Bridge of Souls (42 page)

“And you are recovered?” Aremys asked Myrt, taking the attention off the King so Wyl could gather his thoughts and emotions.

“Rashlyn used his filthy magic on me to weaken me, but the effects are wearing off. I’m ready to do your bidding, sire.”

“Good!” Wyl growled. “Because you and Rollo are being left in charge here.”

“Where are you going, sire?”

“To Briavel,” came the reply. It provoked surprise and confusion on the men’s faces, but Cailech’s tone suggested it would be imprudent to argue. “Who is Maegryn’s second? Call for him,” Wyl commanded.

Rollo nodded and opened the door to the guards. “Get Obin. Hurry!”

“Gueryn’s life is to be saved, so help you all,” the King muttered. Rollo and Myrt exchanged another confused look. “Where did Rashlyn and Fynch go?” Wyl continued.

“Sire, as I said, one floated out of the window, the other through the walls,” Myrt said, shaking his head. “I think I may have been seeing things.”

“No, you weren’t,” the King replied, deadly cold. “You were witnessing two sorcerers throwing down the gauntlet at each other in a fight that has nothing to do with us.”

It had come to Wyl now what this was about. He sensed that it was related to the sense of doom he had felt for Fynch when he had left him in the Wild. He pieced it together as he paced the room, waiting for Obin, who he hoped could save Gueryn. Elysius must have died, Wyl guessed, and he remembered now the strange sensation of loss he had felt upon arriving in Briavel, courtesy of the Thicket. He had dismissed it as worry at leaving Fynch and his fretting over Ylena, not to mention being magically tossed hundreds of miles across the land. But perhaps Myrren’s Gift had kept him linked with Elysius and he had felt the strange little man’s death.
But you didn’t die without luring Fynch into your web of despair, did you?
he thought savagely, suddenly hating Elysius.

He addressed the men again, his anger at Fynch’s awesome responsibility and what had been perpetrated on Gueryn spilling into his tone. “Everything that has occurred tonight stays between us and a young warrior called Jos, whom I’ve
appointed as your deputy, Rollo. In my absence, Myrt makes the decisions for our people. Agreed?” The Mountain Men exchanged worried glances. “Is that clear?” Wyl shouted.

“Yes, sire,” the warriors said in unison, neither Myrt nor Rollo wanting to point out that nothing was clear about tonight. Not the King’s strange behavior, nor the incredible sight of a ghostly boy appearing through granite walls; not Rashlyn jumping through an open window and hovering outside, not the talk of sorcery or men being changed into beasts. Nor why Myrt, who really did not want the task, was now leading the Mountain People.

“What about Lothryn, my lord?” Myrt risked.

“I’m going to find Rashlyn. Before I kill him, he will restore Lothryn and Gueryn le Gant.” No one wanted to ask what would happen if the magic could not be reversed.

“Aremys,” Wyl said.

“Sire?”

“Stay with the dog for me. If he dies…” Wyl could not finish. “Just see him cared for. I’ll meet you all at the stables in one hour.”

F
ynch bowed, much to Knave’s surprise. “Rashlyn,” he said. “I have been sent.”

The barshi had appeared as if out of nowhere. He looked rattled.

“By whom?”

“Can you not guess?” Fynch asked, echoing a king, a dragon, who had promised him so much not long ago.

“Elysius?” Rashlyn whispered in wonderment.

Fynch nodded.

“Why could he not face me himself?” the barshi demanded. He sounded deranged, his voice controlled and soft one moment, high and angry the next.

“He is dead.”

“Then I do not fear you,” Rashlyn cackled.

“You should,” Fynch said, unfazed by the madman’s baiting. “Elysius was not the only one who wishes you destroyed.”

Rashlyn sounded arrogant now. “I know dozens just among the Mountain People who would slit my throat happily, if not for the King. I have his protection.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

That won the barshi’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“Cailech is dead.”

Rashlyn could not speak as he tried to absorb the terrifying news. Then: “I don’t believe you. You’re just a child.”

“My age makes no difference. You have no protection now; Cailech will not save you. In fact, I would imagine the King of the Mountains is stalking you this very minute for the abomination you have imposed upon two men.”

Rashlyn stared at the boy through wild eyes. “You just said he’s dead. How can a dead man stalk me?”

Fynch simply grinned.

“Why are you here?” the barshi screeched. “If Cailech is dead then I am lost anyway, as good as dead.”

“Not good enough. We wish to destroy you.”

“We?”

Fynch nodded. “The Dragon King and I.”

The sorcerer looked at the boy, puzzled by the riddles he was giving for answers. He regarded the self-possessed child from beneath hooded lids and asked the obvious. “Who is the Dragon King?”

“He is the King of the Creatures.”

“And who are you?”

“I am the Dragon King,” Fynch replied, and opened a bridge to the Thicket.

W
yl ran on long, muscled legs that covered the hard ground easily. Before leaving the tower, he had taken a deep breath and laid his hand once more on the barely breathing dog. Its eyes were glazed and blood seeped from its nos
trils; its tongue lolled on the floor from between its jaws and it was all Wyl could do not to weep as he whispered to Gueryn to hold on. The dog did not move and Wyl left, not risking another word for fear his voice would break.

“Let him live,” he prayed to Shar as he ran now. He felt the wood calling to him—sensed the hum of a powerful magic and recognized it as the Thicket. The Thicket and something else, something bright and powerful and good, overlaying an ugliness that he presumed was Rashlyn.

He burst into the clearing, drawing his sword, and pulled to a sharp stop when he saw Fynch standing there, bathed in a fierce glow of golden light. Knave was nearby and instantly covered the gap between himself and the new arrival, nearly knocking the King over with his welcome.

“Hello, Wyl,” Fynch said, not turning his gaze from Rashlyn. “I’m sure you know who this is,” he added.

“Fynch,” Wyl replied, feeling a new sense of awe as he looked at the small gong boy who had so suddenly been infused with power, who was so composed…so brave.

“King Cailech, I—” Rashlyn began. He looked still more confused, his gaze darting between boy and man.

“I am not Cailech,” the familiar voice said, turning a hard gaze on Rashlyn. “I am Wyl Thirsk.”

The man groaned. “The General? You can’t be. I…I would know it.”

“Your eyes deceive you, Rashlyn,” Wyl replied. “You didn’t know me when I came here as Romen Koreldy either. Your brother’s magic has given me the power to possess others. Clever, eh?”

“No! I won’t believe this,” the man said, shaking his head to deny what he knew to be true. The man looked like Cailech but did not behave like Cailech; worse, Rashlyn could almost taste the magic emanating from his former protector.

“You know I speak the truth,” Wyl said.

“Tell me how,” the barshi begged. “I must understand it!”

“Not until you lift the spell on Gueryn le Gant,” Wyl demanded.

The wild man’s mouth split into a thin, cruel smile beneath the tangle of his beard. “I cannot. It is irreversible.”

Wyl took an involuntary step toward Rashlyn, his hand going to Cailech’s sword.

“Don’t,” Fynch warned. “It is what he wants.”

“And Lothryn?” Wyl demanded, already knowing the answer.

“Even more of a problem. At least with your friend le Gant, I knew what I was doing. Didn’t hurt him as much. But Lothryn—that was horrible, even for me. He could not have survived it. You’re wasting your time. The barbarian scum is dead.”

It was Cailech, not Wyl, whose anger and grief rose now, who raised the sword and ran at the barshi. Wyl could not help but join with Cailech’s lust to hack the magic man from skull to feet.

“No!” shouted Fynch, and Wyl felt Cailech’s body slammed to a halt, high in the air. “Do not attempt to kill him. That is my job,” the little boy commanded. His tone demanded respect.

Rashlyn screeched with laughter. “Now even your own people work against you, Thirsk. Perhaps I should kill you.”

“You cannot. My protection will repel anything you cast against him.”

Rashlyn sneered at Fynch. He moved his hands and a huge flaming ball roared toward Cailech’s suspended body. Wyl held his breath, but the ball of flame bounced against something he could not see and fell away helplessly to extinguish itself in a nearby pool of thawing snow.

“Wyl, I want you to go now,” Fynch said.

“I can’t leave you.”

“You did before and you will again. We walk different paths now.”

“Will I see you again?”

“I think not.”

“Fynch—”

“Don’t, please. There is nothing to say except that I have loved you as a brother. Go now and do what you must.”

“I need Knave.”

“I know. He will come with you.”

I am not leaving you, Fynch,
the deep voice growled in the boy’s head.

You must. It’s the only way we can save Wyl. You are his guide now.

I don’t understand.

You will. Now go.

Fynch…

Knave, go!

“Rashlyn is running,” Wyl warned.

“He cannot escape me.”

“Why do you have to do this?” Wyl’s tone was pleading.

“Because no one else can.”

“Let me go, then,” Wyl said wearily, and felt Cailech’s body lowered gently to the frosty ground. “What about Gueryn and Lothryn?”

“I do not know,” Fynch said, knowing he was breaking Wyl’s heart. “I must deal with Rashlyn.”

And you will die,
Knave crashed into Fynch’s mind.

So be it.

“Do you and Knave talk?” Wyl asked, noting the odd silences and the expression on Fynch’s face.

“Yes, ever since Elysius passed his magic to me.”

“I thought he must have done so,” Wyl said, feeling helplessly sorrowful.

“Wyl, Valentyna is to marry Celimus in a matter of days. You cannot save her that trial; you know that, don’t you?” Wyl nodded. “But I know you wish to see her and you have something to tell her.”

“I do?”

“Tell her everything. Let there be no secrets between you. She must understand who you really are.”

“I cannot!” Cailech’s expression became dismayed.

“You must. Please, trust me,” Fynch urged. “And in turn she will trust you.”

Wyl had no answer to Fynch’s request. The boy had never been wrong before.

“Now please go. It is time I faced the barshi.”

“Who are you, Fynch?” Wyl asked fearfully.

Fynch’s face broke into a beatific smile. His golden hair seemed to radiate a bright glow, which spread to outline his tiny frame. “I am the Dragon King, Wyl,” he said, and vanished.

Knave threw back his huge black head and gave a chilling howl, silencing the twittering birds that had come home to roost among the trees and echoing throughout the Razors. It was the heralding of death. Wyl knew he would never see the brave boy again. Somewhere deep inside he felt a part of his heart break. No tears and no amount of time would ever heal the loss.

O
BIN HAD TAKEN ONE LOOK AT THE GRAY DOG AND SHAKEN HIS HEAD
. A
REMYS NODDED
,
SAD FOR
W
YL
. A
NOTHER DEATH HE HAD NOT BEEN ABLE
to prevent, and knowing his friend as he did, Aremys was sure Wyl would blame himself for this one too. One man; so much sorrow. Myrren and her father had plenty to answer for in Shar’s plane. Aremys thanked Obin and then, wrapping the dog in a sheet he found in Rashlyn’s rooms, hefted the animal into his arms.

“I’ll take you to Lothryn,” he murmured to the dog, who was still breathing in short, desperate pants. The dog whined but its eyes did not open.

When Aremys finally made it to the stable, staggering under
the weight of the large animal, he heard Galapek whinny. The horse knew; Lothryn knew. Another man had been broken by Rashlyn’s twisted magic.

Aremys laid Gueryn down in some fresh straw and lit a lamp. He explained to the horse who this was, all self-consciousness about talking to a horse gone. The animal reared, angry, and Aremys tried to calm him with soft words and soothing hands. As he touched the stallion he sensed the enormous and agonizing effort Lothryn was making to communicate with him. The horse was begging to be set free. Aremys was torn with indecision. Footsteps approached and the new King of the Razors stepped inside the stable, immediately flattening himself against the wall.

“Fight it, man,” Aremys said, realizing Wyl had been overcome by the tainted aura of magic. “You’ll get used to it, as I have.”

Wyl lost the battle momentarily, gagging and then retching into a corner. “Oh, Shar.” He groaned. “What has he done to them?”

Galapek whinnied again, a sound that nearly broke Wyl’s heart. He forced himself to find composure, wiping his mouth on Cailech’s sleeve, and in so doing, seeing Gueryn lying in the straw.

“Could Obin save him?” he asked.

Aremys shook his head. No point in lying.

Wyl leaned against the wall again, closed his eyes and groaned. The sight of him, so filled with anguish, made Aremys look away. How much more could Wyl take, he wondered, before he gave up on his fight? Or, more likely, found a way to take his own life.

A huge black dog entered the stable, startling Aremys out of his bleak thoughts. “Shar’s wrath! I’ve never seen a dog so big.”

“Meet Knave,” Wyl said, flat-toned.

“Ah, the famous beast,” Aremys replied. “May I?” he asked Wyl, his hand reaching to stroke the animal.

“Knave alone decides,” Wyl said, and Aremys detected just
a hint of humor in the tone. Perhaps Wyl would get through this, after all.

“Hello, Knave,” the Grenadyne said, risking touching the great head. Knave growled with pleasure as Aremys scratched his dark brow.

“Welcome to the chosen few,” Wyl said, coming back from the dark place where he had been moments ago. “Knave is particular about who he lets touch him.”

The black dog gave a deep-throated, suspicious bark and walked over to the horse first. Galapek did not flinch. Knave sniffed the creature and whined gently. Then he padded over to where Gueryn lay dying. This time he growled softly and began licking at the wounds of the gray dog.

“Speak to Lothryn,” Aremys suggested, wanting to divert Wyl’s gaze from the touching but painful scene in the straw. “Breathe through your mouth; it makes it easier.”

“That’s how Fynch overcame the major hurdle of being a gong boy,” Wyl said, his mind going back to a time when he had lived the simple life of a Legionnaire.

“Where is Fynch?” Aremys asked.

The fragile shell Wyl had built around his emotions fractured again. “Gone to his death, fighting Rashlyn.”

Aremys regretted his question. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. None of us do, except perhaps Knave. It is not our battle.”

The big man had no idea how to respond, so he left it, turning instead to the problem in front of them. “Come, Lothryn can talk to us.”

Wyl stepped up to the horse. “He’s beautiful despite that repulsive magic.”

“So true. Touch him.”

Wyl did so and his eyes widened. Startled, he fought the reek of the evil magic and laid his head against the sleek forehead of his rescuer and friend. “Lothryn,” he wept, “it’s me, Wyl.”

The magnificent horse nuzzled him, as if in thanks, and Aremys too felt the telltale sting of tears.

Wyl,
the horse whispered weakly into his mind,
I knew you would come. Didn’t expect you to look as you do now.

“I’m sorry I took his life.”

Don’t be. He lived it fully. Paid the price for his decisions.

“We will find a way to restore you.”

Turn me loose, I beg you. Tie the dog onto my back and let us go.

“Aremys,” Wyl gasped, “touch him. Hear what he’s asking.”

The Grenadyne laid a hand on Galapek and shared the conversation.

I must save my strength,
Lothryn said,
what little is left. Please, put Gueryn on my back and turn us loose.

“Why?” Wyl beseeched.

I don’t know, in truth. It seems right. Don’t leave us here like this.

“Do you know how to rid yourself of this guise?” Aremys asked, heart lurching with hope.

No. But something is compelling me to leave.

Wyl frowned. “Why take Gueryn?”

Do you want him to die here…in a stable?

Aremys grimaced at the harsh words. “Where will you go?”

I don’t know. Give him to me. You must leave. Let us do the same.

“We could lose you forever,” Wyl pleaded.

You’ve lost us already. Let me try—let me see what or who this is calling to me.

Wyl nodded, resigned. “Let’s do it,” he said to Aremys.

They fashioned a sling from the linen in which Aremys had brought Gueryn to the stable and found a sack to hold the dog. Knave finished tending to the gray’s wounds.

“Odd that he would do that,” Wyl commented absently.

“An instinctive attempt to heal the wounds perhaps?” Aremys offered.

“Or simply Knave’s way of showing his sorrow.”

“He can breathe easily through the sackcloth,” Aremys said.

“He won’t be breathing much longer,” Wyl said, stroking the dog’s face.

“Come on, Wyl. You have to be strong,” Aremys warned. “Like Fynch.”

The fighting words rallied Wyl’s flagging spirits. “Yes,
you’re right. Fynch is off fighting a lost cause; I should at least try to hold myself together.” He hefted the injured dog into the sack and together he and Aremys tied the sack to the sling, then to the saddle on Galapek’s back.

Aremys watched the King reach again toward the majestic face of Galapek.

“Haldor protect you, Lothryn,” Wyl said.

Shar go with you, Wyl. We shall see each other again.

“Elspyth will kill me in an ugly fashion if we do not,” Wyl joked, trying to lighten the heavy moment.

Lothryn did not reply, simply waited for Wyl to make his farewell to Gueryn.

Wyl cupped the gray dog’s face in his huge hands and kissed it, hoping that love and honor would somehow pour through his touch and reach the brave, dying man trapped inside.

“As One,” he whispered to the dog, and then the horse was off, moving through the great doors Aremys had pushed open and cantering off into the blackness of the night.

R
ashlyn felt compelled to return to the clearing, even though every fiber of his being told him he should run. But he was too curious about the boy, Fynch, and his self-proclaimed title of King of the Creatures.

“Come, Rashlyn,” a voice called, startling him, for he could see no one. Then Fynch shimmered before him. “It is time.”

“For what?” the barshi screamed at the child.

“For you to die,” Fynch replied, a new gravity in his voice. He had left behind everyone he loved, deliberately cutting himself away from Wyl and Knave. He knew he could not carry out his task, could not offer himself as sacrifice, if they were near.

Sacrifice. He understood now. It had taken some time to ponder its meaning and recognize how he must apply it to
this battle with Rashlyn. It meant more than death. It meant yielding.

Faith Fynch. Sacrifice.

The first wave came as Rashlyn hurled a magical avalanche of blows at Fynch, screaming with madness and anger as he loosed his powers.

Around them the creatures of the mountains quietly gathered in awe. They had instinctively known for many hours that something momentous was about to occur, although they had not been exactly sure what. Now they knew. Zerkons, ice bears, deer, snow hares, even the birds who had been spreading the news since dusk, gathered side by side, predator and prey, forgetting their fear or hunger as they witnessed a wild man doing battle with a creature they had never seen before, a creature they knew of only from stories handed down through the ages. A dragon.

R
ollo, Myrt, and Byl saw Cailech glance at the muslin bundle that had been carefully tied to one of the Mountain King’s most trustworthy horses. They could see past the stern expression to the emotional battle going on inside. Wyl steeled himself not to look at Ylena’s corpse again. It was over. Her life was spent and had been given bravely, as all the Thirsks before her had given theirs.

Beside Cailech’s horse stood a huge dog. He explained its presence to the Mountain Men. “This is Knave. He is going to help us with what we must do, and is one of the reasons why Rashlyn no longer has any hold on me.”

“Where is Rashlyn, sire?” Myrt asked. He seemed fully recovered from the barshi’s attack.

“He is dead,” Wyl risked, hoping he was telling the truth.

“And Lothryn, your majesty?” Rollo added.

They deserved to know the truth. “I have released him. Aremys here can talk to him and that was what Lothryn wanted.”

Rollo gasped. All the talk of magic had been confusing
enough, but was the King saying that the Grenadyne could communicate with the magically created animals? “What! How?”

“Myrt knows,” Wyl replied. He was not in the mood for further discussion. “He will explain. Right now we ride for Briavel.”

“May I ask why, sire?” Myrt said. His tone was hesitant but his manner firm.

“To make a new peace treaty, this time with a queen who needs the support of the Mountain People.”

“Against the Morgravian Crown?” Myrt asked, quickly grasping his king’s intent.

It was Aremys who replied. “Celimus has no intention of keeping his promise to the Razor Kingdom. Our only hope of peace is with Briavel.”

“But, sire,” Rollo pleaded. “She is marrying Celimus. Her loyalties stand with him!”

“Not necessarily,” the King replied in a tone that discouraged further argument. “I need you to trust me. I have not yet led our people astray. I will not do so now.”

“Shouldn’t we come with you, sire?” Myrt asked, far preferring to ride headlong into danger with his king than to take over royal duties.

“No. I need you here, Myrt. You and Rollo will keep everyone steady. And in case the horse returns—he will need friends, allies who know the truth.” He said no more. It would not serve any purpose to get their hopes up that Lothryn might be restored.

Myrt asked anyway. “Can the spells be reversed?”

“It’s my keen hope they can be. According to Aremys, it is why Lothryn asked to be released.”

“Where has he gone?”

“We don’t know,” Aremys replied. “But he took the gray dog with him. We just have to hope he knows more than we do, now that Rashlyn is finished.”

Myrt nodded unhappily, a glum Rollo by his side. “Haldor keep you safe, sire.”

Cailech nodded back, appreciating the warrior’s suffering
and his wish to protect his king. “It is better this way, Myrt. We two can slip into and out of Briavel far more subtly than a pile of Mountain barbarians storming Werryl Palace.”

“Get word to us the usual way,” Myrt said, cocking his head toward a small box fastened to the side of the horse that carried Ylena.

Wyl frowned, taking a moment to delve into Cailech’s memories. He understood. “I hope those pigeons are strong fliers,” he said.

“The best,” Myrt answered. “Rollo’s top birds,” and he grinned toward his companion.

“All right. Keep faith. Look after Aydrech. If anything happens, if Celimus sets a raid, the boy must be protected at all costs.”

The big man nodded. “I will take care of him personally.”

“Good,” Wyl said, adding: “Rotate the watches regularly. I have no idea whether Celimus will attempt anything or not.”

“Possibly not with a wedding so close,” Aremys commented drily.

“Nevertheless,” Wyl replied, “the child’s safety is paramount.” He leaned down and clasped each man’s hand in farewell, suspecting that neither of these loyal Mountain warriors would see their king again.

T
he horse arrived at the edge of the wood. Lothryn was drawn toward the trees, and as he entered their cover he felt the pulse of magic emanating from somewhere deep inside the forest. He also noted that he was feeling stronger, more himself, than he had felt since the change had been inflicted on him. Pain continued to be his companion, but he believed it had lessened ever so slightly.

Lothryn was reassured by the connection between him and the dog. He could feel its heartbeat, weak but still there.
Hang on, Gueryn,
he passed through the link, even though he had no
idea whether the trapped man heard him or could even register something as subtle as another’s thoughts.