Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (11 page)

Garen let out a whistle as he examined it. “Sharp edges, sharp points, weighted better than the ones we use for the game. These are weapons.”

Michael threw one into the wall. A precise throw with a precise weapon, making no sound in flight and only a faint thud on impact. “Exactly.”

“They’re a little lighter than what I’m used to and a little thinner,” Garen noted holding two, then three together to compare the thickness to the standard game pieces. With a flick of the wrist, he sent all three flying. They separated a little in flight and firmly bit into the wall.

Garen looked at Michael whose mouth hung open. Sometimes, when they began to tire of a game, but were not quite ready to put the shurikens away, they would throw more at a time. Two had flown decently together, but three always gave poor results. These three flew with the accuracy of one.

“I’m beginning to think your dad did not teach you how to throw shurikens for fun,” Garen said.

“Agreed.” Michael inspected the belt closely. Made from two layers of leather, it had slits between them to hide five shurikens, and the inner layer was notched to easily remove them.

“But why did your father hide all of this?”

“I don’t know,” Michael replied. He inserted five shurikens in the belt and put it on. It felt good, like a connection to his father. He stuffed the other shurikens, journals, and pouches in his pack. “Perhaps he was waiting till he thought I was ready to know the truth.”

Or until Max did.

“Come on, let’s go, I have questions for Max and, for once, I’m gonna get some answers.”

Garen picked up Michael’s bow and grimaced at the blackened teeth marks in the wood. “You’ll need a new bow.”

Michael frowned. It had been a fine bow. Garen grabbed the quiver of arrows on the floor, at least they were still good, and walked out the door.

Michael stopped on the porch, staring at the place where the nightstalkers had appeared in the night.

“What is it?” Garen asked.

“There were four of them,” Michael replied. “I’m sure of it. But only three attacked. What happened to the other one?”

“Maybe it was the one Max killed on the way into town.”

Michael fingered one of the shurikens in his belt absently. “Maybe.”

Something did not add up. A fourth nightstalker would have finished him off. Why would it hold back and wait? He swung into his saddle. No mysteries were going to be solved standing on his porch. His porch, his home. He took one last look at his cabin then set off eastward at a canter. He had one last set of goodbyes to say.

***

Shadows hung heavy under the trees, the sun slowly creeping upward from the horizon. The wolf noticed neither the rising sun nor the two boys at the cabin. He lay twitching in his sleep, reliving the nightmare again.

In his mind, he saw the last of the four perverted ones holding back for some reason. A rush of fear and adrenaline swept through his body. Like a wraith, he darted out, clipping the black beast’s hamstring before it knew he was there. Despite a damaged leg, the perverted one chased him into the forest. Halfway to the river the beast caught him. Spinning around he met the beast’s charge with a bone-jarring jolt, two massive bodies of fur and teeth grappling, snarling, biting.

His teeth sank into the perverted beast’s neck. Putrid and vile, its blood burned his mouth but he refused to release. Pulling back with every muscle in his body, he ripped a large chunk of its throat out. The beast staggered, vile blood spewing, but it refused to die so easily. Darting in, dodging the beast’s weak attempt at defense, he tore at the damaged throat again. The beast fell but managed to get back up. The wolf slammed into the perverted one, clamping down on the throat as he came up on top of the black abomination. His mouth felt on fire, mind reeling from the pain, but he refused to release till it lay on the ground twitching in death’s throes.

He managed three steps toward the river before falling. He may have killed one of the perverted, but his body could only fight the poison of its vile blood for so long. He would not survive unless he reached the cleansing waters of the river.

Something shook the ground near him.

The wolf raised his head slightly. When did it become so heavy? Through eyelids barely open, he glimpsed the red dragon reaching down with a clawed hand.

“Fine mess you got yourself into,” the dragon chided.

The wolf felt himself being lifted, carried in a powerful grip, then blackness.

Water! Cold, life-giving water soaked him as he lay in the river’s shallows. He lapped laboriously, mouth aching with each movement, but the pain subsided somewhat as the water washed the vile blood from his mouth. Looking up from the river, he glimpsed red eyes a moment before his throat was ripped out.

He jerked awake, jumping to his feet, looking around. The dream. The bloody dream. He shook off the last vestiges of sleep, and the nightmare, as his eyes focused on the cabin, two horses stood nearby now, nipping at the grass, and someone moved inside.

Everything had happened just as he dreamt it except the last glimpse of red eyes. Thank Yesula, the Creator. His mouth still burned from sores left by the
nightstalker’s blood.

“Bad dream?” a familiar voice, deep and resonating, asked.

The wolf cut his eyes at the red dragon who bit down on a black-tailed deer, bones snapping in the massive jaws.

“You change your mind about helping?”

The dragon snorted and swallowed a huge chunk of venison. “Hardly. Lucky for you I decided to keep an eye on you, though. What did you gain from last night besides misery?”

“We are bound to serve as protectors. That boy is our hope. Better my misery, than his death.”

“Ah yes, the honor-bound code; a carrot of restitution hung in front of good creatures.” The dragon ripped off another large bite of meat.

“Better to die serving than live life jaded,” the wolf shot back.

The dragon pointed a claw at a freshly killed rabbit. “Eat. Can’t follow the humans if you don’t regain your strength.”

Ignoring the snide comment, the wolf laid back down. His mouth hurt too much to eat. The two youth stepped out of the house and mounted their horses. They made a stop at the gravestones, where the pup kneeled, placing a hand on each, and bowed his head. The wolf watched them till they rode down the backside of a hill, disappearing from view.

He closed his eyes. Another day, just one, and he would be ready to follow. No doubt the pup would find himself in some snare without guidance. Duty was never easy. Blackness took him again, and the nightmare was not far away.

C
HAPTER
8

Dark Plans

The sun sparkled off the myriad of colors in the stained glass windows of the Cathedral of Light. Each window a sermon on some virtue or depicted a great triumph of past Keepers. Aleister Cain hated those windows almost as much as he hated the statues surrounding him.

The Courtyard of Heroes, filled with life-size statues of the former Keepers, was the final testament to Shaladon’s protectors. Each statue stood on a four-foot granite plinth, the Keeper’s name engraved in the polished rock. All except one: Tobias Ashguard.

Once struggles for power sprung up no one gave much thought to creating a statue for Tobias. When the time was right, he would destroy every statue looking down on him, the cursed windows in the cathedral too, but he considered the absence of Tobias’ likeness a pleasant victory for the time being. What rested in the place of the final Keeper’s statue was a different matter.

Embedded in the jade green granite plinth was the Sword itself. The hilt pointed to the sky, and the Eye was level with Aleister’s own.

After assassins failed to kill Xan’thorne, the wizard had walked into the courtyard and drove the blade deep into the plinth, proclaiming to everyone present that the worthy heir would draw the Sword. More assassins had been sent to kill the brazen wizard, but he had vanished and hadn’t been seen since.

Aleister chuckled. Xan’thorne had missed a major flaw in his plan. How he expected the next pure-hearted fool to get this far into the castle only the Dark Lord knew.

The crisp autumn air nipped at his skin, but he paid it no attention. Aleister hoped Xan’thorne surfaced again. He would skin the fool alive. Slowly. He glared at the black jewel, yet again pondering if it was a fake. The Sword and Eye had been tested in every way he dared without touching it himself. He had men try to draw it with no success, had vile prisoners take hold of it only to be incinerated before his eyes, and yet he still was not entirely convinced. Something gnawed at him like a fly he could not swat away. Gazing into the black stone, so lost in his thoughts, he missed Sterling’s approach.

“Still debating,” Sterling said as he stopped before Aleister, hands behind his back.

Aleister suppressed a desire to backhand his henchman. Sterling had his uses, but he grated on Aleister’s last nerve.

Convinced the sword was genuine, Sterling gave it only a brief glance. They possessed it; that was all that mattered. Far more important tasks required their attention. He had said as much several times. “What about the seer?”

“What about him,” Aleister growled. He did not appreciate interruptions, but he was most irritated at the topic Sterling chose to discuss. It was the reason he stood in the courtyard to begin with. The seer held the key to why Falon had run off. Aleister was certain of it. He suspected she sought after Xan’thorne, but that was not enough. His plan was going too well to have wrong assumptions muck it up now.

“Has he given you any—”

“No!” Aleister snapped over his shoulder.

The sound of the breeze rustling leaves was the only sound for a time. “Perhaps he needs more persuasion,” Sterling said, breaking the silence.

Aleister’s eyes tightened. Was there a hint of sarcasm in the man’s tone?

“Persuade him anymore and you’ll kill him. Great, mighty good that will do, eh?”

“He’ll break. It just takes a...delicate touch.” Sterling’s confidence annoyed Aleister.

“A delicate touch?” Aleister sneered. “You try using your delicate touch when he goes to chanting prophecy in the old language!”

Aleister drew his sword and swiped at the nearest statue, vibrations ringing up his arm. He sheathed his blade, regaining his composure.

Sterling never flinched. “Now that you have that out of your system, perhaps I should tell you the old man may not be needed as much as you once thought.”

“And why is that?” Aleister said, his tone dangerous. The glint in Sterling’s eyes said he had done something without approval. Few things made Aleister angrier than for underlings to think or act on their own. He flexed his fingers, coiling each one around the hilt of his sword. Sterling may not live much longer.

Sterling paused, apparently realizing his precarious position. Perhaps having regrets for opening his mouth. Too late now. Aleister waited impatiently.

“I succeeded in creating a rift,” Sterling said. His tone carried a hint of pride.

“You bloody fool!”

“It wasn’t my intent,” Sterling explained quickly, “but I found a weak spot I didn’t expect. There wasn’t time to consult you. Those barriers are self-healing and adapt to the magic used on them. Bloody good it would have done to finally break through only to have it seal back up waiting for your approval.”

Fortunate for him he was right. Seldom did people impress Aleister, but Sterling came close. “So what does your rift have to do with the old man’s importance?”

“The rift was large enough to bring forth nightstalkers. I—”

“You buffoon!” Aleister backhanded Sterling, knocking the henchman back a step. “It’s too soon to unleash anything yet!”

Sterling wiped blood from his lip, glaring at the crimson on his fingers. “I set them off on her trail,” he replied levely.

“They will tear her to pieces. I wanted her alive!” Aleister roared, grabbing Sterling by his shirt.

“She will be,” Sterling replied sharply, his eyes moving from Aleister’s face to the man’s hands clutching his shirt then back. When Aleister let go, he continued. “They’re easier to control than we thought. The best way I can explain it is they’re grateful to be released. Such gratitude breeds loyalty. They’ll track her and seek out any magichae she comes in contact with. If she did flee to find your great and mighty wizard, then he’ll be dead soon.”

“How many nightstalkers?”

“Twenty-four.”

Aleister pondered the possibilities. “Are you in contact with them?”

Sterling looked at the Sword. “No. I lost my link to them somewhere in Elowe. The rift snapped closed faster than I expected, but I think I can open it again and release more. Next time I will send a warlock to follow them.”

“Very nice.”

“Thank you,” Sterling replied flatly.

“Still, someone’s going to know a rift was opened.” Aleister looked him in the eye. “It’s a dangerous detour from the plan. No more improvisation.”

Sterling bowed his head. “As you command. Now, shall we try some more delicate persuasion,” Sterling said motioning toward the door leading to the dungeons.

Aleister gritted his teeth. Releasing nightstalkers was a gamble. If the Paladins caught wind of it, they would rain down like a deluge. He would have to adjust his schedule, increasing the amount of troops being sent to fortify the southern border immediately. He had planned to build up the southern force slowly and quietly as not to attract any attention. Still, he had to admit, the nightstalkers could prove effective.

“Don’t kill him,” Aleister said, holding up a finger to Sterling’s face, “I want to do that, nice and slow, when we’re done with him.”

C
HAPTER
9

Defining Moments

Sleep had not come easily for Alex since his sister left ten months ago. It seemed so much longer. She had even missed his fourteenth birthday. Before she left she had tried to tell him something. She had been adamant about it, but his mind could not recall what. He remembered arguing with her about Aleister, which made no sense. Aleister was like a father to them.