Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1)

by Hodges, Aaron

  The beast appeared suddenly from the smoke, catching Alastair unawares. He raised a hand in defiance, but too slow. The dragon slammed into the ground, knocking the old man from his feet. A column of fire swallowed him.

  Eric’s heart stopped. “No!” he screamed.

  His magic boiled up from the depths of his body. He did not attempt to stop it. He let it grow, feeding on his rage. The wind stirred. Gusts swirled into the clearing, whipping up the flames. They gathered around him, converging into a thunderous gale. His hair thrashed in its grasp, clothes cracking against his skin.

  His vision narrowed until all he saw was the red of the dragon. The stream of fire from its mouth ceased. Somehow Alastair still stood, defiant, his face black with soot. The dragon raised its claws over his head and struck. Alastair held out his hand and the monstrous talons stopped a foot above him. There came a dull thud, as though they had struck wood. The old man’s arm began to shake.

  Eric unleashed the gale. The air raged around him and then cascaded into the beast. The dragon stumbled back beneath the onslaught. The wind caught in its wings, hurling it towards the trees. The great wings beat down, carrying it within a hairs breath of the treetops.

  The dragon began to turn, but Eric’s rage was not finished yet. The winds encircled the creature, crashing against its scaly hide. The power of each blow forced it lower in the sky. Eric gritted his teeth and pressed down with everything he had. Its wings folded and the beast toppled into the forest. The crash echoed through the night.

  Eric released a long breath, and released his power. He slumped to the ground, knees quivering, an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. The brief exertion had drained his weakened body.

  Inken grasped him around the shoulders and shook him. “Eric, stop it!”

  “What?” he shouted over the whistling wind.

  Inken pointed.

  Eric looked up. The gales had not dissipated. The wind roared around the clearing, sucking the flames into the air. A column of fire took shape, whirring around with the circling currents. The trees groaned and saplings were ripped from the ground up into the tornado. They glowed orange as their leaves sprouted flames.

  He gaped, frozen by the sight. Inken shook him again, wrenching him from his shock. There was nothing he could do. His strength was gone; he had nothing left to take control of the twister.

  “I can’t. My magic. Not strong enough,” the wind tore the words from Eric’s mouth.

  Inken’s eyes grew wide with fear. Her knuckles tightened on her bow. She grasped him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Then we’ve got to go. Run!” she yelled, trying to signal the others. “Run for the cove!”

  Then they were running again, fleeing the burning column, the smouldering heat. Gusts of wind sucked at their back, the inferno close behind, leaping between the trees. There was no trouble seeing the way now. Fire was everywhere. It chased them on hot blasts of air, driven by the tornado’s rage.

  A roar came from overhead. The canopy exploded as the dragon came crashing down, all tooth and claws. Its wings shredded the bark from trees, its tail whipping out behind it. It landed with a thud, halting their desperate flight.

  Eric dug in his heals. His hand lashed out to grab Inken’s collar, hauling her back. The dragon stood across their path. Its eyes glowed with hatred. The fire raced along either side of them. The tornado howled at their back.

  The dragon clawed its way forwards, tongue flicking out in rapid succession. Then it paused, hesitant to attack. It had been hurt in the battle. A thick branch had impaled one leg and the thin skin of its wings was shredded. Thick blood ran down its scales.

  It did not need to attack to finish them. The tornado was closing, its rumbling growing louder. Flames flooded the forest floor around them, taking light amidst the leaf litter. Their skin was already burning in the heat. Through the dragon was the only way out.

  Inken notched an arrow and loosed it at the beast. It hissed through the air, bouncing off the hardened scales. The dragon roared and took another step toward them, its confidence growing.

  Eric watched with a sinking heart as Inken drew another arrow. He searched inside himself for a trace of magic, but found nothing. Around them the fire roared higher. Only minutes remained to them now. He prayed the others had made it clear.

  Inken squinted through the smoky light. This time it took long seconds for her to take aim. Releasing a long breath, she loosed. The shaft arched up towards the dragons face, plunging into its amber eye. The beast screamed, staggering back. Inken did not pause, another arrow already to hand. She drew back, took sight, and shot again.

  The dragon screeched with pain, as the second arrow stabbed through its other eye.

  Eric gaped at the shot, but there was no time for pause. The beast had had enough. It dropped its head and charged. Its claws scrambled in the dirt, ripping roots from the earth.

  Inken drew another arrow, but Eric saw their opportunity. He tackled her to the ground. They struck and rolled, carrying them from the path of the dragon’s rage. The blinded beast charged past into the heart of the inferno.

  They sat up. Inken shot him a glare, but he smiled back. They did not speak, but climbed to their feet and ran on. The forest around them was alive with flames, leaving them just one way to flee. If they paused, the inferno would overtake them. The roar of the tornado behind them fed strength to their exhausted limbs.

  At last they left the flames behind, the growl of the twister dying away as it drifted from their path. The sounds of destruction fell off into the distance. The forest grew dark again, until all that remained was the flickering of shadows from far off fires.

  Exhausted, they collapsed to the ground, clinging to each other in fear, pain, sorrow. The wound in his side began to throb. He had burst his stitches again, but he was too exhausted to care. He hugged Inken to him, taking solace in her touch. He marvelled at her strength, to have found the calm to halt the dragon amidst such chaos. They had been so, so lucky. There was no sign of the others and he prayed they too had escaped the inferno.

  They lay in the darkness, silent but for their laboured gasps and half-choked coughs. Slowly Inken’s breathing settled into a gentle rhythm. She slept. Eric closed his eyes, willed himself to do the same. Instead, questions raced through his mind. Were they okay? Had they heard Inken’s shout?

  There was only one way to find the answers. In the morning, they would finish the journey to Malevolent Cove. He no longer cared about the Gold dragons, no longer held out hope for Enala. Alastair’s plan had been folly. All that mattered now was gathering the shattered remains of their company and fleeing this land. Enala was gone.

  Twenty Two

  Malevolent Cove was a dark place. Sheer cliffs ringed the bay, their fragile faces crumbling away into the sea below. Waves slammed into the rocks, white caps churning the murky waters. A maze of reefs lurked below, silent graveyard to many a ship. They stood on the black sanded beach, braced against the storm. Rocky spires spotted the dark sands, their jagged tips like the claws of some buried giant. The air stank of rotten fish and the tang of salt.

  They had been waiting for over an hour, searching the forest for sign of their companions. The trees stretched out over the sand, twisted, misshapen things, utterly unlike their towering sibling’s further inland. Their branches shook in the violent wind, fingers reaching for them.

  Eric shivered. The temperature had plummeted as they approached the rugged coast, the humid valley air long behind them. His burning skin stung in the salty air. He was desperately weary; just the thought of the return journey filled him dread. At least the tornado had driven them east towards Malevolent Cove. Everything else had gone wrong. Now they were stranded here without horses, food, or water.

  He glanced at Inken. The corners of her lips curled in worry and her hand lingered on her sword hilt. Fear stared from her eyes, searching the trees. A crash came from the forest. Inken drew her blade. Eric tensed, cursing his lack of wea
pon.

  Caelin emerged first, stumbling from the trees like a dead man. The others followed, one by one, a trail of burnt and bloodied bodies. Alastair appeared last, hobbling and leaning heavily on a branch fashioned into a staff. His grim face lit when he saw them.

  “Eric, Inken, thank the Gods! We thought the worst,” he limped up to them and embraced them each in a warm hug.

  Eric grinned, the worry that had burrowed deep into his heart falling away. He felt a wave of relief. “We thought the same for you.”

  “It was a close thing, but we made it,” Caelin’s face was etched with exhaustion.

  They sat together on the rough sand and looked out over the dark waters. Eric could scarcely believe they had all survived. He thought of the firestorm lighting up the night and the dragon stalking them from above. How had any of them survived? Antonia’s cheeky grin leapt to mind and he sent a silent call of thanks to the little Goddess.

  Yet even so, the six of them were a sorry sight. The others had not saved any supplies either, although Michael still carried his medical bag. Without food or horses, escape from Dragon Country would be nearly impossible. Eric struggled to keep the despair from his face.

  “What is that?” Inken asked.

  He looked up to see where Inken was pointing. He followed her finger out to sea, to beyond the waves crashing on the reef. Squinting, he spotted a dark shape moving through the surging waters, drawing closer.

  “It’s a skiff,” Inken said, glancing at him. “Who would be sailing in these waters?”

  Eric did not have an answer. They sat and watched the boat grow closer. It raced towards the cove, blackened hull slicing through the waves, wind filling its sails. A figure stood in the bow, wrapped in a thick black cloak.

  “What do you think, Alastair?” Caelin asked.

  “Nothing good. Prepare yourselves,” he answered.

  The skiff entered the churned waters of the cove, threading its way between the treacherous reefs. It was clear the man was an accomplished sailor. With the tide high, it would be almost impossible to spot where the water was safe to pass. Still it came on.

  They spread out, eyes locked to the dark craft. Inken strung her bow as Alastair and Caelin drew swords. Balistor stood stock still, hands clamped into fists. Eric could feel the man’s magic building, but there was terror written on the Magickers face. Eric shivered. He had never seen Balistor so unsettled.

  Closing his eyes, he searched for his own power. Only a drop remained of the ocean he had first glimpsed all those nights ago. He backed up behind the others; unarmed he could only be a liability.

  The skiff rode a wave up onto the beach. It crunched onto the sand, settling as the water receded. The dark figure stepped off, heavy cloak alive in the wind. Eric glimpsed two swords poking out from beneath its folds, a black gem glittering on each pommel. His face was hidden beneath a thick hood. He reached up with deathly white hands to pull it back.

  Eric sucked in a sharp breath of air. Stark white hair whipped around a smooth grey face. Jet black eyes stared at them, burning with hate. He had no eyebrows or beard, but Eric still recognised the man from his vision.

  “Thomas,” Alastair hissed. He seemed to shrink as the wind whipped the name away.

  A whispery laugh carried across the rocky sand, sending ice trickling down Eric’s back. The thing standing before them was Thomas, the king who had saved the Three Nations, who had defied Archon’s wrath. The same king whose descendants had wielded the Sword of Light down the decades. The king who had disappeared on this very shore, all those years ago. Yet it was clear nothing was left of the man he had once been.

  The fiend spoke, voice so low they strained to catch the words. “Ah, Alastair. How good it is to see you. You have aged poorly, old friend.”

  “Do not call me that!” Alastair cried.

  “Why not? You have called me Thomas, though no one has named me that for an age.”

  “What did the shadow do to you?”

  “Shadow?” Thomas laughed. “The one in the stories? Ha! There was never a shadow, Alastair. He was weak, dying. He let the magic win. He set the beast loose.”

  “No! That is not possible.”

  The creature cackled again, the sound grating on their ears in a thin mockery of the rich laugh Eric remembered from Antonia’s vision.

  “Oh it is possible, Alastair. Truly, did you never consider it? I guess not, or you may have searched harder. I knew you would come looking for me. I fled to the north, the magic concealing my tracks. Archon embraced me with open arms when I reached him. My only regret is I did not have the Sword to give him.”

  “I pity you then. There is nothing left of the man who was Thomas. Not even his magic remains.”

  “Ah yes. Sadly, time has stripped the earth magic from this frail body. No matter, for the dark magic is more than enough.”

  “What are you here for?” Balistor demanded.

  “Of course, how could I have forgotten? Archon grows tired of failure. His human servants have disappointed him at every turn. They have forced his hand. I have been sent to prepare for his arrival. When he finally marches south, I will ensure there is no one of measure to stand in his path. The Three Nations will fall like autumn leaves.”

  “You are here to kill us?” Alastair asked.

  “Among other things, yes,” the demon reached down and slid a sword from its scabbard. It rasped into the air, cold black steel that promised death. Runes shone along its length, the language unrecognisable. The weapon glowed with an aura that seemed to smite the light itself.

  The demon charged, sand spraying up behind him. His companions tensed, weapons held at the ready. Eric froze, watching it come with dread. He felt powerless, helpless to aid his companions. Michael stood beside him, his face etched with horror.

  The demon closed on them, silent; like death itself incarnate. Inken drew back an arrow and loosed. It sliced the air. Her aim was true, but seconds before it struck, the demon vanished. The shaft embedded itself in the bare sand.

  Eric had no time to search for their missing foe. Pain exploded through his back and burst from his chest. He gave a half-choked scream, looking down to see the dark tip of the demons blade stabbing form his torso. His body shook, a dark sensation lacing its way through his veins, an evil web that sucked away his strength. His knees gave way, but an iron grip on his shoulder held him up. He heard the demon cackling behind him.

  Inken screamed, but she sounded distant now, as though miles away. He looked up, searching for her, his vision growing blurred. Five figures stood on the beach, mouths wide as they called for him, but he could not tell them apart. He could not find her.

  A boot struck him in the back, pushing him from the sword. Eric slid to the ground, landing with a thud. He coughed, choking on the taste of blood. Agony burned in waves through his body. The dark threads throbbed with an otherworldly pain, filling his mind, scorching away his feeble resistance. He reached for the last drop of his magic, desperate to defend himself, but the power had vanished.

  Through the fog, he heard the demon speak. “Such power for one so young. I am glad to take it off his hands,” the crackle of lightning followed the words.

  Eric cracked open his eyes. The edges of his vision grew dark, but the demons sword stood stark and clear. Lightning crept along the blade.

  The demon stalked towards his companions. He closed his eyes, unable to watch. His breath came in painful gasps. Energy rippled through his body, tearing at his soul, and he had nothing left to fight it. Oblivion loomed. He wished for Inken.

  Then Michael was at his side.

  ******************

  Inken choked back a sob, her breath catching in her throat. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. A scream built in her chest, crawling up from some dark recess deep within. Her knees shook, the strength fleeing her legs. Instinct was shouting for her to run to Eric, to save him. But the demon stood between them, laughing.

  Hands trembling, vision blurred by
tears, she struggled to notch another arrow. She could not find the string and the arrow tumbled to the sand. Inken shrieked with rage, throwing the bow to the ground. Her chest ached, as though a hand of ice had taken hold of her heart. Summoning the last shred of her being, she drew her sabre.

  The demon stepped towards them. Alastair leapt, sword lashing out at his foe. The demon’s blade swept down to meet it. Steel clashed and lightning jumped between them. Electricity raced along Alastair’s blade and vanished into the sleek metal. Alastair sneered and lashed out again.

  Caelin raced in from the right. The demon turned aside a decapitating blow from Alastair and lashed out with its boot, catching Alastair in the chest and flinging him backwards. He crashed into a rocky spire and slid to the sand. The demon spun in time to avoid Caelin’s wild slash.

  The demon turned its sword on the young soldier. Lightning leapt from the blade, but Caelin was already moving and the bolt struck empty beach. The air erupted, the sand boiling where he had stood. Caelin rolled with a smooth grace, his sword striking for the demon’s face.

  The fiend pulled back, the blade biting empty air. Caelin pressed the attack, but the demon caught the blade with its own. Lightning dance between the weapons. There came a terrify boom and Caelin’s sword shattered like crystal. The blast sent Caelin bouncing across the beach like a ragdoll.

  Inken threw herself at the demon, grief boiling in her veins. Balistor charged with her, snarling with rage. The demon turned to meet them, leaving Alastair and Caelin to recover. Or so she prayed.

  Black steel flashed for her face. Inken hurled herself aside. The blade sliced through the air, its razor sharp edge shearing off a few fiery strands of hair. The fiend raised its blade again, but a ball of flame smashed into its chest. Embers exploded through the air, flying in the raging wind. The demon shrugged off the attack and turned to grin at Balistor.

  Inken struggled to regain her balance. Balistor launched another fireball, but the fiends cloak was already aflame and it did not seem to care. Balistor retreated as it advanced on him. Inken saw her chance as the demon turned its back. She sprinted forward and brought her sabre down on the demon’s neck.