Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

Alastair shook his head, his expression unreadable. Gently, he set Eric back on the bed. “Every Magicker in the city would have felt such a massive expenditure of power. When I felt it, I thought… I thought the worst had happened.”

Eric looked up at the old man, seeing the red in his eyes and the dark rings beneath them. His mouth was a tight line and the lines of his face had deepened. Alastair was exhausted, and the fright Eric had given him had only added to his burden.

Neither of them spoke. Eric glanced out the window, surprised to see night had fallen outside. Then, to his pleasure, he noticed a trickle of water running down the glass and heard for the first time the pattering of raindrops on the roof. Light from the inn reflected off falling raindrops.

Eric smiled in satisfaction, taking heart from the sight. It was raining in Chole and he had faced his fear. That was well worth the fresh pain sweeping through his body.

“You need to understand, Eric, just how dangerous magic is when used recklessly. You have no idea the destruction you could have caused were things to go wrong.”

Eric turned to meet Alastair’s gaze. “You’re wrong, Alastair. I know the risks better than anyone. I have lived with them for years.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I had too. My fear had mastered me, unmanned me. If I allowed it to fester, it would have destroyed me. And I knew I could make a difference here, if only I had the courage. And I did, just look!” he pointed out the window.

Alastair closed his eyes and sighed. Eric waited for him to argue. The old man shook his head and then smiled. “Yes, you did. Chole will celebrate tonight for many years to come. I hope that it lasts. Jurrien tried and failed to do the same a century ago. Perhaps Archon’s curse has weakened over time.”

“Perhaps. I felt something break when I drew the storm over the mountains.”

“I am glad you proved to yourself you could be master to your magic, Eric. But this isn’t the end to your learning. Your magic is still be treacherous, even when you intend to use it for good. Please,
please
, refrain from using it when I am not around. And I would leave it for the next few days too,” he waved at the rain falling outside. “Such a feat will have emptied your pool of magic and anything more will be drawing on your own life force.”

Eric laughed. “Deal,” he paused. “But I want you to take me with you tomorrow.”

Alastair frowned. “Why?”

“Whoever you’re looking for, I want to help you.”

Alastair fell silent and for a moment Eric thought he would refuse. “Okay. But you will need your strength. Let’s get something to eat,” he stood and pulled Eric to his feet.

Eric stumbled, his legs refusing to take his weight. He grasped Alastair’s arm to keep from falling. “I don’t suppose you could bring a plate back here for me?” hungry as he was, he knew how painful the trip downstairs would be.

Alastair laughed. “Not a chance. You did something foolish and now you have to pay for it. Besides, there’s a party downstairs, and after the fright you gave me I could use a glass of ale.”

The trip from the room to the bar downstairs seemed to take an age. For Eric, every movement was an agony. The ground no longer seemed a solid object, but one that shook and shifted with each step. By the time they pushed open the doors to the dining room, Eric almost wished he’d gone hungry.

Noise washed over them as they entered. A band played in the far corner; its two guitars, cello and drums setting the bar alive. Someone had pushed the tables into the corners, making room for the city’s revellers. People packed the room, dancing and hugging and laughing while water dripped from shirts and coats. There was not a sober soul present.

The few tables still standing had been abandoned by the merry townsfolk. Eric slid onto the seat of a spare table, then watched as Alastair vanished into the throng. He prayed he’d gone for food. Sitting back, he tried to comprehend the chaos. Men and woman danced in open joy, bodies pressed close with hardly the space to breathe, their voices raised above the music, arms raised over their heads.

Eric grinned at the sight.

It took quarter of an hour for Alastair return, a plate of steaming food in each hand. He placed them on the table and disappeared again, returning with two flagons of ale. The room was too loud for speech, so together they dug into the food. Roast pork and potatoes vanished in minutes, golden liquor washing down each mouthful.

When his plate was empty, Eric sat back and belched. “Thank you, Alastair, I needed that,” he shouted over the din.

Alastair laughed, wiping gravy from his beard. “My pleasure.”

The double doors to the street opened with a bang. Rain spilled into the room, whipping about the revellers on the swirling wind. People stumbled away from the door, although many were laughing.

Lightning thundered outside, silhouetting the two men standing in the doorway. They stepped inside and swung the doors shut behind them. Each wore a sword at their hip and a steely glare, suggesting they were not here for the celebration. Their eyes swept the crowd, falling on the table at which they sat. They moved across the room, parting the crowd before them.

The two said nothing as they pulled up two chairs and sat down opposite Eric and Alastair. The four of them sat in silence, staring at each other across the thick slab of wood. Despite the revelry around them, Eric felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Had the bounty hunters found them?

“Was it you, Alastair?” the older of the two asked.

He wore a purple robe pulled tight around him. Eric glimpsed chainmail beneath the faded fabric. His bald head shone in the firelight and a wiry moustache hung beneath his long nose. He regarded Alastair with a cool stare, his eyes seemingly unaware of Eric’s presence.

Alastair returned the frosty glare. “Who are you?”

The speaker turned out his hands. “Forgive me. My name is Balistor. I am a Magicker of the Plorsean army. I have seen you once before, though I doubt you would remember me.”

Alastair turned to the other man. “And you?”

The man straightened his shoulders. He too wore chainmail, its links clearly visible beneath his scarlet tunic. He was not a large man, but his arms were finely muscles and he had moved with the subtle confidence of a fighter. There was the faintest trace of stumble on his chin and his hazel hair was soaked with rain.

“Sergeant Caelin, at your service. It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” he offered his hand to Alastair.

Eric was impressed. Unlike some of the higher ranks to which young nobles were appointed, sergeants worked their way up from the infantry on the back of their accomplishments. Caelin could not be much older than twenty. He must be very skilled to have advanced so quickly.

His tawny green eyes flickered towards Eric. He held out his hand. “And who are you?”

Eric blinked, taken by surprise. He reached out and took Caelin’s hand. “I’m Eric, Alastair’s apprentice.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“So, was it you, Alastair?” Balistor interrupted.

Eric turned his attention back to the Magicker. The man’s eyes sparked, his forehead creased with impatience. Eric wondered what two members of the Plorsean army wanted with Alastair.

“The rain, you mean?” Alastair smiled. “No, that was Eric.”

Both men turned their heads to stare at him. Eric felt his cheeks turning red. Dropping his eyes, he studied the tabletop in embarrassment.

Alastair saved him from answering their questioning looks. “How can I help the two of you?”

“Why, it is us that would like to help you, Alastair,” Balistor replied.

“What makes you think I need your help?”

“King Fraser himself sent us,” Caelin spoke over Balistor. “He told me who you are searching for, and why. I was sent to offer whatever aid I could. Balistor caught up with me on the road, with the same instructions. When Balistor sensed the release of magic earlier, we guessed it might be you. It took a while to find the right place…” Caelin trailed off as he noticed the look on Alastair’s face.

There was fire in the old Magickers eyes. His fists tightened around his cutlery. Eric watched the steel knife slowly begin to bend. “How, pray, did the king of Plorsea find out about my purpose?”

Caelin swallowed. “A… a dream, sir. He said Antonia came to him in a dream.”

Alastair cursed. “That girl needs to learn when to keep her nose out of my business. So why do I need the two of you?”

Eric glanced from Alastair to the two soldiers, his confusion mounting. What was so important about the family Alastair was searching for?

Caelin bowed his head. “All I can offer you is my sword. I was chosen because I won the kings Tourney of the Blades last year.”

Balistor snorted. “Of course, that counts for little when you are surrounded by Magickers. The king chose me for my magic. I am a master of fire and I am at your service, Alastair,” his tone was rich with pride, bordering on arrogance.

Eric wondered how much truth there was in their tale. He found it strange the king would send only two men to help Alastair, if his quest was so important. But then, Eric still had little idea about what was going on. He closed his eyes, swallowing his irritation. It seemed everyone but himself knew Alastair’s purpose. He was tired of being kept in the dark.

The conversation between the three men continued for some time. Eric laid his head on the table, too tired to care. He had heard their story. Alastair would judge the truth of 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. Eric was surprised. It was a menial task to give a Sergeant and Magicker of the Plorsean army.

They watched the two leave and then headed for their rooms. Eric fell onto his bed before the door had even closed. His eyes were already drooping, his mind close to sleep. He rolled over, glancing out the window. Outside the rain poured down, flooding Chole’s parched soils. Lightning flashed across the sky, but it was far from the city and no danger to anyone.

Eric closed his eyes and slept, a smile on his lips.

******************

Gabriel stared at the ancient walls. Rain poured down around him. It ran down his face and into his teary eyes. His clothes were soaked to the skin. He held out his hands, watched the water wash the blood from his fingers.

He looked down at the body again. The guard lay sprawled across the ground, Gabriel’s dagger embedded in his throat. His blood still pumped from the wound, staining the ground red. 

The guard had stopped struggling. His eyes were open, but there was no longer anyone behind them. He was just a corpse now. His soul had fled.

Why did I do that?

He was in your way,
came the voice of the wolf.

Gabriel shivered.
In my way?
The man 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 anyone sees us
, the wolf padded through the gates. Gabriel walked after the beast, the guard forgotten. His purpose came crashing back.
They must die. They must suffer for
...
for...

He paused midstride. “What did they do?” 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.

He followed it into the dark city.

Outside the rain poured down. It gushed in torrents from the rooftops, pooling in the streets below. Eric and Alastair strode through the puddles, water filling their boots. Everything was wet. In any other city such weather would have driven everyone inside. Not for Chole, however. Revellers filled the streets. The night’s party refused to cease with the new day, though the sun had yet to appear from behind the heavy clouds.

Eric shivered, glad for the cloak Alastair had given him. The rain had banished the deserts heat and the chill of autumn was closing in. The city folk could not get enough of the rain and cool air, but Eric preferred his clothes dry. Of course, that did not stop him from smiling at the childlike antics of the people dancing in the morning rain.

Alastair strode confidently through the flooded streets, casting occasional glances back over his shoulder. At first Eric thought the old man was checking he was keeping up, but he soon realised there was more to it. Alastair was searching for anyone who might be following. The thought gave Eric the chills.

Alastair had not mentioned where they were going – in fact he had ignored all of Eric’s questions. Eventually he had given up. Now silence stretched between them. But he could sense Alastair’s tension. Wherever they were going, it was important.

It took half an hour to reach the house. Rain ran down its white washed walls, bubbling over the cracks in the bricks. With its solid tile roof it looked like any other house they had passed in the central city, although in better condition than most.

Alastair walked past the old picket fence and through the empty garden. The ground was muddy with rain and churned up by the recent passage of heavy boots. Looking at the footprints, Eric guessed the owners to be large men. 

They stood together beneath the slight overhang of the roof and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Eric huddled closer, making the most of the poor shelter. The rain had already started to seep through his thick outer cloak to his clothes beneath. The wind sent gusts of rain swirling against the door. Eric shuddered, hunkering down against the cold.

No sound came from within. Eric glanced through the windows beside the door. It was dark inside; all he could make out was the empty entranceway. There was no movement.

Alastair knocked again.

“Maybe they’re out?” Eric ventured.

Alastair shook his head. He squinted through the windows. Eric waited, unsure what to say or do. The old man stepped back into the rain, ushering Eric out with him.

Eric groaned, already dreading the long wet walk back to the inn. As he moved away from the door, Alastair flicked out his hand. Wood cracked behind him. Eric spun in time to see the door cave inwards. Splinters exploded flew through the air, leaving a gaping hole where the door had stood.

His mentor strode through the wreckage, sword drawn. Eric stood, gaping. The wind tore away his hood and the rain ran down his face. Water soaked his hair, but he was too shocked to care.

A crash from inside snapped him from the trance. He glanced around, realising how exposed he was out there in the open, and moved quickly after Alastair. He stepped over the remains of the door, leaving the rain behind him. Fear tightened his chest. Inside, there was no sign of movement. He walked further into the house, head twisting in search of danger. His hands clenched into fists.

Another crash came from down the hallway, from the far room. It took all his courage to move towards it.
It’s just Alastair,
he repeated to himself.

Eric moved through the doorway, eyes taking in the room with a single sweep. A large woven mat covered the wooden floors and a table and chairs were set in one corner. The cutlery and food were set on the table, untouched. A cactus sat in a pot on the windowsill, tangled with the sun-bleached curtains. Flecks of blood stained the white washed wall.

His stomach churned. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and struggled to keep it down. Blood had soaked the mat, surrounding the bodies of the man and woman who were sprawled in the centre of the room. They lay face down in the rug. Their clothes were slashed and tattered, exposing the hideous wounds beneath. The tang of blood carried to his nose.

Eric shuddered when he saw their hands. Their fingers were missing and long shallow slices ran down their arms. Theirs had not been an easy death.

He dropped to his knees and lost the fight with his stomach. His breakfast came hurling up. Tears stung his eyes as he sucked for breath. He scrunched them shut, blotting out the gruesome sight. He could not believe what he was seeing. Who could have done such a thing?

Footsteps echoed on the wooden floors. He jumped to his feet, heart racing, and spun. Fear clogged his throat, but it was only Alastair. His face was grim and he seemed to have aged a decade. Tears ran from his bloodshot eyes. He held his blade in shaking hands, veins standing out along his wrist. There was blood on his hands, but Eric had not heard any sound of fighting.

“Who’s blood is that?” he demanded. “What happened to them? What are we doing here? Why… why, why, why
!
” he scrambled to find the right question.

Alastair sheathed his sword and walked past Eric. He knelt beside the woman. “The blood is theirs. I had to check... to check to see if they were still alive,” his voice was cracking.

“Who were they? Who did this to them?” Eric could not breathe. He had seen death before, but never like this.

“They were the family I was looking for. How did they find them?
How?
” his fists clawed at the rug.

“Who?”

“Archon’s minions. Vile, scheming men willing to sell their souls for a little reward,” Alastair’s voice was acid.

The blood in Eric’s veins froze at Alastair’s words. He blinked, opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A shadow fell across the room, one no flame could cast off.
What do you mean?
Eric screamed in his head.

A crash came from the back of the house. Eric gaped, feet frozen in place. Alastair’s sword whispered from its scabbard. The hairs on Eric’s neck stood up.

Voices echoed through the house. “Spread out. We had better find the little one, or there’ll be hell to pay. Who knows where she’s hiding.”

Alastair raised a finger to his lips. His sword hand ceased to shake. He gestured Eric to stay and moved for the doorway. The grief had vanished, replaced by a burning rage, tightly controlled.

Eric felt his own anger stir. Who were these people, who could commit such terrors on an innocent family? He glanced at the fallen couple and felt a red-hot rage twist in his chest. Turning he moved to follow Alastair.

Just as Alastair reached the open door, a man appeared in front of him. The man’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the two strangers. He held a crossbow in his hand and a sword at his waist, but in his confusion did not raise either. Blood covered his pants and tunic.

He opened his mouth to yell. Alastair’s sword crunched into his face and he fell without a word. Blood sprayed the air. He crumpled backwards into the corridor with a thump. The voices from deeper in the house fell silent.

Alastair strode across to the man and yanked the sword free from where his magic had buried it. He walked over the corpse and disappeared through the door.

Eric followed, orders forgotten. He stared at the fallen killer as he passed, anger mounting. He felt his magic stirring within, but it felt weak and drained. He prayed Alastair knew what he was doing. They raced down the corridor, bursting through into the next room. 

Crossbows bristled and pointed in their direction. A dozen men stood in the tiny space, each armed with the deadly bows. They wore the blue uniform of the city guard, though the clothing was old and tattered. The reek of their unwashed bodies was overpowering. Eric wondered how Chole’s city guard had fallen so low.

He swallowed hard, glancing at Alastair. The old man dropped his sword and raised his hands. Eric raised his own, his rage evaporating before his fear.

A bulky, black bearded man stepped forward. His uniform was newer than those around him, although it sported a hole in one shoulder. A scar ran from his right eye to chin, turning the iris blood red.

“Where’s the girl?” he asked in a cold voice.

“Which girl?” Alastair replied smoothly.

“Enala, the daughter of the two in there,” the man growled, face to face with Alastair. Spittle land on the old man’s cheek.

“Yeah! Where is she!” another of the man shouted, brandishing his weapon.

Eric’s heart stopped in terror.  The man held his bow in trembling fingers, tight around the trigger. He could not tear his eyes away.

“Where is she?” the first speaker repeated.

Eric took a shaky step backwards and tripped over an unseen stool. The chair toppled to the ground and crashed on the wooden floor.

Every bow in the room turned on Eric. He dived to the floor, instinct guiding him. Air exploded from his lungs, as crossbow bolts shrieked over his head. They smashed into the wall behind him, slashing it to pieces.

Above them, the roof groaned. Eric looked up in time to see Alastair’s arms come sweeping down. The room exploded. Wood and bricks flew from the ceiling, dusting filling the air. The men crumbled beneath the falling timbre, disappearing beneath the rubble.

Coughing dirt from his lungs, Eric sat up and began patting himself down. Somehow he had come out unharmed, and through the dust he saw Alastair still stood. No one else remained. No movement came from the pile of debris that lay where the men had been. Rain began to fall through the hole in the ceiling.

“What the hell is going on?” Eric shrieked.

Alastair bent and picked up his sword. He turned to look at Eric, his face grim. “Those were the men who murdered that couple. There is someone in this city working against me, someone who wants to ruin everything and usher in a new age for Archon. The girl they talked about, Enala; she is our last hope now,” he turned to leave.

“Who’s last hope?”

Alastair glanced back. “Everyone’s.”

******************

Gabriel stood in the middle of the road and watched the house. People walked past, giving him a wide berth when they saw the beast at his side. He ignored them. Let them stare. He no longer cared. Not about the rain, or the mud, or the cold wind.

“They went in there?” he asked.

Yes
, its voice was inseparable from his own thoughts now.

“Are they still there?”

The wolf lifted its rain soaked muzzle.
No, but they have not been gone long. You must see inside.

Gabriel nodded and crossed the street. Approaching the house, he could see something had gone wrong inside. The door was in ruins. Rain swept through the jagged hole where it had stood, pooling on the floor inside. He walked over the splintered remains and moved into the house.

It did not take long to find what he needed to see. They lay in a pool of their own blood, faces to the ground. He felt a pang of grief. A picture flashed through his mind – a house in ruins and three familiar faces lying dead amidst the rubble.

They did this
, he realised.

There is something else
, the wolf raced around the room, nose to the ground.
Someone else.

The beast bared its teeth, sniffing at the edges of the rug. It sank its great fangs into the fabric and dragged it sideways. The bodies came with it, leaving a smear of blood on the wooden floorboards. He walked over as the floor beneath appeared. The blood had soaked through the rug and congealed in the gaps between the wooden boards.

Gabriel crouched down and inspected the floor. The blood made it difficult to make out the trapdoor the rug had hidden. It was well fitted and tightly shut, but his fingers quickly found the groove with which to prise it loose. The hinges groaned as it opened, revealing a ladder leading into the darkness.

“Stay here,” he told the wolf.

He levered himself over the hole and began his descent. The ladder went down less than ten feet before he reached solid ground. The only light came from the hatch above and the cracks between the floorboards.

Something shrieked from the dark. Gabriel hardly had time to look around before a body hurtled from the shadows. A fist struck him across the face, knocking him backwards. He scrambled for purchase, but unseen objects littered the ground. His feet slipped from under him and he fell.

The creature landed on top of him, crying like a banshee. Tiny fists pummelled his chest and face. Nails scratched at his skin, aiming for his eyes. Gabriel lifted his hands in time to stop them being clawed from his face. He rolled, sending his assailant toppling.

“
Die!
” the girl screamed. The sound echoed in the tiny space, so loud Gabriel had to cover his ears.

She lunged forward, sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

Gabriel, still on the ground, cried out and threw her off. She fell heavily, rolled, and came at him again. “
Die, die, die!
” she bawled.

This time he was halfway to his feet when she launched herself into his stomach. The wind exploded from his lungs, but he managed to keep his feet. “Stop,” he coughed. “It wasn’t me. Please, let me help you!”