Firestorm (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 2)

by Aaron Hodges

  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.

  “Good bye, 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 down 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 alter 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.

  “Just stay still, Enala. You’re going to be okay.”

  A dry laugh racked 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 about 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.

  When he finally reached the magical paralysis that had frozen the three of them, the king broke him off mid-sentence.

  “Enough!” he saw Gabriel jump at the king’s shout. “I have heard enough of these stories, Caelin. I can assure you I have been under no spell. No dark magic has been worked on me. But this is the second ‘agent’ of Archon you claim to have killed – who until this moment I had regarded as a trusted member of my council. I shall need proof if you expect me to believe Katya was a traitor.”

  Caelin’s heart sank as he stared down the king. From the corner of his eye he caught a moments panic come over Inken’s face, quickly hidden. His response caught in his mouth, his words retreating before King Fraser’s rage.

  “We will search Katya’s apartment and belongings for sign of this alleged betrayal. And I would speak with these dragons, who claim to have come to aid us,” he hesitated, eyes looking around the court. “I do not know what happened on that wall. But from what I have heard, the men were panicked and close to breaking befor
e Katya arrived. I do not know why she decided to fire on the beasts, but at this point my belief is she thought the action justified. For her courage alone in holding the walls, I would praise her,” he shook his head, glaring down at them. “But she is dead.”

  Caelin shrank as the king’s eyes found him. He stared into his monarch’s face, willing him to retract the words, searching for the man Fraser had once been. Surely with Katya dead, reason should have returned to the king. But there was only rage in the king’s dark eyes.

  Then the king let out a long breath and some of the anger went out of him. “I do not know what to do with you. I find myself doubting your story more and more, Caelin. Up to this moment, there is still no proof of anything you have claimed, either with Balistor or Katya. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, gave you free rein of the castle. In payment, you stained the city walls with the blood of my most trusted councillor. You have left me no choice.”

  “Your majesty,” Caelin interrupted.

  King Fraser raised a hand. “Silence!” his gaze swept the room, taking in each of them. “You have said enough. You and your two companions cannot be trusted to have free rein of the city, or the citadel. You leave me no choice but to lock you away until the truth of this matter becomes clear.”

  Before Caelin could raise his voice in argument, the king waved a hand. Iron hands grasped him by the shoulder, holding him tight. He glanced back at the two guards behind him, taking in the grim determination in their eyes. The sick dread of treachery swept through him, washing away all thought of resistance.

  For all his years of service, King Fraser had repaid him with betrayal.

  Caelin went limp, eyes falling to the ground. There would be no fighting their way out of this. Guardsmen ringing the throne room, spears at the ready.

  Inken did not see things the same way. Her calm had vanished, swept away by a red hot rage. Growling, she pushed the first guard away and spun to face the king.

  “Your majesty!” she shouted. “We have come a long way to help you, have given everything for Plorsea, for the Three Nations. Who are you to judge us, sitting safe up there on your throne. How dare you try to lock us away.”

  The king scowled. “Silence, woman. Men, get them out of my sight.”

  Inken screamed and leapt for the dais. Before she could take two steps a guard tackled her to the ground. She went down, kicking and screaming as another man joined the fray. It took a third before she finally subsided, going limp on the tiled floor. Together the men dragged Inken to her feet. Blood ran from her nose, staining her white top, but she glared around the throne room in defiance.

  “This is a mistake, Fraser!” she shouted.

  The king waved a hand and turned back to the table of councillors. As the guards led him from the room, Caelin saw the king take his seat at the head of the table.

  Outside, the guards pushed them together and took up positions ahead and behind them. A jab in the back told Caelin to move. They marched down the wide corridors of the citadel, footsteps dragging on the soft carpets. The hallways were empty now – everyone who could be spared had been called to man the walls. Allies or not, they were fearful beasts, and the citizens would rest easier seeing the soldiers manning the walls.

  A few minutes later they turned from the well-lit passageways down a stairwell leading into the depths of the keep. A cold sweat broke out on Caelin’s forehead as his mind began to work again. A cool wind blew up from the dark depths below. He knew this staircase – they were not being taken to a tower keep or warded room. They were being led to the dungeons.

  One of the guards took a torch from a wall bracket, providing a thin circle of light in against the darkness. They continued down the staircase, the light of the flames only carrying a few steps ahead. Caelin moved slowly, taking care on the slick steps. He thought of all those who had come before, the centuries of men and woman who had disappeared into this darkness.

  Caelin shuddered, suffocating in the pitch black. He could feel it pressing in on him, drawing away the light, smothering hope. The warmth fled from his face and his fingertips grew numb with the cold. He glanced back at the guards, but they stared straight ahead, all but ignoring their prisoners but for the odd shove to keep them moving.

  The cold seeped deeper, creeping into Caelin’s skin and sending shivers down his spine. He looked across at his companions in the darkness, and saw his own fear reflected in their pale faces. They could sense it too – the wrongness about this place. But the guards still held them fast, ushering them downwards, leaving no opportunity to flee.

  Four or five stories beneath the keep, the staircase came to a sudden end.

  At the bottom was a single corridor lined by thick wooden doors, disappearing beyond the reach of their torch. There was nothing else to light the space. Caelin shuddered as he realised they would be left alone in the darkness. The empty black beckoned and he felt his courage melting. He turned back to the guards, ready to beg for them to leave the torch.

  Beside him, Gabriel jumped as a rat skittered past. The guards chuckled and pushed him forwards. He stumbled into Caelin, knocking them both to the ground. From the ground he watched the panic catch in Inken’s eyes, saw her turn to flee, but a steel gauntlet struck her in the face and sent her stumbling backwards. Caelin reached out to catch her as she fell.

  They lay together on the icy stone, looking up at the grim faces of the guards. Chainmail rattled as their captors drew their swords.

  “Stop, please, we won’t struggle,” Caelin raised his hands. “There’s no need for that.”

  The lead guard stepped forward. He held an iron key in his gauntleted fist. “Here,” he tossed it to Caelin. “There is a cell at the end of the corridor. You will unlock it. You will leave the key in the door and enter the cell. Do not try anything.”

  Caelin caught the key and nodded. “Okay.”

  Together they backed down the corridor. The guards pressed forward, swords extended to block their escape, leaving nothing to chance. To either side of the corridor the doors stood barred, but there was no escape there anyway. The only exit from the dungeons was through the men facing them. Caelin shivered as the dark swarmed him.

  Caelin froze as his back brushed against the door at the end of the corridor. Heart pounding, he turned slowly and felt for the lock. His back felt exposed, unprotected from the approaching guards. He fumbled for the keyhole, struggling to place the key in the dim light of the torch, then a click came as the mechanism within the door drew back the bolt. The hinges creaked as the door opened.

  “Get in,” the guard ordered, his sword glinting in the torchlight.

  Caelin swallowed, biting back a response. The full truth of the king’s betrayal crashed down around him, as he realised with sick certainty they would never leave this hole in the ground. The absolute darkness of the cell beckoned, but his feet refused to obey. Beside him, Gabriel and Inken were also frozen, unable to take that final step into captivity. He could almost sense the pain radiating from the cell, the waves of despair crashing down upon him.

  He yelled as the sharp tip of a sword prodded his back. Biting his tongue, Caelin strode into the cell. In the pitch-black he did not look back, but heard movement as Inken and Caelin joined him. With another groan of rusty hinges, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving them alone in the darkness.

  Panic rose in Caelin’s chest as the empty black crowded him. He fought for control, for a moments sanity. Every instinct shrieked for him to turn and pound on the door, to beg for release, for light. The darkness hung over them, absolute, overwhelming, pressing down on his very soul. He struggled for breath, the black almost like liquid, suffocating him. A scream rose up within him, tearing at his chest as he fought to stifle it.

  “This seems like a place you go to be forgotten,” Inken’s words echoed in the small space.

  “Or a place where no one will ever find you,” a voice replied from the darkness.

  *************

  Eric
stared up at the demon. He felt strangely detached, without fear or panic. He crouched beside Enala, a defiant anger bubbling in his chest. Its heat crawled through his veins, pushing away the pain, feeding strength to his desperate body. Enala’s hand was warm in his. He gave it a squeeze and stood. They had gone through too much, beaten the odds too many times to fail now.

  The demon dropped from the sky. Dust billowed out as it crashed to the tiled floor. It straightened and looked around the ruined temple, a strange look in its demonic eyes.

  “Curious. When I ruled, his temple was a place of pilgrimage. People would travel here from all over Trola, to beg for his return,” he laughed. “No longer, it seems! The people have all but forgotten Darius.”

  Eric faced the demon. “You heard what I said, demon,” he growled. “I am Enala’s brother, descended from Aria herself, sister to the man whose body you possess. I wield the Sword of Light. You had better run, if you wish to live.”

  The demon grinned. It raised its hands and gave a slow clap. Then it drew back its cloak to reveal the green and blue stained crystals set in the pommels of its Soul Blades. “I have mastered the God powers of Earth and Sky. I am not afraid of the Sword of Light. No, I will prise it from your cold dead fingers.”

  Eric looked down at Enala, watching her laboured breathing. Indecision gripped him. The Sword was the only thing stopping her from bleeding to death. If he pulled it free, she would die in minutes. There would be no chance of returning her to the healers in Kalgan. He would be condemning her to die.

  Yet he did not stand a chance without it.

  “Eric,” Enala croaked. “Take the Sword and finish the damn thing.”

  Eric shook his head. “No, I can’t!”

  Enala gritted her teeth, eyes clenched closed. “Eric, you know what’s at stake. Demon or not, Thomas was the first to use the Sword. You cannot let it fall into his hands,” she coughed the words. “Take it!”