by Aaron Hodges
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 swallowed 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 a
llowing 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 rugged 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.
No, no, no, this cannot be happening – not again!
He watched as the lightning rained down, burning a deadly trail through the marketplace. Booths exploded before its wrath, staining the air with smoke and debris. Dozens had already fallen, their clothes blackened and crumbling, their bodies broken. Gusts of wind swirled through the square, picking up rubble and tearing roofs from buildings. The rain streamed down, but even that could not wash away the stench of the burning.
Eric stumbled amidst the chaos, powerless to save his hapless victims. Falling to his knees, he watched the destruction through the haze of his tears. Lightning struck his frail body, but he felt nothing. Bolts of energy danced along his skin, raising goosebumps wherever they touched. Yet he remained unharmed.
Why?
When the thunder finally died away, a devastating silence spread over the square. Eric’s gaze swept the wreckage, taking in the burnt beams and canvas. Not a stall was left standing, and the flames were already beginning to spread. Bodies lay scattered amidst the ruin, half-buried by the rubble.
This is my doing.
Movement came from his right. He looked across as a man struggled to his feet. Their eyes met, and the man’s eyes widened with horror. Looking down, Eric saw that lightning still played across his chest and arms. He closed his eyes, unable to face the guilt, the accusations.
Noise came from elsewhere now, as more survivors rose to view the shattered remains of their lives – and see the boy with lightning dancing on his skin.
Eric stared back, his heart heavy. He had to say something, to explain, but he could not find the words. His body ached and his muscles burned but he struggled to his feet. He swayed as blood rushed to his head. Then, determined, he opened his mouth to speak.
“Demon!”
Eric froze as a man drew a dagger from his belt and started towards him. Others quickly rose to join the man, tearing makeshift clubs from the rubble as they went. Their faces hardened to grim masks, and the angry buzz of voices filled the square.
Fear caught in Eric’s throat as he stumbled backwards. He searched again for the words of explanation, to tell them about his curse, that it had not been his fault.
Because in his heart, he knew it would be a lie.
He had prayed the curse had lifted, that he might finally be free. But deep down, he had known the truth, the danger he posed to everyone around him.
A weight settled on his shoulders as he realised he could run no longer. This was all his doing; he needed to accept responsibility, to finally put an end to the darkness inside of him.
The villagers hesitated as they neared him, fear giving them pause. Burns marked their skin
and clothing, but flames burned in their eyes, fuelled by the horrors they had witnessed.
Trembling, Eric stared at the makeshift blades and cudgels. His heart raced and he clenched his fists, struggling to ignore the hollow in the pit of his stomach. His ribs ached where the clubs had struck him earlier, and the bruises were already beginning to swell on his arms and legs. He shuddered at the thought of the pain still to come.
Cautiously, the survivors edged closer, numbers fuelling their courage.
Eric backed away, his courage fading with each step. The villagers increased their pace, sensing his fear. He stumbled backwards over the rubble, unable to tear his eyes from the crowd, and crashed to the ground. The shock lifted the spell.
Scrabbling to his feet, Eric ran for his life.
Chapter 2
Eric sprinted down the burning streets. The roar of angry voices chased after him, driving him through the downpour. Dodging past the wreckage of shattered homes, he squinted through the rain, seeking out a path. Wind whipped across his face, slicing through his waterlogged jacket and sending icy drips down his spine.
His eyes watered as clouds of acrid smoke drifted across his path. Lifeless bodies lay amidst the pooling water, thick droplets of rain splattering around them.
Eric ran on. Soot clung to him, mixing with the rain, turning his skin black. He passed a hand through his filthy hair, struggling to think, to find a way through the chaos. His legs trembled, and he sucked in great, shuddering mouthfuls of air. He was at the end of his endurance.
The glow of approaching torches flickered in the lengthening shadows. The day was dying, and Eric could only pray the darkness would come soon. He drove himself on, the freezing wind buffeting him, his footsteps splattering in the flooded streets. Water filled his boots and his leggings squelched with every stride.