A Betrayal of Storms by Ben Alderson

Chapter 25

Dad's back was to the assailant, blissfully unaware of the weapon outstretched inches from him. I pushed him with as much force as I could muster. There was no time to regret the clatter of his knees as they smacked into the floor. His pain was preferred over his death.

Then it was only me and the attacker, which I quickly realised was not here for my father, but for me. Their dark eyes, shrouded in shadow, stayed on me, caring little for the older man gasping on the floor to our side.

A knife, dark and ominous, jabbed towards me with lightning precision, its tip catching the dull light, revealing the layering of liquid across it. I threw myself backwards, blindly, back slamming into the corner of unmoving furniture. Pain lanced my side as the wind in my lungs was knocked out of me.

"Robin!" Dad shouted, pushing himself to standing. I recognised the faint noise of a struggle on the other side of the door. There was no time to focus on that when a fist gripped a hold of my tunic and lifted me from the ground.

The assailant was on me, arm pulled back and ready to stab. Then we both clattered to the floor, our moment interrupted by Dad's hulking body as he tackled the attacker. We were mess of limbs and panic as the three of us wrestled for control. Father had a hold of the attacker, arm wrapped around their throat as he pulled them from me. I crawled out of harm's way, watching as the attacker raised a curved hand and sliced the dagger across Father's arm. Blood blossomed, dark ruby. Father called out in agonised anger, arms loosening in response. It was what the attacker needed to get free from the hold.

Father tried to reach out again, but his hands were slick with his own gore. Out of his reach the assailant was on their feet once again, racing on soundless feet for me. Cold, frigid tendrils of power split from my chest and filled my consciousness. A cloud of silver breath fogged beyond the attacker's face covering. The dark swathe of material that rested perfectly across the bridge of their nose did little to keep my power out. I threw my hands out, willing for the magic within to assist me.

In preparation for the blade's contact, I closed my eyes. I kept them closed, wondering why I felt nothing but the release of my power. Gripping a hold of a kindling of bravery I opened my eyes to see the white spears of ice that exploded from the ground as though it was natural to do so.

The attacker halted before a jagged slicing of ice burst a step before them. Another moment later and they would have been impaled. My attempt did not end them as intended, giving me little time to ready myself.

Father was up again, swinging a wooden chair with a mighty roar. That was his grave mistake. A warning he gave the attacker as an action of good will.

The attacker turned on light feet, missing the chair and not missing their aim.

It was the expression that crossed Father's face that revealed to me what happened between them. The attacker, back now to me, looked as though they hugged Father, holding him close, with arms close to the side of their body.

The chair clattered to the ground, wood splitting terrifyingly loud.

The blade was no longer visible, buried between the attacker and Father, metal stuffed into Father's chest up to the hilt.

Our eyes met. His heavy, mine alert. I could see the very life drain from them as if the knife in his chest stole it away.

The moment was short, interrupted by an explosion of pure, white light which blinded me. I saw nothing but the halo of sunlight, even in the darks of my eyes as I scrunched them shut. The light seemed to drown all noise, all reality of what happened in the room beyond my closed eyes. I wanted to see, to help, to rip the attacker from Father's body with my own hands and unleash a swarm of pain. But I could do nothing but shy from the brightness.