by Aaron Hodges
“So, coward that you are, you hid the Sword away, so no one could use it?” Enala growled.
“Yes, yes, yes, but that is not the end of it,” Jonathan snapped back. “I made plans, you see. Plans that required the Sword, plans for which you are the final piece of the puzzle.”
Enala struggled to think through the pain, battled against her own weight to breathe. She locked her eyes to Jonathan, willing him to die. Her magic bubbled up within, straining just below the surface, until she was gasping from the pressure of its unspent force. Then the cuffs flashed brighter and the power sank back into the depths of her mind. She shrank back against the stone, tears streaming down her face.
“Good girl, Enala. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon,” he moved back to the alter.
Enala spat, wanting nothing more than to tear his head from his shoulders.
“For years I searched for a cure, for a way to break Archon’ curse. But his magic was too great and my own too weak for such a task. So I turned my studies to other matters. Like how to restore lost powers.”
“You are trying to bring back your own magic?”
Jonathan pursed his lips. “Would that I could, but unfortunately such a feat also proved impossible. However, through my studies I did discover that Magickers can link their power, though it is very dangerous. One might accidently suck the very life force from another, or be overcome by the influx of power. It was not much good to me, but the discovery put me on the right track.”
“Finally, I found the spells which would allow me to use that connection to rob another Magicker of their power, and transfer it to me. Or course, it does require the donation of the other Magicker’s life to complete the process.”
Enala stared at the mad king, unable to believe what she was hearing. “But why me? Surely you could have taken any Magicker?”
“Yes, yes, yes, I know. But what would be the point? It is our family’s magic that allows us to wield the Sword. So I had to be patient, had to bide my time and wait for you to arrive,” he grinned, “but I did not lie idyll. As I said, I had this place created, protected so that I could work unhindered. And I moved the Sword here, so when you arrived you would be forced to enter my rabbit warren.”
“You’re insane. Eric, the council, they’ll kill you for this!” Enala pulled against her bonds, hot tears in her eyes. Her arms ached, blood still running from the wound left by the Raptor. She watched as Jonathan continued preparing whatever mad potion his spell required.
Her head pounded, her thoughts growing foggy from blood loss. Straining her arms, Enala hauled herself up to relieve the pressure on her lungs and sucked in a breath. The cool tang of salt carried strength back to her muscles, but she could not hold herself up for long. She collapsed back against the restraints and the pressure returned.
Jonathan finished grinding up his concoction and moved across to her, mortar in hand.
“I need you to drink this.”
No way am I drinking that, Enala glared back, turning her head and clamping her jaw shut.
Jonathan reached out and grabbed her by the neck. As he squeezed Enala kicked out, aiming for his groin. The king twisted away, raising a knee to protect himself. Then he pressed up against her, his weight holding her tight against the rock. With his spare hand he grabbed her jaw and tilted her head back.
Enala stared into his eyes, mustering every ounce of hate she possessed, and clenched her jaw tighter. Grunting, he pinched her nose, cutting off her meagre supply of air.
Lungs shrieking, Enala squirmed against Jonathan’s hold. Her head spun but she held on, determined to defy him to the last. Jonathan’s grin widened as the seconds ticked away. Her lungs cried out for air, her brain demanded it.
She fought against the urge, but it was unconscious, instinctive. She gasped a lungful of air, and screamed in pain and hatred. Her cry was cut off as Jonathan poured the noxious contents of the bowl down her throat. She choked and coughed, trying to spit it out, but he clamped a hand over her mouth until she was force to swallow. It burned right down to her stomach, leaving a bitter, furry taste in her mouth. Tears ran down her face.
“Good girl. Don’t worry, it will be over soon,” Jonathan said at last, moving back to the altar.
“Coward,” she spat, coughing in a feeble attempt to throw up the awful concoction. She felt half-suffocated. A numb tingling spread through her muscles and she almost wished herself dead, just to end the suffering. “Why don’t you remove these cuffs and we’ll see how brave you are,” she growled. “You couldn’t even stand against your own creature in that maze.”
Jonathan glared at her. “Yes, well, sometimes magic takes on a life of its own. Especially when mine was no longer there to hold its form.”
An uncontrollable tremor ran through Enala. How she wished she’d pushed Jonathan into the shadows of the maze when there’d been a chance. Or off the side of the cliff. But it was too late now. Jonathan had won. Despair grew in her chest, mixing with the burning strain from her lungs.
To her shame, Enala started to sob. “Please, don’t do this. I never wanted any of this!”
Jonathan turned his back and continued his work. “Sorry, my dear. Really, neither of us have any choice in this matter. I must regain my magic and my Sword, and you are the only one who can help me with that,” he shrugged. “Such is life.”
Silence fell, broken only by Enala’s laboured breathing and the grinding of the pestle. The sun crept above the lip of the walls, casting its warmth across the Temple of Light. As it struck the Sword, the blades light grew to match it, blazing across the courtyard.
What can I do? Enala felt her courage breaking, the insanity rising from within. She prayed Laurel had found Eric – he was her only hope now. Yet there was no sign of him, no hint of his approach. A steady pain racked her body, feeding the madness within.
“Please, let me breath! I’m dying!” Enala choked.
Jonathan chuckled. “Sorry about that. When I made them, I had no idea who I would be using them on. They were designed for a larger person. I’m afraid I cannot control them without my magic. But not to worry, I’ll be sure to fix that right up when I have it back.”
Jonathan’s laughter fed fuel to her fury. Enala gave herself to it, thrashing against the pillar, kicking and screaming her hatred at the king’s back. She strained against the bracelets until it felt like they would cut right to the bone. Still they remained fixed, immovable, and her rage soon succumbed to exhaustion. Collapsing against the cold stone, Enala fell silent, staring at the mad king.
Tears blurred her eyes and her mouth was dry. She could feel the desperate thud of her heart against her chest, the throb of blood in the numbness of her fingers.
Jonathan turned and raised the mortar to his mouth. He drank quickly, a scowl fixed to his face. Apparently his brew tasted no better. Its horrid smell wafted to Enala’s nostrils and her stomach wrenched, but nothing came up. The last of her strength faded away. She began to sob again, knowing each choked breath brought her closer to death.
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 it’s 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 of the Light. The broken roof revealed the ruined interior, where a stone alter 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 still 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 out 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 alter between himself and Jonathan.
“Come here!” the king shouted, swinging the sword through the gusts. He staggered around the alter 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 the 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 blades 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.
