Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

Eric froze as the voice hissed from the shadows. A young man stepped into a shaft of moonlight sparing from the fractured roof. He towered over Alastair, shoulders heaving, eyes ablaze with rage. Soot covered his clean-shaven cheeks, and tears and burns marked his cloak. Deep lines of exhaustion crisscrossed his face. “
You!
” he repeated.

Alastair stepped towards him. “Step aside, boy.”

“They’re all dead!” the stranger sobbed. “My parents, my fiancé.
Gone!
” He screamed the last word. Eric could hear the accusation in his voice. “
Why?
”

The old man did not reply. Silence fell. Eric found his eyes locked with those of his accuser. His chest grew tight with guilt. He licked his cracked lips, his mouth dry as sand, and felt the terror inside him grow.

The man snarled and took a step forward.

Alastair threw out his arm, blocking his path. Eric shrunk from the man’s rage, his feet betraying him to take an involuntary step backwards.

“Stop,” Alastair ordered, his voice laced with authority.

“You protect him?” the villager challenged. “He is a murderer, a demon. You must know this!”

Alastair ignored the question. “What is your name?”

“Gabriel,” he swallowed. “I will not let him escape. Now out of my way, old man. He must die!” he made to push Alastair from his path.

“No,” Alastair’s voice rang with command.

Gabriel clenched his fists, for a second frozen with indecision, and then with a snarl launched himself at Alastair.

The alleyway echoed with the thump of fists on flesh. Alastair moved with shocking speed, spinning on his heal to sidestep Gabriel’s charge. Then as his heavily built attacker stumbled past, Alastair struck. Reaching out he grasped the young man by his coat and with casual ease threw Gabriel headlong into the brick wall.

There was a harsh crunch and a second later Gabriel lay slumped on the ground, unconscious.

“Come, Eric, we are running out of time,” Alastair said over his shoulder.

Eric nodded, struggling to peel his eyes from Gabriel.
How had the old man moved so quickly?

“He’ll be fine. Come!” he moved off. Eric followed, his not-so-silent shadow.

They emerged into an empty street. Above them towered the bulk of the city’s outer walls, the brick and stone forming a silent shadow on the night sky. Beyond, the stars glittered and the cold moon had taken its place in the sky.

Alastair took the lead again, crossing the road and picking his way through the rubble of an old building until they reached the foot of the city walls. Eric stared at the giant blocks of stone that made up the thirty-foot wall. Each rock had been worn smooth by the passage of time, their surface slick with rain. He placed a hand to the cold stone. The ramparts of this wall had overlooked Oaksville for centuries. In all that time they had stood as protection against the dangers without. Today they had witnessed the fall of Oaksville.

A knotted rope trailed down from high above, flapping in the night’s breeze. Alastair took the rope in one hand. Eric’s legs trembled and fear rose in his chest. His heart began to race. He was terrified of heights; the thought of clambering up that rope was horrifying.

Alastair held out the rope. “They had already barred the gates when I reached the city, so I had to make my own way in. I left this here in case I needed to leave the same way. You’ll need to climb first and wait at the top for me. There is another rope on the other side, but I’ve hidden it well. If you hear a guard while you’re up there, whistle. But I imagine most are busy elsewhere.”

Eric struggled to keep his fear to himself. His breath came in quick, short gasps and a cold sweat trickled down his brow. Hands shaking, he slipped Alastair’s short sword into his belt, walked forward and took the rope.

You can do this
, he repeated the mantra to himself.

He looked up. The wall towered thirty feet above his head. Gritting his teeth, he began to pull himself up hand over hand. With each lunge he planted the tips of his feet firmly in the shallow cracks of the wall before moving on.

At first the going was relatively easy; the knots gave him something to grip so he rarely slipped. Yet as he moved upwards the stones became more worn, the cracks between them finer. His old boots struggled to find grip.

Twenty feet above the town his feet slipped on the slick surface. He grasped desperately at the rope and slammed into the cold wall. His muscles ached from the strain and his hands burned where the coarse rope had slipped between his fingers. He scrambled to find purchase with his feet, the desperate seconds seemingly like hours. Finally the tips of his boots found a crack and he was able to relieve his arms of some weight. 

Eric took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure, acutely aware of the open air beneath him. His arms shook with the effort.

It took another five minutes to reach the top. With the last of his strength he threw himself over the battlements. In that moment he did not care whether a guard waited for him or not. All that mattered was escaping the yawning chasm beneath him.

Head spinning, chest heaving, Eric peered over the side. He could hardly believe he had made it. After a few seconds he drew back again. He shook his head, trying to free himself of the fear lodged there. He finally thought to look for guards. The bright moonlight illuminated the empty ramparts. 

Eric managed a grim smile. Boot scuffled on stone and then Alastair was settling himself beside him. A hint of sweat shone on his forehead but otherwise he showed no sign of exertion.

He nodded to Eric. “I’ll go down first, you look exhausted.” He crossed to the other side, reached between two crenulations and pulled up a rope. He vanished over the edge.

Eric gazed back at the town. He had dreaded this moment, knew he shouldn’t look, but the pull of his conscience overwhelmed him. He needed to know, had to see what he had wrought.

Oaksville stretched out beneath him, the dim remnants cast in grey by the light of the moon. In places the flames still burned but the rain had tamed the worst. From the wreckage rose the distant cries of the desperate and dying. A cloud of smoke hung low over the town, an embodiment of the evil that had cursed the place.

With misty eyes he turned away. This was far worse than he could ever have imagined. Oaksville would never recover. He had been its doom; if evil had come to this place it was Eric who had brought it. He thought of the thousands of lives that had been shattered and swore he would somehow make things right.

The rope went slack beside him. It was time.

Eric grasped the rope tight in both hands and leaned back over the side. He closed his eyes, the fear rising up inside him and threatening to overwhelm him. His head throbbed. A dull wind brushed against him.

He began to make his slow way down. His hands clung to the rope while his feet sought tiny cracks to support his weight. His arms burned already, unused to the strain and still exhausted from the climb up. Every movement seemed to knock another bruise or scrape. Inch by inch, he descended towards the ground.

A sudden gust of wind knocked his feet from beneath him. He slammed face first into the hard stone, arms struggling to hold him. The metallic taste of blood ran across his tongue. He spat it out and looked down. 

The rope trailed away beneath him, curling towards the ground far, far below. His vision swam, blurring and fading until it seemed his head must explode. The fear froze in his chest. He could not draw a single breath. The ice in his chest slowly spread to his arms and legs, freezing his entire body with fear.

The wind came from nowhere, a sudden gale kissed with the deathly chill of the far north. It ripped at his wet clothing, sucking the little warmth remaining from his body. The temperature plummeted. Eric shivered and clung desperately to the rope. His teeth began to chatter.

He sucked in a breath, using a hand to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead. Ice cracked and fell away into the darkness below. Eric stared at the bare stone of the wall, struggling to control himself. As he watched, the rain-soaked surface began to glisten, the freezing wind turning the water to ice.

“
No
,” Eric whispered, fighting to control his terror.

He closed his eyes and, struggled to slow his panicked breath, to calm his rampant fear. It was no use. He watched, helpless, as the creeping ice reached his feet first, then the rope. His boots slipped from the wall, leaving only his tenuous hold to keep him aloft.

The rope grew colder in his hands. He clung tighter, gritting his teeth as the cold burned his skin. His eyes watered, tears freezing on his cheeks. Eric choked on the frozen air and pulled himself closer to the rope, bracing himself on the icy threads. He fought to hold on. He could not give up now, not when he was so close.

It was impossible. Bit by bit the feeling in his fingers faded away, until, as if by a will of their own, they released his last hold on life. He fell away into the darkness. 

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

Gabriel hauled himself to his feet. His sight blurred and began to spin. He placed a hand against a wall to hold himself steady. The stone groaned, the sound an agony to his aching head. At least it would be over soon.

He stood motionless, eyes closed, ready to embrace his death. His heart called for his family, for the comfort of their loving embrace. The makeshift roof gave another groan. Dust filled the air. A crash came from nearby as the first piece of wall gave way.

Soon.

His thoughts returned to the boy and the old man.
Damn them!
If only he could have reached the boy, he would have been able to rest in peace. But the demon had escaped.

Gabriel reached up and touched the gash on his forehead. He felt the sticky moisture of his own blood. He grimaced. Soon the pain would be gone.

But was he ready to die? Did he not have something more to do now, something more important than this lonely death?

Revenge
.

A twisted smile crossed his face. He walked slowly towards the street. As he emerged from the alleyway there came the strangely muted crunch of falling rock, followed by a whoosh of air.

Gabriel did not care. There was only one single, tangible thought left in his mind. The demon would die. He would die for Oaksville. He would die for his fiancé and his parents. And most of all, he would die so Gabriel could watch the horror in his eyes as life fled from his broken body.

“Come closer, let me see your face,” the voice whispered, snaking its way deep into the cracks of his shattered conscious.

Something deep within him shrunk from the voice, fought against the darkness creeping through his mind.

“Do not be afraid. You have a gift, one that could offer you the world.”

He could feel the defences of his mind beginning to crumble. The dark silhouette of a face began to take shape.

“Ahhhh,” the voice let out a long sigh. “I can almost see you now. Almost....” the voice was eager now, filled with hunger and greed.

His instincts screamed danger. With a wrench of effort he tore himself free.

An ungodly wail echoed through the confines of his mind. There came a flash of light, and the dream ended.

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

“Wake, Eric! We have to move. They have found us,” a rough hand clasped his shoulder and shook him. Pain jolted down Eric’s back.

He jerked awake, instinctively reaching for his knife. For a moment the world was cast in red and he saw only a tall figure towering over him.  He lashed out with a fist, his other hand drawing the dagger from his belt.

Calloused hands caught his wrists. “Stop. Remember where you are, Eric. I have carried you as far as I can, but my strength is running out.”

The red faded from Eric’s vision and he began to remember the night. The storm, the destruction, the climb,
the fall!
He ceased to struggle, searching his memory for the man’s name. “
Alastair
,” the old man nodded. “Who
are
you?”

Alastair shook his head. “There’s no time. We must move,
now!
”

Eric could hear the urgency in his voice but was not eager to leap at a stranger’s command. He glanced around, noticing now the dense wall of trees surrounding them. He lay in a small clearing, the ground all churned mud and scattered leaves. Above the light of the morning sun shone through the branches. He heard the first calls of the dawn chorus over the dripping of water on fallen leaves. Eric sat on the cold earth, the damp seeping through his thin clothes. The scent of fresh rain toyed with his nostrils.

Alastair stared at the trees on the far side of the clearing. He glanced back at Eric. “We need to move, they can’t be far behind by now. Can you walk?”

Seeing the panic in the old man’s eyes Eric gave in and nodded. He took Alastair’s hand and the old man pulled him to his feet.

A crash came from the forest behind them. A streak of emerald flashed past Eric’s head; a Parakeet fleeing the coming danger. Others followed and the clearing filled with the thumping of wings and the screech of panicked birds. A breath of wind touched his cheek, carrying with it the stench of smoke.

“
Run!
” Alastair hissed, making for the trees.

Eric sucked in a breath and followed. A whirlwind of questions raced through his mind.
Where were they? How had the hunters found them? What had happened after the fall?

He chose one and shouted it at Alastair’s back. “How did they find us?”

He thought the question had been lost in the wind. Another crash came from behind, closer this time.

Then Alastair answered. “They’ve been on our trail since the wall. A couple of guards heard your scream as you fell. At first I managed to outpace them, but there was no time to disguise my trail.”

They were moving downhill now and Eric struggled to keep his feet on the muddy ground. He grasped at seedlings and low hanging branches as he ran, struggling to control his descent on the slippery slope. Ahead Alastair slid between the trees with ease.

Suddenly the old man slammed to a halt and shouted a warning. He spun, cloak whirling around him. His arm slammed into Eric's chest and knocked him flat on his back. Air exploded from his mouth at the impact. Eric fought for air, unable to draw breath. But his keen eyes did not miss the black shaft that flashed through the space he had just occupied. A sharp cracked followed as the bolt smashed into a nearby tree.

Now the forest filled with the shouts of men. Still gasping in pain, Eric watched from the ground as three armoured guards appeared between the trees. Twigs and stones littered the ground beneath him. They stabbed through his clothing and scratched at his skin. Two inches to his left lay a fallen branch. Wincing, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around it. The rough bark stung the cuts on his palm but its weight felt reassuring in his hands.

Alastair stepped across him. Reaching down he drew his sword. Its cold metal shone in the streaks of sun which speared through the canopy above. Silver streaks of hair hung across his face, masking his expression. Eric could sense his anger; he saw it in the hunch of the old man’s shoulders as he marched towards the guards.

Pulling himself to his feet, Eric took stock of the men who faced them. The foremost was a small man, clean-shaven with short black hair. He was edging backwards with one eye on Alastair as he frantically wound his crossbow. The other two stepped past him, their eyes locked on Alastair. Both were larger than the first with bulging arms and necks as thick as tree trunks. One held a long sword in an easy grip. The other raised his own crossbow and took aim. Each wore the blackened burns of the storm.

The crossbow twanged. This time Alastair had no time to react. The metal bolt flashed through the space between them and buried itself in his left shoulder. Alastair stumbled back, face twisted with pain. Then with a roar he straightened, arm swinging out at his attacker.

Eric watched with shock as some invisible force caught the archer and flung him through the air. There came a sickening crunch as the man plunged headfirst into a tree. Alastair had not moved a step, had not come within ten feet of him.

Magic!
The word spun through Eric’s head.

The swordsman charged. He moved with shocking speed for such a giant, his footsteps making muffled thuds on the leaf litter. Before Alastair could raise his arm again the man had closed the distance between them. With a scream of defiance, he swung his sword at the old man’s head.

The clash of steel on steel rung through the trees. Alastair pulled back his sword and stepped sideways as the man charged past. He spun to stab at his foe’s exposed back but the soldier had already righted himself. Sparks flew as their swords clashed again.

An overhanded blow forced Alastair back a step. The old man’s face clenched with pain, his movements disjointed. Yet still he managed to fend off his foe’s unrelenting attack. Eric clutched his club at his side, unable to see an opening in the deadly dance of steel.

Colour was slowly draining from Alastair’s face, turning his skin a paled grey. The bolt remained imbedded in his shoulder. Blood stained his cloak.

The guard pressed his attack, eyes narrowed with determination. His strength seemed to grow with every swing of his sword. His blade struck like a snake, tip darting out, only to be narrowly blocked. Each attack drew closer to the killing blow.

Beyond them, Eric saw the first bowman raise his reloaded weapon and then lower it again. Alastair was at least succeeding at keeping the swordsman between them, denying the archer a clean shot.

The man’s eyes slid to where Eric stood in indecision. He raised his crossbow.

Eric threw himself to the side as a bolt flashed towards him. He felt the blood flee his face and his heart stop. Fists clenched, he silently swore to himself.
Too close!

Shaking his head he scrambled to his feet. The bowman had vanished. He raised his club before him, eyes searching the trees for the dark-haired man. The clashing of swords seemed to die away against the harsh clanking of the rewinding crossbow. Eric felt a sliver of ice trickle down his neck.

Eric’s back began to itch as he imagined the hidden archer taking aim. He spun left, then right, eyes searching for any flicker of movement. His gaze took in the failing Alastair and the swordsman, lingering on the old man's limp left arm. With every blow the wrinkles on his face deepened. It seemed as though whatever trick or magic he had used earlier had run out.

The cranking click of the crossbow ceased. Then something sharp pressed into Eric's back. He froze.

"Drop the club," the archer growled into his ear.

Eric’s legs began to shake. He tossed away his feeble weapon.

“On your knees, slowly now! Hands behind your head.”

Eric obeyed, kneeling in the mud and placing his hands over his head. The crossbow point followed him down. He could almost feel the man's finger on the trigger and knew he might be only seconds from death.

“Stay where you are.” The pressure on his back vanished as the man walked round in front of him. The crossbow point never wavered from Eric's chest.

A bead of sweat trickled down Eric’s forehead. The huntsman’s clothes were charred and streaked with mud, and the air around him reeked of soot and smoke. Raw hate twisted his face.

“Do you know how many died last night,
demon?
” his voice shook with emotion. “I should kill you now. But no, that would be too good for you. You deserve the same suffering my people have felt. Your death will be slow and painful.”

Eric could feel his eyes begin to water, hopeless guilt welling up inside him. He deserved this, deserved this hate, and whatever terrible punishment they devised. Yet still he shook with terror.

“But your friend, he’ll die quick, magic or no. Sammy’s no amateur. The old man doesn’t stand a chance.”

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

Alastair's arm shook with the weight of his short sword. His muscles screamed but he drove on through the pain. He struck out with a short stab, but too slow, his foe blocking with ease. Pain shot down his arm as their swords met, the power in the guard’s swing almost knocking the weapon from his hand.

The man twisted his sword away and came again, forcing Alastair backwards. His blade slid beneath Alastair's guard, followed by the tearing of fabric as the tip sliced his cloak.

Alastair forced his weary body forwards, stabbing upwards as his foe closed. The guard blocked but Alastair was expecting it and lashed out with his foot. He struck the man a heavy blow to the chest.

His opponent stumbled back and if Alastair had possessed the strength, he might have finished the fight then and there. As it was he barely stayed on his feet. His muscles burned and his heart raced. Pain radiated from where the bolt was buried in his shoulder. He felt as though he had aged ten years in the last five minutes.

The man he faced recovered, sneering as he saw his opponent had not moved.

Alastair cursed his hesitation when the men had first appeared. He should have used his magic then but he had held back, knowing he faced only mortal men. How arrogant he had been.

“Stupid old man. You will regret helping the demon by the time I'm done with you. You may have destroyed our town, but I will not let your evil prevail."

Alastair sighed, summoning the last of his strength as the man made to renew his attack. They both knew the fight was drawing to an end. One way or another, one of them would soon be dead.

Alastair drew on the last of his energy, preparing himself for one last, underhand move. He watched his opponent closely, saw his boots shift slightly in the litter of the forest floor. It was all the warning he needed.

The man leapt towards him, sword raised high to deliver a mighty blow to Alastair’s head. He surged across the six feet separating them, a battle cry on his lips.

Just as it seemed the blow would land, Alastair flicked the near limp fingers of his left hand. A surge of energy rushed through his mind and along his arm as he summoned the last dredges of his magic.

With a cry of shock the guard toppled forwards, his feet tripped by some unseen force. His arms windmilled as he tried to right himself.

But it was too late. Alastair stepped forward and drove his short sword through the guard’s chest. An explosive gasp escaped the man as his weight drove the sword deep into his body. His eyes widened in shock and a gurgling noise began deep in his throat. Convulsing, he sunk to his knees and toppled to the ground. The sword slid free with a horrifying sucking sound.

Alastair stared at the lifeless body. A hot tear ran down his cheek. He had not wanted this. What was Antonia playing at here? A good man lay at his feet, just one more to add to the ruin of Oaksville, to the curse of runaway magic.

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

There was silence as they stared at the dead man. Then a scream of rage pierced the air. Eric looked at the bowman in horror. The crossbow was no longer pointing at him.

The man's voice was shrill. “
Die, damn you!
”

Eric did not hesitate. He drove himself forwards, tackling the man from behind. The two of them went down in a heap, rolling across the muddy ground. The crossbow twanged as they hit the ground. Eric prayed it had not still been pointed at Alastair.

The larger man quickly recovered from his attack and surged back against him. An elbow slammed into Eric’s stomach, winding him for the second time in ten minutes. The villager regained his feet, a knife appearing in his hand.