Chapter 29

Gueryn left his companions, trailing their horses behind him. Wyl’s last view of him was seeing his friend take a sip from the small bottle he had pressed into the old soldier’s hand. Gueryn had taken it gratefully to numb the pain and win him a little strength. No one admitted that the fever would most likely kill him before those giving chase could, but they all thought it.

Wyl, however, preferred not to dwell on this. Instead he emptied his mind and walked in a grim silence, bringing up the rear behind Lothryn and Elspyth. Each of them deliberately stepped in the next one’s footsteps and Wyl brushed a fir branch in their wake to disguise any tracks as best he could. He ignored the pain in his rib and the whip of the wind, which was picking up. He focused only on counting his steps, putting as many between him and Cailech’s fortress as possible.

As the first light of dawn glowed gently. Lothryn halted.

“We should rest for a couple of hours. There is a cave not far from here where we can lie down for a short while.”

“Can we risk it?” Wyl wondered aloud.

“We must if we are going to conserve energy for the thinner air and harder terrain. This is nothing.”

“Really easy,” Elspyth said in a tone that belied her words.

They undid the packs and found some dried food Lothryn had the foresight to include. None were hungry but the Mountain Man insisted.

“Forget hunger. Your body needs the sustenance even if your head tells you otherwise. Force it down,” he advised and they did, chewing on dried meat, dried fruit, and a small knuckle of bread each.

They drank thirstily, knowing there was plenty of fresh water along the way to replenish what they used.

“So rest. Two hours only,” Lothryn cautioned.

Wyl turned his back as Elspyth shamelessly curled up in Lothryn’s arms. She felt safe in his embrace, but she also knew she somehow belonged there. Sleep claimed all of them almost instantly.

He dreamed. It was a familiar chamber; the smell of sweat and fear, of feces and urine… and curiously the smell of desire. Wyl was himself again; red-headed, young, and Frightened as they hoisted Myrren up in the hideous contraption known as the Dark Angel. He heard the pop of her shoulder sockets as they yielded their oh-so-fragile hold on her arms but she did not scream. She did not even groan—not even when her elbows dislocated. The spectators made all the noise as they shuddered and cringed, imagining her pain even if‘ she would not share it.

She was naked, of course. Necessary to please the all-male chamber. He could see the gleam in their eyes but she did not seem to care. Myrren looked at no one but Wyl. For the most part of her traumatic time under torture she kept her eyes firmly closed but when, now and then, they flickered open for just a moment, her faraway gaze rested only on his. He had not noticed previously how her lips kept moving in a constant stream of silent words. Words presumably only she knew. Witch words, he suddenly realized.

Wyl heard the terrible command “Drop!” and then, as if she were falling a hundred times slower than in reality, he witnessed Myrren descending. And he grimaced again in his dream, for he knew what was coming, knew they would hurt her terribly. Suddenly she lurched to a sickening halt in midair and her lips pulled back in her excruciating agony as the limbs, muscles, and tendons tore and wrenched.

It was then that a new dimension invaded the dream. The torture chamber seemed to still. Myrren’s bloodshot eyes flew open and she spoke to him alone.

“Find my father!” she commanded.

Wyl woke, trembling in Romen Koreldy’s body.

They had slept for less than two hours but it was enough. Again Lothryn paused long enough to make them eat a little cheese and more nuts washed down with a skin of water. Carefully covering up any clues to their visit, they pressed on. Elspyth openly held Lothryn’s hand now—that was probably the reason for her higher spirits, not that it interested Wyl much beyond acknowledgment. His thoughts were with Gueryn and whether they really would see each other again.

Gueryn pressed doggedly on. It was warmer in these lower reaches but his fever had gained its foothold and would now run rampant through his shivering, aching body. He swigged again from the bottle, knowing it would not alleviate the effects of the fever. He cared not. His single notion was to stay upright and keep the horses moving forward. Every yard gained was another minute of life for his friends, whom he hoped were far away now. And anyway, any moment he expected an arrow through his throat. He was surprised he had made it this far.

To take his mind off death he considered Koreldy.

A strange one he was. Why did the Grenadyne look at him with so much compassion? No. not compassion. That was too mild a word. It was love. Koreldy was connected to him in some very special way and yet Gueryn could not figure it. And the man’s pretense at being Wyl was clever, he would give him that much.

Koreldy had saved him the indignity of being eaten by Cailech. Just thinking about it brought bile to his throat. What an end. Now. because of Romen and the courageous Lothryn, he would at least die honorably, outwitting the enemy, and perhaps when all hope was lost he would turn and fight, dying bravely as any soldier of the Legion should. The Grenadyne had told him nothing, not that he had had much chance to say more than he did. Gueryn admitted. There was obviously much on the man’s mind and plenty he wanted to say—Gueryn could see it in the sad gray eyes. How could that be?

And then it hit him. Was Wyl dead? Is that what it was? He was misreading Koreldy’s compassion; the man was simply reluctant to pass on news that he knew would bring Gueryn such grief it might encourage him to give up his tenuous hold on life.

Wyl dead? No!

Gueryn slumped in the saddle. What else could it be? If Celimus was prepared to plan his death then his real target had to be Wyl. Gueryn was not important enough to warrant such attention. His clouded mind began to clear and anger began to gather. The new King of Morgravia, when still a Prince, had deliberately separated him from Wyl and then set about destroying both their lives.

The more he chewed at it. the more it made sense. How would Celimus have contrived Wyl’s end? It could not have been achieved on Morgravian soil—too much loyalty from the Legion. An uprising would erupt if the army caught even a whiff of such heinous betrayal. But Celimus was too clever for that. So he would have planned for Wyl to be beyond the realm’s borders and he would have commissioned outsiders—foreigners, no doubt—to do his dirty work. Mercenaries were easy enough to hire for the right amount of gold.

Mercenaries! Gueryn’s grip on the reins slackened. Had not Elspyth called Koreldy a mercenary during the confrontation with Cailech? Yes! Gueryn ran back over the scene in his mind. Elspyth had said something along the lines of refusing to humble the mercenary further. Romen Koreldy, who clearly knew Wyl enough to call out the Thirsk battle cry. was a mercenary. Gueryn was aware that he was making huge leaps and possibly landing in the wrong spot but the temptation to believe that Romen held critical information on Wyl was too strong. He must stay alive. He must know what has happened to his precious boy…and what about Ylena? Beautiful girl; she too would be in danger, although he hoped Alyd had the wits to get her away from Stoneheart at least. Yes, her husband was sensible and capable, his wits his best asset. He would not risk her life.

As his feverish mind raced, the arrow he had dreaded finally came thumping into his back and knocked him off his horse with ease. Gueryn dropped like a stone, his head hitting the frosty mountain ground hard enough to send all notions of Wyl into darkness.

Wyl was leading—no need to brush their tracks now—as they ascended a challenging climb and so the others all but stumbled into his back when he suddenly stopped walking.

“Romen. what’s wrong?” Lothryn asked.

Wyl was listening. Not to an outside sound but to an inside voice. Something called to him. But it was gone as suddenly as it came, replaced by a wave of sadness he could not explain.

“Gueryn’s dead,” he said in a flat voice, believing it.

Elspyth took his hand. “You can’t know this.”

Lothryn tried to echo her reassurance. “His chances were grim. I’ll grant you. But he had a good lead on them.”

Wyl looked at his friends, Romen’s eyes darkening. “You are not me. you cannot know what I feel…you don’t even know who I am!”

He read their sideways glances as a suggestion that they leave him alone. He knew he made no sense.

“I’ll lead,” Lothryn said, pushing past.

“They’re coming now,” Wyl warned and fell silent, following once again in the other man’s footsteps, deeper into the forbidding Razors.

“If he’s dead, I’ll have you strung up by your balls, man!” Cailech boomed, pointing at the archer. He leapt from his horse. “Check him!” he called to the man nearest to the felled soldier.

They waited, the archer holding his breath.

“He’s alive, my lord. Just.”

“Get him back to the fortress. Bring in the herbalists and find Rashlyn for me. Now!”

Men rushed off in all directions. Gueryn was wrapped in blankets; they were careful not to disturb the ugly arrow that protruded from the lower part of his shoulder.

He was laid across a horse and immediately led back the way he had fought so hard to escape. The man leading him swallowed hard, casting a silent prayer to Haldor to help him get the prisoner back to the fortress alive and into the hands of the herbalists, for he did not doubt the King would carry out his threat if this man lost his life in his care.

Cailech turned to one of his trusted; it pained him more deeply than he cared to admit right now that it was not Lothryn.

“So they tricked us. Where would they go?”

Myrt was not used to being asked for his opinion. He was loyal to Cailech and a faithful member of the tribe but he would prefer it was calm Lothryn under the King’s scrutiny. Lothryn knew how to handle the King and his moods. He regarded himself as a doer, not a decision-maker. The King’s pale-green eyes continued to regard him and he cleared his throat.

“My lord King, if Lothryn is with them —”

“He is with them! Traitor!” the King raged.

The man tried again. “That being the case, my lord. I would suggest he might take them via the higher pass.”

“Why not the Dog Leg?”

He did not mean to shrug at his King and was grateful Cailech had not noticed. “Lothryn knows the mountains like no other, my lord. If I were him, I’d take the most treacherous route because it might give me a better chance. He knows Haldor’s Pass.”

After several moments of consideration, in which everyone else held their breath yet again. Cailech nodded. “I agree with you. Myrt. It is wise counsel.”

Myrt sighed silently with relief. His expression betrayed nothing, however, as he waited for orders, which came quickly.

“You take your men and follow Haldor’s Pass. May he preserve you. If you find them you may kill Koreldy and the woman however you please. I want Lothryn brought to me. He will face my personal justice.”

Cailech pointed at another of his men. “You, Dree. Take another ten and go via the Dog Leg, just in case.”

The man gave a short bow and men he pointed to began to remount.

“Report back to the fortress by nightfall,” Cailech ordered. “Have you brought birds?” They nodded. “Use them, keep me informed. Send birds to the lookouts. They no longer have to preserve any life other than Loth’s, understand?”

Cailech did not wait for a response. He turned his horse and galloped back toward his stronghold. He would have answers from this Gueryn le Gant.

Shielded by a snow-covered overhang of craggy rock, they rested. Lothryn insisted on an hour despite their protests to keep going. He assured them it was necessary. A hard afternoon’s climb was ahead. Each of them sensed that Gueryn probably had reached as far as he could go. Cailech’s men. if not the King himself, would most likely have him by now…dead or alive…it mattered not. His life was over but he had won them some precious time and they would use it wisely.

Elspyth thought Romen looked haggard with his pent-up anger and grief. Perhaps she should relieve it. “What did you mean by us not knowing who you are?” she blurted out.

He had been staring at the ground but looked up. “Forget I said it,” he replied.

Elspyth was cold, frightened, and above all angry. She snapped. “No! Romen, my life has been turned upside down because of you and now…I might even die, and horribly. I’m not going to forget you said it just because you tell me to. I am not yours to order. You’ve been strange since I met you. My aunt only agreed to see you because you threw around the Thirsk name. And then you claim to be Wyl Thirsk to poor Gueryn, who believed you—until he could see again, of course, then he knew you for the pretender you are. There are secrets upon secrets within you. Why don’t you tell us the truth?”

Lothryn tried to interject in his calm way but she shook off his gentle, restraining hand, her eyes blazing. “He is nothing but lies. He might betray us in a blink! We are risking our lives for him.”

“Then don’t.” Wyl said harshly.

“What choice have we got. Koreldy?” She was shouting now. “Lothryn has given up everything.”

“Hush, you’ll bring the snow down upon us,” Lothryn said in a soft gibe.

She was going to say more, meant to rail at Koreldy a bit longer, but the sob escaped her throat and the floodgates had opened.

Wyl felt immediately ashamed of himself. His own anger ebbed as he heard her break down. Lothryn said nothing—he did not have to—but rebuke was in his eyes when he regarded Wyl.

“Elspyth, you wouldn’t believe me anyway,” Wyl said, turning his hands palms up and shrugging.

“Why don’t you try?” she dared, her voice tearful but now muffled by Lothryn’s embrace.

He so badly wanted to share this strange and frightening story that suddenly it sounded like the right thing to do. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he cautioned as he began the tale of Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy becoming one.

When Wyl had finished speaking, the only sound among the still mountains was the eerie call of a great eagle flying high above them. Elspyth was staring at her boots but Wyl noticed Lothryn regarded him with a hard, penetrating gaze.

“Magic! Pah!” Wyl said as though he was tired of his own hard-luck story.

“I knew you weren’t the Koreldy I remembered.” Lothryn suddenly admitted, his voice low and serious. Wyl waited. “I just put it down to there being so many years since we had last known you but somehow deep down it was more than that. You were different.” Lothryn shrugged, letting out his breath as though he had held it for a long time. “Cailech sensed it first, you know. The face was the same, just older and more handsome than you deserve to be; the voice was the same and the mannerisms all Romen Koreldy. But the person inside had changed. He knew it.”

“How so?” Elspyth asked, intrigued.

“The Romen I knew was witty, gregarious, and above all, self-centered. The Romen before us is…complicated,” he said, having struggled for the right word. “What I mean is. this Romen cares. The other one didn’t. This Romen isn’t looking for attention and, Elspyth, the Romen I once knew would have had you naked between the sheets as quick as one of his knives passes through the air.”

She looked horrified. “That good, eh?”

“Women, even the more cynical Mountain women, could not turn him down but, more to the point, he couldn’t resist any woman. It was like he needed to conquer them. He did not love them; he did not feel much at all for them. It’s probably why Cailech liked Romen so much—they are birds of a feather.”

Wyl frowned. “I like women,” he said, defensively.

“But you never made any remark to me along those lines,” Elspyth admitted, arching her eyebrows. “Am I not pretty enough?”

“That’s my point,” Lothryn said. “It wouldn’t have mattered to Romen. He would make the remark come what may. He was a flirt just for the pure amusement of toying with a woman’s feelings, winning her trust. You did not make any approach to anyone in Yentro, or here, and it would have been so easy with Elspyth.”

“I’ll speak for myself, thank you,” she said, glaring at Lothryn. “I’m not easy but I understand what you’re saying.”

“There’s more,” Lothryn said, warming to his subject now. “Romen was brilliant with his throwing knives—no one could hold a candle to him. He was a skilled swordsman but nothing close to what I witnessed back there with Bore.”

Wyl shrugged. “That man was clumsy at best.” He liked that Lothryn returned the grin.

“And back in the Mountains, no mention of agrolo,” the big man continued. “Cailech is sharp. He picked it all up.”

“What’s agrolo?” Wyl queried and saw the answer on his companion’s face.

“There you have it,” Lothryn said.

“Is that why you came to see my aunt?”

Wyl nodded. “I don’t know why I am Romen Koreldy or what I’m doing in this body. I should have died—my soul gone to Shar—back in Briavel’s palace. I hoped your aunt would tell me more.”

“And did she?” Elspyth asked.

“No. She knew I wasn’t Koreldy, though. She knew exactly who I was when she touched me.” He rubbed his hands through his long hair, still not used to the sensation of its smooth texture. “She told me to find Myrren’s father. I had a dream or perhaps it was a nightmare while we rested in the cave. It was Myrren. She spoke to me and ordered the same thing—to find her father.”

“And where is he?” she asked.

“I have no idea, nor do I know his name. I have no lead to follow.” Wyl replied, wishing his voice did not betray so clearly how desperate he felt.

A look of concern passed between his two companions. “So what now?” Lothryn asked, trying to keep his tone encouraging.

“Escape here. Get my sister to safety. Go back to Briavel and protect Valentyna. All sounds simple enough, don’t you think?” he said.

Elspyth’s mind fled back to the old soldier. “And so Gueryn is truly your former friend and mentor?”

He nodded. “He is…was a father to me.”

“I’m sorry, I should never have agreed with him…to let him go on alone,” Lothryn admitted.

“Don’t, Lothryn. This is not your fault. Without you. we’d all be feeding the tribe tonight.” He forced a smile. “So you both believe me? How incredible.”

“My aunt believes you…and I believe in her skills. How could I not accept what you say?” Elspyth said. “We accept magic in the far north even if we don’t admit to it.”

Lothryn nodded. “There are forces more powerful at work in our world than Kings and Queens and petty squabbles over lands. Haldor spoke to me by finally giving me my son. He was a gift from the gods. Yes, I believe in the gods and their magics. This witch you speak of, Myrren, she was a channel for the gods and what they want done in the world.”

“Thank you.” Wyl said, glad he had finally told someone the truth and more grateful than either would know that his friends believed him without hesitation. “I only wish I knew what was expected of me with regard to this gift.”

“Trust your instincts.” Lothryn replied sagely.

“And what of Rashlyn—is he truly empowered?”

Lothryn nodded. “He is a sorcerer, for sure. But his influence is all bad on Cailech.”

“Where did he come from?”

“No one knows—if Cailech does, he has not shared it with me. And Rashlyn is incredibly secretive about everything,” Lothryn replied and nodded assurance when Wyl raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But he knew of Koreldy. The fact that he did not detect the witch magic in you is surprising. Cailech would certainly have shared with me any suspicion of Rashlyn’s that you were an impostor.”

Wyl shrugged. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“What shall we call you?” Elspyth wondered.

“Until we’re safe. I’d suggest you call me Romen,” Wyl said, picking up his pack.

“Come!” Lothryn said, helping Elspyth with her pack. “No more talking. Save strength—we’re all going to need it for Haldor’s Pass.”