by Aaron Hodges
“Yet our summoning also inadvertently created Archon, and the seeds for a fresh conflict that almost destroyed all the good we had created.”
A breeze carried the stench of the dead beast to where they sat. Eric wrinkled his nose, stomach roiling. Antonia must have smelt it too, as she stood and walked over to the corpse. Eric joined her.
“The two of you did well to slay it. Few survive the wrath of such a beast.”
“What are they called? How can they survive in such a wasteland?”
“They are Raptors. And not by my will, I assure you,” she raised a hand.
Light spilt from her hand to bathe the beast. Tendrils shot from the ground to wrap around the corpse, small, green and strong. They twisted and turned, growing tighter and thicker as leaves sprouted. The body shook as though it had returned to life, then shoots erupted from its flesh, weaving together with the others to engulf the corpse.
Within minutes, a bush stood where the body had lain. Pink flowers began to bloom. A beautiful azalea plant now stood amidst the stark desert plain.
“There, that’s better.”
Eric sat down, hard. He recognised the significance of what he had witnessed. Antonia had created the bush from nothing. He stared at her, seeing what his ancestors must have seen all that time ago when they followed her to Plorsea.
Yet he could also see the strain on her face. Her skin had paled and she was panting softly. A sheen of sweat beaded her forehead.
“Are you all right?” he asked in concern.
Antonia nodded. “It’s hard to work my magic in this place. The curse that lies over the Wasteland is not one I can break alone. The land itself is ingrained with Archon’s taint; it fights the magic of the Earth. Within a few days the bush will die, as does everything good in this desert.”
“That is why you cannot restore the forest?”
“Alone, I do not have the strength. It is Archon’s last mockery; that my nation be cursed with such a place of death,” Antonia’s voice was laced with bitterness.
Silence fell. It seemed war was the incurable blight of the Three Nations. Eric had only heard legends of the Great Wars from the time before the Gods, but all knew the details of Archon’s war. It had been over a century since those dark times, yet mention of his name could still cast a shadow over the brightest of days.
Eric breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers, drawing strength from the plant’s beauty amidst the wasteland surrounding them. His mind toyed with another question, one he felt Antonia might be able to answer.
“Who is Alastair? What is his purpose?” the words slipped from his mouth in a whisper.
Antonia turned the glow of her violet eyes on him. Her smile faded. “Ah, so we have come to the crux of the night.”
Eric turned his head in confusion. “What?”
“Alastair is a complicated man and his purpose is one of great secrecy. Can you be trusted with such a secret, Eric?” she flicked a strand of hair away from her face.
Eric felt a rush of fear, but it fled before his rising excitement. He owed Alastair his life. The least he could offer in return was his aid in whatever undertaking had driven him through the Wasteland.
Eric stared into the Goddess’ eyes. “I swear by… err, Antonia, that you can trust me,” blood rushed to his head as he spoke. The purple of Antonia’s irises seemed to swirl.
Then his vision cleared and he found the Goddess smiling. “Good, I’ll hold you to it,” she cleared her throat. “I’d better start at the beginning, although you will know parts of the story. Two hundred years ago, my brother Darius vanished. He abandoned Trola and the Three Nations, and no one has heard from him since. He did not care to tell even his siblings where he went, or what he was doing.”
“I hope this isn’t your big secret, because I hate to disappoint you – everyone knows that. And what does it have to do with Alastair?”
Antonia grimaced. “I said I’d start from the beginning, Eric. So try not to interrupt. When Darius left, he at least had the foresight to leave behind a sword infused with his power over the element of Light.”
“Which became the Sword of Light?”
“Yes. Now, is this my tale, or yours?” Antonia’s eyes glittered dangerously.
Eric blushed and shut his mouth.
“Unfortunately, the sword was useless. Worse than useless, in fact – it was deadly to any mortal who touched it – or so it seemed. Even Jurrien and I were repelled when we tried to wield it. For a time, we allowed Magickers from across the Three Nations to test the Sword. It burned them all to ash. Eventually we had to stop; the price had grown too high.”
“So for the next hundred years, Trola was Godless. Worse – without Darius’ power over the Light to aid us, Jurrien and I were stretched thin. The land weakened and the dark things crept from the holes we had banished them to. The hearts of the people grew hard. Even in Plorsea and Lonia they suffered, for our power is infinitely weaker without the Three.”
“Then there came a day when the dark things vanished. No one could explain it, but somehow there was peace again. The people began to speak of Darius’ return, that the God of Light was in hiding and would soon reveal himself. Jurrien and I knew better; we would have sensed if our brother was near.”
“At the end of that year, the dark things returned. Ghouls and Raptors and countless unnamed beasts flooded from the Northern Badlands, marching beneath the banner of Archon.”
“That was the beginning of Archon’s war, wasn’t it?” Eric had never heard this part of the tale before – the legends spoke only of the war itself, not how it had begun.
He looked up when she did not continue. Fire burned in Antonia’s eyes, but he found himself grinning. It seemed even the patience of the Gods was limited. Perhaps they were more human than he realised.
Eric managed to look contrite. “Sorry, won’t happen again.”
Antonia rolled her eyes and he ruined his act with a soft chuckle.
The Goddess smirked; a sly twist to her lips that spoke of drastic consequences if he disturbed her again. Eric’s laughter died in his throat.
“Okay, where was I? Archon. He was a Trolan man once, one who fought against the appearance of the Gods. He wielded a powerful magic, but it was not enough for him. He gave himself to its dark side. With the power it gave him, he killed the Master of the priests who had summoned us. For that, they banished him to the badlands in the North.”
“It wasn’t until he reappeared leading his army that we realised our mistake. His mastery of the dark magic had given him immortal life, and he had spent the centuries building his powers. I have never seen a more potent human, nor one with so little humanity remaining to them. The darkness he wielded could not be matched.”
“Even by you?” this had always confused him. How could Archon have wreaked so much havoc when two Gods still opposed him?
Antonia sighed. “With Jurrien at my side, we stood against Archon’s madness. We attacked him with every ounce of the Earth and Sky we could muster. The darkness consumed it all and threw it back in our faces.”
“The dark magic tore into us, ripped at our skin and stole into our very souls. For a second I thought it would consume us. I felt myself teeter on the brink of madness; and then a blast of lightning shattered its grip. My senses returned and I threw up a wall of vegetation between Archon and ourselves. Before he could burn his way through, we fled. We barely escaped with our lives.”
Antonia’s tiny body shook and a glitter of tears were gathering in her eyes. Eric hesitated, and then reached out a hand. Antonia took it with a small smile. It seemed a futile gesture, considering who and what she was, but he made it all the same.
Antonia shifted so they sat side by side. “You’re a sweet soul, Eric,” she hugged him before continuing with her tale. “With our magic defeated, the Three Nations were left with no choice but battle. Archon was powerful, but his army still had to cross The Gap. So we mustered fighters from every town and city
of the Three Nations and, for the first time in four hundred years, the people marched to war. Together the armies of Trola, Plorsea and Lonia manned Fort Fall and prepared to defend The Gap. It was the first time in history Trola and Lonia stood side by side against a common foe.”
Eric was silent now. He had heard this part of the tale before, but the way Antonia told it was personal. She had been there, witnessed and mourned the deaths of her people. They were not just historical figures from an old book or legend to her. She had felt the fear that plagued the land, the hate that had taken seed in human hearts.
“We did not have to wait long. They came like hell itself unleashed – demons, beasts and men. A thousand Raptors like the one you fought tonight, and many creatures more horrible. The men who fought alongside them were the scum of society, those who had been banished to the north in punishment for their crimes.”
“Against them stood the men and women of the Three Nations. Flames seared holes in our ranks and the earth opened to swallow men whole. The claws and swords of the enemy seemed endless. Yet whenever one brave soul fell, another stepped forward to take their place. And damn it, we were winning.”
“Then Archon took his place on the battlefield. He flew overhead, morphed beyond all recognition, darkening the heavens with his magic. Clouds gathered around him and my heart clenched in terror. I felt Jurrien release his magic, trying one last time to tear the monster from the sky. It was only seconds before he collapsed to the ground coughing blood.”
“But Archon did not care about our feeble attempts to stop him. Until then he had only toyed with us. I felt his whisper in my mind. Feeble, powerless beings; can you do this?"
"Then the sky opened up, and it was not rain or lightning that fell, but fire. Flames engulfed The Gap. Thousands upon thousands of our people fell in the minutes that followed, consumed by Archon’s dark firestorm. Brave souls, all.”
“I watched in horror, powerless to save them. My heart broke as I felt the lives of my people erased from existence, as those who had loved me were cast burning into the abyss.”
Now tears spilt down Antonia’s face and ran down her freckled cheeks. Eric hugged her again, unable to imagine the horror. All those people. Their bravery and strength meant nothing against Archon’s magic. They had never stood a chance.
Antonia sniffed and in a half-choked voice, continued her story. “We fled with the shattered remnants of our armies. I used what feeble magic I could still summon to stall the dark host that chased us, but we lost many more as we retreated. Jurrien’s defiance had cost him dearly, leaving me alone to stand against Archon’s might.”
“Only one king survived the catastrophe at The Gap. His name was Thomas, the king of Trola, and he led the retreat. At his side was his champion and bodyguard – Alastair.”
Eric blinked. It took a full second to process what he had just heard. He broke away from Antonia, staring at her in shock. “That’s not possible – that would make Alastair over a hundred years old!”
Antonia nodded. “Alastair has enjoyed an unusually long life. One in a thousand Magickers will age far slower than a normal human. Alastair is one of these lucky few.”
Eric’s mouth hung open.
Choosing to ignore Eric’s disbelief, Antonia continued with her story. “Thomas and Alastair led the remnants of the army south as far as Chole, but there they were ensnared and forced to make a final stand. The enemy had spread out across the land, wreaking havoc as they went, until we were completely encircled.”
Eric remembered what came next. “Isn’t this where you give–”
“Eric!” Antonia shrieked.
He winced, glancing across at her meekly. “Sorry?”
Antonia shook her head. The sly grin returned and her eyes sparkled with humour. Eric had a feeling the laugh would be at his expense.
“Eric, you really are impossible. I think we’ll try doing this a little differently.”
She leaned across and placed her hands either side of his head. Her grip was light and her skin soft to the touch. The smell of roses grew sharper. Slowly, she began to apply pressure. Eric looked straight into her eyes, fascinated by the intense concentration on her youthful face.
“This won’t hurt – much.”
Pain exploded through his skull and everything went black.
Ten
“These are Alastair’s memories, enjoy,” Antonia’s voice was soft and distant.
Eric's vision returned, but he no longer sat by the fire in darkness, was no longer even himself.
******************
Alastair looked out over the forest of campfires encircling the city like a giant claw. The specks of light stretched north as far as the eye could see; more enemies yet to reach the battlefield. The night tasted of ash and above the stars hid behind clouds of smoke.
Plorsea was burning, and Chole was all that remained to stand against the dark tide. It would not be long before they swept this city away as well. Archon’s armies would attack before the dawn; he could feel it in his blood.
The walls of Chole stretched away to either side of him. Men and women packed the battlements. The light of the enemy campfires lit their faces, revealing their masks of courage. Alastair’s chest swelled with pride. These were ordinary people: farmers and merchants, fishermen and foresters. Yet he knew they would not break. They would stand to the last against the hosts of evil, hopeless as it may be.
Alastair took a deep breath and moved back from the ramparts. They were sixty feet high and just over fifteen feet wide. No siege engine would breach them, but the massive forest surrounding Chole would supply plenty of wood for scaling-ladders.
Taking another breath, he began to stretch, loosening his muscles in preparation for the coming fight. His chainmail rattled with each movement. Its weight did not bother him, but he knew it would grow heavier as the battle stretched on.
He closed his eyes, allowing fear and thought to drift away. It would be a long night, and a longer day. He needed to focus.
The men stared as he moved through a sequence of blows and parries. He ignored them, concentrating on the host of ghostly soldiers surrounding him. His movements grew faster as his muscles warmed. His frosty gaze revealed nothing of his inner turmoil; there was no need to add his fears to their own.
Unsheathing his sword, he began a new string of attacks. His blade hissed as it sliced the air, each cut deflecting imaginary blades, each thrust piercing a phantom heart. The soldiers nearest backed away to give him space. He stepped up the tempo again, his sword becoming a blur, his feet stepping from stance to stance without hesitation.
There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead when he finished. Warmth flowed through his muscles and the steady beat of his heart told him he was ready. His worries had fallen away, replaced by a cool determination to survive.
A trumpet sounded from out on the plain. Alastair sighed. Soon real enemies would replace the phantoms, and chaos would embrace the night.
“Are we ready, Alastair?” Thomas made his way through the soldiers packing the fortifications.
Alastair nodded to the king. “We’ll show them a thing or two, old friend.”
Thomas gave a grim smile and took his place beside Alastair. He too sported chainmail armour, its strong steel links glowing in the light cast by their enemy’s torches. He wore an open-faced war helm over his short auburn hair, but no gold or gems to mark him as king. His hazel eyes stared out over the battlefield, his mouth set in a stubborn frown.
Alastair reached out and gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Smile, man. The men need to see our confidence. You’ll terrify them with that scowl.”
Thomas gave a toothy grin. “This better?”
Alastair laughed. “You look like a lunatic, but it’ll do.”
Beneath the great walls, the enemy began to form up. It was difficult to make out details in the dim light, but the glint of metal from below suggested human warriors would make up the first wave.
&n
bsp; The thump of ten thousand marching feet echoed off the walls. Alastair glimpsed the massive ladders held at the ready. Soon they would come crashing down against the ramparts and a flood of men would rush up the walls towards them.
The enemy’s horns sounded again. The men below surged forward, their battle cries washing over the defenders like a wave. Blades quivered in the hands of wide-eyed men – as fear sank deep into their hearts. Below the enemy rushed towards the walls, weapons raised, wooden shields held above their heads.
“Archers, ready!” Thomas’ voice carried no fear. Others carried the call along the line.
The men nearest them straightened and held their weapons higher. Thomas’ bravery was legend among the men, his deeds at The Gap almost gospel. His courage inspired them; they would follow him to the end.
Alastair watched their enemies charge across the open ground. He counted slowly, knowing they would be within range in seconds. One, two, three…
“Fire!” Thomas shouted.
A volley of arrows rose into the air, steel tips reaching for the dark sky. The shriek as they flew sounded through the night. Below the enemy charged on, ignorant to the death that hovered overhead.
High above, gravity took hold, and the host of missiles fell. The deadly rain smashed into the ranks below. The enemy’s charge faltered, their war cries turning to shrieks of agony. Hundreds fell – yet the men behind pressed on, trampling their dead and injured beneath iron shod feet. There was no mercy for the injured in Archon’s army.
A second volley struck the enemy’s ranks – and a third. Fewer fell now, and Alastair saw the following ranks were better armoured than those who had led the charge. Their progress slowed, but still the dark mass drew ever closer to the wall.