Stormwielder - Chapter 9
Elynbrigge opened his eyes as a cool breeze blew through the open window...
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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Elynbrigge opened his eyes as a cool breeze blew through the open window. Every breath was an effort now, each exhalation a struggle that left him gasping. The blood flowed sluggishly through his veins, and his chest ached with each laboured beat of his heart. It would not be long now before death came for him, but before then, there was one last thing he needed to do.
Gathering his strength, he called out. “Michael! Michael, I need you.”
It only took a few seconds for the priest to appear. The young man frowned when he saw Elynbrigge and quickly knelt beside him.
“Elynbrigge, are you okay?”
Elynbrigge wheezed as he nodded. “Yes, yes, as good as I will ever be.”
With Michael’s help, he managed to sit up. Though his own eyes had long since given in to the advance of time, he saw the young man clearly with his inner eye. The doctor’s soul shone with strength, with the courage he had hidden beneath years of prayer and study. Elynbrigge drew reassurance from the sight, though guilt still ate at his soul, knowing the sacrifice he was about to ask of the young man.
“I am old, Michael, that is all,” he continued. “But my health is not your concern now. There are others who need your help.”
Michael frowned as he rocked back on his haunches. “Why do they need me? Surely your magic would serve them better—I’m only a doctor.”
“You sell yourself short, Michael,” Elynbrigge smiled. “I am too weak to help them now. And these people will not be coming here. You must go to them.”
He described the path Michael would need to take to the inn where Alastair was staying, and silently prayed the old Magicker had the strength to make it back. The unleashing of power he had sensed had unmistakably been Alastair’s, but rarely had Elynbrigge sensed such an expenditure of power. It would be a miracle if his old friend survived. It was true, Michael could do little to help the company, but he was all they had now.
“Why do these people need me? Who are they?” Michael questioned.
Elynbrigge smiled. “They are the ones who brought the injured woman. My old friend needs aid, and you are all they have left,” he paused before continuing. “If you go to them, you must leave with them.”
“Why?” he heard the confusion behind Michael’s voice. “My place is here, with the temple.”
“If you return here, Michael, their enemies will come for you. They will take you and torture you until you break. And they will burn this temple to the ground.”
As Elynbrigge finished, Michael stood and began to pace the room. Elynbrigge could sense the man’s anger, could see it in the sudden red of his soul. He had been given an impossible choice. To follow his calling and aid those in need, he would need to sacrifice everything he knew, everyone he loved.
But time was trickling away, and Elynbrigge could sense death approaching. Michael needed a final push, though Elynbrigge was loath to give it. Closing his eyes, he let out a long breath, and made his decision.
“These people are servants of Antonia,” Elynbrigge whispered. “If you help them, Michael, you will be serving the Goddess herself. You may even meet her.”
Michael exhaled sharply. “Antonia herself?”
Elynbrigge almost wished he could take back the words, but he only nodded, his soul sick with guilt. He could feel the joy flooding through the young doctor. The choice was gone—who would turn down the chance to meet their God?
“I would give my life to serve the Goddess,” Michael said.
It may come to that, Elynbrigge thought, while out-loud he said. “Then go to them—there is no time to waste. Good luck, my friend. May Antonia watch over you.”
Michael fled the room, leaving the old priest to gather his thoughts. Silently, he sent up a prayer for Michael’s soul. If he survived this quest, he would be a priest no longer. Win or lose, the darkness would change him forever. He was strong though, possessing an inner strength that would rise to the challenge. Elynbrigge prayed it would be enough.
It was not long before his second visitor arrived. Elynbrigge straightened as the hooded man stepped into the room, though he could not help but flinch as he glimpsed the man’s soul. It flickered with the angry red of rage, tainted purple with a dark hate.
“Elynbrigge, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the voice was soft and mocking. “I’ve heard much about you, though I am afraid you do not live up to the legend. Age does not become you.”
“Time claims us all.”
The man laughed. “It will not come for me, nor my master. The darkness defies its passage. When Archon comes, I will live forever.”
“And yet you do not live at all,” Elynbrigge’s voice was touched with sadness. “What is left of the man you once were? Where is your soul? What is immortality, without joy?”
“It is immortality. I would not expect you to understand,” his voice was touched with hate. “But I thank you for your information. Without you, we would never have found the family.”
Elynbrigge’s heart twisted at the man’s words, but he did not back down. “The girl still lives. She will be the end of you all.”
A cold laughter echoed through the room. “The girl has fled. Not even Alastair can find her now,” the man paused. “And it is time we removed you both from the board.”
Despite himself, Elynbrigge felt the cold touch of fear at the man’s words.
“There is no need to kill me,” he whispered. “I am an old man, my days of power long past. I will play no part in this fight. My only desire now is to spend my final days healing the sick. Will you not give me that?”
His visitor cackled. “You and Alastair alone remain from the days of Archon’s war. For that alone, you must die. The last shackles of the past fall tonight, and neither you nor Alastair will be here to see the dawn of our new age.”
“Alastair will not die so easily,” but Elynbrigge knew his words rang false. At this moment, his old friend had nothing left to give. “And I would rather die than see your new age.”
“Death, I can grant you,” the man raised his hands.
Alastair’s breathing was growing weaker with each breath. He hung over Caelin’s shoulders, his head bouncing loosely with every step. He seemed little more than a pile of bones and skin now, as though the magic had drained away his substance, leaving only a husk in its place.
Eric followed close behind the sergeant as they moved through the silent streets. The rain had begun to clear, but its heavy scent still lingered in the air. Above, the first slivers of the moon pierced the clouds, casting thin rays of light across the city. Lanterns burned on the street corners, lighting their way.
The young soldier led them through the twisting streets, his pace even despite Alastair’s weight on his shoulder. Eric’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep up, and his eyes scanned the shadows. The memory of the murdered couple still weighed heavily on his mind. Archon’s servants could be anywhere, and without Alastair they were vulnerable. But nothing moved in the shadows, and they continued on through the streets unobstructed.
When Caelin finally paused to catch his breath, Eric took a chance to look around. They stood at a crossroads, its four corners lit by flickering lantern light. After a moment, Eric realised he recognised the buildings around them, and let out a long breath of relief. They were only a few blocks from the inn now.
Smiling, he turned towards Caelin, when a faint rustling came from behind him. He spun, and glimpsed the gleam of steel as a blade hurtled from the shadows. He dove to the side, but too slowly, and gasped as the dagger plunged into his side. The breath exploded from his lungs as he struck the ground, and white light danced across his vision.
Caelin dropped Alastair and leapt over Eric, his sword already sliding from its sheath. A dagger appeared in his other hand as the soldier faced the shadows.
On the ground, Eric muffled a groan. Glancing down, he saw the dagger’s hilt protruding from his side. Hot blood ran down his leg as he tried to move, and he quickly lay still. Looking up, he watched as three men emerged into the light. Their dark clothing clung to the shadows at their back. Big, muscular men, they hefted their greatswords and closed on Caelin, spreading out as they approached. They moved quickly, eager to encircle their prey. Once surrounded, Caelin would have no way of defending himself against all three of them. The fight would be over before it began.
But Caelin was no fool. Before they could spring their trap, he sprang at the man on his left. His sword snaked out, and his opponent only managed a clumsy jab to turn the blow aside. He staggered backwards, his eyes widening as Caelin attacked again. Steel rung on steel as their swords met, before Caelin drove his dagger deep into the man’s stomach.
Tearing back his dagger, Caelin retreated a step and brought his sword to the ready. The wounded man staggered after him a few steps, and then pitched face-first to the ground. Groaning, he clawed at the hole in his stomach as a dark puddle formed around him.
Caelin faced the remaining thugs and grinned, raising an arm to beckon them forward. They exchanged a glance, and then drew closer together, wary now. Caelin stood fixed in place, his sword raised high in his right hand, his bloody dagger low in his left.
The night rang with the clash of steel as the men charged. They were no novices, and their swords buzzed like wasps, the tips stabbing out like stingers seeking flesh. But for every blow, Caelin’s blades were there to turn them aside, and for a while the young soldier seemed untouchable.
Then Caelin grunted, and staggered backwards. A trail of blood ran from a cut across his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Boldened, his foes chased after him, swords poised to strike. The first man drew ahead, crossing the other’s path as he thrust his blade at Caelin’s throat.
At the last moment, Caelin straightened, his sword swinging around to block the blow. But the man came on, intent on the kill. He raised his greatsword high above his head, and swung it down at Caelin’s head.
Sparks flew as the blades met, and Caelin was forced back a step. The thug swung again, and Caelin retreated further, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. The second attacker struggled to join the fight, but Caelin was retreating too fast, drawing the first man with him.
Suddenly the two-handed attacker froze mid-swing, his sword still raised above his head. Then he slowly toppled backwards, and Eric gaped as he saw Caelin’s dagger buried in the man’s throat.
Caelin strode over the corpse, his face grim. The last man backed away, his face pale, and dropped his blade in surrender. Caelin continued towards him, until the man turned and fled down the street.
His shoulders slumped then, and with measured care he returned his sword to its sheath. Turning to look at Eric, he forced a smile. “Are you telling me I have to carry you both now?”
Eric would have laughed, if it weren’t for the pain. Gritting his teeth, he reached down to grasp the hilt of the dagger.
“Leave it,” Caelin said. “You’ll do more damage if you pull it out. And you’d probably bleed to death before we got two blocks. Best leave it for a professional.”
“What do we do?”
“We get to the inn. When we’re safe, I’ll send for someone. Then we go after the girl.”
The hooded man watched silently from the shadows, cursing the incompetence of the bounty hunters. Still, he was not surprised. They were a probe, a test of their strength before he revealed himself. Now two were wounded, the third exhausted. Creeping closer, he prepared himself, already imagining the ecstasy he would feel as he drove his blade through Alastair’s damned heart.
“Then we go after the girl,” the soldier said.
He froze. What did he mean? Had they finally found the girl, after all this time? Had Enala emerged from hiding? If so, it would not take long to track her down himself. But it would be faster still to hear the information from them, as he had the family. His master had been enraged to hear she had escaped him the first time. If she slipped through his fingers a second time...it did not bear thinking of.
Sliding back into the shadows, he slunk down a nearby alley. If he beat them back to the inn, he could delay the ambush. He needed time to listen for what they knew about the girl. He would have them wait an hour before launching their assault.
Then he would wipe the board clean.
Eric groaned as Caelin kicked his way through the inn’s wooden door. A wave of warm air spilled over him, and every face in the dining room turned to stare. Caelin stumbled inside, Eric slung over one shoulder, Alastair the other. Eric could feel the sergeant trembling beneath their weight, overwhelmed by the cold and exhaustion.
“Are you okay?” a voice called from the back of the crowded room.
“A doctor,” Caelin croaked, sinking to the floor.
“Here!” a man responded as someone threaded their way through the crowd.
Eric looked up at the voice. “That’s Michael, the priest from the temple. What is he doing here?”
“Elynbrigge sent me,” Michael said softly as he crouched beside Caelin. “What’s happened?”
“Explanations can wait,” Caelin snapped. “Please, take the old man, for God’s sake. Before I drop him.”
Michael bent and took Alastair over his shoulder. The old Magicker remained unconscious and Michael staggered beneath his weight. He was not a heavily built man, and Eric doubted the doctor would make it far beneath Alastair’s weight.
“I’ll take him,” Balistor appeared from the crowd.
“Where have you been?” Caelin grunted. Michael handed over Alastair’s limp body to the Magicker.
“Looking for the girl,” Balistor grunted as he took the old man’s weight. “What the hell happened to you three? No one was here when I returned.”
Eric watched through a haze as they moved through the inn. His heart pounded in his chest as he saw people staring. It was not safe. Word of their entrance would spread quickly, and their enemies would not be far behind. They needed to leave the city and go after Enala, if she had not been buried by the mudslide. He tried to speak, but each footstep sent a fresh wave of agony through his side.
People moved aside as they pushed their way through the crowd and moved up the stairs. Eric focused on the heavy thud of Caelin’s boots, the sound anchoring him to consciousness. At the top of the staircase, Balistor led the way to their room and unlocked the door with Alastair’s key. Caelin and Michael followed him inside.
A wave of relief swept through Eric as Caelin laid him on his bed. He sank onto the soft cushion, his mind swimming, and for a moment he felt as though he were floating. Then his vision began to whirl, and he closed his eyes, willing it to stop.
“What happened?” Balistor asked grimly.
“We were attacked,” Caelin said. “Ambushed on our way back to the inn. I stopped them, just.”
Glass chinked and Eric cracked open his eyes. Balistor had laid Alastair on the other bed. Michael sat beside the old man, busy rummaging in his shoulder bag. His hand emerged holding a vial of bright green liquid. He placed the vial to the old man’s lips and gently tipped a few drips into his mouth.
“This is a restorative potion,” the doctor announced to the room. “It’s the strongest I have, but his heart is barely beating. I don’t think it will be enough.
“No,” Eric croaked, trying to sit up.
Caelin placed a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back down. “Stay calm, Eric. Save your strength,” he turned to the doctor. “Is there anything else you can do?”
Michael shook his head. “I’m only a doctor. A Magicker or Healer might find a way to save him, but he’s too far gone for my skills,” his eyes settled on Eric. “But the young man I might be able to help.”
Eric shrank back against the bed as Michael moved to his side. The doctor’s eyes were grim as he studied the dagger protruding form Eric’s side. The look on his face sent a chill down Eric’s spine.
Am I going to die? He dared not voice the question.
Eric shrieked as the doctor reached down and prodded the flesh around his wound. He flinched away from the doctor’s touch, and his hand flashed out to catch Michael by the tunic. Baring his teeth, a low growl came from his throat as he stared into the doctor’s amber eyes.
But Michael only tisked and calmly brushed away Eric’s hands. He dived into his bag again, coming up with a bottle of clear liquid. He removed the cap, and the harsh tang of alcohol spread through the room.
“Hold him down. This is going to hurt,” Michael said.
Eric tensed as Caelin and Balistor took a hold of his arms. He struggled to stay calm as Michael prepared a swab. He knew the alcohol would burn away any infection in the wound, but just the thought of the pain it would cause brought tears to his eyes.
Taking the alcohol soaked swab, Michael leaned over Eric and grasped the dagger’s handle. Slowly, he began to draw the blade from Eric’s side.
Eric arched his back as his mouth opened, but he could not even find the breath to scream. Fire burned through his side, stealing away his breath, and waves of shock rippled through him. The world spun and he fought against his comrades’ strength, desperate to free himself from their iron grasp. A string of curses tumbled from his mouth.
When the darkness finally rose up to claim him, Eric embraced it with open arms.
The boom of a distant explosion tore Eric from the darkness. He sat up as a scream echoed through the room, and saw Michael standing at the open door, staring out into the corridor. Alastair still lay in the opposite bed, but Caelin and Balistor had vanished.
Without thinking, Eric’s hand went to his side. His fingers found the jagged edges of his wound, held together by neat rows of stitches. Pain rippled through him as he took a breath, but his head at least seemed clearer now.
Michael looked back and blinked when he saw Eric awake. Quickly he moved back to the bed.
“I washed it out as well as I could, under the circumstances. After I stitched you up I gave you a little concoction for the pain. You were lucky though; the blade didn’t hit anything vital. I’ll put a poultice on it later,” he paused. “If there is a later.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s happening downstairs. Your friends have gone to investigate.”
At that moment, Caelin strode back into the room. “We have to go,” he winced as a scream came from somewhere below. “Now.”
Moving to the window, Caelin levered it open and peered outside. Eric shivered as the cold night air swept through the room.
“There are men downstairs—hunters. They’re looking for us. Balistor is holding them at the stairs. You three are going out the window.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Michael ventured.
“What about you, Caelin?” Eric demanded.
“We’ll follow you. Pick up Alastair, doctor,” Caelin ordered.
Michael hesitated until Caelin stepped towards him, and then raised his hands in surrender. Looping his bag over one shoulder, he reached down and picked up Alastair in both arms. Straining beneath his weight, he moved to the window. The broad frame allowed him to step up onto the sill without difficulty, but there he paused, glancing back at them.
“You don’t expect me to jump, do you?” Michael asked.
Without answering, Caelin gave the doctor a kick in the back, and Michael and Alastair vanished through the opening.
Smiling, Caelin looked back at Eric. “Alastair chose your room well. There’s a big bale of hay beneath the window. They’ll be fine. Now, it’s your turn. Careful with the landing, you’re probably going to burst a few stitches.”
“Wait!” Eric struggled as Caelin lifted him from the bed.
Caelin didn’t bother replying. Stepping across to the window, he tossed Eric out.
Panic flooded Eric as he suddenly found himself falling. His limbs flailed in every direction, scrambling for a hold that wasn’t there. The stitches in his side pulled tight, and below, the haystack rushed up to meet him. Closing his eyes, Eric stretched out his arms to break his fall, fear gripping his stomach.
Something stirred in Eric’s chest, and suddenly he was no longer falling. He opened his eyes, and gasped as he found himself hovering several feet above the haystack. Wind swirled around his body, pushing him upwards, holding him aloft in a maelstrom of air.
Staring in bewilderment, Eric’s terror fell away. The winds went with it, and he dropped unceremoniously the last few feet into the damp hay.
A shout came from overhead, and Eric looked up in time to see Caelin tumbling through the air. He disappeared into the haystack beside Eric.
Balistor appeared next. He stood in the window, fire leaping from his hands to catch on the wooden frame. Then the Magicker went stiff, his eyes widening in shock. His hands slid from the windowsill and he toppled forward through the window. The fire in his hands died, and Eric gaped as he saw an arrow protruding from his back.
Then Michael was hauling Eric up, dragging him from the haystack. Caelin followed a step behind them, carrying Balistor over his shoulder.
He’ll have carried all of us by the end of the night, Eric almost laughed at the thought.
They gathered in the alleyway, their breath steaming in the icy air as they looked up at the window they’d fled through. The fire had engulfed it and the room beyond, preventing their pursuers from following them through. But it would not take them long to circle around, and looking at their ragged group, Eric realised there was no way the two men left standing could carry the rest of them to safety. Looking around, he spotted the rear door to the stables nearby, and his heart lifted with sudden hope.
Then the unmistakable whisper of steel on leather came from the shadows. Men began to emerge into the firelight—five, ten, a dozen. Each held their weapons at the ready, the cold steel glinting in the light of the flames above. They quickly spread out to encircle the five companions.
Eric swallowed. Backs to the wall, surrounded by enemies, there was no escape.
Caelin stepped forward, his sword sliding from its scabbard.
“Come on then,” he growled. “Who dies first?”
Inken cursed as the wet roofing tiles slipped beneath her feet, and quickly took a step back. But she was too late, and she swore again as a tile broke free and tumbled down into the street below. The crash echoed through the empty alleyway. She winced, imagining the angry glares of the hunters below. Shaking her head in a silent apology, she sat back at a safer angle and eyed the inn’s dark windows.
It was a good trap—she had to give the hooded man that. A dozen men were set to storm the front of the building in just under an hour. They had been all set to go when their mysterious benefactor returned with new orders to delay their attack. He had been just in time—only a few minutes later, word had been passed along to Inken that the group had returned.
In case the men who went in front failed to bring down the demon, a dozen men had also been left in the alleyway out back to seal off all avenues of escape. Inken had volunteered to scale one of the buildings overlooking the alley, her intuition telling her their prey was wily enough to elude a frontal assault. The hooded man had offered extra gold for each kill, and she fully intended to collect it.
A shout erupted from the inn and Inken calmly reached down and strung her bow. Nocking an arrow, she scanned the windows for movement. It would not be long now.
Before she could react, two people hurtled from a second storey window. Gaping, Inken straightened and peered down into alleyway, expecting to see them crumpled on the bricks below. But a smile tugged at her lips as she saw them scrambling from a haystack, and she shook her head, impressed by their ingenuity.
As she took aim, another body flew from the window, but to her surprise this one did not reach the haystack. She froze, staring at the dark-cloaked figure hovering in the air, gusts of straw swirling around him.
“Magic,” Inken whispered.
Silently she shook herself free of her shock, and drew back on her bowstring. Her target was completely exposed, without so much as a shred of shelter to protect him. Drawing in a deep breath, Inken squinted down the length of her arrow, preparing to loose as she exhaled. Then the figure rotated in the air, and Inken caught a glimpse of his face, of his unkept black hair and shocking blue eyes.
Eric!
Her jaw dropped and suddenly her heart was racing. She hesitated, her arm beginning to tremble with the force of her bowstring, but she could not release. Then whatever forces that were holding Eric aloft vanished, and he disappeared into the haystack. Easing back on her bowstring, Inken struggled for breath, frozen with indecision.
Footsteps clattered in the alleyway as the bounty hunters emerged from their hiding places. Two more bodies tumbled from the window, bringing Eric’s party to five. The hunters would be on them in moments.
Worry touched Inken’s heart as she noticed a green-robed man carrying Eric from the haystack.
Has he been injured?
She frowned at the thought, struggling to push her compassion to the back of her mind. She had a job to do, a bounty to collect. She had to put an end to these men, before others claimed her reward.
She nocked her arrow again. The hunters below were spreading out to surround their quarry, backing Eric’s group up against the alley wall. Inken took aim as a man stepped from the group and drew his sword. He faced the hunters without fear, his eyes calm.
A shiver ran through Inken’s body as she watched them. She drew in a breath to steady her aim, but her heart still raced.
Can I do it? she asked herself.
Then she exhaled, and loosed her arrow.
The largest of the hunters raised his sword and grinned. Michael stepped back, his arms shaking, until his back was pressed against the stone wall. Eric struggled to summon his magic, but it slipped from the grasp of his sluggish mind.
Between them and the hunters, Caelin stood strong as the hulking man raised his sword and charged.
Before he could take two steps, a black-feathered arrow sprouted from the man’s head. He halted midstride, his sword slipping from limp fingers. Slumping to his knees, he crumpled to the ground.
The other hunters froze, their eyes lifting to scan the roofs for the hidden archer. A couple shrank back a step, but one threw caution to the wind and leapt at them with a snarl. A second arrow took him in the shoulder, spinning him to the ground. More quickly followed, and chaos spread through the hunters as black-feathered missiles rained down on them.
Roaring, Caelin charged into their midst. He screamed his fury as his sword cut a ragged hole through their ranks. In seconds, the last vestiges of the hunters’ courage dissolved, and then they were fleeing down the alleyway, leaving half their number dead behind them.
Caelin dared not follow them. Looking up, he scanned the rooftops for their hidden ally, though in the dim light it was an impossible task. Breath held, they waited beneath the burning window.
Moments later, the echo of horse hooves echoed down the alleyway from the opposite direction to which the hunters had fled. Caelin spun, sword raised.
“Put that away,” Inken ordered as she rode up. “And get your horses. You’re going to need them.”
Eric gaped as he stared up at her. She sat astride a silver horse, aglow in the light of the fire in the inn. The curls of her scarlet hair tumbled down her sun-kissed face, where the marks of the desert had vanished, revealing the smooth curves of her cheekbones. She wore a tight-fitting leather jerkin and pants that hugged her body tight. A sabre hung from her belt and a bow had been strapped to her saddle.
She grinned as their eyes met. “Good to see you again, Eric. I couldn’t help but notice you were in a bit of trouble.”
Michael’s grip around Eric slipped, forcing him to take some of his own weight, and he stifled a groan. Inken dismounted and moved to his side, her brow creased.
“You’re a welcome sight,” Eric attempted a grin. “But I’ve had better days.”
Inken nodded quickly and flashed him a wink before turning to Caelin. “The horses, quickly. They won’t take long to regroup.”
As she spoke, a roar came from behind them, and Eric turned to see fire tearing through the roof of the inn. A crash came from deep inside the building and a blast of hot air swept from the lower windows. Guilt touched his chest, knowing they had caused the inn’s demise. There was sadness too—the little room upstairs had been the closest he’d had to a home in a long time.
Caelin and Inken ran into the stables, leaving Eric leaning on Michael. Together they watched the alleyway for hint of movement, though they were helpless to defend themselves should the hunters return. But for once, luck went their way, and a few moments later their comrades returned leading the horses.
Eric’s heart lifted as he saw Elcano and Briar emerge from the stables, followed by three horses he guessed were Balistor’s, Caelin’s and Michael’s. With Michael’s help, he climbed up into Briar’s saddle, before the doctor went on to help tie Alastair and Balistor to their own saddles. Both remained unconscious, and staring at Alastair’s hollowed face, Eric’s could not suppress the sinking feeling in his stomach.
But there was no time to contemplate his mentor’s fate. Inken mounted her shining white horse and took the lead. She waved them on along the alleyway, the echo of horse hooves on stone loud in the narrow corridor.
They emerged from the maze of alleyways several blocks from the inn, and quickly picked up the pace. Eric winced as the thud of Briar’s stride sent pain lancing from his side, but he kept his eyes fixed on Inken, waiting for some sign, some reason for her rescue. He was still struggling to come to grasps with her appearance. She was a bounty hunter, after all. Those had been her comrades back there, maybe even her friends. What could have driven her to stand against them?
Caelin rode up beside her, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “We need to take the north gate. The east is blocked.”
Inken nodded. “We’d better move quickly. There’s a hefty price on your head—half the bounty hunters in the city are out looking for you. They won’t be far behind.”
“I’ll take the rear then.” So saying, Caelin tugged on his reins, allowing the others to overtake him.
“What happened to you?” Inken asked as they drew level.
Eric shivered, trying to clear his thoughts. Whatever Michael had given him had left him lethargic, and he found his mind drifting, distracted by the sight of Inken. “Long story…” he hesitated. “But I was stabbed. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re clear of the city.”
“You have magic,” Inken pressed. “I saw it. Does that mean...”
Eric closed his eyes. She didn’t need to finish the question—it was obvious what she was asking.
Did you destroy Oaksville?
“Yes,” he forced out the words through grated teeth. “Yes, it was me, before Alastair found me, and saved me from my magic. He’s a Magicker as well. After Oaksville...after Oaksville he made me his apprentice. He is teaching me to control my power, so...so no one else dies.”
Taking a breath, he risked a glance at Inken. Silent tears trailed down her cheeks, sparkling in the moonlight. Her expression was unreadable, and Eric quickly looked away.
“Did you bring the rain?” Eric jumped as Inken spoke again.
He hesitated, remembering the thundering landslide that had almost buried half of Chole, and then nodded.
“Thank you,” Inken’s voice was barely a whisper.
Silence fell between them, and a few minutes later they slowed their horses as the northern gates appeared ahead.
“Are you up for a race?” Inken asked as she turned to him.
Eric forced a smile, but a shudder ran through him as he thought of the pain to come. He could see what she meant—a guard waited beside the gates, his arms crossed as he watched them. Their presence this late at night, armed and with so many wounded, was bound to draw attention. They could not afford to wait while the guard questioned them.
Turning in her saddle, Inken whispered hurried instructions to the others, and then rode on towards the guard. They followed in tight formation, legs tensed in the stirrups. When they were still a dozen feet from the gate, Inken gave a shout and kicked her horse hard in the side. The gelding leapt forward, leaving the guard with barely enough time to dive clear.
Eric gritted his teeth and dashed after her. Briar’s hooves pounded hard against the bricked road as they raced into the tunnel beneath the wall. Darkness fell across the company, but Eric did not glance back to check the others had made it. There was no time to hesitate, no time to think.
Then they were free, racing onto the plains beyond the city. The road stretched out ahead of them, straight and smooth beneath their horses’ pounding hooves. This was the main road to Chole, along which most of the traffic in and out of the city passed. The paths from each of the four gates all turned north to converge on this road, though smaller trails such as the one through the desert branched off along the way. To the north, the desert eventually gave way to the grassy farmlands of southern Lonia.
Only when they were far from the lights of the city did Inken allow their pace to slow. Drawing back on her reins, she looked around to check they were all still with her, and then pushed on at an easier pace.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Eric allowed himself a glance at his side. In the pale light of the moonlight, he saw his shirt was wet with blood. He lifted his shirt and saw that half his stiches had burst, allowing blood to seep between the ragged folds of skin. A wave of dizziness swept through him, but somehow he felt almost no pain. Whatever potion Michael had given him while he slept had been strong.
Michael rode up alongside him, drawing Alastair’s horse with him. Eric’s eyes slid to his mentor’s face. His eyes were still closed, and his skin was so pale he could have already been dead. Only the slight fluttering of his eyelids suggested otherwise.
The doctor must have seen the direction of his gaze, because he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do for him,” Michael’s voice was gentle. “He doesn’t have long.”
“No,” maybe it was the potion, but Eric felt strangely calm. Looking up at Michael, he met the doctor’s eyes. “You said a Magicker might help him?”
Michael sighed. “I do not have magic myself, but I was trained in its basic principles. From what I can see, Alastair has expended his own magic, and begun to consume his own life force. Such a feat can only go so far before it becomes fatal.”
“So there’s nothing we can do?”
The doctor hesitated, eying Eric closely. “Well, it’s possible another Magicker could give his life force a jolt of energy. All magic is connected, and while I believe it is an extremely dangerous feat, it could be enough to bring him back from the brink.”
Eric sucked in a deep breath. “I’m a Magicker.”
“No,” Michael shook his head firmly. “Like I said, it’s a dangerous act, and you’re injured. We could lose both of you.”
But Eric was already closing his eyes and shutting out the world. There was no time for hesitation—Alastair needed him, and he would do whatever it took to save his mentor.
Eric sank quickly into the trance, his mind already afloat with the aid of Michael’s medicine. Physical sensation faded away, and a flickering blue light rose to replace it. His magic’s power lit the darkness of his mind, though it seemed weaker now, drained away with his life’s blood. He hoped there was enough.
Reaching out, he drew the fickle energies to him, and cast himself into the sky. Opening his spirit eyes, he looked down at the trail of horses as they rode through the empty desert. Staring at them, his consciousness shivered. His comrades were oblivious to his ghostly presence, but each glowed with an inner light, their auras setting the night around them alight.
Their life force, Eric marvelled.
He stole a glance at Inken, admiring the fiery glow of her aura. It matched the red of her hair, though there was no menace to the light. But there was no time to linger on the wily bounty hunter, and turning his attention, Eric focused his mind on Alastair.
The old man’s aura had all but vanished, reduced to a sickly green spark deep in his chest. Eric drifted closer, worry clouding his thoughts, and he felt the distant pull of his physical body. His magic slipped, but grimly he forced the emotion away and fixed his mind on the problem.
Grasping his magic in ethereal fingers, he spun it with his mind, and watched it thin and stretch into a long blue cord. It stretched out into the night, a thin tendril directed by his thoughts, and wrapped its way around Alastair. Slowly, the thread sunk into Alastair’s core, until it met with the dying green spark at his heart.
As they met, light flashed across Eric’s vision, and with a violent jerk, his soul was hurtled back into his body. He gasped as the pain returned. Exhaustion swept through his body and a dull ache began in his head. Silently cursing his failure, he forced his eyes open and looked around.
Beside him, Michael yelped as Alastair suddenly sat up on his horse. The doctor reeled back, almost toppling from his saddle before he recovered himself. Alastair gave him a curious look.
“What are you doing here, priest?” he asked in a gravelly voice.
“I...I...Elynbrigge sent me,” Michael stammered.
Alastair nodded, his eyes sweeping over the rest of the company. “Inken, glad to see you’ve recovered. Did my old friend send you as well?”
Inken brushed a strand of scarlet hair from her face before shaking her head. “Afraid not. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m here. Maybe I will leave you in the morning,” she glanced at Eric. “Maybe not.”
Alastair nodded. “Good enough,” he pulled on Elcano’s reins and dropped back beside Eric.
Eric grinned in greeting, his heart soaring at the sight of Alastair awake. The old man still looked like living death, his skin grey and eyes bloodshot, but the spark of life had returned to him.
“Thank you, Eric, for saving my life,” as Alastair spoke, his face darkened. Before Eric could react, his hand flashed out and slapped Eric hard across the face.
Lurching back in his saddle, Eric cried out as he found himself falling. He screamed as he struck the ground and agony tore through his side. Gasping, he stared up at Alastair through blurry eyes, his mind reeling.
“Why?” he coughed.
“Never do that again, Eric,” Alastair’s voice shook. “What you just did...Even those who have truly mastered their magic rarely dare to attempt it. A little more energy, and you would have burnt me to a crisp—or worse, drained your own lifeforce dry.”
Eric did not respond. He lay on the ground, speechless, the pain from his side so great not even Michael’s medicine could blunt its sting.
I was just trying to help! He wanted to say, but the words would not come.
Alastair closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I struck you,” turning his horse, he rode past their stunned companions. “We’ll make camp here. Morning’s not far off, but we shouldn’t go any further until we have light. We can’t risk missing the signs if Enala has left the road. Michael, it looks like Balistor needs your attention.”
The others dismounted and began to set up camp. Eric remained where he was, too shocked to move. The blow had rattled him, robbing him of his senses. Closing his eyes, he fought back tears, unable to believe the anger in Alastair’s eyes.
Stones crunched as Inken moved across and sat beside him. She carried a bag over her shoulder. Reaching inside, she drew out a needle and thread, and then smiled at Eric. Eric blinked, his sluggish mind taking a moment to click what it was for.
“I think your wound might need some attention, Eric,” Inken offered in a soft voice. “I’m sorry about the gallop, it couldn’t have been easy.”
Eric glanced at his blood-soaked shirt and sucked in a long breath. Gritting his teeth, he nodded, doing his best not to show his fear.
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “Michael’s potion did its job, I barely feel it.”
“Then I guess you won’t mind this,” Inken teased as she lifted up his shirt to look at his side.
Scowling, Eric looked away, not wanting to watch the procedure. But a morbid curiosity drew his eyes back down, and he watched in silence as Inken’s hands moved with practiced ease. The thread trailed over her wrist, keeping it out of the dirt as she worked quickly with the needle.
“He shouldn’t have hit you,” Inken murmured as she worked. “You were only trying to help.”
Eric didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he sat in silence, and watched as Inken went about her task with cool efficiency. It was an odd sensation, watching the needle pierce his skin. With the potion, he barely felt each pinprick, but he still had to force himself to relax with each new stitch.
“All done,” Inken whispered a few minutes later.
Looking across at Eric, she offered a smile. Eric found himself smiling back, noticing now how close her lips were to his. Strands of her hair stirred as he inhaled, the scent of her filling his nostrils. Her eyes caught his, trapping his gaze in their hazel depths. He suddenly found himself very aware of everything around him: the pounding of his heart in his chest, her arm on his side, the closeness of her body.
“Why did you save us, Inken?” he whispered, so close his lips grazed her cheek.
“For you, Eric.”
And she kissed him.
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