Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) Read Free Page A

their barrenness. If he hadn’t come here, they silently shouted, they would still be in spring’s bloom. The fog would not have come and they would be basking in glory.
    Michael’s shivering intensified, and the blisters on his heels now caused a sharp pain with every step. He tore his eyes from the trees and back to the path ahead, the urgency in his chest pulling him forward.
    As soon as he looked ahead, he saw it, and it compelled him to a sudden stop. He knew instantly that this was what was calling him, but it wasn’t what he had expected. A dozen paces in front of him rose a sword. Its golden hilt was glistening through the mist, and the steel of the long blade was shining as if in perfect sunlight. Michael had visited museums and had seen real swords before, but they were old, dulled by time; many with pockets of rust. The one before him now was gleaming as it if had only just been forged and polished, issued to a king or general who would raise it in the air; its shiny surface visible to soldiers far and wide, calling them to battle.
    Michael took tentative steps toward the sword, edging closer until it was within grasp. The top of the hilt was level with his stomach, and Michael wondered how far the blade was buried, and how long the sword was when fully drawn. It still called to him, but he felt no compulsion to try to draw it from the ground, or even to touch it. He needed to understand it, not hold it.
    As he studied the hilt, he saw that the pommel was in the shape of two faces, one facing each arm of the guard. From where he stood, on the left was the face of a young woman, and on the right that of a much older woman, her wrinkled face moulded into the golden surface. As he slowly walked around the sword he could see that on the other side of the pommel the faces changed from female to male, although the contrast of young and old remained. He didn’t study the faces, though; his eyes drawn downwards. Below the pommel there were shoulders and then arms that wound around the grip, as if embracing the sword’s handle. Elbows turned at right angles to form the guard, the lower arms ending in open upturned palms.
    Michael knelt in front of the sword to examine the blade. He was so engrossed in his inspection that he didn’t notice the silence broken by the deep rumblings from the clouds overhead. Oblivious to the growing anger above, he gazed at his reflection in the blade. It was only now that he saw his own image that he realised how cold his body was, as he saw his lips had turned blue, his long face – usually considered attractive – now looking gaunt with the signs of his chill.
    The grumbling from the clouds above grew stronger. An electrical force started to build within the sword’s sphere and Michael’s skin again responded with goose-bumps. A vague awareness of his danger started to rise, when he saw it at the very top of the blade… the Woodland Star engraved into the bright steel. Confusion, excitement, and fear all coalesced in Michael’s chest and stomach, as the energy in the air surrounding him grew stronger. He was trying to understand why this symbol would be on both the entrance gates to the garden and on this sword – why it excited him – when something was again trying to pull the skin from his bones, the stretching sensation now turning to pain.
    A jolt of awareness returned to him, suddenly remembering the clock, and the lightning bolt. A sudden rush of fear filled him with adrenaline. Closing his eyes, he turned and sprung just in time.
    CRACK!
    Michael felt himself flung through the air, his hard landing knocking the wind from him. The noise was beyond anything he could have imagined. There was no ringing in his ears this time, but the silence in the gardens was amplified. As he squirmed on the ground catching his breath, he realised he could not hear the movement of the pebbles underneath him. The sound of the lightning strike had this time deafened him. If he hadn’t