Stormwielder - Chapter 12
Caelin slowly pulled himself to his feet. The dragon loomed over him; scales gleaming, fangs bared, eyes glaring, but Caelin ignored it...
The Sword of Light is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. Leap into an epic adventure as a young man cursed with terrible power must master his abilities in order to save the world. You can find my other books on my website.
For five hundred years the Gods have united the Three Lands in harmony. Now that balance has been shattered, and chaos threatens.
A town burns and flames light the night sky. Hunted and alone, seventeen year old Eric flees through the wreckage. The mob grows closer, baying for the blood of their tormentor. Guilt weighs on his soul, but he cannot stop, cannot turn back. If he stops, they die.
For two years he has carried this curse, bringing death and destruction wherever he goes. But now there is another searching for him – one who offers salvation. His name is Alastair, and he knows the true nature of the curse. Magic.
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Caelin slowly pulled himself to his feet. The dragon loomed over him; scales gleaming, fangs bared, eyes glaring, but Caelin ignored it. Turning, he sprinted for the sea. The surf roared up to meet him as he dove over the waves. Salty water stung his eyes as he searched for Alastair.
He bobbed the surface moments later with Alastair slung over his shoulders. Straining beneath the old man’s weight, he dragged himself back to the shore and up the beach. He dumped the old man to the sand and collapsed beside him, gasping for breath. Alastair gave a hacking cough as he fell, and water gushed from his mouth.
Balistor appeared at his side. “Is he okay?”
Caelin nodded, shivering in the brisk sea breeze. He glanced back at the dragon and the girl who rode it. It was an astonishing sight, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the irony. After all they had gone through to find her, it had been Enala who’d saved them.
“Gods, what can’t the old man survive?” Balistor muttered.
“I’m going to talk to her,” Caelin nodded to Balistor. “Look after him.”
Standing, he walked towards the dragon. The golden scales glistened in the morning sunlight as the giant head turned to watch him, its eyes alive with intelligence. The jaws cracked open, revealing rows of dagger-length teeth. A gust of wind carried with it the stench of rotting fish.
Caelin shivered. Alastair’s blade lay on the sand nearby, and reaching down he scooped it up. The dragon growled in warning, but he lifted it slowly, an arm raised in submission, and slid it into his empty scabbard. Showing his hands, he continued forwards.
As he moved, his gaze drifted to where Eric lay. Michael and Inken crouched at his side, but even from this distance he could see the gaping wound, and the blood staining the sand. He fought off tears.
Summoning his resolve, he turned back to Enala. The girl glared down at him, her crystal eyes following his approach. Her blond hair fluttered in the breeze and he noticed now the copper lock dangling across her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes.
When Caelin reached the dragon, he dropped into a low bow. It had been a long time since anyone had visited the tribes, but he knew the courtesies expected.
“Who are you?” Enala demanded.
Caelin frowned, his curiosity mounting. As a rule, Gold dragons did not allow people to ride them. Even during Archon’s war, it had been a rare occurrence. Even so, he knew the correct etiquette. Ignoring the girl’s question, he addressed the dragon first.
“Dragon, my name is Caelin, Sergeant of the Plorsean army,” he announced formally. “I know the name of the one you carry, but may I enquire as to yours?”
Air hissed from the dragon’s nose in what might have been laughter. “Well met, Sergeant,” a rumble came from its throat. “I am Nerissa.”
“Nerissa, pardon my curiosity; but why do you bear this girl?”
Again the snort. “Her parents visited this place often when she was young. Her blood is old. She may ride with us, for we still honour the pact made by her ancestors. She and I have flown together many times.”
Caelin nodded. Nerissa spoke of the pact King Thomas had forged after Archon’s war. The dragon had confirmed Enala was truly the relative of the ancient king.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” Enala grated, her eyes flashing dangerously.
He bent his head. “My apologies. As I have already said, my name is Caelin. But these are the hunter Inken, Magickers Balistor and Alastair, and the apprentice, Eric,” he pointed to each of them in turn and then looked up at the girl. “And we are here for you, Enala.”
The girl stiffened. The dragon dropped into a crouch, a low growl rumbling up from its chest. Sand crunched beneath its claws as it stepped towards him. A tongue of flame licked the sand.
Caelin raised his hands, fighting back the instinct to draw Alastair’s sword. “Wait! We mean you no harm, Enala.”
“That is all anyone wishes for me,” her lips curled back in a snarl.
“Please, let me speak. We came here to help you!”
Enala paused, her nostrils flaring. She leaned closer, though she sat high above him, and her gaze seemed to look right through him. “And how did you plan to help me, Caelin? When you cannot even help yourselves?” she gave a cruel laugh.
Caelin’s cheeks flushed, but he pushed on. “There are people hunting for you, Enala. Servants of Archon who want you dead.”
The laughter died. “Archon?”
“Yes.”
“What would he want with me?” her voice was hesitant now, touched by fear.
“You’re a threat to him,” Caelin said softly. “You are the last descendent of Aria, sister to the old King Thomas. And you are the only one who can wield the Sword of Light.”
Enala’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You must come with us, Enala. The Three Nations need you.”
Her eyes hardened. “There is nothing for me there now. Everything and everyone I ever loved is gone. I am safe here with Nerissa. So, Caelin, why should I care?”
Caelin gaped. He had come too far to care for the ravings of a selfish teenager. Whatever Enala had been through, he would not allow her to abandon her nation.
“Why should you care?” he shouted. “Because people will die. Because without you there is nothing to stop Archon from unleashing his terror on our world. Because if you don’t, a thousand other children will lose their parents, just as you have.”
Enala stared down at him, her face expressionless.
Balistor stared up at the arrogant young girl. She sat there on her dragon: beautiful, brave, naïve. Did she really believe she would be safe here from Archon? The dark Magicker had the power to turn a dragon to dust if he chose. There would be no escaping him once he came, and so long as Enala lived, she was a threat to his plans.
So she had to die.
Smiling, Balistor shook his head, still unable to believe his luck. He had finally found her. Not only that, her arrival had saved him from his master’s wrath. Now, her death would redeem him. The only obstacle left to surmount was the dragon, and fortunately, he had a piece of dark magic that might just have the power he needed.
He looked down at Alastair, lying so weak at his feet. The deception had been easier than he could have believed. How desperate the old man had been for help—he had never even questioned Balistor’s story.
His anger flared then, as he recalled the disaster at the inn. He had lost track of time, and the hunters had stormed the building before he had the information he’d needed. It wouldn’t have mattered, except one of the fools had shot him in the back without recognising him. The fool had stopped him from burning them all alive in the haystack. Instead, the fire had caught the window as he slipped out, preventing the hunters from following them. By the time he’d recovered, they were a long way from his hired help, and there’d been no choice but to go along with the fools.
Even then, the bounty hunters might still have been successful if it weren’t for Inken. For her betrayal, he would ensure she endured a long, painful death. He smiled, pausing to appreciate her heartbroken sobs.
“She’s the one,” Alastair coughed, a smile on his lips. Then the old man closed his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.
Balistor shook his head, suddenly thankful each of his traps had failed. They had shown him one thing—not to underestimate the old Magicker. His strength was phenomenal, even at the edge of exhaustion. He’d thought the ploy with the Red dragon, tricking the company into camping in its nest, would have finished him, but somehow the old man had survived.
It seemed whatever he faced, Alastair would find a way to triumph.
Not this time, Balistor smirked. The girl’s sweet throat will have to wait.
Reaching down, he drew his sword.
Inken’s eyes burned. Her throat was hoarse from crying, her shirt soaked with tears. Sitting on the soft sand, she cradled Eric’s head in her lap and gently stroked his hair. His blue eyes stared blankly up at her, flickering with whatever waking dream had taken him. His body shook, and his skin was cold to touch. When he coughed, red foam dripped down his chin.
She wiped the blood away with her sleeve. “Please, Eric, stay with us.”
Michael laid a hand on her shoulder. The doctor had done his best to stem the bleeding, but they all knew the wound was mortal. “I can give him something to ease his passing, Inken.”
“No!” she screamed at him. “No, no, no!” she sobbed.
Michael shrank back from her wrath, and she instantly regretted the outburst. All she wanted was for someone to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right.
Eric coughed again, and his brow creased in pain. Then he blinked, and his gaze caught hers. “Don’t worry, Inken,” he gasped. “It’s...going to be okay.”
Inken leaned close and kissed him. “Don’t you leave me,” she whispered.
Eric’s eyes slid down the beach. His skin was a pallid grey, his lips blue, but still he smiled. “We found her, Inken. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Inken couldn’t bring herself to smile back. The demon’s blade had pierced Eric’s lung, leaving him to drown in his own blood. The wound was beyond any doctor’s skill to heal.
As she watched, Eric’s grin faded. He struggled to raise his arm. A spasm swept through him, and a cough rattled up from his chest. Red flecks stained her shirt as he wheezed, but through his coughs, she made out one word.
“Alastair!”
Inken shook her head, not understanding. Turning, she looked at the rest of their fellowship.
Down the beach, above the raging surf, Balistor stood over Alastair. His sword was in his hand. She watched as he raised it above his head.
“Caelin!” she shrieked.
Caelin heard his name over the roar of the surf. Looking up, he saw Inken pointing at him. No, not at him—behind him. He spun, driven by the stark terror on her face.
Balistor stood beside Alastair, his sword poised over the unconscious Magicker. He had frozen at Inken’s cry, his eyes wide, uncertain. Then his gaze flickered to where Caelin stood, and a grin spread across his thin lips. The sword lanced down.
Time seemed to slow, and Caelin watched helpless as the sword descended. He heard the crash of a wave on the beach, the great whoosh of the dragon’s breath, Enala’s gasp, Inken’s painful sob. He saw the hate in Balistor’s eyes—the hate he should have seen long ago. A ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, catching on Balistor’s sword, and for a second it seemed as though the traitor held the Sword of Light itself.
Then the blade plunged home, burying itself in Alastair’s chest, and the light died.
Alastair lurched against the blade. One last gasp escaped him, and then he slumped against the black sand.
Balistor wrenched back his blade and began to cackle. Blood dripped from his sword tip and a pool was already gathering around Alastair. His laughter carried across the beach, fuel to Caelin’s fury.
“Traitor!” he drew the sword he had gathered from the beach.
Balistor walked calmly towards him, his smile unchanged. “Traitor? No, I don’t think so. Spy would be more apt. I never served your king—only Archon. Thankfully, you’re a gullible fool, Caelin.”
Caelin gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to attack. Nothing made sense here.
“Who are you?” he hissed.
Balistor smirked. “Perhaps Inken might recognise me,” he waved a hand. His purple robes darkened to black.
“You!” Caelin heard Inken hiss, but he did not take his eyes from Balistor.
“Still cannot guess, Caelin? I am the one who hired Inken and her friends, the one who has been hunting you. And this time, you won’t escape.”
The pieces began to click together. “All this time?” he choked.
Balistor continued his march up the beach. “Yes, although I wanted to be done with you all at the inn. An unfortunate series of events ruined up my plan - Inken’s interference most of all,” his eyes swept across to where Inken crouched. “And believe me, Inken, you will scream for mercy before you die.”
Inken growled. “Not if I kill you first.”
Balistor laughed, ignoring her threat. “Still, things have worked out well in the end. You have helped to shame my rival, and led me straight to the girl.”
“And do you think this girl is going to die so easily?” Enala hissed. Nerissa’s jaws stretched wide, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp teeth.
Balistor only grinned. With his free hand, he reached inside his cloak. Caelin stepped towards him, but Balistor’s hand whipped back out. Flames licked from his fingertips and rushed at him. Caelin threw himself back, and the ground at his feet exploded, sending sand sizzling through the air.
“Stay back, Caelin. Your turn will come.” His hand disappeared back into the cloak and drew out a glass sphere.
Caelin stared at the alien object. Dark mist roiled within, clawing at the glass with smoky fingers. A sickly green glow seeped from it, and a dreadful humming rang in his ears.
“I’ve been waiting to use this for a long time. Here, Enala, a gift from Archon,” he tossed the ball in her direction.
The globe tumbled through the air. Nerissa reared back as the globe shattered against her head. A muffled explosion rang out, and a black cloud rushed from the glass to engulf the dragon’s head. Nerissa roared. Rising up on her hind legs, she clawed at the dark fog, her head shaking as she tried to dislodge the cloying magic. On her back, Enala lost her grip and screamed as she tumbled to the sand. Winded and gasping for air, she struggled to find her feet.
Above, the darkness still writhed around the dragon’s head. Nerissa’s claws slashed and tore at it, but the cloud was like a living thing, reforming with each attempt. It clung to the dragon’s face, robbing her of sight, of smell, of air.
Her movements grew more violent and distressed. The great head shook, jaws opening to bellow her defiance. The greasy poison poured down her throat, cutting off the sound. She stumbled across the sand, wings clawing the air, her struggles growing ever weaker.
Caelin could only watch in helpless terror. Beneath the beast, Enala sat frozen, staring up at her dying dragon.
Suddenly Nerissa grew still, the last of her strength fading away. She began to sway. Then she was falling, toppling straight towards Enala. The girl did not move, did not seem bothered by her impending death. She looked up at the dragon, on her knees, and watched the massive body descend.
Caelin was already moving, the sand slipping beneath his feet, as he leapt at the girl. His neck tingled as the dragon’s shadow fell on him, then he was tackling the girl, hurling them both from the path of the dragon’s fall. A wave of coarse black sand billowed out as the beast crashed to the ground behind them. Caelin lay over the girl, shielding her from the dragon’s death throes.
When the beast finally stilled, Caelin picked himself up, leaving Enala where she lay. The giant body of Nerissa lay nearby, still as a statue. The evil smoke had dissipated, and the glassy globes of her eyes stared at him, blank and devoid of life.
On the ground, Enala opened her eyes and saw Nerissa lying there. A wave swept through her tiny body, a great shuddering jolt, as though something within her had been shattered into a thousand pieces. Enala rolled into a ball and began to sob, the quiet whispers mere hints of her sorrow.
But Caelin had no time to worry about her grief. He picked up Alastair’s sword and stood over the helpless girl, waiting for Balistor to come.
The traitor walked calmly up onto Nerissa’s stomach, grinning as he saw them. Caelin gripped his sword tighter as the Magicker began to clap. His cold eyes watched them, his grin dismissing Caelin as a spider would a fly.
Yet Caelin would not back down—he would fight to his dying breath to protect the girl.
“Well done, Caelin. For a moment, I thought I’d killed two birds with one stone. As ever though, you do not fail to impress. Sadly though, it is time for this mockery to end,” as he spoke, flames spread along his arm and leapt at Caelin.
Caelin flinched and lifted Alastair’s sword. Fire crackled, filling the air, too fast for him to avoid. It struck Alastair’s blade—and vanished.
A sudden silence stretched out as Caelin blinked, staring at the sword. He ran a finger along the steel, and found it cool to the touch.
Breath hissed between Balistor’s teeth. “Ah, Alastair’s sword. It will make a nice memento.”
“Come and get it,” Caelin grinned, slipping into a fighting stance and waving the Magicker on.
Balistor lifted his blade and touched a hand to it. Fire leapt along its length and spread across his arm and chest, until it covered his entire body in a blazing suit of armour. Heat radiated from him in waves, forcing Caelin back. He squinted against the flaming light, and laughed.
“Do you think those flames will stop my blade?” he mocked.
If Balistor replied, Caelin did not hear him over the flames. But his foe’s sword flicked out, burning a streak across his vision. Metal clashed as he caught the blow on Alastair’s blade and turned it aside. Embers sprayed across his face, and he raised an arm to protect his eyes from the smouldering rain. He slid backwards, sword slashing out to cover his retreat.
Balistor pressed his advantage. Heat radiated from him in a stifling cloud and smoke filled the air, making it a struggle just to breathe. Sweat trickled down Caelin’s face and into his eyes. His clothes, drenched just minutes ago by the ocean, were already dry. But he focused his mind against the discomfort, and blocked each blow with cool efficiency.
Yet as the fight continued, he could feel the heat sapping his strength. His attacks were already growing feeble, and while Alastair’s sword protected him from direct attacks, it could not be everywhere. Each time the blades met, flames erupted between them. The cinders caught in his shirt and left scorch marks on his skin, forcing him to retreat.
Then Inken appeared from nowhere, an arrow already nocked to her bow. Before either could react, she loosed. The arrow hissed through the air, coming within a foot of Balistor before a tongue of flame lashed out to catch it. The shaft fell to the ground as ash.
Balistor lashed out with his sword, forcing Caelin back, then spun and hurled a wave of fire at Inken. It struck her in the chest, throwing her to the ground. She spun through the sand, fighting to beat out the flames. When they finally died, she collapsed to the beach and did not rise again.
Caelin turned in time to block a decapitating blow. Heat swamped him. It was like fighting in a furnace. The flames sucked away all moisture, burning his skin and leaving his lips cracking with each inhalation. His strength was running out. He needed to end the fight quickly, or he would have nothing left to give.
The burning sword came at him again. Caelin leaned back and the blade sliced past. Then he spun on his heel, his own weapon seeking flesh. Balistor wrenched back—but not fast enough. Alastair’s blade streaked through the flaming armour and found flesh. The stench of burning blood followed, but the wound was not mortal.
Now Balistor’s blade lanced at his side, faster, harder, and Caelin barely had the strength to leap back. Balistor charged after him, angry now, and before Caelin could react the burning sword swept beneath his guard. The red-hot blade tore across his chest, burning as it went. Caelin screamed.
Agony swept through his body, chasing away the last of his strength. Balistor raised his sword, and Caelin stumbled backwards, his legs trembling with each step.
Balistor laughed. “And now the mighty Caelin flees. Did I not tell you how useless a sword is amongst Magickers?”
Caelin staggered, the heat burning deeper into his chest. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep his feet.
I cannot fail, but the thought alone was not enough, and his legs crumpled.
Looking up from his hands and knees, Caelin watched Balistor approach. “Ah, the great swordsman humbled. I am glad to see the day,” he placed the burning sword against Caelin’s neck.
Caelin shrieked as flames licked his flesh. He flinched away, his hands reaching down to scoop up a fistful of sand. As Balistor raised his sword, Caelin hurled the sand at his foe’s face. It disappeared through the mask of fire.
Balistor reared back and an awful scream came from beneath the flames. His sword tumbled to the ground as he reached for his face. Another shriek echoed off the cliffs, and he fell to the ground, clawing at his face as though his eyes were aflame.
Caelin did not stop to question the turn of fortune. Staggering forward, he lifted Alastair’s blade and drove it through the traitor’s chest. The screams cut off suddenly, the flames dying away to nothing as he wrenched back the sword.
He gasped as Balistor’s face was revealed. The sand he’d thrown had liquefied in the flames, covering Balistor’s face in molten glass. It had congealed in his mouth and nose and eyes, the skin blistering beneath, his eyes burnt black. Caelin’s stomach churned as he smelt the burning flesh and hair. Suppressing a scream of his own, he turned away.
Crouched on the black sand, he looked around the bloody battleground. The dragon’s body loomed nearby, Enala still catatonic beside it. Beyond, Alastair lay alone on the sand, while further up the beach, Inken had managed to crawl back to Eric’s side. A breeze blew across the beach, carrying with it the stench of ash, the reek of their ruin.
Caelin’s eyes drifted back to Enala. She was the one they had sought, the one who would save them all. Yet in saving her, they had paid a toll beyond what anyone had expected. And who was Enala but a young, inexperienced girl? How was she to stand against the powers of Archon?
Was she really worth this?
Waves crashed down on the black shores. The glow of the evening star shone on the horizon, its light beckoning them into the dark. Night was close. Eric would not live to see the sunrise.
Michael watched the young couple, his heart breaking. For the thousandth time in his short life, he wished the Goddess had gifted him the magic to heal. All his life he had studied the art of healing, but his skills were next to useless beside those with magic. A healer might save the boy—but Michael was powerless.
He was amazed the boy even still lived. Through sheer courage Eric fought on, his eyes locked with Inken’s. The girl refused to leave his side. Young love, fleeting as it could be, was fierce. Even so, it would not be long now. Closing his eyes, Michael fought back tears.
I told them, he raged. I told them it was folly, but I never imagined…
Michael looked back at them. The boy fought for every breath now. Liquid rattled in his chest, blood drowning his lungs. The wound had been patched, but the bleeding continued within. He did not have the skill to repair such damage.
“Michael, help!” Inken cried, desperate.
The girl’s voice tore Michael from his despair. He joined them and together they shifted Eric onto his side. His breathing eased, but a moment later he began to cough again. Michael saw the terror in Eric’s eyes and glanced at Inken. The girl’s eyes were red, but there were no more tears. Her face was burnt and bruised from battle. Her eyes pleaded for him to help.
“I’m sorry, Inken. I don’t think it will be long now.”
“No,” she whispered.
Michael moved away, unable to bear her grief. He saw the accusation in her eyes.
Why?
He looked over at Enala, the girl who had drawn them to this place. She sat stone faced, hands around her knees, rocking back and forth on the sand. She had not spoken in hours. No one could break her from the trance, and Michael was not game to try again.
Moving into the trees, he sought the calming touch of nature. A cloud of insects rose to greet him as he sat, but he ignored their tiny bites, seeking to immerse himself in the sounds and smells of the earth, to reconnect with his Element. It felt as though years had passed since he’d left the temple. He missed the simplicity of his life there, the rareness of death. Today’s slaughter made no sense to him.
“Why, Antonia? Why did this happen?” he whispered to the forest.
“Because I failed,” a tiny voice spoke behind him, heavy with sorrow.
Michael turned his head. A young girl walked towards him, bathed in a faint green light. Her feet crunched on the hard leaves, her violet eyes staring at him from beneath a fringe of silky brown hair. Faint freckles spotted her cheeks and her lips were twisted in sadness. She looked nothing like the paintings in the temple, but there was no mistaking her.
This could only be Antonia, Goddess of Plorsea.
Michael fell to his knees, head bowed and arms out before him.
Elynbrigge told the truth! He could not believe it.
To his shock, Antonia began to sob. “Get up, you fool. Please, no more.”
He looked up. There were tears on the Goddess’ cheeks. He noticed now the rips and scorch marks on her blue dress, the shadows beneath her eyes. She staggered towards him, and started to fall.
Michael leaned forward and caught her before she struck the ground. She seemed to float in his hands, the fabric of her dress slipping through his fingers like mist.
Antonia sighed and her violet eyes caught his. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes closed again. He thought she had lost consciousness, until she spoke again. “I’m too late. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Damn you, Archon.”
She ran her hands through her hair, her fingers twisting violently in the long strands. Her voice was weary. “He attacked, testing what remains of the banishment we cast. He was only probing, toying with us—but his strength! We could hardly hold him back. And while we fought him, his demon struck. He knew, he planned it all,” her voice cracked, but whether from rage or grief, he could not tell.
Michael sat speechless. He held her in his arms, cradling her as though she were some great treasure. It felt like blasphemy just to touch her.
Then he remembered Eric, lying in agony, so close to death. Yet Antonia was exhausted, at the end of her strength. Dare he ask?
He summoned his courage. “Antonia, there is a boy, Eric. He is dying. Can you save him?”
Antonia nodded and lifted herself from Michael’s arms. “Yes, of course. It’s not over yet. Take me to Eric, Michael. He I can save.”
Michael’s heart lurched. “Really?”
Antonia stalked past, dismissing his question. Her movements were steady now. She had shrugged off her fatigue, and now it was all Michael could do to stumble after her.
Eric and Inken lay where he had left them. Inken still knelt beside him, but Eric’s eyes had closed, and Michael’s chest clenched at the sight. Were they too late?
Inken spun as she heard their footsteps. Her eyes fixed on Antonia, and she started to stand, reaching for her hunting knife.
“Don’t worry, Inken. Everything will be okay,” Antonia reached out with her hand and tapped the girl’s forehead. Inken slumped to the sand, fast asleep.
Antonia looked at Michael. “This may take some time. There is more than just Eric’s physical injuries to heal. Help Caelin build up a fire and find some food. He will be hungry.”
Then she turned her back and leaned over Eric. Reaching down, she placed both hands on his chest. Her eyes closed and light leapt from nowhere to bathe them both. The air hummed with power.
Michael drew a deep, shuddering breath and turned away. He moved to help Caelin.
Eric was lost.
Every way he turned, darkness rose to meet him. And in that darkness, creatures danced, just out of sight. A low growl sounded, and whirling, he ran—unsure where he was going, but knowing he must escape. From behind him came the clack of claws on stone, as the creatures gave chase.
A tide of anger washed over him, seeping from the shadows. He could sense the creatures hunting him, taste their bloodlust. Hatred swept through his core, though he knew it was not his own. It fed his terror, driving him on through the darkness.
His legs were like lead, and pain blossomed in his muscles, but he could not stop. He knew with a strange, undeniable certainty that if he stopped, the hounds would catch him—and his life would end.
He raced on, his surroundings unchanging. He saw no trees or boulders or landmarks, no sun or moon to distinguish direction, just the ever-shifting darkness. And the barking of the hounds, growing louder. He searched desperately for an escape. Somewhere in this nightmare, there must be salvation. An image of Inken rose in his mind and he clung to it like a lifeline.
Ahead, a shape loomed in the darkness. Despair touched him as he slowed, staring at the cliff stretching across his path. Its face was sheer, unclimbable. As he reached it he pressed his hands to the cold stone, shaking with fear. There was no going on. His body could go no farther anyway. Gasping for breath, he turned, and looked out into the empty darkness.
Except it was not empty. Movement came, and deep growls echoed from the stone cliffs. Glowing red eyes appeared, followed by the shaggy bodies of the wolves. They emerged from the shadows—the demon’s slaves.
Eric watched them come, preparing himself for the end. There was no fight left in him, nothing left for him to give. His last glimmer of hope fluttered away. Leaning back against the cool stone, he closed his eyes, and waited.
The wolves howled. Eric shivered and scrunched his eyes tighter. Claws scraped on stone. They barked as they leapt.
A flash of light burst through Eric’s eyelids. He squinted against the glare, and saw a shining figure stalk through the shadows. Tall and shimmering with power, robes of pure white spilled out around the figure. By the man’s glow, Eric saw one wolf already lay dead. The others shrank back, growling.
Eric’s stomach clenched as the figure turned towards him. Their eyes met, and Alastair smiled, his face filled with warmth. The lines of age were gone, his power restored. Looking back at the wolves, Alastair raised a hand. Light shone out, and the wolves leapt back. But they were too slow, and as the light touched them, they collapsed without sound.
With the beasts vanquished, Alastair moved to Eric’s side. Raising a pale hand, he placed it on Eric’s head. Warmth spread through his body. “You’re safe now, Eric. Antonia has healed your wounds—life awaits you.”
“And you?”
Alastair’s smile faded. “My time is over. But yours is just beginning, Eric. Enjoy it; fill it with love and family and friendship. Do not repeat my mistakes. I wish you well,” he began to fade away.
“Alastair, wait!” Eric cried out, desperate.
“Yes?”
“Thank you!”
Alastair smiled, and vanished.
Antonia walked from the gloom. She offered him a pale white hand. “Life waits, Eric.”
Eric gasped as he woke, sucking in a breath of salty air. His hands went to his chest and found the tear in his shirt, but the skin beneath was whole. He looked up. Around him was a dome of light, its shimmering glow shutting off the outside world. Antonia sat beside him, dried tears on her cheeks. She smiled, but it did not touch her violet eyes.
“You saved me,” it was not a question. “Thank you.”
“I wasn’t the only one there, Eric. I would have been too late.”
“Is he still here?”
She shook her head, her voice breaking. “No, he’s gone now.”
Eric nodded. The dome faded, slowly revealing the world outside. He could hardly bear the thought of returning to it without Alastair. “I’m going to miss him, Antonia.”
“We all will,” she whispered. She wore her fatigue like a cloak.
“You’re tired.”
Antonia sighed. “Archon is mustering an army. It is taking all our strength to keep his magic from the Three Nations. Soon the last of our protections will fail, and his demons will be free to wreak havoc on us.”
Eric sat up. “The demon!”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “It has fled.”
“Why was it here?”
Antonia shook her head. “The traitor was informing his master of your every move. But Archon must have grown tired of his failure, and unleashed the weapon he had secreted here.”
Eric looked away, his hand feeling absently for where the blade had pierced him. He shivered, remembering the icy chill of the blade. “What did it do to me?”
“Thomas carried a Soul Blade, a dark creation of Archon’s. When it inflicts a wound on a Magicker, the victim’s magic is absorbed into the blade.”
Eric shivered. “That’s not all though, is it? I felt something from the blade...infect me.”
“Yes. Your magic is intertwined with your soul. The blade allowed the demon to borrow your power, but it cannot last without your soul. So the blade’s magic entered you, harrying your spirit, breaking down your will. Eventually, it would have engulfed everything you are, and the Soul Blade would have taken your soul.”
Shuddering, Eric thought of the wolves hunting him through the darkness. If not for Alastair, they would have had him.
“Does this mean my magic will return?”
“Yes, your magic will replenish itself, while without your soul, the Soul Blade cannot. Its power will be gone by now. The demon will need a fresh victim,” she smiled. “And I have rejuvenated your magic with my own strength.”
“Thank you,” he hesitated. “Was it truly Thomas?”
Antonia’s face twisted with pain. “His body, yes. Such an awful fate, to be taken by his magic, to serve the darkness he once fought to prevent. But I will put an end to his suffering,” she stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, yet,” she offered him a hand. “Come, I believe there are some people waiting to see you.”
Eric smiled and stood. A fire burned farther down the beach, ringed by his companions. They stared into the golden flames, their backs to the night. He could hear the faint whisper of their conversation.
They were just a few steps away when Inken turned her head. Her eyes widened and a grin split her face. Then she was on her feet and sprinting towards him. There was no avoiding her as she tackled him to the ground.
His breath rushed from his lungs as they landed in a tangle. He coughed and started to laugh. “Nice to see you too, Inken!”
She pinned him down and planted a kiss on his lips. There were tears in her eyes. Her breath was warm on his cheek. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Eric, or I swear I’ll...I’ll…”
Eric pressed his mouth to hers, silencing her threats.
When they broke apart, Inken bowed her head to Antonia. “Thank you, Goddess.”
“It was my pleasure,” Antonia laughed, “and please, call me Antonia. Come, let’s return to the warmth of the fire.”
Caelin rose and slapped Eric on the back as they joined the circle around the fire. “Welcome back to the world of the living, my friend.”
“I’m glad you’re healed,” Michael offered.
Eric returned their greetings, and then noticed Enala sitting hunched by the fire. Her face was like steel, and her eyes did not seem to have registered him. He moved across to her and held out his hand.
“Hello, Enala. My name is Eric, it’s nice to finally meet you,” he introduced himself.
There was no response. Frowning, he turned to the others.
“Enala has retreated from the world, from the pain,” Antonia answered his unspoken question. “It will take more than magic to bring her back. But that is a worry for tomorrow.”
Silence fell. Despite Eric’s recovery, a terrible grief still hung over them. He looked around at his circle of companions, sensing the hollow where Alastair should have sat. Grief rose inside him, but he pushed it down.
Beside him, Antonia stood. “I should leave now. The demon must be found and destroyed.”
“Wait!” Michael cut in. “What do we do now?”
“You put your dead to rest,” Antonia answered. “He always liked the idea of a burial at sea.”
Eric climbed to his feet. “Stay, Antonia. You knew Alastair better than anyone. Say your farewells with us. Besides, you’re exhausted.”
Antonia offered a sad smile. “I have already said my goodbyes, Eric. And the demon must be stopped—before it finds more power. But I will leave you each with a farewell gift.”
Light seeped from Antonia as she raised her hand. It crept to Caelin first. His burns vanished at its touch, and the rings beneath his eyes faded away. The light continued on, to Michael, and Inken, and finally Enala. The marks of battle vanished from each of them in turn.
When the light finally faded, they raised their arms in farewell.
But Antonia was already gone.
Alastair’s emerald eyes stared up at Eric. His skin was grey, devoid of life, and Eric could hardly bear to look at him. His thoughts turned inwards, remembering the man Alastair had been. The man who had told him of his magic, and protected him from its darkness. The man he’d travelled with, laughed with, learnt from. Most of all, he remembered the man who had been his friend.
The wisps of his grey hair and beard shifted on the gentle ocean breeze. The wrinkles on his face had receded, restoring his lost youth. He looked almost at peace. Yet Eric’s heart was breaking.
Inken stood beside him, offering her silent comfort. The others ringed the makeshift raft on which they had placed Alastair’s body: Caelin, who had killed the traitor, and Michael, who had helped Eric save his mentor just a few days ago. They had spent all night gathering driftwood for the raft, but now the morning had finally come.
Eric’s eyes burned. He reached down and squeezed Alastair’s cold hand. His heart ached, and he could hardly believe this wasn’t all some horrible nightmare. Alastair was dead. After everything they’d been through, the trials they’d survived, Eric had almost come to believe the old man was invincible.
How wrong he’d been.
In the time Eric had known him, Alastair had bestowed on him the gift of knowledge; the ability to control his magic. Not once had he asked for anything in return. Yet Eric felt the debt all the same. Alastair had given his life in the fight against Archon. It was up to Eric to carry on that fight now. He would not rest until the Three Nations were safe again.
For now though, it was time to say goodbye.
Eric stepped up to the raft. His eyes brimmed as he placed his hands on the hard wood. Tears spilt down his cheeks. Inside he was breaking, but he had a job to do, final words to say.
He looked down at his mentor. “Thank you, Alastair, for all you have given us. Farewell.”
His grief broke free then, and he began to sob. He pushed all the same, and his friends stepped up to help him. The raft crunched on the sand and slid into the ocean. There the fierce currents took hold. There were no waves now, but the water lapped at the sides as it drifted out into the bay.
Inken nocked an arrow to her bow and lit it in the fire. Her hands shook, but they steadied as she drew back the bowstring. Firelight sparkled in her damp eyes. She loosed.
The arrow arced out across the waters, a tiny shooting star, and then began to fall. Flames leapt across the raft as it struck Alastair’s final resting place, catching in the wood and tinder they had stacked around him. The raft blazed into light, flames reflecting off water and heaven.
No one spoke. Eric felt an arm around his waist. He looked at Inken, saw his grief reflected in her eyes. They stood together and looked out across the cove, offering one last silent farewell to the great man.
“What now?” Inken whispered.
“Now, we live,” Eric answered.
Antonia yawned and shook her head as her eyelids began to droop. Fighting back fatigue, she walked on, her hands outstretched to brush against the vegetation. The trees leaned towards her, branches and vines reaching out to embrace her. The thick tree trunks groaned, and their voice whispered in her mind, telling her of the demon’s passage. It would not escape.
Her pace slowed as the chase stretched on. The day had taken its toll, and all she wanted now was to rest. The call of sleep beckoned. The thought scared her; she had not slept in decades. She could not afford to now.
Antonia pressed deeper into the forest. Sensing her weakness, the trees offered their strength, but she only took a drop. Winter was coming, and she knew they had little to spare.
The demon had not stopped to recover from its battle. She had already covered many miles, and still her prey showed no sign of slowing. The forest was broken and battered from its passage. The trees whispered of the demon’s pain. The dragon had hurt it badly. That would make her task easier.
Her bare feet caught on a rock and sent her tumbling to the ground. Cursing, Antonia sat up. This method of travel was far too cumbersome for her liking. But it was the only way to track the demon.
If only I could rest!
Antonia closed her eyes, just for a moment, gathering her strength. Her spirit was weary, her limbs lethargic. Slowly, her thoughts drifted to her brother, Jurrien. She wondered how he was coping after their battle. His stamina was greater than her own, though he had borne the brunt of Archon’s initial assault.
She let out a long breath, preparing to continue. Yet sleep clung to her, beckoning, tempting. She relaxed again, wriggling sideways so her back was against a tree. She would rest for an hour and then push on. The demon would not get far.
Her breathing slowed and her thoughts began to drift.
She slept.
The demon watched from the shadows. It wondered how long the Goddess had been sleeping. It had taken most of the night to circle back, and morning was fast approaching. It had to act quickly.
Slipping forward, it smiled with anticipation. Archon’s plan had worked better than they could have imagined. The Goddess herself had come after it, and she was exhausted in both mind and magic. The battles of the last few days were too much, even for her. She should have rested before giving chase. The mistake would cost her dearly.
Silent as death, the demon slid between the trees. Antonia slept on. Slowly it pulled one of the Soul Blades from its sheath.
The Goddess’s chest rose and fell in steady succession. The magic in her chest had shrunk to a dim spark, fluttering with each breath. The Soul Blade would pierce both easily. Smiling, it raised the sword.
Antonia’s eyes flickered open. Her mouth widened as the blade flashed down. It met a second’s resistance as the God magic rose to defend her, before the dark magic sliced through it like butter. The blade slid home.
Antonia screamed, stiffening against the cold steel. Her eyes widened, her fingers clawing at the Soul Blade, cutting on the sharp edges. Her legs thrashed, unable to reach the demon. Her body fought to heal itself, but with the sword in place the Earth magic could not save her. Light flashed from her body, burning the demon’s eyes. Each flash quickly died, sucked into the dark depths of the Soul Blade.
Slowly, the Goddess’ struggles weakened. Her hands were bloody from their fight with the sword, her dress stained red. She screamed again, as though the sound itself could save her. The demon drank in her pain, savouring the taste, the sweet essence of her fear.
Finally her magic began to fail. Powerful as she was, the God magic could not sustain her mortal body forever. Her struggles grew feeble, her fingers slipping from the blade. Her purple eyes stared into the demon’s, her chest heaving with tiny gasps. The demon could feel her magic raging against the sword’s power, fighting with every inch of her will. The demon held on.
At last, her eyelids slid closed. A final breath hissed between her teeth as the Goddess of Plorsea gave herself over to death.
And her spirit went screaming into the Soul Blade.
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Wow loved this first installment
Great world building and character development
Whilst the plot still moves at a great pace