Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  His heart lurched at the memory of Kellian’s lifeless body toppling to the marble floor, and he jerked back from Devon. Looking up into the familiar face, he saw the warmth there, but even Devon’s grizzled featured couldn’t hide the grief that lurked behind his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Braidon blurted out, the words seeming meaningless in the wake of what Devon had lost. “I…we…were too late!”

  A sad smile touched Devon’s cheeks, and his eyes turned distant, as though he were looking off into some other time, some other place.

  “It’s not your fault, sonny,” Devon whispered. “No one…” His voice cracked, and closing his eyes, he averted his face.

  Silence fell, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire beside them. Braidon watched as the giant warrior drew in a long breath. “What brought you back here, sonny? I thought you were safe in Northland.”

  Braidon swallowed. “Enala and the Queen…” He trailed off, struggling to put together the jumbled memories of the past few weeks. “Enala helped me to master my magic,” he started again. “We thought…we thought it might make the difference against the Tsar.”

  There was a tightness to Devon’s face as he forced a smile. “Thank you for trying, sonny. But no one could have saved him. Kellian knew what he was doing when he attacked the Tsar. He knew there would be no going back.”

  Braidon shivered, remembering the scene. He had witnessed it as he first stepped into the throne room: Kellian surging to his feet as the Tsar towered over Devon, the dagger as it flashed through the air, the Tsar’s screams as it struck home. In that one act, Kellian had saved Devon’s life. But in doing so, he had paid for it with his own.

  “Why did he do it?” Braidon whispered.

  “Because…” Devon trailed off. In the light of the fire, his skin seemed pale, his eyes cast in shadow. “Because he was Kellian,” he finished with a shrug.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Devon nodded. “He was a believer—in the Gods, in humanity, in me. He thought there were things worth more than his own life. Things like freedom, and friendship. He died so that I could live.” His shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, and his brow hardened. “So that I could fight on.”

  The conversation trailed off with Devon’s pronouncement, though the forest no longer seemed so quiet now, no longer so empty. Braidon felt his fear for the morning fading. The threat of his father still loomed over his future, but with Devon at his side, Braidon felt a sudden faith that things might work out. The call of sleep beckoned, and he wriggled in his hollow, struggling to find a more comfortable position. His eyes slid closed, but as he started to drift off, a thought came to him.

  “Devon, where are we?” he asked, cracking open one eye.

  The big man chuckled. “Onslow Forest, sonny.”

  “Onslow…Forest?” Braidon swallowed as lost memories flickered into his mind. He sat back up. “I know it. It’s a refuge for outlaws and bandits—”

  Devon’s booming laughter drowned him out. The sound echoed from the hollow, reverberating out into the trees, as though he were inviting the dark fiends to come for them. A true grin split the hammerman’s face as he patted the haft of his warhammer.

  “Don’t you worry, sonny,” he said. “Whatever’s out there, it’s no match for kanker. Now, why don’t you get some sleep, you look like you could use it. I’ll keep watch.”

  Seeing the man’s immovable confidence, Braidon relaxed back against the tree. Seated beside the fire, with kanker in hand, Devon seemed like some hero out of legend, a warrior of renown who could crush any enemy with one hand. Indeed, Braidon himself had watched the man defeat a demon in single-handed combat. Even in his exhausted state, a few bandits were no threat to such a legend.

  He nodded wearily, his eyes already flickering closed.

  And slept.

  Chapter 3

  “Is it dead?”

  Alana blurted out the words before she could process what the old woman had said. Standing there before the giant beast, with its dagger-filled jaws large enough to swallow either one of them whole, she could think of nothing else. Alana had seen her father’s dragons up close, but none of the Red beasts came close to the size of the creature lying in the clearing.

  Her question was met with stony silence. Tearing her gaze from the beast, Alana focused on the wrinkled face of Enala. She frowned as the woman’s words finally seeped through her consciousness.

  “You’re his mother?” she gasped.

  In all the years Alana’s father had trained her, he had never mentioned his parents—not even in her younger years, when there was still some softness in him, and he had still been given to kindness towards his only daughter. Those had been the years when her mother had been with them, before Braidon had arrived and the last traces of humanity faded from their father.

  Across from her, the old woman stepped away from the beast. Despite the darkness, her eyes seemed to glow, and Alana remembered her father’s tales of this woman. He may have never mentioned his mother, but he had talked endlessly of Enala—the Magicker who had fought against Archon, who with her brother had opposed the Tsar’s rise to power.

  Now Alana understood why the woman had survived. She had been spared. There could be no other explanation—no one endured her father’s wrath.

  “You’re my grandmother,” Alana whispered.

  Her words finally drew a reaction from Enala. A tremor swept across the old woman’s face, anger replacing grief. “Never!” she snapped. “I know who you are now, girl. Your brother may be innocent, but you most certainly aren’t. How many young Magickers have you sent to their deaths? How many did you mind wash to do your father’s bidding? No, a monster like you will never be a grandchild of mine.”

  Alana smirked. “On that we can agree.”

  The old woman glared back. Fists clenched, she advanced a step. “What are you doing here, girl?” she spat. “Come to finish the Tsar’s dirty work?”

  At the mention of her father, Alana’s anger flared. Her hand dropped to her sword hilt. “What right do you have to judge me?” she growled. “The Tsar is your making. Everything he is, everything he’s done, it’s on you. If…if…” she stammered, unable to find the words to express her emotions.

  She closed her eyes, recalling the pain, the torment of a life spent in thrall of the Tsar, as the enforcer of his will. Even now, memories of her deeds brought Alana a thrill of joy, though they were tainted now with disgust from her other self, from the innocence she had freed when she chained away her own memories. The conflict bubbled within her, until she felt as though she might burst.

  “It’s all your fault!” she screamed, her self-loathing taking voice.

  Weariness forgotten, Alana advanced across the clearing. The old woman watched her come, unmoving. Drawing to a stop, they faced off against one another. Alana flicked a glance at the dragon, wondering whether it might wake, but up close her earlier suspicions were proven true.

  The Gold Dragon was dead, its shining scales stained grey. One great eye hung half open, the vacant globe clouded white. Torn scales and blood seeped into the earth around it, and in its stomach a great gash had been scorched deep into its hide. She shuddered, and quickly returned her attention to Enala.

  Unnoticed, the old woman had crept forward until their faces were only an inch apart. Confronted by the woman’s crystal blue eyes, Alana stumbled back, her heart suddenly racing. A cold smile appeared on Enala’s lips.

  “If you think to stop me, girl, you had best keep your wits about you.”

  Alana clenched her fists. “I don’t answer to my father,” she hissed. “Go where you want, old woman.”

  “You think that’s an insult?” She laughed, the sound cold and absent of humour. “Ay, I’m old. I have lived a hundred years and more, seen things you could never comprehend. And I have survived them all. Cross me at your peril, girl.”

  Her cackling echoed between the trees like the whisper of some long d
ead spirit, raising the hackles on Alana’s neck. Finding herself lost for words, she said nothing, only stood and stared at the woman.

  Enala smirked. “A good choice, girl,” she said, then turned her back. “Now if we’re done here, I’m returning to Northland.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the old woman started around the still body of the fallen dragon. Alana watched her go, a lump lodged in her throat. An image rose from her memories, of her father towering over her with sword in hand. She heard her own pitiful cries for help as she stood alone against him, her sense of powerlessness, and her anger came rushing back.

  “That’s right!” she shrieked. “Go! Leave the rest of us to clean up your mess. Run, like the coward you are.”

  Enala froze at the edge of the clearing. Her face was pale as she looked back at Alana, her eyes wide and nostrils flaring. “What did you say?”

  “I said you’re a coward!” Alana shrieked, advancing. “You ran from your own son, left your nation, your people, your grandchildren alone to suffer under his reign. You could have stopped him, you and your brother, all those years ago, but you did nothing!”

  “You dare to lecture me, girl?” Enala hissed. “You, who joyed in enforcing your father’s laws, who wielded your power against those who could not defend themselves against it?”

  “I’m not the one running away.”

  “No?” Enala raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here, in this faraway forest, instead of in Ardath, standing against your father?”

  Alana’s cheek twitched at the mention of her father, a wave of fear washing through her. She recalled his words back in the citadel, his plans to wipe away everything she was, to expunge her memories and consciousness, and create her anew with his powers. If he had his way, the small shred of good she had discovered within herself would be swept away, leaving only the cold, calculating woman she had become to protect her brother.

  Looking at the old woman, Alana saw the satisfied smirk she wore, and bristled. “I can’t stop him alone,” she snapped, “but I won’t let you abandon us, not again.”

  “Try and stop me,” Enala growled.

  Steel hissed against leather as Alana’s sword leapt into her hand. She lunged forward, the point spearing for the old woman’s throat. With a speed belying her age, Enala skipped sideways, and the blade cut only empty air. Carried forward by her momentum, Alana stumbled, her exhaustion returning with the rush of blood to her limbs.

  Swaying, she turned to follow the old woman, and barely managed to parry a thrust from Enala’s sword. The sharp shriek of steel on steel rang out across the clearing. Alana twisted her blade, slipping the point beneath the old woman’s guard and stabbing upward. But again, Enala was too quick, and her blow missed its target.

  Alana caught the crunch of twigs beneath boots as the old woman shifted behind her and hurled herself down. A hiss came from overhead as Enala’s blade cut the space where Alana’s head had been. Rolling, Alana came to her feet and spun back toward her grandmother. Face set, Enala strode towards her, blade raised for another blow.

  Instinctively, Alana reached for her magic, but there was only the slightest spark of green within. She cried out as she deflected another blow, its impact vibrating down the blade, almost tearing the sword from her grip.

  Her breath coming in desperate gasps, Alana switched her attack, seeking to break through the old woman’s guard and put an end to the fight. But weakened by blood loss and exhaustion, she was too slow. With each blow, her blade dipped lower, and finally Alana staggered to a stop, allowing the old woman to leap clear.

  “Is that all you have, girl?” Enala murmured.

  Blood rushed to Alana’s head as her face flushed with rage. Roaring, she threw herself forward. She lashed out with the last of her strength, aiming her sword for the old woman’s throat. Enala ducked beneath the blow, her shoulder crashing into Alana’s chest.

  Caught off-guard, Alana was hurled backwards. She staggered on the uneven forest floor, and her feet went out from underneath her. Alana’s breath hissed between her teeth as she struck the ground. Gasping, she tried to recover, but her limbs refused to obey her commands. She looked up in time to see a blade flashing towards her face.

  Chapter 4

  The sun was high in the sky by the time the slanted rooftops of Onslow came into view. Standing on the forward rail of the ship, Quinn’s heart quickened at the sight. Behind him, the twenty-odd Stalkers he’d selected for this mission were preparing their mounts alongside the fifty soldiers that were to accompany them. Quinn remained where he stood, watching the village’s slow approach, already impatient to be underway. Beyond the docks of Onslow, the mountains of western Plorsea slashed the sky, seeming to tower over the land beyond the village.

  West, the Tsar had said, and Quinn had obeyed.

  That was where the Gold Dragon had fallen, struck down by the awesome power of the Sword of Light. The Tsar’s own powers still had not recovered from the battle the day before, when Devon, Enala and Eric had launched their assault on the throne room. They would return though, just as soon as the Magickers in the Tsar’s thrall recovered from the drain on their power.

  Fortunately for Quinn and the twenty Stalkers he’d chosen for their magic, they had long ago earned the Tsar’s trust. They had been spared the bracelets worn by most Magickers under the Tsar’s thrall, which allowed him to siphon off their magic at will. Quinn could still recall their stinging touch from his childhood—and his relief when he’d earned his lieutenant’s badge and been freed of them.

  Others though were not so lucky. During the assault, the Tsar had drawn on the collective power of his Magickers like never before, driving many to the point of exhaustion and collapse. Several had perished during the hours the battle raged. In the dungeons beneath the citadel, where renegade Magickers were imprisoned, they had died by the score.

  With his Magickers in the city drained, the Tsar had mounted his Red Dragon that morning and flown north to join the army as it marched. There, he would have the powers of his Battle Magickers to draw on, to defend their forces against any underhanded attacks the North might mount.

  That left Quinn and his Stalkers the task of tracking down his children. Quinn smiled at the thought of having Alana in his thrall once more. He had drained his own magic to save her life, only to have her betray him, leaving him to suffer her father’s wrath. In his mercy, the Tsar had spared him, but Quinn was still determined to make the girl pay. While there had been little word of her since she’d fled the citadel, he was confident wherever Braidon was to be found, his sister would not be far away.

  His smile faltered as he thought of the old woman who had escaped alongside the boy. The last time they had met, Enala had carved through his Stalkers like a wolf amongst sheep…

  He shook his head, dismissing memories of the slaughter. The twenty men and women he had selected were the finest of the Tsar’s Stalkers. Each was capable of significant magic and were renown fighters with sword and dagger. If the old woman still lived, even she could not stand against them.

  “Sir, your mount is ready.”

  Quinn found his aid at his side. Nodding his thanks, he strode across the deck of the barge to where the other Stalkers had gathered. Behind them, his soldiers stood at attention, awaiting their orders.

  “The Tsar has commanded us to bring back his children,” Quinn boomed. “Their treacherous assault on his person have left his powers fatigued. I do not intend to weary him needlessly with queries on their whereabouts, for are we not Stalkers? Is it not our duty to hunt down renegade Magickers, and bring them before our Tsar?”

  He paused, eyeing the men and women gathered before him. They stared back with cold eyes, clearly unimpressed with his speech. His face hardened as he continued more quickly. “I chose each of you based on your reputation. Those reputations were no doubt hard-earned. But do not forget, the Tsar does not accept failure, and his goodwill is easily lost.”

  There was a stirring am
ongst the Stalkers now, and he offered them a cold smile. “There has been no word of Alana since she was spotted sailing west across the lake, nor of Braidon since the Gold Dragon he was riding fell from the sky. We know Devon at least took sail on a ship heading for Onslow. Where he goes, I expect the other two will not be far behind. Question the villagers. He will not have gone unnoticed. If they refuse to talk, make them. I expect to be on the road by sunset. Do not fail me, or you will not live to see the Tsar’s vengeance.”

  The Stalkers saluted, their faces carefully blank, their discipline absolute. Many no doubt loathed him for being selected over them to lead this mission. He would have to tread carefully, to ensure they had no cause to offer complaints to the Tsar.

  The deck jerked beneath Quinn’s feet as their barge banged against the docks. Ignoring the gangplank, he turned and leapt across to the wooden jetty. The thud of the gangplank being lowered was followed by the clip-clop of hooves as Quinn’s aid led his mount across it.

  Taking the reins, Quinn vaulted into the saddle and directed the horse down the docks, and out into the town. Several villagers were already gathering. They wore puzzled looks on their faces as they watched the black-garbed Stalkers disembark, before riding into the square to gather around Quinn.

  When his entire force was in place, Quinn addressed the villagers from his saddle. “I’m looking for a young woman, a boy, and a renegade soldier by the name of Devon. There’s a reward for anyone who comes forward now with information.” His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. “If you refuse…” He trailed off, allowing them to read the threat behind his words.

  The dozen or so villagers exchanged glances, their eyes wide with fear, but not a voice spoke. Quinn allowed himself a smile as his horse shifted beneath him.

  “Very well then.” He pointed to a nearby house and addressed his men. “You can begin there.”