Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  At the bottom, they were rewarded for their efforts by a fast-running stream. Further upstream, the crystal clear waters rushed over a cobble bed, but where they stood, a cluster of boulders had partially damned the flow, creating a small pool around a turn in the valley. Kneeling beside the water, Devon drank gratefully, then sat back and made space for Braidon to do the same.

  When he was done, Braidon knelt beside the stream and eyed the water with the intensity of a soldier readying himself for battle. Devon opened his mouth to ask what he was doing, then thought better of it. Moving to a nearby boulder, Devon lay back in a patch of sunlight and watched as the boy lowered his hands into the stream. There he sat, unmoving, as time slowly crept past, until Devon began to wonder whether the boy had lost his mind after all. Coming from far up in the Sandstone Mountains, the waters of the stream must have been freezing.

  Still drowsy from the long night, Devon was just beginning to drift off, when a shout snapped him back to wakefulness. Leaping to his feet, he was still scrambling for the haft of his hammer when Braidon’s laughter carried to his ears. He frowned. Looking around, he found Braidon standing beside the river, a grin as wide as The Gap on his youthful face. At his feet, a rainbow trout flapped helplessly amongst the gravel, its pink and orange scales shining in the sunlight.

  Devon’s mouth dropped open. “How?”

  Braidon beamed. “It must have been something I knew in my…other life.” He gestured up the slope in the direction they’d come from. “It was the same with the fire last night.”

  Crouching beside the trout, he pulled his dagger from his belt and stabbed it through the eye. Blood gushed onto the stones and the fish ceased flapping. Holding it in the air, he waved it like a trophy at Devon. “Since the citadel, little bits have been coming back to me, snippets of memories. It seems our…father wanted us to be self-sufficient.”

  Devon could only shake his head. His mind turned back to the night he’d shared with Alana in northern Lonia. The young woman had disappeared for an hour, finally returning with a dead rabbit in tow. She’d claimed to have killed it with a stone. At the time he’d wondered how a girl from the city had learned such a skill.

  Now he knew.

  His thoughts drifted, turning as they so often did to later that night, when they’d swum together in the moonlit pool. Standing suddenly, Devon forced the painful memory from his mind. “I’ll get a fire started,” he snapped, then clambered up the slope in search of dry firewood.

  He sensed Braidon’s gaze on his back, but ignored him. How could he possibly explain his sense of betrayal to the boy, the loss and rage that burned his soul whenever he thought of Alana, and the role she’d played in Kellian’s death?

  If it hadn’t been for her, they would never have been captured.

  If it hadn’t been for her, they would never have been in that throne room, and Kellian would never have found himself face-to-face with the Tsar.

  Sheltered from the worst of the weather, only a thin frosting of snow had fallen in the valley, and Devon was able to gather a stack of firewood in less than an hour. Returning to the stream, he set about lighting a fire between two boulders that lay on a flat piece of ground just up from the water. He wasn’t much of a woodsman, but with his flintstone he managed to get a fire burning.

  By then, Braidon had successfully tickled two more trout from the stream. Devon wandered over to help the boy with the fish. They had both lost just about everything but the clothes on their back and the contents of their pockets, but Devon managed to fashion them each a skewer from his stack of kindling. Spearing a fish on the end of each, they braced them over the fire, then sat back and waited, hungry eyes on the roasting flesh.

  “Devon…” There was a touch of fear in the boy’s voice, and he trailed off without saying anything more.

  Devon looked up, knowing what Braidon wished to ask, but not knowing how he should answer him. Their eyes met, and he looked away, a vice closing around his throat.

  “What happened to Alana?” Braidon finished in a whisper.

  Staring into the flames, Devon saw again those final moments in the throne room, as he’d looked down on the helpless woman. With the twisted sword wrapped around her throat, Alana had begged him to help her, to use his prodigious strength to free her, to carry her clear—anything that might spare her from her father’s wrath.

  But Devon had walked away.

  Guilt wound around his stomach, and clenching his jaw, he struggled to find an answer. “She didn’t make it,” he said finally, the lie foul on his tongue. “I’m sorry, sonny. The girl we remember is gone.”

  He looked up as a sob came from across the fire. Tears streaked Braidon’s face, and there was desperation in his eyes. In that instant, Devon knew his lie had been the right choice. If he’d told Braidon the truth, nothing in the Three Nations would have stopped the young man from trying to find her, to rescue her.

  Just as Devon had done, to his folly.

  “I’m sorry,” Devon repeated, shuffling around the fire and pulling the young man into a hug. “There was nothing any of us could have done. She was already lost long before we reached that citadel.”

  “What?” Braidon’s question came between sobs, half-muffled by Devon’s chest. “But…I saw her in the throne room.”

  Devon bit his lip, regretting his slip of tongue. He gave Braidon’s shoulder a squeeze. “That…that wasn’t her, sonny. That was someone else, the woman she used to be, the Daughter of the Tsar. When Kellian and I tried to save her, she betrayed us, had us locked away in the dungeons.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “It wasn’t her, sonny,” Devon murmured, his eyes burning with remembered pain. “Not the woman we knew, anyway.”

  The boy fell silent then, his eyes fixed on the running waters of the stream. His face had taken on a faraway look, as though he were recalling some event from long ago. When he spoke, his words were barely more than a whisper.

  “But it was,” he said. “I have a memory of her, from the old days, sitting with me in some gardens. She…she was kind, loving, vulnerable. She’s afraid of our father. It was as though there in that garden, our father’s darkness couldn’t touch her, and she could let down her guard.” He swallowed, his eyes flicking up to look at Devon. “That was why she took our memories. I…I remember now. She was trying to save us, to save me from our father.”

  Silence fell as Braidon trailed off. Devon felt the guilt swell within him as he watched the boy, and saw again the young woman they had travelled with, her sweet smiles and fiercely protective nature. Then he saw her again the night he and Kellian had come for her, how she had tried to tell them to run, to leave her behind.

  He looked away as tears came to his own eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, struggling to hide his own grief. “I’m sorry I never saw that side of her, sonny.”

  Chapter 7

  Alana woke to a sharp throbbing in her temples. Stars danced across her vision as she opened her eyes. A muffled shriek tore from her lips as the light drilled into her skull. Rolling onto her side, her stomach heaved, and she choked as the remains of her last meal came rushing up. A convulsion shook her as she vomited on the forest floor.

  It was only when she finally lay back and spat out the acrid taste of bile that Alana realised she was alive. Sitting bolt upright, she looked around for the old priest. Red lights swirled at the edges of her vision, threatening to draw her back down into the darkness. Her stomach swirled again, but she had nothing left to throw up, and a moment later it settled.

  Soft laughter came from behind her, and turning, Alana was surprised to find the old woman sitting nearby, the remains of a fire still smouldering between them. Light streamed through the branches above. In the dawn’s light, Enala looked younger, less world-weary, and Alana supposed she’d had the night to rest, while she, apparently, had spent it in a coma.

  Scowling, Alana pulled herself to her knees. “What are you laughing at, woman?
”

  Enala grinned and gestured at the mess she’d left on the icy ground. “The Daughter of the Tsar, vomiting in the forest.” Still smiling, the old woman reached down and produced a makeshift wooden bowl shaped from tree bark. Within, Alana spied a crude stew of tubers and some kind of meat. She raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not poisoned,” Enala said when Alana didn’t move to take it.

  Alana bit her lip, hesitating, until a growl from the void where her stomach was usually located pushed her into action. “Thank you,” she muttered as she took the bowl.

  The old woman did not reply, and using her hands, Alana set about eating her breakfast. The stew was bland and the meat as tough as old leather, but in her exhausted, injured, half-starved and quite possibly half-mad state, she hardly cared. While still warm from the fire, the stew had cooled enough not to burn her fingers, and she wolfed it down in a matter of minutes.

  Putting the bowl aside, Alana sat back and contemplated the old woman once more. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she asked, her hand drifting to the lump on her forehead. It was the size of a goose egg. Enala must have turned her sword at the last second, striking her with the flat edge of the blade.

  The old woman shrugged, her eyes still on the ashes. “Bad luck to kill a grandchild.”

  Alana snorted. “Glad to know you’re so sentimental.”

  Enala lifted her head. “Care to go again, girl?”

  Just the thought of picking up her sword caused the pain in her head to redouble, and Alana quickly lowered her eyes.

  “Thought so.” Enala cackled.

  Branches cracked as Enala lifted herself to her feet and wandered to where Alana sat. She was carrying another bowl, though this one was filled with some kind of green paste speckled with black flakes. Groaning, the old woman crouched beside her.

  “Those cuts around your neck don’t look good,” she said matter-of-factly. “If they get infected, we’ll have to amputate.”

  “Very funny,” Alana growled, though she found herself shrinking away from the old woman’s presence.

  A withered hand shot out and caught her by the wrist. “Where are you going, girl?” Enala asked with a grin as she tried to pull away.

  “What do you want?” Alana shouted, her panic rising.

  “Oh, calm down,” Enala snapped. “I’m trying to help.” She hefted the bowl of paste. “I’m afraid I can’t heal you. Unlike your father, I only command one power, and that tends to have the opposite effect on people.” She chuckled at her own joke before continuing: “Luckily for you, I’ve learnt a few tricks over the years. This should help with the pain, and the healing.”

  Alana paused, the throbbing around her throat impossible to ignore. Combined with the pounding in her skull, she’d certainly had better days. Her stomach twisted as she eyed the sickly paste, before finally nodding. “Fine.”

  “So grateful,” Enala muttered as she settled herself down and scooped paste from the bowl.

  Alana flinched when the poultice touched her skin, a gasp tearing from her throat. It felt as though a burning brand was being pressed into her flesh. She was about to pull away again, when the sensation faded as quickly as it had begun. An icy cool replaced it, radiating out from where Enala had applied the paste, granting instant relief. She sighed at the absence of pain, her eyes flickering closed.

  “Thank the Gods,” she whispered,

  A snort came from the old woman as she applied her poultice to the rest of Alana’s wounds. “The Gods have nothing to do with it,” she said. “You can address your thanks to me.”

  “Yes…thank you…Enala.” She said the old woman’s name reluctantly.

  “You’re welcome,” Enala replied.

  Sitting back on her haunches, the old woman inspected her work. Alana watched her, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the old woman’s kindness. She cleared her throat, thankful to find the pain almost completely numbed.

  “They’re not his powers, you know,” she murmured, remembering Enala’s comment about her father. “He tried to hide the truth, but it’s difficult to keep secrets from me, even for him. He draws his magic from the Magickers in his command. And in the dungeons.”

  “I gathered as much, after I saw Eric.”

  “Your brother,” Alana whispered, remembering the old man from the throne room. His attack had kept her father from completing his spell, from wiping away her memories and remaking her in his own vision. “He…saved me.”

  “Yes, he made a habit of doing that,” Enala said, and for a moment Alana thought she caught tears in her eyes. The old woman fell silent for a moment, then gestured at Alana. “I can show you how to make more, which plants to use.”

  Alana nodded her thanks. Without the pain, her mind was growing sharper now. She looked back at Enala, her lips growing tight as a thought occurred to her.

  “Devon said you were looking after my brother. In Erachill. What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t see him in the throne room?”

  For a second, Alana thought she’d misheard. She stared at Enala, a sudden pounding in her ears as her heart began to race. In a rush, she surged to her feet.

  “You brought him to the capital?”

  For the first time in their encounter, the old woman managed to look ashamed. She quickly looked away, and when she spoke, Enala’s words were soft, hesitant. “I thought he might shift the balance in our favour.”

  “He plays with illusions!” Alana shrieked, lashing out at the remains of the fire. A half-burnt log went flying across the clearing. “Damnit! What were you thinking, you stupid hag? What could he possibly have done to stop my father?”

  Looking all her hundred-and-twenty years of life, Enala climbed to her feet. “I thought he could hide us. I thought if I could get close enough, my son...”

  “You fool. His magic protects him.”

  “No, he must summon his power like any other Magicker. He is not untouchable, not if taken unawares. Did you not see Kellian’s blade pierce him?”

  Enala hesitated, recalling the bloody dagger jutting from her father’s arm. It had caused him pain, but once he had pulled it out, the wound had healed in moments. “But even had you been successful, his magic would have held him to life.”

  “Perhaps,” Enala whispered. There was a haunted look in her eyes, and Alana suddenly realised then what it must have cost her, to try and murder her son. “But I had to try.”

  A wave of pity swept through Alana, but even so, she shook her head. “So you were willing to put my brother’s life at risk, on a hunch? It could never have worked. Even with my brother’s power, he would have sensed you well before you could strike him.”

  Enala’s eyes returned to the forest floor. “Yes, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” she muttered to the leaves. “I failed. We’ll get no second chances now.”

  Something in the old woman’s tone raised the hackles on Alana’s neck. She took a hesitant step towards Enala, ice sliding down her spine. “Enala, where’s my brother?”

  “He’s dead, girl,” Enala snapped, swinging to face her. “My son killed him, like he killed everyone else I ever loved. And he’ll be coming for us next. If you don’t want to end up like your brother, I suggest we get moving.”

  Alana hardly heard anything after Enala’s first two words. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out all other sound. She stood staring into space, her lips parted, breath caught in her throat. She shook her head, slowly at first, then harder, as though something as simple as denying the old woman’s words could change what was.

  “Did you hear what I said, girl?” Enala whispered, stepping in closer. “Your father is coming, we can’t stay here.”

  Blinking, Alana managed to focus on the old woman’s face. “He can’t be dead,” she croaked. “He’s…he’s the one good thing…I gave up everything for him.”

  Enala’s face softened. Unspilt tears shimmered in her eyes as she reached out and gripped Alana’s shoulder. “I’m s
orry, Alana,” she whispered. “So, so sorry. You’re right, I never should have brought him here. But nor could I stop him. When Braidon found out what had happened to you…he said he would come alone if he had to.”

  Alana swallowed. “That was Braidon,” she whispered. “Even before my magic…” She swallowed. “He always cared.”

  A frown creased Enala’s forehead. “Why…why did you take both of your memories?”

  “He can find you anywhere, once he knows you,” Alana replied in a whisper, barely knowing what she was saying. “But I found a way to deceive him.”

  Enala inhaled sharply. “You did it to hide,” she breathed.

  Alana nodded. “Without our memories, our minds were unrecognisable to him.” Her vision blurred and she swayed on her feet. “How…how did my brother die?” Her voice broke on the last word, and only Enala’s grip on her shoulder kept Alana on her feet.

  “He…he fell from Dahniul, when your father struck us down.”

  “I need to see him,” Alana whispered, her eyes on the trees.

  “Your father—”

  “I need to see him!”

  Alana’s eyes flashed, and her magic stirred within, though it was still far too weak to be of use. Enala stared back, and for a long moment Alana thought the old woman would try to stop her. But in the end, Enala closed her eyes, and nodded.

  “Very well,” she murmured. “Then let us find him.”

  Chapter 8

  Sunlight coloured the horizon red as Merydith climbed the crumbling steps up the side of the mountain. Far below, darkness was already creeping over the Northland steeps, and she hoped she could make it to the peak before it reached her. Above, the fractured cliffs loomed, their crevice-riddled stone a maze leading up to her remote perch. She had hoped to arrive earlier, and spend one last quiet evening contemplating the setting sun, but preparations for the coming march had occupied her well into the afternoon.