The Three Nations Box Set Page 6

  Gabriel…

  The hackles on Gabriel’s neck stood on end. He shivered, looking around again. The voice had almost sounded real this time. But he was alone amidst the trees, and shaking his head, Gabriel started off again.

  Gabriel…

  He stilled as the voice came again. Then panic rose in his chest, and he started to run. The whispers chased after him, seeming to come from all around, wrapping him in terror. His rage fled before it, his thirst for revenge drowning in it, until all that remained was the fear.

  When he finally stumbled into the clearing, he was at the end of his strength. Falling to his knees, he bent his head, gasping for air. The whispers came from all around him now. His heart pounded hard against his chest, but Gabriel could run no further. Gathering the last of his courage, he stumbled to his feet.

  The clearing he’d found himself in was small, barely more than a patch of barren ground amidst the trees. A dark pool of water had gathered in its centre. Ripples trailed across its surface as light raindrops fell through the gap in the canopy. Beside it sat an old stone alter, its surface covered by moss and lichen.

  The patter of rain on leaves gathered strength, and a fine mist rose from the pool. It collected amidst the trees, concealing the earth, cutting Gabriel off from the world. Amid its silvery tendrils, the darkness began to coalesce. A figure took form, its black presence filling the clearing. The forest seemed to retreat before it, the ancient trees withering before its black power. Silhouettes danced about the spectre, forming a cloak of living death.

  Gabriel stood transfixed as the voice whispered through the clearing, taunting him, drawing him in.

  Gabriel… it said. Welcome, my child…

  A tremor went through Gabriel as the spell broke. He staggered, and then reached for his sword. But as he drew the silver steel into the light, he knew it was hopeless, that mortal weapons were nothing to this creature. Even so, he gripped it tight, and stepped towards the darkness.

  Stop.

  The force behind the voice was enough to send Gabriel to his knees. He stared up at the evil presence, his hope withering, a vast emptiness opening inside of him. The sword slipped from his fingers.

  “What do you want?” he croaked.

  To help you.

  Gabriel shivered. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “It’s not real. It’s not there,” he muttered, willing himself to wake, to pull himself from the nightmare.

  Look at me!

  Gabriel reeled back as the voice became a roar. Around the clearing, ancient tree trunks groaned, and the very ground seemed to shake before the creature’s power. He opened his eyes and looked up, his gaze catching in the pitch-black of the creature’s eyes.

  “What are you?” Somehow he found the courage to speak. “What do you want with me?”

  To help you on your quest.

  “Why?” the words leapt unbidden from his tongue. “Surely the demon boy is your kin?”

  Laughter echoed through the mist, sending a shiver down to Gabriel’s very soul. The creature shook its black head.

  My reasons matter not¸ the creature’s words snaked their way through Gabriel’s mind. Do you not want revenge, my child?

  Gabriel shivered. Gritting his teeth, he fought to resist the temptation that rose within him. “Why would I need your help, demon?”

  The laughter came again, a soft, crackling sound that clawed at his ears. He tried to block it out, but it slipped past his defences, carrying with it the sick sense of corruption. Dark tendrils wrapped around his soul, calling for him to join in, to give way to his hatred.

  Look around you, the voice said at last. Your friends are dead. Your town is in ruins. And here you sit, freezing in the rain, as your quarry slips away.

  Gabriel stared up at the dark face, willing himself to spurn its words, to turn away from its darkness.

  “What are you offering?” he found himself asking.

  I will grant you immunity to their magic, and the means to track them.

  Uncertainty gripped him. What the demon offered would guarantee his success. Without their magic, the old man and the demon were only mortal. Today he had proven he was a match for mortal men. If the demon spoke the truth, they would not escape justice again.

  He looked at the demon, the creature of shadows and darkness. What would it possibly gain from their deaths? And what price would it ask in return?

  Their deaths…

  The words echoed in his mind. Suddenly his choice was clear. Whatever it asked, his life no longer mattered. And if he accepted its offer, he would rid the world of at least one evil. If he declined, both would continue unchecked. The decision was simple.

  “I accept,” he whispered.

  And darkness descended around him.

  7

  Eric stared across the empty fire pit, shivering as an autumn breeze blew through the trees. The sun had set an hour ago, drawing the last of the heat from the forest. He had gathered the wood for a fire before realising it the foolishness of the idea. It would draw their hunters like moths to the flame. But now he was seriously reconsidering his conclusion. Surely the trees would shield the light…

  Angrily, he shook his head and glanced again at the sleeping Magicker. The old man had said little since his pronouncement after the chase. Instead, he had set about making a poultice for his wound from herbs he pulled out of the saddlebags. Afterwards he had muttered something about the townsfolk being distracted by the Baronians, propped himself up against a tree, and then promptly fallen asleep.

  That had left Eric to spend the last several hours agonising over the meanings of his words.

  Magicker.

  He shook his head and shifted himself into a more comfortable position. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t as though he had never considered the possibility of magic, but Magickers were noble born. For commoners, magic was the cheap tricks of the circus. Real magic was unheard of, reserved for the rich and powerful.

  Closing his eyes, Eric concentrated on the ache of his body, trying to distract himself from the barrage of questions whirling through his mind. The day’s ride had left him hurting in places he had never dreamed of. Even his knees were sore – though Gods only knew how that had happened.

  He looked at Alastair again, watching the old man’s chest rise and fall. He seemed to have regained some of the colour in his face now, though Eric still found himself wondering whether he would ever wake. He had no experience with wounds, but the jagged tear left by the arrow did not look good.

  “Good evening, Eric.”

  Eric jumped as Alastair’s eyes flickered open, and he almost fell off the log he was sitting on. Groaning, the Magicker straightened and looked around. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the empty fire pit.

  “You’ve been busy,” he gave a pained smile. “How long was I asleep?”

  “The whole day. Anyone ever tell you that you snore?”

  Alastair chuckled softly. Staggering to his feet, he slowly stretched his arms, wincing as he moved his injured shoulders. “Every morning, when my wife was still alive.”

  “You were married?” Eric asked, and then cursed himself for getting distracted. He had more pressing questions to ask.

  “A long time ago now,” as Alastair spoke, he reached up and lifted his bandage to inspect his wound. “But that’s not what you’re really interested in, is it?”

  Eric shook his head. “You said you were a Magicker. You said I was one too. But that’s impossible.”

  “And why would that be impossible?” Alastair replied softly.

  “Because only nobles have magic…”

  Eric clenched his fists as he waited for a reply, barely daring to breath. He didn’t want to face what it meant if Alastair was speaking the truth, if he really had magic. Until now, the dark power inside him had been a curse, some uncontrollable force that lashed out with a will of its own. But magic… magic was controllable, malleable to its users demands.

  If he truly had magic, that meant he could have controlled it, could have stopped the destruction that had engulfed Oaksville.

  “No. It’s true, most of those with magic are from powerful families. But the gift does not recognise royalty, or wealth, only blood. It is passed down from generation to generation.”

  “But my parents… they didn’t have magic,” Eric grasped at the fact like a lifeline.

  “Magic can lie dormant for generations before reasserting itself,” Alastair fell silent for a moment. “Such cases usually have horrifying implications.”

  Eric closed his eyes and looked away. No, it’s not possible!

  His arms began to shake and a numbness spread through his body. “I thought it was a curse,” he whispered.

  “No, Eric. The power comes from within you. What happened in Oaksville was wild magic, an unleashing of your power in response to your emotion, to your fear or anger.”

  Eric slid from the log, his knees sinking into the damp earth. A low gurgling sob built in his chest. His fingers dug into the soft dirt, grasping for something solid to cling too. His eyes never left Alastair’s.

  “Could I have stopped it? Could I have saved them?”

  It’s all your fault, the words whispered through his mind.

  A strong hand clasped him by the shoulder. “You could not have saved them, Eric. Once released, you stood no chance of containing that power. Without training, without preparation, you never stood a chance.”

  “But it was still me.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Eric,” Alastair’s emerald eyes bored into Eric. “Magic is a wondrous thing, but it has a mind of its own. It does what it wants, when it can. And it will do all it can to preserve itself, to protect its host from outside threats.”

  “You make it sound like its alive?”

  “In a way, it is,” Alastair replied.

  Eric shivered, turning the words over in his mind. “It’s still a part of me though,” he paused. “I need to learn how to control it.”

  Alastair laughed softly, his face soft. “I said I would help you, Eric. I meant it. I will be your teacher.”

  Relief flooded Eric’s chest. He sat back against the log and closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. For the first time in years, he felt a touch of hope. When he opened his eyes again, Alastair was standing over the fire pit. He held a piece of flint in one hand and a knife in the others. Sparks leapt from the flint as he struck it with the knife.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to light a fire?”

  Alastair nodded. “The Baronians and townsfolk will be preoccupied with each other tonight. And I’m not a young man any more. My bones ache in this cold.”

  Eric shivered as he recalled the charging horsemen, and the face of the man from the alleyway. “He was with them, you know?”

  “Who?” Alastair looked up at the tremor in Eric’s voice.

  “Gabriel,” Eric closed his eyes, recalling the hate and anger in the man’s eyes. “The man from the alleyway. He was with the horsemen, the hunters from Oaksville. Yet another death caused by my actions.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for the decisions of others,” Alastair said softly.

  Eric only nodded. He watched in silence as Alastair lit the fire and settled down on the log opposite him. Finally he shook himself from his melancholy.

  “Why couldn’t you just light it with your magic?”

  A smile tugged at Alastair’s lips. “Do you recall what I said about the Light earlier, Eric?”

  Frowning, Eric tried to recall the old man’s words, but none of it had made sense to him. He shook his head.

  Alastair laughed. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Magic is a complex, chaotic force, but it is still a force of nature. It has rules, Elements that divide it. The Light is one of those.”

  “What do you mean by Elements?”

  “The Three Elements are the Light, the Earth, and the Sky. All natural magic falls within the bounds of one of these Elements. Most Magickers control just a small part of the whole. For instance, my power manipulates the forces of attraction between objects. That comes from the Light. But I cannot control fire, or light itself, which are other aspects of that Element.”

  “And my magic?”

  “Yours is different,” Alastair paused. “From what I have seen, you control all facets of the Sky. Such an ability is rare, and while the Sky is the weakest element, it makes you a formidable Magicker.”

  “The storm I created didn’t seem weak,” Eric replied bitterly.

  “No, but you should also understand, your magic did not create that storm. Only the Gods can bring about something, from nothing.”

  Eric tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Your magic did not create, but drew the storm from elsewhere. It manipulated distant weather patterns, until they converged on Oaksville, forming a destructive maelstrom of lightning and wind. But it was not created.”

  Running a hand through his hair, Eric struggled to process the new information. But his mind was sluggish, exhausted from the day’s events and distracted by the constant ache of his body.

  On the other log, Alastair smiled. “I think perhaps that is enough for now. A night’s rest will be good for you. As I said, magic comes from within you. When you use it, it draws on your life force. You will need rest to recover the strength it took. I will keep watch. We’ll leave before first light. Hopefully the Gods road will be clear now.”

  Eric nodded, struggling to contain a yawn. He still had questions, but his eyes were drooping and he could no longer deny his exhaustion. It would be useless to continue their discussion now. Grabbing a blanket he had taken from Briar’s saddlebags, he curled up in front of the fire and closed his eyes.

  As his consciousness slowly drifted away, images appeared in the darkness of his thoughts, some as clear as day, others little more than blurs. Then, as it often did, his mind turned to his parents, and his fifteenth birthday.

  “Eric, catch!” The nectarine tumbled towards him.

  Reaching up, Eric plucked the fruit from the air and sank his teeth into the soft flesh. His friend sat in the branches above him, munching on a second nectarine. Juice ran down his youthful face. Behind him, an autumn sunset lit the sky blood red.

  “So how does it feel to be old, Eric?” Mathew asked.

  Eric shrugged. “No difference, really. But my father’s already talking about getting me in the fields.”

  Mathew laughed. “That’s too bad. Maybe you should just forget about this birthday thing. Growing up sounds like hard work.”

  Eric grinned back. “I don’t think it works that way.”

  “Eric!” A woman’s voice carried up the hill. “Come help set the tables!”

  “It begins,” Mathew mocked.

  Shaking his head, Eric waved his friend goodbye and started down the hill. His mother’s call came again, and he began to run, taking care not to slip on the muddy ground. Below, the little town spread out beneath him, the wooden houses with their thatched roofs ringing the hill.

  He was puffing by the time he reached his back door and pulled it open. Leaning down, he took care to scrape the mud from his boots before entering. His mother could be terrifying when she was angry, and birthday or no, trekking mud through the house was bound to bring her wrath down on him.

  “There’s the birthday boy – or should I say man!” His father greeted him with a booming laugh.

  Moving across the room, he scooped Eric up into a bear hug. His strong arms crushed the air from Eric’s lungs before releasing him. He stared up into his father’s dark amber eyes, and smiled.

  His mother’s voice echoed up the corridor, and his father laughed again. “Sounds like it’s dinner time. We’d better not keep your mother waiting,” his father said.

  “Better late than never I guess,” his mother greeted as they moved into the dining room.

  Her hazel eyes found Eric from across the room. Despite her grey hair, his mother had lost none of her vitality. She moved around like a woman half her age. A smile tugged at her lips as she put her hands on her hips.

  Eric bowed his head, struggling to conceal his own grin. “Sorry mum, I came as soon as I heard you!”

  His mother shook her head, laughing softly. “Oh don’t worry; it’s your day after all. Come here!”

  They embraced before the three of them sat down at the small table. The rich aroma of roast lamb filled the room, its source sitting centrepiece on the table, surrounded by potatoes and broccoli and an assortment of other vegetables. It was a feast unlike Eric had ever seen.

  The evening flashed by in a rush, filled with talk of Eric’s childhood and his dreams for the future. As the night grew long, Eric resisted his exhaustion for as long as he could, before finally bidding his parents goodnight.

  But in his sleep, darkness wrapped around his dreams. He watched as armies of demons marched across the valley of his hometown. The villagers fled before them, but the hordes overran them, slaughtering all who crossed their path. His village burned, the fires spreading until the whole valley was aflame.

  Screaming, Eric wrenched himself from the dream. But awakening in his home, he found the nightmare had followed him. His room was burning. Flames clung to the walls and lightning danced across the ceiling, leaving scorch marks in its wake.

  He screamed again and threw off his blanks. Lightning caught the covers as he ran for the door, chasing after him. He fled the bedroom, the heat swamping him. The house was already ablaze, and smoke filled the corridor. Holding his breath, he sprinted for his parents’ bedroom.

  A blast of heat forced him back as he yanked their door open. His eyes burned but he pushed forward and stared inside. Through the smoke he made out the burning bed and its occupants. Nothing living remained in that room.

  Choking on his grief, Eric stumbled back, tears boiling from his face. Turning, he fled from the nightmare.