by Aaron Hodges
A cheer rose up from the men atop the third wall as the Plorsean cavalry turned and charged again, crushing the enemy as they tried to reform beneath the shelter of the second wall. Pressed in on themselves with the stone to their back, they died by the hundreds.
Beside her Caelin gave a whoop of joy, raising a fist in triumph. “They made it!” he turned and lifted Inken off her feet. Swinging her around, he shouted again. “They made it!”
Inken joined his laughter, but reason quickly returned as he lowered her back to the ground. They had lost the second wall, and the Plorsean cavalry could not change that. Their turn of fortunes would not last long. Already the enemy was forming up again, gathering atop the wall. Arrows rose up from the ramparts to fall on the Plorseans and several horses crumpled in the deadly rain.
“Come on,” she shouted back. “Let’s go.”
Together they stumbled towards the open gates.
*************
Archon strode across the burning ground, the flames dying at his touch. The body of the dragon lay nearby, its last pitiful gasps echoing from the walls of the fortress behind him. He ignored it; its death was of little concern. He had eyes only for his ancestors now. Jurrien had vanished, but he would deal with the wily God soon enough. For now, he was preoccupied with his magic, with the dark threads of power he had wrapped around the two Magickers, binding their souls to their broken bodies.
They lay beside each other on the icy ground, their arms outstretched, almost touching. Their legs and arms lay at awful angles, their bones shattered by the impact. In normal circumstances their hearts would have already given out, but Archon refused to give them the satisfaction of death. His magic washed over them, holding them to life.
The Sword of Light lay nearby. Smiling, he reached down and lifted it from the ground. Light flashed from the blade and then died away. Shaking his head, he moved to Eric’s side.
“Such a curse,” he whispered, staring at the blade. “If only I had known.”
Leaning down, he placed it in the boy’s hand. The light flashed again and a groan rattled up from Eric’s broken chest.
Archon smiled, sensing the flow of God magic streaming from the Sword into Eric’s undefended body. It would not take long to take hold, to crush the feeble resistance of his soul and gain dominion over his body.
Moving away again, he recovered the Soul Blade Enala had wielded.
“My sweet daughter, please, accept my gift,” his voice was hard as he reached down and placed the blade in Enala’s hand.
“No,” the groan came from the girl’s torn lips, but his magic kept her unconscious.
Her back arched as green light flooded from the Soul Blade. He grinned, watching as it took hold, burning through her veins to cast off the feeble remains of her magic.
Turning away, he walked to the dragon and sat on its broken head.
Smiling, he waited for his Gods to be born.
Twenty Three
Enala groaned as sensation came rushing back. To her surprise she felt no pain, but even so the sudden return to reality was overwhelming, her whole body throbbing with the shock of her return. Biting her lips, she forced herself to open her eyes.
“What?” she whispered, unable to comprehend the sight that greeted her.
There was nothing. No burning sky or broken dragons, no Fort Fall, no Archon. Only empty white, stretching out to eternity without so much as a shadow to break the nothingness. She lay amidst that emptiness, alone in oblivion.
Standing, Enala looked around, mouth wide as she struggled to come to terms with her surroundings. She shuddered, knowing she could only be dead, that her soul had been sent to the otherworld. Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of spending eternity in this place, alone but for the memories of the world she’d left behind. She would surely go mad.
“Where am I?” she breathed, tears burning in her eyes. This could not be happening, could not be the end.
Her words echoed out across the void and returned to mock her. She groaned, reaching up to cover her ears, her eyes, anything to deny the reality around her.
“You are in the spirit realm,” Enala jumped as a girl’s voice spoke.
Heart pounding hard in her chest, Enala spun, the hackles on her neck rising in warning. She gasped as her eyes found the girl behind her, and if anything, her heart beat faster.
Antonia stood before her, her violet eyes pinched with sadness. She wore the same lime green dress as in the vision Archon had shown, and her auburn hair hung limp about her shoulders. A pale glow seeped out around her, staining the whiteness of the void an emerald green. Enala stared into the ancient wisdom hiding in the depths of her eyes, unable to find the words to speak.
“Hello, Enala,” Antonia gave a sad smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I… I… How are you here?”
Antonia reached out, drawing Enala into her arms. “You put up a brave fight, Enala.”
Enala shuddered and sank to her knees, the comfort of the Goddess doing little to warm her despair. “We lost,” she whispered.
“You did better than any of us could have ever imagined,” she squeezed Enala tight and drew back. “I’m sorry...”
Enala looked away. “I thought we had him there, at the end.”
“You almost did. I wish I could have given you the strength to finish him, but Eric’s soul was not strong enough to cope with the God magic pouring into his body. It burned him, body and mind, until he could hold on no longer. Our magic was never meant to be used by mortals.”
“What will happen now?” Enala could not keep the despair from her voice. “To the others, to Inken and Caelin and May, all those soldiers in Fort Fall?”
“You will kill them all,” Antonia murmured.
A shiver ran down Enala’s spine. “What?”
“Archon has done as he promised. He is holding your body to life and has put the Soul Blade in your hands. That is why I am able to come to you. But even as we speak, my power is flooding your body, taking it for its own. This time you will not have the strength to take it back, Enala.”
“No, no, no,” Enala wrapped her arms around her chest. “I have to wake up.”
Reaching up, she twined her fingers through her hair and pulled. The fragile strands tore from her scalp, sending pain shooting through her head, but it did nothing to change the void around them.
“There is no fighting it, Enala,” tears watered in Antonia’s eyes. “Your body is broken. Were you to wake, even for a second, the pain would drive you insane and the God magic would take you anyway.”
“Then what?” Enala leapt to her feet. “Do we just sit here and watch? Watch as I slaughter every man and woman in that fortress? Watch as the light fades from the eyes of my friends?”
Enala stalked across to the tiny Goddess, rage burning away her despair. She wanted to kick and scream and fight, anything but sit here as helpless witness. She could not bear it, could not sit back as the God power destroyed everything she had fought for. There had to be something they could do.
Antonia bowed her head, refusing to look her in the eye. “There is something,” she murmured.
“What?” Desperation made Enala bold. Reaching out, she grabbed the Goddess by her dress, dragging her close, forcing Antonia to meet her gaze. “What can we do?”
Tears spilt from Antonia’s eyes. “I promised I would never ask again,” she tore herself loose of Enala’s grasp and turned to stare out into the empty whiteness. “Not after last time. I cannot do it.”
Enala hesitated, shocked by Antonia’s grief. She approached slowly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “What is it, Antonia?”
Antonia turned, misery in her violet eyes. “To ask someone to make the ultimate sacrifice. To ask you to give me your body and allow me to be reborn.”
Enala staggered back as the dreadful truth of Antonia’s words rang in her ears.
“No,” she breathed, staring at the Goddess. “You can’t ask t
hat; you can’t make me.”
Antonia shook her head. “I would never. It is your choice, Enala, yours alone.”
Groaning, Enala spun, searching the void for some escape. But there was only the emptiness, the relentless nothing of the spirit plain. Despair clung to her soul, and she wrapped her arms around herself again, desperate for comfort. She longed for one last moment in reality, to breathe in the scents of the forest, to ride on a dragon’s back one final time, to find comfort in the arms of the man she loved.
Gabriel.
Enala closed her eyes, feeling again the pain as she realised his sacrifice. Now Antonia had asked her to make the same choice, to give away her life so the rest of the Three Nations might survive.
“What will it be like?” she asked at last, her voice no more than a whisper.
“You will feel no pain,” Antonia’s words were laced with grief. “For a time… your soul would remain, bound with mine. But eventually…” her voice broke, “eventually it would succumb. Your being would be enveloped by me, become a part of me, and you would be no more.”
Enala took a deep, shuddering breath, summoning the last dredges of her courage. Looking up, she found the violet glow of the Goddess’ eyes.
“Do it.”
*************
Light. Brilliant, shining light, everywhere Eric looked. He spun, searching for a break, a single flaw or contrast to offer some hint of reality. But there was nothing – only the never-ending nothingness.
Finally, he abandoned the search. Releasing his breath, he sank to the ground, still struggling to come to terms with the reality around him.
“What is this place?” he breathed.
What had happened, there at the end? They had been so close, so close to destroying Archon’s darkness. If only he could have held on a few moments more, if only he’d had the strength. But the white fire had swept through his body, flooding every crevice of his mind. It burned at his soul, tearing at his every thought, his every memory. Even now he struggled to put the pieces of the battle together.
Jurrien’s voice had been whispering in his mind, images flashing through his thoughts, leading him into the depths of the Sword of Light’s power. He had seen then what he had to do, how to use the magic of the Light to bind Archon’s power.
And it had almost worked. Deprived of his dark magic, the Phoenix had lost its form and been trapped within the tempest of Jurrien’s magic.
But the power of the Sword had been too much, and Eric’s soul had finally given way before its all-consuming flame. He’d found himself falling, his magic crumbling to dust as the Light overwhelmed him.
Perhaps that was why he found himself here in this empty domain.
Eric looked up as a distant thud echoed through the void, the sound like a rock dropped on a tiled floor.
Or the thud of heavy boots.
Another thud followed, and another, coming close. A tingle spread down his spine as he spun to search the void anew. Heart pounding in his chest, Eric pulled himself back to his feet. He stared into the white, searching for the first hint of danger, half-expecting Archon to appear from some hidden crevice.
Instead he was met by the image of an old man. Lines of age streaked his face and his skin hung from his cheeks in paled bags. Thin white hair grew down to his knees, its wiry lengths fading into the emptiness around them. He wore grey robes of rough fabric, but came unarmed, his empty hands trembling as he walked. A faint glow came from the man and his white eyes were filled with sadness.
“Eric,” the man rasped, his voice as soft as falling snow. “It is nice to finally meet the man beyond the veil.”
A tingle of recognition ran through Eric and for a second he thought of his mentor, Alastair. Sadness filled him, but he knew this was not his tutor. This man was far older, his age beyond counting.
“Who are you?” he asked, a creeping suspicion rising in his throat.
The old man sighed, sadness sweeping across his face. “I am Darius.”
The name tolled in Eric’s mind, ringing like a bell through his memories as he looked on the face of the God of Light. He recognised him now, though the man seemed to have aged far faster than his siblings.
A sickness curled through Eric, a violent anger at the spirit standing before him now. The God of Light had abandoned the Three Nations centuries ago, and in his absence the power of Archon had grown to fill the vacuum.
“Where have you been?” Eric hissed, unable to control his rage. “What are you doing here, now, after a thousand lives have been lost, when the war is all but done? Why?” he all but shouted the last word.
Darius closed his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead knotting with pain. “You do not understand,” his eyes opened again, catching Eric in their ancient depths. “I have been here, Eric. I have been here all along.”
Eric found himself frozen in the God’s gaze. “What do you mean?” he growled. “Where are we?”
“We are in the spirit realm, in a portion of it twisted by Archon and trapped within his Soul Blade,” Darius paused. “His very first Soul Blade. I believe you call it the Sword of Light.”
“No,” Eric staggered back, his heart freezing in his chest, unable to believe the words. He shook his head. “No…”
Ice spread through his veins as he stared at the wasted figure of the God of Light, at the ancient spirit standing amidst the nothingness of the void.
No, it can’t be.
But Eric could not deny the truth standing before him. He felt his world turning on end, the story of Darius and his absence cracking the very fabric of his reality.
The God of Light had not abandoned them. He had been trapped, locked away for eternity.
“All this time?” Eric breathed, a sharp pain burning in his chest. “How?”
Darius moved past him, his movements slow, weighed down by his centuries of imprisonment.
“We never expected him to return,” emotion laced his voice, sad and filled with regret. “Five hundred years ago there was a boy who hated us, who hated me because I took his father from him,” he shook his head. “It has been our everlasting shame, that three mortals gave up their lives for us to be born. But we did not expect the hate it would nurture in the boy, the path it would send him down.”
“His name was Archon, son to Nickolas, brother to Artemis – your ancestor. While his brother ultimately accepted his father’s sacrifice, the boy Archon could not do the same. Both wielded powerful magic, but my birth sent them down separate paths. Artemis welcomed the new world, joining us in our efforts to rebuild his nation and bring peace to the Three Nations. But Archon, he spurned us and the future his father had sacrificed himself to build. Instead he turned to the darkness, embracing the power offered by black magic, and used it to slay the priests who had brought us into the world.”
“But you did not kill him,” Eric whispered.
“No,” Darius met his eyes. “We have never used our power to kill. When we caught him, he was banished to the wasteland in the north. And that was the end of it.”
“Except it wasn’t, was it?” Eric’s anger bubbled up again but he pressed it down now. Who was he to judge the mistakes of the Gods?
“We thought we had done the right thing, showing mercy, even to one so steeped in dark magic. We did not expect his hatred to fester, for him to surrender so completely to that darkness. He spent decades in that wasteland, brooding, preparing his revenge. And we forgot,” he paused. “But when he stabbed me in the back, somehow, I knew it was him.”
“How did it happen?”
Darius shook his head, the pain on his face evident. “I took another criminal north, leaving him where he could do no more harm to our people. I did not expect an ambush, certainly not by such a powerful magic. Somehow Archon had discovered where I usually appeared to release the banished, and there he waited for me, concealed by his dark magic. Before I sensed his presence, he drove his foul blade through my back.”
“Then how did we get t
he Sword?” Eric frowned.
Darius gave a wry smile. “I am the God of Light. Even with my magic pouring into the Soul Blade and the life fleeing my mortal body, I was not going to allow my magic to fall into his hands. I broke free of his dark magic, and we fought – the Light against the darkness. But Archon had grown more powerful than I could possibly have imagined, and I quickly realised it was a battle I could not win.”
“Archon knew it too. He hammered at me with his magic, determined to see me fall. But when I felt his final attack building, I reached back and tore his Soul Blade from my flesh. I held it high, feeling its pull tugging at my spirit. But I had enough strength left for one final effort, and with the last of my power I hurled it into the void, back to Trola and the host of Magickers waiting in the Temple of Light.”
“And they thought you had abandoned them,” Eric croaked.
Darius waved a hand. “I have spent a century listening to the thoughts of the Trolan royalty. I know what they thought, Eric. But I never had the strength to reach them,” his words were filled with sorrow. “So many died, thinking I did not care.”
Eric stared at the God of Light, imagining his desolation as centuries of Sword wielders passed by while he lay trapped within the blade. He could not begin to envision the pain, the despair of such a fate. It would have driven Eric mad. Yet here Darius stood, withered by his entrapment, but alive.
One question still remained though: was it too late to turn the tide of the battle?
“We need your help, Darius. Archon, he’s winning.”
Darius shook his head. “No, Eric. He has won. Even now the Sword’s magic is burning through your body, giving it life, taking control. Soon you and your sister will become the very demons you fought to stop. The Three Nations will fall before your power.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Eric stepped towards the God and grabbed his wrist. Before Darius could free himself, Eric pulled him close. “I know what I have to do. Gabriel has already done the same, sacrificed himself to allow Jurrien to be reborn. I can do the same for you.”
