Read Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons) Online
Authors: Teddy Jacobs
Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons) (14 page)
She left the image, and the images spun quicker then than I
could absorb them. She brought it back to the image of my uncle, my mother, and
me.
It’s as I thought. This is the last image of your uncle.
You’re sure?
There are no more images after this, except in your
future, after he changed.
We broke the connection then and Marga let out a low groan.
Her face was covered with sweat, although the room had grown unnaturally cold.
I frowned. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I will be. I am not used to scrying into such
powerful memories and futures.”
I kept silent for a moment.
“I know my uncle left when I was little, but my parents
never told me anything about it. Now I can’t even talk to them about it.”
Marga shrugged. “They would have lied to you anyway, Anders.
And there are mysteries here that I doubt even your parents fully understood.”
“I just wish there was someone I could talk to, to find out
what happened. And then try to figure out what’s happening now.”
And then I was staring at her.
Giancarlo. Giancarlo would know.
“You must learn to shield your thoughts, young Anders. Who
is this Giancarlo, who you are thinking about?”
“He was my blademaster, and my father’s and uncle’s
blademaster as well, or at least he knew them when they were young.”
“I can’t contact him for you, but if you like, we can try to
scry him, and see where he is now, with the crystal ball.”
I nodded. “He is one of the few people from my past I feel I
can trust now... And I’m sure he would speak the truth. He’s as honest as he is
skillful with his sword.”
Marga smiled wearily. “Grab my hand then. This should be a
lot easier than scrying your past and future.”
She reached out and took my hand, and the connection flowed
through it. I stared at the ball, where a picture was forming, but there was
something wrong.
Where had I expected to see Giancarlo? Training some other
young man, maybe. Or at home with Ana. Somewhere bright and well-lit and
healthy, full of the morning sunlight.
There was none of that.
The scene was dark, and I could barely make anything out.
I squinted at the ball but it didn’t help at all.
Marga groaned.
I looked down at the ball and again saw nothing but
darkness. I turned back towards Marga and saw beads of sweat on her forehead,
her eyes unfocussed, and then she groaned again.
Should I break the connection? Could I? Instead I looked
back at the ball and saw the blackness again and could not figure out what was
happening.
Look with your third eye.
I closed my two eyes and looked with my inner eye.
Everything exploded with light then. I saw blood red light
everywhere in the ball, covering everything, blinding me. I couldn’t see
Giancarlo. I couldn’t even tell where he was. All I could see was the blinding
light, burning red into my mind’s eye.
I needed to break the contact and get out of there, but
Marga’s hand squeezed mine tightly. I tried to loosen her grip but she held on.
I heard her groan again then, and I wanted to open my two eyes and see what was
happening to her. I wanted to be rid of this blinding red light that was eating
into us, funneling up through the crystal ball.
I will always remember that light, and I will always
remember Marga.
One moment she was there, and then her hand tightened. There
was a burning smell, and then her hand went limp.
I opened my mouth then, but before I could scream, there was
a great explosion, knocking me backward, and the red light went away. I found
myself on my back, on some cushions, and I opened my eyes.
I didn’t need to look at Marga to know she was dead. You
could feel the absence of her aura and it hurt. From far off I heard screams,
and I knew somehow there were two boys running to us. They would be there soon.
But they would arrive too late, of course.
I hurt all over and brought my hand to my head. I looked at
my hand. It was blood red. I was confused. I thought I had been branded by the
dark lord.
It was only when Marga’s sons arrived, bringing with them
others, that I realized I was covered with blood, and only some of it was my
own.
That was when I began to scream.
For the moment I just stared, and all I saw was the color
red, the color of blood, the color of destruction.
I woke up in a strange pink room, with pink sheets, pink
furniture, and just one small skylight in the ceiling with some kind of frosted
glass that softened the sunlight. The room was so relaxing that I fell right
back to sleep. My sleep was drugged and dreamless. It was not until I had been there
several weeks that I realized that the room was actually white, not pink, and
that my vision was tinted red, perhaps permanently.
When I awoke again, there were two boys sitting at my
bedside, and I recognized them at once, although their clothing and faces were
red.
They smiled at me when I opened my eyes, but there was
something constrained and strained about their smiles, and their eyes were
redder than the rest of them. They didn’t say anything, but I knew they were
waiting for me to speak.
It would have been nice to say something to them, but I felt
this incredible crushing weight each time I opened my mouth. And my lids felt
so heavy that I fell back asleep. When I woke back up I was alone, and wondered
if I’d dreamt them.
But as I hadn’t dreamt anything else, I figured they must
have been there. With the light of the moon through the skylight I could
faintly see where their stools still stood.
I fell asleep again then, and for the first time in weeks, I
dreamt. I dreamt a dream that would haunt me for the several weeks of my
recovery. I was in a long hallway. I must have been very young, four or five. I
walked quietly, and the stone was cold under my bare feet.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and a tall man
with green eyes was staring down at me, smiling. The man opened his mouth, and
even before he spoke, I knew what he was going to say, but that changed
nothing. At this point I would always try to wake up or change the dream, but
the dream would not change. I walked down the corridor, towards the light,
towards the smiling face, towards the man with the green eyes who stood in his
nightgown next to my mother, his arm around her, looking down at me, and he
spoke the word, always the same word,
Neffe
.
And although I always wanted to scream and wake up then, the
dream never ended with the word. I walked on up to the man, and hugged him, and
said
Onkel
. Only when he had hugged me, and I felt my uncle’s blood red
aura mingle with my own, would I finally wake up. Sitting up in bed, I would wonder
if this dream was the last, if it was even a true memory, or something that the
dark lord sent my way every night so I wouldn’t forget him in that room full of
whiteness and natural light.
Then I would fall asleep again.
And if I was very, very lucky, then I would sleep
dreamlessly until morning, when I would wake up and try to forget, try to heal,
and to prepare.
For revenge.
I hope you enjoyed the first volume of
Return of the
Dragons
.
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with other readers. Consider reviewing Sword Bearer, so others can find and
enjoy the book as well.
You can find news about my writing at my website
As well as information about
Wind Rider
, book two in
the series.
There you can also find my contact information, which is
Special Offer for all My Fans:
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Sneak preview of WIND RIDER, book II
of Return of the Dragons
BOOK II:
WIND RIDER
Chapter I
When I woke and found the room around me finally completely
white, without the slightest tint of red, nothing even remotely pink, I got up
and walked out and hoped never to enter the room again. I’d been in bed for
weeks, and spent my time staring at the ceiling, dreaming, and daydreaming.
None of it had been pleasant: not the endless waiting, not the dreams that were
always the same nightmare — my little four year old feet cold on the stone
corridor, the passageway dark and clammy and unfriendly, and up ahead in the
welcoming light my uncle and my mother standing together, in their
nightclothes, smiling at me. Then my uncle would call out to me:
neffe
,
nephew.
It had taken weeks for my eyes to clear. The dark lord, my
uncle, had burned red into my eyes, all three of them, when he had killed
Marga, the mother of my best (and only) friend.
Once I had been just another sixteen year old, although I
can’t say I had a normal childhood – instead of school, I had a tutor, and my
parents locked me up in my room to study for long periods of time. The only
good thing back then was the time I spent with my blademaster, swinging a
staff, and with his wife, Ana, a witch who had taken care of me when I was
little. Then I was sixteen, and Giancarlo, the blademaster, had let me pick out
a wooden sword. And I’d picked a magical sword, and then everything had gone
crazy. First my sword sang to me, making me do this crazy dance, which helped
me beat my blademaster in a sparring match. Then later trying to concentrate in
my locked room I formed a gateway instead, and pulled Kara, a kriek princess,
out through a hole in the wall.
Kara had been at my bedside almost every day, and my face
got warm, thinking about her. We had escaped the castle with the help of Kalle,
another kriek, escaped narrowly from a powerful wizard, Gerard, escaped only to
be attacked by giant wild boars, keiler, talking beasts who stood on their hind
legs when they wished and who served the dark lord. And they had called me
herr,
or master. And in the battle against them I had killed, for the first time.
I didn’t like to remember what
that
was like, but it
still kept coming back to me, whether I liked it or not.
We had stumbled our way into the ancient city, and somehow
my blood had told me what runes to touch so we could enter … And the gates had
opened, to more trouble.
I had been tested, and found to be the three-blooded prince,
born to unite the three bloodlines and to fight against the dark lord. But if
the dark lord was my uncle, where did that leave me?
We had forged my sword anew, burning the magical wood,
melting together the broken pieces of three great swords of old. It was an
amazing blade, and I had sung to it during its final forging. That had been a
test too. Today at last I was going to start training again. I hadn’t trained
since Marga was killed.
I would never forget feeling her die, her hand clasped in
mine. Even though I’d barely known her, her son, Karsten, was my best friend.
And her nephew, Elias, what of him? He was so young, but so powerful. Somehow
he could suck the energy out the walls around him. I’d been sure that Karsten
and Elias would blame me, but it seemed more like they blamed themselves. They
too had come to my bedside, and Karsten had told me to come to the cafeteria
and see him when I could leave the white room.
I wished sometimes I could bring her back. But I couldn’t
even wake up my parents from their eternal sleep. So I did what I could. I
strapped on my sword and walked out into the sunlight.
The morning was cool and the air was clean. The cool air felt
good on my bandaged skin.
Most of the damage had healed quickly, but I had two cuts
that were deeper and harder to heal, one on my left forearm, and another on my
temple.
I breathed in deeply, and felt alive for the first time in
weeks. I felt guilty about how good it felt — how could I be happy and loving
life when just a few weeks ago I had caused someone to die?
Not to mention that my parents lay unmoving, and had to be
turned every few hours so they didn’t develop sores, had to be washed and cleaned
and fed by others.
So much for my good mood.
I sighed. But I knew there was no point focusing on my
problems. I needed to breathe and exercise. Fresh air and exercise were
healthy, and the sooner I got my health back, the sooner I could prepare for war,
for battle. If the battle went well, maybe my parents could be made whole
again.
But Marga would never be whole. And I wondered if her son
and her nephew ever would be either. I walked towards the cafeteria with a
heavy heart.
The aromas that I’d missed during those two weeks hit me
with a wave of nostalgia: remembering those two happy weeks when I had dined
here, and made my first true friend… The smell of fresh baked rolls and spices,
of pancakes and fried potatoes…I walked into the cafeteria, nearly empty in the
early morning. I was still an early riser. And I felt a deep hunger for
something more filling than the fruit juices and gruel they had fed me in the
white room.
I went to the serving table and picked out a banana,
pancakes, two rolls and some fried potatoes. My tray was heavy as I carried it
back to an empty table. It felt like a guilty pleasure, to eat so much, but I
needed to gain back the weight and strength I’d lost the last couple of weeks,
if I was going to be any good to anyone. Training was grueling work, and I’d
need all the nourishment I could pack in. I had to train. Without training, I’d
have no hope of saving my parents and avenging my friend’s mother.
I sat down and ate.
It had been two weeks since I’d tasted solid food. The food
filled me with life and warmth, driving away the cold emptiness and sadness. I
tried to eat slowly, to do honor to the food and to the cooks who had been up
even earlier than me, working in the kitchen. Cooks like Karsten.
I had seen his face from time to time in the early days
after the attack, when I had been half-blind and half-mad, and asleep much of
time, dreaming unpleasant dreams. Later, in the last few days, Karsten had only
come around once that I could remember – he’d made a pained smile when I looked
at him, and then left, without saying a word. I didn’t know what to say to him
– could we ever just be friends again? A war was coming, and the first battle
loomed. Would anyone or anything ever be simple again? It was tough for
everyone.
I chewed a pecan cranberry roll, one of my favorites. I
remembered the nuts we had roasted and eaten just a few months ago, and the
power that came from them. Here, nuts grew everywhere on trees between the
houses, providing shade and food. The trees glowed with energy, and I couldn’t
tell if they took or gave energy to the city itself. Maybe the energy went both
ways. In any case I felt the energy now in my mouth, in my throat, radiating
out through my stomach. I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors, and knowing that
everything that went into this roll had come from this walled city… the grain,
the berries, the nuts… Everything was grown here, in this ancient magical city
that somehow had escaped detection, until now.
Now even the dark lord knew where it was.
It was all my fault.
First there was my clumsy attempt to save my parents, which
had brought along spying demons, and two parents who were unable to talk, or do
anything except lie in bed, without help; then there was my stupid idea to try
to contact Giancarlo, as if the blademaster of my father, my own blademaster,
would not have fallen already into the hands of the dark lord…
But what exactly had happened, when we’d scryed Giancarlo?
Giancarlo had been my father’s blademaster, my own, and also the blademaster of
my uncle, who now called himself the dark lord. Why had we been attacked when
we’d scryed him, and who had attacked us? It must have been the dark lord, or
his minions, but why? Why kill Marga? What had we been about to discover?
It was frustrating.
If there was no way to empty my mind, at least I could fill
my stomach. I chewed on another roll.
When I had finished eating and my plate before me was empty,
I walked over to the kitchen, and left my plate soaking in a basin of water.
Two bakers were working, but not Karsten, and that filled me with a bittersweet
mix of disappointment and relief. I walked out of the cafeteria and into the
sunlight.
The sun warmed my skin just as the hot food warmed my
stomach. It was hard to worry in the early morning sun. Full of food I walked
towards Woltan’s apartment. The two weeks I’d been away seemed like far longer,
just as the short weeks I’d been Woltan’s student had seemed like months. All
together I’d been there for around a month. How long would it take my uncle, the
dark lord, to move an army? To prepare a battle? And I’d been on my back for
two weeks, doing nothing but trying to heal. I shook my head. It was hard to
stay positive. My sword knocked against my leg and I put my hand down to the
pommel, instinctively, to steady it, and then I froze.
A shock ran through my arm and through my body, and then Carolina was there, in front of me, blocking my vision.
She wasn’t smiling. She seemed in a rage, her face red with
fury.
Why haven’t you contacted me in the last two weeks?
I shrugged. Why hadn’t I contacted her? Had I been too busy
lying down in bed and feeling sorry for myself? It was a hard question to
answer, more so to someone in my mind, blocking off all my vision.
She stared down at me, imperious. I felt very small, and had
to remember that Carolina was just a tiny pixie housed in the pommel of my
sword.
You have not even learned to shield your mind from me.
I’m not trying to pry, and yet I hear everything. You think I’m tiny; yet if
you were in my world, you would find me as tall or taller than you; and so it
is right that I look down upon you. Anders Tomason, you should have talked to
me sooner!
You are right, of course.
There was no point in arguing with someone who had full
access to my mind.
I’m glad you’ve realized that at last, because there are
a lot of things I need to tell you. The first thing is that people are staring
at you.
I noticed, embarrassed, that the street was no longer empty.
I went and sat down on a bench, and people stopped looking at me.
You will want to know about your uncle now, I think. I
could have told you as much as Marga, and spared you that death.
I felt like a fool, and it hurt too, what she said. I wanted
to be angry but instead I just felt ashamed. Why hadn’t I thought to ask her?
We all make mistakes. I could have shocked you into
contacting me, too, and I should have. Please don’t be too hard on yourself —
you are young, although I’m sure you’re tired of hearing that. I am much older
and should have been more vigilant, and shielded both of you. My attention was
elsewhere, and I feel the same shame as you. We must work as a team from now
on.
I know I have a lot to learn.
Carolina smiled then.
It is hard for me to remember what
it was like to be so young. You are the youngest sword bearer I have ever
served. Accept my apologies for my harsh words; I am impatient trapped in this
fairy house, all the more so when you do not talk to me and I cannot contact
you, and help you in your trials.
I thought time passed more slowly for your kind?
She smiled again.
They’ve always called me the impatient
one. My mother was afraid I was part human, once. Everything is relative; for a
human I am incredibly patient, for a pixie I am very impatient. That is why I
chose to serve in a sword, because I craved action.
What did you want to tell me?
Now that I have scolded you I will tell you. You know
that the sword and I have been passed down from generation to generation,
correct?
Yes.
What you may not know is that never has there been a
blade as strong as the one you wield; not even the first blade, twenty-five
generations back, although that sword at least was forged whole, not of
fragments.
Twenty-five generations?
You humans have short lives.
And you remember back my family’s lineage for twenty-five
generations?
I remember when the city you stand in now was being
built, stone by stone. And that was but twenty generations ago.
But that must make you enormously powerful.
Caroline smiled.
It is not just the Book of Id that the
so called Dark Lord seeks. He seeks your sword too, and had it not been hidden
from him with a trick by your blade master, he would have had me too, and
destroyed or imprisoned me, as he knew I would never serve him.
Giancarlo said you had refused him.
Luckily for us both your uncle was young and
inexperienced then, not nearly as evil, and not a hundredth as powerful as he
would become but a few years later. He did not realize what a powerful thing he
held when Giancarlo gave me into his hands and I refused to show myself to him.
I knew even then he would have stopped at nothing until I served him. And I
knew from just a touch of his hand how evil he was, how he was the split from
the blood line that had been foretold for centuries; that his nephew would be
the one would set things aright, and who would reunite the other two
bloodlines. Your mother was both Kriek and Mer, and I do not think even your
father realized this; she had been orphaned in a shipwreck, and raised by
coastal peoples, done well in school, and worked then at the court, where she
met your father.
