by Aaron Hodges
After the carnal house they’d made of Trola, Devon had lost his stomach for war.
“Who do you take me for?” Devon asked, smiling despite himself. “A Lonian?”
Kellian snorted. “Who was that ancestor of yours again? Alan something or other? A Lonian through and through, if I’m not wrong!”
Devon scowled. “Don’t remind me.”
Scooping up his mug, Devon downed the rest of his ale. Once, tales of the great hammerman had inspired him. Ever since he’d been old enough to lift kanker, he’d dreamed of living up to the legend, of carving new tales with the fabled hammer. He’d marched against Trola with dreams of glory in his young head. Instead, he’d found only death and shame.
Silently Kellian refilled his mug. “Sorry,” he said softy. “I forget, sometimes.”
Devon forced a smile. “It’s nothing, old friend. Come on, why don’t you join me for a drink? It’ll be hours before any customers show after that…display.”
Kellian nodded. He had just picked up a fresh mug when the screech of the door announced a new customer. Raising an eyebrow, Devon turned to look at the newcomer. His heart sank as he recognised the golden helm held in the crook of the man’s arm.
Royal guard.
A grin stretched across the man’s stubbled chin as he saw Devon sitting at the bar. He strode quickly across the room, his boots thumping hard on the wooden floor, and slid onto the stool beside Devon.
“Why, if it isn’t the cowardly hero!” Laughter boomed across the bar as the newcomer slapped Devon on the back. “What are we drinking? I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
Scowling at the man, Devon ignored the question—and the insult. He was familiar with the nickname, though few dared say it to his face. Undeterred by Devon’s icy glare, the guard waved for Kellian to pour him a pint of ale. Kellian glanced once in question at Devon, but there was little either of them could do to rid themselves of the man. As a royal guard, he had connections of which they could only dream. Silently, Kellian drew another mug from beneath the bar and poured the man his drink.
“Ahhh, that hits the spot!” the guard boomed after he’d slurped down a mouthful of ale. Turning to Devon, he offered his hand. “The names Anthony. Just came from the plaza. Don’t suppose you got a chance to watch the traitors hang?”
Devon stared at the man’s hand for a moment before reaching down to shake the pale fingers. Squeezing a little too tightly, Devon couldn’t help but take some pleasure watching the man flinch. Anthony’s brow hardened as he retrieved his bruised hand, and it was a while before he spoke again.
“Hard to believe a man like you won’t use a blade,” he said quietly. Reaching down, he drew a dagger from his belt. The steel glinted in the light of the oil lamp as he pointed it at Devon. “No wonder you earned the nickname. I swear, if I was as big as you, I’d be rich!”
Devon turned his amber eyes on the guard. The man was a full head and shoulders beneath his own six-foot-five, but his slender frame was heavily muscled. He’d moved with the graceful balance of a warrior as he entered the bar, and he held the dagger with the air of a professional. If that wasn’t enough to warn Devon of the man’s skill, the golden helm resting on the bar left no doubt. Weak men did not get to be guards for the Tsar.
The man was clearly spoiling for a fight, but Devon had made his friend a promise. Letting out a long sigh, he climbed to his feet and looked down at the guard. He placed a hand on the man’s back and shook his head.
“If you’d ever used that sword outside the training grounds, you’d understand,” Devon said softly.
Turning on his heel, he left the bar before the man could form a response. He moved quickly through the double doors and outside. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the screech of the doors came from behind him.
“I’ll not be insulted by the likes of you,” called the guard.
Turning, Devon watched the man stride down the steps towards him, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Devon glanced at the blade, then back at the guard’s face. His eyes narrowed, his heart beating faster at the thought of a fight. “You draw that, you’d better be ready to use it, Sonny.”
Anthony hesitated, his eyes flickering in either direction, but the street was empty. Swallowing, he straightened. “I don’t need a blade to beat a coward,” he growled.
“Is that so?” Devon asked.
He stepped forward, so that he stood just an inch from the man. Anthony might have had the height and muscle to match most foes, but Devon was no ordinary warrior. He had proven that during the civil war, when men had fallen beneath his hammer like wheat before the scythe. Now unarmed and unarmoured, the power of presence still sent fear slicing through the young guard’s bravado.
“Go home, Sonny,” he said quietly.
Turning away, he started off down the street. He only made it a couple of steps before the scuffing of leather on stone announced the guard’s pursuit. Devon leapt to the side and heard a curse as Anthony stumbled past. His arms windmilled, and screaming, he twisted to give chase.
Devon met him with a right cross to the face. The blow halted the man in his tracks and sent him lurching back. But to Devon’s surprise, he did not fall. Staggering sideways, he straightened and came at Devon in a rush. Caught out, Devon caught a blow on his chin before he could register the man’s speed. He twisted with the blow, deflecting its power, and slammed a left hook into his opponent’s stomach.
Breath hissed between the guard’s teeth as he bent in two. Pain throbbing from his cheek, Devon felt the old rush of his anger returning. Blood pounding in his ears, he stepped in and drove two blows in quick succession into his reeling opponent. The man’s strength went from him in a rush, but before he could fall Devon caught him beneath the arms.
Anthony’s head sagged as Devon lifted him up. “Not so tough now, are you Sonny?” he snapped.
Bone crunched as he smashed his fist into his opponent’s chin. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he no longer cared. A low rumble came from Devon’s throat as he lifted the man above his head and hurled him across the street. He landed with a crash in a pile of old pottery, and did not rise.
Teeth bared, Devon watched the man for several seconds before shaking his head. If that was the best the Tsar had to draw on, it was a good thing the man had magic. Letting out a long breath, he allowed his anger fade. Guilt rose to replace it. For just a moment, the rush of battle had overwhelmed him. He had allowed the joy of combat to wash away his common sense, and set the beast free.
Now there would be repercussions. The man was a royal guard and wouldn’t hesitate to make Devon’s life a living nightmare. But that was a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Turning towards home, he started off down the bricked street, before a voice called out behind him.
“Wait!”
Chapter 3
Alana shivered as the giant of a man turned towards her. Blood ran from a cut on his cheek, and his unkept beard and flattened nose gave him a look of such ferocity she almost took a step back in shock. The silence stretched out as his amber eyes watched her, a dark scowl written across his forehead. His massive shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists as he watched her, waiting for her to speak.
Swallowing, Alana forced herself forward. “I know you.”
“I don’t know you,” he replied, his voice gruff and unwelcoming.
“No,” she murmured, biting her lip, “but then, I wasn’t a hero in the war.”
“What’s that to you?”
“Is it true you’re a sellsword now?” she asked quickly, before the words deserted her.
She had spent the last three days visiting Ardath’s various pubs and inns, asking for word of travellers leaving the city, for merchant caravans in need of an extra hand. But with the onset of winter, few dared to venture out into the wilderness at this time of year. A few planned to take ship all the way to Lon, but Alana had neither the coin nor the skill to aid on such a
venture.
Desperate, she had turned her search to the poorer quarters of the city. The Firestone Pub was one of the nicer establishments in this area, but as she had turned the corner and started towards it, the two men had staggered outside and begun their fight. She could not recall seeing the legendary hammerman before, but it hadn’t taken much to make the connection. Few people in the Three Nations matched the size of the man standing in front of her. And if he was willing to help them…
“No offence, missy, but you don’t look like you could afford me,” Devon replied, one eyebrow raised.
Heat spread to Alana’s cheeks. She’d heard the man was a brute, a soldier who’d do a man’s dirty work for a few coins, but she wasn’t about to be talked down to. Her cloak rustled as she pulled it back, revealing the hilt of her sabre.
A smile twitched on the giant’s lips. “Are you sure you want to threaten me?” He gestured to the man still lying in the pile of broken pottery. “Didn’t turn out so well for the last man.”
“I’m not a man,” Alana growled. She held his gaze for a moment, and then allowed her cloak to settle back into place. “But you’re right, I didn’t come here to fight.”
“What did you come here for?”
“For help.” She paused, eyes flickering to the shadows of the street. Biting her lip, she decided to take a chance on the brute. “My brother and I are leaving the city in the morning. I’ve been trying to find someone to make the voyage with…”
“Not many travellers on the road this time of year,” Devon said, chuckling softly.
“I noticed,” she snapped. Taking a breath, she continued in a calmer voice. “Maybe you could help us, though.”
Devon’s laughter boomed across the street. Scratching his beard, he shook his head. “I could,” he said, “but like I said, I don’t work for free.”
“I can pay,” Alana said through gritted teeth.
“Really?” The laughter faded away as the giant looked at her with fresh eyes. With her tatty cloak and tangled blonde hair, she knew what he was thinking—that she couldn’t possibly have the money for such a journey. “Show me.”
The heat returned to Alana’s cheeks at being caught in her lie. She lowered her head to hide her blush. “My uncle,” she said quickly. “He lives in Lon. You’ll get your pay when you deliver us safely to him.”
Devon snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday, missy.” Shaking his head, he started to turn away.
“Wait!” Alana shouted, anger flaring.
The giant waved a hand. “Goodnight, missy. We’re done here.”
“They’ll come for you now, you know!” she shrieked. Teeth bared, she moved after him. She gestured at the unconscious guard as he glanced back. “That’s one of the Tsar’s guards. I doubt he’ll take too kindly to you assaulting one of them.”
A smile twitched on Devon’s face. “You think that fool would admit to the Tsar he got knocked on his face by some washed up ex-soldier?”
“If not the Tsar, his friends!” Alana pressed, unwilling to back down. “You think you can fight a dozen of those brutes?”
“They can try,” he grunted.
Alana snorted. “Your arrogance is going to get you killed. Face it, you need to leave the city. Why not make some coin helping us while you’re at it?”
For a moment Devon seemed to waver. His amber eyes stared down at her, unblinking, until finally he shook his head. “Sorry, missy,” he mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Turning, he strode off down the street without a backwards glance. Alana stared after him, her mind still sluggishly trying to concoct an argument that might persuade the warrior. Only when he turned a corner and disappeared from view did her shoulders slump in defeat.
Swallowing her disappointment, she turned and headed off in the opposite direction. The Firestone looked empty, and after the confrontation with Devon she was in no mood to try and convince anyone else to help them. Exhausted, she threaded her way through the dark streets towards the abandoned building she and her brother had claimed as their own.
She found her brother inside the rundown hovel, struggling to light a fire in the crumbling hearth. He looked up as she entered, his blue eyes brightening as a smile replaced his frustrated frown. Standing, he moved across and pulled her into a hug. Her heart warmed as they embraced, a smile of her own touching her lips.
“Sorry it’s so cold in here,” he mumbled as they separated. “The wood won’t catch.”
Alana gave his arm a squeeze. Since his magic’s awakening, it had just been the two of them. Everything before that single moment seemed a distant memory now, as though she were viewing her life through another’s eyes. She recalled golden days spent on the lake with her brother, and cold winter nights as she wandered the marketplace. There had been pain too, of course; from bruises collected while learning to fight, heartache as her first dog passed away. But that pain seemed distant, false somehow. It could not compare to the agony of their parents’ betrayal…
Shivering, she moved towards the fireplace. “Here, let me.”
Crouching down, she took up the flint and expertly struck sparks into the wood her brother had placed awkwardly around the debris from the collapsed chimney. A few minutes later she had a small flame blazing amongst the stones. Its orange light sent shadows dancing across the room as she sat back on her haunches and looked at her brother.
“Still no luck?” he asked, reading her mind.
She shook her head. “Almost, but no, no one seems willing to help us.” She sighed then, leaning her head back against the brick wall. “I think we should leave tomorrow. The longer we delay, the more dangerous things become.”
Her brother nodded. Crossing the room, he rummaged in their meagre pile of supplies and came up with half a loaf of stale bread. Taking his dagger, he stabbed it through the loaf and used the blade to hold it out to the flames.
“I think I can help us get past the guards,” he said softly, eyes on the flames.
Alana sat up at that, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not!”
His blue eyes flashed as he looked at her. “I can do it, Alana.”
“That’s not the point!” she hissed. The heat of the fire washed across her face as she looked at her brother. “They’d sense your magic the second you tried to use it.”
“But we’d be long gone—”
“No,” Alana cut him off mid-sentence. Baring her teeth, she pointed a finger at his chest. “Braidon, we don’t know the first thing about your power. You don’t even know if your magic would work, let alone if you could control it.”
Braidon stared back, his blue eyes dark with anger. “You could at least let me try,” he said. “It’s my magic, not yours. You don’t know the first thing about what I can do.”
Alana leaned towards him. “That’s right, I don’t,” she said softly. Reaching out an arm, she squeezed his shoulder gently. “You could hurt someone, Braidon. Kill someone, even. Then they’d never stop hunting us.”
Her brother’s mouth opened, but no words came out, and after a moment he closed it again. Lowering his gaze, he shook his head. “But how will we get out without it, Alana?” She heard the fear in his voice now. “I don’t want you to hang like those people.”
“Hey, that’s not going to happen, okay?” She spoke the words softly, keeping her own fear hidden.
She had caught a glimpse of the couple as they were led to the gallows. The woman had been the same one from the stepwell, who had tried to protect her son from the Stalkers. She didn’t recognise the man, but it was easy to see his relation to the young Magicker the Stalkers had taken. They had the same hazel eyes.
“How do you know that?” Braidon whispered, a tremble in his voice.
“I just do.” She spoke the words with confidence, as though voicing them out loud would make them true. “We’ll leave tomorrow. There’s no point waiting any longer.”
“What about the guards? If they ask too many questions…”
Moving past her brother, she took a moment to examine their tiny quarters. The building had been a stable at some point, and the faint whiff of horses and straw still hung on the air. Fortunately for them, the inn next door had burned down some time ago, leaving the stable empty. The broken fireplace in the corner had probably once been used by the stableboys to keep warm on cold winter nights.
Their meagre possessions lay scattered across the cobbled floor—no more than a few moth-eaten clothes and some scraps of food they’d scavenged from the alleyways behind the market. It wouldn’t take them long to pack. They could be away at first light.
Braidon shuffled across the room to stand beside her. Silently he offered the bread he’d heated over the fire. The outside was half-blackened by the flames, but she took it with a grateful smile.
“Thank you,” she said, then gestured at the knife in his hand. “Just make sure you have that dagger sharp tomorrow. We may need it.”
A fire lit in her brother’s eyes at her words. He held out the dagger proudly for her to inspect. She took it with a smile. The blade was still razor sharp. Like her sabre, it was made of fine steel, its value far greater than anything else in their little hovel. She had stolen them as they’d fled, slipping into the darkness of the armoury, all the while terrified they would be caught…
Alana shivered and, reversing the dagger, offered it back to her brother. She reached out and ruffled his hair as he took it. At just a hundred and thirty pounds, Braidon would be outmatched by most grown men, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in ferocity. She would feel better with him at her side tomorrow, though she knew if anything went wrong, there was little chance either of them would survive the day.