by Amanda Fleet
Aeron Returns
Guardians of The Realm: Book 2
Amanda Fleet
Copyright © 2020 Amanda Fleet
The moral right of Amanda Fleet to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by Amanda Fleet
The Wrong Kind of Clouds
Lies That Poison
The Guardians of The Realm
Aegyir Rises
Aeron Returns
War
For Colin
1
Pain ripped through me as if I was being sliced in half, and I fell to the floor, gasping, curled into the foetal position, my hand pouring with blood, my head ringing. My vision pulsed, and I rested my forehead on my knees. The pain ebbed away, letting me breathe more easily. I peered around. I wasn’t in the sunshine on the grass and I didn’t think I’d smacked my face into the rock and broken my neck. Where the hell was I? Fuck me gently, was this the Realm?
The floor beneath me was smooth stone: cold, hard, unforgiving. I heaved myself up until I was sitting, remnants of pain searing channels in my body. I was in a dark, narrow passageway with smooth walls on either side of me. In the gloom ahead I could see a faint green-gold light. The silence was oppressive, crushing me to the floor. My teeth began to chatter and not just from the cold.
I shouldn’t be here.
I clapped my palm around my right hand and let my forehead sink back on to my knees, sticky blood beginning to congeal against my fingers, pain screaming from the stump.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Who had whispered that? It had sounded right in my ear. My heart hammered against my ribs and I stared wildly into the murk.
“You shouldn’t be here. Aeron.”
The voice was insistent; the final word snarled. I tried to focus on my breathing the way Finn had taught me. Slow… Slow down. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. It’s a dream. You’re unconscious and this is a dream.
I scraped my feet under me, my legs threatening to go from under me. Finn’s voice murmured to me: check your three-sixty. I took two long, shaky breaths and turned on the spot. The rock face behind me had disappeared, replaced by the same smooth walls that lined the long hallway. The roof of the place could have been two metres above me, it could have been two miles. The light, such as there was, showed nothing. How had I got here? Stephen had hurled me against the rock face. Was that the portal? How had I passed through a block of rock? Was it one-way? Could I go back? The police would be there by now. I’d be safe. I peered at the wall, but it was featureless and I turned back to the hall.
Where the hell had they come from?
I froze. Standing in front of me were two tall, dark-haired men. They glared at me. If the place had felt unwelcoming before, it had suddenly become malevolent. They were dressed in brown leather trousers with medieval-style leather jackets on the top. One pointed a sword at my chest; the other wielded a knife. They were identical to the guys who cuffed me in my dreams.
“Er, hi,” I said, hearing the squeak in my voice with shame. “I’m—”
The guy on the left said something utterly unintelligible. He reached forward to take my arm, but I snatched it from him, whirling on my back foot and landing a kick to his ribs. I might as well have kicked a boulder. I heard the swish of a blade, ducked sharply and brought my elbow up under the guy on the right’s chin, before slamming the heel of my hand into the base of his nose. He staggered back, and I turned to deal with the guy from the left again. His fist drove into my face, sending me sprawling. I tried to get up, my head hanging, my vision swimming, only to fall back to my knees. The man I’d kicked grabbed my arm and there was a soft click as he cuffed my right wrist. He hauled me to my feet by the cuff, the metal biting into my skin. He growled another string of words I didn’t understand, though in the midst of it, I heard “Aeron.”
“Uh. My name is Reagan. Reagan Bennett.”
The other man brushed his hands over his body, looking at me as if he would happily murder me. His nose seeped blood, and he wiped at it brusquely.
My captor clicked the cuffs around my left wrist then grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. The cold of a metal blade rested against my neck.
His cheek rasped against mine and another string of gibberish spewed forth.
“I have no idea what you’re saying!”
He didn’t respond, propelling me along the narrow hall towards the greenish light at the end.
***
There, he shoved me away from him and I crashed to my knees, using every muscle in my torso to prevent my face hitting the wooden floor beneath me. My knees took the brunt of the fall, the cuffs making it impossible for me to get my hands out to brace myself. I arched back, trying to get my balance and the sharp point of something pressed into the nape of my neck. The man who’d dragged me here leaned down and spoke softly in my ear, but I had no idea what he said.
He stepped to the side. The guard with the bleeding nose must be wielding the sword at my neck. I stayed down, my weight bent forward over my knees, trying not to look at the mess of my hand. The fingers of my left hand held the stump on my right while a vermilion pool formed on the floor. My abdomen clenched with the pain in my hand, making it hard to breathe, and air moved only in rasping judders.
A vast hall, maybe 50m square, extended in all directions. The sanded boards of the floor warmed my knees through my jeans. Light filled the room from a glass ceiling, the grey clouds scudding past outside. On the walls, dark wood panelling rose to waist-height with light-coloured, painted plaster above. In front of me, sitting atop a dais, was a large, ornately carved wooden chair with a dark green, woollen cushion. Deeply incised patterns writhed over the surface, like entwined snakes.
I turned as from the side came the ring of boots down the hallway towards me.
“Aeron?” said the newcomer.
The guards moved so that I could see who had arrived: a tall man who seemed dimly familiar. His wavy dark hair was cut short at the back. Strong brows guarded dark green eyes, and his skin was a creamy colour. A solid jaw bunched as he stared at me. I couldn’t have said that he was good-looking, but he was easy enough on the eye. He wore a snug-fitting, medieval-style, grey-green leather jacket over leather trousers the colour of dust. Black boots peeked out beneath the hems. I would have pitched him at about three inches taller than me and maybe a few years older – mid to late-twenties.
He crouched down, forcing the guards to step back a pace, and rummaged in a pocket in his leather jacket, pulling out a small glass pot. The lid was silver-coloured with intricate knotwork that reminded me of Viking art; the sides of the jar had similar patterns in the glass. In the low light, they appeared to be squirming. It wasn’t entirely pleasant.
“What is that?” I asked.
He murmured something, and I frowned. The words sounded different. Not English. I had no idea what language, but the words slowly formed into sense.
“It will heal you.”
He picked my right hand up and smeared ointment from the pot on to my hand, gripping my fingers.
The pain emanating from my maimed hand made me howl, and I curled into a ball, waves of nausea filling my mouth with
saliva. The man murmured soothing sounds, holding my fingers in a vice-like grip.
“Ride it out, Aeron,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
My vision swam and air jammed in my chest.
“Breathe,” he urged. “Breathe. It will pass.”
I hauled in deep shuddery breaths, hoping he was right. Gradually, the pain ebbed. My skin healed before my eyes, the raw edges sealing around the space where my finger should be. Only the blood coating my hands gave any indication that I’d been injured.
Before I could thank the man, a swishing sound caught my attention and the sharp point of a blade nicked the back of my neck, forcing me to bend my head again. My healer scrambled to his feet and stood to the side. My sight-line ran to ten feet ahead and about the same to either side and I scanned it rapidly. Polished leather boots arriving; leather trousers; one person; male? The new arrival sat on the carved chair; to his left side was the man who had healed me. The guard with the knife was on my right; a sword point still jabbed my neck.
“Aeron.”
The man in the chair. His voice was deep, his tone both angry and questioning my presence. I wanted to look up, but some scrap of self-preservation told me that would be a really bad move. I kept my head down and my mouth shut. It turned out that wasn’t such a smart move either.
“Aeron!”
His voice raged through the room like a tsunami. My body quaked, and I raised my head.
“No,” I said, almost inaudibly. “Reagan. Reagan Bennett.”
He leaned forward, giving me the chance to study him. Dark hair, greying at the temples, clean-shaven, handsome, late-forties. Deep green eyes. One of the men from my dreams. The one who called me a slut and a traitor and had sentenced me to hang. A tremor ran through me at the sight of him. His one elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his other hand splayed across his broad thigh, a large ring wrapping his middle finger.
“No, indeed,” he said.
A smile played across his lips. I wanted to look at the man who’d healed me, but I was transfixed.
“Father?”
The man in the chair raised his hand, quieting my helper. “How did you get in?”
His voice was slow, almost sing-song and made the question sound rhetorical. Should I answer? Did I even know? He spoke the same language that the younger man had, and yet I understood. Could I speak it? The man brought his left hand up to cup his chin as he glared at me, his knuckles resting against the side of his mouth, the ring glinting. The point of the sword at my neck prodded me and I swallowed, still spellbound.
“Well?” he bellowed.
I cowered. I wasn’t the only one in the room to flinch. “I don’t know.” It seemed I could speak the language. I hoped that these weren’t about to be my last words.
“Father…?”
Another wave of the hand at his son, then he leaned forwards again. “Get her up.”
“Lord Eredan?” said the man with a sword at my neck.
He shot my guards a look that said: don’t make me ask again, and I was dragged to my feet by my handcuffs.
“Father, her eyes,” said the talkative son as soon as I was standing.
The father turned in his chair to face him. “When I want your opinion Orian, I will ask for it.” The softness of his voice terrified me more than his roar.
He stepped off the dais. I couldn’t hide my shaking. Slowly, he circled me and I kept my gaze fixed on his empty chair.
Orian coughed lightly. “Father, she is a Guardian.”
Lord Eredan spun to face his son. “She. Is. NOT!”
The room shook with his fury. The two men eyeballed each other for a second before Orian averted his gaze.
Lord Eredan turned to me. “Take her back to the portal. Or I kill her. I will not have an Outsider in my realm.”
Orian paled. I forced myself to keep my chin up, however much I wanted to run and hide.
“She’s a Guardian.” Orian squared his shoulders. “It’s Aeron.”
Lord Eredan faced his son down, his nose about three inches away from him. “Even if she is, why do you think I would ever let her back into my realm? Anyway, what makes you think that this Outsider is a Guardian?”
“She crossed the portal. Her eyes. The salve causes excruciating pain while it heals.”
“She should be dead by now if she were Aeron,” said Lord Eredan. “Outside she must age as Outsiders do.”
“The Seers said that Aeron would suffer many lives before returning to The Realm.”
Lord Eredan’s gaze scoured me. “And you think that this girl has suffered many lives?”
“Father, she’s a Guardian. Only one Guardian is unaccounted for and that’s Aeron.”
“I banished Aeron for all eternity. So even if it is Aeron, why should I allow her back in?”
Orian turned to me. “What happened? Before you found yourself in the hall? How did you lose your finger?”
His father moved to stand in front of me. I held my ground, chin up. A flicker of surprise chased across his brow and his lips curled in a part smile. “Do answer my son. We are all curious.”
I darted a glance at Orian who nodded almost imperceptibly. Lord Eredan’s face hardened. “Don’t make me ask again.”
I sucked in a ragged breath. “I was thrown against the rock face. And then I was in the passageway that leads here.”
“Who threw you? Why were you at the portal?”
The words came from Lord Eredan like slaps and I scurried to explain. “Aegyir forced me to the portal. Stephen threw me at the rock face.”
“Aegyir?” Lord Eredan froze, his jaw hard. I hesitated. That was the name the demon had been called in my dreams and in the book that had been left for me on my kitchen table. I scrambled to remember if he’d ever called himself that name. He certainly hadn’t corrected me when I’d referred to him by it.
“Yes, I believe he’s called Aegyir.”
“You believe?” Lord Eredan mocked me. “Why do you believe?”
“He was called that in my dreams. And in a book I found.”
I sounded foolish even to myself. Lord Eredan narrowed his eyes. “Go on. You still haven’t told us how you lost your finger.”
I rubbed the stump self-consciously. “Aegyir dragged me to the rock face and demanded that I invite him in, and—”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the collected men, except for the man in front of me who straightened slightly. He flicked his head at the guard with the knife, who marched down the hallway towards the place I’d been found.
“You brought Aegyir to my realm again?” His breath hissed with fury.
“No, sir. He brought me. I didn’t even know there was a portal.”
“Sir?” His lips twisted. “Sir?”
My eyes sought Orian, but his attention remained locked on his father.
“Father, she’s been banished a long time and perhaps doesn’t remember our ways. I’m sure that ‘sir’ is a term of respect outside The Realm.”
Above us, the clouds parted, allowing watery sunlight to illuminate the hall, highlighting Lord Eredan’s features.
He drew in a breath. “So… Aegyir wanted you to invite him in… Did you?” His voice was slow, his consonants precise.
“No.” Sweat prickled my spine.
“How did you lose a finger? How did you escape? He wouldn’t let you go easily. We all have old scores to settle with you, Aeron.”
Beside me, Orian shuffled, his leather clothes creaking.
“He threatened to cut my hand off,” I said. “He took my finger off to prove that he meant it. We fought, and I turned him into smoke, and Stephen – the other man there – threw me at the rock. The next thing I remember is being in the hallway.”
Lord Eredan smiled thinly. “He cut your finger off? That’s less than you deserve. You betrayed everyone… What do you mean by you ‘turned him into smoke’?”
“After I stuck the daggers in and lopped his head off, he tu
rned into a column of smoke.”
Lord Eredan stepped closer. “You did what?”
I sneaked a peek at Orian but couldn’t read his expression. “Um. I’d found a book that explained who and what Aegyir was, and how to kill him. Then I found a bag of soil and three daggers, and a sword and a pot.” I ground to a halt, the expression on Lord Eredan’s face making my heart pound and my mouth desiccate.
“You found these things? Where?”
My stomach filled with rocks. “On a table, in my house. They’d been left there.”
“Who left them?”
“I don’t know.”
I had an idea that it was someone called Lilja – a woman from my dreams – but I thought Lord Eredan might start breathing fire any moment so I kept the guess to myself.
Lord Eredan’s gaze rested on his son. “Which two Guardians left The Realm to help?”
“No one. No one came to help me.”
His focus returned to me. “How did you know it was Aegyir? How did you know what to do with the items left for you?”
“It was in the book that was also left on the table. Along with this.” I raised my arm cautiously, to show him the charm-bracelet with the opalescent stone encased in silver filigree. “This glows blue when Aegyir is around. The book said where to stab him and that it had to happen on Realm soil. I assumed that was what was in the bag.”
Lord Eredan’s face was only inches from mine. There was a long pause before he spoke. “Didn’t this book tell you that it takes three Guardians to kill a demon? You would have been two short, even assuming that you are one.”
My body sagged. Finn and I could never have killed Aegyir if that was true. And Aegyir must have known that. “No. It neglected to mention that part.”
Lord Eredan stepped back and scanned me disparagingly. “You managed all of it on your own?”
“Yes.”
“I banished you for all eternity. Why should I allow you to return? Regardless of what the Seers have said.”