The Sword of Light: The Complete Trilogy

by Aaron Hodges

  She stood and looked around as the last shadows faded into the ground. Somewhere in her reckless sprint through the maze, she had finally reached the top of the cliffs. Soft, short cropped grass grew out around them, covering the peak. A flock of sheep grazed nearby, a few looking up to study the intruders on their private mountaintop. In the distance, the pasture gave way to small trees. The forest led down a gentle slope, where the rest of the island spread out beneath them.

  Enala found her gaze drawn across the pasture to where a rundown building overlooked the harbour. Fragile sandstone walls stood against the mountain breeze, decorated with faded murals of the sun and stars. In each painting a figure stood in the light, a silent guide against the darkness. Cracks riddled the walls and the roof had long since collapsed.

  Granite pillars lay strewn amongst the grass and across the steps leading up to the temple. Broken stone marked where they had once stood, bordering the temple stairs. Moss grew on the leeward surfaces of the stone, rusted braziers still attached to the top of each.

  “This was a Temple of the Light,” Enala whispered. She looked round again. “But what happened to the maze?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I do not believe the creatures and the shadows were ever meant to come into contact. They were polar opposites of the same spell. When you tricked the Raptor into charging the shadows, it triggered a chain reaction which twisted the protection back in on itself. Either way, we are here.”

  Enala scowled. “No thanks to you,” she snapped, her anger flaring to life. “You ran.”

  Jonathan hung his head. “I know,” he clenched the sword tight in his hand. “I am sorry, I allowed my terror to overwhelm me. That place… it unmanned me,” he took a breath. “Can you forgive me?”

  Enala looked away, tempted to tell the cowardly king to leave. At least he came back, she reasoned.

  At last she nodded. “The Sword is in there?” she asked.

  “Yes, I believe so. We have passed the last of the protections. All that is left is for you to claim the Sword,” he held out an arm, indicating she should lead.

  Enala drew in a breath of mountain air, setting aside her doubts. She was here for a reason; she could not afford to be side-tracked. The soft ground sank beneath her feet as she crossed the field, mud sticking to her boots. The sheep cast jumpy glances at them as they weaved between them, their nervous baas coming from all directions.

  Stepping over the fallen columns, Enala climbed the staircase to where the open doorway beckoned. She walked through the musty shade of the anteroom and continued into what must once have been a great chamber filled with priests and worshipers. Now though, the place was a ruin.

  Stone tiles from the fallen roof lay in disordered piles and rotted wooden beams littered the floor. The chamber now appeared as an open air courtyard, although signs of the temple remained. Four stone pillars stood untouched near the centre. Images representing the Light were carved into each: flames and stars, the sun and moon. Furtive eyes watched from the top of the pillars, looking inwards to a stone altar in the centre of the room.

  It was to the altar Enala’s eyes were drawn. There, hovering point down, was the Sword of Light. The steel blade glowed like the noonday sun, its light streaming across the broken courtyard to cast off the shadows of dawn. The great blade extended at least three feet. Above the two-handed grip a diamond sat in the pommel, shining with a golden light.

  Enala swallowed, frozen with awe.

  She glanced back at Jonathan, a sudden fear giving her pause. She had heard tales of the Sword’s power, how it was deadly to all but a chosen few.

  What if they had been wrong?

  “What now?” she asked.

  Jonathan attempted a smile, but could not keep the nerves from his face. His eyes flickered to the Sword and he shook his head. Enala followed his gaze. For a moment, she allowed its light to wash over her, feasting on the sight of it, feeling its power tugging at her soul.

  Then doubt snapped her back to reality and she retreated a step. She shuddered and would have turned back then, if not for the sacrifices her friends had made to get her there. This was not what she wanted, what she dreamed of.

  But she had no choice. Seeing there would be no more aid from Jonathan, Enala glanced down and realised she still stood within the anteroom, on the threshold of the inner chamber. Closing her eyes, she summoned her courage, and stepped forward.

  As her foot crossed the wooden level marking the perimeter of the chamber, a dread swept over her. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck and ice fed her veins. In that instant she knew she’d made a mistake, that something had just gone terribly wrong. Something lurked in the shadows of this place, some other magic.

  The bracelets on her wrists blazed to life. Their angry red glow bathed the sandstone walls, battling with the light of the Sword. She gasped as the bands contracted, shrinking until the hot silver cut into her skin. Their heat seared at her wrists, wrapping them in cuffs of flame.

  With a scream she dove backwards, desperate to escape the courtyard. But an invisible force took hold of the bracelets, trapping her in place. They held fast against her, oblivious to her shrieks.

  Then she felt the first tug, as they began to draw her inexorably into the temple.

  Enala fought to free her wrists from the fiery grasp, crying out for help, twisting to look for Jonathan. Her boots slid beneath her, scrambling for purchase on the broken floor.

  Bit by bit, the cuffs dragged her towards the centre of the broken chamber.

  “Help!” she yelled, trying to jolt Jonathan into action. “Jonathan, do something!”

  An icy hand crawled inside her chest as she heard Jonathan’s laughter. He strode past her to stand beside the stone alter, eyes fixed on her now, an eager hunger on his face.

  Enala shook her head, mouthed the word ‘no,’ but could not find her voice. She kicked at the wooden beams, pushing back against the steady pull of the bracelets. Tears burned her eyes as she fought, determined to resist. The pain of the Raptor injury felt dull compared to the agony of her wrists.

  The cuffs drew her to one of the stone pillars. Her back thudded against the cool marble as the bracelets struck. Then they continued their relentless crawl upwards, lifting her from the ground as the metal welded to stone. She dangled in the air, boots scrambling for a foothold against the smooth stone at her back. The cuffs bit deeper as the burning metal took all her weight. Blood ran down her arm from the gash left by the Raptor.

  Enala kicked out, furious, desperate to free herself from the entrapment. The stench of burning flesh reached her nose as she bit back a sob. Her chest contracted and she struggled for breath, her weight pushing down on her lungs.

  Jonathan walked forwards, raising a hand in mock solute. “We arrive at last, kinswoman!”

  *************

  Eric flashed across the sky, the white caps of the raging ocean far below. Ahead Witchcliffe Island grew steadily larger, its peaks obscured by a dome of shimmering air. His heart beat hard in his chest, Laurel’s final words still ringing in his ears.

  What had Antonia told her? What could the Goddess have said to convince Laurel to take on the demon alone? She had no hope of winning, of that Eric had no doubt.

  She was giving her life for his.

  The wind whipped away his tears. They had been enemies since the day they’d met, yet she had made the ultimate sacrifice for him. The woman had changed, or perhaps he had simply missed the good within her. He had seen it when she stood alone against the demon though, when she had told him to flee.

  Pulling more energy from within, he pushed the winds faster. He would not allow her sacrifice to be in vain.

  Light flashed as an explosion tore the sky over the island. Eric dropped like a stone as the shock wave struck him, disrupting his magic and ripping the wind from his grasp. A brilliant light rushed from the top of Witchcliffe Island, casting the ocean below in a patchwork of angry shadows.

  Eric shielded his eyes ag
ainst the glare. Pushing down his fear, he took a firmer grasp of the wind and halted his free fall.

  What just happened?

  Slowly the light faded to a dim glimmer, then died away. He stared ahead at the island. The veil of haze had lifted, revealing red cliffs stretching up into the sky. Above the peaks he made out a distant building, sun glinting off the brown walls. Another light seemed to come from within, seeping out through the broken roof. Blinking his eyes, he tried to make out the source.

  He was still some distance away, but his gut told him it was the place.

  Eric just prayed the explosion had not come from Enala attempting to wield the Sword.

  My sister, he was still struggling with Antonia’s revelation. But however he felt about Antonia and her secrets, he was not going to let Enala throw her life away. Not after all she had scarified for the Three Nations.

  And certainly not before he broke the news to her.

  I’m coming, sis.

  Twenty Three

  “What are you doing?” Enala spat, writhing against the pillar. Anger helped to dull the pain, but there was no breaking the hold of the silver bracelets.

  “What I have been planning for months, my dear. You see, this place does not belong to the council, the magic protecting it was not theirs. I created all this long ago, before my magic was lost. I designed it to protect the Sword from everyone but me.”

  “Why?” Enala grated. “The Sword is the only thing left to protect us from Archon. And you cannot even use it without your magic.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right, of course. Try not to rub it in,” he wagged a finger. “But I could not simply pass its power to another. The Sword is mine!”

  Enala struggled to breathe as her weight pulled down on her arms, constricting her chest. She tried to calm herself, but her heart refused to slow and the lack of air made her head swim. Her feet beat at the pillar, trying to take some weight from her arms.

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Jonathan,” she gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

  “All will be clear soon, my dear,” he walked round the alter, pulling materials from his pack as he went. “I suppose you deserve some explanation before you die though. You don’t mind if I work while we talk, do you? I imagine the council will have noticed your absence by now. I must be ready for when they arrive,” he flashed her a grin.

  His words froze Enala in place. “You’re going to kill me? Why?” her shout came out as a weak cough.

  She stared at the objects as he arranged them on the alter. A pestle and mortar lay alongside a small velvet bag. Vials of strange liquids joined them, the dark red of one looking suspiciously like blood.

  “You have no idea what it is like,” Jonathan’s voice had a bitter tang, “to be born with such a gift as magic, only to feel it slowly shrivel and die in your hands,” he took up the mortar and began pouring in measurements of the different liquids.

  “My greatest fear was that one day it would vanish completely. I may have never been as powerful as the likes of Alastair,” he spat the name. “Who never once tried to save the magic of my line. But it was mine, and gave me happiness in an otherwise joyless life.”

  “So, coward that you are, you hid the Sword away, so no one could use it?” Enala growled.

  “Yes, yes, yes, but that is not the end of it,” Jonathan snapped back. “I made plans, you see. Plans that required the Sword, plans for which you are the final piece of the puzzle.”

  Enala struggled to think through the pain, battled against her own weight to breathe. She locked her eyes to Jonathan, willing him to die. Her magic bubbled up within, straining just below the surface, until she was gasping from the pressure of its unspent force. Then the cuffs flashed brighter and the power sank back into the depths of her mind. She shrank back against the stone, tears streaming down her face.

  “Good girl, Enala. Don’t worry, this will all be over soon,” he moved back to the alter.

  Enala spat, wanting nothing more than to tear his head from his shoulders.

  “For years I searched for a cure, for a way to break Archon’s curse. But his magic was too great and my own too weak for such a task. So I turned my studies to other matters. Like how to restore lost powers.”

  “You are trying to bring back your own magic?”

  Jonathan pursed his lips. “Would that I could, but unfortunately such a feat also proved impossible. However, through my studies I did discover that Magickers can link their power, though it is very dangerous. One might accidently suck the very life force from another, or be overcome by the influx of power. It was not much good to me, but the discovery put me on the right track.”

  “Finally, I found the spells which would allow me to use that connection to rob another Magicker of their power, and transfer it to me. Of course, it does require the donation of the other Magicker’s life to complete the process.”

  Enala stared at the mad king, unable to believe what she was hearing. “But why me? Surely you could have taken any Magicker?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know. But what would be the point? It is our family’s magic that allows us to wield the Sword. So I had to be patient, had to bide my time and wait for you to arrive,” he grinned, “but I did not lie idle. As I said, I had this place created, protected so that I could work unhindered. And I moved the Sword here, so when you arrived you would be forced to enter my rabbit warren.”

  “You’re insane. Eric, the council, they’ll kill you for this!” Enala pulled against her bonds, hot tears in her eyes. Her arms ached, blood still running from the wound left by the Raptor. She watched as Jonathan continued preparing whatever mad potion his spell required.

  Her head pounded, her thoughts growing foggy from blood loss. Straining her arms, Enala hauled herself up to relieve the pressure on her lungs and sucked in a breath. The cool tang of salt carried strength back to her muscles, but she could not hold herself up for long. She collapsed back against the restraints and the pressure returned.

  Jonathan finished grinding up his concoction and moved across to her, mortar in hand.

  “I need you to drink this.”

  No way am I drinking that, Enala glared back, turning her head and clamping her jaw shut.

  Jonathan reached out and grabbed her by the neck. As he squeezed Enala kicked out, aiming for his groin. The king twisted away, raising a knee to protect himself. Then he pressed up against her, his weight holding her tight against the rock. With his spare hand he grabbed her jaw and tilted her head back.

  Enala stared into his eyes, mustering every ounce of hate she possessed, and clenched her jaw tighter. Grunting, he pinched her nose, cutting off her meagre supply of air.

  Lungs shrieking, Enala squirmed against Jonathan’s hold. Her head spun but she held on, determined to defy him to the last. Jonathan’s grin widened as the seconds ticked away. Her lungs cried out for air, her brain demanded it.

  She fought against the urge, but it was unconscious, instinctive. She gasped a lungful of air, and screamed in pain and hatred. Her cry was cut off as Jonathan poured the noxious contents of the bowl down her throat. She choked and coughed, trying to spit it out, but he clamped a hand over her mouth until she was force to swallow. It burned right down to her stomach, leaving a bitter, furry taste in her mouth. Tears ran down her face.

  “Good girl. Don’t worry, it will be over soon,” Jonathan said at last, moving back to the altar.

  “Coward,” she spat, coughing in a feeble attempt to throw up the awful concoction. She felt half-suffocated. A numb tingling spread through her muscles and she almost wished herself dead, just to end the suffering. “Why don’t you remove these cuffs and we’ll see how brave you are,” she growled. “You couldn’t even stand against your own creature in that maze.”

  Jonathan glared at her. “Yes, well, sometimes magic takes on a life of its own. Especially when mine was no longer there to hold its form.”

  An uncontrollable tremor ran through Enala. How she wished she’d
pushed Jonathan into the shadows of the maze when there’d been a chance. Or off the side of the cliff. But it was too late now. Jonathan had won. Despair grew in her chest, mixing with the burning strain from her lungs.

  To her shame, Enala started to sob. “Please, don’t do this. I never wanted any of this!”

  Jonathan turned his back and continued his work. “Sorry, my dear. Really, neither of us have any choice in this matter. I must regain my magic and my Sword, and you are the only one who can help me with that,” he shrugged. “Such is life.”

  Silence fell, broken only by Enala’s laboured breathing and the grinding of the pestle. The sun crept above the lip of the walls, casting its warmth across the Temple of Light. As it struck the Sword, the blade’s light grew to match it, blazing across the courtyard.

  What can I do? Enala felt her courage breaking, the insanity rising from within. She prayed Laurel had found Eric – he was her only hope now. Yet there was no sign of him, no hint of his approach. A steady pain wracked her body, feeding the madness within.

  “Please, let me breath! I’m dying!” Enala choked.

  Jonathan chuckled. “Sorry about that. When I made them, I had no idea who I would be using them on. They were designed for a larger person. I’m afraid I cannot control them without my magic. But not to worry, I’ll be sure to fix that right up when I have it back.”

  Jonathan’s laughter fed fuel to her fury. Enala gave herself to it, thrashing against the pillar, kicking and screaming her hatred at the king’s back. She strained against the bracelets until it felt like they would cut right to the bone. Still they remained fixed, immovable, and her rage soon succumbed to exhaustion. Collapsing against the cold stone, Enala fell silent, staring at the mad king.

  Tears blurred her eyes and her mouth was dry. She could feel the desperate thud of her heart against her chest, the throb of blood in the numbness of her fingers.

  Jonathan turned and raised the mortar to his mouth. He drank quickly, a scowl fixed to his face. Apparently his brew tasted no better. Its horrid smell wafted to Enala’s nostrils and her stomach wrenched, but nothing came up. The last of her strength faded away. She began to sob again, knowing each choked breath brought her closer to death.