He tensed. Someone was walking towards him from behind, their footfalls crunching in the ash-covered ground. Slowly, he started to rise, his hands longing for a weapon.
“There’s no need to get up,” a gruff voice said.
Luxon turned to see an old man dressed in a worn green cloak walking towards the fire. His grey hair and beard were long and unkempt. In his right hand he carried a staff that was worn and chipped.
“I Knew you’d come. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a very long time,” the old man said as he awkwardly sat down on the ground opposite Luxon. Carefully, he placed his staff on the ground before reaching into a pouch on his belt. He took out a small pot which he put into the flames.
“After such a long walk, a cup of tea is required, I think.”
Luxon raised an eyebrow. This was different. In all but one of the places the portals had taken him, nobody had seen him. Now this strange, yet familiar, figure was speaking directly to him.
“Ah yes, you’re surprised. I’d forgotten about that. Don’t worry, you have nothing to fear from me,” the old man continued, a hint of amusement in his tone.
“Who are you?” Luxon asked.
The old man chuckled before looking at Luxon. His face was wrinkled, and a livid red scar ran down the left side of his face. His left eye was covered by an eyepatch. Luxon gasped and recoiled. The remaining eye, the structure of the man’s face … it was unmistakable.
“I thought you’d react like that. You still have so much to learn. I suppose it would be a shock to see yourself in such a state. Ah, the water is boiling nicely. Won’t be too much longer before we can drink.”
“You’re … you’re me!” Luxon gasped.
The old man clapped his hands and cackled.
“I always was a clever one. Now you’re wondering where we are, and no – I cannot tell you what happened to my … your eye. To do so would break things more than they already are. This is Delfinnia, the site of the great city of Sunguard, if you can believe it. We are sitting where the King’s Spire once stood.”
Luxon’s mind reeled. The place was a devastated wasteland. Of the shining city, there was no trace. Green lightning flashed on the horizon, and the wind blew across the ash-covered plains to form a swirling tower of black detritus. The old man hummed to himself as he took two chipped ceramic cups from his satchel and poured the freshly brewed tea into them. Once done, he then offered one to Luxon who, with shaking hands, accepted the cup.
“I have broken all the rules to arrange this meeting. This is the last roll of the dice for me, and or the world in general. Using my magic, I have brought you here to me to give you a warning.”
“What happened here?” Luxon asked. He was on his feet and staring out over the plain. The desolation was unbelievable.
Old Luxon grumbled as he slowly stood and walked over to stand next to his younger self.
“This is what will happen if you should do as I did and fail,” he said softly.
“You failed to stop Danon? He did this?”
Old Luxon nodded slowly. There was something in his expression that suggested he was holding something back.
“I failed to stop it. I failed to retrieve Asphodel, and he succeeded in bringing the Void into our world. I failed to gather enough strength to fight him, and as a result, Esperia is dying … just like everyone I once loved died trying to prevent it.”
Luxon sank to his knees. This is what would befall the entire world if he failed, the pressure was almost too much to bear. His heart was racing, and his limbs shook in fear. It was too much. He crawled to the edge of the plateau and vomited over the side.
Old Luxon shook his head and tutted.
“I know this is a lot to take in, but I have risked everything to arrange this meeting. I cannot waste what little time we have consoling you, do you hear me?”
Luxon looked over his shoulder at his older self and nodded.
“You must do what I could not. Cure yourself of the Void sickness, retrieve Asphodel, and unite the peoples of the world. Only with the might of every civilisation on your side will you have the strength to challenge Danon’s forces. He has a power far greater than just Sarpi and N’gist at his command. If you do not stop him, he will have the full power of the Void at his disposal, too. If he attains ultimate power it will not just be our world in peril but all worlds. Put the illusion of saving Delfinnia as it is out of your mind, for it cannot be done. The world must first be broken before it can be fixed.”
“If you know all this, then why didn’t you do it?” Luxon shouted in frustration.
Old Luxon looked away, unable to hold the angry gaze of his younger self.
“Hindsight is a glorious yet cruel thing,” he answered softly. “I lost the will to fight. I was faced with a terrible choice, and I made the wrong decision.”
From behind them came a loud bang and a sound like shattering glass. The air itself seemed to crack. A white light appeared, as though it was piercing reality itself. It formed into the shape of one of the portals. Old Luxon swore loudly at its appearance.
“I thought I had more time!” he cried desperately. He grabbed his younger self and held him by the shoulders. “You have to leave before the damage is beyond repair. All I can say to you is this: keep a close eye on Yepert. Now go!”
Luxon tried to shake himself free of the man’s grip, but before he could do so, he was shoved towards the portal. He spun, wanting to ask what was meant by the cryptic warning, but before he could speak he was blasted backwards into the portal by a magical attack unleashed by his older self.
Everything went white.
*
The sound of water lapping against a shore made him stir. Luxon blinked and realised he was lying on his back on what felt like a sandy beach. With a groan, he sat up and rubbed his head. Had the old man been real? Had he just spoken to a future version of himself? He was starting to question what was real and what wasn’t.
An agonising pain lanced through his body; his veins felt like they were filled with fire. The Void sickness was tightening its grip. Luxon staggered to his feet and took in his new surroundings. To his surprise, he was standing on a small islet in the middle of a lake of swirling blue water. As he looked at it, he could make out what appeared to be tendrils of energy flickering below the surface. The lake was inside a massive cavern that seemed to go on for miles. High above were magical lights of varying colours flitting to and fro. Luxon stood awestruck. Closing his eyes, he could sense the power of the place, and the strength of the magic was like nothing he had felt before. It felt pure.
“You must submerge yourself in the water. Let its power flow through you,” the voice of Lycia, or rather Esma, echoed about the cavern. “I have ways to see you, so do not be afraid.”
Luxon shrugged off his green wizard’s cloak and took off his shirt and shoes. He left his trousers on. If Esma could see him, he wanted some modesty. Taking a deep breath, he dipped his bare foot into the water. To his surprise, the water was warm, like that of a pleasant bath.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered before stepping into the water. The liquid surrounded him as he submerged. With a final breath, he ducked under the surface and waited.
At first, he felt nothing, but then a tingling sensation began to spread from the bottom of his feet upwards. As the feeling moved up his body, the tingling intensified. He opened his eyes and resisted the urge to gasp. As the power of the waters seeped into his skin, it turned a dark red colour. A sense of panic filled him but before he could surface a sharp pain shot through him. It wasn’t agonising, but rather the pain one feels when a boil is lanced. His skin began to glow and the waters began to bubble as the corrupted magic from the Void was purged from his body. As it seeped out of him, the waters began to turn black. Luxon thrashed about as the two magics collided, the feeling of release now replaced with agonising pain. He felt as though he was on fire. Horrid visions and memories long suppressed of his time in the Void sc
oured his mind, but as quickly as they had begun those memories faded, replaced by those of happier times. The emotions that had been suppressed by the sickness now surged to the fore, and even though he was under water, he knew that he was crying. The horrors he had seen and endured … the joys he had experienced … Hannah.
He burst from the water gasping for air and clawed his way back to the small island where he collapsed onto his back. His chest was heaving, and uncontrollable sobs escaped his throat. Wiping the tears from his eyes he gasped, the once colourful waters were now a churning black.
He cried out as a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up, and found Esma kneeling next to him.
“What is going on? I … feel different.”
“Never before have the waters cleansed so much of the foul taint. For you to have survived such poison is remarkable,” Esma said, her voice full of awe. She touched a hand to his forehead. After a moment, she let go.
“The Void sickness has been purged from you. The nightmares will end, and the fits will not happen again.” Luxon took the hand she offered him and stood up. The waters hissed and bubbled violently, but already the blackness was being dispersed, and the blue was already returning.
Looking at his hands, he tentatively tapped into his magic and sighed. For the first time in five years, it no longer pained him. Instead of it weakening him, he felt a revitalising power course through his body. It was as though he was awakening from a deep slumber.
“Get dressed, master wizard. You have a lot to do,” Esma said with a smile. In her arms were his clothes, which he took gratefully. Once he’d put on his shirt and shoes, the Lady of the Isle summoned one of the mysterious portals into existence.
“It’s the last one, I promise,” she said with a wink.
15.
Sunguard
Ferran pressed himself into the shadow cast by a nearby doorway as he spotted a small group of Vigilantes stalking through the streets. Shortly after emerging from the tunnels, Ferran had kept to the side streets as he followed the archbishop. He watched from the darkness and waited for the group of armed people to pass. If they got their hands on a Nightblade, there would be no mercy. Anger filled him. The vigilantes had captured and murdered many innocent men, women and children. The pyres burned day and night.
Some of the condemned had been wielders just trying to live normal law-abiding lives, but most had been the victims of vendettas. Ferran had seen with his own eyes how the people of the realm often turned on one another when egged on by the Niveren Cult.
He frowned as he watched the group stop outside one of the small houses that lined the roadside. They hammered on the door, demanding to be given entry. The door did not open. The biggest of the vigilantes took a step back, before kicking the door off its hinges with a loud crash that echoed in the chill night air. The other vigilantes swarmed inside, and soon Ferran heard screams. A woman stood outside the house, a cruel smirk on her face.
A mother and her small son were dragged from home by the vigilantes. At seeing the woman stood nearby, the mother started yelling.
“You … why would you do this? Are you so jealous that you would condemn my son and me to die at the hands of these bastards?”
Her shouts were silenced as the big vigilante punched her in the mouth. She staggered backwards, but was roughly shoved forward by the rest of the group. The boy struggled in vain and cried out for his mother.
At watching the scene unfolding before him, Ferran closed his eyes. His mind drifting back to years gone by where he had been in the same position as the petrified child. His hands knotted into fists. He would not allow some religious fanatics to harm the innocent. His mind made up, he stepped out of the shadows and strode over to the vigilantes.
The biggest of them looked up in surprise at the rapidly approaching black-clad figure. Before he could give a warning, Ferran had summoned his tourmaline blade into life. He swung the blade, removing the man’s head from his shoulders. The woman with the cruel grin was now screaming as she now feared for herself. Not caring that she was unarmed, Ferran spun on his heel and cut the woman in two. Cries and shouted warnings came from behind him as the other vigilantes drew their weapons. A scrawny looking zealot charged at Ferran, a club in hand. With a casual grace, he stepped to the side and brought his blade downwards to cleave the man’s arms off. For a second, the man gawped at his severed limbs. Before he could scream, Ferran plunged his sword into the man’s chest and sent him toppling to the ground. Another vigilante attacked. This one held a spear that he aimed at the Nightblade’s heart. Ferran ducked the thrust and grabbed the spear with his free hand. With a pull, he brought his attacker onto the end of his sword.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over and three people lay dead at Ferran’s feet. The other vigilantes stepped backwards, not wanting to be the next one to die. Ferran took a step forward and snarled. The sudden movement made the vigilantes turn tail and flee down the road. Ferran looked at the woman and child.
“Get out of Sunguard now. Head north to Caldaria. You will be safe there. Stick to the roads and the safety offered by the rune stones.”
The woman nodded and held her son tightly.
“We will, master Nightblade. Thank you,” she said before hurrying back inside the house and gathering provisions for the long trip northwards. By the time she emerged back outside, Ferran was gone.
*
The night market was filled people bartering and haggling for wares. With the war on, the citizens of the capital had become thrifty as once-abundant products became scarce. A convoy of food wagons had arrived in the city a few hours earlier, and word was already spreading that the delivery would be the last to come from Robinta until the spring. Rioting had broken out at the main granary in the heart of the city, as desperate and afraid citizens fought one another and the city guard for as much grain and food as they could carry. Danon’s armies were still hundreds of miles away to the south, and yet dread and fear had infected the capital like some dreadful plague. Trentian’s vigilantes had only added to the sense of paranoia.
Now that Ferran knew the truth, he could see that it was deliberate. The Archbishop had deliberately let the city slide into chaos to ensure that there would be no resistance to Danon’s arrival.
The night market was held every week in the Plaza of Kings, and before the war it would have attracted the city’s elite. But most of the wealthy had either fled north or escaped to their estates in the countryside. Now, the market was filled with the lower classes and desperate refugees who had spent all they had on reaching what they hoped was the safety of the capital. Huge lanterns hung over the market, giving the illusion that it was still day, and braziers burned throughout to provide the shoppers with much-needed warmth.
Ferran made his way through the crowds and pulled his hood tighter over his head to keep his face hidden in shadow. Trentian had passed through this way, but the crowds masked where he had gone since. He stopped at a market stall and caught the eye of the pedlar. The man was tall, slim and not a single hair remained on his closely shaven head. His smallish brown eyes suggested a quick wit.
“What can I do for you, master?” the pedlar asked, rubbing his hands together to ward off the night’s chill.
Ferran reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled out a gold Delfin. The pedlar eyed the coin and licked his lips.
“Archbishop Trentian, he came this way. Did you see where he went?”
“I did …” the pedlar replied, his eyes not leaving the coin. Ferran sighed and tossed it to the man, who caught it nimbly and put into a small wooden box on his stall’s counter.
“The archbishop and about a dozen or so of his vigilantes came barging their way through here about twenty minutes ago. It looked like they were heading to the Cathedral.”
Ferran thanked the man and slipped back into the crowd. In the near distance, he could make out the looming structure of the Cathedral of Niveren. Three tall spires rose from the body o
f the main stone structure, towering over the plaza. The last time Ferran had set foot inside the place had been at King Alderlade’s coronation five years previously. As he got closer to the structure, the crowds began to thin out and the lanterns that illuminated the night market were fewer in number, casting the rest of the plaza in shadow. Ahead, he could see several flickering torches, no doubt being held by patrolling vigilantes. The Cult of Niveren was overseen by the Chantry a small group of bishops; the cathedral was their spiritual centre in the kingdom. Most Definiens were not religious in the slightest – everyone knew of the gods’ demise – but a few had found a new god in Niveren. Despite their relatively small number, the cult held a powerful position in society and had always been seen as the monarch’s confidants.
The cathedral itself was surrounded by a high stone wall, and inside was a large landscaped garden designed to allow worshippers to seek peace. Guarding the only gateway into the grounds were two stern-faced vigilantes. Of Trentian there was no sign.
Ferran looked around and spotted the metal grate that led back down into the underground tunnels. Crouching low, to be sure not to be seen, he hurried over to it and tried to lift the grate. He used all of his strength, but it would not budge. Closing his eyes, he channelled his magic to enhance his strength. Such magic was effective, but always came with a cost. He would be feeling exhausted in a few hours’ time as a result. Once again he tried to lift the grate. This time when he pulled, it shifted with a metallic squeak. He lifted it just enough to allow him to slide through the gap, and winced as it crashed back down into place. He moved into the tunnels and waited. Sure enough, light came through the grate as a vigilante came to investigate the noise. Ferran could hear muffled voices.
Quest for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 3) Page 11