‘Myrt and Farrow, they…’ Borc looked embarrassed.
‘What? What did they do?’ the King demanded.
Borc took a breath. ‘They talked to Galapek, sire.’
Wyl had not thought the atmosphere in the room could get more potent with foreboding or that the King could hold himself more still or more tense, but he now saw he was wrong. It was an ominous sign.
Borc tried to fill the silence. ‘The Grenadyne spoke to the horse as if it could hear him, sire, and so did Myrt. They… well, I feel awkward about this, sire,’ he said, looking to his King for help.
‘Say it!’
‘They called your stallion Lothryn.’
Cailech swung around, a sound of anger combined with anguish escaping his throat. He swatted at the clay flagon nearby and it shattered on the granite floor, the smell of honey and syrupy sweet wine wafting through the chamber.
‘Finish it, Haldor damn you, Borc!’ the King said, rounding on his warrior. It was the first time Wyl had ever witnessed Cailech lose control.
Borc swallowed. ‘The horse reared when they called to him, sire, then it began to scream and kick at the walls. Farrow told Myrt that the stallion wanted to be let loose.’
‘Did they do that?’ Cailech demanded.
Borc shook his head. ‘Maegryn interrupted their planning. He questioned what they were doing around Galapek. Myrt seemed unsure at first, sire. The Grenadyne did all the talking, said he wanted to go out for a ride or some such excuse. Maegryn said he had to report them because the barshi had given orders since the disappearance of the Morgravian prisoner that anyone acting strangely around Galapek was to be singled out.’
Wyl kept Ylena’s gaze on the floor but sensed the King steal a glance towards her at the mention of Gueryn. He worked hard to give the impression that she was embarrassed to be sharing this information and especially did not react to the mention of the prisoner.
Borc was in full flight now, racing to the end of his sordid tale. ‘Maegryn said he was coming to see you, sire, and that’s when Myrt grabbed him. Farrow told him not to but there was blood rage there, sire, Myrt couldn’t stop. He strangled Maegryn but I didn’t stop to see what they did with the body, your majesty. I jumped from the small window upstairs and came straight here, although I gather the Grenadyne is also on his way to see you,’ he said, looking behind him as if Aremys might already be standing there.
‘And Myrt?’
‘Has gone to find Rashlyn, your majesty. Farrow wants to know what has happened to the Morgravian prisoner. Maegryn mentioned that he thought the barshi had taken him for his own uses.’
Cailech twisted away in angry thought, staring out of the window. He could only barely see the great shadows of the mountains in the distance now, as darkness fell quickly in the Razors.
‘Borc.’
‘Sire?’
Cailech’s voice was as cold as the ice that covered the Razors’ peaks in midwinter. ‘Assemble the senior warriors. Tell the gatekeeper no one leaves, not even our own. Send reinforcements to the portcullis in case they use force. Have several guards posted on every gate — even those into the town. Neither Myrt nor the Grenadyne are to be permitted access in either direction. Release the dogs. Understand?’ Borc nodded. ‘Send Rollo to me immediately with one other of his choice — have runners sent for him if necessary. Tell Rollo everything and then find Myrt. Go now, don’t fail me.’ Borc bowed and departed.
The King turned slowly to face Ylena. Wyl set her face impassively and took the lead. ‘I’m sorry, your majesty, that I witnessed this. I’m sure it was a private concern.’
‘It was not your fault, Ylena. I should have taken more precaution.’
‘That man of yours was speaking about Gueryn le Gant, wasn’t he?’
The King nodded, staring so intently at Ylena that Wyl felt himself falter slightly. Perhaps it was not a good idea to question Cailech right now. But there may never be a better opportunity, and time was their enemy. ‘Gueryn le Gant is my guardian,’ he said. ‘When our mother died, Gueryn was all we had, for my father was away at Pearlis with the King. When I was sent to Stoneheart to be raised as the ward of King Magnus, Gueryn was there too. He is family. He is all I have left.’ Wyl made Ylena’s soft tones beseeching.
The news took the King by surprise but he had no time to respond for there was another knock. Once again he hushed Ylena with a gesture. Both knew who it was going to be this time. The same servant appeared with an expression of apology but Cailech hardly noticed.
‘Is it Aremys Farrow?’ he asked before the man said anything.
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Send him in.’
Aremys was shown in and Wyl immediately sent him a look of warning.
‘Sire, you were expecting me?’ Aremys said, trying hard not to show his surprise.
‘I guessed you would come around soon enough,’ Cailech said, his tone casual and his body language relaxed. Behind him Wyl shook his head towards Aremys, desperately cautioning him against saying anything incriminating.
Aremys faltered. The smile he would normally give to the man he now considered a friend did not arrive. He realised that someone had reached Cailech or Wyl would not be communicating such a warning.
‘Care for a cup of wine, Farrow?’
‘No, sire, I came here only briefly to pass on a message. Forgive my interruption, I thought it was important.’
‘Apparently there are a number of important messages to be communicated tonight,’ Cailech replied.
The cryptic response was not lost on Aremys. ‘I can come back later, sire.’ He saw relief move across Ylena’s face and then froze as Cailech also glanced towards her. The King was fast and much too smart to be duped.
‘No, please, come and join us,’ Cailech said, affably this time. ‘I’d like to share some wine with you.’
Wyl looked at the shattered flagon and Aremys followed his glance, taking in that something dangerous had occurred here tonight. Tempers perhaps had frayed, for if it was an accident Cailech would have called for a servant to clear the mess. ‘Are you well, Ylena?’ he said, suddenly wondering whether Cailech had hurt Wyl.
‘I am, thank you, Aremys. I was just about to tell the King about Queen Valentyna and all she mentioned to me from Romen’s tales of the Razors.’ Aremys nodded, frowning slightly, and Wyl took the risk. ‘You know, about Romen’s escape with the help of Lothryn, and how he later worried about what might have happened to the brave warrior who betrayed his King.’
Wyl had fast reflexes but Ylena’s body moved slower than he was used to. He saw the King’s sudden action but could not avoid the hard, stinging slap. Another blow from a different King but with the same result: Ylena’s small body flew across the room. She gashed her leg on a small table and sprawled across a chair before tumbling to the granite floor. He lay still, trying to assess if anything had been broken. From the terrible pain, he suspected her slim shoulder had dislocated during the awkward fall.
Wyl heard Cailech ranting above his sister’s body. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, Ylena?’
Wyl had no choice; he spoke quickly to his friend. ‘He knows about Maegryn,’ was all he managed before he felt himself lifted easily from the floor and flung again across the chamber. He glimpsed Cailech’s enraged face and heard his roar of anger. Ylena’s body crunched awkwardly against the stone fireplace and this time something definitely broke. It was her leg, badly snapped with bone poking through the shin. Fresh pain klaxoned through her frail body. Wyl released a scream, part out of helplessness, part designed to keep Cailech’s attention on Ylena and not Aremys. It was too late though — Cailech’s men had arrived, amongst them someone Aremys clearly recognised.
‘Hold him, Rollo!’ the King commanded, pointing at a startled Aremys who was unsure whether to run towards Ylena or out the door. Either way he had left his decision too late and Wyl closed Ylena’s eyes in despair. He moved her bleeding, broken body into a sitting position and prayed the King
would not hurt her body further. He could handle the physical pain but the battering of Ylena both at Tenterdyn and now here was more than Wyl could bear emotionally. He wanted to scream that she had already suffered enough, but of course that would make no sense to anyone except the other prisoner in this room, now desperately struggling in the arms of his captors.
‘Be still, Farrow!’ Cailech commanded. ‘There is no escape.’
Aremys obeyed. ‘What is this about, your highness? I thought I was a free man.’
‘You were,’ Cailech said, advancing on his new victim, Ylena forgotten. ‘Until Borc brought me some dark news this evening.’
Aremys wore a confused expression. ‘What news, sire?’
‘You snake!’ Cailech spat. ‘Am I that gullible, Farrow? Perhaps I am,’ he said, answering his own question with a weariness in his voice. He smiled ruefully. ‘I trusted you. I thought you were on our side.’
‘King Cailech —’ Aremys began.
‘Don’t, Grenadyne,’ the King warned. ‘Don’t begin to spin any lies. Rollo, is everything secured?’
The man nodded. ‘Borc and others are seeing to it, sire.’
‘Myrt?’
Rollo looked uncomfortable at the mention of the senior warrior’s name. ‘He is being followed to the barshi’s quarters, sire, as you ordered.’
As soon as Aremys heard Myrt’s name, he lowered his chin and his body slumped slightly in the grip of the men. They were all as good as dead now. He looked over at Wyl, equally helpless at the other end of the room, and felt something inside him break.
Rashlyn had been experiencing an inexplicable sense of doom for the past few hours. The Stones, which he had cast for himself, kept showing him the coming of a dragon. It made no sense. Dragons were creatures of myth, along with the winged lions, unicorns and other strange beasts worshipped through the ages — and still revered in Morgravia. The Stones had never given him such a picture before and yet they insisted, time and again. Considering he had cast the Stones only a few times in his life on his own behalf — and had always found them accurate — this was wildly unsettling, particularly as it made no sense.
He had been pondering this curiosity for many hours, wondering what it could mean for Cailech and, more to the point, himself. Now, he felt a light was dawning: perhaps the vision pointed towards the changing of a sovereign in Morgravia. It had come to him that the King of Morgravia sat upon the dragon throne; that the King’s emblem — and mythical creature of the Crown of Morgravia — was always the dragon. So did the coming of the dragon shown by the Stones mean a new King for the southern realm?
That made little sense, however, for the present King was young, virile and seemingly in excellent health according to Cailech, whom the barshi had spoken to briefly on his return. They had exchanged a smattering of words with the promise to meet later that night. He was awaiting the summons now, eager to share with his King this telling from the Stones.
Perhaps they were suggesting that the marriage of Celimus to Valentyna would change the Crown somewhat, bringing a new Queen to the throne. Except the Stones were specific: they spoke only of the dragon and a new coming. Valentyna was not in any way connected to the dragon throne, nor, to his knowledge, did the Briavellians have any link to mythical creatures in the manner of Morgravia.
No, he pondered, pulling at his tangled beard, this was specifically about the Dragon King. There it was again: change. Before Cailech had left for Morgravia, the Stones had spoken of change and Rashlyn had thought they referred to something sinister. As it turned out, Cailech had returned triumphant, not only with a new truce and a peaceful neighbour but a bride as well. Rashlyn nodded to himself, congratulating the Stones on their accuracy. Change had indeed occurred for the King of the Razors. Everything had changed for the better.
But now this… this time it felt sinister, threatening. The Stones pointed towards the coming of the dragon, but he had done this casting purely for himself, not Cailech. This foretelling was about him. The dragon was coming for him — was that right?
Deep in his thoughts, he jumped in alarm as the door of his chamber crashed open and the huge body of Myrt filled the doorway.
‘Good evening, barshi,’ Myrt said. The words were polite, but the tone and the expression on the big man’s face belied them.
‘What are you doing here?’ the small man stammered, immediately summoning a spell of protection.
‘I’ve come for the truth about Lothryn — or should I say, Galapek?’
Rashlyn’s madness was his best protection; better than any spell. The insanity that held the barshi in its grip took over now and he no longer felt intimidated. However, he was sufficiently intrigued by the big man’s discovery that he held back the magic he had prepared to hurl at Myrt. ‘What do you know?’ he asked, his voice light and taunting.
‘Where is the Morgravian prisoner?’ Myrt responded.
The barshi gave a mad cackle. ‘I’ll be happy to show you,’ he said, and pointed to the corner where a large grey dog sat, chained and quivering.
Myrt was aghast, unsure of whether to take the deranged barshi seriously, yet somehow knowing he was being shown the truth. ‘Gueryn?’ he asked the dog tentatively.
The dog whined. It was in pain but it pawed the floor in frustration and strained against its chain.
‘Like my work, Myrt? It’s so much better than Lothryn, whom I’m afraid I must have killed in the process. As you can see, le Gant is alive within the beast and fully aware of his new status.’
‘You stinking —’
Myrt got no further. Pain exploded in his head and his nose and ears began to leak blood.
‘Shut up!’ the barshi screamed. ‘Or I won’t even give you a choice of what I turn you into, you stupid fool.’ Myrt was moaning unintelligibly. ‘I guess that hurts, eh?’ Rashlyn continued. ‘Well, listen to me now, big man. I’m going to take away the pain and then you are going to tell me who else knows my secret.’
Myrt shook his head vigorously and blood spattered the barshi. Rashlyn seemed not to notice; instead he stepped up the punishment and the warrior’s eyes bulged as a fresh wave of pain hit. His arms became rigid and hung unnaturally in mid-air, his torso began to tremble and his breathing came in erratic, shallow grunts.
‘Do just as I say, Myrt,’ Rashlyn warned. His fingers moved slightly and the warrior was pushed back and held against the wall. ‘Better?’ he asked, dispelling the pain.
Myrt refused to co-operate even though his body was released from its agony.
‘Who else knows?’ Rashlyn asked, moving towards the warrior.
‘Just me and, I presume, the King,’ Myrt spluttered. Although the pain had lifted, the toll on his body was significant enough to make him gasp still.
‘Oh, yes, the King knows. It was his choice to punish Lothryn that way, you see. I think it’s beautifully subtle. And Galapek is so magnificent —’
Rashlyn suddenly stopped and cocked his head, as if listening to something. He turned slowly, fear coursing through every fibre of his being.
‘What?’ Myrt said.
‘Ssh!’ Rashlyn hissed, swivelling his body as if trying to lock onto something. ‘It’s coming,’ he murmured.
Myrt, connected to the barshi through the madman’s magic, also sensed the approach of something. He was stunned at the immensity of power which was being communicated. ‘What is it?’
‘The dragon,’ Rashlyn whispered, suddenly letting go his magic hold on Myrt as his own fears got the better of him.
Myrt fell to the floor, hitting his knees hard and yelling his protest. He was forgotten as the barshi began to spin around in the chamber, a look of terror on his face. Myrt took advantage of Rashlyn’s confusion to drag himself across the floor to the dog, who cocked his head towards a key on the table. Myrt nodded, reached for the key and unlocked the chain that secured the dog. It barked once and stretched on unsteady, gangly legs.
Blood was running freely from his nose; Myrt onl
y noticed it now. He tried to wipe it away but more replaced it. He was thinking he should ignore the weakness imposed by the barshi’s magic and somehow make his way to the door, crawling if necessary, when the doorway was filled by a large figure.
‘Hello, Borc,’ he said, disdain lacing his tone. He did not like this young man, blamed him for the capture and torture of Lothryn.
The warrior looked over at Rashlyn who seemed to be in a trance, mumbling to himself. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded of Myrt.
‘Nothing. He’s off in his own world, muttering about the coming of the dragon or something. Why are you here?’
‘Why are you on the floor… bleeding?’ Borc continued angrily, dismissing the question levelled at him.
‘The last time I checked,’ Myrt began, working hard to ignore the weakening sensations in his body, ‘I was your superior, Borc. Do I need to remind you of how to speak to a superior?’
‘And the last time I checked, Myrt,’ Borc sneered, ‘you were busy murdering someone.’
‘Ah,’ Myrt replied, hiding his shock. He would not give this snivelling youngster the satisfaction he surely craved of the most senior of the warriors grovelling to him.
‘I told the King,’ Borc added triumphantly.
‘Yes, I’m sure you have, you arse-licking fuck!’
Borc’s reply was cut off by the arrival of a boy who appeared to step straight through the granite blocks of the high tower’s wall. He was surrounded by a shimmering light which blinded the three men momentarily before it dissipated. He looked around at them and Myrt realised this was no vision; the boy was flesh and blood — scrawny and small but terrifyingly real.
Rashlyn’s wildness intensified. ‘Who are you?’ he screeched.
‘I am your destroyer, Rashlyn,’ the boy said.
Everything happened so fast, Myrt hardly saw it unfold. Rashlyn leapt through an open window. The drop meant certain death yet Myrt glimpsed the barshi hovering in the open air before he disappeared from view.
The Quickening Page 138