Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (40 page)

“I’ll form a bridge of Air over the moat. God speed, Falon.”

She smiled weakly, the smile of a person who did not expect to ever smile again. With a quick glance at Michael, she ran down the stairs.

Max whispered a prayer for her soul.

She ran through the ranks of attackers, fireballs and arrows flying overhead. Even the few times she brushed against someone she was not given away. In the fray, no one gave a bump a second thought.

The two warlocks were setting catapult payloads on fire when she materialized before them, grabbing each around the throat. All the fear and anger she felt for Aleister sprung up. The shame and prejudice she had endured stirred within her. This one act could right all her wrongs. It was her chance to strike back at Aleister. It was the only thing she could give Michael.

The warlocks thrashed in her hands, the mousy one’s face bent in a silent rictus while the taller warlock howled as she stripped his magic. She released them, her power spent, and they crumpled to the ground. She managed a few steps before Captain Jackson struck her in the back of the head, dropping her to the ground beside the warlock’s lifeless bodies.

***

“NOOOO!” Michael screamed. Wildly, he launched fireballs as fast as he could form them, lashing out at anyone within range. He hit a group of soldiers with a concussion of Air, throwing them in all directions.

His emotions as chaotic as the battle before him. Anger rolled over grief rolled over hatred. With Falon gone he wanted to destroy them all. He drew the Sword. If it was so powerful, let them feel it. The image of the young girl appeared in his mind. He shoved it down. There was no place for weakness now. No such luxury existed any longer. He drew on the Eye’s power, welcoming its crimson glow. Twin columns of fire shot upward from the ground then exploded, their shockwaves engulfing soldiers in blue flames. Men thrashed and screamed in agony, some running for the moat to extinguish the flames. Columns of fire shot up all over the battlefield as Michael’s rage burned away any other emotion. He faintly heard someone yelling his name, but he ignored it. He saw the fiery payload an instant before it exploded on the tower. Throwing his hand up, Michael formed a shield. The concussion slammed into him and his mind registered the peculiar sensation of falling an instant before he hit the icy water and everything went black.

C
HAPTER
44

The Perfect Number

Dust sparkled in the midmorning sunlight streaming through the tall, lone window. The bookshelves lining the walls stood like sentinels over the matching oak desk set a few paces from the window. Half-hidden by stacks of books, Aleister sat behind the desk, leaning heavily on the armrest of the leather bound chair, chin in hand, knuckles pressed against his cheek.

The First Wizard’s study was a trophy room, one he savored more than any other. He glanced at the spot where he had stood time and again enduring lectures from Master Burlan. Sanctimonious fool. Perched on his mantle as First Wizard, what did he know about the plight of being a weak student in the keep?

A muscle in Aleister’s jaw flexed. Students had snickered when he couldn’t wield Air more than five feet away. They had laughed out loud when he manipulated Fire only to have it sputter and die in moments. “Almighty Aleister” they had jeered as he walked, white-knuckled, down the halls. “Someday,” he told himself as their laughter needled him.

“The power is there,” his professors proclaimed. Some wizards accused him of being afraid to accept his power; others shook their heads and claimed he was late to bloom. Regardless of their assessment, public embarrassment was a favorite tactic to break him of his handicap. Punishment was another.

“Can’t become great if you don’t stretch,” one professor stated as he wrapped Aleister’s knuckles with a wood ruler for failing a task.

A few wizards made him spar against stronger students hoping that would force his powers to grow. They only managed to encourage worse beatings in private by the same students.

They did succeed in one way; he learned to fight. If his powers were short range, then he would compensate by any means necessary. He made friends with some of the castle guards, learning the sword and hand to hand combat, something most wizards derided him for.

Hypocrites! They revered their mighty keeper for his swordsmanship so why not one of their own? Or did they simply despise Aleister for possessing the same skill?

Despite his magic’s limitations, he developed a talent for shields few magichae could break. “Ah, such skill with defenses,” some professors commented, “you could be great if you had range.” Those words stung more than most. Nothing he accomplished was enough. Someday he would show them all.

In his mind’s eye, Aleister saw the Keep’s courtyard on a particularly dreary day. Branson, a student with perfect features and relentless torment for weaker classmates, stood beside the arched doorway Aleister needed. Never far away, Branson’s band of cronies made a loud ruckus with their horseplay. Aleister turned to take another route when cords of Air snatched his ankle like a snare and yanked him six feet above the ground.

Uproarious laughter echoed off the stone walls.

“All hung up there, Mighty Al?” Paxton said.

The other boys cut their eyes at their mate for getting the nickname wrong, but Paxton appeared too dense to notice.

Their laughter stopped when Aleister reached up, sliced the cords with a blade of Air, and landed deftly on his feet. Along with his talent for shields, Aleister had developed a knack for breaking through elemental magic, not that his classmates had noticed over the years.

Branson glared at him, fingers twitching.

Somewhere between the anger and adrenaline, Aleister reached a decision, one corner of his mouth sliding up in a malicious grin. It felt like a good “someday” for Branson.

Branson formed a ball of Air between his hands and launched it at Aleister’s head.

Raising his forearm, Aleister solidified Air into a soldier’s shield, batting the attack away. Branson’s cronies stared at him, their smugness replaced by surprise.

Extending both hands, Branson released a quick volley of fireballs.

Aleister blocked them easily, streaks of charred grass smoldering to his left and right. “Is that the best you can do?”

With an angry yell, Branson pummeled him with balls of Fire and lashed out with chords of Air. Aleister deflected each strike as he charged Branson. The arrogant fool, so proud of his talent, threw up a weak shield at the last second. Aleister yelled as he leaped into the air, smashing through the shield and slamming his fist into the chap’s nose. The horrified look on Branson’s face was worth a pound of gold as he fell to the ground, nose bleeding. Aleister jumped on his tormentor, a tide of pent-up emotional damage pouring out of him as he threw punches at Branson’s face. Someday was today.

Someone tackled him, legs and arms tangling as they rolled on the ground. He kicked the boy in the face to break his hold and managed to stand just as Landon, a youth twice his size, hit him square in the jaw.

Aleister’s ears rang and white formed around the edges of his sight as he fell to his knees. A thought filled his mind, an epiphany of sorts, about wielding Air. In a split second reaction, he wrapped Air around his fist and struck back, crushing the boy’s jaw. Seeing the biggest member of their gang slump to the ground from one hit gave the other boys pause. Uncertainty painting their faces. Then Branson shot past them, screaming as he tackled Aleister, and they descended on him.

Bloodied and battered, Aleister stood before Master Burlan, the old windbag droning on about rules and authority, traditions and order. The Wizard Order could burn for all Aleister cared. No doubt the old man’s favorite students got off with no punishment yet again. At that moment, Aleister had concluded the power he sought could never be found in the confines of these pious walls. There was greater magic in the world and he would find it. He would master it. Then he would have his “someday” on them all. Every one of them would fear Almighty Aleister.

The reminiscence faded and Aleister noticed the piles of books covering the desk, his mood souring instantly. He shoved a stack off the desk, the sound of their crashing to the floor loud in the silent room. One, maybe two, barriers stood between him and the well of power. Might as well be a hundred. Nothing he knew about shields or breaking magic worked on the barrier he now faced. The magic it radiated was different than anything he had seen. And pouring over old books had provided no answers.

So close, so bloody close. Aleister’s eyes darted back and forth, mind racing for a solution. He knew of one thing he could do, but it was pure insanity by any measure. He had found two accounts in those old books—well Graham had found them—of wizards who had done it. In both accounts, the wizards had been granted great power but ended badly for them when they failed to deliver what they promised. Then again that was their fault. Failure was not an option when striking a deal with the Master of the Night face to face.

“Graham!” he called.

A man of average height with black hair and mousy features stepped into the room.

“Fetch Draden. I want to jump to Mistenthar.”

“Right away, sir.”

***

Aleister stepped over the dismembered body of a blonde woman, his eyes fixed on the rift. So accustomed to the slaughter involved in creating a rift, he gave no thought to the people murdered. They weren’t people, just tools to be used and discarded. He absently rubbed a smooth red stone in his hand as he studied the black maw, noting the stark contrast to the blue and white hues swirling at the perimeter of the rift. He glanced at the magichae in the chamber. Sterling and five other magichae worked to keep the rift open. They would tire quickly. The longest any single group had managed to keep a tear open was five minutes. Thirty magichae stood by waiting to step in when one got too weary. Would it be enough? The accounts he had read indicated time behaved differently within a tear. It would have to be. His success boiled down to one insane gamble.

He wielded Spirit into the soul stone and stepped through, blackness enveloping him. He glanced over his shoulder, surprised how far away the entrance to the gateway was. He could barely make out the well room in Mistenthar. How did he get so far away in only a few steps?

Something brushed across his back. He turned but saw nothing. Voices whispered, beckoning him forward. Something in his mind screamed for him to run back, but his feet carried him further away.

A voice, raspy and serpentine, whispered in his ear. “Foolish being. It walks where it does not belong.”

Aleister spun around but saw only blackness.

Something claw-like raked across his back, restrained. A promise of what was to come.

“Kill him, feed off him,” other voices hissed with glee.

Aleister thrust the soul stone outward, its radiance growing as he fed more power into it.

Two forms shied away, muttering angry promises of his demise.

“Foolish creature, that talisman won’t save you for long,” a third form said, floating just past the soul stone’s radiance. The form studied him, its gaze intent and oppressive. A leader of some sort Aleister surmised.

“He comes! He comes!” hissed a voice. “Master comes!” it shrieked, fleeing into the blackness.

“Bow, worm,” the leader commanded. “I look forward to feasting on you once your audience is finished.”

Aleister grabbed his head, screaming as pain beyond comprehension flooded his body. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees. The pain subsided, leaving him gasping for air.

The demon chuckled. “Told you to bow, I did.”

“What do you seek?” a voice, deep and hideous, asked.

“I seek to serve,” Aleister managed to reply.

“I have servants,” the voice replied. “What do you seek?”

“I seek to rule,” Aleister hissed thru clenched teeth, the truth pulled from him unwillingly. “I seek to destroy those who dismissed me. I want to find every person who tormented me and feel their beating hearts in my hand as I rip them out. I want to see the whole world cower at my feet and fear my power.”

“And what makes you any different from the other fools who sought me out? What can you offer me in exchange?”

“I can free you.”

Aleister felt himself being lifted into the air, weighed by unseen eyes.

“Others have promised as much. The well you entered from is too small.”

Aleister licked his lips. When did they become so dry? “In Dalarhan...I control Dalarhan. I stand at the final barrier to the well.”

“What of the Eye?”

“Dead. No one can touch it.”

“Hmmm, perhaps you are worth a moment.”

Pain worse than before enveloped Aleister, every part of his being burning with unseen fire, mind-searing in white-hot agony. The pain lasted only an eternal instant then Aleister fell to the floor gasping.

“Why must His creation be so fragile?” the deep voice growled. “A useless vessel to possess, but you may serve me yet.”

A black sword appeared before Aleister, tip down, a topaz gem set at the end of each curved quillion like the eyes of a serpent.

“Take it,” the voice commanded.

Aleister raised himself to his knees, reaching for the hilt, but then recoiled as a stray memory of Mary, his only love, streaked across his mind. Her beautiful blue eyes gazed at him invitingly, willing him away with a smile that could warm his heart even in this evil place.

The vision of her was ripped from his mind and he was flung backwards through the air, slamming into the white marble wall of the well chamber. Stunned, he slid to the floor. Something glinted yellow and then the black sword flew out of the maw, embedding itself into the marble a hair’s width from his ear, the topaz eyes glaring at him.

“Sacrifice six magichae, six warriors and six innocents,” the deep voice commanded. “Use the sword to overpower the barrier and release me. Succeed or fail, I will reward you accordingly.”