by Aaron Hodges
The gates to the citadel stood barred when they arrived, the soldiers on guard moving to block their passage. They wore steel plated armour and helmets with the visors down, prepared for any attack. They each carried a steel-tipped spear and short swords strapped to their sides.
Caelin marched up and offered a salute. “Good morning, men. I am Caelin, sergeant of the Plorsean army. We have just arrived from Lonia, and have urgent news for the king.”
At Caelin’s words the foremost soldier raised his visor, revealing a well-trimmed beard and brown eyes. His face lit up with recognition. “Caelin? It’s been weeks since anyone heard from you, where have you been?”
Caelin gave a quick smile. “Elton, my old friend. I have been away on the king’s business, business which I am afraid still continues. I must speak to King Fraser.”
Elton nodded, hesitating a moment. “The king… has not been the most receptive to guests lately. You may find your presence is not so well received in the throne room,” he paused, and then continued in a whisper. “The men say the stress has gotten to the king. He speaks to us less and less, and when he does it seems as though his mind carries a great burden.”
Caelin rubbed his forehead. “I am afraid my news will only make matters worse then, but it must be given. May we pass?”
“Of course. But as I said, tread carefully, Caelin,” he glanced at the other guards. “I won’t be long. Do not let anyone else enter while I am gone,” he turned to Caelin. “Sergeant, you and your friends can follow me. I will take you to the king.”
The wheels of the gatehouse groaned as the portcullis rose ponderously into the air. The wooden gates swung open behind it.
Caelin felt a tingling run down his neck as Elton beckoned for them to follow. He shook his head, forcing down his nerves, and nodded to his friend.
“Lead on.”
Twelve
Eric swallowed hard. The chief towered above them, arms crossed, his giant two-handed blade sticking up over one shoulder. His eyes burned with rage or amusement, there was no telling which with this man.
They stood before him, tiny but defiant. The wagons had stopped for the night an hour ago, but Laurel had only just appeared with the chief. Eric could see the amusement on her face, and he did not like the wicked twist to her grin. The man standing before them was not someone to trifle with – especially with Laurel suppressing his magic.
To make matters worse, he still had no idea what Enala was planning.
If she even had a plan.
“Well,” Thaster growled. “Laurel said you wanted to speak, girl. So speak.”
Enala lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I do,” she smiled, adding a sweet curl to her lips Eric had not once seen her wear.
He held his tongue, deciding it would be best to remain silent.
Thaster stepped closer. “And?”
Enala tilted her head and leaned in, the copper lock hanging across her eyes. “We have decided we will be good. It would be an honour to serve a man of your power.”
The chief squinted down at her. Eric swallowed again. What was Enala playing at? This man would not be fooled so easily.
Eric jumped as the chief threw back his head and unleashed a booming laugh. The sounds sent a shiver of dread through Eric and he shrank back, reaching unconsciously for his magic but finding only a black wall stretching across his mind.
Thaster’s mirth drew the attention of the Baronian’s nearby. He waved a hand for them to listen. “You hear that?” he cackled. “This lovely young girl would like to cooperate with me,” he laughed again. “Says it would be an honour.”
The other Baronian’s joined in with Thaster’s laughter, and a crowd gathered round to watch them.
Beside him, Enala’s face reddened. Her shoulders shook as she clenched her fists. Before anyone could react, she stepped across the space separating them from the chief. Her knee flashed up, striking Thaster squarely between the legs. As the giant of a man doubled over, she brought her elbow down on the back of his head. He went down like a log.
A second later Laurel had her arm around Enala’s throat and a dagger at her side. “Don’t move,” she hissed.
It took a long minute for Thaster regain his feet. When he stood his face had turned a beet red and purple veins bulged in his forehead. He looked down at Enala, the rage in his eyes terrifying to behold. He raised a fist above her head, ready to strike her down.
Enala made no move to avoid the blow. Instead, she laughed. “What a man! A girl knocks you low, and the best you can do is beat her while your lackey holds her still. What a leader!”
Thaster hesitated, eyes glancing at the crowd of Baronian’s. These were his people, his followers, but Eric guessed there must be those within these ranks who aspired to replace him. Enala had just shown them all Thaster’s mortality, showed them he could be laid low by a mere girl. If he let things stand, the vultures would soon be circling.
“Why don’t you show your people just how much of a man you really are, Thaster. I challenge you to a fight to the death. Give me my sword, and I’ll show everyone here just how much of a man you are,” she laughed again. “Unless you’re afraid to fight a girl.”
Thaster’s face had progressed from red to a dark purple. His whole body trembled, his fist still hovering over Enala’s head. It looked as though it was taking all his will not to beat her to death right there. The crowd held their breath, eyes fixed on their leader, waiting for him to react.
A long moment past before he lowered his fist. He began to laugh again, softly at first, but it quickly grew a roar. The other Baronian’s joined him, though some turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. Eric guessed they had much to ponder.
The noise buffeted them, and made Eric want to shrink away and hide, but beside him Enala stood strong, staring hard into Thaster’s eyes.
Finally Thaster raised an arm and the laughter died. He met Enala’s gaze. “Tomorrow, at midnight. That should give you some time to contemplate your fate. Laurel!” he snapped. “Take them to their wagon. Make sure they’re well fed tomorrow, the girl will need all her strength,” at that he began to cackle. With a wave of his hand he dismissed them, turning his back and disappearing into the crowd.
Laurel grasped them by the scruff of their shirts and pushed them away from the crowd.
“You just couldn’t play nice, could you?” she growled in their ears.
Enala pursed her lips but did not reply. When they reached the wagon, Laurel all but threw them through the flap. Eric stumbled to the back and slumped against one of the struts. His heart thumped at a hundred miles an hour.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Laurel and Eric asked in unison.
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. Tha
ster 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 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 woman 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 he wore 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.
“Ay, 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 them. 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 thron
e 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 boomed, 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 there.”
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.”
