by Aaron Hodges
Michael frowned. He rocked back on his haunches, studying the old priest. “Why do they need me? I’m only a doctor – surely you would serve them better.”
“Perhaps, but I am weak and cannot travel. These folk will not be coming here. You must go to them.”
He described the path Michael must take to the inn. As he spoke the doctor watched him with his amber eyes. Behind them Elynbrigge could sense the courage Michael had hid beneath the years of prayer and study. This man would not falter when he looked into the face of evil. His old friend would need such a man.
“Why do these people need me? Who are they?”
Your doom, Elynbrigge thought. He could not say it though. But he could at least offer a choice. “They are the ones who brought the girl to us. They will need a doctor before the night is done, and they will not be staying in Chole much longer. If you go to them, you must leave with them.”
“Why?”
“If you return here their enemies will seek you out. They will take you and torture you until they break you. And they will burn this temple to the ground.”
Michael’s expression did not change, but Elynbrigge could taste his anger on the air. He had offered an impossible choice. To follow his calling and aid those in need, he would have to give up everything he knew and loved.
Time was trickling away though and death was fast approaching. He gave Michael a final push. “You should know, these people are servants of Antonia. And I believe if you go to them, you will meet her.”
Michael exhaled sharply. “The Goddess herself?”
Elynbrigge almost wished he could take back the words. Who would turn up the opportunity to meet the Goddess, face to face? Instead, he only nodded.
Michael smiled. Elynbrigge felt the joy flooding Michael’s soul. It made him sick to his stomach. “I would give my life to serve the Goddess. I will go to them.”
You might yet, Elynbrigge thought. “Then go to them, there is no time to spare. Good luck, my friend. May Antonia watch over you.”
Michael fled the room. The old priest gathered his thoughts and sent a prayer for Michael’s soul. If he survived this quest, he would be a priest no longer. The darkness would change him forever. He was strong though and the challenge would only make him stronger.
It did not take long for his second visitor to arrive. The dark cloaked man stepped into the room, sword in hand. Elynbrigge sat up, preparing himself for this final confrontation.
“Elynbrigge, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the voice was soft, mocking. “I’ve heard so much about you, though I am afraid you don’t seem to live up to the stories. Age does not become you.”
“Time claims all of us.”
The man laughed. “Not me, nor my master. The dark arts offer all manner of riches. When he comes, I will live forever.”
“And yet you do not live at all. What is left of the man you once were? Where is your soul? What is immortality without joy?” Elynbrigge’s voice was touched with sadness.
“It is immortality. I would not expect you to understand,” he waved a hand. “Now, do you have any final words? I have other matters to attend to.”
Elynbrigge sighed. “There is no need to kill me. I will play no part in this fight. I am an old man, my days of power long past. My only desire now is to spend my final years healing the sick. Will you not give me that?”
His visitor cackled. “You are the only mortal left who remembers the birth of the Gods. That alone is a death sentence. And I will take no chances in this game. The last shackles of the past fall tonight and neither you nor Alastair will be here to see the dawn of the new age.”
“Alastair will not die so easily,” at this moment he knew how false those words were. 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.
Elynbrigge stared into the man’s dead eyes and let the void claim him.
******************
Alastair’s breathing was growing more shallow with each gasp. Rain had soaked through his clothes and he was starting to shake. He needed shelter, and help, fast.
Eric looked up at Caelin. “We need to get him back to the inn, now.”
Caelin crouched opposite him. “I’ll carry him,” he wrapped his arms around Alastair and lifted him from the muddy stone. The old man seemed to have shrunk, as though the magic had drained away muscle and bone, leaving only a skeletal husk in his place. Caelin hauled him over his shoulders and marched for the stairs.
Eric ducked past him and took the lead. He glanced back, checking to see how the young sergeant was coping with his burden, but Caelin showed no signs of weakness. His stride was firm and confident, as though he carried nothing but air. They reached the staircase and started down. This time Eric scarcely noticed the height, his mind preoccupied on Alastair’s fate.
The rain had begun to clear. Wind gusted around them, but it grew weaker as they walked. The flashes of lightning now came from far away, the thunder a distant rumble. The storm was finally ending, leaving silence in its wake. Loose stones clattered on the staircase, dislodged by their passage. Eric continued down, Caelin a step behind him.
Eric did not hesitate when they reached the ground. There was no time to waste. Alastair’s head bounced with each step Caelin took, his wispy grey hair hanging across his pale face.
The rain had ceased, but its smell lingered in the air. The shadows cast by the buildings closed in around them. The clouds still hid the moon and stars, leaving only a sparse scattering of street lanterns to light the way. Eric let Caelin take the lead. Even in daylight he could not have navigated the jumbled streets.
The young soldier led them through the night. Eric glanced into the shadows, breath coming in short gasps. He had not forgotten Archon’s men, nor the underworld who ruled the night here in Chole. The image of the murdered couple was fresh in his head. The stench of blood came with it, so convincing he paused to search for its source. But it was just a memory, a nightmare. He moved on.
His eyes slid through the dark surrounding them. Anything could be hiding in the gloom. He searched for movement, strained to catch the faintest sound. He shivered. There was nothing. He hurried after Caelin.
Finally, they came to a crossroads Eric recognised. A single lantern hung on the corner, a frail beacon lighting the way. They were close, only a few blocks from the inn. Thankfully, as Caelin was lagging now beneath his burden. His breath came in ragged bursts, steaming in the cool night air. He would not make it much further.
Eric’s ears caught the slight rustle of clothing from behind them. He spun, glimpsing the sheen of light on steel. A blade hurtled at him from the shadows. He dived aside, but not fast enough. The dagger tore through his clothes and plunged into his side. He struck the ground, white fire dancing across his vision.
Caelin dropped Alastair and leapt across Eric. His sword hissed from its sheath, a dagger appearing in his other hand. The soldier placed himself between the shadows and his fallen comrades, crouched in anticipation. His movements were smooth and practiced, his face unreadable.
Eric groaned, agony lancing from his side. He glanced down and saw the dagger’s hilt still buried in his flesh. Hot blood ran down his leg. He tried to move and winced as the cool steel cut further. Lying back, he saw three men emerging into the light. Their dark clothing clung to the shadows at their back. Big, muscular men, they held greatswords at the ready. They towered over Caelin. Eric prayed his ally’s skill was enough to take them.
The men spread out as they approached, attempting to encircle their prey. They moved quickly, eager to end the last opposition standing between them and their reward. Once surrounded, Caelin would have no way of defending against all three. The fight would be over before it began.
But Caelin was no fool. He didn’t wait for the snare to close. He sprang at the man to his left, sword snaking out. His enemy made a clumsy jab to turn aside the blow, surp
rise written on his meaty face. Caelin drew back his blade and attacked again. The man blocked, but there was no avoiding the dagger. Caelin buried it in his stomach and tore it loose.
Caelin bounded backwards, bringing his sword to the ready. The wounded man staggered a few paces after him and pitched face first to the ground. He groaned, fingers clawing at the hole in his stomach. A dark puddle began to form around him.
Caelin grinned at the remaining thugs, beckoning them forward. They drew closer together; approaching warily now, fear making them hesitate. Caelin stood frozen in place, sword raised high in his right hand, bloody dagger low in his left. He stood like a statue, daring his opponents to break him.
The night rang with the clash of steel. These men were no novices and the death of their comrade did not move them. Their swords buzzed like wasps, stingers seeking out flesh. It was not enough. Wherever they struck, Caelin’s blades were there to meet them.
For a while the young soldier seemed untouchable. Then Caelin grunted and staggered backwards, and Eric saw a trail of blood streaming from a cut across his forehead, dripping in his eyes. His foes closed on him, swords poised to strike.
The first man drew ahead, crossing the other’s path. His sword lanced for Caelin’s throat. Caelin straightened to brush the blow aside. The man came on, intent on the kill. He grasped his greatsword in both hands and swung it at his Caelin’s head.
Sparks flew as their blades met. Caelin stepped back, bending beneath the force of the two handed blow. The thug swung again and again, forcing him back. He gasped for air, fighting for the strength to brave the onslaught. The second man struggled to join the fight, but Caelin was retreating too fast.
Suddenly, the two-handed attacker froze, sword raised above his head. Then he toppled backwards, his comrade leaping from his path. Eric’s eyes widened as he saw Caelin’s dagger buried in the man’s throat.
Caelin strode over the corpse, his face grim. He held only his sword, its tip streaked with blood. The final man backed away, dropping his blade in surrender. Caelin continued towards him until the man fled.
He turned to Eric, exhaustion washing across his face. He smiled anyway. “Are you telling me I have to carry both of you now?”
Eric would have laughed, if it weren’t for the pain. He felt dizzy and could not seem to get enough air. His stomach roiled. They were lucky the inn was not far. Gritting his teeth, he reached down to grasp the hilt of the dagger.
“I’d leave that, if I were you. You’ll do more damage if you pull it out. And you’d likely 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 cloaked man watched from the shadows. The men’s failure angered him, but he was not surprised at the outcome. They were a probe, a test of their strength before he revealed his hand. Now two were wounded, the third exhausted. He could hardly contain his glee. He crept closer. These three he could finish himself. He imagined the pleasure it would bring to drive his blade through Alastair’s damned heart.
“Then we go after the girl,” the soldier said.
He froze. What had they discovered? Had Enala emerged from hiding? If so, it would not take long to track her down himself. Yet, his master would not be forgiving if she slipped through his fingers a second time.
He retreated into the shadows and slunk away. If he beat them back to the inn, he could delay the ambush for an hour. He needed time to listen for what they knew about the girl.
Then he would wipe the board clean.
******************
Eric groaned as Caelin kicked his way through the inn’s double doors. A wave of warm air spilled over them and every eye in the dining room turned to stare. Caelin stumbled inside, Eric slung over one shoulder, Alastair the other. His body shook beneath their weight, overwhelmed by the cold and exhaustion.
A voice called from the back of the busy room. “Are you okay?”
“A doctor,” Caelin croaked, sinking to the floor.
“Here!” a man shouted, threading his way through the crowd.
Eric looked up at the voice. “That’s Michael, the priest from the temple. What is he doing here?”
Michael overheard. “Elynbrigge sent me. What’s happened?”
“Explanations will have to wait,” Caelin snapped. “Michael, take Alastair for God’s sake, before I drop him.”
Michael bent and took Alastair over his shoulder. The old man was still unconscious and Eric doubted the doctor would get very far beneath the burden. He was not a heavily built man and his hair was already streaked with grey.
“I’ll take him,” Balistor appeared beside the doctor.
“Where have you been?” Caelin grunted. Michael handed Alastair’s limp body over to the Magicker.
“Looking for the girl. What the hell happened to you three? No one was here when I returned,” he turned as he spoke, leading them towards the stairwell.
Eric looked around through a haze of pain. People were staring. It was not safe. Their enemies were closing in and word of their entrance would spread quickly. They needed to get out of the city and after Enala, if she still lived. He tried to speak, but each footstep sent a fresh wave of agony from his side. He had to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Blood ran down his leg, his strength slowly trickling away. Tears in his eyes, he fought to stay conscious.
People moved aside as they pushed their way through the room. They made their way into the corridor and climbed the stairs. Eric focused on the thud of Caelin’s heavy boots, the sound anchoring him in reality. At the top, Balistor led them to their room and unlocked the door with Alastair’s key. Caelin and Michael followed him inside.
Balistor laid Alastair on one of the beds as Caelin did the same for Eric. He sank back onto the soft cushion, the feeling unreal, as though he were floating on a cloud. His head spun as he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, willing it to stop.
“What happened?” Balistor asked grimly.
The bed sank beneath Eric’s feet as Caelin sat on the end. The soldier put his face in his hands, exhausted. Michael leant over Alastair, prodding his face and chest with steel instruments.
“We were attacked,” Caelin offered. “Ambushed on our way back to the inn. I stopped them, just.”
Balistor nodded, his face clouded. His eyes slid from the dagger in Eric’s side to Alastair’s pale face. Michael rummaged in his shoulder bag, glass clinking from inside. His hand finally emerged holding a small vial filled with a bright green liquid.
He glanced at Caelin. “This is a restorative potion. It’s the strongest I have, but looking at his condition, it will not be strong enough. It might give him a few more hours, but ultimately, he is dying.”
“No!” Eric struggled to sit up.
Caelin placed a firm hand on his chest, holding him down. “Stay calm, you need to save your strength. I’ll take care of this,” he turned to the doctor. “Is there anything else you can do?”
Michael shook his head. “I’m only a doctor, and he’s too far gone for that. There may be something else, but I will tend to the young man first. He at least I can help.”
Eric could almost feel himself shrink as Michael moved to his side. His eyes were grim and, though not unkind, they sent a chill down his spine. His heartbeat fluttered and a new fear gripped him. Am I going to die? He dared not voice the question.
Michael lent to examine the wound, his frown deepening. Eric struggled to calm himself, while the doctor reached down and gave the skin around the dagger a tender push.
Eric shrieked as fire ripped through his side. He swore, flinching away from the doctor’s touch. His hand snaked out, grabbing Michael by his tunic, fury swamping him. He bared his teeth, a silent threat in his lightning blue eyes.
Michael tisked, brushing off Eric’s hand. He dived into his bag again, c
oming up with a bottle of clear liquid. He removed the cap, releasing the harsh scent of alcohol. The hairs on Eric’s neck stood up.
“Hold him down. This is going to hurt,” Michael said.
Eric tensed as Caelin and Balistor took a hold of him but did not fight. The alcohol would burn away any infection in the wound, but it would also burn like nothing else. A cold sweat dripped from his brow.
Michael took a cloth and soaked it in the alcohol. Leaning over him he grasped the dagger’s handle. Slowly, he began to draw the blade from his side.
Eric screamed, back arching against the pain. The wound was fire, the agony of a red-hot poker jabbed into his skin. Waves of shock ran through his body. His mind whirled. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat as the world spun. Tears coursed down his face. He fought against his comrades, fought to free himself from their iron grip. Words tumbled from his mouth – senseless, nonsensical profanities that shattered on the walls of the room.
At last the darkness rose up to claim him, the pain falling away into oblivion.
******************
Eric awoke to chaos. Distant screams came from the open door, where Michael stood staring into the corridor. Alastair lay in the bed opposite, unmoved, but Caelin and Balistor had vanished.
His hand went to his side, fingers finding the jagged edges of his wound. Stitches held together the angry red flaps of skin. It was painful to the touch, but his head seemed clearer now.
Michael looked back and saw he was awake. He moved to his side. “I washed it out as best I could and then stitched you up. I gave you a small concoction to help with the pain. You were lucky – I don’t believe the blade hit any major organs. We’ll put a poultice on it later, if there’s time.”
“Thank you. What’s happening out there?”
“I am not sure. Your friends have gone to investigate.”
At that moment Caelin strode back into the room. “We have to go,” a scream from below emphasised his statement.
