for long.
"We'll not be able to outrun them while we still have Cyne," Alfric said. He didn't intend to leave her behind, but it was the truth.
"She is part of the pack. We cannot leave her."
"You were happy to kill Gos."
"He betrayed us."
"So did I."
"As leader, I forgave you."
Alfric couldn't understand the inconsistency. He stared up at the beacon flashing across an open field. He narrowed his eyes and focused. His sense of sight strengthened, and the surroundings around the flashing beacon became clearer. He saw the shimmering of light upon water, and a dull object that divided it. Next to it was a thin block of stone. He recognized that place—Obelisk Bridge. That meant the beacon was in Eosorheim. He had tried to enter that region before and had been refused entry.
His heart sank. They wouldn't be able to reach the beacon. No skinwalker could enter Eosorheim. Eosor's orb prevented it.
The horse hooves grew louder.
Bradir picked up Cyne. "I am faster. She will slow me down less."
Alfric shook his head. "The beacon is in Eosorheim. We cannot go there."
"Don't be foolish," Bradir said, staring at the beacon and smiling. "Eosor has called us." He bounded eastward, cutting through the forest as he howled. He seemed to no longer care whether the hunters would hear him, as though the chase enlivened him.
With the warriors closing in, Alfric had no choice but to follow. The skinwalkers swept through the fields, the constant accompaniment of the horse's hooves spurring them onward.
When they arrived at Obelisk Bridge, the mounted warriors were almost upon them. A pillar of golden light shone from the obelisk into the sky above.
The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2) Page 12
