Firestorm (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

He looked up as Inken joined him at the railing. “We’re almost there,” she looked at him, her hazel eyes showing strength. “They’ll be there, waiting for us.”

Caelin stared into her eyes, and nodded. “I hope so.”

He tried to keep the sorrow from his voice, but Inken was not easily fooled. “No one could have stopped it, Caelin,” she closed her eyes. “But I will never forget him, could never thank him enough for saving Eric.”

Caelin barely heard her words. “It is my fault,” he croaked. “I convinced him to come, told him we needed him.”

Inken fell silent, looking out across the choppy waters. “It was his choice,” she said at last. “And no one else’s. You may have given him a purpose, but it was Michael who decided to come,” she closed her eyes. “It was Michael who decided to give his life for Eric’s.”

“I don’t know,” Inken’s words rung within, trickling against the flow of self-destructive thoughts. He took a deep breath, his frustration coming to the fore. “I just don’t know anymore. What is the point of any of this now? The Sword of Light will not be enough without Jurrien and Antonia. We cannot even hope to stop the demon without them, let alone Archon himself.”

A strong hand grasped his shoulder and shook him. “Get a hold of yourself, Caelin,” Inken snapped. He flinched back at the fire in her eyes. “No matter what, it is up to us to go on now. Michael gave his life for this fight. Jurrien’s last act in this world was to save us.  So we must take strength from their faith in us, in their belief that we could win this fight.”

The courage in Inken’s voice bolstered Caelin. He straightened and gave her a nod, pushing his self-pity down to the depths of his mind. Inken was right; they had to continue, had to find a way to win this battle.

He looked around and saw they were almost upon the city. Onlookers packed the docks at the bottom of the cliffs, staring out at the strange ship approaching the city. Their war galley had outpaced the other refugee ships from Sitton; they would be the first survivors to reach the capital.

The crowd on the docks clambered for a view as the ship pulled up to its mooring. The marines were the first ashore, bellowing orders for people to make room for the passengers to disembark while others secured the ship. They waited patiently on-board as the refugees unloaded first, happy for them to distract the crowd.

At last they walked down the plank to the wharf. They allowed the marines to guide them through the milling crowds, and then Caelin took the lead as they reached the marble staircase leading up to the city. Gabriel and Inken stayed close as he waved to their escort, telling them to return to the ship. He knew the way from here. The men looked relieved to see the back of them. Caelin could not blame them after all they had witnessed in Sitton.

Together the three of them began the long climb to the top. Caelin knew from experience there were over five hundred steps to the stairwell. It was an impressive feat of engineering; some of the steps had been cut from the cliffs themselves, while other parts led them through caves deep in the stone. It was a long climb, but the view from the top would reveal the wide expanse of water stretching out all around them.

The refugees of Sitton had left some time ahead of them, but they still found themselves caught behind some of the slower climbers. Caelin did not mind the delay; when they reached the citadel it would be his duty to inform the king of the current state of affairs. He struggled to put the story together in his mind, but could not even begin to explain the deaths of Alastair and Balistor, never mind the murder of both Antonia and Jurrien. He had even lost Enala, whom King Fraser had tasked him to find and protect with his life.

They stopped to rest halfway up in a viewpoint carved from the cliff. Looking back towards the Hall river, Caelin saw that a host of smaller vessels now spotted the lake, making their way for Ardath. More citizens of Sitton come to seek refuge. He prayed the capital had the resources to cope with the sudden influx of people. Ardath was rich, but the island was small and could not support a large population.

When they finally reached the top they found the outer gates standing open, beckoning the last stragglers of their ship into the city. Caelin wiped sweat from his brow and made for the cool shade of the wall. Despite the winter winds, the midday sun still provided ample heat. 

They walked beneath the granite walls which ringed the clifftops and entered the city. As they entered the welcome square, Caelin looked around for a welcoming party. If Eric and Enala had made it this far, the king would surely know who the ship carried. His heart sank when he saw only city guards herding refugees down a side street. He saw no sign of the scarlet embroidered jackets of the councillors or their bodyguards, nor the blue tunics of the royal family.

He caught Inken’s eye and saw she shared his concern. Shrugging, he took point again, brushing off the city guards and heading up the road he knew led to the citadel.

As they made their way deeper into the city, Caelin felt his heart lighten. This had been his home since birth; he knew these streets, knew every marble mansion, every carefully crafted fountain. He knew the stories depicted in the murals decorating the walls, the tales they told of the creation of Ardath. This was the first of the cities Antonia had founded with her followers; to be a buffer between the bitter rivalry of Trola and Lonia. She had led her people into the wasteland that had been this no-man’s land, destroyed by decades of war. Here they had watched the land flourish at her magic’s touch.

Now Ardath sat on the crossroads of the main trading routes between the Three Nations, providing protection to travellers and collecting tax from the passing merchants. The city had grown rich off trade, and flourished.

Ahead the citadel loomed, the smooth marble walls glittering in the afternoon sunlight. Soldiers manned the battlements. They stared out over the lake, alert for the first sign of trouble. The Baronian raiders continued to grow bolder, especially since the fall of Oaksville. The king would suffer no interference to the trading routes between Lonia and Trola.

The gates to the citadel stood barred when they arrived, the soldiers on guard moving to block their passage. They wore steel plated armour and helmets with the visors down, prepared for any attack. They each carried a steel-tipped spear and short swords strapped to their sides.

Caelin marched up and offered a salute. “Good morning, men. I am Caelin, sergeant of the Plorsean army. We have just arrived from Lonia, and have urgent news for the king.”

At Caelin’s words the foremost soldier raised his visor, revealing a well-trimmed beard and brown eyes. His face lit up with recognition. “Caelin? It’s been weeks since anyone heard from you, where have you been?”

Caelin gave a quick smile. “Elton, my old friend. I have been away on the king’s business, business which I am afraid still continues. I must speak to King Fraser.”

Elton nodded, hesitating a moment. “The king… has not been the most receptive to guests lately. You may find your presence is not so well received in the throne room,” he paused, and then continued in a whisper. “The men say the stress has gotten to the king. He speaks to us less and less, and when he does it seems as though his mind carries a great burden.”

Caelin rubbed his forehead. “I am afraid my news will only make matters worse then, but it must be given. May we pass?”

“Of course. But as I said, tread carefully, Caelin,” he glanced at the other guards. “I won’t be long. Do not let anyone else enter while I am gone,” he turned to Caelin. “Sergeant, you and your friends can follow me. I will take you to the king.”

The wheels of the gatehouse groaned as the portcullis rose ponderously into the air. The wooden gates swung open behind it.

Caelin felt a tingling run down his neck as Elton beckoned for them to follow. He shook his head, forcing down his nerves, and nodded to his friend.

“Lead on.”

Eric swallowed hard. The chief towered above them, arms crossed, his giant two-handed blade sticking up over one shoulder. His eyes burned with rage or amusement, there was no telling which with this man.

They stood before him, tiny but defiant. The wagons had stopped for the night an hour ago, but Laurel had only just appeared with the chief. Eric could see the amusement on her face, and he did not like the wicked twist to her grin. The man standing before them was not someone to trifle with – especially with Laurel suppressing his magic.

To make matters worse, he still had no idea what Enala was planning.

If she even had a plan.

“Well,” Thaster growled. “Laurel said you wanted to speak, girl. So speak.”

Enala lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I do,” she smiled, adding a sweet curl to her lips Eric had not once seen her wear.

He held his tongue, deciding it would be best to remain silent.

Thaster stepped closer. “And?”

Enala tilted her head and leaned in, the copper lock hanging across her eyes. “We have decided we will be good. It would be an honour to serve a man of your power.”

The chief squinted down at her. Eric swallowed again. What was Enala playing at? This man would not be fooled so easily.

Eric jumped as the chief threw back his head and unleashed a booming laugh. The sounds sent a shiver of dread through Eric and he shrank back, reaching unconsciously for his magic but finding only a black wall stretching across his mind.

Thaster’s mirth drew the attention of the Baronian’s nearby. He waved a hand for them to listen. “You hear that?” he cackled. “This lovely young girl would like to
cooperate
with me,” he laughed again. “Says it would be an
honour.
”

The other Baronian’s joined in with Thaster’s laughter, and a crowd gathered round to watch them.

Beside him, Enala’s face reddened. Her shoulders shook as she clenched her fists. Before anyone could react, she stepped across the space separating them from the chief. Her knee flashed up, striking Thaster squarely between the legs. As the giant of a man doubled over, she brought her elbow down on the back of his head. He went down like a log.

A second later Laurel had her arm around Enala’s throat and a dagger at her side. “Don’t move,” she hissed.

It took a long minute for Thaster regain his feet. When he stood his face had turned a beet red and purple veins bulged in his forehead. He looked down at Enala, the rage in his eyes terrifying to behold. He raised a fist above her head, ready to strike her down.

Enala made no move to avoid the blow. Instead, she laughed. “What a man! A girl knocks you low, and the best you can do is beat her while your lackey holds her still. What a leader!”

Thaster hesitated, eyes glancing at the crowd of Baronian’s. These were his people, his followers, but Eric guessed there must be those within these ranks who aspired to replace him. Enala had just shown them all Thaster’s mortality, showed them he could be laid low by a mere girl. If he let things stand, the vultures would soon be circling.

“Why don’t you show your people just how much of a man you
really
are, Thaster. I challenge you to a fight to the death. Give me my sword, and I’ll show everyone here just how much of a man you are,” she laughed again. “Unless you’re afraid to fight a girl.”

Thaster’s face had progressed from red to a dark purple. His whole body trembled, his fist still hovering over Enala’s head. It looked as though it was taking all his will not to beat her to death right there. The crowd held their breath, eyes fixed on their leader, waiting for him to react.

A long moment past before he lowered his fist. He began to laugh again, softly at first, but it quickly grew a roar. The other Baronian’s joined him, though some turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. Eric guessed they had much to ponder.

The noise buffeted them, and made Eric want to shrink away and hide, but beside him Enala stood strong, staring hard into Thaster’s eyes.

Finally Thaster raised an arm and the laughter died. He met Enala’s gaze. “Tomorrow, at midnight. That should give you some time to contemplate your fate. Laurel!” he snapped. “Take them to their wagon. Make sure they’re well fed tomorrow, the girl will need all her strength,” at that he began to cackle. With a wave of his hand he dismissed them, turning his back and disappearing into the crowd.

Laurel grasped them by the scruff of their shirts and pushed them away from the crowd.

“You just couldn’t play nice, could you?” she growled in their ears.

Enala pursed her lips but did not reply. When they reached the wagon, Laurel all but threw them through the flap. Eric stumbled to the back and slumped against one of the struts. His heart thumped at a hundred miles an hour.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Laurel and Eric asked in unison.

Eric glanced at the older woman, then waved a hand.

Enala answered before either of them could repeat the question. “I acted. You may be happy trapped here, Laurel, but I won’t be. I won’t live a day longer than I have too with the likes of men like Thaster.”

Laurel grabbed Enala’s tunic and thrust her against the canvas wall. “Listen here, you little
fool
. That man is going to kill you tomorrow. You have no idea what you are up against. In battle he is more a force of nature than mortal man,” she paused. “And he uses black magic.”

“
What?
” Eric made to stand.

“Stop!” Laurel fixed him with a glare. “Don’t say a word. I should not have told you that, but perhaps now you might be convinced to give up this folly,” she shook her head and released Enala.

Enala glared up at her. “
Coward.
How could you serve such a man? Your magic comes from the
Light
. How could you allow it to be corrupted by the twisted wants of one who works with that perverted force?”

Laurel’s hand snapped out. The slap of her hand striking Enala’s cheek rang through the wagon. Eric winced. “Shut your mouth, girl. You’d better write a letter to your family, since you’re never going to see them again,” she glanced at Eric. “And good luck avoiding the hangman’s noose now. Thaster will deliver you straight to the authorities when we arrive in Chole. Gold is a much better investment than a troublesome Magicker,” she shook her head. “Enjoy your sleep. Tomorrow will be a bumpy day, and likely your final one on earth. I’ll be sure to bring you a fine last meal,” with that she turned and left the wagon.

When she was gone, Eric looked at Enala. “Well? Care to elaborate?”

Enala stared at the canvas wall. She looked up at Eric’s words, a blank look in her eyes, her mind clearly someplace else. She shook her head, slowly returning to reality.

“Actually, I was just trying to figure out the date. It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow,” she smiled. “So whatever happens, at least I’ll get to see eighteen,” then she laughed. “Maybe that will bring me some luck.”

A chill swept through Eric at her words. A memory pricked at the back of his mind, something Alastair had once said to him. He stared into space, struggling to recall the words, but it lingered just out of reach.

Finally, he groaned and leaned his head back against the canvas wall. His thoughts turned to Inken, whether she still lived, where she might be. Her smile flickered in his mind, warming him. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

It was a long time before either slept that night.

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

Inken stood before the gold embossed doors of the throne room, arms folded, foot tapping with impatience. Half an hour had already gone, and she was tired of waiting. Her nerves grew with the passage of minute. She struggled to maintain a calm outward appearance. All she wanted to do was scream the question bouncing around in her head.

Where is Eric?

Caelin stood to her right, shoulders staunch and a blank expression on his face. She smiled, proud of the sergeant’s strength. Despite his doubt and guilt, she knew he would not falter now. Whatever ghosts haunted him, they could rely on his courage to get them through.

To her left Gabriel stood with his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable amidst the riches of the citadel. He had said little since the events in Sitton and Inken was not sure what to make of him. Though his desire to find Enala was clear, there was a darkness in him, a haunted look to his face. And she still did not trust him after his attack on Eric.

Inken shook her head, her attention caught by a creak from the great doors. A crack appeared between them as the golden metal swung outward, revealing a manservant on the other side. He surveyed the waiting room before his gaze settled on the guard who had escorted them from the gates.

“The king will see your guests now, Elton. I hope it is important, the council is not in the best of moods,” the man spoke in a haughty tone.

Elton nodded and turned to the three of them. “Time to tell your tale, Caelin,” he waved for them to enter.

Inken followed Caelin through the doors into the chamber beyond. Guards stood to either side of the entrance, spears held at the vertical position. Inken took a deep breath as they made their way down the red carpet, trying to keep the strain from her face.

The walls of the throne room were made of wood rather than marble, and the rich red of the timber glowed against the flickering torches. Tapestries hung from the tall ceilings, each depicting a different time period from Plorsea’s history. White glass windows ringed the room, their crystal panels looking out over the lake encircling the city.

A table stood on a raised platform at the end of the chamber, and a granite throne loomed behind it. Several men and woman sat around the table, their quiet conversation buzzing about the room. Guards stood to attention in front of them, forming a human shield. Those at the table looked up as the company entered, and Inken got her first glance of the Plorsean King.

King Fraser wore a platinum crown and sat at the head of the table, but otherwise he wore little to identify him as the most powerful man in Plorsea. His navy blue tunic with gold embossed buttons marked him as a member of the royal family, but others at the table wore the same blue – brothers and uncles who sat on the council. Grey streaked his hair and beard, both of which had been cropped short like the soldiers outside. She’d heard King Fraser served in the army when he was younger; apparently some of their customs had stuck. His dark brown eyes caught hers as they followed their approach.

“What is this we have here?” the king stood, his voice ringing out across the room. “Caelin, my champion, returned at last,” open scorn laced his voice.

Caelin faltered midstride and Inken caught panic in his eyes. Then his face closed over and he continued his march towards the king. When he reached the ring of guards he sank to one knee.

“Ay, I have returned, my king, though my quest is not yet done,” he tried to keep his tone neutral, but Inken caught the hint of defiance in his voice.

Inken grasped Gabriel’s arm and led him to stand with Caelin. Together they knelt beside the sergeant.

“Ah, so you have not found the family I sent you to protect? Why, then, are you here? Where is Alastair?”

Caelin swallowed. “I am sorry, your majesty. The family are dead but for one girl. As is Alastair. He died protecting their last child, at the hand of one of our own, the traitor Balistor.”

Whispers rushed around the room at Balistor’s name. The king raised a hand, and silence fell. He walked around the table until he stood at the edge of the dais.

“Balistor was a traitor? Who are you to make such an accusation?”

Rage flashed across Caelin’s face and then vanished. He continued in a calm tone. “I saw it with my own eyes, heard it from his own mouth. He slew Alastair, Antonia’s champion, and then tried to kill the last descendent of Aria. If I had not stopped him, he would have succeeded.”

The whispers grew to shouts. Some of the council stood, their chairs grating on the stone floor and banging to the ground. Glasses spilt across the wide table, and others cursed as wine dribbled onto their scarlet jackets. Though he had been a battle Magicker, Balistor had clearly been popular amongst the king’s council.

King Fraser raised his hand again. This time silence did not fall until the guards thumped the butts of their spears on the stone floor.

“It sounds like you have quite the tale to tell, Caelin. Perhaps you could start at the beginning,” his tone was calm, but Inken could not miss the warning in his voice. They were on thin ice; if the king did not like Caelin’s story, who knew where they would end up.

Inken licked her lips, and kept quiet.

Caelin had paled, obviously surprised by the councillors’ reaction. Nevertheless, he looked to the king and began to recite their story from the beginning, when he had met Alastair in Chole.

Ten minutes later, the room was silent as Caelin told of how Balistor had betrayed them. His voice shook with emotion when he described how he had confronted the traitor, and faced him with Alastair’s blade.

When Caelin finished, no one spoke. They stared at him with awe, a collection of fear and anger on the faces at the table. Inken could see some believed the story, but others were not so easily convinced. She looked to the king, trying to read the blank expression on the man’s face. He alone held their fate in his hands.