Stormwielder - Chapter 7
Inken squinted into the noonday sun, gritting her teeth as the heat seared her burnt skin...
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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Inken squinted into the noonday sun, gritting her teeth as the heat seared her burnt skin. Sweat ran down her back and the air was suffocating, but at least they were almost there.
A granite bridge stretched away from them. The old stone structure spanned almost half a mile and was wide enough for five horses to ride abreast. But the days of such traffic through Chole were long gone, and there was no one in sight. The wind whistled between the stone railings as they started across.
The bridge spanned a crater almost two hundred feet deep—all that remained of what had once been Lake Chole. Inken glanced at Eric and Alastair as they started across. Alastair still looked fresh, almost excited in fact, though he’d walked all morning across the unforgiving desert. Eric lay slumped in the saddle of the other horse, his face pale, eyes sunken. His condition confused her—he had seemed fine the night before—but she had more pressing concerns.
That morning she had woken with a throbbing headache and her vision spinning. Her thoughts had been sluggish and confused, but she knew enough to realise she’d been drugged. It had taken almost an hour for the symptoms to wear off.
Then there were the strange things she’d seen around the campsite as they’d ridden out. The air reeked of burning—and not just regular wood smoke. Scorch marks had dotted the cliffs, and in places the stone had warped, as though melted by some great heat. It did not take much to guess something had happened during the night. And she would put good gold on it having something to do with Eric’s sickness.
Despite her suspicions, she could not bring herself to think ill of the young man. He had been nothing but kind to her the night before. He had seen her, saved her, when he could easily have left her there to die.
Shaking her head, Inken tried to dismiss the suspicions whispering in her mind—that the signs around their campsite were all too similar to the description given of Oaksville.
“The bridge is a reminder of our folly,” she said suddenly, determined to distract herself.
Eric stirred, twisting in the saddle to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“The original bridge was destroyed when Archon laid siege to Chole. Afterwards, it took years for Chole to recover. Almost a decade passed before construction on a new bridge started. By then the rains had retreated behind the volcanoes and the lake had already begun to shrink.”
“And they still built it?”
Inken nodded. “The change was so gradual that people convinced themselves it would be temporary. So they built the bridge. And here it now stands, spanning barren rock, a testament to their ignorance.”
The silence resumed and Inken looked away. She found herself missing the easy conversation of the night before. Despite her embarrassment at her weakness, and needing Eric’s help to eat, Inken had found herself strangely relaxed around the young man.
But now a tension hung between them. Something had changed.
“What will you do in Chole, Eric?” she tried again.
Eric was staring over the rails at the sheer drop down to the crater floor. He shivered and looked back at her. “I’m not sure. I guess we’ll take you to the temple first. Hopefully they still have a healer. Then I think we’ll look for some food. I’m starving.”
Inken’s stomach growled in agreement. She could feel her injured strength shrinking with hunger. She prayed to Antonia that they would find a healer at the temple. The old man had done his best to patch her up, but without a healer it would take months to recover. And even then, she would be left with deep scars all over her body. The thought made her tremble. She had never thought herself vain, but even so…
“What about you, Inken?” Eric ventured. “What will you do?”
What will I do? She asked herself, then glanced at Eric. Claim the bounty?
Aloud, she said. “Once I’m healed, there’s a few friends I’ll visit, to see about getting some new equipment. They’ll have a good laugh hearing about my folly. At least it’ll make for a good story.”
Eric chuckled. “I’m sure they will be happy to see you.”
“Perhaps,” Inken said. “How long will you stay in Chole?”
Eric glanced at Alastair. “I’m not sure...”
Inken nodded. She’d quickly realised it was the old man who made the decisions between the two.
Perhaps Eric is just a pawn, she thought. Or maybe they’re just two weary travellers, she argued with herself.
“What are the people here like, Inken?” Eric asked.
“The desert has made us hard.” She smiled. “But most are friendly enough to outsiders. The city would quickly perish without them. The only resources we have are a few gold and sulphur deposits—everything else we buy from the trade caravans that come through each month.”
The city walls loomed overhead as they reached the end of the bridge. The wind had worn the great blocks of stones smooth and cracks riddled the mortar holding them in place. The ramparts above the gate were empty, but a single guard stood on the path ahead, hiding from the sun in the shadow of the tunnel.
The guard stepped forward as they approached, a spear gripped lightly in one hand. Behind him, the tunnel into the city stood open, the wooden gates long gone. No one had bothered to replace them when they’d fallen. Timber was expensive here, and the desert protected Chole now.
The steel rings of the guard’s chainmail rattled as he barred their path. “Stop. What is your business in Chole?” he spoke loudly, but in a disinterested voice.
Inken grimaced. As much as the city tried, that was the way of things in Chole. As the population shrank, order was slowly dying, as more and more turned to crime to survive. Meanwhile, the city guard dwindled, and those who remained were less than scrupulous.
“My name is Alastair and this is Eric. We found this woman in the desert. She’s been badly injured, so we’re taking her to Antonia’s temple to be healed.”
The guard glanced at Inken. Thankfully she didn’t recognise him. It would be bad enough telling the tale of her folly herself, without word travelling ahead of her.
One look at her face was enough to convince the guard. He waved them through without another glance. Inken sighed as they entered the shadows, the absence of the sun’s heat offering instant relief for her burnt face.
Beyond the wall, the tunnel opened out into narrow streets. Buildings hemmed them in on all sides, each in some state of disrepair. The neighbourhoods closest to the walls tended to be the poorest, and here the houses were little better than flea-ridden hovels. Open sewers ran along the roadway, deep enough to swallow unwary pedestrians. Garbage littered the streets, and a pack of dogs looked up as they approached, before retreating down the street. The rats ignored them.
The streets remained quiet as they rode deeper into the impoverished city. Those citizens they glimpsed moved quickly about their business, ignoring the strangers. Others sat in hopeless silence, leaning against the grimy walls, hands stretched out in entreat. As they passed a homeless man who had lost both of his arms, Inken caught a glimpse of tears in Eric’s eyes. His gaze lingered on the desperate man as they rode past, but he did not speak.
His reaction only added to her confusion.
They moved on, slowly leaving the poorest districts behind. Fountains appeared, although Inken had never seen them alive with water. They stood as another silent reminder of Chole’s past. The gravel road turned to brick, but even here the passage of time and people had worn deep grooves into the streets. The piles of garbage shrank, but unfortunately the stench remained.
Inken watched Alastair closely as he led them confidently through the maze of streets. It was clear he’d been here before—probably many times. Chole’s streets were a rabbit warren at best, and few strangers could find their way here. Landmarks were rare—one dead garden looked much like all the others.
The city seemed empty and they made good time. When they finally turned up the street towards the temple of the Earth, Inken’s breath quickened. Here at last was a building that had resisted the erosion of time. Marble columns as thick as the giant redwoods to the west towered over them, while above three spires stretched into the sky. Stone steps led up to an outdoor patio, where green-robed priests stood in quiet meditation. A quiet chanting drifted down to them.
At the bottom of the stairs, a lonely priest stood and waved to them. As Inken dismounted, men appeared to take their horses, while the priest nodded towards the steps.
Inken’s heart sank. There were only two-dozen steps to the top, but she knew even that was beyond her strength. Again she was forced to swallow her pride and ask for help. Even with the support of Alastair’s shoulder, she was gasping by the time they reached the top. But her heart warmed a little when she saw Eric following them up, supported by a hand from one of the priests.
They made their way through the meditating priests, drawing the eyes of a few curious watchers. Inken quickly averted her face, aware of their stares. She was tense with anticipation, eager for some hint of whether a healer was present. If there was no healer, she would have to make do with a doctor, but she knew which option she preferred.
Another priest waited for them in the doorway to the inner temple. His robes were green edged with gold, with white bands adorning the sleeves and collar. A purple diamond patch on his right breast marked him as a doctor. He offered a friendly smile as they approached, wrinkles appearing around his amber eyes. His hair was jet-black streaked with grey.
Concern replaced his smile as he took in her injuries. “Welcome, travellers. My name is Michael. Please, come this way,” he spoke in a calm voice, but Inken could see the concern in his eyes.
They followed him through the doorway. Inside was dark, the only light coming from a scattering of candles, and the air was thick with incense. A worn green carpet covered the floor, and at the end of the room was a simple wooden altar. Citizens and priests knelt on their knees around the room, offering their silent prayers to the Goddess Antonia. In the far corner a young man played a piano, the gentle music welcoming them into the sanctuary.
Michael led them to a small door behind the altar and through into a corridor. Doors lined the hallway on the left, while on the right windows opened out onto a central courtyard. Inken shrugged off Alastair’s hand and hobbled across. Mouth wide, she peered through the glass panes, unable to believe the sight that greeted her.
A garden filled the courtyard in the centre of the building, alive with the green of the earth. Plants grew from soft, moist soil, defying the fierce heat of the sun. They thrived between the brick walls, trees and vines thrusting from the earth, ignorant to the desert outside.
Inken felt a new respect for the priests blossom in her chest. To grow anything in Chole was considered a miracle, but they had achieved far more than that.
Behind her, Michael coughed, drawing her attention away from the courtyard. He waved her on, and they continued down the corridor. Snatching glances through the windows as they walked, Inken found herself wishing she had visited the place earlier. She had never paid much attention to the Gods and their temples, but perhaps she needed to reconsider that path. Her heart fell as Michael opened a door and led them out of sight of the gardens.
Inside, they found themselves in a simple room without any adornment. A man sat alone on the tiled floor, watching them with pure white eyes. Skin hung in folds from his face and long locks of grey hair tumbled down his back. A narrow scar stretched across his face and his arms were thin and frail. He wore a robe similar to Michael’s, except where a pink diamond had replaced the purple.
Inken sighed in relief, recognising the mark of a healer.
“Welcome, Alastair. It has been a long time.” The healer’s voice rasped like gravel.
Alastair grinned. “So it has, Elynbrigge. She has been keeping me busy, but it is good to see you again, old friend.”
“Ay, it is. But I hear your search has been unsuccessful.”
Alastair nodded. “And I hear yours has borne fruit.”
Elynbrigge smiled. “Ay, it has.”
Inken looked from one old man to the other, half a dozen questions jostling for her attention. Beside her, Michael was clearly just as confused, and he took a moment to regain his composure.
Clearing his throat, he said. “Elynbrigge has only been here a few weeks, but he is a great healer. You are very lucky, young lady. Our temple does not usually host healers of Elynbrigge’s talent.”
“And it won’t for much longer either, I am afraid,” Elynbrigge added.
Michael nodded, his eyes touched by sadness. Inken could understand his disappointment. The priests here were clearly dedicated to preserving Antonia’s temple. It would be a sting to their pride to lack anyone with healing magic, when it was such a large part of an Earth temple’s duties.
“Alastair, I am afraid I must keep you waiting a while longer,” Elynbrigge continued. “First, I must attend to this young lady you have brought me. I can feel her pain from here. Please, sit, my dear.”
With Michael’s help, Inken lowered herself to the ground in front of the ancient man. Her broken leg made even this a struggle, and she was forced to sit with her good leg bent beneath her, and the broken one stretched out straight along the ground. She used her good arm to hold herself up, and cradled the other close to her body.
Elynbrigge laughed. “Michael, her discomfort is screaming in my ears. Please, my dear, you may lie down. The others can clear out if there is not enough room.”
Inken sighed with relief as she stretched out on the cool tiles. “Thank you. My name is Inken, by the way,” she added.
“A pleasure to meet you, Inken,” Elynbrigge replied. “Now, to business. Your injuries are quite severe, but they are within my ability to heal. It will be painful, however, and time consuming. You will need to be brave, and patient.”
“I can take it,” Inken said, then glanced at Eric and Alastair. “Thank you for saving me, Eric, Alastair. I owe you both my life. If you ever need my help, you only need to ask.”
She closed her eyes then, wondering where the words had come from. She wasn’t even sure who they were, or what they intended to do in Chole. Yet even as tendrils of doubt spread through her mind, Inken realised she had meant the words. Whoever Eric and Alastair were, they had saved her life, and one way or another, she would repay that debt.
“It was our pleasure, Inken. Perhaps we will see each other again. But for now, we will leave you to your healing.” Alastair turned to address Elynbrigge. “We will talk soon, old friend. I will return after we have found ourselves accommodations.”
Elynbrigge nodded back. Alastair waved goodbye and left the room, Eric following in his wake. But the young man hesitated in the doorway.
“I hope we do meet again, Inken,” he said, turning back. He flashed a smile. “In better circumstances, of course. Take care!”
Then he was gone and Inken felt suddenly, unexpectedly alone.
“Brace yourself, Inken. We begin.”
Eric stared up at the pale ceiling, relishing in the sensation of a bed beneath him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in a real bed. It wasn’t a very soft one, but compared to hay, hammocks and the rocky ground, it felt like heaven.
He closed his eyes, wanting the release of sleep but knowing it would not come. A restlessness had come over him since leaving the temple, one he could not shake.
Through the window, he watched the sun setting over the Dying City. There was no mystery about where that nickname had come from. Their second storey room looked out over empty streets. The few merchants he’d seen during the day had already packed away their wares, surrendering the city to the unscrupulous night. A handful of guards still patrolled, but Eric suspected they would do little to control the city’s denizens once darkness fell.
He prayed the inn would be a safe haven for them at least. It stood proud amidst the abandoned buildings, the only such establishment for blocks. The tavern downstairs was well lit and decorated with old wooden chairs and tables, giving it a homey feel. The innkeeper had unlocked the door cautiously when they’d first knocked, but welcomed them with a smile when he recognised Alastair. He offered them their pick of the rooms, and Alastair had quickly taken the one at the end of the upstairs hallway.
The room contained two single beds and a small table and chairs. A wide double window stood in the far wall, and a long dead fireplace in the other. The room smelt of dust and old cloth, but the thick wooden door at least ensured little noise permeated through from downstairs. Their saddlebags were draped over the foot of the beds, and they had left their mounts with the inn’s stable hand.
Eric thoughts drifted, turning to Inken. He hadn’t been able to shake her from his head since they’d left the temple. Images flashed through his mind: the way the moonlight had reflected off her soft curves, her gentle smile as she looked at him, the cool glint of the killer in her eyes. He pictured her slipping through the night, bringing the soft kiss of death to her foes.
He groaned, running his hands through his hair, and tried to push the images away. Inken no longer mattered—despite its poverty, Chole was huge, and there was no way she would find them in its twisted maze of streets and alleyways. And she still didn’t know who he was—or at least, he hoped not.
The noise from downstairs was growing louder, as a few patrons slowly filed in from the streets. Earlier they had taken their fill at the bar, devouring several bowls of the thick stew and a loaf of bread the innkeeper offered them. Afterwards, Eric had been shocked to see how many silver coins Alastair handed the man. Apparently, food and board did not come cheap in Chole.
Somewhere outside the room a door banged, and the floorboards creaked as someone moved down the corridor. A second later the door opened and Alastair moved inside, closing the door gently behind him. He had gone to check on the horses after their meal.
“How are you feeling, Eric?” he asked as he moved across and sat on the other bed.
Gathering his strength, Eric sat up. “Feeling better,” he paused, “but I think I’ve waited long enough. What the hell happened last night?”
Alastair stared back at him. “You tell me.”
Eric shivered, thinking again of desert, and the madness that had come over him. “It was as though my magic was alive, like it was some whole other consciousness. Its power was…irresistible.”
Alastair nodded. “What you achieved last night usually takes months. I seriously underestimated you,” he paused. “Perhaps the way you have tapped into your power in the past helped you reach it. Either way, it is a dangerous thing, a Magicker’s first conscious contact with their magic. I am sorry, I should have warned you.”
Swallowing, Eric remembered the icy grip around his consciousness, the awful helplessness he’d felt as something else took control of his body.
“What makes it so dangerous?” he whispered.
“Magic is not an inert force. It lives to break free of the prison your mind traps it in, to take control of its host. Last night your mind touched it, unprepared and unprotected, and it struck. Without the right preparation, you never stood a chance.”
“I could have killed you.”
Alastair nodded. “That was my fault.”
Eric looked up at the old man. “How do I control something like that?” He fought to keep the fear from his voice.
“You master your fear. That is its only weapon against you. If you do not fear it, your magic cannot harm you.”
Eric stared. He had never experienced such terror before. It was as though his fear had turned to pure energy, to a force in itself, one that swept away his will to resist. How could he conquer such a beast?
“Eric,” Alastair interrupted his thoughts. “Do you know what you did there, at the end?”
He shook his head.
“You drew the lightning into yourself.”
Eric shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. If I had released it, it might have killed you.”
“An interesting tactic. Very few Magickers dare to draw aspects of their element into themselves. Outside forces tend to be chaotic and unwieldy, it’s a miracle you managed it. But it may come in useful in the future. You should be able to draw that lightning back to the surface, should you ever need it.”
Eric allowed himself a smile, though he doubted he would ever need the lightning again. The room fell into a comfortable silence, and he allowed his eyes to close. As sleep tugged at his mind, a final thought came to him.
“Alastair, what would have happened, if I hadn’t come back?” he asked.
“Your magic would have exhausted your life force, burnt your mind dry. Your magic was consuming massive amounts of energy—that’s why you could barely move afterwards. A few more minutes, and you would have died. Or at least, your soul would have. Your body would have lived on, controlled by your magic. That is how demons are created, Eric.”
Eric drew in a deep, shuddering breath. His heart hammered hard in his chest and it felt as though an iron fist had wrapped around his stomach.
“Good night, Eric,” Alastair murmured from the other bed.
But it was a long time before Eric slept.
The heat in the room was sweltering. Cursing, Eric sat up and threw off his sheets. From beneath the curtains, he spied the tell-tale glow of daylight, and cursed again. Through fuzzy eyes, he saw Alastair’s bed was empty. Groaning, he pulled himself from the bed and stumbled across to the window. Sunlight flooded the room as he threw back the curtains.
Outside, the sun was high in the sky, almost noon. Eric was not surprised. He’d lain awake for half the night, willing himself to sleep, but when it had finally come, blue flames and demons had stalked his dreams. Alastair must have decided to leave him to sleep.
At least he felt better than the morning before. His arms still ached and his legs threatened to cramp, but the pain was already receding, and stretching his arms, he pulled on a fresh shirt. His stomach grumbled. Looking around the room, his eyes settled on a handful of silver coins on his bedside table. Presuming they’d been left for him, he swept them up and headed out the door. It took an effort to reach the stairs, and by the bottom his legs were shaking, but he made it safely through the big wooden doors and into the tavern below.
Lunch was still an hour away, but the room was already filled with the aroma of roasting meat and Eric quickly made his way to the bar. Seating himself on a barstool, he waved to the innkeeper. The man smiled when he saw him, showing his yellowed teeth.
“You’re looking better today,” he observed. “Sleep must agree with you.”
Eric smiled back. “A little. I’ll feel even better after some food though.” He slid the coins onto the counter as he spoke.
The innkeeper laughed. “No doubt. I’ll see what I can rustle up.” He took two of the coins and handed the others back, before disappearing into the kitchens.
Eric slumped against the counter as he waited. Through the barred windows he could see the street outside, baked dry by the harsh sun. The reflection off the pale bricks was so bright it hurt his eyes and the air shimmered with the heat. Despite the cool shade of the bar, a trickle of sweat ran down Eric’s back, and his clothes stuck to his skin.
A few minutes later a waitress appeared and placed a plate in front of him with a smile. Eric thanked her and picked up his fork and knife, mouth already watering. He shovelled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, and then started on the roast beef. Gravy spilt on his chin as he wolfed it down, but he hardly noticed until there was nothing but crumbs left on his plate.
Eric licked his lips and sat back on the stool. His mind drifted, and he was surprised to find himself smiling. Oaksville lingered in his thoughts, but despite the chaos of the past few days, he felt at peace. Alastair might be quiet company, but his presence was far better than the exile Eric had suffered for so long. Then there was the enigmatic Inken, and the confusion he felt whenever he thought of her.
His life was changing so quickly, he could scarcely believe it. In less than a week, he had gone from fugitive to apprentice Magicker. He had met a man over a hundred years old, a bounty hunter hired to kill him, and the Goddess Antonia herself.
But where was Alastair now? He glanced around the tavern, but there was still no sign of the old man. A few patrons had filed in while he ate, and were now waiting patiently for food and drink. The doors creaked as another man pushed inside, and rising from his stool, Eric decided it was time to head back upstairs.
Back in his room, he quickly found himself bored, with nothing to do but wait for Alastair’s return. Outside a trickle of human traffic flowed through the sweltering streets, and within the room the air grew stifling. Eric fanned himself with his hand, wondering how the locals coped with such temperatures. Why did they stay, knowing their city was doomed?
Goosebumps prickled Eric’s neck as his thoughts returned to his magic. He could feel the terror in his chest, swelling at the memory of the night in the desert, rising to choke him. Eric tried to push it away, but it persisted.
Alastair had promised his magic would be a gift, but the old man had lied. Everyday Eric’s magic offered a new threat to his life. What would have happened if he had not regained control? Remembering the ruins of Oaksville, he tasted bile in his throat. The faces of the dead flashed through his mind, and he fought back tears. Antonia had spoken of redemption, but how could he make up for what had happened, when he could not even master his magic?
He shivered as a thought occurred to him. Biting his lip, he turned the notion over in his mind, wondering whether it was possible. He could not change the past, but he might still change the future. Without magic, he could spend an eternity righting wrongs, and never account for the evil he had cast over Oaksville. But with the power his magic offered…
If only he could overcome his fear.
A memory leapt unbidden from the depths of his mind. Long ago, he had been swimming in the river near his house, when a strong current had dragged him under. It took all his energy to pull himself back to the surface. Even then, the undercurrent had threatened to drag him back down, and with water filling his mouth he had lunged for the bank. His hand had caught in an overhanging root and with the last of his strength he’d pulled himself onto the bank.
When he’d finally made it home, he had found his father and sobbed the story to him.
“I was so scared, Dad. I’ll never go swimming again,” he had finished.
“Why, Eric? You have always loved the water. Why let one bad experience ruin that? Next time, you’ll be more careful.”
Eric remembered his terror then, sapping away his courage. “I can’t Dad, I’m afraid.”
His father had crouched beside him then and taken him by the shoulders. “There is no shame in fear, Eric. Fear is natural. We are all afraid at times. But you must not run from fear. If you do, it becomes a beast that will devour you. Real men take their fear, and learn from it. Do not feed the beast, Eric. Instead, you must make it your own,” he stood. “Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the river.”
Eric smiled at the memory. He had swum again that day, and many times since. The fear had still been there, lurking in his mind, but over time it had receded. He could hear his father now, telling him to face his fear, not to run from it. And he knew what he had to do. Today would be his first step towards redemption.
Closing his eyes, Eric lay back on the bed and began to meditate. This time it took a long time for the chaos of his thoughts to clear, but he persisted, determined to put the last few days behind him. One by one, his worries fell away, and the darkness of his inner consciousness rose all around him.
He flinched as the first tendrils of his magic reached through the darkness to touch him. Its whispers seeped through his mind, sinking deep into the recesses of his consciousness. Terror rose in his throat, and a voice screamed for him to flee, but he crushed it down. Blue light flooded his mind as the great lake took form, banishing the darkness. Yet here it was not the dark he feared, but the light.
Eric gritted his teeth and summoned his courage. He had come too far for second thoughts. If he ran now, he might never stop. Bracing, he gathered himself, and then reached out to touch the light.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the pool of light shimmered and changed, drawing in upon itself. Great legs clawed their way into existence, and teeth snapped at the darkness. Lightning rippled outwards from the beast as it stepped towards him.
All Eric could do was stand frozen in place as the monstrous image approached. It towered over him, filling his mind. Throwing back its shaggy head, the wolf howled. The sound tore through Eric, shattering his courage and sending him to his knees.
You must not run from fear, Eric, his father’s words rose from long ago.
Eric clung to them, to the image of his father standing beside the river, waving him on. Suddenly he was back on his feet, staring at the wolf through the darkness, his chest swollen with a red-hot heat. As he stared at the beast, he felt his fear slip away, like water between his fingers.
Growling, the wolf took another step towards him. Yet as it approached, it seemed to shrink. His soul soared, and summoning his nerve, he moved towards it. Its growl turned to a whimper as it continued to wither, until it was no more than a puppy at his feet.
Eric smiled as he watched it darted at him, but he could see through the illusion now, to the magic at its heart.
His magic—the magic he needed to restore Chole.
Reaching down, he grabbed at the wolf pup. As his fingers met the glow at its core, a surge of power swept through him, lighting his soul aflame. But now it was his to command—he was master now. All he had to do now was use it.
The blue flames swelled within him, gathering force, and Eric thought back to when his magic had taken control, how it had reached beyond him to summon the storm. Could he do the same?
Focusing his mind, Eric thought of the sky beyond the window, imagining himself aloft in its great blue expanse. The darkness blurred and spun, and then the weight of his body fell away. Opening his eyes, he found himself soaring upwards, the rooftops of Chole falling away beneath him. Tendrils of magic branched out from him, searching out the powers of the Sky.
Gazing through the eyes of his inner mind, Eric found himself free of all physical sensation—pain, hunger, exhaustion, all had vanished, leaving only the pure essence of his being.
Then a tingling ran through him, and he turned towards the east, sensing the gathering strength of the distant storm. Pulling his magic close, he willed himself towards it. His consciousness jerked, and then he was soaring from the city, out over the towering volcanic peaks. Arid air blew around him, and he felt the death lingering in its touch, drawing the life from the land.
It was time to put an end to that.
Moving faster than thought, Eric left behind the deathly peaks. Below the land turned from arid rock to thriving forests. As he moved beyond the deserts touch, the sickness shrivelled and died, replaced by the warmth of life.
Then the land too gave way, replaced by the dark waters of the ocean. A storm raged around him now, the howling winds driving great waves to batter the rocky coast. Trees on the windswept land bent beneath the hurricane’s onslaught, and the air was filled with torn branches and flying leaves. Precious rain poured down on salty seas.
Again, Eric drew on his memories of the night in the desert. The magic had formed hooks and lines to gather the power of the storm. He would do the same.
The black clouds around him glowed blue in the light of his magic. Willing hooks to form, he flung them deep into the storm, and directed the lines of his power to wrap their way around the clouds. Wisps of the storm slipped from his grasp and raced away, but Eric kept on, determined to succeed.
Finally, he summoned the power at his core, and started to pull. With a boom of thunder, the storm began to move. Lightning flashed and the wind howled louder as it struck the land and picked up speed. Leaving behind the ocean that had born it, it raced across the forests of Eastern Plorsea, following Eric’s silent command.
But as the jagged peaks loomed, the storm stalled, and Eric felt an invisible barrier pushing back against him. Gritting his teeth, he drew on more magic and pressed harder. Energy crackled as he poured his strength into the bonds holding the storm, willing it onwards.
A sharp screech echoed from the mountains, and sparks leapt across the sky. Lightning flashed again, and with a dull boom, the storm shot forwards, wheeling onwards towards Chole. Eric sensed something crumbling, as though a barrier had been shattered, but his strength was fading, and he felt the distant pull of his body drawing him back.
For a second he lingered, watching the storm as it continued towards Chole.
Then with a sudden rush, the weight of his body returned. Opening his eyes, he made to sit up, before tendrils of agony wrapped around him. With a groan, he lay back on the bed, embracing the pain.
He had faced the beast, and survived. Nothing was beyond him now.
Sleep beckoned, and he welcomed it with open arms.
“Thank the Gods!”
Eric jerked awake as a voice shouted out, quickly followed by a door slamming. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he looked around and saw Alastair stalking towards him. The old man towered over the bed, his face dark with rage. Reaching down, he grasped Eric by the shirt and hauled him from the bed.
“What did you do?” Alastair yelled.
Eric gaped, fighting for breath as the collar of his shirt bit into his neck. His mind was sluggish with sleep, and he struggled to understand what Alastair was saying. “Wh…what?”
“What? You damn well know what! You summoned your magic!”
A strange calm settled over Eric as he looked up at the old Magicker. He had no idea how Alastair had found out, but he did not regret what he’d done.
“I had to do it, Alastair,” he said softly, “or the fear would have overwhelmed me. But how did you know?”
Alastair shook his head, his expression grim. Gently, he set Eric back on the bed. “Every Magicker in the city would have sensed what you did. All magic is entwined, Eric, and such a massive expenditure of power sent shockwaves across the city. When I felt it…I feared the worst had happened.”
Eric stared at the old man, seeing the dark rings beneath his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. Alastair was exhausted, worn down by the last few days, and Eric had only added to his anxiety.
“Sorry,” he said at last.
Silence fell between them then, and Eric heard then the pattering of raindrops from the roof. Looking across at the window, he saw water running down the glass. He grinned as a weight fell from his chest.
“You took a terrible risk, Eric,” Alastair spoke softly. “You have no idea the destruction you could have caused…”
Eric turned to meet Alastair’s gaze. “I know, Alastair. I’ve lived with the fear of what I might do for years.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because I had too. What happened in the desert, it unmanned me. I was terrified of what lurked inside me. If I had let that fear fester, it would have destroyed me.” He took a breath. “But I knew I could make a difference here, could do something good for a change.”
Alastair closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Eric waited for him to argue, but the old man only shook his head, and smiled. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You did well, Eric. The people of Chole will celebrate this day for years to come. I only hope it lasts. Jurrien tried to do the same thing a century ago, and failed. But perhaps Archon’s curse has weakened with time.”
“I felt something, when the storm crossed the mountains. Like something shattering.”
Standing, Alastair moved to the window and looked out into the street. “I’m glad you succeeded, Eric. I’m glad you mastered your fear. But this is just the beginning. Your magic is a fickle beast, and it will never stop trying to take control. Please, please, refrain from using it without me,” he paused. “How are you feeling now?”
Eric pushed himself into a sitting position. His arms ached with the movement, and he could feel a cramp beginning in his calf. “Not the best.”
“You probably emptied your pool of magic, maybe even used some of your own lifeforce. You need to be careful with what you attempt—even magic has its limits, Eric.”
Nodding, Eric put a tentative foot on the ground and stood. He winced as agony shot up his leg. Stumbling forward, he clutched at the desk for support. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath and then looked at Alastair. “I might need a bit more sleep.”
Alastair chuckled. “You need to restore your strength.” He glanced out the window at the gathering darkness. “We should probably shift to a new inn, after the beacon you sent out to the other Magickers in the city.”
Eric groaned and Alastair laughed again. “But you’re in no condition to go anywhere. We’ll have to risk it. If anyone wished us ill-will, they would probably have arrived before me. I was on the other side of the city when I sensed you.”
“What were you doing?” Eric asked without thinking, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Speaking with Elynbrigge.”
Eric’s heart clenched. “He told you where to find the family you’re searching for?”
“Yes,” Alastair smiled. “I will go to them tomorrow.”
“Then take me with you,” Eric insisted.
Alastair frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want to help,” Eric said carefully. “You’ve done so much for me, Alastair. I want to repay that debt.”
Alastair fell silent, and Eric waited, his breath held, expecting the old man to refuse. But finally Alastair nodded. “Okay. But you will need to obey me without question. I do not expect trouble, but if anything happens, I need to know you will do as I say.”
Eric nodded as Alastair’s emerald eyes fixed on him. “I will, Alastair.”
“Excellent, then let’s get something to eat. You will need your strength tomorrow.”
A low growl came from Eric’s stomach, and he nodded grimly. Grinning, Alastair took the lead, moving out into the corridor and down the stairs to the inn below. Eric stumbled after him, using the walls and railings on the stairs as support. His whole body throbbed with each beat of his heart, as though he had spent the afternoon in a meat grinder, rather than lying on his bed. Halfway down he almost gave up, but then the rich scent of meat wafted up to him, and somehow he found the strength to make it the rest of the way.
A boisterous clamour of sound washed over them as they entered the inn. Eric stumbled to a sudden stop in the doorway, unable to believe what he was seeing.
In the far corner of the room, a band was playing. Two guitars, a cello and a set of drums filled the room with vibrant, joyous music. Someone had pushed the tables up against the walls, making way for the city’s revellers. People packed the room, dancing and hugging and laughing as water dripped from their soaking clothes. Pints of beer and glasses of wine were raised high as people spun to and fro in rapturous ecstasy.
Alastair took the lead, threading his way through the crowd to where a few empty tables remained near the far wall. Eric sighed with relief as he slid onto the bench, and watched as Alastair disappeared back into the throng. He prayed the old man had gone for food. Sitting back, he stared at the chaotic dance floor, struggling to comprehend the scene. The reserved people of Chole had been transformed by the rain. Eric couldn’t help but grin at the sight.
It took a quarter of an hour for Alastair to return, a plate of steaming food held in each hand. He placed them on the table and disappeared again, returning a few minutes later with flagons of ale. The music was too loud for conversation, so together they dug into the food. Eric wolfed down the roast pork and potatoes, only pausing every few bites to wash the food down with ale.
When his plate was empty, Eric sat back and belched. “Thanks, Alastair, I needed that,” he shouted over the din.
Alastair chuckled as he wiped gravy from his beard. “My pleasure.”
Before Eric could respond, the door to the street swung open with a bang. Rain spilled into the room, whipped about by the swirling wind. People laughed as they stumbled back from the door, allowing two men to move inside. Lightning flashed as the door swung shut behind them, catching on the steel hilts of the swords they wore on their belts. Their eyes swept the crowd, and settled on the table Eric and Alastair were sitting at. They moved across the room with purpose, parting the crowd before them.
Alastair rose as they approached. The two drew to a stop in front of them, their expressions unreadable, though neither made to draw their swords.
“Was it you, Alastair?” the older of the two asked.
He wore the purple robe of a war Magicker. Beneath his collar, Eric glimpsed the faint gleam of chainmail. His bald head shone in the light of the torches, and a wiry moustache hung beneath his long nose. He regarded Alastair with a cool stare, seemingly unaware of Eric’s presence.
Alastair ignored the question. “Who are you?”
The man who had spoken turned out his hands. “Forgive me. My name is Balistor. I am a Magicker of the Plorsean army. We have met once before, though I doubt you would remember.”
“And you?” Alastair addressed the other man.
Straightening his shoulders, the man offered Alastair a salute. He was not a large man, but his arms were finely muscled, and he moved with the subtle confidence of a warrior. He too wore chainmail, its links clearly visible beneath his scarlet tunic. The faintest trace of stubble marked his chin, but otherwise he was well-kept, his brown hair cropped short.
“Sergeant Caelin, at your service. It’s an honour to meet you, sir.” He offered his hand to Alastair.
Eric was impressed. Sergeant was a remarkable rank for someone who looked not much older than twenty. Though what had brought two men of the Plorsean army to the little inn still confused him.
Caelin’s tawny green eyes flickered to Eric and he held out his hand. “And who are you?”
Eric stood hesitantly. “I’m Eric, Alastair’s apprentice.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Caelin replied.
“So, was it you, Alastair?” Balistor interrupted their exchange.
“The rain, you mean?” Alastair smiled. “No, that was Eric.”
Now both men turned to stare at Eric, and he suddenly found himself wishing he had never left the room. Dropping his eyes, he studied the tabletop, doing his best to ignore the shock in their eyes.
“Was there something you needed, gentlemen?” Alastair said after a moment.
“Quite the opposite,” Balistor smiled. “We are here to help you.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” Alastair said blankly.
“King Fraser sent us,” Caelin spoke over Balistor. “He told me who you are searching for, said Antonia came to him in a dream. I was sent to offer my aid, along with Balistor here. When Balistor sensed the magic earlier, we guessed it might be you…” Caelin trailed off as he noticed the look on Alastair’s face.
“That little Goddess needs to learn when to keep her meddling to herself,” he cursed, then shook his head. “So, why do I need the two of you?”
Eric glanced between Alastair and the two soldiers. What was so important about this family, that the king of Plorsea had decided to get involved?
Caelin bowed his head. “All I can offer is my sword, Alastair. I have served the king for many years, and put my life on the line for this nation. I will do the same for you.”
Balistor snorted. “Which of course counts for little when you’re surrounded by Magickers. King Fraser chose me for my magic, Alastair. I am a master of fire,” he said with pride.
Eric watched the two closely, wondering at their story. Why would King Fraser only send two men to help Alastair, if his quest was so important?
Alastair questioned the men for some time, somehow making himself heard over the music and the crowd. Eventually Eric slumped back in his seat and laid his head on the table, too exhausted to pay further attention. He had heard their story—it was up to Alastair to judge the truth behind it. After all, he was the one with all the answers.
Finally Alastair seemed to accept their story. He sent them away to restock their supplies and together Eric and Alastair returned to their room. Eric fell onto his bed before the door had even closed, his eyes already drooping. Sleep weighed heavy on his mind, but he rolled onto his side and flashed one last glance through the window.
Outside, the rain continued to pour down on the Dying City.
Gabriel stared at the ancient walls. Rain bucketed around him, streaming down his face, washing the tears from his eyes. Holding out his hands, he watched the water wash the blood from his fingers.
Shivering, he looked down at the body. The guard lay sprawled at his feet, Gabriel’s dagger embedded in his throat. Blood still pumped from the wound, staining the ground red, but slowing already. Glassy eyes stared up at him, unblinking. A final tremor went through the man, and then he lay still.
Gabriel couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s face. Just a few seconds ago, he had been a living, breathing person. Now he was a corpse, his soul fled, his life extinguished.
What have I done?
He was in your way, the wolf growled.
Gabriel shivered. In my way? He was only doing his job.
He looked at his hands again. The blood was gone, but the guilt could not be washed away so easily.
He was a murderer.
What have I become?
What you must. Now come, before we are seen. The wolf padded ahead, disappearing into the tunnel beneath the wall.
Straightening, Gabriel followed the beast, the guard forgotten. His purpose came crashing back, the image of an old man flickering across his thoughts.
They must die. They must suffer for...for...
He paused midstride. “What did they do to me?” he whispered into the night.
It doesn’t matter. The old man must die.
Gabriel nodded. His wolf was right.
The old man must die.
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