Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

“Yes. Now, is this my tale, or yours?” Antonia’s eyes glittered dangerously.

Eric blushed and shut his mouth.

“Unfortunately, the sword was useless. Worse than useless in fact – it was deadly to any mortal who touched it – or so it seemed. Even Jurrien and I were repelled when we tried to wield it. For a time, we allowed Magickers from across the Three Nations to test the Sword. It burned them all to ash. Eventually we had to stop; the price had grown too high.”

“So for the next hundred years, Trola was Godless. Worse, without Darius’ power over the Light to aid us, Jurrien and I were stretched thin. The land weakened and the dark things crept from the holes we had banished them too. The hearts of the people grew hard. Even in Plorsea and Lonia they suffered, for our power is infinitely weaker without the Three.”

“Then there came a day when the dark things vanished. No one could explain it, but somehow there was peace again. The people began to speak of Darius’ return, that the God of Light was in hiding and would soon reveal himself. Jurrien and I knew better; we would have sensed if our brother was near.”

“At the end of that year, the dark things returned. Ghouls and Raptors and countless unnamed beasts flooded from the Northern Badlands, marching beneath the banner of Archon.”

“That was the beginning of Archon’s war, wasn’t it?” Eric had never heard this part of the tale before – the legends spoke only of the war itself, not how it had begun.

He looked up when she did not continue. Fire burned in Antonia’s eyes, but he found himself grinning. It seemed even the patience of the Gods was limited. Perhaps they were more human than he realised.

Eric managed to look contrite. “Sorry, won’t happen again.”

Antonia rolled her eyes and he ruined his act with a soft chuckle.

The Goddess smirked; a sly twist to her lips that spoke of drastic consequences if he disturbed her again. Eric’s laughter died in his throat.

“Okay, where was I? Archon. He was a Trolan man once, one who fought against the appearance of the Gods. He wielded a powerful magic, but it was not enough for him. He gave himself to its dark side. With the power it gave him, he killed the Master of the priests who had summoned us. For that they banished him to the wastelands in the North.”

“It wasn’t until he reappeared leading his army that we realised our mistake. His mastery of the dark magic had given him immortal life, and he had spent the centuries building his powers. I have never seen a more potent human, nor one with so little humanity remaining to them. The darkness he wielded could not be matched.”

“Even by you?” this had always confused him. How could Archon have wreaked so much havoc when two Gods still opposed him?

Antonia sighed. “With Jurrien at my side, we stood against Archon’s madness. We attacked him with every ounce of the Earth and Sky we could muster. The darkness consumed it all and threw it back in our faces.”

“The dark magic tore into us, ripped at our skin and stole into our very souls. For a second I thought it would consume us. I felt myself teeter on the brink of madness; and then a blast of lightning shattered its grip. My senses returned and I threw up a wall of vegetation between Archon and ourselves. Before he could burn his way through, we fled. We barely escaped with our lives.”

Antonia’s tiny body shook and a glitter of tears were gathering in her eyes. Eric hesitated, and then reached out a hand. Antonia took it with a small smile. It seemed a futile gesture, considering who and what she was, but he made it all the same.

Antonia shifted so they sat side by side. “You’re a sweet soul, Eric,” she hugged him before continuing with her tale. “With our magic defeated, the Three Nations were left with no choice but battle. Archon was powerful, but his army still had to cross The Gap. So we mustered fighters from every town and city of the Three Nations, and for the first time in four hundred years, the people marched to war. Together the armies of Trola, Plorsea and Lonia manned Fort Fall and prepared to defend The Gap. It was the first time in history Trola and Lonia stood side by side against a common foe.”

Eric was silent now. He had heard this part of the tale before, but the way Antonia told it was personal. She had been there, witnessed and mourned the deaths of her people. They were not just historical figures from an old book or legend to her. She had felt the fear that plagued the land, the hate that had taken seed in human hearts.

“We did not have to wait long. They came like hell itself unleashed – demons, beasts and men. A thousand Raptors like the one you fought tonight, and many creatures more horrible. The men who fought alongside them were the scum of society, those who had been banished to the north in punishment for their crimes.”

“Against them stood the men and woman of the Three Nations. Flames seared holes in our ranks and the earth opened to swallow men whole. The claws and swords of the enemy seemed endless. Yet whenever one brave soul fell, another stepped forward to take their place. And damn it, we were winning.”

“Then Archon took his place on the battlefield. He flew overhead, morphed beyond all recognition, darkening the heavens with his magic. Clouds gathered around him and my heart clenched in terror. I felt Jurrien release his magic, trying one last time to tear the monster from the sky. It was only seconds before he collapsed to the ground coughing blood.”

“But Archon did not care about our feeble attempts to stop him. Until then he had only toyed with us. I felt his whisper in my mind.
Feeble, powerless beings; can you do this?"

"Then the sky opened up, and it was not rain or lightning that fell, but
fire
. Flames engulfed The Gap. Thousands upon thousands of our people fell in the minutes that followed, consumed by Archon’s dark firestorm. Brave souls all.”

“I watched in horror, powerless to save them. My heart broke as I felt the lives of my people erased from existence, as those who had loved me were cast burning into the abyss.”

Now tears spilt down Antonia’s face and ran down her freckled cheeks. Eric hugged her again, unable to imagine the horror. All those people. Their bravery and strength meant nothing against Archon’s magic. They had never stood a chance.

Antonia sniffed and in a half-choked voice, continued her story. “We fled with the shattered remnants of our armies. I used what feeble magic I could still summon to stall the dark host that chased us, but we lost many more as we retreated. Jurrien’s defiance had cost him dearly, leaving me alone to stand against Archon’s might.”

“Only one king survived the catastrophe at The Gap. His name was Thomas, the king of Trola, and he led the retreat. At his side was his champion and bodyguard – Alastair.”

Eric blinked. It took a full second to process what he had just heard. He broke away from Antonia, staring at her in shock. “That’s not possible – that would make Alastair over a hundred years old!”

Antonia nodded. “Alastair has enjoyed an unusually long life. One in a thousand Magickers will age far slower than a normal human. Alastair is one of these lucky few.”

Eric’s mouth hung open.

Choosing to ignore Eric’s disbelief, Antonia continued with her story. “Thomas and Alastair led the remnants of the army south as far as Chole, but there they were ensnared and forced to make a final stand. The enemy had spread out across the land, wreaking havoc as they went, until we were completely encircled.”

Eric remembered what came next. “Isn’t this where you give–”

“
Eric!
” Antonia shrieked.

He winced, glancing across at her meekly. “Sorry?”

Antonia shook her head. The sly grin returned and her eyes sparkled with humour. Eric had a feeling the laugh would be at his expense.

“Eric, you really are impossible. I think we’ll try doing this a little differently.”

She leaned across and placed her hands either side of his head. Her grip was light and her skin soft to the touch. The smell of roses grew sharper. Slowly, she began to apply pressure. Eric looked straight into her eyes, fascinated by the intense concentration on her youthful face.

“This won’t hurt, much.”

Pain exploded through his skull and everything went black.

“These are Alastair’s memories, enjoy,” Antonia’s voice was soft and distant.

Eric's vision returned, but he no longer sat by the fire in darkness, was no longer even himself.

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

Alastair looked out over the forest of campfires encircling the city like a giant claw. The specks of light stretched north as far as the eye could see; more enemies yet to reach the battlefield. The night tasted of ash and above the stars hid behind clouds of smoke.

Plorsea was burning; and Chole was all that remained to stand against the dark tide. It would not be long before they swept this city away as well. Archon’s armies would attack before the dawn; he could feel it in his blood.

The walls of Chole stretched away to either side of him. Men and women packed the battlements. The light of the enemy campfires lit their faces, revealing their masks of courage. Alastair’s chest swelled with pride. These were ordinary people; farmers and merchants, fishermen and foresters. Yet he knew they would not break. They would stand to the last against the hosts of evil, hopeless as it may be.

Alastair took a deep breath and moved back from the ramparts. They were sixty feet high and just over fifteen foot wide. No siege engine would breach them, but the massive forest surrounding Chole would supply plenty of wood for scaling ladders.

Taking another breath, he began to stretch, loosening his muscles in preparation for the coming fight. His chainmail rattled with each movement. Its weight did not bother him, but he knew it would grow heavier as the battle stretched on.

He closed his eyes, allowing fear and thought to drift away. It would be a long night, and a longer day. He needed to focus.

The men stared as he moved through a sequence of a blows and parries. He ignored them, concentrating on the host of ghostly soldiers surrounding him. His movements grew faster as his muscles warmed. His frosty gaze revealed nothing of his inner turmoil. There was no need to add his fears to their own.

Unsheathing his sword, he began a new string of attacks. His blade hissed as it sliced the air, each cut deflecting imaginary blades, each thrust piercing a phantom heart. The soldiers nearest backed away to give him space. He stepped up the tempo again, his sword becoming a blur, his feet stepping from stance to stance without hesitation.

There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead when he finished. Warmth flowed through his muscles and the steady beat of his heart told him he was ready. His worries had fallen away, replaced by a cool determination to survive.

A trumpet sounded from out on the plain. Alastair sighed. Soon real enemies would replace the phantoms and chaos would embrace the night.

“Are we ready, Alastair?” Thomas made his way through the soldiers packing the ramparts.

Alastair nodded to the king. “We’ll show them a thing or two, old friend.”

Thomas gave a grim smile and took his place beside Alastair. He too sported chainmail armour, its strong steel links glowing in the light cast by their enemy’s torches. He wore an open-faced war helm over his short auburn hair, but no gold or gems to mark him as king. His hazel eyes stared out over the battlefield, his mouth set in a stubborn frown.

Alastair reached out and gripped his friends shoulder. “Smile, man. The men need to see our confidence. You’ll terrify them with that scowl.”

Thomas gave a toothy grin. “This better?”

Alastair laughed. “You look like a lunatic, but it’ll do.”

Beneath the great walls, the enemy began to form up. It was difficult to make out details in the dim light, but the glint of metal from below suggested human warriors would make up the first wave.

The thump of ten thousand marching feet echoed off the walls. Alastair glimpsed the massive ladders held at the ready. Soon they would come crashing down against the ramparts and a flood of men would rush up the walls towards them.

The enemy’s horns sounded again. The men below surged forward, their battle cries washing over the defenders like a wave. Blades quivered in the hands of wide-eyed men, as fear sunk deep into their hearts. Below the enemy rushed towards the walls, weapons raised, wooden shields held above their heads.

“Archers, ready!” Thomas’ voice carried no fear. Others carried the call along the line.

The men nearest them straightened and held their weapons higher. Thomas’ bravery was legend among the men, his deeds at The Gap almost gospel. His courage inspired them; they would follow him to the end.

Alastair watched their enemies charge across the open ground. He counted slowly, knowing they would be within range in seconds.
One, two, three…

“
Fire!
” Thomas shouted.

A volley of arrows rose into the air, steel tips reaching for the dark sky. The shriek as they flew sounded through the night. Below the enemy charged on, ignorant to the death that hovered overhead.

High above, gravity took hold, and the host of missiles fell. The deadly rain smashed into the ranks below. The enemy charge faltered, their war cries turning to shrieks of agony. Hundreds fell in seconds. Yet the men behind pressed on, trampling their dead and injured beneath iron shod feet. There was no mercy for the injured in Archon’s army.

A second volley struck the enemies ranks, and a third. Fewer fell now and Alastair saw the following ranks were better armoured than those who had led the charge. Their progress slowed, but still the dark mass drew ever closer to the wall.

Then the enemy archers began to fire back. A flight of arrows flew over the defenders heads. The men ducked for cover, but a swordsman nearby was too slow to react. He toppled backwards, an arrow jutting from his throat. He clawed at the black feathered shaft as blood spurted across the tiles.

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.