by Aaron Hodges
The glow of approaching torches flickered in the lengthening shadows. The day was dying, and Eric could only pray the darkness would come soon. He drove himself on, the freezing wind buffeting him, his footsteps splattering in the flooded streets. Water filled his boots and his leggings squelched with every stride.
A shout came from behind him, followed by the clang of a crossbow. Eric ducked as a steel bolt struck the wall a few feet to his right. Glancing back, he saw a crowd racing down the street and ducked into an alley before the bowman could fire again.
Why?
The thought chased itself around his head. He scrambled through the alley, scarcely able to see in the shadows. A jagged piece of steel tore his arm, but he ran on.
He burst from the alleyway back into the open streets. The sun had finally set, leaving only the dying flames to light his way. They cast the world into a realm of shadows.
Curses came from behind him, and Eric glanced back in time to see the first of his hunters emerge into the street. They held flaming torches high above their heads, casting back the shadows, exposing their gaunt faces to the light.
Weaving through the rubble-strewn street, Eric listened for the tell-tale whistle of arrows. Water flicked up in his wake, shining in the fire’s light. An arrow shrieked past his shoulder, raising goosebumps as it went.
He glanced back without breaking stride, and saw a man with a crossbow hurriedly winding his weapon. The clack of its springs echoed down the street, before the smoke closed in, hiding them from view.
Turning, he ran on through a world twisted by his destruction.
The darkness was finally complete, the last flames snuffed out by the blanket of night. The rain had ceased and the clouds parted to reveal the star-studded sky. The moon had yet to show its face, yet to cast its pale glow on the devastation below.
Eric huddled among the ruins of an old building, listening carefully for footsteps in the street outside. A chill breeze drifted through the hole in the wall, sending a violent shiver through his rain-drenched body. His teeth chattered, but he clenched them tight, terrified they might give him away.
Finally he allowed himself to breathe, satisfied for the moment he was safe. He sat back on his haunches, and his hand brushed against something soft and yielding. Glancing down, he saw the glassy eyes of a dead man staring back at him. Terrible burns blackened the man’s face and clothing, and where the flames had not reached, his skin was a pallid grey.
Stomach wrenching, Eric threw himself back from the body. His gut heaved, and bending in two, he emptied the pitiful contents of his stomach onto the cracked floor.
When there was nothing left to throw up, Eric sat back on his haunches and held his face in his hands. His throat burned and anxiety gnawed at his chest. Silently he returned to his spy hole and peered outside to check if anyone had noticed the commotion.
Through the cracks in the walls, he watched the full moon rise slowly into the sky. Its cool light offered no warmth, yet the sight still gave him comfort.
Eric froze as the soft crunch of a footstep on gravel carried to him from the street outside. Another followed, barely audible over the thudding of his heart.
Swallowing hard, he tried to dislodge the lump in his throat. He peered out into the street and saw the silhouette of a man moving through the shadows.
A brown cloak billowed out in the wind, revealing the gold embossed hilt of a short sword strapped to the man’s waist. Moving faster, he emerged from the shadows, seeming to make straight for Eric’s hiding place. Silver lines of thread embroidered his clothing, weaving intangible patterns down his arms and legs. A grey hood obscured his face, but Eric could feel his eyes as they searched the wreckage.
Crouched in his hiding place, Eric hardly dared to breathe. Muscles tensed, he told himself he was safe, hidden by the shadows. But still the man came closer.
“Come out,” the man whispered, his voice old and rasping. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Pulling back his hood, the man revealed his long grey hair and a clean-shaven chin. His lips curled into a frown as his piercing green eyes searched the shadows where Eric hid.
Staring into those eyes, Eric found himself trapped in the heat of the man’s glare. Time seemed to slow, and for a moment Eric felt as though his mind must be an open book, as though those eyes could see straight to his very soul. Shame welled within him, the crushing weight of his guilt threatening to overwhelm him.
Then the old man blinked, and Eric shuddered as the spell broke. He sank to his knees, staring at the muddy ground as the crunch of footsteps drew to a stop beside him. Exhaustion curled its way through his limbs, and he closed his eyes in listless surrender.
But nothing happened. A long silence stretched out, before he finally looked back up. “What are you waiting for?” he spoke through gritted teeth. “Just do it.”
The emerald eyes stared down at him, but the old man made no move to draw his sword. Anger flickered in Eric’s chest as he straightened, giving him strength.
“What do you want?” he growled.
The old man blinked again. “To help you.”
Eric stared up at the old man, struggling to find the words to respond.
“To help me?” he said at last. He threw out his arms, gesturing at the wreckage. “Why would you want to help me? Can’t you see what I’ve done, what I create? Only a demon would want to help someone like me.”
The man’s eyes hardened. “I am no demon, boy. I am just a man. But I am the only chance you have of controlling that power inside you.”
Slowly, Eric pulled himself to his feet, until he stood in front of the man. “Who are you?” he whispered.
“My name is Alastair. And I suggest you come with me, now, before the others find us.”
Alastair.
The name had a familiar ring – where had he heard it before? Regardless, he was not prepared to trust again so easily – not after what had happened in the marketplace.
He stood his ground as the man started to turn away. “Why should I trust you, Alastair?”
Alastair glanced back, a frown tugging at his lips. Then he shrugged. “You probably shouldn’t,” reaching down, he drew his sword from its sheath and flicked it into the air. Catching it by the blade, he offered it hilt-first to Eric. “You hold onto this for now, if it makes you feel safer. You can give it back once I’ve earned your trust.”
Eric stared at the blade for a second, before reaching out to accept the old man’s offer. Alastair nodded as the sword left his hand, and then stepped from the crumbled building back out into the street. Eric quickly followed, doing his best to avoid the debris strewn across the cobbles.
Ahead, Alastair slipped off the road and into an alleyway. Eric followed close on his heels, the sword clutched close to his body. He had never used one before, and the weapon felt awkward in his hands.
The old man moved on, drawing Eric deeper into the gloom. Silently he cursed his naivety, allowing himself to be led into another alley, and he gripped the blade tighter.
But Alastair did not look back, and glancing around, Eric realised with a shiver the buildings to either side of them had collapsed. The heavy stone walls had remained intact, but now they leaned out into the alley, forming an unstable roof above their heads. Moonlight flooded through cracks in the stone, lighting the way ahead.
Eric swallowed at the thought of all that stone and wood perched preciously above him. But the time for doubt had long since passed. Silently he followed the silver streaks of Alastair’s cloak through the gloom, taking reassurance from the man’s seeming indifference to the danger looming above them.
As they neared the end of the alleyway, Alastair came to a sudden stop ahead of him. Eric froze, holding his breath as he listened for signs of movement.
A shuffling sound came from the shadows as a dark figure stepped into a column of moonlight. Brown eyes flickered with recognition as they fell on Eric.
“You,” a voice hissed.
The Sword of Light Trilogy
