Soul Blade, page 18
part #3 of Sword of Light Series
“And yet their influence is limited to the spirit realm,” the woman replied. “That must change.”
“How?” the old man growled.
“Sacrifice,” the others replied in unison.
Enala’s heart gave a painful lurch as the three priests faded away. Within seconds a great hall of people had replaced them, but questions still whirred through her mind.
Gods, what did they do?
She had never heard of the Gods’ birth involving sacrifice. Was that how the priests had done the impossible? By slaughtering innocent people?
Enala floated through the throngs of people packing the hall, unable to control her path. Finally she came to a halt in the centre of the hall where a ring of priests stood in a circle. The blue, green and white of their robes told her all three orders were present, united in this great task. Each member held their hands raised and their eyes were closed. Magic throbbed through the room, stirring in Enala’s chest as the priests sought their power.
“It is time,” the voice of the woman from the secret meeting rose above the whispers. “You who have volunteered, who have chosen, step into the circle.”
Enala’s gut churned as men and women threaded between the priests to enter the ring. There were dozens of them; people of all age and size and class. Men in the tattered rags of the poor stood alongside the rich garments of the nobility, and white bearded men held the hands of young woman, offering their silent support. Enala’s heart went out for their quiet bravery – that these people were willing to give their lives to cease the wars that had torn their world apart.
As the last of the volunteers stepped into the circle, Enala sensed the ebb of magic begin to grow. The priests’ voices rose in a slow chant, their words curling through the crowd like a breath of smoke. The language was unrecognisable, but the power in each syllable was could not be mistaken. The hall rang with magic, its throb beating across Enala’s mind like a drum.
A glow emerged then from the hands of each priest, stretching up to engulf the volunteers in a dome of pure magic. The blue, green and white of the elements twisted and turned, absent of darkness, shining with the purity of natural magic. The light bathed the volunteers, illuminating their fear, their hope, their sacrifice.
Then the chanting of the priests ceased, and the glow of magic faded away.
A hush fell over the hall, as those who had gathered held their breaths and waited. Enala waited with them, eyes fixed on the circle. Had the priests’ magic failed? Each of the volunteers still stood, looking from one to another in confusion.
Whispers grew, spreading through the crowd like fire.
Then a man stepped forward from the volunteers, the others moving aside to let him pass. Silence fell instantly as every soul present turned to stare at the man.
Except he was no man. Enala would never mistake that face, those wild, electric blue eyes.
This was Jurrien, the Storm God of Lonia.
As one, the ring of priests fell to their knees. The crowd quickly followed, bowing in a wave beneath the eyes of the God. His gaze swept the room, the piercing blue eyes seeming to stare into the soul of every man and woman present.
“I am Jurrien, master of the Sky,” he spoke at last. His tone was soft, yet his voice boomed across the hall.
The old man from the secret meeting rose, his blue robes rustling as he stood. “Greetings, Jurrien. Welcome to our world.”
Jurrien gave a slow, sad smile, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to watch the other volunteers, and waited.
Enala swallowed, the breath catching in her throat. So this was how the Gods had been born, why they could not release Antonia or Jurrien from the Soul Blades. They had been freed from the spirit realm only by the courage of these volunteers – these brave souls who had sacrificed their bodies so that the Gods might be made flesh.
Stomach clenched, Enala turned to watch the remaining volunteers.
As she turned, a man stepped forth. His hair was long and grey, his eyes turning white as he walked – though it was clear he was not blind. Light shone from his skin, his eyes, his very being. His arms were thick with muscle, though he was clearly well into his fifties. His bare feet slapped on the smooth wooden floor as he joined Jurrien.
The hush embracing the room, if possible, gathered strength.
Enala stared at the man she did not recognise, though she knew his name long before he spoke.
“I am Darius, master of the Light,” the God rumbled, his voice filled with power.
Enala stared at the man, at the God who had vanished long before her birth. She looked into the white glow of his eyes, searching there for some hint of the betrayal to come. She wanted desperately to scream, to demand the truth from him.
He will abandon you! She yelled to the silent crowd, but the words did not come out.
Smiling, Darius turned as well to the gathered volunteers, and waited.
Swallowing her anger, Enala turned from the God of Light and scanned the crowd of volunteers, seeking out the familiar face of Antonia. But she could see no children amongst them, no likeness to the young Goddess. The silence stretched out, the crowd waiting for the emergence of the third God.
“No, child, get back here!” a woman’s sudden shout shattered the quiet.
Enala spun, staring as a young girl weaved through the crowd. Men and women turned to watch her, mouths open in astonishment. Her lime green dress fluttered as she ran, the silk slipping through her mother’s fingers, the woman just a step behind her. Enala’s heart went out to the woman as she recognised the desperation in her eyes.
As the girl reached the circle of priests she paused, turning back to her mother. “It’s okay, Mum. Everything is going to be okay. She is with me, she will always be with me,” she flashed a final smile, and then she was through the ring of priests, and her mother was screaming, fighting against the arms reaching out to stop her.
The girl strode two steps into the circle and froze. A ring of green light lit the air, drifting down to wrap around her fragile body. Sadness tightened in Enala’s chest as she watched the transformation, watched as the girl’s eyes changed, the innocent green giving way to the violet wisdom of the Goddess.
The mother’s screams faded as the woman sank to her knees, face in her hands. Tears streamed from her eyes and she reached out one trembling arm for her daughter. But she was already gone.
As the light died away the girl turned back to the crowd. Her eyes glowed with violet power, the change unmistakable. Those eerie eyes surveyed the crowd, a bewildering contrast to the youthful body she had taken.
The youthful body she had stolen.
“I am Antonia, Goddess of the Earth.”
The silence in the hall was palpable. The other volunteers retreated back into the crowd, leaving only the three Gods in the centre of the hall. Enala could only stare, breath held, sure there was more to come.
She did not have to wait long.
A creak came from the back of the hall as the outer doors opened. Two boys slipped inside, their eyes wide, desperately seeking out something or someone. They made their way closer, moving amidst the kneeling crowd, their eyes drawn inexorably towards the circle of priests.
As they reached the circle, the voice of one rang out in recognition.
“Father!” the boy pushed his way through the circle and ran to Darius. “Father, what have you done?”
The other boy joined him and the two of them stood alone amidst the priests, staring up at the man who had been their father. Yet whoever that man had been, it was not their father who looked back now.
Sadness swept across the face of Darius as he looked at the boys. “I am sorry, children. Your father… he loved you very much,” he crouched then, staring into the eyes of each of them. “He has made a great sacrifice, but I swear to you, his sacrifice will not be in vain.”
Tears appeared in the eyes of the boy who had not yet spoken. “Who are you? Where is Father?”
Darius reached out and gripped the child’s arm. “He is still here, child. For a time at least. He wishes more than anything he could stay with you, but he says this was something he had to do. To make the world a better place for you.”
The boy’s head bowed and he started to sob. The sound rang loudly in the wooden hall, even as the crowd watched on in silence.
“No!” Enala turned as the other boy screamed. “You are not him!” he growled. “You will never be him!”
Darius tried to reach for the boy, but he flinched back out of reach. “You are no God,” his words curled through the hall. “You are a demon, a darkness summoned here to destroy us!”
“No, child. I am the spirit of the Light. I am Darius,” Darius offered his hand again, seeking peace.
“No!” before anyone could stop him, the child turned and fled the hall, his angry screams cut short as the doors slammed behind him.
Enala shuddered as the scene faded away, recognition screaming in her mind. She knew the boy, knew his voice, his face.
The boy was Archon.
*************
Eric sucked in a breath as he found himself back in the council room in Fort Fall. He stared around the room, his eyes wide, his heart still racing with the terrors of the vision. He saw fear and shock in the eyes of Gabriel and his sister, and knew they had witnessed the same thing.
The Great War, the slaughter, the birth of the Gods.
And the boy.
Archon.
He turned to stare at the man. His presence cast a darkness across the room, but he recognised now the pain at its core, the pain of loss.
“It was you,” he whispered.
Archon nodded. “Now you see why I hate them, why I have always hated them. They are nothing more than the demons you so despise.”
“They saved us,” Eric replied. “They pulled us from the wreckage our people had created, stopped the slaughter.”
“And replaced it with what? With nations cowering beneath their thumb, ruled by puppet kings such as my brother to fool the people into thinking they still control their destiny?”
“What was the alternative?” Gabriel looked into Archon’s dark eyes. “You? What have you ever done for the people?”
Archon stared back. “I have given my people hope, though they were rejected by your wondrous Gods,” his arm swept out to the north. “They have united beneath me, for my promise of freedom from the wasteland. They gladly give their lives so that I might throw down the tyrannous Gods and kings who put them there.”
Eric shook his head, straining to break free of Archon’s bonds. “Do you not see your hypocrisy? That you let your people to die for your cause, but refuse to accept your father’s own sacrifice?”
Archon looked down at him, disappointment in his eyes. “I had hoped you would see reason, my child,” he waved a hand. “You cannot win, cannot hope to defeat me. Even should you somehow bring all three God powers against me, you do not have the knowledge to win. I have spent five hundred years mastering my craft – you are nothing to me.”
He sighed then, shaking his head. “I will give you three days to consider. After that, I shall take my armies and my magic, and grind this fortress to the ground. One way or another, the time of the Three Nations is over. Farewell, kinsmen,” with a final wave he swept from the room, vanishing into the shadow of the corridor.
Eric breathed out a long sigh as he felt the darkness release him. Reaching up he pulled the Sword of Light free of its sheath, drawing comfort from the surge of white fire that swept through him. Slowly his fear subsided and he looked around the room.
“What do we do now?”
Eighteen
Eric reached for his mug of ale and took another long gulp of the bitter drink. He shuddered at the taste – he preferred the spiced wine Michael had served so long ago in Lon – but right now he needed the vigour. A shadow clung to his spirit, the knowledge of events five hundred years in the past weighing him down.
He was the ancestor of Archon, the ancient enemy of the Gods, the man whose darkness had hung over the Three Nations for more than a century. And the Gods, the very entities the Three Nations had worshiped for five hundred years, were usurpers, thieves who had taken the lives of innocents to come into this world.
And now Archon was offering them salvation, offering to spare the lives of every man and woman in Fort Fall, if only they joined him.
The weight of responsibility was more than he could bear.
“You are not alone, Eric,” Inken’s hand settled on his and he looked up, dragging himself back from his waking nightmare.
They sat alone in their room, in the chairs before the fire. The hour was late, but Eric knew he would not sleep tonight; not after Archon’s appearance. Terror clung to his soul – that their enemy could walk so easily amongst them, could destroy them any time he wished. Even after all the time he had spent with the Sword, after the hours he had practiced each day with its power, Archon had overwhelmed him without effort.
They were mere puppets before the man’s power.
Even more than the revelations, it was the screams of the dying which haunted him. How many men and women of the Three Nations had already fallen? Hundreds? Thousands? What was the point of it all now, knowing they could not win? That Archon’s magic was beyond any defence they could muster?
Eric shuddered, unable to find a reply to Inken’s words. He looked at her, trying to summon a spark of hope, of defiance. But he could not find it. For the first time since Alastair’s death, he could not see any hope of victory.
“It is in the past, Eric,” Inken whispered. “You are nothing like him; none of you are. Your ancestors were heroes, men and women who refused to give up, whatever the odds. You are no different – you will find a way to save us all, Eric. I believe in you.”
Eric nodded, his eyes starting to water. “We cannot join him, we can’t…” he trailed off. “And yet, I don’t see how we can defeat him, Inken. He walked past all our armies, past our Magickers and dragons and guards, into the centre of the greatest fortress in the Three Nations. And there was nothing we could do to stop him,” he took a deep breath. “What if it’s all for nothing? How can I ask more to give away their lives for a lost cause?”
Inken stood and moved across, lowering herself onto his lap. She reached out, trailing a hand through his hair. “No one can make this decision for you, Eric. But I have faith in you, in all of you. So did Antonia, and Jurrien, and Michael and Alastair.”
Eric stared into her hazel eyes. “I just wish I knew why,” he replied. “Why did they believe in me, after all I have done?”
“Because you are good, Eric. Because you are strong. Because despite all that has happened, you have never hesitated to do the right thing. To stand against the darkness.”
Eric released a long breath and looked down into the fire. Inken’s words drifted through his conscious and the weight on his shoulders lightened, if only a little.
But even so, indecision still gripped him. “Are we even fighting for the right side?” he asked. “You did not see it, see the pain on the woman’s face. She was only a child, Inken. Why would Antonia have chosen her?”
To his surprise he saw tears in Inken’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she looked away, her hand drifting to her stomach. “I cannot…” her voice broke as she trailed off.
A twisting ache spread through Eric’s chest as he watched her. Reaching out, he grasped her wrist. “Inken…”
Inken shook her head. “I cannot imagine her agony, to lose her child. I do not know what I would do if ours…” her eyes widened and she bit off her last words.
Eric gaped, staring into the depths of her hazel eyes. The twisting in his chest tightened as his heart started to race. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, struggling for the words.
Inken grasped his hand, clutching it tight to her throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “I wanted to tell you, I don’t know why I didn’t. It never felt right, not with everything… not with death hanging over our heads.”
“Inken…” Eric murmured. He stared at her, a warmth rising in his throat. “Inken…” he leaned in and kissed her.
She kissed him back, her tongue finding his as they came together. The warmth of her hands slid across his skin, slipping beneath his shirt and pulling him tight against her. Blood thumped hard in his ears as they entwined, her fingers twisting in his hair, reaching for him. And then they were falling, falling, falling.
And the fur rug before the fire rose up to greet them.
*************
Enala lay on her bed and stared up at the blank stone ceiling. The chill air nipped at her skin despite the fire burning in the heath, and she yearned to crawl beneath the covers. But she could not bring herself to move, could not break free of her silent reverie.
Images flashed through her mind: the terrified faces of those ancient soldiers as they faced certain death, the terror and panic on the face of the woman as she chased after her daughter, the hatred on the face of the boy who had become Archon.
It was all too much.
And over everything loomed the dark Magicker’s threat. His unstoppable armies and magic seemed to hover overhead, poised to strike their final blow to the fortress.
It was up to her and Eric to stop him.
How? Closing her eyes, Enala sent the question out into the void, praying for an answer.
But there was only silence. Opening her eyes, she rolled onto her side and stared at the Soul Blade where it lay propped against the wall. The very sight of it sent a shiver down to her stomach. She could almost taste the darkness lurking within the thing, waiting to strike. Her stomach churned, seeing again the fate of Sylvander, watching as the magic of the Soul Blade burned him to ash.
I can only wield it because of him, a creeping horror grew within her as she thought of Archon’s blood running in her veins.
She heard the door squeak and looked up to see Gabriel enter. They now shared the room with two beds, though this was the first night since Gabriel had been freed.
