Stormwielder: The Remastered Edition (The Sword of Light Book 1)
STORMWIELDER:
The Remastered Edition
Book I of
THE SWORD OF LIGHT TRILOGY
Aaron Hodges
Written By Aaron Hodges
Proofread By M. M. Chabot and Sara Pinnell
Cover Art By Christian Bentulan
The Sword of Light Trilogy
Book 1: Stormwielder
Book 2: Firestorm
Book 3: Soul Blade
The Praegressus Project
Book 1: Rebirth
Book 2: Renegades
Book 3: Retaliation
Copyright © July 2017 Aaron Hodges.
Third Edition
All rights reserved.
The National Library of New Zealand
ISBN-13: 978-0-9941475-5-4
Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor’s of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he now spends his time traveling the world in search of his next adventure.
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Thank you to my family, friends, and teachers for all the support you’ve shown over the years. This has been a work in progress for half my life.
Thanks also to the community at Writing.com, who helped make me the author I am today.
A big thank you to my brother Michael Hodges for the awesome map.
For all the people who have changed my life.
Always keep fighting.
The Three Nations
Prologue
Alastair sat alone in the darkness, staring into the flickering fire. Holding out his arms, he let its heat wash through his rain sodden cloak. The autumn storm had caught him in the open, drenching him to the skin before he could guide his horse to the shelter of the nearby trees.
A rumble of distant thunder echoed through the trees, and shivering, Alastair shifted closer to the flames. He stifled a groan as his old joints cracked with the movement.
Adding a fresh stick to the blaze, Alastair watched the greedy tongues of flame lick up its length. Wind rustled in the dark branches overhead and the fire flickered, its feeble light casting long shadows across the tiny clearing.
A head appeared in the nearby trees, its long face stretching out towards him. Alastair’s heart clenched and he reached for his sword, before he realised it was only his horse. Snickering, his mount shook its head and retreated into the shadows.
Shivering, Alastair released his sword hilt and cursed himself for a fool. He knew all too well the dangers of the night, the creatures that stalked the shadows of the Three Nations. Once he had been one to stand against such things. Now though…
He shook his head, forcing away the morbid thoughts. He was still a warrior; his name was feared by the beasts of the dark.
But he could not dismiss the whispers of his own doubt. It had been decades since he’d last fought the good fight, and the long years between had stripped him of his strength. The old man shivering at autumn shadows was a spectre, a ghost of the Alastair that had once battled the demons of winter.
And now the demons had returned.
“If only,” he whispered to the cold night. The words carried with them the weight of regret, the sorrow of wasted decades.
If only he had known.
If only he had prepared himself.
Instead, the great Alastair had settled down and put the dark days behind him. And in his absence, the dark things had come creeping back. Now their shadow stretched across the Three Nations, threatening to shatter the fragile peace he had worked his whole life to create.
It was only when Antonia came to him that he had realised his folly. Her reappearance shattered the peaceful world he’d built for himself, and dragged him back to a life he’d thought long buried.
“Find them,” she’d ordered, and he had obeyed.
Yet things never were simple when she was involved. For two years now he had searched, seeking out the family he had helped to hide so long ago. But the trail was ancient, and his quarry had long since perfected the skills he’d taught them.
He had tracked them as far as Peakill before the line vanished. For all he knew, they were all gone. He prayed to Ansonia it was not so.
The wind died away and the chirp of crickets rose above the whisper of the trees. The fire popped as a log collapsed, scattering sparks across the ground. He watched them slowly dwindle to nothing and then looked up at the dark canopy. Through the branches, he glimpsed the brilliance of the full moon.
Alastair gritted his teeth. She would come tonight. His hands shook as a sick dread rose in his throat. The world would feel the consequences of his failure.
“Not yet, there is still time,” the soft whisper of a girl’s voice came from the shadows.
Antonia walked from the trees. A veil of mist clung to her small frame, obscuring her features. But her violet eyes shone through the darkness, the firelight pale by comparison. Those eyes held such power, such resolve, that Alastair shrank before them. The scent of roses filled the grove, cleansing the smoky air as she strode towards him.
“It doesn’t matter. They’re gone, and I’m not strong enough to continue. Find someone else to fight this battle, I’m done!” He lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.
“There is no one else. You were there at the beginning – now you must see things through to the end,” her voice shook with anger. “Look at me, and tell me you would abandon everything we have worked for!”
Alastair glanced up. “I abandoned my family for your cause,” he ground out the words. “I have sacrificed everything for you, what more do you want? It’s over, they’re gone.”
He stared at Antonia, expecting anger, scorn, disappointment. She smiled. “It’s not over, Alastair. There is still hope. Elynbrigge has found them.”
The breath caught in Alastair’s throat as he stared at the Goddess. “Where?” he choked.
Antonia laughed, the sound like raindrops dancing on water. “The trail was old, but they are alive and well in Chole. You will find them there. He will watch over them until you arrive.”
Alastair jumped to his feet, scattering firewood into the flames. The blaze roared, leaping to devour the fresh meal. He ignored it. The fire be damned, they were alive!
“Wait,” Antonia’s tone gave him pause. “First, you must go to Oaksville. There is someone there who needs you. When you find him, take him with you. Be quick; Archon won’t be far behind.”
“Who is in Oaksville?” The town was close, but the detour would cost precious time.
“Eric.”
Before he could question her further, she was gone.
For a long time Alastair stood staring at the space where she had stood. Her words trickled through his thoughts, banishing his guilt, his anguish. In their place, a fragile spark of hope lit the darkness.
He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he mounted his horse and rode through the darkness, into the dawn. As the sun rose into the sky and drifted towards noon, he topped the rise over Oaksville and looked down on the town.
Below, Oaksville lay nestled i
n the crook of a valley. Sickly pillars of smoke curled up from behind its walls, obscuring the rooftops.
Alastair kicked Elcano into a gallop.
One
A pillar of smoke rose from the burning house. Flames roared and heat scorched his eyes, but he could not look away. The blaze lit the night, chasing the stars from the sky.
Amidst the fire, the silhouette of a boy appeared. He stumbled from the wreckage, clothes falling to ash around him. Sparks of lightning leapt from his fingertips, leaving scorch marks on the tiled street. Soot covered his slim face, marred only by a trail of tears running down his cheeks. The wind caught his mop of dark brown hair, revealing the deep blue glow of his eyes.
He wore an expression of absolute terror.
“Help me!”
Eric screamed as he tore himself from the dream. Gasping, he fumbled for his knife, fear rising to swamp his thoughts. The blade slid clear of his belt, and then tumbled through his hands. Diving forward, he caught it by the hilt and rolled to his feet.
A wall of vegetation rose around him, sealing him in. The dark fingers of branches clawed at his clothing as he spun, scanning the clearing. But there was no one there.
He was alone.
His shoulders slumped as the last traces of the dream fell from him. He sucked in a breath, his heart still thudding hard in his chest. Returning the blade to his belt, he cast another glance around at his surroundings.
The clearing was unchanged from the night before. The trees still stood in a silent ring, their leaves speckled with the red and gold of early autumn. Where the canopy thinned overhead he could make out touches of the blue sky, but below the dark of night still clung to the undergrowth.
Eric shivered as goosebumps prickled his skin. Rubbing his arms, he wished for the thousandth time he possessed more than a holey blanket and worn leather jacket to fend off the cold.
Reaching down, he stuffed the blanket into his bag with the rest of his measly possessions – dried meat, a waterskin, and a holey change of clothes. He wore the steel bracelet his parents had given to him as a child around his wrist. The familiar dream clung to him as he moved, the boy’s face lurking in the shadows. He knew that face. It was his own.
He shivered again and flung his bag over his shoulder with a little too much force. Pushing aside the dream, he pulled on his travel worn boots and brushed the leaves from his hair, determined to forget the bad omen. Just a little way through the forest was the Gods’ Road, and about a mile along its rutted surface was the town of Oaksville. There he planned to make a fresh start for himself. And he wasn’t about to let a bad dream stop him.
Straightening, he squared his shoulders and started off through the trees. Excitement quickened his pace – this was it. Today he would end his self-imposed exile. In the two years since his fifteenth birthday, he had wandered alone through the forests and plains of Plorsea. In all that time, he had kept his own company, speaking only occasionally to strangers he encountered on the road.
The isolation had very nearly driven him insane.
He paused at the edge of the Gods’ Road and crouched down in the shadows. Looking left and right, he waited, checking for signs of movement. Even in daylight, the wilderness was not safe for a lone traveller. Just the day before he had been forced to hide as a troupe of Baronian raiders rode past.
Once such a sight would have been rare anywhere in the Three Nations. But lately the nomadic bandits had grown bold, pushing closer and closer to major establishments such as Oaksville. The king had sent soldiers to dispatch them, but so far all efforts to apprehend the Baronians had been unsuccessful.
A minute passed, and satisfied he was alone, Eric straightened and turned west along the Gods’ Road. Before long, the trees either side of the path began to thin, giving way to the grassy steeps of a valley.
Squinting into the rising sun, Eric strained for his first glimpse of the town. A layer of fog clung to the slopes, but it was quickly fading in the rising sun. Buildings began to take shape – wooden houses with tall smoking chimneys, the three-pronged spire of a temple, a crumbling castle amidst the slate roofs, the old stone walls ringing the town.
Eric’s spirit soared at the sight. Then the first gust of wind reached him on the hilltop, carrying with it the clang of hammers and clip-clop of hooves. His nose wrinkled at the tang of smoke. The image of a burning house flickered into his mind.
He paused mid-stride, and a voice whispered in his mind.
Go back!
Ice trickled down Eric’s back. His knees shook, and his heart pounded like a runaway wagon on a cobbled street. He gripped his fists tight against his side as his vision swam.
What if I’m not ready?
Turning his head, Eric looked back up the hill. The long grass rippled in the wind, the trees beyond shadowing its movement. He felt a sudden yearning to return to them, to escape the rush of civilisation waiting below. But in his heart, he knew the forest had nothing left to offer him. It could not give him friendship, or the comfort of human touch.
You’re ready – nothing has happened in months.
Eric drew in a lungful of air and faced the town. Taking another step, his chest constricted as the terror returned. But this time, his nerve held, and step-by-step, he made his way down the valley.
He looked up as the outer wall loomed, its great stone blocks casting the path into shadow. Ahead, a gaping hole in the stonework swallowed the road whole. A guard stood to either side of the gates, dressed in the chainmail and crimson tunics of the Plorsean reserve. Each held a steel-tipped spear loosely at their sides. The one on the right spared Eric a glance as he passed by, then returned his eyes to the road.
Eric passed between the open gates and into the darkness of the tunnel. Moss covered the giant slabs of rock, while iron grates peered down from the ceiling, once used to pour burning oil on invaders who breached the outer gates. These walls dated back to darker times, before peace had come to the Three Nations.
Taking a breath, Eric continued on, until he stepped from the tunnel and back into sunlight.
He hesitated as he found himself on the edge of a bustling marketplace. The gateway opened onto a tiny square where people were rushing to and fro, ducking between the vendors and patrons that packed the tiny space. Bearded men thrust silver fish into the faces of passers-by. Others waved loaves of the bread in the air as they cried out their prices. Coal braziers burned in the corners, filling the air with the scent of smoke and roasting meat.
Eric staggered back as the buzz of a hundred voices assaulted his ears. Dust swept up from the cobbles, catching in his throat, and coughing he turned to retreat back to the haven of the tunnel. As he moved, his feet tripped on the uneven ground, and he crashed down on the stones. His ears rang as his head struck.
Groaning, he looked up, his vision spinning.
A face appeared overhead. “Careful there, mate.” The man offered a hand. Eric recognised the western twang of a Trolan accent.
His arm shaking, Eric took the man’s hand. He staggered as the stranger hauled him to his feet, and felt a steadying arm on his shoulder.
“Looked like a nasty fall,” the Trolan offered. “You okay?”
The man wore a dark brown cloak and towered over Eric’s five feet and seven inches. A matted beard and moustache covered his chin, while a broad smile detracted somewhat from the twisted lump that served him for a nose. His brown eyes looked down at Eric from beneath bushy eyebrows. Silver streaked his black hair.
Eric nodded. “Don’t know what happened,” he stuttered. “I was just… overwhelmed.”
“Country boy then?” The man unleashed a booming laugh. “Remember my first time in a town like this. They stole every penny I had. Not the pickpockets, mind you, those crooked merchants! Bought a dagger that snapped the first time I dropped it. Prey on the weak, these townsmen. Don’t you worry, mate, us country folk look after our own. The name’s Pyrros Gray, what can I do for you?”
Eric grinned. T
he man reminded him of the warm manner of people in his village. “My names Eric. Is there some place quiet I could sit, just for a while? My head is spinning.”
“Pleasure, Eric. I know a place – a tavern not far from here. Usually pretty quiet at this hour. Follow old Pyrros, we’ll have you there in no time.”
Without waiting for a reply, Pyrros set off through the crowd. Eric quickly chased after him, suddenly afraid to be left alone in the press of bodies. His legs were unsteady beneath him and his head throbbed with every step, but gritting his teeth he pressed on after the Trolan.
Halfway through the throng of bodies, a woman stepped between them and thrust a wet trout in his face. “Cheapest in town!” she yelled over the crowd.
Shaking his head, Eric side-stepped the merchant. She shouted after him, but he ignored her, his eyes scanning the crowd for Pyrros.
“There you are, Eric! Thought I’d lost you!”
Eric spun, and his shoulders sagged with relief as he found Pyrros beside him.
Pyrros laughed as they started off again. “So what brought you to Oaksville, mate?”
Eric shrugged. “I wanted a fresh start.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do bout that. Come on, almost there.”
Together they slipped into a narrow alleyway that twisted away from the marketplace. Tall brick walls hemmed them in on either side, casting the alley in shadow. The drone of the markets died off as they rounded the first corner. Rotting wood and discarded garbage lay heaped in piles, but someone had worn a trail between the mess.
Eric wrinkled his nose as they passed a pile of decomposing fish heads. Stepping around it, he hesitated. “Are you sure this is the way?”
Pyrros turned and grinned. “It’s a short cut. Away from the crowds, you know.”