Firestorm (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 2) Page 2

  Eric’s head spun and he could hardly make sense of the sailors words, but he managed to look out at the rocky coastline. Even from a distance the jagged cliffs towered over their little vessel. Scraggly trees grew from the rock faces, their crooked branches reaching out for them like fingers. Behind them, the ocean stretched out to the horizon. He was glad they would not be venturing that way; the great expanse of water filled him with a dread he could not shake.

  A white bird with grey wings cawed from the sky, landing in the ships rigging. He tried to ignore it. Following the sailor’s advice, his stomach had already begun to settle, so he risked a glance at the sailor. He realised they must be almost the same age – around eighteen. “How long have you worked at sea?”

  The man leaned back against the railings, arms outstretched as he stared up at the sails. “Most of my life, but I only joined the captain a year ago. Before that I worked as a dingy rower in Lon. Where are your friends, our other unexpected cargo?”

  “Sleeping,” the others were making the most of the opportunity, but Eric’s sickness had been much worse inside the tiny cabin. “What happens with the sickness when you close your eyes?”

  “That works too sometimes, but makes it difficult to get any work done,” he glanced around. “Speaking of which, I’d better get back to my post before the captain sees me slacking. Nice to meet you,” he moved across to the mast and climbed back into the rigging.

  Shaking his head, Eric moved away from the railing and looked around for a good place to sit. It was time to test his magic. He had not reached for it since he’d been stabbed. Shuddering, he remembered the pain of the Soul Blade piercing his stomach, the demon’s cackle in his ear. If not for Antonia’s magic, he would be dead.

  He spotted a pile of crates stacked against the cabin and moved towards them, stumbling as the vessel shifted beneath him. Righting himself against the mast, he moved more cautiously across the deck and climbed atop the nearest create. Eric crossed his legs, leaned against the crate behind him, and closed his eyes.

  He drew a deep breath in preparation. Sadness clenched his heart as he remembered the last time he had meditated. The company had been whole then, Alastair still alive to guide him. Now he was alone. The thought terrified him.

  Drawing another breath, he allowed his thoughts to drift on the gentle ebb of his conscious. He focused on each inhale and exhale, allowing all other sensation to drift away. In out, in out. The air hissed from his mouth as he blew out, his chest swelling with each inhalation.

  Sound began to fade away. The lapping of water against wood, the flapping of the sails, even the shouts of the sailors drifted from his consciousness, leaving him alone in the silence of his mind.

  His thoughts proved harder to tame. The last few days had been hell. The night before last was a blur, a convoluted mosaic of flames and darkness and flashing red scales as the dragon chased them through the forest. If not for Inken, he would have perished.

  The thought of her set his heart racing in his chest. Images of their time spent in the glow of the clearing flashed by: the hot steam, the luminescent ferns, the splashing of water as they tumbled in the stream. Shaking his head with a smile, he let those images fade too.

  Memories of Alastair he could not so easily let go. Even now he could see the old man’s emerald eyes, the edges crinkled in amusement. He had been Eric’s mentor, his saviour and friend. His death remained crystal clear in his mind: Balistor, poised over Alastair’s unconscious body, the sword flashing in the sunlight, plunging down, down, down.

  Tears ran down Eric’s face, but he fought to let the image go, if only for a moment.

  In out, in out.

  Then only memory of Enala remained; of the brave girl sitting atop the gold dragon, their last hope. Then Enala mad, rocking in the sand, catatonic. She still had not eaten, would barely drink. If it kept up, their last hope would perish without any assistance from Archon and his minions.

  Finally, the last of his thoughts drifted away and Eric found himself falling into the familiar calm of his inner mind. A blue light flickered in the distance. The glow seemed cool and calming, but he knew from experience it had a darker edge. Magic had a mind of its own, a will to be free. But he was strong now, strong enough to control it.

  Moving towards the distant spark, he watched it grow until a great lake of magic stretched out beneath him. Lightning flashed across its surface, rising from the depths like a serpent. The blue glow warmed his soul.

  He stretched out a phantom hand and watched a thread of light rise up in response. It drifted towards him, wrapping gently around his wrist. His mind tingled as the power filtered through him, but he did not release it. He would need every drop in the coming weeks, if they were to see Enala safely to the Sword of Light. The enemy facing them was legion, and without Alastair and Balistor he was now the last Magicker in their small fellowship. The power radiating from his magic gave him reassurance though, where for so long it had been a source of fear.

  Beside him a door slammed and he felt a hand back on the ship grab him. Eric’s concentration snapped as someone shook him.

  “Eric, stop! What are you doing?” he heard Inken yell.

  Eric’s eyes snapped open. He looked around in shock, finding Inken standing over him. Her face was twisted in panic, her eyes wide with fear. Rain soaked her scarlet hair and poured down around them. It streamed down his face and with a start Eric realised he was soaked to the skin.

  The ship pitched violently beneath them, almost toppling Eric from the crate. Inken stumbled forward and fell against him. He caught her before the rolling of the ship sent her tumbling. The wind howled through the rigging above, tearing at the sail. The sailors shouted over the gale, terror in their voices as they struggled with the sails. Storm clouds blackened the sky, while sheets of rain and hail lashed the deck.

  They toppled from the crate as the ship lurched again. Eric struggled to stand, reaching for his power. His mind reeled with shock – he hadn’t released his magic, had he?

  “I don’t think this is me!” he shouted, grasping for Inken’s hand.

  “What? How is that possible?”

  Lightning crashed. Eric winced, instinct driving him down into his magic. Power flooded his mind. He opened his eyes and saw a bolt flashing towards the mast. He raised a hand and gripped it with his magic, hurling it into the raging sea. Thunder clapped and the air shook as it struck. Boiling water geysered into the air and crashed over the railings. It swept towards them.

  Inken tackled him backwards into the cabin. Breath exploded from his chest as they tumbled from the water’s path. Eric gasped, struggling to sit up, already searching out the next flash of lightning. Panic rose within him, swamping his concentration. His magic began to slip from his grasp. They could not afford that.

  Eric closed his eyes and sank back into the abyss. He wrapped the magic threads in an iron grip and opened his spirit eyes. The storm raged around them, pulling his phantom body skywards. The air crackled with the energy of the Sky element, but he worked on instinct now – and desperation.

  Threads of magic stretched out from him, forming hooks of blue light to grasp the wind and rain surging around them. Gritting his teeth, Eric unleashed a surge of energy, pushing them back from the ship.

  Almost instantly, the air stilled and the sails sagged in their rigging. The violent crashing of the waves faded away, leaving the ship to settle back into a gentle rocking. The scent of rain was strong in their nostrils.

  Eric drew in a breath of relief.

  Then he felt a surge of energy burn through his mind, and the storm returned with renewed fury. The mast groaned, cracks appearing in the thick wood.

  Eric stared in disbelief. It was not possible. His magic remained embedded in the storm that had struck them, holding it back from the ship. But this wind and rain had appeared from nowhere, as if summoned by some unnatural force. That was impossible – the first thing Alastair taught him was that Magicker’s could ma
nipulate the Light, the Sky and the Earth, but they could not create.

  Only the Gods could do that.

  A sudden force struck Eric, hurling his soul back into his body. Gasping, he opened his eyes, searching for the words.

  “Where is she?” a voice boomed over the roar of the storm.

  Eric stood in the doorway of the cabin and watched in terror as a figure materialised on the bow of the ship. Wind and rain swirled around him. Thunder crackled as lightning struck the bow, the shock wave knocking sailors from their feet. The energy rippled along the figure's condensing arms and shoulders, gathering in his outstretched fist. The figure seemed to coalesce from the Sky itself, until a man stood on the deck, pure rage etched across his face.

  Hair as white as snow hung down to the man’s shoulders. His ice blue eyes glared across at Eric, dark patches hanging beneath them. Lines of stress marked his forehead, but his face was clean shaven. He wore clothes similar to the sailors – a dark blue shirt and tight black pants.

  Eric knew him from the vision Antonia had once shown him.

  Lightning crackled around the man as he took a step. “Where. Is. She!”

  The sky turned white as lightning flashed, casting long shadows across the deck. It raced towards Eric, crackling as it went.

  Panic and fear fought within him, but instinct took hold. He reached out with his magic, with his hands, to catch it. The lightning flared as it struck. Thunder clapped and a shock ran through his body.

  The force of the blast threw him backwards into the wall of the cabin. His head crashed against the wood, sending a jolt of pain down his spine. His ears rung and his head spun. He tasted metal on his tongue, then burning.

  “Tell me where she is, now!”

  The man stood over him now, seeming to tower higher even than the mast of the ship. Lightning crackled again. He held a fist above Eric, energy dancing along his skin.

  Eric stared up at the Storm God, fear making his heart thud in his chest. “Who, Jurrien?” he croaked.

  “My sister, Antonia. Where is she?”

  Eric struggled to understand his words. He wiped the streaming rain from his face. His body shook with pain. “Antonia? What do you mean?”

  The God sucked in an angry breath. “She is gone. I can no longer sense her, feel her anywhere. But the taint of her magic is on you. You were with her, not long ago. What has happened?”

  Eric shook his head. “She left. She wanted to hunt down the demon Archon sent to kill Enala.”

  “What? One of Archon’s demons is here?” he swore. “How could she be so foolish? Going after it alone, in her state!”

  “She seemed okay in the cove,” Eric croaked.

  Jurrien’s icy eyes bored into Eric, his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. “She was exhausted. We barely held off Archon’s last attack, and then she runs off babbling about Alastair and Eric and Enala. How she summoned the energy to heal the lot of you I do not know. But to then go chasing a demon…” he covered his face with his hands and turned away.

  “Alastair is dead,” Eric whispered. Jurrien had known his mentor as well.

  Jurrien shook his head. “The old man was going to bite off more than he could chew sooner or later,” he spoke the words with venom. “But I never thought he’d bring Antonia down with him.”

  Eric struggled to his feet. “Alastair had nothing to do with this, whatever this is!” he argued. “The demon was your responsibility, yours as well as Antonia’s. It should never have stepped foot in Plorsea in the first place.”

  The Storm God stepped forward until only an inch separated them. He towered over Eric, his muscular stature no less intimidating for his silver hair. Eric looked into his eyes and saw the depth of power and wisdom there. He found himself remembering his first encounter with Antonia, the light hearted Goddess of the Earth. The fight went from him as he realised the meaning behind Jurrien’s words.

  “Are you saying she’s gone?”

  The God’s eyes softened. His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. This has never happened before. I can always sense her, even those rare times when we sleep. But now – nothing. I need to find out what has happened,” he waved a hand as he spoke.

  The wind ceased with a sharp snap. The sails slumped and the rocking of the ship slowed, released from the violent grasp of the waves. The crackle of lightning around Jurrien died away, until he seemed to be just an ordinary man. A man weighed down by worry, one teetering on the brink of defeat. The last God standing.

  Eric prayed it was not so. “She was with us last at Malevolent Cove. She headed into Dragon Country on the trail of the demon.”

  Jurrien nodded. “Okay. I will follow her path. I just hope I am wrong,” he turned and walked to the railings. With a grunt he levered himself over the side. A gust of wind caught him as he fell, propelling him into the sky.

  Eric released his breath and looked around the ship. Jurrien’s appearance had left the wooden boards at the prow of the ship burnt and blackened, and a part of the sail had torn loose in the wind. The rigging hung in a tattered mess. Crates and supplies lay strewn across the deck, broken free by the raging waves and wind. Several barrels bobbed in the ocean around them, slowly drifting away. The creak of straining wood came from the mast.

  His companions stood nearby, their clothes wet, faces bedraggled. They stared at him in shock, but one by one they moved to stand with him. Inken placed a reassuring arm around his waist, while Caelin grasped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Michael only nodded. There was no sign of Enala. Together they looked across the deck to where Captain Loris stood amongst his spoiled supplies.

  Slowly the crew gathered around Loris, voices whispering as they glanced in his direction. Eric recognised the look on their faces all too well – the mixture of terror and rage. Blame would soon follow, and – if they did not put the mutinous glances to rest – violence. He sought out the young sailor he had spoken to earlier. His heart sank when he found the man and saw the hate in his eyes.

  But for once his magic had not been responsible for the havoc, and he did not intend to suffer the consequences.

  Eric took a step forward. The captain opened his mouth to stop him, a purple vein popping on his forehead. Eric spoke over the top of him. “Well, I hope you all enjoyed your first meeting with Jurrien, the God of Lonia. He’s not much for introductions, apparently.”

  His words had the desired effect. A shiver went through the crew and the captain’s words died in his throat. These were Lonian sailors after all, which made Jurrien their God. Eric had never been to Lonia, so he was not sure how the people generally regarded the Storm God, but he doubted they were likely to argue with someone on speaking terms with him. Even if his conversation with Jurrien had largely revolved around dire threats on the God’s part.

  At last the captain drew in a breath and bellowed. “Okay, back to work everyone. I want this ship ready to sail within the hour,” he banged his fist against the mast to emphasise his words.

  Loris walked towards the rear of the ship to take over from the helmsman. He glanced at them as he swept passed. “Guess your tale had some truth to it after all. Just wish I’d been wrong about the trouble,” the glare in his eyes could have melted iron.

  As he passed, the others turned to stare at Eric.

  “What happened?” they asked in unison.

  *************

  Jurrien slumped against the tree, a dark weight crashing against his soul. Around him, the forest was silent, dead. All colour had leached from the trees, leaving the woods grey and lifeless. Not a single creature stirred. Birds and squirrels lay in silent death on the leafy ground, their tiny bodies twisted in agony. A rotten stench spread throughout the clearing. The taint of dark magic hung thick in the air.

  A single tear ran down Jurrien’s cheek. He let it fall, unable to believe, to comprehend what his eyes told him. Antonia lay amidst the fallen animals, eyes closed. Her auburn hair spread out around her head, her tiny lips parted sli
ghtly as though she still breathed. She could have been sleeping, if not for the blood staining her sky-blue dress. The blood had seeped out around her, soaking into the earth that had bourn her.

  A groan rattled up from Jurrien’s throat. His fists clenched on thin air. He closed his eyes, opened them again, but the image did not change. His soul reached out for his sister, for some last trace of her. Nothing. She was dead, gone.

  He was alone.

  And Archon was coming.

  Two

  Inken rested her head against the wooden crate behind her and looked down at Eric. She smiled fondly as she watched him sleep. His head was nestled in her lap, a few wild tuffs of dark brown hair covering his eyes. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, interrupted every few breaths by a muffled groan. The brief fight with Jurrien had clearly cost Eric more than he’d let on.

  She reached down and wiped a streak of soot from his cheek, then brushed his fringe from his face. A gentle warmth filled her heart. Just yesterday he had teetered on the brink of death. She had come close to losing him forever. Then Antonia had come, had saved him.

  Yet not a day later, Antonia’s brother had almost reversed that blessing. Inken could not believe Jurrien had attacked them. With empty ocean all around, far from any spies or demons, Inken had allowed herself to relax – and the Storm God had taken her by surprise.

  Now she realised the darkness could find them at any time. She would not be caught unawares again. Her bow lay within easy reach, her sabre strapped to her side. If they were attacked, she would be ready.

  Across the deck she could see Caelin arguing with the captain. She knew it would take every ounce of diplomacy the young sergeant possessed to cool the man’s temper, and even then it might not be enough. Eric’s words may have averted a mutiny, but Inken could sense the crew’s anger, festering just beneath the surface. They feared the power they had witnessed. The captain’s command could only do so much to stop that fear from bubbling over.

  It would be a long two days before they reached Lon.