Shield of Winter

by Aaron Hodges

  A strange motion followed, and then Braidon was soaring through the sky, beyond Enala and the dragon, outside his own body. Colours whirled around him, a stream of blue and white and red dancing across the sky. He watched the dragon and its tiny passengers, mystified by their brilliant light.

  Only then did his purpose return to him. Enala believed he could use his power to shield them from the Tsar’s view, allow them to infiltrate the citadel and find his sister without being detected. His spirit flickered as he considered the problem. The magic of the priest and dragon shone across the sky, his own power small alongside them. If he wanted to shield them from the Tsar, he would need to do more than just hide them from sight.

  Drifting closer to Dahniul, he reached out with his spirit to touch the aura surrounding her, and it rippled away from him, changing. He frowned, concentrating on it, willing it to alter, to become one with the sky. To his surprise, the amber colour faded, becoming the same multicoloured light that he had drifted through earlier. Slowly, the dragon faded from the sight of his spirit eyes.

  Braidon smiled then, pleased with his success, and quickly turned his attention to Enala and his own flickering power.

  When he finally opened his eyes, Braidon let out a long groan as the weight of his body returned. He swayed on the dragon’s back, but a firm hand settled on his shoulder, holding him in place. Blinking, he found Enala smiling at him.

  “You did it, Braidon!” she exclaimed.

  There was a strangeness to Enala’s face as he looked at her, and it was a moment before Braidon realised he could see straight through her. His mouth dropped open. “What the…?”

  Enala laughed. “A side-effect of your spell,” she said, answering his unfinished question. “I believe we should now be invisible to anyone outside the spell, while to those within we merely appear…less substantial.”

  “Are you sure?” Braidon asked. They were still above the clouds, but once they dropped below them…

  “Only one way to find out!” Enala replied with a youthful grin. “Dahniul, take us down!”

  Before Braidon could reply, his stomach lurched up into his chest as the dragon folded its wings and dived. Screaming, they plunged into the clouds. For a moment, everything vanished, and all Braidon could see was a thick white mist. Only the solidness of the dragon beneath him convinced Braidon he was not plummeting to his death.

  Then the clouds were gone, and Braidon was left looking out over the lands of his home. Shining water stretched out below, the waters raging with the afternoon winds sweeping in off the plateau. A sprinkling of ships were racing across the lake, and Braidon’s chest tightened at the sight of their pitch-black sails.

  Ahead, he saw the towering cliffs of his island home rising from the lake. Here, even more ships bobbed at the docks, their black sails like a stain on the lake around them. Their colour could only mean one thing—the Tsar was preparing for war.

  His heart beating faster, he shouted at Enala. “The emissaries couldn’t have reached the city already,” he breathed.

  “No,” Enala replied, voice grim, “the Tsar never intended to honour his offer of peace. Look over there.” She nodded to the far side of the lake. Beyond the rolling hills bordering the waters, an army spread across the land as far as the eye could see.

  Braidon clenched his jaw. “We have to stop him.”

  “Yes,” Enala replied. “But first, we must find your sister.”

  At that, Dahniul swept down, and the tall white walls of Ardath’s citadel came racing up to greet them.

  Chapter 31

  “Where…?” Devon started, then trailed off, too stunned to finish the question.

  Laughing, Kellian moved to the iron door. A solid thunk followed as the lock disengaged, then a loud squeal of rusty hinges as the door swung open. Kellian gestured them forward.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! I don’t know how much time we have before the real guards return!”

  The old man rose with a chuckle. “You know, I think I like you, innkeeper.” He wandered past Devon and out into the corridor. Stretching his arms, he groaned. “Ahh, but it’s good to be out of that hole. You coming, youngster?” he said to Devon.

  Shaking his head, Devon strode after them. “What about the guards?” he asked gruffly, glaring at Kellian. Just moments before, he’d been on the brink of despair. Now it seemed Kellian had had a way out all along.

  “Don’t look so glum, old friend,” Kellian laughed, thumping him on the back. “The guards are taken care of…or at least, I hope they are. Hard to know how much of my message Betran managed to deliver.”

  “Betran?” Devon repeated dumbly.

  “I left him with some papers to give my contacts in Kalgan, in case anything happened to us. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t like the idea of spending my remaining days locked in a dungeon when your brilliant plans inevitably unravelled.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it personally,” the old man offered.

  “Such faith you have in me,” Devon grunted, but Kellian only grinned.

  “Lighten up, Devon! We’re free, aren’t we?” he said. “Or we are for now. I think we’d best be leaving. Who knows how much time my patrons have managed to buy us? Old drinking buddies can only get you so far. What’s say we see about those bracelets of yours, my friend?” He rattled the keys at the old man.

  Their companion sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no key for these, innkeeper. Powerful magic locked them in place, and it will take magic equally as powerful to remove them. We’ll have to rely on our wits alone to take us the rest of the way.”

  “Figures,” Kellian grunted, lowering the keys. He shared a glance with Devon, then turned to the neighbouring cells. Now that they were in the corridor, they could see down the length of the dungeons—or at least as far as the light reached. There were at least a hundred cells, all full of people. “What about them?”

  “There’s little we can do for them now,” the old man replied. “Not unless you have it in you to kill them?”

  Devon’s head jerked up. “What?”

  The old man’s eyes shone. “They are the source of the Tsar’s power,” he replied. “Them, myself, his Magickers upstairs. So long as we live, so long as we wear the bracelets, his power remains.”

  “We’ll wake them…” Kellian began, but the old man was already shaking his head.

  “They’re past that now,” he shot back. “And we cannot carry them.” Moving to the front of a cell, he looked in at the occupants and let out a long breath. “But you are right. I don’t have the stomach for it either—though no doubt they would thank us for the mercy.”

  “Well, if we can’t help them, let’s at least help ourselves,” Kellian said briskly, starting towards the stairwell.

  Devon offered the old man his shoulder, but now that they were free, their cellmate seemed to have regained his vigour. He sprang after Kellian, leaving Devon to bring up the rear. Ahead, Kellian lifted the single lantern from its bracket and started up the stairwell. The others came close behind, ears straining for sounds of movement from above. The stone steps wound upwards, spiralling past more levels of dungeons. Silently, Devon wondered how many cells there were, how many Magickers the Tsar had imprisoned over the decades.

  Shivering, he recalled the Trolan Magickers who’d been captured during the civil war. There had been hundreds—and the Tsar’s power had been insurmountable even then. What new feats might he be capable of now?

  Finally, the stairwell came to an end, the stone steps giving way to a wide guard chamber. They paused in the doorway, scanning the room for signs of danger. A desk was pushed up against the far wall, two chairs behind it. Two men were seated there, but both were slumped unconscious across the wooden surface. A crevasse of wine stood on the table between them, along with two empty mugs.

  Devon looked at Kellian and raised an eyebrow. His friend only shrugged and entered the room. The guards were armed with knives and swords, and he quickly helped h
imself to them. The old man found himself a short sword, while Kellian secreted several daggers about his person. Hefting a spare short sword, he offered it to Devon.

  Scanning the room, Devon’s heart leapt as he glimpsed a black haft poking out from beneath the desk. Crouching down, he reached out and gripped the familiar weapon. A weight lifted from his shoulders as he straightened, kanker settling easily into his hands.

  “I’m beginning to think we might make it out of this alive after all,” he said, grinning.

  “Kanker,” their cellmate whispered. He moved slowly across the room, staring at the hammer. “Gods, I never thought I would see it again.”

  Devon narrowed his eyes. “I told you he was my ancestor.”

  Their companion smiled. “Yes, but then, I never thought I’d leave that cell either.” He paused, swallowing. “It’s magic…I wonder…?”

  Devon gripped the weapon tighter. “You think it could free you?”

  “I’m not sure Alastair’s spell will be strong enough.”

  “Can’t hurt to try.”

  “Oh, it can,” the old man replied, “but it’s worth the risk.”

  He held out his hands. Kellian extended kanker and tapped it lightly to the bracelets around the man’s wrists. As it connected, a hiss like a boiling kettle whistled through the room. The old man’s face tightened, his jaw clenching as though to muffle a scream. Still, he did not back away.

  An instant later, a brilliant flash lit the room, followed by a sharp crack. The light faded away with the soft tinkling of metal striking stone. Looking down, Devon saw the old man’s wrists were now unadorned.

  “It worked!”

  Grimacing, the old man rubbed his hands. “Ah, but that hurt,” he said. Then he smiled and clenched his fists. To Devon, it seemed the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

  “What now?” Devon asked.

  “My friends have done what they can,” Kellian answered. “I say we get out of this citadel and this city as quickly as possible, before anyone discovers we’re gone.”

  “We’d best move quickly,” the old man added, “before the next shift arrives…” He trailed off as a distant thud carried to them from the doorway leading out of the dungeons.

  Devon advanced on the exit. The heavy wooden door was closed, but from beyond he could hear footsteps approaching. The scraping of a key in the lock followed, and the door shifted slightly. Then a voice called out.

  “Hey, lads, give us a hand will ya? You know it sticks!”

  Kanker gripped in one hand, Devon waited on the other side of the door for his moment. The others closed in behind him, but he waved them back. The doorway was narrow, and there wouldn’t be room in the corridor beyond for more than one man to fight.

  He eyed the door, and seeing it shift, he surged forwards, his boot lashing out to crash against the wood. The door flew backwards with the power of the blow, and beyond, a voice cried out. Then Devon was charging through, kanker in hand, and he was amongst them. There was no time to count his foes, only to attack. Taken by surprise, they fell back before his fury, their swords still sheathed at their sides. Scarlet guard-cloaks became tangled around boots, and the first man was still clutching his head where the door had struck him when kanker caught him in the chest, hurling him back.

  Leaping the fallen body, Devon swung again, slamming his weapon into the face of the following guard. The man was still scrambling for the hilt of his sword, but as the hammer struck, his body stiffened, and the half-drawn blade clattered to the ground.

  Beyond, a third guard cried out and turned to flee. Hefting kanker, Devon hurled it at the man. The weapon hissed through the air and caught him in the small of his back. He cried out and crashed face-first into the ground, his legs twitching uselessly as he tried to crawl away.

  Striding down the corridor, Devon retrieved kanker. Looking down at the injured man, his anger flared. These men had sought to cage him, to lock him in the darkness, while blood suckers like Quinn and the Tsar enjoyed the light as heroes. Teeth bared, he lifted kanker, ready to bring it down on the man’s skull.

  “Devon!” Kellian’s voice carried down the corridor, halting his blow.

  He looked back. “What?”

  Kellian walked towards him. “They’re done,” his friend said softly. “You beat them. Leave him, there’s more where they came from.”

  Devon sucked in a breath, seeing the concern in his friend’s eyes. At his feet, the fallen guard was trembling with terror. Still, the anger clutched at Devon, demanding retribution.

  “You remind me of him a lot, you know.” said the old man, his voice carrying down the corridor.

  Devon frowned. “Who?”

  The old man joined Kellian. At his feet, the guard groaned. “Your ancestor.”

  A sharp pain lanced through Devon’s chest at the reference. “Alan?” he growled. “How could you possibly have known him?”

  “No, not Alan, though he was even larger than you.” The old man smiled. “I was talking of Alastair. In his day, there were few Magickers more powerful than him. No mortal foe could hope to stand against him—yet he rarely used his power on those without magic. You are strong, Devon, powerful like him. But are you merciful?”

  Devon sighed, his anger dying like flames before the water. “Fine,” he agreed. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started down the corridor, leaving the others to race after him. Pushing through another set of wooden doors, they found themselves in a broad corridor. Devon searched for some point of reference that would tell him where they were in the citadel as the old man strode to a window in the opposite wall. Light was streaming through the glass, and their companion’s eyes flickered closed as it bathed his face. He stood still as a statue, the years seeming to fall from him, while in the courtyard beyond, birds chirped.

  “I never thought I would see the sky again.” The old man’s words shook. “I thought I would never leave that place.”

  Devon reached out and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re free now,” he said softly.

  To his surprise, the old man shook his head. Reaching up, he wiped the tears from his cheeks, then looked at Devon. “I can never be free,” he said. “I did not lie before, my friend. There is nothing left of the man the Tsar sent into the darkness. Only the hate remains. It binds me to him still. I cannot join you.”

  “You must,” Kellian replied. “Even with your powers restored, you cannot hope to match him alone.”

  The old man smiled. Clenching his fists, he let out a long breath. Devon’s ears popped as the windows shattered inwards, and a swirling wind went rushing into the corridor. A dull boom echoed around them, and looking down, he saw lightning dancing along the old man’s arms.

  “Perhaps not,” the man said quietly, “but even so, I will try. At the very least, it will give you a distraction.”

  “You don’t need to do this,” Devon argued, but the blue eyes turned to stare at him, and the words left him.

  “I have lived long past my time, Devon. But my death can still have meaning. I can still leave this world a better place than when I entered it. Now go. Run. Don’t turn back.”

  He started down the corridor, but Kellian’s voice called him back.

  “Who are you?”

  The old man paused, his eyes shining as he smiled. “My name is Eric.”

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter 32

  Alana stood before the throne, fists clenched, her whole body trembling as she faced the man who dared to call himself her father. Several of his councillors stood around him. He still hadn’t noticed her presence, but the ring of guards were watching her from the dais, their eyes alert. No doubt they were still weary after her earlier display with their comrade. In that moment, Alana hardly cared.

  In her mind, she saw again the memories her father had kept from her, the ones Antonia had unlocked. She remembered it all now—the reason she h
ad fled the citadel with her brother, why she had wiped their memories.

  For years she had marched children off to their examinations, many never to be seen again. Those who survived became Battle Magickers for her father, while the ones who failed were consumed by their magic, becoming the demons her father sent to destroy his enemies. Either way, Alana had never really cared—so long as the Tsar’s power grew. At least, not until her brother’s time had come…

  Braidon.

  The name was like a bell tolling within her, filling her with fear, with terror. The Magickers she’d tutored through the years had been beneath her, commoners who lived only at her father’s mercy. But her brother…she couldn’t face the thought of losing him, of watching him fail. And he would, she knew. Perhaps it was her own love that had made him weak, her mercy that had blighted him…but it mattered little now.

  She had known he would fail, long before his magic surfaced. Even after a year of tutoring, of meditation and training, he had still been too soft to face his magic. It would have overwhelmed him, swept away the boy she loved and replaced him with one of the black-eyed creatures who served the Tsar.

  And her father hadn’t cared.

  Alana reached down and drew her sabre from its sheath. The guards tensed as the rasp of steel on leather whispered through the throne room, but she ignored them and advanced up the stone steps towards her father. One of the guards moved towards her, his spear bristling, steel plate mail rattling loudly. His weapon swept down, the point pressing lightly against her chest.

  She glanced at the spear, then into the eyes of the man holding it.

  “Get out of my way,” she commanded.

  Magic surged from her, catching on the tip of the spear and racing up the weapon into the man. He shuddered, a battle taking place behind his eyes, but it was one he could not win. With another rattle of metal, he stepped aside, and Alana marched past. The other guards stayed out of reach, but quickly moved to position themselves on either side of her father.