Warbringer

by Aaron Hodges

  Nodding to herself, the woman reached into her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath caught in Chris’s throat as he glimpsed the contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realized his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some device he’d only thought existed in old movies. In real life though, it was far more terrifying than anything Hollywood had ever produced.

  “Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front of him.

  Her eyes drifted to Chris’s face, but she only shook her head. She studied the liquid in the vial attached to the gun’s barrel, then looked back at Chris, as though weighing him up.

  “Hold him,” she said at last.

  “What?” Chris gasped as his captor pulled his arms behind his back. “What are you doing? Please, you’re making a mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong!”

  The woman didn’t answer. Chris struggled to escape as she raised the gun to his neck, but the man only pulled his arms harder, sending a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Biting back a scream, Chris looked up at the woman. Their eyes met, and he thought he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes.

  Then the cold of the hypodermic gun touched his neck, followed by a hiss of gas as she pressed the trigger. Metal pinched Chris’s neck, and then the woman stepped back. Holding his breath, Chris stared at the woman, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Within seconds, the first touch of weariness started to seep through Chris’s body. He blinked as shadows spread around the edges of his vision. Idly, he struggled to free his arms, so he might chase the shadows away. But the man still held him fast. Sucking in a mouthful of air, Chris fought against the exhaustion. Blinking hard, he willed himself to resist the pull of sleep.

  But there was no stopping the warmth spreading through his limbs. His head bobbed and his arms went limp, until the only thing keeping him upright was the strength of his captor.

  The woman’s face was the last thing Chris saw before he slipped into the darkness.

  Continue reading with The Genome Project…

  THE SWORD OF LIGHT TRILOGY

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, you might want to go back to where it all began!

  The Sword of Light

  When Eric was young a terrible power woke within him. Horrified by the devastation he had unleashed, Eric fled his village, and has spent the last two years wandering the wilderness alone. Now, desperate to end his isolation, he seeks a new life in the town of Oaksville. But the power of the Gods is fading, and in their absence, dark things have come creeping back to the Three Nations. Civilisation is no longer the safe haven he once knew, and Eric will soon learn he is not the only one with power…

  Chapter 1

  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 swallowe
d 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. The 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.”

  A chill breeze blew through the alley and the hairs on the back of Eric’s neck stood on end. He looked up and saw Pyrros grinning back at him. But now his face no longer seemed so friendly.

  Slowly, Eric drew to a stop. Laughing, Pyrros turned back and placed his hands on his hips.

  “What’s the matter, Eric?”

  Eric shook his head as he retreated a step. Inwardly he cursed his stupidity, in allowing himself to be lead away from the crowd. His skull gave another sharp throb. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to concentrate.

  “I think I prefer the crowd to the garbage, thanks.” Eric swallowed as Pyrros’s eyes hardened.

  Quickly he turned away, preparing to flee. But two men now stood in the alley behind him, blocking his path. One held a wooden baton loosely in his hand, the other a heavy club. Both stood at least a foot taller than Eric. They were dressed in the plain clothes of villagers, but their smiles suggested darker intentions. They spread out across the alleyway, blocking Eric’s escape.

  “Don’t bother running, mate,” there was menace in Pyrros’s voice now. “Make this easier on yourself.”

  Eric half-turned, keeping the other men in sight. “What do you want?”

  Pyrros shrugged. “Trades hard with the Baronians ruling the wilderness. Not much work for an honest merchant.” He took a step towards Eric as he spoke, his boots crunching in the filth of the alleyway. “Gotta change with the times.”

  Eric retreated, but that only narrowed the distance with the other men. “I don’t have any money.”

  Pyrros laughed. “Don’t want your money, mate.” He looked Eric up and down. “Young lad like you should fetch a good price in the Trolan mines.”

  Ice wrapped around Eric’s heart. “You’re a slaver.”

  He shot the man a look of pure disgust. Slavery had been forbidden in the Three Nations for centuries. Those who still practiced the trade were considered the scum of the land – and faced execution if they were caught.

  “Eric, how could you accuse old Pyrros of such a thing?” Pyrros placed a hand on his chest in mock hurt. “I just keep my eyes open, is all. Help spot the ones no one will miss. Marked you the second you walked through the gates. Looked like a lost little foal, standing there in the square.”

  Eric clenched his fists. “My parents are coming later. They’ll look for me–”

  A burst of laughter cut him off. The men behind him were creeping closer. Eric shrank back from them, his eyes flickering back and forth as he weighed up his options. His heart raced and blood pounded painfully in his head.

  This cannot be happening!

  Scratching his beard, Pyrros casually took another step. “These Baronians will introduce you to that new life you were looking for, mate. Give it up.”

  Eric’s shoulders slumped, and bowing his head, he stepped towards Pyrros. The man grinned and reached for him, but at the last second Eric spun and leapt at the man with the club. As he moved he drew the knife from his belt, but the man was already ready for him. Grinning, the thug lifted his weapon.

  Shifting on his heel, Eric twisted again and dove for the gap between the Baronians.

  He almost made it.

  The breath exploded between Eric’s teeth as the club caught him in the chest and hurled him backwards. The dagger slipped from his fingers as his strength fled. Choking, he slumped to his knees, before another blow sent him tumbling backwards.

  Fury flared in his chest as the Baronians entered his vision, broad grins darkening their faces. Overhead, thunder clapped, and raindrops began to fall.

  Footsteps came from nearby. Pyrros appeared, a frown on his r
ugged face. “You disappoint me, Eric. I took you for a quick learner.”

  Lifting his boot, Pyrros slammed it into Eric’s side. Agony tore through Eric’s chest as he rolled onto his side, eyes watering as he gasped for air. But another blow caught him in the stomach and hurled him back.

  Groaning, Eric gritted his teeth, the embers of his fury taking light, burning suddenly in the darkness of his mind.

  “Stupid boy.” Now the rain was bucketing down, filling the alleyway, soaking through the clothes of his attackers. Pyrros’ boot lashed out again, smashing into his ribs and head.

  Eric curled into a ball as the assault continued. He shrieked with the pain of each blow, fear and rage battling within.

  Then red flashed across his vision, and something snapped inside of him. A terrible light exploded through his mind, slipping from the deepest recesses of his consciousness. Its power swept through him, washing away all thought, all sensation. He no longer felt the blows of his attackers, or the rain, or the dirt beneath his fingers. All that remained was an all-consuming hate, a need to lash out.

  A tormented scream echoed through the alleyway as the last barrier in his mind shattered.

  Eric opened his eyes. Blue light lit the stone walls around him, freezing the men in its glare. He watched the rage in Pyrros’s eyes turn to terror, saw the Baronians glance up, smelt the burning as it came.

  Heard the boom as the lightning struck.

  The men vanished into the blue light, their screams cut short by the roar of thunder. There was no chance to escape. One second the three were standing there, the next the lightning had consumed them.

  But it did not stop there.

  With a deafening crack, the sky tore asunder, unleashing the lightning hidden behind the black clouds.

  Screams rose over the thunder, as destruction poured down on the defenceless village. Splinters of wood and stone filled the air as the blue fire tore whole buildings apart.

  Eric struggled to his feet. His anger had vanished, his hatred spent. He stumbled towards the marketplace, mouth agape, horror clutching at his soul.