Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

“Here!” a man shouted, threading his way through the crowd.

Eric looked up at the voice. “That’s
Michael
, the priest from the temple. What is he doing here?”

Michael overheard. “Elynbrigge sent me. What’s happened?”

“Explanations will have to wait,” Caelin snapped. “Michael, take Alastair for God’s sake, before I drop him.”

Michael bent and took Alastair over his shoulder. The old man was still unconscious and Eric doubted the doctor would get very far beneath the burden. He was not a heavily built man and his hair was already streaked with grey.

“I’ll take him,” Balistor appeared beside the doctor.

“Where have you been?” Caelin grunted. Michael handed Alastair’s limp body over to the Magicker.

“Looking for the girl. What the hell happened to you three? No one was here when I returned,” he turned as he spoke, leading them towards the stairwell.

Eric looked around through a haze of pain. People were staring. It was not safe. Their enemies were closing in and word of their entrance would spread quickly. They needed to get out of the city and after Enala, if she still lived. He tried to speak, but each footstep sent a fresh wave of agony from his side. He had to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Blood ran down his leg, his strength slowly trickling away. Tears in his eyes, he fought to stay conscious.

People moved aside as they pushed their way through the room. They stumbled it into the corridor and climbed the stairs. Eric focused on the thud of Caelin’s heavy boots, the sound anchoring him in reality. At the top Balistor led them to their room and unlocked the door with Alastair’s key. Caelin and Michael followed him inside.

Balistor laid Alastair on one of the beds, as Caelin did the same for Eric. He sunk back onto the soft cushion, the feeling unreal, as though he were floating on a cloud. His head spun as he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, willing it to stop.

“What happened?” Balistor asked grimly.

The bed sunk beneath Eric’s feet as Caelin sat on the end. The soldier put his face in his hands, exhausted. Michael lent over Alastair, prodding his face and chest with steel instruments.

“We were attacked,” Caelin offered. “Ambushed on our way back to the inn. I stopped them, just.”

Balistor nodded, his face clouded. His eyes slid from the dagger in Eric’s side to Alastair’s pale face. Michael rummaged in his shoulder bag, glass clinking from inside. His hand finally emerged holding a small vial filled with a bright green liquid.

He glanced at Caelin. “This is a restorative potion. It’s the strongest I have, but looking at his condition, it will not be strong enough. It might give him a few more hours, but ultimately, he is dying.”

“No!” Eric struggled to sit up.

Caelin placed a firm hand on his chest, holding him down. “Stay calm, you need to save your strength. I’ll take care of this,” he turned to the doctor. “Is there anything else you can do?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m only a doctor, and he’s too far gone for that. There may be something else, but I will tend to the young man first. He at least I can help.”

Eric could almost feel himself shrink as Michael moved to his side. His eyes were grim and though not unkind, they sent a chill down his spine. His heartbeat fluttered and a new fear gripped him.
Am I going to die?
He dared not voice the question.

Michael lent to examine the wound, his frown deepening. Eric struggled to calm himself, while the doctor reached down and gave the skin around the dagger a tender push.

Eric shrieked as wire ripped through his side. He swore, flinching away from the doctor’s touch. His hand snaked out, grabbing Michael by his tunic, fury swamping him. He bared his teeth, a silent threat in his lightning blue eyes.

Michael tisked, brushing off Eric’s hand. He dived into his bag again, coming up with a bottle of clear liquid. He removed the cap, releasing the harsh scent of alcohol. The hairs on Eric’s neck stood up.

“Hold him down. This is going to hurt,” Michael said.

Eric tensed as Caelin and Balistor took a hold of him, but did not fight. The alcohol would burn away any infection in the wound, but it would also burn like nothing else. A cold sweat dripped from his brow.

Michael took a cloth and soaked it in the alcohol. Leaning over him, he grasped the daggers handle. Slowly, he began to draw the blade from his side.

Eric screamed, back arching against the pain. The wound was fire, the agony of a red-hot poker jabbed into his skin. Waves of shock ran through his body. His mind whirled. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat as the world spun. Tears coursed down his face. He fought against his comrades, fought to free himself from their iron grip. Words tumbled from his mouth – senseless, nonsensical profanities that shattered on the walls of the room.

At last the darkness rose up to claim him, the pain falling away into oblivion.

******************

Eric woke to chaos. Distant screams came from the open door, where Michael stood staring into the corridor. Alastair lay in the bed opposite, unmoved; but Caelin and Balistor had vanished.

His hand went to his side, fingers finding the jagged edges of his wound. Nylon stitches held together the angry red flaps of skin. It was painful to the touch, but his head seemed clearer now.

Michael looked back and saw he was awake. He moved to his side. “I washed it out as best I could and then stitched you up. I gave you a small concoction to help with the pain. You were lucky; I don’t believe the blade hit any major organs. We’ll put a poultice on it later, if there’s time.”

“Thank you. What’s happening out there?”

“I am not sure. Your friends have gone to investigate.”

At that moment Caelin strode back into the room. “We have to go,” a scream from below emphasised his statement.

Caelin moved to the window and levered it open. The cold night air swept into the room. He leaned out to see what was below. “There are men downstairs – hunters, I think. They’re looking for us. Balistor is holding them at the stairs. You three are going out the window.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Michael ventured.

“What about you, Caelin?” Eric demanded.

“Balistor and I will provide a rear guard. Pick up Alastair, doctor.”

Michael hesitated. Caelin took a step towards him and the doctor raised his hands in surrender. He looped his bag over one shoulder, then reach down and picked up Alastair in both hands. Arms straining beneath the weight, he moved to the window. The frame was wide, allowing him to balance on the sill without difficulty.

“You don’t expect me to jump, do you?” Michael asked, head hanging out the window.

Caelin gave him a kick to the back. Michael and Alastair vanished through the opening.

Eric gasped, turning on Caelin. “What did you do that for?”

Caelin smiled. “Alastair chose your room well. There’s a big bale of hay beneath the window. They’ll be fine, and it’s your turn. Careful with the landing, you’re probably going to burst a few stitches,” he lifted Eric as he spoke.

“Wait!” Eric resisted.

Caelin didn’t bother to stop. He stepped across and dropped him out the window.

Panic flooded Eric’s foggy mind. His limbs flailed in every direction, scrambling for a hold that was not there. The stitches at his side pulled tight. Below, the haystack rushed up to meet him. He closed his eyes, hands out to break his fall. The air whistled through his hair. Eric surrendered to his terror. His magic leapt in response.

Eric stopped falling, so suddenly he gasped in pain. He opened his eyes and found himself hovering several feet above the haystack. Wind flowed around his body in massive gusts, holding him aloft. Straws of hay flew with it, dancing through the maelstrom of air.

Eric stared in shocked bemusement, the terror fleeing him. The winds went with it, dumping him into the damp hay.

Shouts came from overhead. Eric looked up in time to see Caelin tumbling through the air, angling his body away from him. The soldier yelled in defiance and disappeared into the haystack.

Balistor appeared in the window above. Fire leapt from his hands, burning up the window frame. Then the Magicker went stiff, his eyes widening in shock. His hands slid from the windowsill and he toppled awkwardly through the window. The fire in his hands died. An arrow protruded from his back. Flames engulfed the room behind him.

Then Michael was hauling Eric up. They stumbled from the haystack, Caelin a step behind them, Balistor leaning on his shoulder.
He’ll have carried all of us by the end of the night
, Eric thought to himself.

They stopped in the alleyway, their breath steaming in the icy air. The doctor had already dragged Alastair clear, but there was no way Caelin and Michael could carry them all to safety. Eric looked around, searching for the rear door to the stables. His heart soared as he spotted it nearby.

The unmistakable whisper of steel on leather came from the shadows. Men began to emerge into the moonlight, five, ten, a dozen. Weapons held at the ready, they spread out to encircle the five companions.

Eric swallowed. Backs to the wall, surrounded by enemies, there was no escape.

Caelin stepped forward, sword sliding from its scabbard.

“Come on then, who dies first?”

The wet tiles slipped beneath Inken’s feet. She swore and took a quick step back. Too late – a tile broke free and tumbled down, shattering on the street below. The crash echoed in the empty alleyway. She winced, imagining the angry glares of the hunters below. Shaking her head in silent apology, she sat back at a safer angle and eyed the inn’s dark windows.

The trap was a good one. The man with the gold had a dozen men set to storm the building when the conspirers returned. He’d also set men in the alleyway out back, in case anyone escaped that way. Inken had volunteered to scale the building out back, intuition telling her their prey would allude the frontal assault. There would be extra gold for each kill and she intended to collect it.

A shout pierced the night. Inken strung her bow and notched an arrow, eyes narrowed in search of movement. It would not be long now. She doubted their prey had the numbers to withstand the hunters attacking from the front. Their only option would be retreat.

Two people hurtled from a second story window. Inken gasped, expecting them to smash to the tiles below.
What the –?
Then the duo disappeared into the haystack below. She smiled at their ingenuity. Another fell, but this one did not reach the ground. His plunge halted a few feet from the ground, gusts of hay whirling around him.

“Magic,” Inken whispered to herself. She drew back her bowstring and took aim down the black shafted arrow.

Her target was completely exposed, without so much as a feather of shelter to protect him. Inken drew a deep breath, preparing to loose on the exhale. Then the figure spun in the air and Inken caught a glimpse of his pained face, the unkempt black hair and shocking blue eyes. Her jaw dropped, heartbeat fluttering.
Eric.

Inken hesitated. Her arm began to tremble with the force of her bowstring, but she could not release. Then the forces suspending Eric in the air disappeared and he vanished into the haystack. She eased her bowstring back, struggling for breath. What could she do?

Footsteps clattered in the alleyway. The bounty hunters closed in, swords drawn. They would be on them in seconds. Two more tumbled from the window, taking Eric’s group to a party of five.

They piled out of the haystack. Inken squinted, noticing a green robed man carry Eric free. Worry touched her heart.
Has he been injured?
She frowned at the thought, burying her compassion at the back of her mind. It was her job to put an end to these men, before someone else claimed the reward.

She notched her arrow again. The hunters below had arrived now, spreading out to surround their quarry. The group had been backed against the alley wall. She imagined their despair. There would be no escaping this trap.

A shiver ran through her body. She took sight, drawing in a breath to steady her aim. Her heart was racing.

Can I do it?
Inken asked herself.

The hunter exhaled, and loosed her arrow.

******************

The largest of the men raised his sword and grinned. Michael stepped back, arms shaking. Eric struggled to summon his magic, but felt it slip from his grasp. Caelin braced himself, sheltering his defenceless comrades. The hulking hunter stepped towards them.

A black fletched arrow sprouted from the man’s head, halting him midstride. His sword slipped from limp fingers, clattering on the bricked road. He slumped to his knees, then crumpled to the ground.

The others whipped around, scanning the skyline for the hidden archer. A couple turned and fled, but one leapt at them with a snarl. A second arrow took him the shoulder, spinning him to the ground. Pandemonium broke out among the hunters as the black shafted missiles rained down among them.

Caelin did not hesitate to press the advantage. He charged into their foes, screaming with fury, his sword cutting a jagged hole through their ranks. Before the ferocity of his attack the last vestiges of the hunters’ courage dissolved. They turned and fled down the narrow alley.

Caelin dared not chase after them. He turned back to his companions, sword still at the ready. His eyes squinted against the dark skyline, searching the rooftops for their hidden ally. They waited, frozen beneath the burning window. Time ticked away, each second giving the hunters more time to regroup.

Horse hooves clattered on tiles. Caelin spun, sword raised.

“Put that away,” Inken ordered as she rode from the shadows. “And get your horses. We’re going to need them.”

Eric inhaled sharply as he recognised her. She rode up on a silver horse, aglow by the light of the fire. The curls of her scarlet hair tumbled down across her sun kissed face. The marks of the desert had vanished, revealing the smooth curves of her cheekbones and soft red lips. She wore a tight fitting leather jerkin and pants that hugged the curves of her body. She sat tall in her saddle, injuries forgotten and sabre at the ready.

Inken smiled in his direction. “It’s good to see you again, Eric. I couldn’t help but notice you were in a bit of trouble.”

Michael’s grip on Eric slipped, forcing him to take his own weight. He groaned, his head swimming with pain.

Inken dismounted and moved to his side, concern etched on her face. He attempted a grin. “You’re a welcome sight. Although sadly we seem to have switched roles now.”

Inken gave a quick nod and a wink in reply, then turned to Caelin. “The horses, quickly. They won’t take long to regroup. And I don’t know what’s happened to the others in the inn.”

“Fire,” Balistor groaned.

Eric glanced up and saw Balistor was right. Half the inn was ablaze. A crash came from deep inside the building and a blast of hot air swept from the lower windows. He felt a pang of sadness. The little inn was the closest thing to a home he’d had for a long time.

Caelin ran into the stables, Inken close at his heels. Eric leaned on Michael, watching the alleyway for their enemies, tensed in expectation. For once, luck went their way and no one appeared.

A few minutes later, the two appeared again leading the horses. Michael had a light brown mare of his own, although she was blind in one eye. He boosted Eric into his saddle, and then helped to strap Alastair and Balistor to theirs. Both were unconscious now. Inken mounted up and took the lead.

Eric urged Briar alongside her, fighting to ignore the pain of his wound. It felt good to have the horse beneath him again. The others trotted behind, the echoes of horseshoes on stone loud in the tight space.

They emerged from the network of alleyways several blocks from the inn. Inken said nothing and Eric did not press her. Her rescue still shocked him. She was a bounty hunter, after all. Those had been her comrades back there. He could not imagine what had driven her to make such a decision.

Caelin rode up beside them. “We need to take the north or south gate. The east is blocked,” he ventured.

“We’d better move quickly then. There’s a man spending gold like its nothing to stop you. Half the city could be looking for you by now. They won’t be far behind.”

“I’ll take the rear then,” Caelin turned his horse dropped back.

“What happened to you?” Inken asked, urging her horse round a sharp turn.

Eric shook his head to clear his thoughts. Whatever Michael had given him had left his mind lethargic and his thoughts were distracted by the sight of Inken. “It’s a long story,” he hesitated. “But I was stabbed. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re clear of the city.”

“You have magic,” Inken pressed. “I saw it. Does that mean...?” she couldn’t finish.

Eric closed his eyes, knowing the question and unwilling to answer. If he did, would she turn on him? But he knew he could not hold back the truth. Not now.

“Yes, it was me. It was there Alastair found me, and saved me. He’s a Magicker as well. I’m his student. He is teaching me to control my magic. So… so no one else dies,” he finished with a whisper.

He risked a glance at Inken. There were tears in her eyes, sparkling in the moonlight. Her expression was unreadable. Eric looked up. The clouds had disappeared, leaving a thousand stars to light the night’s sky.

“Did you bring the rain?” Inken asked softly.

Eric nodded, though he shuddered at what that deed had almost caused.

“Thank you,” Inken’s voice was barely a whisper.

Michael drew alongside them, rummaging in his bag. “The medicine for your pain will fade soon. Take this before it becomes too much.”

Eric accepted the small vial and removed the cap. A sour scent came from the purple liquid, but he threw back his head and downed it in one gulp. His eyes watered as the potion burned its way down throat. Making a face, he handed the vial back to Michael.

Inken was smiling at him again. Eric fought to suppress a smile of his own, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. His clothes were slowly drying out from the rain.

It was not long before the northern gates appeared. Inken turned to him. “Are you up for a race?"

Eric winced, but he could see what she meant. A guard was waiting by the gates, arms crossed as he watched them. Their passage this late at night with so many injured was bound to draw attention. Even the laziest guard would insist they wait for the sergeant question them. They could not afford to be delayed so long.

He nodded, though a gallop was sure to burst his stitches. Inken whispered a hurried instruction to the others and then rode towards the guard. The followed close behind her, legs tensed in their stirrups. The guard stepped out to block the way as they approached.

A few feet from the gate, Inken shouted and kicked her horse hard in the sides. The gelding leapt in response, bowling the guard from his feet. Eric dashed after her, Briar pounding beneath him, his side shrieking with each stride. They raced beneath the wall, filling the tunnel with the clattering of hooves. They rode through the darkness, drawn on by the light at the end.

Then they were free, racing onto the plains outside the city. The road stretched out in front of them, straight and smooth beneath their horses’ pounding feet. This was the main road to Chole, where most of the traffic into and out of the city passed. Further north the desert gave way to fields of grass and eventually the farmlands of Lonia.

The companions did not slow until they were well away from the city. Finally, Inken drew rein, looked around to check they were all still with her and then pushed on at an easier pace.

Eric took a deep, shuddering breath. His shirt was sticky with blood. He lifted his shirt to check his wound. Most of the stitches had burst, the flaps of skin pulled apart by the wild ride. It made him dizzy just to look at it, but the potion had taken hold and he felt almost no pain.

Michael rode alongside him, drawing Alastair’s horse with him. Eric’s eyes slid to his mentors face. The slight flutter of his eyelids was the only hint of life.

“He doesn’t have long, Eric,” Michael spoke gently.

Eric shook his head. “He can’t die, we need him,” he hesitated. “What was the something else you mentioned before?”

Michael slapped his arm, chasing an insect of the night. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about magic, Eric. However, I have heard tales of Magickers transferring energies between themselves. Alastair has expended too much of his own life force to recover naturally, but a jolt of energy may just bring him back from the brink,” he glanced at the unconscious Balistor. “But it seems we are running short of those with power.”

Eric took a deep breath. “I’m a Magicker.”

The doctor gave him a long look before he replied. “No. You’re injured as well. We would risk losing the both of you.”

“I can’t just watch him die, Michael. I have to try it.”

Michael sighed. “I can’t stop you, Eric. But we don’t even know how such a feat is accomplished.”

“I know.”

Eric closed his eyes and shut out the world. He sunk into the trance, physical sensation falling away easily with the aid of Michael’s medicine. The magic rose in response, setting alight the darkness of his inner mind with its soft glow. It seemed weaker now, already spent and drained away with his life’s blood. He hoped there was enough.

He reached out, summoning the fickle energies to the surface. Opening his eyes, he looked at Alastair’s still form. He hesitated, the hairs on his arms prickling with power. What did he do now? How could he give this strength to Alastair?

Eric swallowed. He would not be here if not for Alastair. The old man had risked everything to throw him a lifeline. Now he was dying because of a mistake Eric had made. Whatever the danger, he had to find a way.

Taking hold of his magic, Eric let his soul take flight. The aches of his body fled behind him as the heavens drew him skyward. Opening his spirit eyes, he looked around. His conscious shivered. His comrades rode on, oblivious to his ghostly presence. Each glowed with an inner light, their auras lighting the night around them.

Their life force
, Eric wondered,
or magic?
He thought as he looked at the bright beacon within Balistor.

He stole a glance at Inken. Her fiery red aura matched the ember glow of her hair, though there was no menace to the light.