Bridge of Souls (30 page)

“Get her out of here,” Liryk barked to one of his men.

“No, wait!” she begged. “Have you got the leaders?”

Liryk shook his head. “Are you up to helping us with that?”

“Can’t you see her wounds—”

Elspyth interrupted Crys. “It’s all right. Please. Ensuring their heads roll at the swipe of an ax means everything to me.”

“Good girl,” Liryk said, impressed, for he had seen the woman of Yentro’s injuries and knew they must be extremely painful. “Point them out.”

Crys helped Elspyth to her feet and wiped her face with a damp towel a nearby guard handed him. The cool water and the cleaning away of the blood revived her slightly.

“Come,” Liryk encouraged. “They’re rounded up outside.”

“What about the women?” she asked.

“They’re being taken care of,” Liryk assured her, then gave a low whistle. “I’m shocked by this. We had no idea of its extent.”

“You knew about it?” Elspyth could not help the accusation in her tone.

“Suspected it,” Liryk corrected. “But we’ve been waiting for something or someone to give us a lead to follow.”

Elspyth made a sound of disgust but said no more, feeling Crys’s slight pressure at her shoulder, suggesting she hold her tongue. She turned to follow Liryk, but when she tried to walk unaided she fell down.

Crys picked her up gently and Elspyth felt warmed by the sad smile on his face. “Let me support you, Elspyth, if you won’t permit me to carry you,” he said, and circled her waist loosely with his arm so she could lean against him as she needed to.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”

“Later,” Crys replied. “Let’s get this ugly business done.”

Outside, Elspyth pointed out the men who had led the betting and then took much pleasure in asking Crys to take her to where Ericson was trying to stand unnoticed in the mob.

“That’s him,” she said. “He calls himself Ericson. He is the leader of this rabble, the one who acquires the women for his sport.” She said the last word as if it was poison in her mouth.

Ericson was dragged from the crowd and bound and shackled alongside seven other men who had been involved.

“Is this it?” the Commander asked.

“Yes. The rest are just cruel onlookers.”

Liryk nodded wearily. “Right, men, hear me.” He addressed his soldiers. “I want proof of the name of each man here. If he has no proof, he will be executed. Those who provide proof are to receive forty lashes each. If they survive the whipping, they can drag their sorry arses home and explain it how they will. Remember,” he said, turning back to the prisoners, “we will have a record of your names and the towns you hail from. If you err again, at any time, your family will be stripped of its assets—homes, land, money, belongings. Is that clear?”

Elspyth saw the men blanch with fear on hearing about the physical ordeal ahead. Perhaps now they might understand a tiny measure of what they had put the captured women through. She had no sympathy in her heart for them, and won
dered what Liryk had in store for Ericson and his band of followers. She did not have to wait long.

“The leaders will have their heads removed from their bodies,” Liryk said, glaring at the cowardly Ericson, who visibly staggered at the sentence.

Silence gripped the crowd, soldiers and prisoners alike too stunned to make a sound.

“What are you waiting for?” Liryk said calmly to one of his captains.

“I’m sorry, sir. Do you mean now?”

“I do. All of these men are to watch, as a reminder that Briavel’s queen does not show mercy to those who break the most sacred laws of life.”

Despite her flagging strength, Elspyth had the energy to feel sorry for the Captain, who, to his credit, gave a crisp salute despite his sudden pallor. She stayed conscious long enough to bear witness to Ericson’s sobs as he was forced to kneel and lay his neck across a log. She looked around for his daughter, but the girl with the singsong voice was nowhere to be seen as the ax fell and her father’s head rolled from his body.

“They say the head knows it has been removed from the body for several seconds afterward,” Crys commented blandly, still supporting her with his arm.

“Good,” Elspyth mumbled, and, her strength gone, slumped against his shoulder.

W
YL WAS BROUGHT BACK INTO THE HALL OF THE
D
ONALS
,
WHERE AN AIR OF EXPECTANCY GREETED HIM
. H
E GLANCED AT
A
REMYS
’
S
stricken face and wished he could reassure his friend that death did not frighten him anymore. Any escape from the sheath of Ylena’s body was welcome.

At Jessom’s bidding, and with an awkward silence prevailing, he was taken by the two guards to a spot at one end of the chamber where his hands were tied to a timber framework, no doubt hastily erected for his benefit. His ankles, still manacled, were unnecessarily tied to the timbers as well.
This is novel,
he thought. Celimus was obviously getting more creative. He stared defiantly at the Morgravian King.

Celimus took a swig from his goblet. “The last of the great Thirsks, strung up for our pleasure, gentleman. Call in the archers,” he said, then glanced toward the stony-faced Mountain King. “Come on, Cailech, I thought you people were…” He paused.

“Barbaric?” Cailech offered.

Celimus smiled, sly and cunning. “Fun loving, I was going to say.”

Cailech did not reply. He turned to look at the intriguing woman and was met by a hard blue gaze, fiery with hatred and anger. He felt his breath catch, as it did each time he looked at her. He admired the defiance, her complete disregard and indeed disrespect for the company she was in, and the lack of fear for what she surely knew was coming. She had the courage of the Mountain People in her soul, he thought fanci
fully, caught by the golden hair that had fallen loose. Ylena Thirsk looked dirty and disheveled, but she was nonetheless desirable, he admitted to himself.

He had to look away from her fierce stare. “No trial?” he asked as two archers were brought in.

“None required,” Celimus said. “She pays the price for the treachery of the men of her family.”

“Shar won’t grant you forgiveness for this, you evil scum, Celimus. This is like the witch Myrren all over again, isn’t it?” Wyl forced out a laugh as the similarity of the situation struck him. He saw that it struck home with Celimus too and took pleasure in seeing the King flinch. “She got the better of you and so will I. I won’t scream, I won’t give you any satisfaction, you cowardly—”

“Shut her up!” Celimus ordered a soldier.

But Wyl was going to have his say, even as the embarrassed guard moved toward him. “Your father wished many times that my brother could be King, so you got rid of both of them—and the King of Briavel, Romen Koreldy, and the Donal family. Watch out, Cailech, he’ll be planning to kill you next. And no doubt his bride. He’ll slaughter everyone until—”

Ylena’s mouth was bound. Although he could not make himself understood, Wyl continued to rage at the man who had destroyed the lives of so many good, loyal people of Morgravia. He saw Cailech shake his head, noticed that the Razor King wore an expression of wonder.

“Where are you going, Aremys Farrow?” Celimus asked loudly over Ylena’s accusations. “Be quiet, Ylena, or I’ll slash your mouth so it can’t move properly.”

Wyl quieted. He had promised himself he would keep Ylena as unmarked as he could. There was nothing more to be achieved anyway by his unintelligible ravings. He joined everyone else in the chamber in looking toward the mercenary.

Aremys had hoped no one would notice him slipping away from the hall. He could not witness this. “Apologies, sire. I thought I should go and check on the horses so that we would be ready to move out after the…entertainment.”

“Everything will be readied for your departure, Farrow. I’d prefer you to stay. In fact I rather thought you’d like to see your prey be felled.”

“Not in this manner, sire,” Aremys risked.

Celimus did not react as Aremys thought he would. In truth, the King was enjoying everyone’s discomfort. “Your king has remained, and as this is in his honor, I expect you to share in this gift,” he ordered.

“Of course, sire. As you wish,” Aremys said, glancing toward Ylena and privately agreeing that it was probably for the best. He would need to know which of these men Wyl would become. And then a chilling thought occurred to him. Did Myrren’s Gift work only if Wyl was slain by hand—that is, if someone was physically connected to the weapon? His mind raced. Wyl had never mentioned it, but then perhaps Wyl did not know! Koreldy had been killed by Faryl, who had plunged a knife into his heart with her own hand. Faryl had been killed by Ylena, who had held the blade that slashed the assassin’s throat. If Celimus was planning to loose arrows into Ylena, no one would be connected to the weapon when it landed in her body. Ylena would surely die…but perhaps so would Wyl.

The sense that he had stumbled across something important so terrified Aremys that he shouted into the thick, expectant silence: “Sire!”

“Yes, Farrow?” the King said, his temper rising.

Aremys looked at Ylena and then at Cailech—saw the Mountain King frown and knew he suspected something between him and the woman. “King Celimus,” he began, clearing his throat nervously, “this is a messy end, sire, particularly for a celebration. Why don’t I just take her out the back and kill her for you?”

“You had your chance, Farrow. Now I will show you how to finish a job.”

“But, your majesty…” His words died away and he felt a twinge of fear as Celimus turned to stare at him, no longer indulgent toward the emissary of the Mountain King, no longer prepared to be generous.

“Don’t push me Grenadyne, or you’ll find yourself staked out like the Lady Ylena there.”

“I would have to object to such treatment of a protected guest,” Cailech warned icily, nodding at Aremys to continue.

“Let me finish what you asked me to do, King Celimus. I will cut her throat here and now before you.” It was his last desperate try. At least he could be sure Wyl would live on.

Celimus found himself cornered. He wanted to have some fun with Ylena’s death, but he could tell he had overstepped the mark where Cailech was concerned in threatening Farrow. He knew from the expression on Jessom’s face that the Chancellor was urging him to take the easy way out: have the mercenary finish off the woman. He was angry but this was not the time or place to make a scene.

“Well, at least her blood will not be on my hands.” He smiled. “Go ahead, Farrow. Finish the job I paid you to do.”

Aremys risked a glance of thanks toward Cailech, convinced that without the Mountain King’s timely comment and brittle tone, Celimus might not have relented. Cailech returned the gaze with an expression of utter bafflement.

“I will need a blade, sire,” Aremys said.

Celimus gave an order and one of the soldiers at Ylena’s side pulled a mean-looking knife from his belt. “It’s sharp,” he murmured. “Make it quick.”

Aremys nodded. Everyone wanted this ugliness done with. He took a deep breath. This was it. He was about to die, to sacrifice his body to Wyl. He stood close to Ylena. “As One,” he said, and grinned sadly at the irony of the words. He saw the tears well in her eyes as she heard the Thirsk family motto.

Aremys raised the blade, knowing precisely where to strike to slash the jugular for a swift death. As he did, however, Ylena began to scream and struggle desperately.

“Arrow! Arrow!” Wyl shrieked in Ylena’s high voice, determined to stop his good friend from giving up his own life.

“What’s she saying?” the Morgravian King inquired, determined to drag out the agony.

“She’s simply yelling my name,” Aremys answered.

“Er, I think she’s saying ’arrow,’ sire,” one of the guards objected.

“Oh, perhaps she’d prefer to be killed by the archers?”

“No, sire,” Aremys said as firmly as he dared. “This is best.”

“Wait!” the King replied. “Let’s ask her. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it?” He cast an appealing glance around the hall, playing the magnanimous sovereign.

Aremys glared at Wyl. “You fool,” he said angrily, under his breath.

The guard ripped away the bindings around Ylena’s mouth.

“Step aside, Farrow,” Celimus said, enjoying himself hugely. The big man did so reluctantly, but not before glaring at Cailech, who frowned again, taking in all the strange nuances of behavior on display here.

“Ylena,” Celimus said; it sounded almost tender. “As a final act of generosity toward your family, I’m going to allow you to choose how you die: by Farrow’s blade across your throat or by an arrow fired by one of my expert archers?”

“By the arrow,” Wyl said fiercely, not daring to look at Aremys.

“As we suspected. Good choice, Ylena,” Celimus replied, stopping just short of rubbing his hands in glee. “Thank you, Farrow. It seems your job is complete. Move away.”

This time Aremys looked at no one as he returned to his spot near the door. He stared at the ground. He would not watch Wyl die.

“Ylena, my dear, I did have some sport planned with the archers, but as everyone here seems to want you to have a speedy end, I’ll send them away and instead I will do the necessary.”

“As you wish,” Wyl replied without blinking, knowing he was spoiling Celimus’s fun by being so accepting. It worked. The King’s face darkened with a scowl.

“Give me a bow!” Celimus said, his tone furious. “Let’s finish this.”

“Why don’t we?” Wyl said, in the most bored tone he could achieve. He could hardly believe his luck that Celimus had
chosen to do the deed. He would become the Morgravian King within the next few moments, and much as he hated the thought of living as Celimus, what pleasure it would be to finally kill him. “Hurry up, sire! I am eager to be gone from here.” He saw Cailech give a grin of astonishment at Ylena’s bravado. Celimus took aim. Wyl switched his attention briefly to Aremys, but his friend refused to look at him. Wyl could not understand why: Aremys knew he would live again, this time as King.

“Farewell, Ylena Thirsk. May Shar send you to wherever your predecessors have ended their days.” Celimus stretched the bowstring taut. “Heart or eye? Or shall I let it be a surprise?” he asked with a cruel smile. Everyone could hear the slight strain in his voice caused by holding back the string so tightly.

Wyl refused to answer and instead closed his eyes. Celimus was an excellent shot.

Cailech’s astonishment erupted. This woman was extraordinary; she should not be wasted in this manner. Ylena Thirsk stirred more emotion in him than any woman had in his entire life. Cailech had been accused of being cold toward women, but that was not true. He liked women well enough; he just had never met anyone who truly excited him. But Ylena Thirsk provoked in him a swirl of inexplicable feelings. He wanted this woman! And he was not about to let her die trussed like an animal at the end of one of Celimus’s arrows.

He moved fast as a pouncing cat and pushed the Morgravian King’s wrist up just as the arrow was loosed. It shot high into the air of the hall, burying itself with a resounding thump in a solid beam overhead. Everyone followed the quivering motion of the shaft, not sure whether to be horrified by Cailech’s action or relieved. Wyl opened Ylena’s eyes with angry disbelief. Aremys had to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from clapping.

Celimus turned the darkest of stares onto his fellow king.

“I’ve just decided about that gift you offered me, Celimus.”

The Morgravian’s expression did not change, nor did he utter a word in response.

“I want her,” Cailech said, pointing toward Ylena.

“What?” Celimus roared.

“You heard me,” Cailech replied calmly. “I shall take Ylena Thirsk from you. She will travel with us high into the Razors and will never trouble you again.”

“What possible interest could you have in her?”

“I’m sure if you think about it long enough, you’ll work it out,” Cailech said, winking.

Impossibly, Celimus began to laugh. Jessom slowly let out his tightly held breath. Cailech had certainly taken a risk, but the Chancellor could not think of a better way to handle this situation. Had he not suggested to Celimus that he marry Ylena off to a Mountain warrior? There would be little chance of her escaping the Razors, and once the royal marriage was complete, no one would care about the Thirsk name, so deliriously happy would they all be that Morgravia and Briavel were unified. “My lord, this is an opportunity,” he risked.

Cailech grinned. “You see, Celimus, even your own counsel likes the idea.”

Wyl began to rage, Ylena’s voice becoming hysterical. “You bastard! You killed my brother and I’ll see you in hell for that. Let me die. I want to die!”

“Oh, someone get her out of here,” Celimus said, more exasperated now than angry. He could not help but like Cailech’s idea as he watched Ylena being dragged away.

“You did promise me a gift. Anything, you said,” Cailech reminded him.

“That’s true, I did,” Celimus agreed, looking at Cailech. “There would have to be conditions, though. Koreldy tried something similar.”

“I am not Koreldy.” Cailech bristled.

“Why do you want her?”

“Why would any red-blooded man want her? Does she not affect you so?”

“No. Her mere name sickens me.”

“All the better for me, Celimus. I think she’s a beauty. Let us truly bind ourselves in our treaty—I will take a Morgravian as my wife.”

“Your wife?” Celimus exclaimed, unable to hide his incredulity.

“Yes, why not?” Cailech was grinning widely now. He glanced at Aremys, who could hardly keep his own smile in check.

“You jest, surely?”

“I never jest about anything so grave as the sacrament of marriage. If you can marry a Briavellian, Celimus, why shouldn’t I complete the triangle of our realms and marry a Morgravian?”

“Why not indeed, sire?” Jessom said, daring to join the conversation. “It is indeed a perfect union.” His eyes pleaded with his king. This was better than any of them could have dreamed. Surely Celimus could see that?

“There would be conditions,” Celimus said again, frowning as his agile mind ran through this new turn of events.