Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  Chapter 5

  The hushed voices fell silent as Merydith entered the room. Her chainmail rattled with each step as she crossed to the granite table, the long sabre slapping against her thigh. Iron gauntlets protected her hands, and on her head, she wore the gold-gilded helm of the Northland Queen. Lantern light lit the room, illuminating the faces of the men and women who rose to their feet as she took her place at the head of the council table.

  Merydith reached up and unstrapped her helmet before taking her seat. Her council remained standing, until with a gesture, she indicated they could sit. The rustle of clothing followed as they made themselves comfortable once more, though not a voice was heard.

  Studying the men and women around her, Merydith was careful to keep any trace of emotion from her face. Silently, she took note of who was present. The aged faces of the twelve men and women gathered around the table were well-known to her. With their greying hair and wrinkled faces, these were the clan leaders who had presided over Northland after her mother’s death, before Merydith herself had come of age. There were other leaders from clans further afield, from the prairies and marshlands and forests that spanned far across Northland, but it would take time for her message to reach them. For the moment, these twelve men and women, chiefs of the mountain clans around Erachill, were all she had.

  She had summoned them a week ago to discuss treaties and peace, to deliberate over how best to prevent an invasion from the south. They were long past such talk now though. Winter or no, the Tsar was ready to make his move, and they could no longer afford to delay.

  Her messengers had taken wing that morning, summoning their nation to war. Given time, Northland could raise an army twice the size of any the Tsar might field against them. But they did not have time. If the Tsar felt bold enough to strike here, in the heart of their nation, then his forces were already on the march. They could not be allowed to cross the Gap unopposed.

  “Thank you for coming here today,” Merydith said, finally breaking the silence. “I know things are not as we expected when I first summoned you.”

  “As expected?” an old woman to Merydith’s right snapped. Eyes flashing, she rose to her feet. Merydith did not react as the woman jabbed a wrinkled finger at her chest. “A southerner makes an assassination attempt on you, and your response is to declare war against the Three Nations? Who do you think you are, girl? Archon reborn?”

  A strained silence fell over the table as Merydith stared the woman down. “Sit, Dyanna of Clan Clennan,” she said, her voice so quiet the others in the room had to lean forward in their chairs, “before you find yourself a guest in my dungeons.”

  The leader of Clan Clennan bared her teeth, and for a moment Merydith thought she was going to have to make good on her threat. Then with a snort, Dyanna slumped back in her chair. Crossing her arms, she averted her eyes from the Queen.

  Merydith nodded, her gaze turning to the others at the table. “Would anyone else here care to question my leadership?” she asked, fixing a glare to her face.

  Silence met her question, and smiling, she rose to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, you all know me, have seen me grow from a child, to the woman I am today. You know I am no warmonger. This was not a decision I came to lightly, but whether we like it or not, war is coming for Northland. The only decision left is where we choose to make our stand.”

  “What does it matter?” At the other end of the table, an old man climbed to his feet. His long white hair hung down around his shoulders, and there were more winkles on his face than cracks in his aged leather jerkin. “Your family has always led us with honour, Merydith of Clan Kenzie. So tell us truly, what hope do we have against the Tsar, wherever we face him?”

  Merydith swallowed as she looked at the speaker. Murdo was one of the oldest clan leaders, though no less fierce for his advanced years. He came from the Crae Clan, who had been bodyguards to her own family for generations. Murdo himself had served her mother. She could still remember the long winter nights as a child, sitting on his lap while her mother was busy in council, listening to his tales of the olden times, before Northland had been freed from Archon’s yoke.

  “My family have served yours since long before you were born, Merydith,” Murdo continued softly. “Do not seek to mislead me. I say again, tell us truly—what chance do we stand?”

  Her mouth suddenly dry, Merydith looked into the old man’s eyes, and knew she could not lie to him. “No more chance than the Three Nations when Archon led the greatest army that has ever been known against them.”

  To her surprise, a smile appeared on the old man’s cheeks. “Very well,” he rasped, sinking back into his seat with a groan. “Then my people and I will march with you. I always wished to see the south.”

  The others at the table stared at her. Unlike the Crae leader, there was open fear in the eyes of many, as the stark reality of what she was asking struck home. Another stood, his hair jet-black, his face as yet untouched by the ravages of age. He stood there for a moment in silence, scratching his beard as his eyes roamed the others at the table.

  “There has to be another way,” he said at last, the words tumbling from his mouth in a rush. “We should sue for peace, whatever the cost.”

  Merydith smiled sadly at the young leader of the Cranook Clan. “I’m afraid that is no longer possible, Mokyre,” she replied. “Not since I refused to return the Tsar’s son.”

  Mokyre’s face turned a mottled red at her words. “And by what right did you make such a decision?” he spat, slamming his fist down on the table.

  Beside him, Dyanna was on her feet again, her face twisted with rage. “You would condemn us all to die, for the sake of one life?”

  “I offered mercy to a soul in need,” Merydith replied calmly, “as we have done for decades.”

  “Your mercy has doomed us all!”

  Merydith’s face hardened as she faced the two. Around the table the other clan leaders watched on, waiting to see how she reacted. “I did what was right,” she hissed, her voice as cold as ice. “Perhaps clans Cranook and Clennan are willing to sacrifice a child to protect their own, but I would rather die.”

  “Then you are a fool,” Mokyre spat.

  “Perhaps,” Merydith replied with a smile. Stepping away from her chair, she walked around the table until she stood before the man. “But I think always of the future. The moment we handed over the boy, Northland would have accepted the Tsar’s authority over our nation. And what would he have asked of us next? If we would sacrifice one boy for our freedom, why not two? Or ten? What fresh atrocities would you be willing to commit, to spare your own life, Mokyre? Where would you draw the line?”

  As Merydith spoke, Dyanna sank back into her chair, though the Cranook leader remained standing. Eyes burning, he glared at her, but offered nothing in response to her condemnation. Merydith smiled, and with a curt nod, turned her back on him.

  “No, this is the only way we remain free,” she continued as she circled the table, eyeing each leader in turn. “I will not see Northland become some vassal state for the Tsar. We will not be ground into dust, bowing and scraping to some foreign dictator. I will fight to my dying breath before I see our land succumb to the darkness again.”

  “Hear, hear!” Murdo replied from the other end of the table.

  “What about the Magickers who have come to us?” Dyanna asked softly. “Surely they will fight?”

  “They might,” Merydith answered as she completed her circuit of the table and resumed her seat, “but I will not ask that of them.”

  “Surely you jest?” Mokyre shouted. Dyanna only frowned, and slumped further into her chair, but others added their voices to the Cranook leader’s objection. Emboldened, he stood and continued. “We have given them food and shelter, safety from the Tsar, surely they have an obligation—”

  “No,” Merydith snapped, her patience pressed to breaking point. She slammed her palm down on the table. Her gaze swept the room, silencing the old men an
d women. Sucking in a breath, she prayed to the Goddess for strength. “The Magickers came here with their families to escape the Tsar’s persecution—not to be used as a weapon against him.”

  This time, the room remained silent and Merydith continued. “I’m sorry, my friends. There is no easy path here, but there is no longer any point in debating the past. It is done, set in stone—all we can do now is deal with the reality of the present. And the reality is, the Tsar is coming.

  “As I said before, we must decide how best to face him. It is my belief he cannot be allowed to cross The Gap. Northland is too large to defend if he gains a foothold on our lands.”

  “Then what do you propose, Merydith?” Murdo asked, his eyes aglow with a fresh light.

  She smiled. “We march.”

  Chapter 6

  Sitting by the ashes of the fire, Devon watched as the morning’s light dawned over the forest, illuminating the snow now lying thick on the forest floor. In their safe haven amongst the Ficus roots, with the tree’s broad canopy overhead, he and Braidon had been spared its icy touch. Even so, Devon couldn’t help but sigh as he felt the sun’s warmth on his face. He’d allowed the fire to die out an hour ago, trusting that the morning would soon warm his aching bones.

  He’d dozed lightly through the night, awakening every so often to stoke the fire or search for fresh kindling. Now though, the thought of facing the day filled him with trepidation. Much as he might deny it, the events in the citadel had left him exhausted, both in body and soul. From the moment Alana had betrayed them, it felt as though his entire world had spun out of control. There had been a moment’s clarity, when he had recovered kanker, the warhammer passed down by his ancestors, but even that had quickly been snatched away by Quinn and his Stalkers.

  Then Kellian…

  Devon shuddered as his friend’s sacrifice played itself out once more in his mind. He had spent much of the night trapped in a loop of self-loathing and despair, as he sought again and again for some way he might have changed things.

  If only they had left before Alana had betrayed them.

  If only Devon had fought Quinn in the corridors, rather than surrendering.

  If only, if only, if only…

  Clenching his fists, Devon tore his mind from the scene. He found himself staring down at the still sleeping Braidon. Not for the first time that night, he wondered what force could have brought the two of them together once more.

  Devon’s memories after his flight from the throne room were little more than a blur now. Distracted by the conflagrations rippling out from the throne room, the remaining guards had paid little heed to Devon as he strode down the long corridors of the citadel. Even at the gates to the city, the men on duty had been too focused on the Gold Dragon flying loops around the citadel to notice a single man slipping out the open doors.

  From there it had been an easy matter to escape the city. Order within Ardath had already crumbled into chaos long before he made the outer walls, and the guards had already been swept away by the crowd trying to flee the city.

  Along with a dozen other panicked citizens, Devon had boarded the first ship he could find departing the island city. A captain heading for Onslow was only too overjoyed to see so many patrons for the voyage. Aided by the afternoon breeze, the passage across the lake had been swift.

  The only disturbance had come when a dazzling beam of light sliced across the sky towards the distant shore. Several sailors had thrown themselves flat against the deck, while a few of the jumpier townsfolk had leapt overboard. It had cost precious time fetching them back out of the lake, but they had still reached the river mouth to Onslow before night arrived.

  It was only on the Onslow River that the uneasy feeling had come over Devon. A sense of wrongness had gripped him, a feeling he was traveling in the wrong direction. Farmland stretched away to either side of the river, offering little cover from the hunters that were bound to follow him.

  Then around a bend in the river, the first trees of the mountain forests had come into view. The sight had set his heart pounding. Watching the other passengers, he’d tried to ignore the urge to leap overboard.

  Devon…

  The voice had begun as little more than sigh in his ear, like the whispers of some long-dead spirit. It had grown stronger as the trees approached, until it seemed someone was screaming from the riverbank, begging him to join them.

  Before he’d known quite what he was doing, Devon had found himself leaping from the railings of the ship. He had never been a strong swimmer, and the weight of kanker on his back had almost dragged him straight to the bottom. Fortunately, the forgiving currents had carried him closer to the shore, and by the time Devon surfaced, he’d had little left to do but reach out and catch an overhanging branch to drag himself from the icy waters.

  Standing freezing and drenched on the riverbank, sense had finally returned to Devon, but by then his ship was already disappearing around the next bend in the river. Cursing beneath his breath, Devon had carried on from there on foot. He’d walked quickly, struggling to keep warm as the cold winds cut through his soaking clothes.

  By the time darkness fell and the snow began, Devon’s teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and he was beginning to lose hope he would ever find shelter. He’d been busy cursing his rotten luck, when the voice returned.

  Without any other options, he’d followed its directions without question. He’d been as shocked as Braidon to find the boy sitting beside the flames, though at the time, Devon had been more interested in the heat radiating from the fire.

  Now though, he found himself wondering how Braidon had come to be in the forest in the first place. The boy had claimed Enala brought him, that they had meant to make an attempt on the Tsar’s life. Yet as far as Devon knew, Braidon’s magic was nothing more than illusions. How could the old woman have thought it might prove the difference against the Tsar?

  But then, the ways of Magickers were far beyond Devon’s understanding, and he had little desire to change that. He wrapped a hand around the haft of kanker, drawing reassurance from its presence. It had been passed down from his ancestor Alan, a hero who had once stood upon the walls of Fort Fall and defied the might of Archon. Until recently, Devon had thought it nothing more than what it appeared—a simple hammer—but in the battles of the past few months, he had discovered it had another ability: it could protect its wielder from magic.

  It had saved his life on more than one occasion, and while Enala had told him the protection spell would quickly be overwhelmed by the power commanded by the Tsar, he still felt better with it to hand. At least it might give him a fighting chance.

  Beside him, Braidon twitched and gave a soft cry. Devon thought again of the voice that had called him through the forest, and wondered whether the boy himself might have summoned him with his magic. Or could it have been the old priest, Enala? Or the Tsar himself, in an effort to gather all his prey in one place?

  Devon shuddered at the implications. He glanced out at the snow-covered woods. The light had grown, banishing the shadows beneath the trees. A soft thump came from nearby as a clump of snow slid from a branch, but otherwise, there was no sign of movement.

  Devon sighed, then sat up and stretched his arms. Braidon jerked awake at the movement, his crystal blue eyes blinking in the dawn’s light. Groaning, he started when he saw Devon sitting there, almost making it to his feet before he seemed to realise where he was. His cheeks grew red, and rubbing his eyes he sank back to the damp earth.

  “You didn’t wake me?” he said with a frown.

  Devon smiled. Throughout the night, he’d found himself wondering which version of Braidon he sat beside: the young boy he’d come to know on the road from Ardath, or some other boy, one who had been raised by the cruelty of the Tsar.

  “I thought you could use the rest,” was all he said.

  Braidon’s face remained uncertain. “So…how did you find me?”

  “I don’t know, sonny,” Devon rep
lied. The first calls of the dawn chorus were just beginning, and Devon watched as a blackbird emerged from a nest in the tree above them. “Something about this forest, it called to me,” he added finally. “I should have stopped and made camp long before I found you. Yet something, some presence, called me on. I can’t really explain it.”

  To his surprise, Braidon nodded, as though what he’d said made perfect sense. “Enala said the Gods were still with us, guiding us—”

  Devon snorted. “I bet.” He chuckled quietly. “Gods, magic, exhaustion-induced hallucinations. Whatever, here we are.” He raised an eyebrow in the boy’s direction. “So, if you’re here…you know the truth about your sister?”

  Braidon swallowed visibly. “The news reached us in Erachill, about who she was…who I am,” he replied softly.

  “So which Braidon am I speaking to then?”

  “The only one you’ve ever known,” the boy replied. “If you know the truth, then…did you…did you meet my sister?”

  Devon’s chest tightened. “Best we not talk about that, sonny,” he replied bluntly. Before the boy could argue, he rose to his feet, groaning as his joints cracked from the disuse. His stomach rumbled as he looked down at the boy. “How about we walk and talk? I could use a fresh meal, and I don’t think we’ll find one between the roots of this tree.”

  Accepting Devon’s help, Braidon stood and stamped out the last embers of their fire. Since neither of them knew quite where they were, they set off in a random direction and hoped for the best. Despite Devon’s words, they walked in silence, each lost in his own private thoughts.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Devon caught the distant whisper of running water. The ground sloped down beneath them as they headed towards it, then dropped away sharply into a steep valley. Ivy covered the slope, and moving with care, the two of them picked their way down towards the stream. The dirt beneath their feet turned to loose rocks, and Devon was forced to rely on the thick vines clinging to the slope to keep his balance.