The bang of wood on stone drew Alastair’s attention back to the enemy. He looked across as another ladder rose out of the darkness to crash against the ramparts. Men were already racing to the ladders, struggling in vein to push them away. But the weight of the enemy had already pinned them to the wall.
Another ladder struck close to where they stood. Thomas leapt to meet the threat, Alastair close behind. They crouched beneath the stone battlements, weapons at the ready. Alastair licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat.
A man’s face appeared above the battlements, dagger gripped between his teeth. Alastair’s blade flicked out, crunching into the man’s face. He fell away without a sound. Blood stained the tip of Alastair’s sword.
The sound of battle engulfed the wall. Men and women, fears forgotten, launched themselves at their assailants. Countless enemy fell beneath the defenders blades. Yet their deaths came at a price and they could not spare a single soldier. Not while the endless thousands of Archon’s army stretched out around them.
Another man sprang to the ramparts. He came up fast, axe already swinging as he crested the stone battlements. Alastair ducked beneath the blade, while beside him Thomas’ sword lanced into the axe man’s chest.
Blood sprayed through the air and the man disappeared over the side. Another clambered to take his place. Alastair thanked the Gods they only faced humans. When the beasts came, they would have no need for ladders.
He could not have said how long they fought. At one point, a lunatic with a mace had exploded over the parapet, mace swinging about his head. A blow smashed Thomas from his feet, but Alastair had cut him down before he could gain a foothold. Thomas now sported a gash across his forehead and his helmet was lost to the night. Yet still the king fought like a man possessed.
Alastair’s body ached with exertion, but adrenaline fed strength to his limbs and stole the worst of his pain. Blood soaked the sleeves of his coat, none of it his own. His exercises had served him well. So far he had not needed to exert his magic so far; he would need that for the beasts.
Finally the enemy horns sounded and their foes began to retreat. A ragged cheer went up from the defenders. Alastair smiled. They had earned their reprieve, brief as it might be. Fresh men would soon replace those of the enemy who had fallen. Or worse, Archon might send his beasts to sweep away all resistance.
Thomas sat down heavily beside him. He had found his helmet, but the dent left by the mace left in unwearable.
“Not much use to me anymore,” Thomas tossed it over the side. “Saved my life though. For a minute I thought the bastard had me.”
Alastair smiled. Thomas was an inspirational fighter, but his recklessness was not a great trait for a king. It amazed Alastair that he was the last king standing in the Three Nations. It certainly made protecting him a difficult affair.
Silence fell. When Thomas finally spoke, it was in a whisper. “Where is she, Alastair?”
Alastair wiped sweat from his brow. His hands were sticky with blood and shaking from exertion. Exhaustion had settled in, and Antonia’s continued absence was not helping.
“I don’t know. Helping, I hope.”
“Or I’m right here,” Antonia’s youthful voice was out of place amidst the carnage on the battlements.
Alastair spun. The girl enjoyed catching them by surprise. There was no amusement now though. Antonia looked beaten. Her leaf green dress she was scorched black. In places the silky material had melted to her skin, while in others it still bubbled, as if it had come straight from the furnace. Her sooty hands were scratched and bleeding and her face was haggard. Dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, but power still shone from their violet depths. Her hair was dry and tangled. Tears ran down her face, carving through the dirt and soot.
Alastair stepped forward, wrapping the girl in his arms. When he pulled back, he whispered the question they had been dreading the answer too. “Is there a way out, a way to save our people?”
“No,” Antonia’s voice shook and he could see the grief in her eyes. The screams of her people burning haunted her still.
His shoulders slumped. Burying his face in his hands, Alastair turned away. Tears leaked from his eyes. He quickly wiped them away, furious with himself. They could not afford to show weakness in front of the soldiers. They relied on his strength, and Thomas’s.
“I’m so sorry, Alastair,” he felt the Goddesses hand on his shoulder.
His despair turned to anger. “Damn your sorries, Antonia. Where is your brother?”
Antonia’s face darkened and a dangerous flicker appeared in her eyes. Her tiny fists clenched. Alastair thought he glimpsed a faint light seeping between her fingers. It was easy to forget how dangerous Antonia could be. He remembered it now.
“Leave my brother out of this, Alastair,” she spoke each word in a careful, measured tone.
Thomas stepped between them. He attempted a smile, and failed. “Stop this, the two of you. It solves nothing,” his voice was soft, but commanding.
Alastair drew a deep breath and allowed himself to relax. He nodded. “You’re right,” he turned to Antonia. “You must leave, Antonia, so you can live to defy Archon. Gather a new army, perhaps we can take enough of Archon’s forces with us, that you will be able to defeat them.”
Antonia shook her head. “There is no hope there. Archon is too strong to be defeated by mortal powers. We’ve seen that. He has been toying with us. There is only one hope now, one path to salvation. The Way.”
Alastair’s stomach clenched in fear. “You cannot be serious?”
“It is the only choice we have.”
“Then there is no choice at all. The curse is too strong. Far better men than I have tried to break it. None returned. The Way is certain death.”
“Still, it is our only chance. I can collect Jurrien and wait for you in Kalgan. We cannot take you ourselves, but The Way can get you there. If you make it through, perhaps we will have a chance,” the amethyst of her eyes stared straight into his.
Alastair’s hands shook. He clasped them together, mind racing. Antonia was right. The Sword was in Kalgan. If they could get to it, there might be one last chance for victory. If they stayed, they faced certain defeat. He gave a sharp nod, lips tight with worry.
“I’ll see you in Kalgan,” she stepped close and hugged Alastair tight. “Thomas has the better chance,” she whispered. “Protect him with your life.”
With that, Antonia stepped back, already fading from sight. For a moment, the scent flowers and the forest hung in the air. Alastair stood still for a long time, gathering himself. Her last words rung in his ears.
“Come, Thomas,” he said at last, speaking quietly so the men would not hear. “We must go as well.”
Thomas nodded. “One moment.”
He signalled one of his officers over. Blood stained the man’s uniform, but he seemed uninjured. Alastair could not recall his name.
“Captain, I need you to take over the command here. Antonia has a plan, but you need to hold out long enough for it to work. We’ll be back soon, I promise you. Hold the wall for as long as you can. Should it fall, sound the retreat and regroup in the town keep. Good luck.”
“You too sir,” the captain turned away, already shouting commands.
Alastair led the king from the wall. They raced down the stone steps, sheathed swords slapping at their sides. Their breath whispered in the cool night air. Above, Alastair glimpsed a star shoot across the night sky. He prayed it was a good omen.
He turned right as they reached the ground, following the base of the wall. Long grass grew from the packed earth, giving way beneath their booted feet. Alastair’s eyes swept the granite blocks of the wall. It had been years since he’d contemplated the mystery of The Way and he did not want to miss the entrance. He trailed his fingers along the cool stone as he walked.
They moved faster, the buildings nearest pressing in. Each house was packed with families, refuges from the surrounding towns and villages
. They had come here to escape Archon’s roving armies; now they were trapped like rabbits. If the city fell, it would be a massacre.
A war horn sounded from above, followed by the muffled war cries of enemy warriors. Alastair’s keen ears picked up the twang of bowstrings as the defenders unleashed their first volley. Time was running short.
Alastair cursed as his hand caught on a thorny vine. Drawing to a halt, he held up his hand to inspect the damage. Blood dripped from his fingers. Rubbing it on his cloak, he stared up at the dark surface. Thick vines hung like snakes from above, swaying gently in the breeze. Their bright green leaves hid the stone beneath them. Tiny white flowers blossomed between the thorns, adding their rosy tint to the air.
Sword blades rung out overhead. The enemy had made it to the top of the ladders. The screams of dying men quickly followed.
“Hurry, Alastair, Chole does not have much time. The wall will not last the night if this continues.”
Alastair nodded. “I know. It would fall within minutes if Archon unleashed his beasts. It’s a good thing he enjoys toying with his food. But I am afraid we have arrived, and my knowledge cannot take us any further. Your magic is needed now. These vines are a part of an ancient magic the founders of Lonia put into the walls of Chole, before it became a part of Plorsea. Only those with power over the Earth can command them to reveal our path.”
Thomas nodded. His magic gave him control over living things; he would have little trouble with the vines. They both knew the real test would come later.
The king stepped up to the wall and took hold of the nearest vine. His face revealed nothing as the thorns pierced his skin. Thomas closed his eyes, his breath softening. The vines began to ripple and a faint green glow lit the dark alley. Slowly they curled back on themselves, slivering upwards, retreating from Thomas’ touch.
Beneath was not solid stone, but an empty abyss stretching away into oblivion. A strange light shone from within, bathing them in its power. Alastair felt the dark pull of the shadows in his soul. The world around them began to fade, until only the abyss remained.
Beware, Alastair, he heard Antonia’s voice in his mind. He shook himself and shouted a warning. “Beware, Thomas. The ancient magic is corrupted. Keep your soul closed or it will destroy you.”
Thomas nodded grimly. “Where does it lead?”
“Follow and you will see,” Alastair’s voice was bleak. There was little chance they would see the other side of the portal.
Taking a deep breath, Alastair stepped forward into the abyss. His doubts did not matter now. All his energy must go to seeing Thomas safely to Kalgan. It was their last hope.
As he crossed the threshold a twisted rainbow streaked across his vision. The world spun and his mind burned. Gravity vanished and then suddenly pulled him skyward. He spun, a terrible screeching tearing at his ears. Blood ran from his nose and his stomach churned. Gritting his teeth, he endured.
Thunder clapped and all sensation vanished. An instant later, he struck the ground.
Alastair groaned, struggling to keep himself from throwing up. Slowly his senses returned. He opened his eyes, looking around for Thomas. His eyes returned only blurred images, before the world around him clicked into sharp clarity.
Around him lay the bones of long dead men and women. The empty eye sockets of human skulls stared at him, toothy grins fixed to their stark white faces. No trace of flesh or cloth remained. Thomas sat nearby, his eyes wide with shock.
Alastair shook his head, pulling his wits together. A blood red sky stretched overhead, its infinite expanse unmarked by cloud, sun or stars. Stark peaks rose all around, their bleached white cliffs hemming them in in all but one direction. A path led through the piles of dead. The bones grew thinner as it wound its way down the hill. Obviously most did not survive their first step into this strange world. There was not a living thing in sight. The air was deathly still.
“What is this place?” Thomas’ voice shook. Alastair glimpsed fear on his friend’s face.
“The Way,” he said, standing. “And we had better move quickly. Time passes differently here and there’s none to waste.”
Thomas stood, brushing off the dust of the dead. His hands trembled, but there was determination in his eyes.
“This way,” Alastair waved at the path. “Stay alert, who knows what lurks in this realm.”
Alastair began to pick his way amidst the bones, Thomas following close behind. His boots crunched on sharp gravel and shards of bones. The sound echoed off the surrounding cliffs.
“What happened here, Alastair?” Thomas’ voice had regained its composure.
Alastair sighed. “The Way is ancient, predating the Gods themselves. It served as neutral ground for negotiations between Lonia and Trola when the two nations were at war. Only a few souls can enter at one time, so there was no way one nation could ambush the embassy of another. It was obviously a much safer place then.”
“How-,” Thomas broke off, staring around at the red waste. “How did it become like this?”
“It was cursed. At first no one understood who would have the power to achieve such a feat, but we know now it was Archon. Dark magic has corrupted everything in this small land, sucking the life from it. Your magic is useless here, the raw energy of the Light is the only Element to still hold sway against the darkness.”
Thomas loosened his sword. “Then we must rely on your powers, and our steel.”
Alastair nodded. “Something waits out here. No one has passed this way in four hundred years and lived to talk about it.”
Thomas fell silent. They plodded on, their passage witnessed only by the glares of long dead souls.
******************
A granite arch stood guard at the end of the canyon. Flowers were etched across the stone, entwined one over another. A dull fog hung in the air beyond the arch, concealing what lay beyond. It could only be the exit.
Alastair’s blood was cold. Beneath the archway stood the embodiment of the curse. It grinned at them across the short distance, yellowed teeth jutting from milky bone. Empty eye sockets glared at them from the naked skull, held aloft by a crooked spine. Bone rattled as skeletal arms drew a rusty scimitar. The blade grated as it slide from its sheath. The skeletons bony toes gripped the rocky ground.
Alastair felt as though the canyon walls were closing in on him. He shivered, a cold darkness sweeping across his soul. A weight settled in his chest, freezing him in place. This creature had killed those hundreds who had come before him. Now it sought their lives and Alastair doubted there was much chance of survival.
“Whatever you do, stay behind me, Thomas,” he whispered the words from the corner of his mouth. His eyes never left the undead skeleton.
Alastair walked forward, his short sword sliding into his hand. “Out of my way, damned hell spawn,” his voice echoed back and forth off crumbling stone. Slowly the words died away, until it seemed they had been spoken by some feeble old man. Alastair felt his confidence wither.
The skeleton laughed, the soft whispering cackle of the dead. It raised its blade in mock salute.
Alastair braced himself, fear gnawing at his courage. The creature would not die easy. Best not to go charging in, he thought.
Instead, he turned his mind inwards, seeking out his magic. It leapt at his touch, an old companion eager to aid him. Its power flowed through his veins, giving strength to weary limbs. Time passed slowly here and it seemed as though they had trudged for hours through this grim land.
The magic focused his mind. With it, he reached out to the land around him. Rocks groaned. Small stones rattled and rolled as man-sized boulders took to the air. Soon a host of boulders hovered around him.
Pressure throbbed in Alastair’s head. He clenched his teeth and threw out his arm. The boulders leapt to obey, accelerating towards his dark foe.
The skull’s grin widened. It too raised its hand. Alastair’s projectiles hurtled onwards. Twenty feet, ten, five. Alastair grinned and gave
one final push with his magic.
An earth-shattering crack ripped the air. The boulders exploded, turned suddenly to splinters that flew in all directions, burying themselves in the valley walls. The stench of burning stone filled the air.
Alastair staggered back, the aftershock of his failed magic tearing through him. His mind reeled from the force of the creatures counterattack. He started to fall. Strong arms reached out and caught him. Through the pain he could hear the creature’s mocking laughter.
Alastair struggled to regain his feet. Footsteps crunched as the monster walked towards them. He cursed and pushed Thomas behind him. Bracing himself, he summoned his magic again. It came faster now. He screamed his anger, arms swinging out. The magic surged through his mind.
The skeleton rose ponderously into the air. Alastair gave a violent gesture, hurling it into the canyon walls. Dust exploded outwards, the crash deafening in the narrow canyon. The skeleton vanished into the dust cloud.
When the air cleared, it was still coming.
Alastair gritted his teeth in frustration. His attacks had not even phased it. He saw now the hardened blood that coated the scimitar. Now he knew how his fellow Magickers had meet their end. He realised with dreadful certainty this creature would not be defeated.
He took a firmer grip of his short sword. “We cannot win here, Thomas. I do not have the power. I will keep it distracted. You must make a break for the gate.”
Thomas frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alastair cut him off. “It is our only chance. At least one of us must reach Kalgan.”
Thomas scowled. He edged away to the right, and Alastair could only pray he had listened.
The skeleton halted a few steps away. “Yield, and your deaths shall be quick,” its rusty voice grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Alastair answered with steel.
Their blades rang as they met, sparks flying in the dry air. Alastair jumped back as the scimitar reversed its cut. The tip tore through his shirt, narrowly missing skin. He swore and slashed out. The rusty blade spun to block. The shock of the collision rattled Alastair’s sword arm.
Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) Page 10
