Destiny Fulfilled

by Laire McKinney

  Long strands of his hair fell to the mossy ground in wisps of gold as the sword continued its trajectory. Somewhere in the distance she heard Drake scream.

  Or was that heart-wrenching cry hers?

  Riagan’s body plummeted to the ground, his expression changing from determination to agony. His eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth twisted. No more blood bubbled forth at his shoulder where the blade had sliced into his body, and she watched the skin seal, locking in what she knew would be fatal poison.

  When his massive body finally struck the ground, a loud thud shook the land under her feet. Drake lunged forward to grab the Cauldron from Caswallen but a voice, clear and steady, spoke, as if from the heavens. “Touch not the Cauldron, Drake. Your soul will burn.”

  All eyes darted toward the voice but there was no one there. Wren recognized it as the same voice that had spoken to her at the lookout, right before she’d transformed into someone she no longer knew. The voice sounded like it was being broadcast over an intercom, but she doubted there was such a system for that here. She looked around anyway as the voice declared, “Only the Redeemer can retrieve the Cauldron once it’s been taken.”

  She watched Drake jerk back, inclining his head to the unknown voice. Muscles tight, veins visible under the pale skin, Drake glared at Caswallen. With her prior strength gone, Wren felt a stab of fear. Where was that new Wren when she needed her?

  Caswallen held the Cauldron tight within his arm and stared at Wren. Without averting his gaze, he ordered, “Gwyon, kill her.” His voice was high pitched like a siren.

  But Gwyon did not respond. With a roar of anger, Caswallen stabilized the sword with both hands wrapped around the hilt, allowing the Cauldron to drop to the ground.

  Wren’s body started to shake. She felt cheated. Without the power of the previous moments, she felt naked, exposed. What had happened? Riagan remained silent by her feet, but with the sword pointed at her heart, she was too afraid to kneel by his side.

  Was everything lost then? The Arch Druid would win. In the process, he would kill Riagan, possibly Drake, and her. Who was the man behind the phantom voice and could he be of help to them at this direst moment?

  She stole a glance at Riagan. He was pale, and she was relieved that she did not see the gaseous spirit leaving his body. He was still alive but unconscious, the poison likely coursing through his blood. If he died, she had nothing to live for. Even if he didn’t feel the same toward her, she loved him. With her heart and her soul, with the entire strength of her being, she had fallen in love with this man. Was there a future for her if he died? Wandering aimlessly through this strange and alternate universe? Or worse, returning to her trailer in the mountains, her life, as dismal as it was?

  Without him by her side?

  She met Caswallen’s eyes again.

  He didn’t lift the sword to bring it down upon her. Rather, he pulled his elbow back, the hilt secured in his bony hand. He intended to thrust forward, straight into her heart until it slid through the pumping organ, severing her life.

  Her teeth started to chatter.

  The black-clad men disappeared like a whisper upon the wind, and she didn’t know if they would return in greater numbers or be gone for good. It did not seem likely she would be around to discover the answer.

  Gwyon huddled nearby, his eyes vacant and his expression lax like he was in a trance.

  Drake stood rooted in front of Riagan, just to Wren’s side.

  Then, as if the cosmos had snapped its fingers, Caswallen lunged and the Cauldron’s light flared, and Wren watched the blade shoot forward. She closed her eyes, prepared for what was to come, not sure that if Riagan was dead already that she wanted to live anyway.

  A loud, outraged hiss made her eyes fly open. Crouched before her was Riagan, fully alert, as if he’d been taking a quick nap instead of battling the fatal poison. His skin was red with fury, and she stumbled back, suddenly afraid of the power emanating from him.

  With lightning speed and warp precision, he grabbed the sword’s hilt, clamping down his fingers over the Arch Druid’s in mid-thrust. He yanked with a powerful grunt and an intense ripple of his muscles, jerking the elder toward him with the force. Caught off balance, Caswallen stumbled.

  Riagan used the momentum to pull Caswallen into his chest, then locked his left arm around the elder’s neck. Caswallen choked. Riagan did not lessen his grip. With his right hand, he wrenched the sword away and held it out before them, pointing the tip back toward the elder’s heart.

  With a piercing war cry that made Wren clutch her ears and release her own scream, Riagan thrust the blade into Caswallen’s chest, far enough to sever Caswallen’s life force but not far enough to sever his own. Blood, an unholy crimson-black color, thick and viscous, gurgled up through the Arch Druid’s mouth and spilled over his lips. An instant later, his lips sealed shut, as did the skin surrounding the sword’s point. The poison was locked in his body, pooling in his dying heart.

  The Cauldron’s light burst into pure white light, consuming the space around them.

  Riagan released Caswallen and he collapsed in a lifeless, crumpled heap. As she stood there watching—horrified, confused, in shock—his body changed to dust and blew away with the wind. The only remnants of evil were the cloak, covered now in blood, and the sword that landed on the ground. Poison continued its slow, deadly drip off the tip. No one moved to touch it.

  A voice behind them shouted, “No!”

  Wren whirled around to see Gwyon coming at her, surprisingly agile atop his misshapen feet. His hands were outstretched, his dark eyes wide, crazed, inhuman. Too consumed with Caswallen’s demise, she had let down her guard, hadn’t even heard him behind her. But now he was upon her, his hands grasping her arms, pulling her toward him, taking her hostage.

  “I am a warrior. I am a warrior too!” he shouted.

  Riagan panted in front of them, sweat glistening off his forehead. His shirt hung in tatters over his moist torso. His eyes were like darts, focused on his target, his muscles massive, bulging.

  Gwyon’s arm was around her throat, and she could feel that he was supporting part of his weight on her shoulders. It would have been funny if he didn’t have a dagger pointed at her throat, the tip nudging her jugular. Perspiration broke out on her brow.

  “Get the Cauldron,” Gwyon demanded.

  “What?” she shrieked.

  “No!” yelled Riagan. “She will burn if she touches the Cauldron. Wren, don’t.”

  The point of the dagger pressed into her neck, and she felt the give of her skin. Gwyon’s arm shook, and that scared her even more. He seemed out of his mind, insane. There was no telling what he would do—or make her do.

  “I will kill her, Riagan. I will kill her now. Let her grab the Cauldron, then you can have her.” His monotonous voice sent shivers up her spine.

  “Gwyon, she will burn if she touches the Cauldron. There must be another way.” A bead of sweat slid over his temple.

  Drake rested a hand on Riagan’s shoulder. “Brother. Do not fret.”

  Riagan ignored him.

  Gwyon smirked. “Another way? Another way, Brother-mine? There could have been another way years ago, could there not?”

  Riagan was quiet for several moments. “Aye,” he offered. “There could have been.”

  Wren felt the trickle of her own blood, warm against her neck. The Cauldron sat upon the ground where Caswallen had dropped it. It seemed so simple, so nonthreatening. Would it really burn her if she touched it?

  Riagan growled low in his throat like an enraged animal and crouched to the ground. Drake moved in front of the Cauldron, ready to protect, careful not to touch.

  As if standing had taken its toll, Gwyon swayed, stumbling over his own feet. Wren lost her balance. The blade sliced into her neck again, not deep, but enough to hurt. She cried out.

  Riagan lunged forward.

  Gwyon righted himself just in time to reposition the knife.

  Drak
e grabbed Riagan by the arm and held him fast.

  Gwyon laughed in her ear, his rough beard scraping her cheek like a bristle pad.

  Then there was a sound of something huge and determined and menacing crashing through the forest. Surely it was a monster, a great grizzly or an elephant. As limbs snapped and trunks were pushed out of the way, a shadow wove through the forest toward them.

  Wren knew her eyes were wide with fright. She would take Gwyon any day compared to what was coming.

  But as the animal bounded out into the clearing, she saw what was coming was Duke.

  Yet the creature before her wasn’t Duke. This animal was enormous, larger than a grizzly. The animal looked like Duke with the tawny coat, big, floppy ears, and wrinkled head. But this dog had to be a mirage at five hundred pounds.

  The oversized canine lumbered through the forest with the agility of a racehorse.

  And it was speeding toward them.

  Just yards away, she could see his enormous teeth, dripping with saliva as a growl roared through the air and shook the ground.

  “Duke?” she cried.

  Gwyon twisted her around, freeing the arm that held the dagger. Before she knew what he was doing, his dagger was hurling through the air with warp speed and sliced into the chest of the charging beast.

  The animal yelped, a wail of pain and agony that broke her heart into a million pieces. She screamed. The beast slowed but didn’t stop. His eyes, so close now she could see his pupils, were crazed and dilated.

  Then everything happened so fast, she wasn’t entirely sure if it was real or a dream.

  The animal continued forward, then fell in a clump by her feet, like an earthquake. Drake or Riagan or both took advantage of the surprise and shot forward, wrenching Gwyon off her, and she was unexpectedly free.

  Without bothering to look and see what was happening behind her, Wren dropped to her knees beside the big beast.

  The chocolate eyes were just like Duke’s. In fact, he looked exactly like Duke, just much, much larger. But his eyes—they were pleading, searching, trying to tell her something, trying to beg her for something.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to cradle his huge head in her lap. He whimpered, regarding her with familiar eyes, blinking with his heavy lids.

  She knew, somewhere in the recess of her mind, that Riagan had Gwyon tied and incapacitated, but she couldn’t look away from the dog. The weight of his head alone nearly crushed the bones of her legs, but she didn’t care. This animal was too familiar. Too familiar.

  “Duke?” she choked. “Duke, is that you?”

  Drake bent down. “I will remove the dagger.”

  Wren bent toward Duke’s face and spoke softly. “Duke, Drake is going to make it better. It might hurt, but he must take out the dagger. I’m here, Duke. I’m here and won’t leave you.” She was hiccupping again, crying as she saw how stoic the dog was trying to be.

  She rubbed his head the way she knew her Duke liked, just between his eyes. He seemed to acknowledge what she was doing but yelped in agony as Drake pulled out the dagger.

  “Duke!” She screamed as the dog’s eyes shut and his chest stopped moving.

  Hands pulled at her, but Wren shoved them away. She couldn’t see anything anymore, could only feel the solid, heavy weight of the dog’s head in her lap. Her shoulders heaved as grief ripped through her body.

  She patted his head over and over, whispering incomprehensible words as she laid her other hand on his wound to help stop the bleeding. But something was different. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand to try and free her vision. In her lap, the dog was changing. She stopped sobbing and stared.

  The animal’s fur on his head was morphing into long, gray strands of hair. His body was pulling into itself, changing, altering until two of the legs became arms and the fur was gone, replaced by peachy skin.

  “Duke?”

  Then suddenly, Duke, the dog, vanished, and a small being, a faery, materialized in his place. His face was still wrinkled, his nose still large, but he was only two feet tall with ears that stuck out from his head like vessels. The wound on his chest was gone.

  “Riagan,” she screamed as the faery struggled to his feet. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. And he was, inexplicably, alive.

  “What’s going on?” she wailed, terrified and awed all at once.

  Riagan crouched in front of her.

  The realm lay silent around them and the trees lining the forest leaned forward, as if eager for a better view.

  The faery had the same chocolate eyes as her dog, so familiar that she couldn’t help but say, “Duke?”

  He bowed, swinging one arm out, curling one around his waist. If he wore a hat, she suspected he would’ve swept it off his head.

  When he straightened, he offered a crooked grin. “Hi, Wren.”

  “I… I don’t… I can’t believe… Am I insane?” Wren sputtered.

  “You are no such thing, Miss Wren.” The faery stood in front of her, rigid and proud like a palace guard.

  Before she could formulate more questions to ask, commotion erupted behind her. She tore her gaze from the strange being to see Gwyon thrashing in Drake’s iron grasp.

  “I will take him to the hold and keep him there,” Drake said. “Then we will decide what to do with this brother of ours.”

  “Aye,” said Riagan, by her side. He never took his eyes off the faery. “I will remain here.”

  “I…I can’t believe it,” Wren muttered, finally finding words. “Duke? My Duke? How?”

  The faery’s face was so familiar it made her pause.

  “I was sent to watch over you.” His voice was exactly how she would have expected Duke’s to sound—that is, if he could have talked as an animal. Deep, raspy, yet tender and full of love in a way no other voice could be.

  “Watch over me?”

  “Why?” Riagan leaned forward.

  Duke’s rich eyes turned toward Riagan. “To protect her.”

  “From what?” she asked, not feeling fully in charge of her own mind.

  “From he who would take the Cauldron.”

  “Master?” Riagan asked.

  “Yes. One such as she always has a protector, even before a viable threat presents itself.”

  “You’re speaking Greek,” Wren complained, trying not to whine.

  “You were sent to Earth to protect her?” Riagan’s eyes were focused like a pointer, his lips tight, his body tense. He seemed to need nearly as many answers as she did.

  But Duke clamped his lips shut, crossed his arms, and sat down upon the ground by Wren’s side, refusing to speak any further. She had to resist the urge to rub his head.

  “Why would I need protection from the Master-slash-Arch Druid?” She turned to Riagan.

  “I know not, but…” He stared at her as if she was a stranger in his midst and not his lover.

  “Riagan, what is it?”

  “There are many mysteries still to be explained—to you, but to myself as well.”

  Drake reappeared. “That brother of ours is locked in the hold with two of the Brotherhood on guard. The others will be here shortly.”

  “Their battle has ended?”

  “Yes. The realm is free of enemies. Save for our brother, that is.”

  Wren was picking at a blade of grass, stealing glances at Duke, when she was startled by a soft humming tune coming from the Cauldron. It was a beautiful song that sounded like angels serenading her. The artifact sat a few feet away, glowing a haunting green. The Cauldron didn’t look menacing, though. She felt no threat as the music entranced her. No one else seemed to notice as her entire body started to tremble, to sing along with the melody. It pulled her forward and she was helpless to resist.

  She picked up the Cauldron.

  The beauty of the song ceased immediately, but her skin didn’t burn. She turned it over in her hands, studying it. Maybe this was the wrong Cauldron. Was this an imposter and th
e other one was either safe in its cave or gone from them forever?

  As she examined the inside and outside of the artifact, she realized the world around her had gone disturbingly, encompassingly silent. She glanced around. “What?”

  “By the gods of the lost island of Atlantis and all who watch over the strange happenings of these worlds.” Riagan looked like he’d just woken up to find himself dressed as a peacock.

  Resisting the urge to pinch her nose between her fingers, Wren took a deep breath. “What are you talking about now? Seriously, Riagan, I can’t understand half the things you say. And I really hate to say this, but I don’t think this is the right Cauldron. It’s not hot at all.”

  “Redeemer?” Riagan whispered.

  Her eyes flashed to Drake, ready to ask for a translation, feeling no small bit of irritation.

  “Aye. Redeemer,” Drake answered. “It’s about time you figured it out.”

  “Aye,” Riagan repeated. “She is a Redeemer. Och, by the gods, how did I not know?”

  “Redeemer? Riagan, if you don’t speak words that actually make sense, I’m leaving.” Then she mumbled, “Even though I don’t really know how I’d do that.” She looked around, lost in this new world.

  She glanced back at Riagan, curious if he would give her guidance on how, in fact, she could leave if she wanted to. The expression on his face alarmed her.

  “What?” she demanded again. “Don’t call me a retriever unless you care to explain what you’re talking about.” She gazed down at the artifact. “Makes me sound like a dog.”

  “Redeemer.”

  “Huh?”

  “I called you a Redeemer. Not a retriever.”

  “A Redeemer? What did I redeem? This?” She grasped the Cauldron by its lip and lifted it into the air. Two pairs of green eyes widened, and their massive bodies tensed.

  MAYBE THE PAIN that wove its way through Riagan’s body, making him pant and his mind grow muddled was causing him to hallucinate. Was this woman, or was she not, holding the Cauldron as if it were a child’s toy?