Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (48 page)

Michael barely reacted in time, rolling away from the strike and taking cover behind the statue.

“Don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little game,” Aleister said, “it’s been mildly amusing, but, um”—he glanced up at the destroyed tower, anger seething on his face—”I have more pressing matters to attend to.” Pointing the black sword at Michael, he looked down its blade at him. “Honestly, I’m rather bored.” He lunged at Michael, his movement so quick, sword point striking between the legs of the statue.

Michael felt the blade slice his arm as he rolled away. He had planned for it, wanting Aleister to commit to the strike so the black sword would be impeded by the statue, but his body reacted too slowly. He brought his sword down on Aleister’s exposed side before the warlock could recover his sword.

Aleister raised his forearm and deflected the strike.

Shock swept through Michael. The Sword couldn’t penetrate the shield. He stood no chance against Aleister’s dark magic. Falon was dead, his friends were all dead. Did living really matter?

Michael deflected an attack more from instinct than anything else. He tried to take the offense, but Aleister parried and slammed a fist into his jaw. Reeling from the blow, Michael retreated to stop the ringing in his head, but Aleister pursued him. The warlock struck with ferocity and Michael barely brought the Sword up in time.

Aleister glared at him through locked blades. Michael’s ability to read people saved him, bringing up a shield as Aleister hit him square in the chest with a wave of Air.

Flying through the air, Michael slammed into the plinth base of a statue, the Sword knocked from his hand by the impact. Stunned, he slid to the ground.

Aleister approached; his walk triumphant. He towered over Michael savoring his victory. “Now, I’m afraid we must conclude this little game. I must say, though, you have gotten much further than I anticipated. If it’s any consolation I’ll make certain the historians record you as a worthy adversary.” Aleister raised his sword.

“Michael.”

It was a weak voice, fearful, but it was the sweetest sound Michael had ever heard. Falon stood in an arched doorway at the edge of the courtyard. Clothes torn and tattered, but she was very much alive. His heart leapt for joy, a surge of strength coursed through him.

Aleister looked at her, glanced at the tower then cut his eyes back at her. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Only twice in recorded history has a stripling been transformed. I’m not certain how you managed it, my dear, but we will find out soon. Say goodbye to your love.” He brought his sword down.

Michael rolled away, the black sword slicing into the green plinth. He wrapped Air around his fist and slammed it into Aleister’s jaw, sending the man staggering back.

The sight of Falon swept away all the lies, all the illusions. His old life was gone, his friends dead because of this man’s lust for power. For that, he would pay, but it was Falon that drove him now. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her.

Michael picked the Sword up, feeding all his anger, all his hatred for what Aleister had done to him, into it. The Eye responded, burning a fierce red, pouring new power into Michael. He drank it in like a man lost in the desert. Bathed in a red aura, Michael glared at Aleister. “Now we finished this.”

Aleister’s eyes widened. There was no record of the Sword covering the Keeper in such a way.

Michael struck. Aleister blocked the blow, but the sheer force behind it knocked him off balance. Michael wielded Air, slamming Aleister against the statue and engulfed him in fire.

Aleister stepped out of the flames, a wicked grin on his face. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Michael answered with Separating the Willows, Garen’s series of strikes intended to disarm an opponent. Aleister was quick but not quick enough. The last strike should have sliced off a finger or two, but the Sword could not penetrate his shield.

They squared off, measuring one another. Michael struggled inside. How could he defeat someone he couldn’t touch? In his mind, he delved deeper into the Eye, searching desperately for more power. A white orb appeared in his mind’s eye, pulsing brightly. Then he heard the voice that had spoken to him that first night in General Baldwin’s rooms. The same one that had saved him from the assassin’s blade and provided the way to kill the dragon in the mountains.

Surrender.

He deflected Aleister’s attack and countered with his own, the Sword skidding across the warlock’s shield.

“You can’t win,” Aleister jeered.

Michael lashed out. Aleister received the strike, straining under the weight of Michael’s attack.

Michael hit him with another fist wrapped in solid Air. The blow sent Aleister reeling. It should have crushed his skull.

Surrender.

The voice was more pronounced this time and the orb pulsed with the voice. Images emerged from the orb and swept past Michael in the blackness of his mind; images of yesteryear growing up with Garen, of Max and A’lan, images of his rage-driven actions at Finery’s Way and Desid.

“Shaladon needs you,”
he heard Max say in his head.

The wolf’s voice echoed in his mind. “
Where are the traits that define humanity as what Yesula intended? Devotion, selflessness, faith, love. Wield the Eye bearing such traits, with no thought for yourself, and then you will see real power.
”

The haggard, fearful faces of children filled his mind, the desperation of the people in that village where he stopped the brigands. His eyes fell on Falon standing at the doorway. All thought for himself was replaced by a desire to protect her.

Surrender.

Michael relinquished his control, letting the orb consume him and his mind exploded in a shower of light. Blue light from the Eye enveloped Michael, growing intense like the sun.

Aleister threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the light a moment before it exploded in a wave of Air. The blue laced concussion shattered Aleister’s shield and sent him flying across the courtyard like a rag doll. He slammed into the plinth where the fake Eye rested, sliding to the ground.

Groggily he pulled himself up, his eyes coming level with the fake Sword and Eye. Rage swept across his face as the fake Sword turned into a common castle guard’s blade.

“Keeper of the Eye,” he sneered, turning to face Michael. His countenance transformed from his own evil to that of something much more sinister. “You will not defeat me, boy.” His voice was ice, his eyes glinting with secret knowledge.

Aleister held his hands out before him. A glowing orb began to take shape, coalescing into a mass of color streaked blackness that writhed as it spun and grew in size. The core seemed to be made of pure blackness devoid of everything, swallowing the swirling colors and consuming the space around it. A voice, raspy and far more evil than Aleister’s emanated from his throat. “
You will die
.”

The orb screamed toward Michael and the world stopped before his eyes. Time had no meaning to him; the people at the edges of the courtyard nonexistent. It was only himself, his enemy, and the ball of writhing death. The gut-wrenching screams of a thousand souls in pure torment wailed from the orb as is rushed toward him.

He acted by instinct. All those who had wielded the Sword before him, their knowledge and ability drove him forward. It was not only his experience and skill as a swordsman, but theirs meshed as one that coursed through him. He met the orb mid-stride. The blade, enveloped in shimmering blue, sliced through it like water, silencing the horrid screams.

Michael lunged at Aleister, propelling himself on a wave of Air. Covering the ten-foot space between them in a blur, he impaled Aleister and slammed him into the granite plinth.

Aleister stared at the Eye glowing blue against his chest.

“How?” he asked, blood dribbling from his mouth.

The image of the three children clutching their mother swept through Michael’s mind and Jorgen’s words came back to him.

“Justice is mercy,” Michael replied.

Aleister cackled, a crazed sound that matched the look on his face. “Not from where I stand.”

Michael looked away from the madness running rampant in Aleister’s eyes. The crowd lining the courtyard stood motionless, shocked and stricken with fear.

“Justice for you is mercy for them.”

Words emanated from Aleister in that sinister, unearthly voice not his own. “I will have you, Keeper of the Eye.”

A chill ran down Michael’s spine as he recalled a prophecy.

He will shed his blood on the hills of sorrow. He will give himself to the shadow to end the shadow.

Aleister heaved as Michael pulled the Sword from his body.

“Perhaps,” Michael said, “but not today.”

Grasping the Sword with both hands, Michael spun around, the blade an arc of blue light. The Sword met with little resistance as is cut through granite and bone, flesh and stone. The upper half of the plinth and the fake sword slid away, falling to the ground. Aleister’s body separated and fell in a pool of blood and gore.

Michael looked up at the people in the balcony and on the fringes of the courtyard. Horror had replaced fear. They had just witnessed the end of a tyrant. Why weren’t they celebrating? Many glanced between him and the fake sword resting in the severed plinth.

The words of the prophecy came back to him.
He will betray their hope. He will destroy that which they place their hope for life in.

Betrayer of Hope.

They had spent so many years hoping and praying for someone to pull the sword from the plinth that they still saw the fake blade as the true Sword. In their eyes he was not their savior, he was their executioner.

“People of Shaladon, hear me. I am Michael, son of Tobias.” He held up the Sword. “Behold the true Sword of Kings. Behold the Eye.”

“You lie!” someone roared. “You destroyed the Eye! We are doomed!” The crowd joined in, pandemonium threatened to break loose.

“No!” Michael shouted, fear ringing through his voice. He beat it down. He had not defeated Aleister only to lose these people to an illusion.

“No!” he shouted again with the force of his position, the expectation to be heard and not questioned. He was their king and they would listen.

He walked over to the granite plinth lying on the ground. “What you see before you,” he said, grasping the hilt of the common sword and pulling it free, “is an illusion.”

The crowd stood transfixed as the icon of their hope transformed into the top half of a common sword. Several women fainted, their fall to the ground noticed only by those they fell against.

Michael dropped the common sword, clanging when it hit the granite plinth. He noticed the radiant purple hue emanating from the Eye and raised the Sword above his head. “Behold, the Eye lives!”

“The Eye lives!” someone shouted, pointing at the Eye.

Many feel to their knees, others wept. Some were too stunned to move, transfixed on the man bathed in purple light from the Eye. They had a king again, they were whole again.

A voice Michael thought he would never hear again boomed through the courtyard, authoritative and regal.

“People of Shaladon, behold, the Keeper of the Eye!”

Max, Garen, and Dalan stood on the balcony of the courtyard.

A smile split Michael’s face. They were alive, they were truly alive.

“Behold, Shaladon,” Max proclaimed again, pointing at Michael, “your king, Michael Ashguard, son of Tobias, Lion of Righteousness, Keeper of the Eye.”

Anyone in the crowd still standing knelt, bowing their head.

Michael looked around the courtyard at all the people kneeling before him and felt so small and stupid. Who was he that they should bow at his feet? He only did what he was forced to do. Granted, he had done what no one else could do, but the bowing and scraping would have to stop. He was a carpenter at heart after all. Still, just like Jorgen back at the inn, none of them would stop this nonsense until he said something.

“People of Shaladon,” he began, groping for something profound to say. What could he possibly tell them that would erase the misery they had endured? His words in the village where he had killed the brigands had produced some hope. Images of the ghostly apparitions in the Heart appeared in his mind’s eye and he could faintly hear their final farewell,
long live the king.

“People of Shaladon, a great injustice was done to us all. I lost my family and you lost your freedom. Hear me now; we will restore order. We will return to the greatness we once had. Rise, Shaladon, you have knelt before me long enough. I am your king, but I also ask to be your son.”

The courtyard erupted in applause. Cheers of “long live the king!” and “Keeper of the Eye!” reverberated off the walls.

Falon reached Michael and fell into his arms, burying her face in his chest. She looked up at him and his heart melted. Her full, red lips curved into a smile. He could lose himself in her beautiful brown eyes.

Tears streamed down her face. “I love you, Michael.”

Conflict raged in Michael for an eternal instant. Desire to love Falon won out over his desire to be a magichae or even Keeper of the Eye. His need for magic was over. He leaned down and kissed her, conveying his love, conveying his need for her.

Realization struck Michael. No prickle along his skin, no gut-wrenching shock he expected to accompany his power being ripped from him. He held her at arm’s length and looked at her questioningly. “What happened?”

She grinned. “I don’t know. When I was trapped in the tower, I saw you fighting and I...there was this orb of light in my mind. I touched it and something in me exploded. I was transformed, Michael.” She laughed and kissed him again.

Michael lost himself in her soft lips, her hands on his face.

When their lips parted, he glanced up at the jagged remains of the tower. An orb of light? Like he saw when he touched the Eye? “Exploded might be an understatement,” he said.

Max, Garen, Dalan and a middle-aged man with shaggy brown hair pushed their way past people in the throng of joyous celebration. Max’s face showed a mixture of fear and rage as he saw them holding each other.