Her friends turned from her. She wasn’t sure if her words had been encouraging. She didn’t feel particularly hopeful herself. So much had happened to them, and now here they were, poised before their own fall. But she did know one thing: they had each other. That had to count for something.
The Warriors looked out over the broken country of Inveira, its fragments rising as smoke in the distance. The setting sun arced low over the mountains to throw its light across the still and dead land.
Their fleet sailed into the bloody sunset and onward to the distant Morven.
The once great fortress of Brunein was a broken husk in its skeletal ravines. Fire had claimed most of the buildings but a few still stood, eerily alone among the heaps of bodies and ash. One hundred thousand men filled the fortress, forming a great mass of black that stretched far into the surrounding ravines.
Every man held his weapon high in the moonlit night, every shield bore proud.
Iscarius perched like a shadow upon the pearly shores. The ocean lapped against the sands, its chill waters splashing about his boots. His cloak flapped in the breeze, breaking shadows as he scanned the masterpiece before him.
He looked into their determined, zealous eyes. They would fight for their families, their futures, and for a lasting peace. They would not stop until Tarsha bowed at their knees. They would win, or they would break the world. A grin tugged on Iscarius’ face at the breadth of his creation. It would take but a final pull of his strings to set events into motion. There would be no turning back.
Two men approached him with a bow. Iscarius looked down at Branim, King of the Inveirans. “A humble king, is that not a sight? Rise, King Branim.”
Branim stood and crossed his arms. “Return to me my kingdom. You have your worth of me.”
Iscarius frowned. “You defied me, Branim. You let the Warriors rally your men, encouraged them even. Then, you kept your gates closed. You broke your word. No, I do not think you can be trusted to take your country back.”
To his credit, Branim maintained impressive composure. “I opened the gates, I planted my spies, I laid traps for the Warriors. I followed our agreement.”
“Yes, that you did. With a little twisting of your words. I cannot fault you. I suppose that I would have done the same had I been the one to sit on the Silver Throne.”
“You do sit on the throne,” Branim growled. “You own my country.”
“Yes, and it has served its use well. You shall have it back after you do one more thing for me.”
Branim stepped closer and scowled down at Iscarius. “You promised me that no harm would come to my people if I turned a blind eye. I kept silent all these years while you trained thousands of my people for your army and enslaved the rest. And when the time came, you razed half my kingdom to the ground.”
Iscarius smirked back. “We all must make sacrifices. You sacrificed your country to me, as your line before you, as his before his. You gave your country for Tarsha; your reward will be a world without war. A world free of Abaddon. Is that not what you fight for?”
“I fight for my people alone,” the king spat.
Iscarius hoisted a hefty bag. Branim took the bag and shook it, frowning at the cerebreum and gold clinking within. “Your final task. Take your men to the Iron Fjords. Your errant general is seeking to gather any holdouts there. Kill him.”
Branim sneered and stomped across the shore to his men.
Iscarius turned to the second man who knelt, waiting patiently. He then rose and removed his hood.
Malleus Taraus looked down at his master, a cool smile on his face. “What of me, my lord?”
Iscarius shook his head. “You disappoint me, General Taraus. First, you make a disaster of the siege on Hesed—”
“But I didn’t…”
A look from Iscarius silenced him. “Second, you kidnap Adriel Ivanne despite your orders, luring Taran away and costing us valuable weeks. What to do with you indeed?”
Malleus bowed his head. “I only ever meant to serve you, Lord.”
“Intentions are not enough. Rise and gather your men, I will give you your orders when we arrive at our destination.”
Malleus stood, bowing again. “Thank you, Lord Iscarius.” He turned and joined a nearby group of red-armored Blood Guards.
Iscarius pulled his sword from its sling. He stepped forward, holding the cerebreum sword up for all to see. A strange substance darkened its edge.
“Liberators of Tarsha!” His booming voice carried through the night. “Cain Taran’s blood covers this sword.” A unified uproar broke out from the masses. They soon quieted at their leader’s signal. “But he is not dead, not yet. We must put an end to this epoch of war. Cain Taran must die!”
To unify a people, they needed hate. Nothing brought men together like their shared hatred of something. Or someone. He had given them their demon to hate. He paused as his men cheered. “It is our time to bring peace and prosperity. We will bring about a new age. Come, my brothers, and we will crush the Alliance. Win back your lands, your families, your freedoms!”
The Acedens thrust their weapons in the air and shouted to the heavens. Iscarius turned and looked out over the dark ocean. Thousands of black ships filled the Sea of Caius, their decks bursting with soldiers.
Iscarius smiled. “We sail for Morven.”
Excerpt of Book Three
The Shadow of War
The howls of wolves heralded the end.
Ethebriel Marthen, King of Kaanos, stood in his throne room. He found himself drawn to one of the many tapestries that lined the ancient oak walls. It depicted two soldiers in pitched battle, one with spear raised to smite the other. The tapestry told the tale of the brothers Sarma and Agris, who, after defeating their many enemies, turned on each other. The stories differed on the reason, whether for control over the lands they conquered, for glory, or for love. But the reason didn’t matter. The point was that both died in the end.
Ethebriel sighed and turned to his attendants who were busy strapping on his armor. The captain of his honor guard, Darian, stepped forward and clamped on his pauldrons. Ethebriel lowered his arms, tugging on straps and inspecting clasps. He nodded his approval and let himself be led out of the throne room by a retinue of his guards.
A flurry of activity bustled around him as his attendants rattled off their reports. He walked on, listening to them with half an ear. He knew what he had to do. He knew what lay ahead.
His palace doors swung open, and he stepped out into chaos.
A mass of soldiers filled the palace staging area. Men jogged by in formation, others filing into columns. The air stirred with a cacophony of noises: men barking orders, curses, the clanking of armor, the nickering of horses.
It was there, buried deeply beneath the discipline and orderly chaos, that tension before a battle. He saw the looks in their eyes—fear, horror. It was probably in his own too.
A young stable hand ran up with a bow and handed him the reins to his dun destrier. Ethebriel swung himself into the saddle and guided his mount down the road. His honor guard trotted along in a wedge formation, shouting for men to make way for their king. The flow of soldiers pressed thick through the narrow road, but soon Ethebriel and his guards came to the front of the city. They worked their way through the winding roads and formations of men and stopped before Dun Ara’s main gate.
Armeth, his friend and advisor, approached with a salute. Ethebriel dismounted and handed his reins to a soldier.
“This is it,” Armeth said.
“It is.” Ethebriel sighed. “Let us hope we prepared well enough for this day.”
“All of our troops are in place. We pulled as many men as we could from nearby towns and posts; forty-five thousand in all. It still won’t be enough.”
“We will hold them back as long as we can. You know what to do if we fail here, if I’m captured?”
Armeth nodded grimly. “I still don’t like it though.”
“You will do it
. This isn’t the time to argue.”
Armeth gave a stiff bow and said nothing.
Ethebriel moved toward the stairway that led to the wall walk. His honor guard and Armeth followed him out onto the city’s outer wall. Thousands of men lined the battlements, their brown and red armor glinting in the setting sun.
The distant wolves howled again, gathering for their hunt. Wolves were rare this far south, but reports said that they were growing in numbers, growing bolder every season. Their cries echoed across the plains, carried far by the chill of an early autumn breeze.
The line of soldiers split for their king and he stepped up to the battlements. He paused, then clapped the shoulder of the man beside him. The soldier’s tension seemed to ease somewhat, his frown replaced by a look of budding confidence. Ethebriel looked out over the plains of Kaanos.
Tens of thousands of Acedens surrounded Dun Ara. An infinite sea of black armor swallowed the golden fields, stretching off toward the horizon. Their banners flapped in the wind, that strange sigil of Iscarius swathed in stark white against the black. They formed massive ranks around the city, enclosing it from well out of bow range. Men dug trenches and sharpened poles while others raised tents and prepared for patrols. The Acedens had likely marched all day; they’d set defensive formations and attack in a few days, perhaps weeks. Or perhaps they’d elect to play it safe and simply starve the Kaanosi into surrender. Either way, the Acedens wouldn’t be in a hurry. They knew they’d take Dun Ara eventually.
Ethebriel didn’t intend to let them take it easily. He’d bleed them all for their betrayals. They’d shattered alliances, burned innocence. They broke the world. If the rumors were true, then they had killed Abaddon. The world could have had peace. But instead, it kicked and bled in its death throes.
If the other rumors were true, these Acedens had killed kings, conquered countries, brought the world to its knees. And no one even knew why.
He drew his sword with a long rasp of steel. The nearby men stopped whispering, and soon, all eyes were on him. They watched him anxiously, as if waiting for him to say something. There wasn’t anything he could say that would save them. No, now was not the time for words. It was a time for swords.
Ethebriel Marthen, King of Kaanos, thrust his sword in the air with a fierce bellow. Dun Ara exploded with the roars of men ready to meet their end. Catapults and ballistae clanked into action and sent their munitions hurtling over the enemy encampments. The Acedens scrambled to action, clearly surprised by the sudden attack. Soon, munitions of their own sailed over the city and their armies charged across the empty field.
Ethebriel smiled into the face of his demise.
About the Author
Bryan Gifford’s love for literature and all things fantasy inspired him to create The Atonement Trilogy at the age of ten. He completed the first of the trilogy, The Spirit of Revenge, at seventeen. Bryan lives in Waco, Texas, and currently attends Tarleton State University for a Bachelor of Business Administration in Management. You can learn more about Bryan and The Atonement Trilogy at bryangifford.com.
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