Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (8 page)

“How is that possible?” Baldwin appeared calm, but inside his mind reeled at the implications of hell running loose in the world of men. Could the prophecies be coming true?

“I’m afraid a rift between our realm and the underworld has been opened,” Max replied.

“Why? To what end? Has the End of Days begun?”

“All good questions, but I don’t think this is the start of Armageddon.”

Max replied much calmer than Baldwin appreciated. He had never seen Max lose his calm till tonight when he realized Michael was in peril. A small part of him wished the healer—no, wizard—would show the same concern for the fabric of the world being ripped open.

“You wielded magic tonight, correct?” It was an unnecessary question, but he wanted Max to admit it out loud.

“Yes,” Max replied calmly.

Baldwin wondered if the healer was as calm on the inside. The Creator knew he was not.

“Are you a wizard?” Another question he already knew the answer to, but he wanted to hear it from Max. Peculiar events through the years now made sense to him. It seemed obvious. He was not angry with Max for being a magichae, only for concealing it from him. An unnecessary lie. Did Max hold so little faith in their friendship?

“I was, many years ago.” Max’s eyes did not shift from Baldwin’s, but there was a hint of loss in his voice.

“Are you responsible for those creatures coming here?”

“Indirectly, I think so.”

“What do you mean ‘indirectly’?”

“It’s quite a long story.”

Baldwin glanced at Stren, who stood near the door. The burly man gave the thick wood bar a nudge, and it fell into place with a solid thud.

“No one is leaving anytime soon,” Baldwin said. “A story will do us some good.”

***

“Ah, yes, hmm, where to start.” Max glanced at Michael. “I suppose from the beginning would be best. My name is not Thorn. It’s Xan’thorne. I was once the highest ranked wizard in Shaladon, First Wizard as they call it, and chief advisor to King Tobias, Keeper of the Eye. But the same old Max you have known all these years.” Max hoped the last bit would ease the blow that he had been hiding his identity. If it had the desired effect, Baldwin’s eyes gave nothing away.

“Why are you here, then? Why aren’t you in Shaladon, advising?” Baldwin’s voice was sharp. Max feared all those years of friendship and service were now dissolved by a necessary lie.

“Seventeen years ago King Tobias was ambushed, his personal guard severely outnumbered. When it became clear they would not survive, Tobias and his wife gave all their power and their lives into the Eye to assure their son would survive. The blast wiped out every attacker to a man. As First Wizard, I shared a bond with the Eye, which told me where the keeper was and how he died.

“I rushed to the site but found only the baby boy alive. I believe Tobias concealed him in a spell of illusion to make it look as though he perished with everyone else. The Sword lay next to him, and the Eye glowed purple. It had chosen its new Keeper. To keep the baby safe I needed to hide him, so I gave him to a close friend, a traveler who happened to be visiting me at the time. If you believe in coincidence.

I knew if I didn’t return with the Sword every treasure hunter, thug, and enemy of the throne would search the far corners of the world for it, so I returned to Shaladon with the Eye and followed the pretense of selecting a new Keeper. When a new Keeper was not chosen by the Eye, the people began to believe it had been damaged. I vowed the Order of Wizards would not rest until we determined what was wrong and took the Eye to the Wizard’s Keep.

The major houses began to vie for power. For a thousand years the Eye had chosen Shaladon’s king. Politics and lust for power now ran rampant. The Order of Wizards worked to maintain peace, but we had our own politics and infighting to contend with. The nation’s identity was in shambles. It was only a matter of time before Shaladon fell apart at the seams.”

His face dropped, seeing something in his mind’s eye he wished he did not.

“It came sooner than I anticipated,” he said, his gaze distant and sorrowful. “I fled Dalarhan with the sound of swords and screams behind me.”

“So why did you settle here? Magic is not looked upon favorably.” Baldwin’s voice was still sharp, but the edge had faded.

“A few countries in the Ma Shal Dar live by magic, which presents dangers I prefer to avoid. My mere presence would make me an outlaw in others. Of the countries somewhat neutral to magichae, this is the farthest from Shaladon. And when I came here, magic was not as disliked as it is now.”

Baldwin’s eyes said he was not convinced. It was time to lay everything on the table and let fate do the rest. “The traveler who took the son of Tobias to safety lived here. He was A’lan Trommel.”

The crackle of the fire sounded loud in the silence. Eyes darted to Michael, who sat rigid in his chair.

Max laid the old sword on the table. “This belongs to you, Michael.”

Before their eyes, the common sword and scabbard transformed into something exquisite. The cracked scabbard became fine leather with intricate designs and silver tipped. Near the throat, the scabbard split revealing a marquise jewel, blacker than night, embedded in the blade. Blunt silver quillions became curved golden talons on one side and a wolf’s head bent back as if howling at the moon on the other. Finishing the transformation, the pommel became round with a gold lion’s head. It drew Michael’s eyes like a magnet.

“This is impossible,” Falon said. “The Eye is asleep in Dalarhan.”

Max eyed her. “All is not as it seems.”

“I don’t understand,” Falon said. “The Eye chose no keeper. It’s still there, in Shaladon. I saw it. How can the Eye be here now?”

“Since the Eye already chose Michael as Keeper, it would not choose another until he died. Something I intended to prevent,” Max said sternly. “My last act as First Wizard was to create a counterfeit. It took seven wizards to craft the replica and weave a spell of illusion powerful enough to fool other wizards for long. Making the fake blade radiate magic like the Eye was the hardest part. I suspect the Eye’s reputation has played a role in maintaining the ruse. I doubt anyone wanting to dominate Shaladon is willing to touch the fake sword.

“The sword in Dalarhan is a fake?” Falon gasped.

“The greatest fake ever created,” Max replied with a hint of pride.

“That’s quite a story,” Baldwin interjected, “and who is this lady who knows so much?”

“Falon is from the Rang Shalan,” Max replied. “She came in search of me. Thanks to her, I now know the man behind the murder of Tobias and numerous other crimes is part of a much larger conspiracy.

General Baldwin leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “And what conspiracy would that be?”

“There’s an alliance of warlocks known simply as the Brotherhood. They’re bent on releasing the Soulless One.”

“Madness!” Baldwin exclaimed. “They actually want to usher in Armageddon? What do they intend to gain?”

“Power, riches, prominence; it doesn’t matter. They believe the Soulless One will reward them beyond their imagination. They’re evil men with evil desires. Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

“And how does this Brotherhood plan to free the father of darkness?”

“Throughout the world there are certain places where magic is concentrated, wells of magic if you will. It’s from these wells all creatures capable of wielding magic draw their power. Some wells are small, some big. The potential of the well is proportionate to its size. They plan to use the well at Dalarhan to rip open the veil between this world and the underworld.

“Why Dalarhan?”

“It rests on the greatest well accessible to man. The Eye was created to protect it. If the well in Dalarhan is breached, the Soulless One might be released and the world will be torn limb from limb.” There were other wells of similar magnitude. Fortunately, each was in a remote location guarded by extreme weather conditions. Or worse.

“Perhaps they have already succeeded,” Baldwin said.

“No, it’s a small rift or we would be dealing with far worse than nightstalkers.”

Max took small comfort in the belief that Aleister was unaware Michael existed. When he first realized nightstalkers were in the area, he believed Michael was their target. Now he was certain they would have faced much more than a handful of hellhounds if that had been the case. Still, it was no coincidence the nightstalkers appeared the same time Falon did. So, did they catch up to her by happenstance when she arrived in Whitewater’s Forge or were they tracking her with specific instructions to kill any magichae she made contact with? Were nightstalkers that intelligent? Hellhounds steered clear of light and civilizations so Michael could have been a target simply because he lived outside of town. Perhaps the power emanating from him proved too great a draw to resist. Aleister might not even know whom Falon was searching for, but it was better to assume he was well aware his former teacher was alive. All conjecture, every bit. No one had come face to face with nightstalkers since the Warlock uprising in Balshar three hundred years ago. All he had to go on were his studies at the Wizard’s Keep.

More importantly, did this pack have a warlock linked to it? If so, then there was a warlock out there aware the beasts were destroyed by a magichae. It was unlikely Aleister would personally bother with a smaller well when he had the one in Dalarhan to focus on. Someone under him must have breached a well somewhere else. But where? And how many magichae did Aleister have working for him? So many questions and no answers. Max wanted to grind his teeth. He brought himself out of his thoughts, looking at General Baldwin.

“I’m sure the rift closed shortly after being opened. Keeping a tear open would be like trying to keep water separated with your bare hands,” he continued. No doubt wherever the rift was, Aleister’s lackeys were not far away working to reopen it.

“The prophecies claim the fall of Shaladon will be the start of Armageddon. Is this the beginning?” Garen asked.

Max shook his head. “I don’t think we’re there yet. The prophecies tend to be paradoxical and conflicting. One of the oldest prophecies states the Keeper will regain Shaladon. Does that mean he will defeat the Soulless One to regain Shaladon or does it mean Shaladon will fall and be regained prior to Armageddon? Many a heated debate have sprung up among the prophets and scholars over this very topic. I think Shaladon’s current condition is not ‘the fall’, but it could be if we do not act. Which leaves us little choice.”

“Little choice?” Baldwin said raising an eyebrow. His voice was ice and Max knew it could get colder.

“Michael must reclaim his throne and protect the well in Dalarhan. I had hoped to return him in my own timing, but tonight’s events have forced my hand. We have to move quickly. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

“Leaving!” Michael and Baldwin said together, Michael’s surprise a stark contrast to Baldwin’s retort.

“You’re not going anywhere, especially not on some foolish crusade,” Baldwin said with a wave of his hand, pointing at the window.

“The same warlock who sent those nightstalkers will soon learn of Michael’s existence,” Max shot back. “If we don’t leave, he will come, creating a wake of destruction in his path.”

“We have dealt with magichae before,” Baldwin said. “We threw them back during the Sarlon War. We can do so again.”

“The Sarlons were not warlocks hell bent on ripping open the underworld. The Brotherhood will make the Sarlon War look like a skirmish. We cannot sit here and hide any longer.”

“The king has outlawed magic,” Baldwin replied firmly. “His decree was carried by those men you helped today. I should be taking you into custody.”

“You would arrest us?” Max couldn’t hide the hurt.

Baldwin stared him in the eye for a long moment before glancing away. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Max picked up the Sword of Kings by the scabbard, holding it toward Michael. “Draw the Sword.”

Michael glanced between the Sword and Max nervously. “This is absurd, Max.”

Max’s glare could melt stone. “Draw the Sword, Michael.”

“Max, I’m a carpenter, not a—”

“You’re a king!” Max bellowed. “You’re an Ashguard. Third generation chosen by the Eye. Your parents gave their lives so you could survive. Do not dishonor them now. Draw the Sword. Take your rightful place.”

Michael moved his hand toward the Sword then pulled it back.

Max understood his apprehension. Drawing the Sword, connecting with the Eye, would change him, but there was no time for coddling. No time for Michael to deny his true calling. “A sword is as much a part of your life as a hammer. What’re you afraid of? Did A’lan Trommel raise a coward?” Max leaned closer, the hilt of the Sword looming before Michael. “You’ve drawn swords all your life. What’s one more?” The last words sounded like a challenge.

***

Michael’s chair fell back as he stood up, face red with anger. No one accused his father of such failure. He was no coward. Drawing the Sword would change nothing. He promised himself. He grasped the hilt, freeing it from the scabbard in a smooth motion and the Eye awoke from its long slumber, bathing the room in purple light, proclaiming its Keeper once again.

Michael faintly saw what happened around him. The moment he brought the Sword to bear, he felt like he had been pushed into a cold mountain spring. The chill swept through him as a torrent of power washed him away to a place void of everything but blackness. The Sword floated tip down before him. The only light in the void was the Eye radiating purple.

“It has been a long time, Keeper. There is much work at hand. Prepare yourself.”

The torrent subsided, and Michael found himself back in General Baldwin’s quarters. He looked around the room. All eyes were fixed on him.

“What...what did you say?” he stammered to Max.

“It has been a long time, Keeper.” Max pointed to the magical gem. “Shaladon needs you.”

Michael’s eyes followed his finger to the Eye, the purple glow receding into the black depths of the gem. “I don’t know what to do. I know nothing about the Eye except old legends.” He tried to place the Sword on the table but found he did not truly want to let it go. With determined effort, he sheathed the Sword, yet his hand remained on the hilt. “Why me?” he asked weakly.