Stormwielder - Chapter 5
These are Alastair’s memories…enjoy, Antonia’s voice whispered from the darkness...
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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These are Alastair’s memories…enjoy, Antonia’s voice whispered from the darkness.
Light flashed and Eric’s vision returned. But he no longer sat by the campfire, was no longer even himself…
Alastair stared out over the forest of campfires encircling the city, watching for the first hint of the coming attack. Specks of light stretched away to the north as far as the eye could see, a dark reflection of the star-studded sky above. Thick smoke hung in the air and his mouth tasted of ash. Plorsea was burning, and Chole was all that remained to stand against the flames.
The city’s walls stretched away to either side of him, manned by the men and woman of the Three Nations. They stood in silence, staring out at the enemy, their fear concealed by masks of courage. It made Alastair’s chest swell to look at them. These were ordinary citizens—farmers and merchants, fishermen and foresters—yet they had all answered the call. Each of them would stand to the last against Archon’s evil, helpless as their sacrifice might prove.
Taking a deep breath, Alastair retreated from the crenulations. The wall was sixty feet high and just over fifteen feet wide. No siege engine would break them, but the forests surrounding Chole would provide plenty of wood for scaling-ladders.
Stretching his arms, Alastair shifted through a series of movements, preparing his muscles for the coming fight. Chainmail rattled beneath his cloak, but its weight did not bother him. He had spent so long in the armour, it was almost a part of him now. He closed his eyes, allowing fear and thought to drift away, until there was only the movement of his body, only the pattern of blocks and steps and blows he had committed to memory so long ago.
Around him, he could sense the men and women staring, but he paid them no attention. His movements grew faster, fending off a host of imaginary soldiers. Opening his eyes, he leapt, and his sword sliced the air. The blade hissed as it struck his ghostly foes, and he stepped up the tempo again, until his sword was nothing but a blur.
When he finished, a slight sheen of sweat marked his forehead, but the warmth spreading through his limbs told Alastair he was ready. His mind was clear, his worries fallen away, replaced by the cool determination to survive, to triumph.
“Are we ready, Alastair?” the king’s shout carried through the gathered soldiers.
Turning, Alastair watched as King Thomas made his way along the wall, greeting men and women as he went. Soldiers straightened as he passed them, his presence adding steel to their courage. That was the effect Thomas had on people. He fought alongside his soldiers, and they fought all the harder because of it.
Alastair smiled as the king drew to a stop beside him. “We’ll show them a thing or two, old friend.”
Thomas returned the grin and gripped Alastair’s shoulder in silent agreement. His chainmail gleamed in the light of the enemy fires, and he wore an open-faced helmet over short auburn hair. His hazel eyes stared out over the battlefield, and a stubborn frown replaced the smile.
“Do not lose hope, Thomas,” Alastair said softly. “She will find a way.”
The king nodded as horns sounded from the enemy ranks. Below, figures shifted in the darkness as the enemy moved forward. In the gloom, it was difficult to see what they faced, but the glint of metal suggested human warriors would mount the first attack.
The enemy horns sounded again and the thump of ten thousand marching feet echoed from the walls. The men below surged forward, their battle cries breaking over the defenders like a wave. Sword hands quivered as several men backed away from the parapets.
Then Thomas stepped up to the edge of the wall and raised his swords. “Archers, ready!” His voice carried down the battlements, absent of fear.
His cry galvanised the men and they stepped back to their positions. Archers slid to the front as below the enemy charged across the open ground.
“Fire!” Thomas shouted as the enemy came within range.
A volley of arrows rose from the wall, steel tips shrieking as they tore the air. They rose high into the sky before gravity took hold, and then fell in a deadly rain into the ranks below. The enemy charge faltered as screams rose from the killing ground. The front ranks of men withered, but those behind pressed on, trampling their dead and injured beneath iron-shod feet.
A second volley tore through the enemy, and a third, but fewer fell now, and Alastair saw the following ranks were better armoured than those who had led the charge. He glimpsed scaling ladders amidst their ranks, and gripped his sword tighter.
An arrow shot past his head as the enemy archers came within range. Alastair ducked back, but nearby another defender was too slow to react. An arrow caught him in the throat, and he staggered, disappearing over the edge of the wall without so much as a cry.
The thud of wood on stone drew Alastair’s attention back to the enemy. He looked across as a second ladder rose through the night to crash against the parapets. Defenders raced to push the ladders away, but the weight of enemy climbers had already pinned them to the wall.
Drawing his sword, Thomas leapt forward as the first of the enemy reached the battlements. Alastair followed close behind, sword held low, ready to defend the king’s back. Thomas’s blade caught the first attacker in the face, and he fell away with a scream. But another quickly took his place, axe already swinging as he leapt up the ladder. Alastair thrust out his blade to block the blow, and then stabbed out at the man’s stomach.
The clashing of steel and the cries of the dying spread across the wall. Men and women, fears forgotten, launched themselves at the attackers, driving them back, sending them screaming to the ground far below. Yet their resistance came at a cost, and already the bodies of fallen defenders dotted the battlements.
Another man sprang to the ramparts. He came up fast, a second already following, and leapt at Thomas. The king ducked a blow from the axe and thrust out with his sword, catching the man in the chest. Alastair turned aside an attack from the second man, and then slashed his sword across his throat.
Before long, Alastair lost track of the number of enemies that fell to his blade. Time slid by, marked only by the endless waves of attackers, and the screams of the dying. At one point, a lunatic with a mace had exploded over the parapet, his weapon already in motion. The blow smashed Thomas from his feet, but Alastair had cut the enemy down before he could gain a foothold. When Thomas had staggered upright, he’d sported a fresh gash across his forehead, and his helmet had vanished. Even so, the king had thrown himself back into battle like a man possessed.
When the enemy horns finally sounded the retreat, a ragged cheer went up along the wall. Thomas raised his sword and shouted his defiance at the fleeing enemy, while Alastair allowed himself a smile. They had earned their respite, however brief it might be.
A few minutes later, Thomas sat down heavily beside him. He had found his helmet, but the dent left by the mace made it unwearable.
“Not much use now,” he shrugged as he tossed it over the side. “Saved my life though. Thought the bastard had me.”
Alastair shook his head. The king might be an inspirational fighter, but Alastair feared his recklessness would be the end of him. It was a wonder he had survived so long, where his equals in Lonia and Plorsea had fallen.
“Where is she, Alastair?” Thomas whispered suddenly. “She should be here.”
“I don’t know, Thomas,” Alastair breathed. “Helping, I hope.”
“I’m right where I need to be.” They jumped as Antonia’s youthful voice came from nearby.
Turning, Alastair found the girl sitting on the parapet beside them. His shoulders sagged as he took in the state of the young Goddess. Her leaf-green dress was scorched black, the silky material melted and bubbling, as though drawn straight from the fire. Her hands were scratched and bleeding and lines of exhaustion stretched across her face. Dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, and even their violet glow seemed to have dampened.
Alastair stepped forward and wrapped the girl in his arms. He had known her all his life, but never had he seen her in such a state. She looked defeated, broken.
“Can you save our people?” Thomas asked as Alastair drew back.
“No,” Antonia’s voice cracked as she shook her head. “Archon has cast his dark magic across this place. It muffles my magic. I cannot force a passage through, not for a whole city.”
Thomas’s shoulders slumped, but to his credit, he displayed no other emotion. Alastair gritted his teeth, trying to keep the despair from his face. They could not afford to show weakness in front of their people.
“I’m so sorry,” Antonia whispered.
Anger flickered in Alastair’s chest. “Damn your sorries, Antonia. Where is your brother? Where is Darius?”
Antonia’s face darkened and a dangerous glint appeared in her eyes. Her tiny fists clenched and a faint light seeped between her fingers.
“Leave my brother out of this, Alastair,” Antonia spoke with deliberate slowness.
Thomas stepped between them and attempted a smile. “Stop this, the two of you. It solves nothing,” his voice was soft, but commanding.
Alastair sucked in a breath and allowed himself to relax. “You’re right.” He turned to Antonia. “You should leave. You at least can survive to continue the fight. Gather a new army. Perhaps we can weaken his forces enough for you to stand a chance.”
Antonia shook her head. “There is no hope there, Alastair. Mortal powers will not stop him. He toys with us, even now. There is only one hope. The Sword of Light.”
A frown twisted Alastair’s lips. “The Sword is in Kalgan, a thousand miles from here. And even were we to reach it, there is no one to wield it.”
The violet eyes of the Goddess caught Alastair’s. “You know there is a way from Chole to Kalgan, Alastair, an ancient passage between the two cities.”
An icy hand clenched around Alastair’s gut. “You cannot be serious?”
“There is no other choice.”
“Then there is no choice at all. The curse is too strong. Far better Magickers than me have tried to break through. None returned. The Way is certain death.”
“No,” Antonia growled. Her hand swept out, encompassing the endless armies of Archon. “That is certain death. Archon and his army will destroy everything we have created, and remake the world in his twisted image. The Way is our only chance.”
“And you? What will you do, Antonia?”
“Jurrien and I will wait for you in Kalgan. I cannot take you on the paths we will walk, nor can I follow you through that ancient magic. So for now, we must part.”
A tremble ran through Alastair’s body. He clasped his hands together, struggling to find an alternative to Antonia’s plan. But she was right. The Sword was their only hope, the only chance they had of victory. Both himself and Thomas were powerful Magickers. If either of them could do what no one in a hundred years had managed, and unlock the blade, they might stand a chance of turning back Archon’s dark magic.
“I’ll see you in Kalgan,” Antonia whispered. Stepping forward, she hugged Alastair tight. “Thomas has the better claim, protect him with your life.” Her voice tingled in his ear.
Then she was stepping away, already fading from sight. For a moment, the scent of flowers hung heavy in the air. Then that too vanished, leaving only the stench of smoke and death.
“Let’s go, Thomas,” he said, turning to the king.
Thomas nodded. “One moment.”
He waved one of his officers over, and after a quick conversation, returned to Alastair’s side. “Let’s go. They’ll hold the wall for as long as they can. Let’s not let them down.”
Alastair nodded and led the king from the wall. They raced down the stone steps, swords slapping at their sides. At the bottom, Alastair turned right, moving into the narrow alleyway between the buildings and the wall. Long grass grew from the soft earth, giving way beneath their boots. Alastair scanned the granite blocks as they moved, searching for the signs that marked The Way.
It had been years since he’d contemplated the ancient gateway. Few knew of its existence, but it was an old magic that linked the cities of Kalgan and Chole, capitals of the ancient nations of Lonia and Trola. After the coming of the Gods, the southern lands had become Plorsea, and Lonia’s capital had been shifted to the coast.
A war horn sounded from above, followed by the muffled cries of the enemy charge. Alastair picked up the pace as bowstrings twanged. Time was running short.
Finally, Alastair drew to a stop and faced the wall. Here thick vines covered the stony surface, their white blossoms glowing in the light of the moon. They swayed gently in the breeze, moving like snakes across the ancient granite.
“Why have we stopped?” Thomas hissed beside him.
“We’re here,” Alastair replied. “These vines conceal the path we must take. Only magic can make them reveal the path.”
Thomas smiled. “Then allow me.”
Stepping forward, he placed his hand on one of the vines. His face did not change as he stared at the thorny tendrils, but slowly his breathing softened. A ripple went through the vines, and a faint green glow lit the alleyway. Slowly they curled back on themselves, slivering outwards, obeying the silent call of Thomas’s earth magic.
Beneath was not the solid stone of the city walls, but an empty abyss, stretching away into oblivion. A strange light bathed their faces, and Alastair felt the dark pull of its power on his soul.
“Beware, Thomas,” Alastair said softly. “The magic was corrupted by Archon’s coming. Keep your soul closed, or it will destroy you.”
“Where does it lead?” the king asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Alastair’s voice was bleak. It was likely whatever waited on the other side would be the last thing either of them saw.
But there was no time for second thoughts now. Sucking in a breath, Alastair stepped into the abyss.
As Alastair crossed the threshold, a twisted rainbow streaked across his vision. The world spun, and suddenly he was falling. A sharp screech drilled into his eardrums and he tasted blood.
Gritting his teeth, he endured.
A second later, thunder clapped, and he struck the ground with a bone jarring thump.
Groaning, Alastair struggled to keep himself from throwing up. Slowly his senses returned and he opened his eyes to look around for Thomas. His vision blurred, but after several moments, the world clicked back into focus. He stared, open mouthed, unable to comprehend the sight that greeted him.
The ground around him was littered with the bones of long-dead men and women. Empty eye sockets stared at him from human skulls, toothy grins frozen on their stark white faces. Thomas crouched nearby, his face pale as he took in the nightmare they’d fallen into.
A blood-red sky stretched overhead, its infinite expanse unmarked by clouds or sun or stars. Sheer cliffs rose around them, bleached white stone surrounding them in all directions bar one. A path led down the hill, threading its way between the piles of bones.
“What is this place?” Thomas’s voice shook.
“The Way,” Alastair said, standing. “We had better move quickly. Time passes differently here, and we have none to waste.”
Thomas nodded, brushing off the dust of the dead. His hands trembled as he picked himself up.
“Follow me,” Alastair started off down the path, boots crunching on the shards of broken bones. “Stay alert, who knows what lurks in this realm.”
“What happened here, Alastair?” Thomas’s voice was steady now.
Alastair sighed. “The Way was once a wholesome place. It served as a neutral ground for negotiations between Lonia and Trola. Only a few souls are able to enter at one time, so there was no way one nation could ambush the embassy of another.”
“But how did it become…this?”
“A curse. For a long time, no one understood who or what had caused it. We believe now that it was Archon. Dark magic has corrupted everything in this land, sucking the life from it. Your magic is useless here, only the raw energy of the Light can pierce the darkness of the curse.”
Thomas loosened his sword. “Then we will rely on your powers—and our steel.”
Alastair nodded. “Something waits out here. No one has passed this way in four hundred years and lived to talk about it.”
Thomas fell silent. They plodded on, their progress witnessed only by the glares of empty skulls.
Alastair drew to a stop, his weary legs groaning with the pain of the long march. Without the sun or stars to aid him, he had lost all track of time. But looking out across the canyon, he knew they had finally reached the end of their journey.
A granite arch stood guard at the end of the canyon. Flowers were etched across the stone, entwining one over another in an endless pattern. Fog drifted in the air behind the arch, concealing what lay beyond. It could only be the exit.
His heart would have soared, if not for the creature barring their path. It stood beneath the archway, the living embodiment of Archon’s curse. Empty eye sockets glared at them from the naked skull, held aloft by a crooked spine. A grin stretched across its yellowed jaw, brandishing broken teeth. Bones rattled as a skeletal arm reached down and drew a rusty scimitar.
Alastair felt the cliffs closing in on him. A weight settled on his shoulders as he watched the creature step towards them. This was the monster that had slaughtered all those who had come before them. Now it sought their lives, and Alastair doubted there was anything he could do to stop it.
“Stay behind me, Thomas,” Alastair whispered from the corner of his mouth.
He started forward again, his eyes never leaving the undead skeleton. As he walked, he drew his short sword. Power swelled inside him as he gathered his magic. On the wall he had held it back, knowing it would be needed later.
Now that time had come, though he was no longer sure it would make a difference.
“Out of my way, damned spawn of hell,” Alastair boomed.
His voice echoed back and forth off the crumbling stone, slowly dying away, until it seemed some old man had spoken the words.
A dry, rasping cackle came from the undead creature, and it raised its blade in mock salute.
Alastair grimaced, and then turned his mind inwards. His magic leapt in response, an old associate, eager to give its aid. Power surged through his veins, feeding fresh strength to his weary limbs, focusing his mind. Raising his fist, Alastair allowed his thoughts to spread beyond himself, to the world all around.
With a collective groan, stony boulders rose from the floor of the narrow canyon. Pressure throbbed in Alastair’s mind as he threw out his arm. As one, the boulders shot forward, accelerating towards their dark foe.
The skull’s grin widened. It too raised a hand, but Alastair’s projectiles hurtled onwards. Twenty feet, then ten, then five. Grinning, Alastair gave one final push.
An earth-shattering crack tore the air as the boulders disintegrated. Slivers of burning rock flew across the canyon, burying themselves in the cliffs, and the stench of burning rock rent the air.
Alastair staggered back, the aftershock of his failed magic tearing through his mind. As he started to fall, strong arms reached out and caught him. Through the agony, he heard the creature’s mocking laughter. Footsteps crunched on gravel as it started towards them.
Cursing, Alastair straightened and pushed Thomas back. He gripped his sword and regathered his scattered magic. Screaming his anger, he swept out an arm, and magic surged away from him.
The skeleton rose ponderously from the ground, its bony limbs swinging wildly at empty air. Alastair gave a violent gesture, and sent it hurtling into the canyon wall. Dust exploded outwards as it struck
But when the dust cleared, the skeleton had already regained its feet. With slow, deliberate steps, it continued towards them.
Alastair hardened his grip on the sword. His attacks had not even fazed it.
“We cannot win this fight, Thomas. I do not have the power. But I can distract it while you make a break for the gateway.”
Thomas shook his head, but Alastair cut off his response. “It’s our only chance. One of us must reach Kalgan—and Antonia thinks it must be you.”
Thomas fell silent at that, and Alastair prayed the stubborn king would do as he was told. Squaring his shoulders, he strode towards the approaching creature, sword held loosely in one hand, magic crackling in the other.
The skeleton drew to a stop when only a few steps remained between them. “Yield, and your deaths will be quick.” Its voice grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Alastair answered with steel.
Steel shrieked as their blades met, sparks flying in the dusty air. Alastair jumped back as the scimitar reversed its cut, but its tip still tore through his cloak, narrowly missing flesh. He swore and slashed out again. The rusty blade spun to block and their blades met with a boom of steel and magic.
The creature pressed forward, but Alastair dove to the side and its blade whistled over his head. Stones ground through his cloak as he rolled and came back to his feet. His foe turned to follow him, and Thomas darted past.
Alastair allowed himself a smile, and almost lost an arm for it. Time faded away, as he threw everything he had into the frantic battle. His sword became a blur, each movement sheer instinct, each attack pure desperation.
Yet still it was not enough. Each swing of the creature’s bony arm brought the rusted scimitar closer to his flesh.
When an attack finally slipped past his guard, Alastair had no chance to retreat. The rusted blade flashed out, its blunted tip tearing through clothe and chainmail, lancing deep into his side. He shrieked as red-hot agony tore through his body.
Grinning, the creature twisted the blade. The strength fled Alastair as the steel tore deeper, and the sword slipped from his fingers. He collapsed to his knees as the skeleton jerked back its bloodied sword. Cackling, it lifted the blade over Alastair’s head.
The rattle of gravel was all that gave Thomas away. Hissing, the skeleton spun, catching Thomas’s desperate attack on the curve of its scimitar. Then it was on the attack, its blade flashing for Thomas in a narrow ark. The king retreated, his sword twisting out to deflect the blow. But with a sharp crack, the blade shattered, and he staggered backwards, still holding the now useless weapon out in front of him.
Growling, the skeleton raised its scimitar.
“No!” Alastair screamed.
The magic flooded from him, striking the skeleton like a fist of iron and flinging it backwards into the cliff-face. It disappeared into a cloud of dust and falling rock.
Thomas rushed to Alastair’s side and hauled him to his feet. With his spare hand, he swept up Alastair’s sword, and then the two of them staggered toward the archway. The distance seemed to grow with every step. Exhausted and in agony, it was all Alastair could do to stay conscious.
“Leave me, you fool,” he croaked.
He could feel the king’s strength fading, but Thomas staggered on, ignoring his pleas. Glancing back, Alastair saw the skeleton step from the dust cloud. Dark rage twisted its yellowed jaw.
“For that, your deaths will last an eternity.” The ground shook with the creature’s anger. Above, cracks spread along the cliff-face and stones rattled down to the canyon floor.
For every step they took, the skeleton took three. The click of its bony joints echoed down the canyon as it closed on them. Alastair begged again for Thomas to leave him, but the king pressed on, his lips drawn tight. The archway grew slowly closer.
Then, with a deafening roar, the cliff-face the creature had struck broke free. They looked back in time to see an avalanche of stone come crashing down on the skeleton, burying it beneath a mountain of rubble.
Thomas and Alastair watched as the landslide continued towards them. Turning, they stumbled for the exit, passing through the arch as the first tumbling rocks reached them. Mist rose to greet them, and at its touch, the world turned to blazing white.
Safe, the word echoed through Alastair’s mind.
As the white faded, the citadel of Kalgan took shape around them. Alastair stared at the great grass lawns of the inner keep, not quite able to believe they had made it. The night sky stretched overhead, studded by stars, clear of the choking smoke that surrounded Chole. The seamless granite walls of the keep rose around them, and somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted. A cool breeze pressed against Alastair’s cheek, carrying with it the salty tang of the ocean.
A crystal case stood in the centre of the lawns. Within, throbbing with a soft white glow, was the Sword of Light. It stood tip down, its three-foot blade silver in the moonlight. Its hilt provided a two-handed grip and was bound by hard leather. A great diamond decorated the pommel, shining like a miniature sun.
“You made it!” a girl’s shriek pierced the night.
Antonia came sprinting across the lawn towards them. Alastair winced, bracing himself as he watched her hurtle towards them, angling himself to protect his wound. But at the last second, she skidded to a stop. The smile fell from her face, concern replacing joy.
“Are you okay?”
Alastair grunted, fighting to stay conscious. His legs buckled, but Thomas kept him upright.
“He’s been stabbed,” the king answered for him.
Antonia nodded. Moving forward, she laid a hand on Alastair’s wound. Warmth flooded his side. He watched Antonia’s youthful face as she closed her eyes. Pinpricks danced across his wound, but he kept his eyes carefully averted. The sight of his own flesh knitting itself back together tended to make him retch.
When Antonia removed her hand, Alastair finally allowed himself to look down. His flesh was whole, his pain gone, and with a sigh he took his arm from Thomas’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Antonia.” He looked at The Sword of Light. “What now?”
“Now...” the Goddess hesitated.
“Now Thomas must take up The Sword,” a new voice carried across the grass, weary, but laced with power. “If Darius meant anyone to use it, it would be the kings of Trola. I know your father tried, Thomas, but age had stripped him of his strength. I believe you are strong enough to succeed, where he failed.”
They turned as Jurrien strode across the lawns. The Storm God had seen better days. Exhaustion lined his face, and his skin was a sickly yellow. But determination shone from his icy blue eyes, and there was a spring in his step that had been missing since the battle of the Gap.
He drew up beside Antonia. “You must do it now, Thomas. You have been gone for over an hour. Chole won’t last much longer.”
Thomas nodded. His jaw clenched and his eyes locked on the Sword of Light. He knew the risks. If Jurrien was wrong, the Sword would burn him to dust. But Thomas did not hesitate. Clenching Alastair’s sword to his side, he approached the case. A powerful spell had been cast on the crystal to protect the Sword, but Alastair’s blade was infused with spells of its own, and lifting the blade above his head, Thomas brought it down on the case. Light flashed, followed by the soft tinkling of a thousand crystals falling.
Dropping Alastair’s weapon, Thomas stretched out a hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the Sword of Light. His hands shook as he lifted it from the case and turned to face them.
Then his body jerked and his mouth fell open. His eyes stared at them, unseeing, as light flashed from the blade.
Heart racing, Alastair made to step towards the king, but Jurrien’s hand on his shoulder held him back. They stared as another tremor shook Thomas. A silent battle was taking place within the king, and there was nothing any of them could do to help.
Suddenly Thomas’s body went limp and his eyes fluttered closed. For a moment nothing happened, then the Sword flashed one last time.
Thomas straightened.
The tension fled Alastair as the king smiled. Antonia grinned, already moving to the king’s side. Reaching out, she grasped his wrist.
“Well done, Thomas. Your ancestor, Artemis, would be proud.” She straightened, turning back to Jurrien. “Are you ready, brother?”
Jurrien nodded. “I’ll manage. Let’s get this over with.”
“What do you need me to do?” Thomas asked.
“We need you to link the power of the Sword with ours,” Antonia answered. “We’ll do the rest.”
“How?”
“Spread out.” Antonia and Jurrien stepped back, creating a triangle between the three of them. Alastair backed away.
“Call on the Sword’s magic the same way you do your own, Thomas. When you feel it respond, focus it into the centre of the triangle. Like this.” Closing her eyes, Antonia held out her arm towards the centre of their triangle.
Alastair shivered as green light flowed from her arm. It swirled around the boundaries of the triangle, the embodiment of the Earth itself. As he stared into its depths, Alastair glimpsed long rolling hills and ancient forests stretching towards the sky.
Jurrien went next. He did not bother to raise his arm: blue light seeped from his entire body, the power of the Sky leaping out to meet the Earth. A low growl echoed across the citadel as the powers came together, and the image of a stormy sky flashed through Alastair’s mind.
Then Thomas raised the Sword. A frown marked his forehead as he closed his eyes. The glow of the Sword of Light flickered and brightened. Thomas opened his eyes as white light crackled from the blade and poured into the centre of the triangle, joining the whirling tide of God magic.
The conflagration flickered, the colours changing from blue to green to white, and then all at once. The energy bubbled, leaping and pushing against some invisible barrier, seeking escape. It stretched higher, towering over them, a column of pure, unimaginable power.
“Now!” yelled Antonia.
The column burst and the flickering light shot upwards. A thousand feet above, the magic shattered, and a million colours flooded outwards across the night’s sky.
In that instant, Alastair glimpsed a shadow from the corner of his eyes, sliding across the grass towards the trio. He turned, seeking the source, but they were alone on the lawns, and he dismissed it as some trick of the light.
Staring up at the sky, his heart soared, the weight lifting from his shoulders. This was the end of Archon. With the Gods’ power over the three Elements restored, they were invincible. It was time to stop jumping at shadows.
At that, Eric watched the image fade, slowly giving way to black, and he fell away into sleep.
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