Firestorm (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

King Fraser sat on his throne and stared down at them. A sword lay across his lap, his hands resting lightly on the hilt. His lips pursed in a tight scowl, jaw jutting as he clenched his teeth. The other council members sat around the table on the dais, but silence filled the king’s court – no one dared so much as breath.

Caelin licked his lips, trying to ignore the vein throbbing on the king’s forehead. He was more than aware of their perilous position; justified or not, they had killed a councillor in cold blood. If they could not talk their way out of this, their heads would not be far from the chopping block.

So far he had explained about their suspicions, and their meeting with councillor before disaster had struck on the wall. The king had made no attempt to interrupt, his face remaining stony and impassive.

Beside him Gabriel shifted from foot to foot, his nervous fear betrayed by the way his eyes flicked from the councillors to the king. Inken stood on his other side, her casual stance in stark contrast to the blacksmith. Her eyes flicked to him and he caught the briefest of smiles. He found her confidence reassuring.

When he finally reached the magical paralysis that had frozen the three of them, the king broke him off mid-sentence.

“Enough!” he saw Gabriel jump at the king’s shout. “I have heard enough of these stories, Caelin. I can assure you I have been under no spell. No dark magic has been worked on me. But this is the second ‘agent’ of Archon you claim to have killed – who until this moment I had regarded as a trusted member of my council. I shall need proof if you expect me to believe Katya was a traitor.”

Caelin’s heart sank as he stared down the king. From the corner of his eye he caught a moments panic come over Inken’s face, quickly hidden. His response caught in his mouth, his words retreating before King Fraser’s rage.

“We will search Katya’s apartment and belongings for sign of this alleged betrayal. And I would speak with these dragons, who claim to have come to aid us,” he hesitated, eyes looking around the court. “I do not know what happened on that wall. But from what I have heard, the men were panicked and close to breaking before Katya arrived. I do not know why she decided to fire on the beasts, but at this point my belief is she thought the action justified. For her courage alone in holding the walls, I would praise her,” he shook his head, glaring down at them. “But she is dead.”

Caelin shrank as the king’s eyes found him. He stared into his monarch’s face, willing him to retract the words, searching for the man Fraser had once been. Surely with Katya dead, reason should have returned to the king. But there was only rage in the king’s dark eyes.

Then the king let out a long breath and some of the anger went out of him. “I do not know what to do with you. I find myself doubting your story more and more, Caelin. Up to this moment, there is still no proof of anything you have claimed, either with Balistor or Katya. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, gave you free rein of the castle. In payment, you stained the city walls with the blood of my most trusted councillor. You have left me no choice.”

“Your majesty,” Caelin interrupted.

King Fraser raised a hand. “
Silence!
” his gaze swept the room, taking in each of them. “You have said enough. You and your two companions cannot be trusted to have free rein of the city, or the citadel. You leave me no choice but to lock you away until the truth of this matter becomes clear.”

Before Caelin could raise his voice in argument, the king waved a hand. Iron hands grasped him by the shoulder, holding him tight. He glanced back at the two guards behind him, taking in the grim determination in their eyes. The sick dread of treachery swept through him, washing away all thought of resistance.

For all his years of service, King Fraser had repaid him with betrayal.

Caelin went limp, eyes falling to the ground. There would be no fighting their way out of this. Guardsmen ringing the throne room, spears at the ready.

Inken did not see things the same way. Her calm had vanished, swept away by a red hot rage. Growling, she pushed the first guard away and spun to face the king.

“
Your majesty!
” she shouted. “We have come a long way to help you, have given everything for Plorsea, for the Three Nations. Who are you to judge us, sitting safe up there on your throne. How
dare
you try to lock us away.”

The king scowled. “Silence, woman. Men, get them out of my sight.”

Inken screamed and leapt for the dais. Before she could take two steps a guard tackled her to the ground. She went down, kicking and screaming as another man joined the fray. It took a third before she finally subsided, going limp on the tiled floor. Together the men dragged Inken to her feet. Blood ran from her nose, staining her white top, but she glared around the throne room in defiance.

“This is a mistake, Fraser!” she shouted.

The king waved a hand and turned back to the table of councillors. As the guards led him from the room, Caelin saw the king take his seat at the head of the table.

Outside, the guards pushed them together and took up positions ahead and behind them. A jab in the back told Caelin to move. They marched down the wide corridors of the citadel, footsteps dragging on the soft carpets. The hallways were empty now – everyone who could be spared had been called to man the walls. Allies or not, they were fearful beasts, and the citizens would rest easier seeing the soldiers manning the walls.

A few minutes later they turned from the well-lit passageways down a stairwell leading into the depths of the keep. A cold sweat broke out on Caelin’s forehead as his mind began to work again. A cool wind blew up from the dark depths below. He knew this staircase – they were not being taken to a tower keep or warded room. They were being led to the dungeons.

One of the guards took a torch from a wall bracket, providing a thin circle of light in against the darkness. They continued down the staircase, the light of the flames only carrying a few steps ahead. Caelin moved slowly, taking care on the slick steps. He thought of all those who had come before, the centuries of men and woman who had disappeared into this darkness.

Caelin shuddered, suffocating in the pitch black. He could feel it pressing in on him, drawing away the light, smothering hope. The warmth fled from his face and his fingertips grew numb with the cold. He glanced back at the guards, but they stared straight ahead, all but ignoring their prisoners but for the odd shove to keep them moving.

The cold seeped deeper, creeping into Caelin’s skin and sending shivers down his spine. He looked across at his companions in the darkness, and saw his own fear reflected in their pale faces. They could sense it too – the wrongness about this place. But the guards still held them fast, ushering them downwards, leaving no opportunity to flee.

Four or five stories beneath the keep, the staircase came to a sudden end.

At the bottom was a single corridor lined by thick wooden doors, disappearing beyond the reach of their torch. There was nothing else to light the space. Caelin shuddered as he realised they would be left alone in the darkness. The empty black beckoned and he felt his courage melting. He turned back to the guards, ready to beg for them to leave the torch.

Beside him, Gabriel jumped as a rat skittered past. The guards chuckled and pushed him forwards. He stumbled into Caelin, knocking them both to the ground. From the ground he watched the panic catch in Inken’s eyes, saw her turn to flee, but a steel gauntlet struck her in the face and sent her stumbling backwards. Caelin reached out to catch her as she fell.

They lay together on the icy stone, looking up at the grim faces of the guards. Chainmail rattled as their captors drew their swords.

“Stop, please, we won’t struggle,” Caelin raised his hands. “There’s no need for that.”

The lead guard stepped forward. He held an iron key in his gauntleted fist. “Here,” he tossed it to Caelin. “There is a cell at the end of the corridor. You will unlock it. You will leave the key in the door and enter the cell. Do not try anything.”

Caelin caught the key and nodded. “Okay.”

Together they backed down the corridor. The guards pressed forward, swords extended to block their escape, leaving nothing to chance. To either side of the corridor the doors stood barred, but there was no escape there anyway. The only exit from the dungeons was through the men facing them. Caelin shivered as the dark swarmed him.

Caelin froze as his back brushed against the door at the end of the corridor. Heart pounding, he turned slowly and felt for the lock. His back felt exposed, unprotected from the approaching guards. He fumbled for the keyhole, struggling to place the key in the dim light of the torch, then a click came as the mechanism within the door drew back the bolt. The hinges creaked as the door opened.

“Get in,” the guard ordered, his sword glinting in the torchlight.

Caelin swallowed, biting back a response. The full truth of the king’s betrayal crashed down around him, as he realised with sick certainty they would never leave this hole in the ground. The absolute darkness of the cell beckoned, but his feet refused to obey. Beside him, Gabriel and Inken were also frozen, unable to take that final step into captivity. He could almost sense the pain radiating from the cell, the waves of despair crashing down upon him.

He yelled as the sharp tip of a sword prodded his back. Biting his tongue, Caelin strode into the cell. In the pitch-black he did not look back, but heard movement as Inken and Caelin joined him. With another groan of rusty hinges, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving them alone in the darkness.

Panic rose in Caelin’s chest as the empty black crowded him. He fought for control, for a moments sanity. Every instinct shrieked for him to turn and pound on the door, to beg for release, for light. The darkness hung over them, absolute, overwhelming, pressing down on his very soul. He struggled for breath, the black almost like liquid, suffocating him. A scream rose up within him, tearing at his chest as he fought to stifle it.

“This seems like a place you go to be forgotten,” Inken’s words echoed in the small space.

“Or a place where no one will ever find you,” a voice replied from the darkness.

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

Eric stared up at the demon. He felt strangely detached, without fear or panic. He crouched beside Enala, a defiant anger bubbling in his chest. Its heat crawled through his veins, pushing away the pain, feeding strength to his desperate body. Enala’s hand was warm in his. He gave it a squeeze and stood. They had gone through too much, beaten the odds too many times to fail now.

The demon dropped from the sky. Dust billowed out as it crashed to the tiled floor. It straightened and looked around the ruined temple, a strange look in its demonic eyes.

“Curious. When I ruled,
his
temple was a place of pilgrimage. People would travel here from all over Trola, to beg for
his
return,” he laughed. “No longer, it seems! The people have all but forgotten Darius.”

Eric faced the demon. “You heard what I said, demon,” he growled. “I am Enala’s brother, descended from Aria herself, sister to the man whose body you possess. I wield the Sword of Light. You had better run, if you wish to live.”

The demon grinned. It raised its hands and gave a slow clap. Then it drew back its cloak to reveal the green and blue stained crystals set in the pommels of its
Soul Blades
. “I have mastered the God powers of Earth and Sky. I am not afraid of the Sword of Light. No, I will prise it from your cold dead fingers.”

Eric looked down at Enala, watching her laboured breathing. Indecision gripped him. The Sword was the only thing stopping her from bleeding to death. If he pulled it free, she would die in minutes. There would be no chance of returning her to the healers in Kalgan. He would be condemning her to die.

Yet he did not stand a chance without it.

“Eric,” Enala croaked. “Take the Sword and finish the damn thing.”

Eric shook his head. “No, I can’t!”

Enala gritted her teeth, eyes clenched closed. “Eric, you know what’s at stake. Demon or not, Thomas was the first to use the Sword. You cannot let it fall into his hands,” she coughed the words. “
Take it!
”

Eric wiped tears from his eyes. “I can’t lose you too, Enala,” he took a steadying breath. “So just stay with me, okay?” his voice cracked, but he reached down to clasp the hilt of the Sword.

Closing his eyes, he began to pull. Enala screamed as the blade shifted. The sound tore at his soul, but he could not turn back now. Biting back tears, he drew the Sword of Light from her chest. Enala thrashed against the alter as the blade slid clear. Blood began to bubble from the naked wound.

Enala’s shrieks died away and her head sank back against the alter.

Holding the Sword of Light in his hand, Eric hardly noticed. He could feel its power as it flowed down his arm, swirling within him, seeking out every dark crevice of his soul. He stood before it like a leaf in a flood, overwhelmed, helpless before its power. Light shone through his mind, a threatening edge to its touch.

Eric focused on the light, feeling out its power, fighting the lure of its pull. It wound its way deeper, curling around his soul. Within, his own magic rose in response, its blue glow mingling with the pure white – one feeding the other, or fighting for control, he could not tell.