by Aaron Hodges
Then he stood straight and stretched out an arm across the alter. His meaty fingers wrapped around the leather hilt of the Sword of Light. He pulled it to him, smiling as he looked into the glimmering metal. The light of the diamond glowed in his eyes. There was open greed on his face when he looked from the Sword to Enala.
“Almost there,” he walked towards her, blade in hand. “Soon I will be whole again.”
Enala watched him come, limp against the pillar, hanging helpless from her cuffs. There was no more fight left in her.
“Thank you, Enala, for your sacrifice.”
Enala thought he almost sounded sincere. She would have laughed, if she could breathe.
He raised the weapon, the deadly point poised to strike. Enala stared into the glimmering light of the Sword. Time seemed to hang still as dread clutched at her soul. She could find no hope in that fabled light, no power to conquer this darkness. This was the magic meant to save the Three Nations, to save them all from Archon.
Instead, it was about to end her life.
Enala clamped her eyes shut, and waited for death.
*************
Eric raced across the sky, desperate to reach the building sitting atop the cliffs. He squinted against the sun’s glare, unable to make out more than the broken roof. A sick feeling in his gut drove him faster. Enala had only to touch the Sword for its magic to overwhelm her; he prayed he was not too late.
What was that explosion? He asked again, his instincts screaming.
The beach flashed past far below as he reached the island and dropped towards the clifftops. From above he could make out little detail of the building, but as he approached he realised it could only be a temple. The broken roof revealed the ruined interior, where a stone altar lay amidst the rubble. A man stood beside the alter, leaning out to grasp the source of light in the makeshift courtyard.
The Sword! Eric realised as the blade came into focus. But where is Enala?
Eric dropped lower, watching as the man grasped the Sword and pulled it to him. The man paused for a heartbeat to stare at the fabled blade, then turned and approached one of the standing stones. Eric stared, trying to understand what was happening. The man could only be King Jonathan, but he could not see Enala anywhere.
Drawing closer, he noticed something different about the pillar Jonathan was making for. He squinted, trying to identify the difference, and with a jolt he realised someone had been tied to the pillar.
“Enala!” he screamed, but the wind caught the word and stole it away.
Confusion gave way to panic. Discarding caution, Eric plummeted from the sky, racing towards the temple. Jonathan stood poised before Enala now, the Sword of Light extended towards the girl’s prone form. She did not move as the blade drew closer. Light shone from the Sword, its glow casting shadows across courtyard.
“Enala!” Eric called again, closer now.
Jonathan looked up, his face pale in the Sword’s light. His eyes widened at the sight of Eric hurtling towards him and panic twisted his face. His head whipped around and for a second Eric thought the king would flee.
Then Jonathan looked back at Enala, and raised the Sword to strike.
“No!” Eric yelled.
With no time to think, Eric grabbed for the closest weapon at hand – the winds holding him aloft – and hurled them at Jonathan. His stomach lurched as the power of flight abandoned him, while the winds shrieked towards the king. Eric barely noticed his body go into freefall; his mind flew with the winds, driving them onwards, directing them with all his strength at the traitor.
The Sword shone as it plunged towards Enala, the deadly tip aimed straight for her heart. The wind howled and there came a muffled thump as the gale smashed Jonathan from his feet. He tumbled across the rubble strewn ground, skimming like a pebble across water.
But the force of the blow had knocked the Sword from his grasp. The blade spun through the air, tip flashing with the magic within, and plunged into Enala’s chest. As it struck a shriek of pain exploded from Enala and her eyes widened in shock.
Then she slumped against her restraints and her eyes flickered closed.
“No!” Eric screamed.
And the ground rushed up to meet him.
Twenty Four
Eric woke with a groan, every muscle in his body aching. Opening his eyes, he pushed himself into a sitting position. When he moved to put weight on his leg, agony lanced from his shin and something in his leg went crack. He collapsed back to the ground, muffling a shriek, and looked for Enala.
“You fool!” Jonathan screamed. Before Eric could move rough hands grabbed him, dragging him up. The king shook him. “What have you done?”
Eric’s leg smashed against a pillar and this time he could not bite back his scream. Struggling in the king’s grasp, he struck out blindly with his fist. It connected with what felt like a chin, but did not seem to make any difference to the madman’s iron grip.
The king lifted Eric above his head and tossed him like a ragdoll into a nearby wall. Eric raised his arms to protect himself as he crashed into the stone and landed in a pile of roofing tiles. Their jagged edges cut his skin as he rolled aside.
Heavy footsteps came from nearby, driving him up onto his good leg. He managed to bring himself to a half-stand before a meaty fist slammed into his stomach. Air whooshed from his mouth and he stumbled backwards, pain lancing from his broken leg as it took his weight.
Looking up, he tried to avoid the next blow.
Scarlet fury twisted the king’s face as he swung again, this time aiming for his head. The air rustled in Eric’s hair as he ducked and reached for his sword. His hand scrambled at the empty sheath. Dread caught in Eric’s throat; Alastair’s sword must have slid free when he crashed.
Jonathan did not miss the futile gesture. Stepping back, he spun to look where Eric had fallen. They both saw the blade at the same time. Eric managed one stumbling hop before Jonathan reached the weapon. Reaching down, he wrapped his thick fingers around the hilt and raised it in front of him.
“You will pay for what you’ve done,” the king growled.
Eric mustered his strength and dove into his magic. Reaching for the sky, he searched out the nearest storm. Energy crackled and black clouds appeared overhead. Thunder roared as lightning fell. It struck Eric’s outstretched hand and danced along his arm, banishing his fear.
“Give up. Don’t make me do this.”
The king scowled and stepped towards him. Lightning leapt from Eric’s fingers.
Jonathan flinched back and raised Alastair’s sword to protect himself. The lightning flashed as it struck the blade, followed by a roar and sucking sound as it disappeared into the cool metal.
The king blinked, holding the weapon out in front of him as though it were a snake about to bite him. Then he laughed and flashed Eric a wicked grin. “What an interesting sword. Very useful,” he stalked towards Eric.
Eric stumbled backwards, trying to put a pile of rubble between himself and Jonathan. He flung another bolt at the traitor, but the king only raised the blade, and the energy vanished again into the weapon. Apparently whatever spell Alastair had cast on the sword still held, protecting its wielder from magical attack.
As Eric retreated he glanced at Enala, then quickly looked away. She still hung by her arms, silver manacles chained tight to her wrists. The Sword of Light had impaled her high in the chest, pinning her to the column. Blood stained her shirt and ran down the stone behind her. He bit back a sob, unable to believe she might still live.
Jonathan screamed and swung Alastair’s blade in his direction. Eric was well out of the king’s range, but he still ducked behind another of the stone columns, eager to put as many obstacles between them as possible. His mind raced, searching desperately for a way to overcome the madman.
“Come out, come out, little Magicker,” the king hissed. “Don’t you want to help your friend? She’s bleeding to death over there, you know,” he chuckled, leaping ou
t from behind the column.
Eric swallowed hard, still staggering backwards, broken leg dragging on the ground.
What do I do?
Changing tactics, Eric reached for a gust of wind and threw it at the king. It rushed through the broken ceiling and struck Alastair’s blade, whistling as the protection sucked it into the abyss. But the blade could not completely block the more dispersed attack, and the king staggered backwards. Eric took advantage of the extra moments to place the altar between himself and Jonathan.
“Come here!” the king shouted, swinging the sword through the gusts. He staggered around the altar towards Eric.
Eric watched him come, realising the king was limping as well. His earlier attack must have caused more damage than he’d realised. A spark of hope returned as he considered how to take advantage.
“Who are you, imposter?” Eric shouted, trying to stall. “What do you want with Enala?”
Jonathan smiled. “I am no imposter, you fool. I am King Jonathan, and I want her magic,” he slashed at Eric, but another gust forced him back.
They stood facing each other, locked in a desperate stalemate. Jonathan was panting heavily and sweat ran down his face. Eric fought down his own pain, struggling just to keep his feet. He had to fight on, had to end this now if there was to be any possibility of saving Enala.
“Then I’ll give you one last chance to surrender, Jonathan. Put down the sword, and I’ll spare your life,” Eric warned.
Jonathan’s laughter rang from the stone walls. “And how do you plan on killing me, young Eric? With your broken leg and worthless powers?” he raised Alastair’s sword. “Why don’t you give up, and maybe I’ll give you a quick death,” he glanced at Enala. “If she is still alive, I believe it’s in both our interests to finish this quickly,” he observed.
Thunder rumbled as Eric summoned the power of the storm. He was thinking back to what Alastair had taught him about magic, about how his own magic worked. Alastair had once said magic was finite – that if he drew on too much of his own, he would eventually expend his own life force. Staring at the sword in Jonathan’s hands, a plan had come to him.
He did not know how the spell had been cast on Alastair’s sword, but surely it could not absorb an infinite amount of power, especially without someone to refresh it’s magic. Perhaps if he threw enough energy into the blade, the spell would shatter.
Jonathan strode towards him, sword at the ready. There was no way of knowing if his theory would work, but Eric had run out of options. Throwing out his arms, he released the lightning.
Blue fire surged through the Temple of Light, casting shadows across the room. The roar as it came was deafening. Jonathan flinched back from its might, face lit with fear. Despite his words, he too was unsure of the blade’s power.
As the lightning struck Alastair’s sword, Eric gritted his teeth and pressed on, unleashing a continuous stream at the weapon. Blue light burned across his vision, all but blinding him. Jonathan disappeared behind the fury of the lightning’s dance, until all he could feel was the strange vacuum where his power vanished into the sword.
Blinded by his own attack, Eric did not see the first blow coming as Jonathan’s fist lashed at him. Eric reeled back, losing his grip on the magic. The lightning flashed and died away, abandoning him to the king’s fury.
Jonathan struck again, knocking Eric from his feet. He stared up at the hateful monarch, unable to believe the king had fought his way through the onslaught. Before he could move the king’s foot crashed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Alastair’s blade hovered overhead, poised to strike.
“Goodbye, Eric.”
Eric rolled as the blade flashed towards him, sending the king tumbling. He bit back a cry as rubble struck his broken leg. Coming to a rest against one of the pillars, he used it to stagger to his feet.
Well that didn’t work, Eric cursed.
Returning to the wind, he hauled it down from far above. At least that would slow the coward.
Gusts whipped about him, carrying cool air from high above. Goosebumps pricked Eric’s skin. He tucked his hands into his cloak to ward off the cold. Then an idea, a memory, came to him.
Drawing on more power, he sent his magic further afield, reaching higher than ever before. There he grasped at every whisper, every gust he could find and drew it down. Taking a breath, he directed the swirling mass at the approaching king.
Jonathan paused as the gale struck. It tugged at his cloak and whipped around him, shrieking in his ears. Eric could sense Alastair’s sword working its magic, but drawing on his own power, he redoubled his efforts.
Even from ten feet away, Eric could feel it working.
Jonathan stared at him. “Wha– what are you doing?” he stammered, the cold winds sucking the words from his chest.
A shiver ran through the king. Ice began to gather in his beard and settle on his shoulders. His face took on a blue tint and his jaw clenched. He waved Alastair’s sword around his head, as though it’s magic could ward off the air itself. Beneath him, a frost formed on the broken tiles.
When the sword finally slipped from the king’s numb fingers, Eric was ready.
Throwing out his hand, he released one final bolt of energy. Lightning flashed across the space between them, taking Jonathan full in the chest. The air crackled as the blast knocked the king from his feet. He did not get back up.
Alastair’s blade struck the ground, and shattered.
Eric turned and staggered towards Enala. His heart twisted in agony as he drew closer, unable to bare the horrifying sight of his sister.
The Sword had sliced clean through Enala’s chest and struck the pillar behind her. Blood still seeped from the wound and had begun to congeal around the blade. It’s light bathed her face, her jaw locked in a painful grimace. Her eyes were closed.
Eric reached her, struggling for breath. When he had last seen her, she had just been stabbed by the cursed skeleton, barely able to stand. This was much, much worse. He closed his eyes, hope fading.
A half-choked sob rattled from his chest. He reached for her hand, trying to prize the cool metal from the rock. The silver bracelets refused to budge, the metal so tight around her wrists they seemed almost fused to her skin. Blood trickled from where they bit into her flesh.
“Eric,” Enala croaked.
He jumped, so shocked by her voice he thought for a second Jonathan had recovered. He looked around, but the king still lay where he had fallen.
“Eric,” Enala whispered again.
Eric allowed a wild hope to take hold as he turned to her.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Eric,” he leaned close to catch her words. “Get me off this damned pillar,” Enala coughed, and blood bubbled from her mouth. She groaned, head leaning back against the cold stone.
Eric nodded. He ran to where Jonathan had fallen and swept up the hilt of Alastair’s sword. Part of the shattered blade still remained in place. He returned to Enala and held the weapon at the ready.
“Let’s hope this works.”
With cautious movements, Eric wrapped an arm around Enala’s waist and took her weight from the cuffs. A rattle came from her chest as she sucked in a breath. Hot blood stained his hands but he ignored it, aiming the ruined sword at her right cuff. Silently he prayed Alastair’s sword still contained enough magic to counteract whatever spell Jonathan had cast. He stabbed the jagged edge of the blade against the silver band.
The silver gave way almost instantly, the soft metal crumbling beneath Alastair’s sword. He repeated the procedure with her other arm and took her weight as she slumped against him. Clutching the broken sword under his arm, he carried her to the altar and gently laid her on the stone. Alastair’s blade clattered down beside her, but he did his best not to disturb the Sword of Light still lodged in her chest. He distantly remembered Caelin’s advice from so long ago – leave it in, or you’ll bleed to death.
“Thank you,” Enala croaked.
<
br /> “Just stay still, Enala. You’re going to be okay.”
A dry laugh wracked her body, followed by a groan. “You don’t give up, do you?” she gasped.
Eric shook his head. “Neither do you, remember?” tears spilt from his eyes. Thoughts raced through his head as he searched for a way out. “I guess it must run in the family,” he whispered.
Enala’s eyes opened to stare at him. “What?”
Eric smiled through his tears. “Turns out I’m adopted. I’m your long lost brother, Enala.”
Enala groaned and gave a weak smile. She opened her mouth to respond, but dark laughter cut her off. It echoed around them as a shadow fell across the alter. A shudder ran through Enala, her pupils dilating with fear. The hairs on Eric’s neck rose in warning. Dread filled his veins as he spun.
The demon hung overhead, a dark grin spreading across its face.
“So you are the other one. My master has been looking for you, Eric.”
Twenty Five
King Fraser sat on his throne and stared down at them. A sword lay across his lap, his hands resting lightly on the hilt. His lips pursed in a tight scowl, jaw jutting as he clenched his teeth. The other council members sat around the table on the dais, but silence filled the king’s court – no one dared so much as breath.
Caelin licked his lips, trying to ignore the vein throbbing on the king’s forehead. He was more than aware of their perilous position; justified or not, they had killed a councillor in cold blood. If they could not talk their way out of this, their heads would not be far from the chopping block.
So far he had explained their suspicions, and their meeting with councillor before disaster had struck on the wall. The king had made no attempt to interrupt, his face remaining stony and impassive.
Beside him Gabriel shifted from foot to foot, his nervous fear betrayed by the way his eyes flicked from the councillors to the king. Inken stood on his other side, her casual stance in stark contrast to the blacksmith. Her eyes flicked to him and he caught the briefest of smiles. He found her confidence reassuring.
