"SOUL MATES"


STOLEN BY THE PAST

Prologue:

Sword chimed against sword: enemy against enemy. The sound of battle. The ringing, desperate note of war.

How did it come to this?

A whispered cry, pathetic and weak, a help to no one. But Abhner could no more stop the thought than he could the battle that raged around him. His kin and brethren lost somewhere in the noise, friends forgotten fighting for their lives. The old enemy fought against the new. And yet no pointed tip, eager arrow or hard fist struck Abhner. At the beginning he had believed he was the reason, now he could see just how unimportant he had become.

A pain throbbed behind his left eye. Yes, his part in this tale was done.

A grunting thrust of strength filled his ears and he looked back towards the centre of the battle. Looking into it was madness. There was no sense or beauty in battle, just the desperate, clawing fingers of bleeding men too afraid to die. But not all who fought this day were men.

On Sandpoint's top there were, in fact, only three mortal beings. Abhner himself, his younger brother Behan and - he turned - Layana. Another cry tore his head back round to the battle. Who had cried out? Was someone hurt?

His eyes moved through the gusting particles of dust and magic, over the cowering bodies of Tajar and Had'Rian, even past his brother and Silas. The cry had come from Crispin. Brave, capable Crispin. A knight. A hero. His sword's tip was embedded in the soft tissue of an Elder's stomach. The cry had come from the wizard.

Hypnotised, Abhner watched Crispin's muscles ripple as he tore the sword upwards, splitting the Elder's insides in two. Leonarra - that was his name, Abhner quickly realised - looked somewhat unsurprised by the wound. His long, blonde hair shimmered like the sun, as if diamonds had been set in the genetic make up of the Elder's locks. A coat of sweat stood out on his long forehead, a bead trickled down to the tip of his pointed nose.

The Elder looked down. Abhner looked also. The blood had started to run. Firstly, it just blotted the white robes the old man wore, then it began to soak it. Abhner had never been sure if the Elders were made up of blood, if they could even die. It seemed his questions had been answered.

The wind roared around Abhner's ankles, spinning fast, making the legs of his trousers flap violently against his skin. He looked down and then back across the lands. Leonarra thrust his arms out on either side of his body, tilted his head back softly on his neck and opened his mouth wide.

Light shone upwards, leaking out from between the Elder's lips. It thrust up out of his eyes, from his ears and nostrils, also. On the other end of the sword, Crispin tried to pull himself free but could not. Abhner started forward, wanting to help his friend, the only one who had ever truly understood him. But Leonarra's head swung forward on his neck again, the light came with him and it drenched Crispin in its white beauty.

The light grew stronger, brighter, louder. Abhner's ears tingled; his skin began to burn. He threw his arms up to cover his eyes just as Leonarra burst apart in all that light. The energy of his extinguished life raced across the hilltop and Abhner was knocked backwards off his feet.

The wind burned just as hotly as the bright light and Abhner cried out behind his folded arms. His torn shirt billowed; the skin of his stomach was exposed and prickled painfully. He turned onto his side, curled himself up protectively and waited for the torrent to pass.

It was over far sooner than he had expected.

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