by Aaron Hodges
But Caelin did not reply. He stood stiff as a board, staring at Katya, panic in his eyes.
Katya shook her head. “Nothing. Unsurprising. You are a fool, Caelin, and I won’t risk everything we have on the word of fool,” she turned to the men and raised a fist. “Men, to arms! Prepare the catapults. Archers to the fore. You there, find me a speaking trumpet. Perhaps we can persuade these creatures to leave without bloodshed.”
Gabriel gaped, unable to believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to scream at Caelin, to demand why the sergeant had frozen, but his tongue twisted in his throat and only a strangled squeak came out. He choked, his mouth dry, unable to form coherent words.
Gabriel stood rigid, staring at Katya, at Caelin. He made to move, to grab Caelin and shake him, but found his muscles locked in place. His whole body stood frozen. With growing horror, he realised Inken and Caelin were in a similar state.
Around them the soldiers began to move, rushing for weapon stashes and manning the great war machines mounted to the battlements.
His eyes flicked to Inken and Caelin and saw his panic reflected in their eyes. Swallowing, Gabriel glanced at Katya, watching as she strode through the men, bellowing at the top of her voice. Her eyes found them, and Gabriel thought he saw her lips twitch in the slightest smile.
Dark magic, the thought swept through Gabriel’s mind.
He stared at Katya as she swept through the Plorsean ranks. They had been wrong to trust her, to try and make her see reason. She had been Archon’s agent all along. Being a senior councillor, it was not hard to see how Katya might have influenced the king. Who knew what dark magic she had worked in Ardath.
Gabriel closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, fighting against whatever magic held his body. His muscles trembled and his knees creaked, but nothing changed. He could almost feel the dark forces surrounding him, the ghostly tendrils binding his limbs in iron. Only his eyes remained untouched, leaving him free to watch, horrified, as the dragons grew ever closer.
This cannot be happening.
“Dragons!” Katya’s voice boomed out. Someone had found her the speaking trumpet. “Why do you enter Plorsean lands uninvited. Turn back now, you are not welcome here.”
Gabriel sucked in a breath, his muscles straining to break free. His eyes flicked to the men nearest them, praying one would realise something was amiss. But no one was watching them; all eyes were on the approaching dragons. Soldiers raced along the parapet, taking up positions at regular intervals and crouching to string their bows. A catapult groaned as it turned to face the oncoming threat.
In the distance, the dragons roared and fire criss-crossed the sky.
No! Gabriel swore to himself. This had to be stopped. He clenched his fists, eyes flicking again to his companions. It took a moment for him to realise he had moved his hand. Hope blossomed in his chest and he struggled to bring feeling back to the rest of his arm.
Katya returned to where they stood frozen, a sad look on her face. “I have to admit, I’m disappointed you were wrong, Caelin,” her eyes looked distant. “Dragon’s would have been a welcome ally, but those beasts have not come to make peace.”
Gabriel felt the blood flee his face. This cannot be happening! Plorsea was about to fire on their most powerful allies. The dragons believed they were approaching friends; the surprise attack would decimate them – along with any future chance of alliance.
And those who survived the carnage would wreak bloody revenge on Ardath.
Katya still stood close by, her grim eyes watching the dragons approach. Gabriel felt another surge of hope as a tremor ran through his arm. He strained his muscles further, seeking every inch of give he could find. Then, slowly, he lowered his hand to the pommel of his sword.
Golden scales flashed with the beating of wings. The dragons had already crossed the halfway mark of the lake and were closing fast on the city. They would be within range in seconds.
“Men, prepare to fire!” Katya called.
Gabriel stood rigid as Katya paced past, shouting orders to the men on the catapult. Her eyes glittered, studying the dragons’ approach, ignorant now to the three of them. His fingers found the pommel of his sword and wrapped around the leather hilt. As he clenched it tight, a shock ran from his arm into his body, and a pressure snapped in his mind.
Shaking his head, Gabriel risked a glance at Caelin and nodded. His sword rasped from its scabbard.
In front of them, Katya raised an arm, eyes fixed on the advancing dragons. She opened her mouth to give the order.
Stepping up behind her, Gabriel drove his blade through the councillor’s back. The sharp steel slid in to the hilt and lodged there. Katya stiffened on the blade, her sharp groan echoing across the battlements. Her head half-turned, staring in shock at Gabriel. Her mouth opened, but only blood came out.
Staring into Katya’s eyes, Gabriel felt ice grow in his chest. In that moment, he had a terrible thought – maybe he’d been wrong, maybe Katya was not the traitor. Heart pounding hard against his ribs, he released the blade. Katya toppled to the ground.
Her dead eyes stared up at him, accusing.
Caelin stumbled as the spell broke and Inken shuddered beside him. Then she was swinging the bow off her shoulder and into her hand. She had an arrow nocked before Caelin had even drawn his sword. Together they stepped up on either side of Gabriel, weapons at the ready.
Around them the soldiers stared, unable to comprehend the sudden death of their commander. It only took another second for that to change. Almost as one, a hundred bows turned in their direction.
Yet all Gabriel could do was stand and stare at the dead woman at his feet.
*************
Eric paced across the bedroom, the soft carpet yielding beneath his sandaled feet. Incensed candles in the chandelier above cast their flicking light across the walls and left a citrus tang in his nostrils. A cushioned bed sat in the centre of the room, beckoning. But he could not sleep, not now, not while Enala’s fate still hung in the balance.
He glanced towards the heavy wooden doors barring his exit. They opened into a corridor where two guards waited, ensuring Eric did not make any unaccompanied trips into the citadel. Taking a breath, he moved towards the doors and then stopped, knowing it was useless. He had already tried that route. The guards had said in no uncertain terms he was to remain in this room until morning.
At least he could be thankful for their treatment of him. The first thing they’d done on reaching his makeshift prison was to un-cuff him and usher him into an adjoining room. There a hot bath waited. Still shivering from the cold outside, Eric had not needed any further encouragement. He pulled off his bloodstained clothing and slid into the hot water. The guards took his ruined clothes and quickly departed. To his surprise, they left Alastair’s sword where he had discarded it.
He returned to the bedroom wearing only a towel, where he found a white bathrobe and thin pair of sandals waiting for him.
Now hours had passed and still there was no word of Enala. Eric moved to the bed and sat down. He ran his hands through his hair, desperate to know if she had survived. Kalgan was the richest city in the Three Nations; surely they must have healers.
She will be okay, Eric reassured himself.
A fire burned in the grate on one wall, the flames casting a warm glow to mix with the candlelight. The walls were plain and windowless, there would be no escape there. Of course, with his magic he was confident he could fight his way out if necessary. But it would not come to that. These people were their allies, it would not be prudent to start blasting through walls just yet.
He lay back on his bed, the soft cushion yielding beneath him. With a wry grin, Eric realised this was the most comfortable bed he had ever lain on. Whether they believed him or not, the guards had not joked about making him feel welcome. He just hoped Enala was receiving the same attention.
Swallowing a lump in his throat, Eric closed his eyes. Inken’s face drifted through his mind, he
r wry grin flashing beneath her fiery red hair. How many days had it been now? How many nights since he’d left her in the ruin of Sitton. Even without the time warp of the Way, he’d lost count.
Staring up at the high ceiling, Eric prayed she still lived.
Then, exhaling, Eric began to meditate.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before a bang on the door woke him. A guard entered carrying a steaming plate of food. He placed it on the bedside table and flicked Eric a smile.
“Sorry to wake you, but I thought you could use an early breakfast. Glad you got some sleep, you’re looking better than when we found you,” he waved at the door. “Sorry for the lock and key too. If what you say is true, it’s a relief to have you. Without the king’s magic and the Sword, things have grown…dark here in Trola.”
“Is my friend okay?” Eric asked.
The guard nodded. “I heard the healers have given her the all clear. Must have taken them a bit of magic, she looked a bad way when you arrived,” he turned and moved back to the door. “Enjoy your breakfast, the council will want to see you within the hour.”
Eric’s shoulders loosened as relief undid the knots in his stomach. She’s okay!
As the door closed he turned to the plate of food. It held a generous portion of bacon, eggs and beans, along with sausages made from a darker meat than he’d seen in Plorsea. He guessed it would be lamb or sheep – the mountainous countryside of Trola was good for little else.
Ignoring his cutlery, Eric picked up one of the sausages and took a bite. Red juice ran down his chin as the charred meat touched his tongue.
Somewhere in the room, a woman laughed.
Eric jumped, spilling beans across the bedsheets.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to eat like a gentleman?” Laurel laughed again, appearing next to him on the bed.
Eric scrambled backwards, but Laurel’s hand flashed out to cover his mouth.
“Ssssh ssshh, Eric. We don’t want to alert the guards. Enala has a message for you.”
*************
The demon sucked in a deep breath of air, tasting the salt on the ocean breeze. It looked down at the city of Kalgan, nestled in the curve of the Trolan coastline. Rugged beaches stretched out to either side, and in the north forest grew right to the city walls. Waves smashed against the seawalls, driving salt spray into the air to cover the city with mist. In the distance an island sat in the deep waters of the bay.
A smile twisted its lips as it looked down on its old home. Slowly the winds holding the demon aloft dissipated and it dropped lower in the sky. It had taken some time to gain control of Jurrien’s magic, forcing the demon to travel much of the journey on foot. But when it finally mastered the Storm God’s power, the final hundred miles had flashed by in hours.
The demon had hesitated at Ardath, reaching out to check for the presence of its prey. There was no trace of them, but still it paused to consider the city’s destruction. But it had sensed the power of its comrades, other emissaries of Archon. The demon smiled. They were specks compared to the power it now wielded, but their presence meant Archon had other plans for the city.
There had been no sign of its prey elsewhere either. It listened for word from Archon’s spies, but the trail had gone cold. It seemed the two had vanished.
It did not matter now though. Somewhere below, the Sword of Light waited. It would find the blade and reclaim Thomas’ ancient birth right. They could not hide the Sword; it would tear the city apart brick by brick if necessary. Then, finally, the power Thomas had once wielded would be restored.
The wind roared and its cloak flapped out. Lightning flickered along the blade in its left hand. He grinned.
Before the demon could unleash the power, it felt a familiar magic stir in the city below.
The demon frowned. Now how did you get here?
*************
“This is a bad idea,” Eric whispered.
“A bit late to turn back now,” Laurel hissed back as she relieved the unconscious guards of their swords.
“Thanks, so glad you pointed that out,” he replied in a bland voice.
He hoped Enala knew what game she was playing at, trusting Laurel. But he had little choice but to go along with the plan. It had apparently taken most of the night for Laurel to discover where they were keeping him, and even longer waiting for a chance to slip into his room undetected. Enala and King Jonathan were a long way ahead of them by now.
Eric glanced up and down the corridor, his nerves fraught. The sun was up and the council could send for him at any minute. They must know Enala was missing by now. There was no more time to waste; they needed to get out of the citadel, now.
But first, he needed proper clothes. He winced as Laurel tossed him a pair of pants. These were followed by the guard’s jerkin, cloak and boots. Using the robe to shield himself and keeping a wary eye on Laurel, he began slipping into the clothing.
Laurel laughed when she saw him watching her. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type,” she still didn’t turn away.
Eric flushed but finished pulling on the clothes. They were too large for him, but at least he would have some protection from the cold air outside. Together they dragged the guards into the bedroom and locked the door behind them.
Laurel slipped past him. “This way,” she whispered.
Swallowing, Eric glanced back at the doors. Too late now.
Taking a firmer grip of Alastair’s sword, he followed after her, slipping down the silent corridors. Eric glanced through open doors as they moved, surprised by how empty the citadel seemed. They did not encounter a single soul as they made their way through the keep.
Eric shook his head, worry gnawing at him. Despite the early hour, there should have been people, servants and workers moving about to prepare the citadel for the day ahead.
“Where is everybody?”
Laurel shrugged. “The place is all but empty. I checked too many rooms to count looking for you – there’s nobody here. It seems the occupants of the citadel have gone elsewhere.”
Eric frowned. Something didn’t add up. Where have they gone? The empty corridors offered no answers. Even the guards were sparse, absent.
It took ten minutes for Laurel to lead them back to the courtyard where they’d first arrived. There were no guards in sight now, and Eric guessed they had only been drawn there by the crash of their arrival. In the dawn’s light he saw a few scraggly trees growing up the walls, but otherwise the lawn was empty.
“This is where your magic comes in, Eric,” Laurel gave a wry smile. “Just don’t drop me.”
Eric shot her a glare. “Don’t tempt me.”
Closing his eyes, he reached for his power. It rose with intent, made bold by its conquest in the wasteland of The Way. But Eric had no patience for its mischief; Enala needed his help and he was not about to let his magic get in the way. He crushed down his doubt and brushed aside the growls of the magic’s wolf.
Wrapping the magic in his command, he reached out and drew the winds to them.
Eric held out his hand to Laurel as the winds gathered. She took it, and an instant later they lifted ponderously off the snowy grass. He grinned at the pale fear on Laurel’s face as the ground fell away beneath them. They soared up into the heavens, far higher than necessary.
The city of Kalgan stretched out beneath them, slate rooftops shining in the morning sun. The domed towers of two temples shone golden at either end of the city, while the citadel towered on a hill at the centre. On the coast, docks stretched out into the harbour. Ships rocked at their berths, the rare westerly wind driving waves straight in from the ocean. Witchcliffe island loomed in the distance.
As he reached again for his magic, he sensed a tremor of disturbance in the sky. Another power tingled at the back of his neck, racing closer. It felt hauntingly familiar.
God magic, Eric realised, an instant before the demon rose into view.
Twenty
The scrape of the
wooden keel on gravel jolted Enala from her dreams. She looked around, eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness staining the world, and glimpsed the vague outline of the king as he leapt from the stern. Stones crunched again as Jonathan dragged the dingy farther up the beach.
Enala toyed with the silver bracelets cuffed around her wrists. The emeralds embedded in the precious metal seemed to glow with a light of their own, and in the pale moonlight she caught the glint of strange symbols etched along their length. Jonathan had given them to her as protection from the magic that had been cast over the island. Their spells would kill anyone who stepped foot there without permission.
She just hoped the bracelets worked.
“Come on, quickly,” Jonathan shouted above the crashing waves.
Enala struggled over the wooden benches and leapt down to the beach. The stones sank beneath her feet as she landed, and a wave rushed up to drench her boots. She swore, stumbling farther up the dunes and away from the ocean. The bracelets burned hot for half a second and then cooled once more.
She turned to watch Jonathan tie the boat to a post in the beach. He still carried his duffle bag, clutching it close as though his life depended on it. On the journey here she had watched the king, her first impressions of him quickly changing. Jonathan was not the confident man he had appeared back in the citadel. He spent most of his time casting nervous glances behind them, and jumping as water lapped over the sides of the row boat.
Enala shook her head. She could already see why the people might have lost confidence in this king. His nervous ticks made him seem weak, but perhaps she was not giving him enough credit. He had defied the council and spirited her out of Kalgan – that had to count for something.
Swallowing her worries, Enala decided to do her best to ignore his behaviour. She just hoped he knew what he was doing.
