Shield of Winter

by Aaron Hodges

  A shout came from behind him, followed by the clang of a crossbow. Eric ducked as a steel bolt struck the wall a few feet to his right. Glancing back, he saw a crowd racing down the street and ducked into an alley before the bowman could fire again.

  Why?

  The thought chased itself around his head. He scrambled through the alley, scarcely able to see in the shadows. A jagged piece of steel tore his arm, but he ran on.

  He burst from the alleyway back into the open streets. The sun had finally set, leaving only the dying flames to light his way. They cast the world into a realm of shadows.

  Curses came from behind him, and Eric glanced back in time to see the first of his hunters emerge into the street. They held flaming torches high above their heads, casting back the shadows, exposing their gaunt faces to the light.

  Weaving through the rubble-strewn street, Eric listened for the tell-tale whistle of arrows. Water flicked up in his wake, shining in the fire’s light. An arrow shrieked past his shoulder, raising goosebumps as it went.

  He glanced back without breaking stride, and saw a man with a crossbow hurriedly winding his weapon. The clack of its springs echoed down the street, before the smoke closed in, hiding them from view.

  Turning, he ran on through a world twisted by his destruction.

  The darkness was finally complete, the last flames snuffed out by the blanket of night. The rain had ceased and the clouds parted to reveal the star-studded sky. The moon had yet to show its face, yet to cast its pale glow on the devastation below.

  Eric huddled among the ruins of an old building, listening carefully for footsteps in the street outside. A chill breeze drifted through the hole in the wall, sending a violent shiver through his rain-drenched body. His teeth chattered, but he clenched them tight, terrified they might give him away.

  Finally he allowed himself to breathe, satisfied for the moment he was safe. He sat back on his haunches, and his hand brushed against something soft and yielding. Glancing down, he saw the glassy eyes of a dead man staring back at him. Terrible burns blackened the man’s face and clothing, and where the flames had not reached, his skin was a pallid grey.

  Stomach wrenching, Eric threw himself back from the body. His gut heaved, and bending in two, he emptied the pitiful contents of his stomach onto the cracked floor.

  When there was nothing left to throw up, Eric sat back on his haunches and held his face in his hands. His throat burned and anxiety gnawed at his chest. Silently he returned to his spy hole and peered outside to check if anyone had noticed the commotion.

  Through the cracks in the walls, he watched the full moon rise slowly into the sky. Its cool light offered no warmth, yet the sight still gave him comfort.

  Eric froze as the soft crunch of a footstep on gravel carried to him from the street outside. Another followed, barely audible over the thudding of his heart.

  Swallowing hard, he tried to dislodge the lump in his throat. He peered out into the street and saw the silhouette of a man moving through the shadows.

  A brown cloak billowed out in the wind, revealing the gold embossed hilt of a short sword strapped to the man’s waist. Moving faster, he emerged from the shadows, seeming to make straight for Eric’s hiding place. Silver lines of thread embroidered his clothing, weaving intangible patterns down his arms and legs. A grey hood obscured his face, but Eric could feel his eyes as they searched the wreckage.

  Crouched in his hiding place, Eric hardly dared to breathe. Muscles tensed, he told himself he was safe, hidden by the shadows. But still the man came closer.

  “Come out,” the man whispered, his voice old and rasping. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Pulling back his hood, the man revealed his long grey hair and a clean-shaven chin. His lips curled into a frown as his piercing green eyes searched the shadows where Eric hid.

  Staring into those eyes, Eric found himself trapped in the heat of the man’s glare. Time seemed to slow, and for a moment Eric felt as though his mind must be an open book, as though those eyes could see straight to his very soul. Shame welled within him, the crushing weight of his guilt threatening to overwhelm him.

  Then the old man blinked, and Eric shuddered as the spell broke. He sank to his knees, staring at the muddy ground as the crunch of footsteps drew to a stop beside him. Exhaustion curled its way through his limbs, and he closed his eyes in listless surrender.

  But nothing happened. A long silence stretched out, before he finally looked back up. “What are you waiting for?” he spoke through gritted teeth. “Just do it.”

  The emerald eyes stared down at him, but the old man made no move to draw his sword. Anger flickered in Eric’s chest as he straightened, giving him strength.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  The old man blinked again. “To help you.”

  Eric stared up at the old man, struggling to find the words to respond.

  “To help me?” he said at last. He threw out his arms, gesturing at the wreckage. “Why would you want to help me? Can’t you see what I’ve done, what I create? Only a demon would want to help someone like me.”

  The man’s eyes hardened. “I am no demon, boy. I am just a man. But I am the only chance you have of controlling that power inside you.”

  Slowly, Eric pulled himself to his feet, until he stood in front of the man. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “My name is Alastair. And I suggest you come with me, now, before the others find us.”

  Alastair.

  The name had a familiar ring – where had he heard it before? Regardless, he was not prepared to trust again so easily – not after what had happened in the marketplace.

  He stood his ground as the man started to turn away. “Why should I trust you, Alastair?”

  Alastair glanced back, a frown tugging at his lips. Then he shrugged. “You probably shouldn’t,” reaching down, he drew his sword from its sheath and flicked it into the air. Catching it by the blade, he offered it hilt-first to Eric. “You hold onto this for now, if it makes you feel safer. You can give it back once I’ve earned your trust.”

  Eric stared at the blade for a second, before reaching out to accept the old man’s offer. Alastair nodded as the sword left his hand, and then stepped from the crumbled building back out into the street. Eric quickly followed, doing his best to avoid the debris strewn across the cobbles.

  Ahead, Alastair slipped off the road and into an alleyway. Eric followed close on his heels, the sword clutched close to his body. He had never used one before, and the weapon felt awkward in his hands.

  The old man moved on, drawing Eric deeper into the gloom. Silently he cursed his naivety, allowing himself to be led into another alley, and he gripped the blade tighter.

  But Alastair did not look back, and glancing around, Eric realised with a shiver the buildings to either side of them had collapsed. The heavy stone walls had remained intact, but now they leaned out into the alley, forming an unstable roof above their heads. Moonlight flooded through cracks in the stone, lighting the way ahead.

  Eric swallowed at the thought of all that stone and wood perched preciously above him. But the time for doubt had long since passed. Silently he followed the silver streaks of Alastair’s cloak through the gloom, taking reassurance from the man’s seeming indifference to the danger looming above them.

  As they neared the end of the alleyway, Alastair came to a sudden stop ahead of him. Eric froze, holding his breath as he listened for signs of movement.

  A shuffling sound came from the shadows as a dark figure stepped into a column of moonlight. Brown eyes flickered with recognition as they fell on Eric.

  “You,” a voice hissed.

  INTERESTED? Read on with… Stormwielder

  REBIRTH

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  The Praegressus Project

  For centuries our evolution has stagnated. Surrounded by technology, we ceased to adapt. Until now...

  Wh
en eighteen year old Chris is accused of treason, his world is changed forever. Abducted in the night, he wakes in a facility hidden deep in the Californian mountains. There he is subjected to the depraved experiments of the Praegressus Project – a government led initiative to enhance the human race. Unfortunately for Chris, the chances of survival are slim. But only the lucky get to die.

  Prologue

  “Another pint, hun?”

  Liz grated her teeth as a man’s voice carried from across the room. Sucking in a breath, she forced herself to smile and looked around at the speaker. He sat alone at the table in the corner, a lopsided grin stretching across his unshaven cheeks. Catching her gaze, he waved his empty mug. Keeping the smile fixed on her face, Liz moved across to serve him.

  “Just the beer, sir?” she asked as she took the glass. “It’s last call.”

  His dark black eyes squinted up at her, as though struggling to understand her words. He was swaying slightly in his chair, and Liz was quite sure he’d already had enough. Unfortunately, the bar’s manager, Andrew, was never one to refuse a paying customer.

  Finally, the man belched and waved the glass at her stomach. “What else is on the menu, luv?”

  He said the words with a leer that made Liz want to rip the mug from his hand and smash him over the head with it. Instead, she gritted her teeth and smiled sweetly. “Just the usual,” she tried to keep the anger from her voice. “Kitchen is closed though.”

  “Not interested in the kitchen.” He leaned forward in his chair, and the stench of garlic and cigarettes wafted over Liz. “Always wanted a taste of something rural.”

  Liz’s stomach churned and in a flash of anger she snatched the glass from the man’s grease-stained fingers. Then, stealing herself, she took a breath, and laughed. “Grass Valley Ale it is!”

  Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and retreated through the maze of tables. Her neck prickled as she sensed him staring, but she did not look back. Moving behind the bar, she added the mug to the growing stack of dishes she had to tackle after closing and took a fresh one from beneath the bar.

  She shuddered as she turned and caught his beady eyes watching her from the corner. The man had to be at least forty – more than twice her own seventeen years of age. Ignoring him, she carefully poured out a fresh pint of Grass Valley Ale.

  “Keeping our guests happy I hope, Liz?” She jumped as Andrew’s voice came from beside her.

  At six-foot-five with a buzz cut and heavily built shoulders, Andrew towered over Liz’s own five feet and two inches. He had served five years with the Western Allied States military before retiring from active duty and starting his own bar here in Sacramento. Or so he said – it wasn’t like there was any way to verify his story. Even in the city, computers and the internet were only accessible for the rich and privileged. Where she’d grown up, they’d been lucky just to have electricity.

  Crossing his tattooed arms, Andrew raised an eyebrow. She quickly flicked off the tap and placed the pint on a serving tray before facing him. “He’s just drunk, Andrew,” she said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I didn’t say handle him,” Andrew said coldly. “I said keep him happy.”

  Liz swallowed as his cold green eyes stared down at her, but she stood her ground. “That’s what the beer’s for,” she nodded at the mug, taking advantage of the opportunity to break eye contact. “I’d better not keep him waiting.”

  Feeling cornered, Liz snatched up the metal tray and raced back out amongst the tables. The other customers ignored her as she made her way between them. Only a few tables were occupied now – it was Tuesday night and most people had already left for their beds. The few who remained were mostly men in their thirties and forties, too young to have fought in the war than had claimed so many of their fathers. Most sported the pale complexions of the urban working class, although a couple had darker tans that matched her own.

  “One Grass Valley Ale,” she announced cheerfully as she reached the man’s table and placed the beer in front of him. “Is that the lot for the night?”

  Without answering, the man swept up the beer and gulped it down. He let out a long sigh as he placed the mug back on the table and grinned up at her. “I like the taste.” Before she could react, his arm shot out and wrapped around her waist. “Matter of fact, it’s made me hungry for the real thing.” He laughed as he dragged her forward.

  Liz’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as she felt his hand grasping her backside. The awful stench of his breath smothered her. Puckering up his lips, the man tried to drag her in for a kiss. She twisted away, the tray still clutched in one hand, and tried to shove him off. But even drunk, he was twice her size, and too strong to resist in such confined quarters.

  “Get off,” she growled, the words grating up from the back of her throat.

  “What? You think you’re too good for me, ya little rural tramp?” His other hand came up, going for her breasts. “Come on sweets, you know–”

  Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as Liz gripped her metal serving tray in both hands and brought it down on his head. A satisfying clang echoed through the room as it struck, and the hand around her waist vanished.

  The man reeled back in his chair, his hands clutching his face. Blood dribbled from a gash on his forehead, tangling with his greying hair. He lurched to his feet with a roar, sending the table and his freshly poured ale crashing to the ground. The sound of breaking glass was punctuated by his screams as Liz retreated a step, holding the tray in front of her like a shield. Her assailant swung his arms blindly in her direction, but alcohol had dimmed his senses and his blows went nowhere near her. Face beet red and cursing, he staggered in her direction.

  “Oy!” Andrew’s voice cut through the man’s shouts like a knife.

  Liz glanced back and saw him stepping out from behind the bar, baseball bat in hand.

  “What’s going on here?” he growled as he marched towards them. The other patrons watched on, eyes wide, silent.

  Still in a drunken rage, the man took another step towards Liz before he seemed to catch himself. His eyes flickered uncertainly at Andrew, then back to her. “The little tramp hit me!”

  Anger flickered in Liz’s stomach. Throwing caution to the wind, she drew her lips back in a sneer and stepped towards him. “Why don’t you call me that one more time?” she growled, flourishing the tray.

  Before her assailant had a chance to answer, a rough hand caught Liz by the collar and hauled her back. She cried out as the tray slipped from her fingers and landed on her foot. Cursing, she staggered sideways, but before she could regain her balance, Andrew shoved her again, sending her crashing down into an empty table.

  “Out!” Andrew screamed, waving his bat around above his head.

  Liz scrambled back across the wooden floor, feeling the dried beer sticking to her clothes. Once out of range of his bat, she picked herself up and stood facing him. A wave of heat swept through her. She struggled to keep from shaking as she clenched her fists.

  “What?” she ground out the question.

  “I said out!” Andrew repeated, pointing the bat at her chest. “I’ve had enough of you. Your lot aren’t worth the trouble.”

  Now Liz really was shaking. She opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it closed again. Glancing around the room, she saw the eyes of everyone watching her. Ice spread through her chest as she looked back at her boss.

  “What about my pay?” she tried to keep her voice as calm as possible.

  “Consider it compensation for the damages.” Sneering, he took a step towards her, until the bat prodded her in the chest.

  Stomach twisting, Liz considered holding her ground. She needed that money – especially after the commotion here. She would have to move again now, would have to pack her things and leave the room she’d already paid a month in advance for. Without that money, she wouldn’t have enough for another.

  But she could see this was not a
fight she was about to win. Letting out a long breath, she flicked a strand of curly black hair from her eyes and snorted. “Good riddance,” she spat.

  Spinning on her heel, she headed for the door. Her face burned as half a dozen eyes followed her. As she passed the last table she paused, then lurched sideways, upending its contents onto the floor. The two men sitting there shouted and jumped to their feet as beer splattered them. But by the time they tried to grab her, Liz had already fled through the door.

  Chapter 1

  Outside, Liz blinked, struggling to see as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. The bar had no windows facing the road, and the streetlight out front was broken. Not knowing if anyone was going to come after her, she quickly started off along the street, her hands still trembling with pent-up rage.

  “Hope you enjoy cleaning up,” she muttered under her breath.

  Inside though, she was cursing herself, even as she tried to work out a plan that didn’t involve sleeping on the streets for the rest of the winter. Staying in this suburb was no longer an option – not after the commotion she’d caused. There would be questions asked, and even though she’d been working off the books, it wouldn’t take long for someone to connect the dots. After that, it was only a matter of time before they found her.

  Taking the next street on her right, Liz disappeared into the shadows between the buildings. They were near the outskirts of Sacramento here, where the streets were still relatively quiet, free of the traffic clogging the centre. Even so, she could never quite feel comfortable in the city. The countryside was her home – as everyone here seemed quick to remind her – but there was no work for her there. And while she could get by on what she trapped and scavenged, she couldn’t stand the thought of another winter spent exposed to the icy elements.

  So as the winds had begun to change this year, she had packed up her rucksack and headed for Sacramento. It was a long way from her hometown, but she was afraid any city closer would raise suspicions, make it easier for someone to find her. And until now, it had seemed she’d made the right choice. With the pennies she scraped together working at Andrew’s bar, she’d managed to rent what amounted to a closet in the basement of an apartment building. It was cold and damp, containing nothing more than a mouldy mattress, but it was better than being woken up by falling snow. And it was off the books too – safe.