Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (7 page)

“Max? Garen?”

Haunting laughter answered. Michael stepped out to the edge of his porch, straining to see past his fence for the source. Glowing red eyes appeared in the darkness glaring at him. He took a step back, heart racing. The moon broke through the clouds, bathing his yard in soft white light, revealing four massive beasts standing at the tree line beyond his fence.

They resembled wolves, but larger with coats so black they seemed to swallow the moonlight around them. His hair stood on end, chills sweeping across his body. He felt like he was being looked upon by the Soulless One himself. A low, guttural growl emanated from the beasts, unnatural, terrifying and hypnotic at the same time. A perversion of what should be.

One of the beasts charged, bounding over the fence with ease. Danger screamed through Michael’s mind, yet he stood frozen, unable to take his eyes off the horror charging toward him.

From the corner of his eye, moonlight faintly reflected off the blade of his wood axe resting beside the door. The beast was halfway to him. He grabbed the axe, the need to survive coursing through his veins. Screaming as he brought the blade down, he embedded into the beast’s skull with a sickening thud. The massive animal fell limp, lifeless. He glanced at the other beasts, but none made a move toward him. They only stared back with those glowing red eyes. Were they afraid or just waiting? Waiting for what?

Fear crashed in on Michael as the beast lying on his porch began to stir. Groggily at first, then pushing itself up, the hellish beast stood. The axe protruded grotesquely from its head. Michael backed away into his house. The beast lifted its head and let out the most unearthly howl, echoed by the others in a hellish chorus, chilling Michael to the bone.

Slamming the door, Michael threw the bolt in place and leaned against it as if the extra weight would keep the monsters out. His heart pounded, mind racing.

The door shook. Michael jumped away, panic threatening to take him. The solid oak door cracked when the beast slammed into it again. The need for survival pushed fear aside. Michael refused to die like some scared rabbit with no defense. He heard wood splinter as he scrambled for his bow. The hinges gave way, and the door crashed to the floor as he slung the quiver over his shoulder.

Instinct replaced thought as Michael drew and released an arrow in one, smooth motion, striking the beast in the left eye. The animal flinched from the force of the impact but showed no sign of pain. Another arrow struck the right eye.

“Die!” Michael screamed, drawing back on the bow, every fiber of his being willing the arrow to kill the beast. He loosed the arrow, ripping through the beast’s heart. Howling and thrashing in pain, the monster collapsed in the throes of death. Michael felt a cool sensation wash over him like he had emerged from a hot bath into cold, wintry air.

Another beast crashed through the window near the fireplace. Michael loosed an arrow, taking it in the ribs, causing it to crash into his chair and table. A third appeared in his doorway, standing over its fallen brother, snarling, muscles tensed. As its hind legs recoiled to spring for Michael, it erupted in bluish-white flames. Thrashing about, the monster howled in pain as tongues of fire consumed it.

The beast by the fireplace lunged for his throat. Michael raised his bow defensively, gripping it with both hands. The beast’s jaws found solid wood rather than soft flesh, but the sheer force of its charge sent them tumbling in a mass of fur and flesh.

Pinned beneath the beast, muscles taut and shaking, Michael fought to keep those teeth from his throat. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, the need to escape screamed through his mind. The need consumed him, and he felt the cool sensation rush through him again. The beast flew backwards crashing into the stone fireplace. Michael heard the pop of bones breaking, and the beast fell to the floor twitching.

Max appeared in the doorway, his face a mixture of alarm and rage. Michael sat there, eyes wide with shock and horror.

“What happened?” Michael asked. “What are those things?” He was not sure he wanted to know.

“It’s a long story, Michael,” Max said, helping him to his feet. “But, I’m afraid, the time for its telling has come.”

Michael began to tremble as fear rushed through his body, remembering the struggle with the blinding speed of the mind’s eye. He looked at the beast lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, and then the beast in the doorway with arrows protruding from it like a pincushion. Only ash remained of the one that had erupted into flames.

“Max, what’s going on?” His voice trembled with desperation.

Max inspected him for injuries mumbling something about the slightest scratch could cause fever.

The beast at the fireplace stirred, raised its bloody head, and let out a chilling howl. It was similar to the howls before, carrying a chord of arrogance and contempt, but it faded with a hint of failure. Long and loud, the sound carried through the night and was answered in the distance.

Max stretched out his hand and shot the beast with a ball of fire, consuming it in that same bluish-white flame.

Michael stared at the healer, certain the world had gone mad. “Max?”

Max pulled Michael to his feet with a grunt. “I’ll explain everything, but right now we have to leave.” Michael grabbed his leather pack lying next to his overturned chair and followed Max out the front door.

As they emerged from the house, another terrifying howl rang through the crisp night air. Michael looked past Stren, General Baldwin and a young woman he did not recognize to where the beasts had first appeared. Weren’t there four? The whole ordeal was such a blur to him.

Garen approached from the back of the house with Michael’s horse.

“Get on your horse,” Max commanded, “more are coming.”

“More of what?” Baldwin demanded. “What were those beasts?”

“They’re exactly what you’re afraid they are, General. They’re nightstalkers.”

“Nightstalkers don’t exist. They’re nothing more than campfire stories.”

Another howl cut through the night.

Max swung into his saddle. “If you like you can stay here and debate that with them when they arrive.”

“Why are they here?” General Baldwin asked. The question sounded accusatory.

Max glanced at Falon. She would know soon enough. He would have to watch her; she may still be a threat. His eyes fell on Michael. “To kill a king.”

He spurred his horse into motion. “Ride! Ride to the garrison!”

They raced toward town chased by an unseen enemy. The forest felt like it was closing in. Branches seemed to reach out, snagging clothes or striking faces as they sped down the path. Only the foolish would ride a horse at a run through the forest trail at night. Or the desperate.

The trees began to thin and Michael could see the first houses ahead. He felt they were going to make it when a massive body emerged from the shadows, barring the path. Max released a volley of fireballs, engulfing the beast in flames.

“Ride,” he yelled, “don’t stop till you’re in the garrison.” He veered down a street and disappeared into the night.

C
HAPTER
5

Secrets

General Baldwin climbed the cold steps spiraling along the curvature of the wall to his quarters. The echoes of his boots bounced off the walls. The torches cast grim and foreboding shadows. It matched his mood.

For some time, he had barked orders that sent men scurrying with little idea what was going on. He was not sure himself. He ordered Garen to escort Michael and Falon to his quarters and dispatched Stren into town with a sizable group of soldiers. Everyone was told to be inside, doors barred, no resistance tolerated, and no questions answered. Baldwin had no answers to give. Anything on four legs and black was to be shot full of arrows or hacked to pieces on sight.

No sooner had he given orders for Max to be arrested than the healer had ridden into the garrison with an old commoners sword strapped to his back. The sword raised a few eyebrows, an oddity for a healer, but Baldwin had seen it resting in a corner of Max’s house for many years. Max dodged his questions by giving instructions on how best to kill the nightstalkers, which only fueled his temper to a white-hot boil. He ordered Max to wait for him in his quarters and had sent two men to make sure the healer got there.

An hour later Stren returned to report all was well. No more black “wolves” had been spotted. After dismissing Stren, Baldwin had paced the rampart above the gatehouse for a while longer. He had needed time to think and let his temper subside.

Now he stood before the oak door of his chambers, uncertain he wanted to enter. He needed answers, and he would get them, no matter how much he had to wring Max's neck. But he feared those answers would change everything.

Magic was involved. In Timmaron, such matters were not taken lightly. Not since Sarlon wizards rained down destruction on Timmaron twenty-four years ago.

Baldwin did not share the animosity most people in Timmaron showed toward magic. He had fought alongside magichae, seen them bleed for Timmaron as much as anyone else. Magic was like a sword. It could be a dangerous weapon or a protector of life depending on the person wielding it. Some people called for a stop to the Crafting of master blades, and there was a growing movement in Tallijor to ban magic altogether. Baldwin sniffed. When he had first heard such rumors, they had sounded improbable. Timmaron was not like Valan. Those crazy zealots killed magichae on sight. Yet this very day he had plucked King Darin’s decree from Belfor’s saddlebags declaring all magichae be arrested. A far cry from Valan’s treatment, but a step closer regardless. Baldwin found himself wishing King Edwin, Darin’s father, still lived. Darin’s youthful exuberance was taking the country in a direction Baldwin did not like.

The door loomed before him. He had seen something evil tonight. He still had a hard time comprehending nightstalkers running loose in the world, and a close friend was tied to it somehow. He hesitated, hand on the door. Hard decisions lay at hand. He feared them, a foreign feeling for him. Difficult decisions were part of being a leader, but these decisions involved a deep friendship and a debt he could not repay.

Footsteps echoed up the stairway. “Is everything well, Sir?” Stren asked, emerging from the dimming light.

“I’m afraid everything is about to change, and ‘well’ is a word I doubt we’ll use for some time.”

Stren nodded. "Nothing remains the same, sir. The tempest of battle looms but I go where you go."

Baldwin chastised himself for stalling. Stren’s faith was worthy of more competent leadership. “Come, my friend, we have a story to hear.”

Baldwin’s stomach turned with apprehension as he opened the door. His sparsely decorated chambers accentuated the life of a soldier rather than being an escape from it. Only a few colorful banners depicting famous battles livened the stark gray walls. The Baldwin family coat of arms, a hawk with claws bared on a white banner, rested above the fireplace. Sconces hung in their rings on the walls, and the fire had recently been stirred to life, but neither helped to ease the ominous edge from the room.

Garen sat picking at a knot in the table with his fingernail. Next to him, Michael stared blankly into the fire, his mind far from his body. Across the cherry wood table, Falon sat sharpening a throwing knife. Under different circumstances, he would have been very interested in learning how a girl her age managed to look so regal and dangerous at the same time. Max sat at the opposite end of the long table waiting patiently. Baldwin’s anger had not subsided much, so some distance was probably good.

Sitting down, looking at no one particular, he removed his gloves with deliberate slowness. His questions must be precise, without emotion getting in the way and silence was his ally. Thick, almost oppressive, the uncomfortable silence should help him get to the bottom of the night’s events.

He glanced at Garen then Michael. What was the lad’s role in this? Did it involve his son? Certainly not! Both were good boys. Neither would willingly have anything to do with such darkness. Would Max for that matter? His gaze shifted to Falon. He knew nothing of her except she was a foreigner. Her appearance was timely to say the least. Her eyes met his with fire and determination. Strangely, he had the feeling she had seen more battles than many of his men.

Finally, he set his gaze on Max. The healer had appeared one day and took up residence. How long ago had it been? Garen was one, so that would make it sixteen years now. He had quickly established himself as a skilled healer, making the rounds in Whitewater’s Forge and other nearby towns. Wounds and illnesses seemed to offer no challenge to him, even some Baldwin would have thought beyond the abilities of a healer.

One summer Garen had been struck with Valutian fever. His skin burned like fire and red welts covered his body. Even submerged in cold water did little to cool the fever. Few people survived the fever, and Garen’s chances appeared all but gone with Max away in Almanthor. Baldwin had sent his swiftest rider to fetch Max, but an eight-year-old stood little chance of fighting such an illness. Then Max arrived late in the night surprisingly unworn from a fast and hard ride.

Touching the boy’s forehead, he looked at Baldwin with his typical smile. “You Baldwins can’t do anything halfway, can you?”

Mixing a powder with water, he poured it down Garen’s throat. “The trick to beating this fever is to let it think it’s won. Seems pretty confident at this point, but Garen’s not done fighting,” he said, placing his hand on the boy’s forehead. “We’ll know by morning.”

With the rising sun, the healer’s words had proven true. Garen had not been done fighting.

Baldwin felt he could never repay Max for saving his son. His feeling of debt made this situation difficult, but he could not stall any longer.

“Those...things, what were they?” he asked slowly, struggling to reconcile what his eyes had seen with what he believed to be true.

“Exactly what you fear they were,” Max replied. “Nightstalkers, hellhounds, black beasts, whatever name you wish to use they were the nightmare you’re having a hard time accepting.”