by Aaron Hodges
Eric glanced at the older woman, then waved a hand.
Enala answered before either of them could repeat the question. “I acted. You may be happy trapped here, Laurel, but I won’t be. I won’t live a day longer than I have too with the likes of men like Thaster.”
Laurel grabbed Enala’s tunic and thrust her against the canvas wall. “Listen here, you little fool. That man is going to kill you tomorrow. You have no idea what you are up against. In battle he is more a force of nature than mortal man,” she paused. “And he uses black magic.”
“What?” Eric made to stand.
“Stop!” Laurel fixed him with a glare. “Don’t say a word. I should not have told you that, but perhaps now you might be convinced to give up this folly,” she shook her head and released Enala.
Enala glared up at her. “Coward. How could you serve such a man? Your magic comes from the Light. How could you allow it to be corrupted by the twisted wants of one who works with that perverted force?”
Laurel’s hand snapped out. The slap of her hand striking Enala’s cheek rang through the wagon. Eric winced. “Shut your mouth, girl. You’d better write a letter to your family, since you’re never going to see them again,” she glanced at Eric. “And good luck avoiding the hangman’s noose now. Thaster will deliver you straight to the authorities when we arrive in Chole. Gold is a much better investment than a troublesome Magicker,” she shook her head. “Enjoy your sleep. Tomorrow will be a bumpy day, and likely your final one on earth. I’ll be sure to bring you a fine last meal,” with that she turned and left the wagon.
When she was gone, Eric looked at Enala. “Well? Care to elaborate?”
Enala stared at the canvas wall. She looked up at Eric’s words, a blank look in her eyes, her mind clearly someplace else. She shook her head, slowly returning to reality.
“Actually, I was just trying to figure out the date. It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow,” she smiled. “So whatever happens, at least I’ll get to see eighteen,” then she laughed. “Maybe that will bring me some luck.”
A chill swept through Eric at her words. A memory pricked at the back of his mind, something Alastair had once said to him. He stared into space, struggling to recall the words, but it lingered just out of reach.
Finally, he groaned and leaned his head back against the canvas wall. His thoughts turned to Inken, whether she still lived, where she might be. Her smile flickered in his mind, warming him. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.
It was a long time before either slept that night.
*************
Inken stood before the gold embossed doors of the throne room, arms folded, foot tapping with impatience. Half an hour had already gone, and she was tired of waiting. Her nerves grew with the passage of each minute. She struggled to maintain a calm outward appearance. All she wanted to do was scream the question bouncing around in her head.
Where is Eric?
Caelin stood to her right, shoulders staunch and a blank expression on his face. She smiled, proud of the sergeant’s strength. Despite his doubt and guilt, she knew he would not falter now. Whatever ghosts haunted him, they could rely on his courage to get them through.
To her left Gabriel stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable amidst the riches of the citadel. He had said little since the events in Sitton and Inken was not sure what to make of him. Though his desire to find Enala was clear, there was a darkness in him, a haunted look to his face. And she still did not trust him after his attack on Eric.
Inken shook her head, her attention caught by a creak from the great doors. A crack appeared between them as the golden metal swung outward, revealing a manservant on the other side. He surveyed the waiting room before his gaze settled on the guard who had escorted them from the gates.
“The king will see your guests now, Elton. I hope it is important, the council is not in the best of moods,” the man spoke in a haughty tone.
Elton nodded and turned to the three of them. “Time to tell your tale, Caelin,” he waved for them to enter.
Inken followed Caelin through the doors into the chamber beyond. Guards stood to either side of the entrance, spears held at the vertical position. Inken took a deep breath as they made their way down the red carpet, trying to keep the strain from her face.
The walls of the throne room were made of wood rather than marble, and the rich red of the timber glowed against the flickering torches. Tapestries hung from the tall ceilings, each depicting a different time period from Plorsea’s history. White glass windows ringed the room, their crystal panels looking out over the lake encircling the city.
A table stood on a raised platform at the end of the chamber, and a granite throne loomed behind it. Several men and women sat around the table, their quiet conversation buzzing about the room. Guards stood to attention in front of them, forming a human shield. Those at the table looked up as the company entered, and Inken got her first glance of the Plorsean King.
King Fraser wore a platinum crown and sat at the head of the table, but otherwise there was little to identify him as the most powerful man in Plorsea. His navy blue tunic with gold embossed buttons marked him as a member of the royal family, but others at the table wore the same blue – brothers and uncles who sat on the council. Grey streaked his hair and beard, both of which had been cropped short like the soldiers outside. She’d heard King Fraser served in the army when he was younger; apparently some of their customs had stuck. His dark brown eyes caught hers as they followed their approach.
“What is this we have here?” the king stood, his voice ringing out across the room. “Caelin, my champion, returned at last,” open scorn laced his voice.
Caelin faltered midstride and Inken caught panic in his eyes. Then his face closed over and he continued his march towards the king. When he reached the ring of guards he sank to one knee.
“Aye, I have returned, my king, though my quest is not yet done,” he tried to keep his tone neutral, but Inken caught the hint of defiance in his voice.
Inken grasped Gabriel’s arm and led him to stand with Caelin. Together they knelt beside the sergeant.
“Ah, so you have not found the family I sent you to protect? Why, then, are you here? Where is Alastair?”
Caelin swallowed. “I am sorry, your majesty. The family are dead but for one girl. As is Alastair. He died protecting their last child, at the hand of one of our own, the traitor Balistor.”
Whispers rushed around the room at Balistor’s name. The king raised a hand, and silence fell. He walked around the table until he stood at the edge of the dais.
“Balistor was a traitor? Who are you to make such an accusation?”
Rage flashed across Caelin’s face and then vanished. He continued in a calm tone. “I saw it with my own eyes, heard it from his own mouth. He slew Alastair, Antonia’s champion, and then tried to kill the last descendent of Aria. If I had not stopped him, he would have succeeded.”
The whispers grew to shouts. Some of the council stood, their chairs grating on the stone floor and banging to the ground. Glasses spilt across the wide table, and others cursed as wine dribbled onto their scarlet jackets. Though he had been a battle Magicker, Balistor had clearly been popular amongst the king’s council.
King Fraser raised his hand again. This time silence did not fall until the guards thumped the butts of their spears on the stone floor.
“It sounds like you have quite the tale to tell, Caelin. Perhaps you could start at the beginning,” his tone was calm, but Inken could not miss the warning in his voice. They were on thin ice; if the king did not like Caelin’s story, who knew where they would end up.
Inken licked her lips, and kept quiet.
Caelin had paled, obviously surprised by the councillors’ reaction. Nevertheless, he looked to the king and began to recite their story from the beginning, when he had met Alastair in Chole.
Ten minutes later, the room was silent as Caelin told of how Balistor had betrayed the
m. His voice shook with emotion when he described how he had confronted the traitor, and faced him with Alastair’s blade.
When Caelin finished, no one spoke. They stared at him with awe, a collection of fear and anger on the faces at the table. Inken could see some believed the story, but others were not so easily convinced. She looked to the king, trying to read the blank expression on the man’s face. He alone held their fate in his hands.
“And where is Enala now?” the king asked, giving no hint of his verdict.
Caelin swallowed. “I am sorry, your majesty. My news grows worse. We were ambushed by the same demon in Sitton, where we had come ashore for supplies. We were separated from Enala, who was able to flee with Alastair’s apprentice. We had hoped they might have arrived before us…” he looked around and found only blank expressions in response. “And… and worse still, the demon slew Jurrien in Sitton. We are alone in this fight now.”
The room exploded, swallowing Caelin’s final words in a cacophony of sound. Panic swept through the chamber and even the guards were caught up in its current. For a moment, it looked as though total chaos might break loose.
The king turned and walked to the meeting table. Drawing his greatsword, he raised it above his head and brought it down. A great crack ran through the throne room. He swung again, the metal blade slicing through the thick wood. On the third strike, the table folded in two, collapsing to the ground with a boom. The sound reverberated around the room, silencing the councillors.
“Silence!” Fraser roared, tossing his sword to the ground. He walked to the edge of the dais and sprang down to the red carpet. Caelin bowed his head as the king approached, and Inken quickly followed suit. Glancing at Gabriel, she nudged him to do the same.
“So what you are telling me, my champion, is that the last wielder of the Sword of Light is missing. That you yourself have witnessed the deaths of our beloved Goddess Antonia, and the Storm God Jurrien? These are evil tidings indeed you bring, ones so dark one might question the truth of your tale. Or the allegiance of the messenger.”
Inken looked up, anger pushing her beyond caution. “He speaks the truth, your majesty. I witnessed all of it. As have others. The priests in Lon will verify everything we have said; they worked with Jurrien to send us here.”
She glared at the king, refusing to drop her gaze. Their eyes locked, the silence stretching out, until at last Fraser waved a hand. “Well, we shall see then. I will send messengers to Lon, of course. And to whatever remains of Sitton. We will have the truth.”
“You cannot allow our men to engage with that demon,” Caelin spoke up. “It is beyond mortal might now, not unless we mount a host of Magickers against it,” anger was written on Caelin’s face now, masking the fear hidden just below the surface.
The king stared at Caelin. “You forget yourself, sergeant. Do not interrupt me. As for your advice, I do not need lecturing by a foot soldier in the business of magic. Now, what of the girl? Where has this companion of yours taken her, if not here?”
Caelin shrugged. “I do not know. We thought they would have arrived by now. I can only pray the demon has not found them. Either way, they fled using Sky magic, leaving no way to track them. But I believe if anyone can get Enala to the Sword, it is Eric.”
The king nodded. “Very well. You have given us much to think about. Jurrien was here only a week ago, telling us of the peril faced by the Three Nations. We recalled our armies at his request; even now they are mustering at stationing points around the lake.”
Caelin bowed his head. “That is welcome news, your majesty. Only the might of men is left now to protect us from Archon. We must march immediately for Fort Fall to reinforce the garrison, or the war will be lost before it begins.”
Silence fell as Caelin’s words echoed off the high ceilings. The councillors looked from one to another, open fear on their faces.
At last a woman stood. “There is wisdom in your words, Caelin, but we cannot act rashly. To do so would only be to play into Archon’s hands. Marching north is but one option we have to discuss.”
“What?” Gabriel snapped, raising his voice in protest. “That is the only option,” he made to step forward, but Inken grasped his shoulder and pulled him back.
The king’s guards advanced a step, hands on the pommels of their swords.
“Careful how you speak, boy,” the king’s voice was hard. “That is Katya, one of my most trusted councillors,” he paused. “That was done once before, was it not? The armies of the Three Nations marched north to stand united at Fort Fall, to defend our people against Archon. And they were decimated. I will not so recklessly march my armies to the same fate,” he looked to Caelin. “Thank you for bringing this news. I have not yet decided whether to believe your tale, but the priests in Lon will have the truth of it. For now, you may have your free run of the city, but the guards will not allow you to leave the outer walls,” he waved a hand to dismiss them. “Elton will find room for you and your companions. You are dismissed.”
Thirteen
Enala tried to conceal the trembling in her legs as they walked through the Baronian camp. Around her the men and women stared, fear and pity in their eyes. A few might have shown a hint of awe, but it was quickly hidden when she turned their way, and left her wondering if it was just her imagination.
She gave a mental shake of her head. It didn’t matter. These people were slaves to this life, trapped by the black garments they wore to represent their ‘freedom.’ They were blind to the poverty in which they lived, the pitiful state of their holy tents and wretched wagon village. Their tattered clothes would be useless in the winter, and she guessed many would not live to see the spring.
Enala refused to be trapped in their cycle of suffering. She would fight and win, or die.
Ahead the crowds parted, revealing a circle of brown grass lit by bonfires. The moon and stars hid behind dark clouds, the sky a blank canvas. They would fight by the light of the flames. Enala made a mental note to be wary; she could easily be blinded by their light.
Eric walked beside her, his face blank, unreadable. Enala rubbed her hands together to ward off the chill, still trying to hide her nerves. She could show no fear here. Thaster would feed on it, and he needed no extra advantage. Although in truth, her fear was more for Eric than herself. She held his life in her hands as well as her own. One stumble, and it would cost them both.
Laurel came behind, her boots scuffing on the hard ground. Enala could almost feel her anger, prickling at her back like needles. It hung over them like a blanket, suffocating. That at least she could shrug off. The Magicker meant nothing to her.
As they entered the ring, Enala turned to Eric and hugged him. She felt the trembling in his body, and knew hers must be shaking too. She hoped no one else could see it.
“Don’t go dying on me,” Eric whispered.
Enala struggled to hold back tears. “I won’t,” the words caught in her throat. She gave a quick nod and turned away. She had to focus. From behind her she heard the thud of Eric and Laurel’s footsteps as they moved away.
She walked into the circle, eyes flicking around in search of her opponent. She did not have to look far.
Thaster came marching into the light, dust rising up behind him as his boots thumped the dry grass. The dust glistened in the firelight, casting it in red and orange, and it seemed a cloud of embers trailed in his wake. He held his greatsword in one hand, its five-foot blade reaching for her. The other hand he raised above his head, as though this fight had already been won. Which, Enala had to admit as she stared up at him, might be as good as true.
But she refused to be cowed. She flashed the brute a toothy grin, knowing she must look a madwoman. Reaching down, she drew the blade Laurel had given her earlier. She looked at the short sword in her hand, and couldn’t help but feel foolish wielding such a tiny weapon against the monstrous blade held by Thaster. It was not her sword, but Eric’s, the one that had passed to him from Alastair. But its weight
felt good in her hand, its balance similar to her own weapon.
When Thaster saw her weapon, his laughter shook the circle, silencing the crowd. “Would you like a bigger toothpick, girl?” he mocked. “I will break that toy with my first swing.”
Enala bit her tongue and gave a curt shake of her head. A bigger sword would take time to adjust too, time she did not have. She knew the quality of the blade she held, had heard the others speak of the man who once wielded it. Alastair was a legend, and she felt honoured to hold his sword. It would be foolish to switch now.
The chief looked down at her. “Very well then,” he grinned and passed his blade to his left hand. “Just for you, I shall use my left hand tonight. Perhaps that will make a fair fight of this contest.”
The crowd’s laughter began again, but Enala blocked them out. She stared up at the giant, taking in the massive shoulders, the legs like tree trunks, the muscles bulging in his arms. He held the greatsword in one arm as though it weighed no more than a feather.
Then she began to chuckle herself, a memory of her father emerging through the fear. He had always been fond of the old proverb – the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Grinning, she looked up at Thaster, the thought giving her strength.
Gods, I hope you were right, dad, she grinned, crouching in a fighting stance, sword out before her. Otherwise this will be my last birthday.
Around them, the laughter of the crowd ceased. Even the chief looked unsettled by her sudden change. He stared at her, the surprise in his eyes turning to suspicion. He glanced at the blade in his left hand, and then shook his head.
Enala raised an eyebrow. “You can use your right if you like,” if he was debating whether to switch hands again, she had definitely succeeded in unsettling him. But she knew with all those watching, such an act would be viewed as cowardly. Changing back now would undermine his position in the tribe, and worse, dent his own confidence.
“I don’t need it,” he growled, forcing a grin. “Let the fight begin!”
