Myrren's Gift (49 page)

There was so much to say. so much to tell him. Wyl felt the bleakness grab him again. “You will die! It will be for nought.”

Gueryn smiled in a way that reminded Wyl of all the reasons he loved this man. “I’d far rather die outwitting these bastards—forgive me. Lothryn—than be roasted over their coals. I’ll make them kill me.

son, and I’ll die laughing in their faces. Please, go. Let me do this for you as my thanks for getting me out of that dungeon.”

Lothryn felt for Koreldy’s pain. “It’s a good plan, Romen.” Wyl looked back at his old friend and mentor, fighting back the emotion, demanding that the tears he felt welling did not show themselves for he could not explain them anyway. He nodded. “So be it.” Gueryn held out his hand to Wyl. “I will take the horses as far as my ailing body can get them and still further. You obviously knew someone very special to me called Wyl Thirsk. Looking forward to hearing his story and how he fares will encourage me to live. Perhaps we might meet again. Koreldy…if not in this life, then the next.”

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.