Balistor laughed, ignoring her threat. “Still, things have worked out quite well. You have helped to shame a rival of mine and led me straight to the girl.”
“And do you think this girl is going to die so easily?” Enala growled at him. Nerissa’s jaws stretched wide, showing row upon row of teeth to emphasise her words.
Balistor only grinned. With his free hand he reached into his cloak. Caelin stepped towards him, but Balistor’s hand hissed back out, flames licking from his fingertips and rushing for him. Caelin threw himself back. The sand exploded at his feet, sending sand sizzling through the air.
“Stay back, Caelin. Your turn will come,” his hand disappeared into the cloak again, drawing out a glass sphere.
Caelin stared at the alien object. Dark mist rolled within, clawing at the glass with smoky fingers. A sickly green glow seeped from within and a dreadful humming rung in his ears.
“I’ve been waiting to use this for a long time. Here, Enala, a gift from Archon,” he tossed the ball in her direction.
The globe tumbled through the air. Nerissa reared back, the globe shattering against her head. A muffled explosion rung out. Black cloud rushed from the glass, engulfing the dragon’s head. Nerissa roared in fury, rising up on her hind legs. She clawed at the dark fog, head shaking as she tried to dislodge the cloying magic.
Enala lost her grip amidst the dragon’s struggle. She screamed as she tumbled from Nerissa’s back, hitting the sand with a bone-rattling thud. Winded and gasping for air, she struggled to find her feet.
Above, the darkness rived about the dragon’s head. Nerissa’s claws slashed and tore at it, but the cloud was like a living thing, reforming with each attempt. It clung to the dragons face, robbing her of sight, of smell, of air.
Her movements grew more violent and distressed. The great head shook, jaws opening to bellow her defiance. The greasy poison poured down her throat, cutting off the sound. She stumbled across the sand, wings clawing, struggles growing ever weaker.
Caelin could only watch in helpless terror. Enala sat frozen beneath the beast, staring in despair at her dying dragon.
A sudden stillness took the dragon, the last of her strength fading away. She began to sway. Then she was falling, falling straight towards Enala.
Caelin was already moving, sand slipping beneath his feet, a desperate sprint to reach the girl in time. Enala did not move, did not seem bothered by her impending death. She looked up at the dragon, on her knees, and watched the massive body descend.
He leapt beneath Nerissa’s shadow, bounded to Enala, and tackled her from the path of the dragon’s fall. The ground shook as the beast struck, sending up a wave of coarse black sand. Caelin shielded the girl against the dragon’s dying throws, the razor sharp claws coming within inches of them.
As the dragon stilled Caelin picked himself up, leaving Enala where she lay. Nerissa had fallen a couple of feet from where they had landed. The great beast lay like a statue, still as stone. The evil smoke had vanished. The glassy globes of the dragon’s eyes stared up at him, blank and devoid of life.
Enala opened her eyes and saw Nerissa lying there. He watched a wave sweep through her tiny body, a great shuddering jolt, as though something within had shattered into a thousand pieces. Enala rolled into a ball and began to sob, the quiet whispers mere hints of her sorrow.
Caelin had no time to worry about her. He picked up Alastair’s sword and stood over the helpless girl, waiting for Balistor to come.
The traitor walked up onto Nerissa’s stomach, grinning as he gave them a mocking clap. Caelin gripped the sword tighter, swallowing his rage. The Magicker looked down at them, his smile dismissing Caelin as a spider would a fly. Yet Caelin would not back down. He would fight to his dying breath to protect the girl.
“Well done, Caelin. For a second I thought I had dealt with a few birds with a single stone. As ever, you do not fail to impress. Sadly though, it is time for this mockery to end,” flames raced along his arms.
Caelin braced himself and brought up Alastair’s sword. Fire filled the air, racing towards him too fast to avoid. He flinched back, the sword raised before him. The flames struck Alastair’s weapon, and vanished.
Caelin blinked to clear his eyes, staring at the sword. He ran a finger along the steel and found it cool to the touch.
Balistor’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Ah, Alastair’s sword. It will be a nice souvenir.”
“Come and get it,” Caelin grinned. He slipped into a fighting stance. A swordsman he could deal with.
Balistor drew his own blade and touched a hand to it. Fire leapt down its length and spread along his arm, then to his chest until it covered his body in a blazing suit of armour. Heat radiated off him in waves, forcing Caelin back. He squinted against the flaming light and braced himself.
“Do you think those flames will stop my blade?” he mocked.
Balistor made no reply. Caelin would not have heard him over the snarling flames anyway. His foes sword flicked out, leaving a burning glow trailing across his vision.
Alastair’s sword caught its edge and turned it aside. Metal clashed as Balistor swung again. Embers sprayed across Caelin’s face, forcing him to raise an arm to protect his eyes from the smouldering rain. He slid backwards, sword slashing out to cover his retreat.
Balistor pressed the advantage, heat radiating out before him in a stifling cloud. Smoke cloyed the air, making it a struggle just to breathe. Sweat trickled down Caelin’s face and into his eyes. His sea soaked clothes were already beginning to dry from the fires touch. Even so, he blocked each blow with cool efficiency. His mind focused, driven by thoughts of what failure would mean for all of them.
Yet Balistor was gaining ground. The heat sapped Caelin’s strength, his attacks already becoming more and more feeble. Alastair’s sword protected him from direct attacks, but it could not be everywhere. Each time the blades met flames erupted between them, the cinders leaving scorch marks on his skin. Embers had set his shirt aglow in several places and his body screamed with exhaustion. Between the attack last night and the demon, he had nothing left to give.
Inken appeared from nowhere, arrow notched to her bow. Before either could react, she loosed. The arrow came within a foot of Balistor before a tongue of flame lashed out to catch it. The shaft fell to the ground as ash.
Balistor lashed out with his blade, forcing Caelin back, then spun and hurled a wave of flame at Inken. It struck her in the chest, throwing her to the ground. She spun through the sand, fighting to beat out the fire catching on her shirt. When the flames finally died, she collapsed to the beach, overtaken by the pain.
Caelin turned in time to block a decapitating blow. Heat swamped him, driving him back. It was like fighting in a furnace. The flames sucked all moisture from the air, leaving his skin burned and lips cracking with each gasp of breath. The burning sword tore through the air. Caelin leaned back, the blade tearing through the space he’d just occupied. He spun on his heel as it passed, his own weapon seeking flesh.
Balistor wrenched back, but not fast enough. Alastair’s blade streaked through the flaming armour, catching flesh. The stench of burning blood quickly followed. The wound only drove Balistor harder. His blade ripped at him, faster now, leaving Caelin defending desperately for his life. Pain rippled down his arm as each blow struck.
Then Balistor’s blade caught on his own, sweeping beneath his guard. The burning sword tore across his chest, burning as it went. Caelin screamed as pain seared through his body, forcing him to his knees. Balistor raised his weapon to finish him. Caelin rolled backwards, coming to his feet outside his opponents reach.
Balistor laughed. “And now the mighty Caelin flees. Did I not tell you how useless a sword is amongst Magickers?”
Caelin staggered, heat burning deeper into his chest. He gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his feet. I cannot fail, he yelled within the confines of his mind. But nor could he stand. His legs crumpled and he fell to his knees.
> Balistor laughed down at him. “Ah, the great swordsman humbled. I am glad to see the day,” he placed his sword against Caelin’s neck.
Flame licked at his flesh. He flinched back, hands reaching down to scoop up a fistful of sand. Balistor raised his sword and Caelin hurled the sand at his foes face. It disappeared through the mask of fire.
Balistor reared back with a scream of agony. His sword fell to the beach and his hands reached for his face. Another nightmarish shriek echoed off the cliffs and he toppled to the ground. His fingers clawed at his face as though his eyes were afire.
Caelin did not stop to question the turn of luck. He stepped close and put an end to the traitor’s cries. The flames died as he wrenched back his sword. He gasped at the sight of what lay beneath, reeling back in shock. The sand he’d thrown had liquefied in the flames, covering Balistor’s face with molten glass. It had congealed in his mouth and eyes, the skin beneath blistering, his eyes blood red. Caelin’s stomach lurched at the smell of burning flesh and hair. He turned away in horror.
He looked around at the bloody battleground the beach had become. The dragon’s body loomed large in his eyes, Enala still catatonic beside it. Beyond Alastair lay alone on the red sand. Further up the beach, Inken had managed to crawl back to Eric’s side. The breeze blew across the black sands, carrying with it the stench of ash, the reek of their ruin.
His eyes drifted back to Enala. She was the one they had sought, the one who would save them all. Yet in saving her, they had paid a toll beyond what anyone had expected. Who was Enala, but a young, inexperienced girl? How was she to stand against the powers of Archon?
Was she really worth this?
Twenty Four
Waves crashed down on the black shores. Night slipped ever closer. The light of the evening star hung on the horizon, its light beckoning them into the dark. Eric would not live to see the sunrise.
Michael watched the young couple, his heart breaking. Not for the first time he wished the Goddess had gifted him with the magic to heal. All his adult life he had studied the art of healing, but his skills were next to useless when compared to those with magic. He could do nothing for Eric.
It amazed him the boy still lived. Through sheer courage he fought on, eyes locked with Inken’s. The girl would not leave his side. Young love, if anything, was fierce. Even so, it would not be long now. He closed his eyes, fighting back tears. I told them, he raged to himself. I told them it was folly, but I never imagined…
Michael looked back at them. Eric had to fight for every breath now. Liquid rattled in his chest, blood drowning his lungs. He had patched up the wound, but the bleeding continued within. He did not have the skill to repair such damage.
“Michael, help!” Inken cried, desperate.
The girl’s voice tore him from his despair. He moved to their side and together they shifted Eric onto his side. His breathing eased, but a moment later he began to cough again. Michael saw the terror in Eric’s eyes.
He glanced across at Inken. Her eyes were red from crying, but there were no more tears. Her face showed the burns and bruises of battle. Her eyes pleaded with him for help.
There was no hope he could give her. “I’m sorry, Inken. I don’t think it will be long now.”
“No,” she whispered.
Michael moved away, unable to bare her grief. He saw the accusation in her eyes. Why? He looked over at Enala, the girl who had drawn them across all these miles. She sat stone faced, hands around her knees, rocking back and forth. She had not spoken for hours, only stared at the dead dragon. No one could break her from the trance and Michael was not game to try again.
He moved into the trees and sat down. A cloud of insects rose to greet him. He ignored their tiny bites, struggling to immerse himself in the sound and smell of the earth and forest, to reconnect with his element. It seemed an eon since he had left the temple. He missed the simplicity of his life there, the rareness of death.
Today’s slaughter made no sense to him. “Why, Antonia? Why did this happen?” he asked the forest.
“Because I failed,” a tiny voice spoke from behind him, heavy with sorrow.
He turned his head. A young girl walked forwards, bathed in a faint green light. Her feet crunched on the hard leaves, her violet eyes staring at him from beneath a fringe of silky brown hair. Faint freckles spotted her cheeks and her lips were twisted in sadness. She looked nothing like the paintings in the temple, but there could be no mistaking her. This could only be Antonia, Goddess of Plorsea.
Michael fell to his knees, head bowed and arms out before him. His heart raced. Elynbrigge told the truth! He could not believe it.
To his surprise Antonia began to sob. “Get up, you fool. Please, no more.”
He looked up. There were tears on the Goddess’ cheeks. He noticed now the rips and scorch marks on her blue dress. Exhaustion hung beneath her eyes. She staggered towards him and started to fall.
Michael leaned forward and caught her before she hit the ground. She seemed to float in his hands, the fabric of her dress slipping through his fingers like mist.
Antonia sighed, looking up at him. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes closed. He thought she slept, until she spoke again. “I’m too late. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Damn you, Archon.”
She ran her hands through her hair, fingers twisting the long strands in frustration. Her voice was weary. “He attacked, testing what remains of the banishment we cast. He was only probing, toying with us – but his strength! We could hardly hold him back. And while we fought him, his demon snuck through our net. He knew, he planned it all,” her voice cracked, but whether from rage or grief he could not tell.
Michael sat speechless. He held her as though she were the greatest of treasures. It felt like blasphemy even to touch her. He shivered, taking in every aspect of her features.
Then he remembered Eric, lying in such pain, so close to death. Yet Antonia was exhausted, at the end of her strength. Dare he ask?
He summoned his courage. “Antonia, there is a boy, Eric, He is dying. Can you save him?”
Antonia drew herself up, pulling from Michael’s arms. “Yes, of course. It’s not over yet. Take me to Eric, Michael. He I can save.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Truly?”
Antonia stalked past, dismissing the question. Her movements were steady now. She had shrugged off her fatigue, new purpose feeding her. Michael stumbled after, too stunned to watch where he put his feet.
Eric and Inken lay close to the tree line. Inken still knelt beside him, but Eric’s eyes had closed. Michael’s chest clenched in terror. Antonia walked up to them. Inken spun when she heard her footsteps. She reached for her hunting knife when she saw the strange girl.
“Don’t worry, Inken. Everything will be okay,” Antonia’s hand reached out, her hand brushing across Inken’s forehead. She slumped to the sand, fast asleep.
Antonia looked at Michael. “This may take some time. There is more than just Eric’s physical injuries to heal. Help Caelin build up the fire and find some food. He will be hungry.”
She turned her back and leaned over Eric. Reaching down, she placed both hands on his chest. Her eyes closed and light seemed to leap from nowhere to bathe them both. The air hummed with power.
Michael drew a deep, shuddering breath and turned away. He moved to help Caelin.
******************
Eric was lost. Whichever way he turned darkness rose to meet him. Shadowy creatures danced just out of eyesight. His heart raced with fear. He whirled and ran; unsure where he fled but knowing he must escape. From behind came the clack of claws on stone.
A tide of anger washed around him. He felt the shadows hunting him, tasted their bloodthirst. Hatred seeped through his core, though he knew it was not his own. It fed his terror, driving him through the dark.
His legs felt like lead. Pain blossomed in every muscle; but he could not stop. A strange certainty gripped him – if he stopped the hounds would ca
tch him, and his life would end. He pushed his aching body onwards.
His surroundings raced by, unchanging. He saw no trees or boulders or landmarks, no sun to distinguish his direction – just the ever-shifting darkness. And the barking of the hounds, growing ever louder. He fought to find someplace to go. Somewhere in this nightmare there must be salvation. An image of Inken rose within his mind; he clung to it and ran on.
Ahead a shape loomed from in the darkness. Despair trickled through him. A cliff rose above him, stretching out to eternity in either direction. Its sheer face stared down, defying him. He reached it within moments. His hands clasped at the cold stone, shaking with fear. There was no going on. His body could not go any farther anyway. In despair, he turned and looked out into the empty darkness.
Except it was not empty. Sounds of movement came, deep growls emanating from just out of sight. Glowing red eyes appeared from the gloom. The shaggy bodies of the wolves followed, one by one from the shadows. The demon’s slaves.
Eric watched them come, preparing himself for the end. There was no fight left in him, nothing left for him to give. The last glimmer of hope fluttered away. They had him, and his friends were a long way from here. He leaned back against the cool stone and closed his eyes.
The wolves howled. Eric shivered and scrunched his eyes tighter. He waited. Claws scraped. They barked as they leapt.
A flash of light burst through Eric’s eyelids. He squinted against the glare and saw a shining figure stalk through the darkness. Tall and shimmering with power, robes of pure white spilling out around him. By the light the man cast, Eric saw one wolf already lay dead. The others shrunk back, growling.
Eric’s stomach clenched as the figure turned towards him. Alastair smiled, his face filled with warmth, the lines of age vanished. Their eyes locked. Alastair looked back to the wolves and raised a hand. Light shone out. The wolves leapt back, but too slowly. As the light touched them, they collapsed without sound.
With the beasts vanquished, Alastair moved to Eric’s side. He raised a pale hand and placed it on his head. Warmth spread through his body. “You are safe now, Eric. Antonia has healed your wounds – life awaits you.”
Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) Page 26
