by Aaron Hodges
Until now. Somehow, saving a couple of selfish townsfolk from bandits had led to his ascension to leader of the Baronians. He could only shake his head in amusement at the turn of events.
“Devon, there you are.” Craning his head, Devon watched as Braidon walked up. Wearing a scowl on his face, the boy came to a stop beside the hammock and crossed his arms. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”
Devon grinned. “Immensely.” Groaning, he levered himself out of the hammock and stood beside the boy. “Where’ve you been, sonny?”
Braidon’s scowl deepened. “Sleeping in the mud,” he snapped.
“Oh…” Devon scratched his beard, a sheepish look coming over his face. “Must have lost track of you somewhere there.”
After he’d defeated Joseph, there had been a tense moment when Devon had thought the Baronians were about to tear him to pieces. Strangely, in that moment Devon had felt no fear or anger, only a sense of bemusement that his life would end at the hands of this rabble, rather than the rich and powerful who sought his death.
But instead, the Baronians had one by one fallen to their knees and pronounced him their leader. Devon had felt compelled to accept the title, least their supplication return to rage. Afterwards, they had shepherded Devon and Braidon back to their campsite and shown Devon the hammock. In his exhausted state, Devon had fallen asleep without giving the boy a second thought.
“You think?” Braidon growled.
“Ummm…” Devon was still struggling to produce a satisfactory excuse when a Baronian marched up.
“Hammerman,” the Baronian rumbled. “We have prepared your tent, if you’d like to break your fast.”
Devon raised an eyebrow at Braidon. “Hungry?” he asked, his tone reconciliatory.
The boy snorted, but eventually offered a nod, and Devon gestured for the Baronian to lead the way. Together they wandered through the roughshod camp the Baronians had created amongst the forest. The undergrowth had been cleared to make space for the cowhide tents, but the trees remained, their upper canopy forming a roof to shield against dragon patrols. Smoke from a dozen cookfires hung heavily in the morning air, and they kept close to their guide as they navigated between the sleeping bodies. It seemed Braidon hadn’t been the only one to spend the night without shelter. Devon wondered how they had survived the harsh winter storm that had passed through a week before.
Wagons lined the perimeter of the campsite, drawn up so they formed a makeshift barrier against the world outside. Looking closer at the tents they passed, Devon saw they were as scruffy as the clothes worn by the bandits he’d encountered on the road. Compared to the tales of old, these Baronians seemed a poor relic, impoverished by the necessity of their concealment from the Tsar.
The camp looked to have been there a while—months, at least. The Baronians of old had moved freely from place to place, never staying in one location for long, spreading their terror across the Three Nations. It seemed Joseph had been content to lead his people down a more peaceful route.
“This is your tent, hammerman.”
Devon looked up as their guide spoke. He had stopped outside a large tent set in the centre of the camp. A trail of smoke seeped from the tip of the tent, and Devon grinned as he ducked beneath the flap and found a small fire burning in a rusted camp stove. A rough bed of straw was pushed into the corner and several wooden chairs lay strewn around the tent.
He glanced back as Braidon and their Baronian guide followed him inside. “Why didn’t you bring us here last night?”
The man scratched his beard, looking uncertain. “Joseph’s…belongings had to be removed.”
Devon blinked. “This was Joseph’s tent?”
“Of course,” the man replied. “It is the best tent in the tribe. It belongs to the one who leads us.”
Shaking his head, Devon lowered himself into one to the chairs and gestured for Braidon to join him. He scowled at the Baronian as Braidon claimed his seat. “And where is your former leader now?”
The Baronian cleared his throat. “He is a prisoner. We have him held in the prison tent, awaiting your judgement, sir.”
Devon sighed. “You’d best bring him here then.” The man nodded, and was turning away when Devon’s stomach rumbled. “Wait!” He shared a sheepish glance with Braidon before gesturing at the camp stove. “On second thought, we’ll break our fast first. I’m sure Joseph can wait another hour.”
“Of course, hammerman,” the Baronian replied with a grin.
After the Baronian had departed, Braidon snorted with laughter. “Glad you’ve got your priorities straight.”
“Damn right,” Devon rumbled. Then he sighed and shook his head. “This is already getting complicated, isn’t it? What am I meant to do with the big bastard?”
Braidon frowned. “You already spared his life once. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Mistake?” Devon asked quietly.
In his mind, he saw again the moment the Baronian’s axe had shattered, felt again the thrill of victory. Then Braidon’s words had carried through the sudden silence that had fallen over the crowd.
Finish him, Devon!
When he’d looked up, Devon had caught the gleam in the boy’s sapphire eyes, recognised the familiar bloodlust. His face contorted with hatred, Braidon had looked for all the world like the Son of the Tsar. Kellian’s last words had come back to Devon then, about sparing those who could not defend themselves, and lowering kanker, he had given the Baronian a second chance.
“What makes you say it was a mistake to spare him?” he said.
“He tried to kill you!” Braidon exclaimed.
“Ay, but he fought with courage, and honour,” Devon replied. He searched the boy’s eyes as he spoke, seeking…something, but finding only confusion. With a sigh he went on. “He could have ordered his people to slaughter us, but instead he chose to risk single combat. And he lost everything for it. Is that not enough?”
Braidon shook his head, but before more could be said, the tent flap lifted and their guide returned, carrying two steaming plates. Devon studied the contents as they were placed before them, and was slightly disappointed to see they mostly consisted of rice and tubers dug up from the forest. Thin slivers of beef had been sprinkled through the food, with a generous helping of thyme, but there was little else.
His stomach rumbled, and he looked up to ask the Baronian where the rest was, when he saw the anxiety in the man’s eyes. Devon’s spirits fell as he realised this was the best these people could offer.
“Cheers, sonny,” he rumbled, careful to hide his disappointment. “Give us half the hour, then bring the prisoner.”
“Of course, hammerman.” The man bowed his head and retreated from the tent.
They were just finishing their meal when the Baronian reappeared with Joseph in tow. The former Baronian leader’s arms had been tied behind his back, and he glowered down at them as he was ushered into the tent. A bruise darkened his forehead where Devon had knocked him out. With his injured arm tied behind his back, he must have been in considerable pain, but his face remained carefully blank.
With a nod from Devon, their guide retreated from the tent. Standing before them, Joseph smirked. “I trust the new accommodations are to your liking?”
Devon leaned back in his chair and eyed the giant. When he’d first seen the man, he’d thought him in his late thirties. But after a night tied up in the cold winter air, the lines on Joseph’s face had deepened, the silver in his beard becoming more prominent, and now Devon wondered if the man was closer to fifty.
If that were true, the fight he’d put up was all the more impressive. Even now, Joseph refused to bend, facing down his impending judgement with fire in his eyes. Watching Joseph standing there in open defiance, Devon realised he had no desire to see the man killed.
“Seems comfortable enough,” Devon mused. “Could use a bit of colour though.”
Joseph snorted. “Typical townsfolk.”
Beside De
von, Braidon bristled, but the hammerman waved him down. “Strange folks, these Baronians of yours,” he mused. “One moment they’re cheering for your victory, next they’re on their knees proclaiming me their king.”
“Baronians don’t have kings,” Joseph rumbled.
“Leader, whatever,” Devon replied, waving a hand.
A strained silence followed, before Joseph sighed and shook his head. “Can’t say I understand it myself,” he grunted. “Any one of em could have taken my place, if they’d had the guts to put an arrow in ya.”
“Glad they couldn’t find the courage,” Devon replied. Rising to his feet, he gestured at Joseph’s bindings. “If I free you, are you going to play nice?”
“I’ll make no promises to you, hammerman.”
“Then you can rot for all I care,” Devon said, starting to sit.
“Fine,” Joseph said quickly, betraying his fear for the briefest of moments.
Grinning, Devon fetched a knife from beside the camp stove and cut Joseph’s bonds. The man winced as they came free, and lifted his injured arm to the firelight. His wrist had swollen to twice its original size and had turned an awful black colouring. Pulling up a chair, Devon gestured for the giant to sit.
“Where do you keep the ale around here?” he asked as he stepped back.
Joseph chuckled. “Behind the bed, if Jazz didn’t pilfer it already.”
Devon found the clay jar where Joseph had said, and fetching a couple of mugs from behind the camp stove, he offered ale to Braidon and Joseph. Finally, he filled a mug of his own and settled back in his chair.
“Quite the predicament we’ve found ourselves in,” he said, lifting his ale to Joseph.
The Baronian chuckled. “You seem to have landed on your feet, from where I sit.”
“Ay…” Devon trailed off, remembering the information Braidon had shared the night before about the giant warrior and his people. “Who are you, Joseph? Selina says you and your people just showed up here one day, took over the place.”
“Selina talks too much,” Joseph rumbled. He shook his head and looked away. Then a smile touched his lips. “I might ask the same of you, hammerman. What kind of man leaves his enemies alive? Or sits down and shares a drink with them, for that matter?”
“Who says we’re enemies?” Devon replied, taking a swig of his ale. It was strong, the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat, and he grinned in appreciation.
In the other chair, Braidon took his first swig and started to splutter. Joseph threw back his head and howled with laughter, but Braidon was too busy coughing to complain. When the commotion died down, Joseph leaned forward, his eyes dark.
“I’m serious, hammerman,” he said quietly. “If you intend to be rid of me, I’d rather not draw this out.”
“I don’t kill unless I have to, sonny,” Devon rumbled. “So the answer to your question is entirely up to you. When we’re done here, you’ll have your freedom. I’ll warn you though, don’t cross me. I give no second chances.” He eyed the man. “Now, where did you and these Baronians of yours come from?”
Joseph sighed. “They’re farmers, mostly. A few of us are descended from the old folks; have the blood of true Baronians flowing in our veins. But our people have always welcomed exiles, and there’s no shortage of those nowadays. I fell on hard times myself a while back, decided the Three Nations could use a bit of the old days.”
Devon grinned. “As I heard it, the old days were filled with monsters and Dark Magickers intent on world domination.”
“Hasn’t changed much, has it?” Joseph replied, sculling his ale. “Just the titles we give em that differ.”
Devon gestured for Braidon to fetch the jar of ale. Rolling his eyes, the boy rose and wandered across and retrieved it. Lifting it from the nook where it had been stored, he was just turning back towards them when he stumbled, a sudden cry tearing from his lips.
Throwing back his chair, Devon leapt to his feet. Moaning, Braidon straightened, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes met Devon’s, his pupils dilated, as though he were staring away into nothing. Devon took a quick step forward as the boy started to shudder, a low keening coming from the back of his throat.
“Braidon, what’s wrong?” he hissed.
Braidon’s pale face lifted slowly to meet his gaze. “It’s them,” he whispered. “It’s my sister and Enala. They’re in trouble!”
Chapter 19
Alana screamed as her magic rose from the depths of her consciousness and wrapped its thorny tendrils about her mind. Daggers of fire tore into her thoughts, dragging her down, trapping her in bonds of agony. Beside her, she could hear someone else screaming, and over it all, their assailant’s laughter, mocking her.
The green light of her magic filled her. Its voice whispered in her ear, as her own personal demon took joy in its sudden freedom. Mustering her courage, she tried to face it, as she had so many times before, but now her courage seemed nothing beside the beast. It was as though the gates of its cage had been thrust open, unleashing it on her defenceless soul.
An image flickered into her mind, of her father standing over her, shining white sword in hand. Where once before he had thrust her magic back down, saving her from the demon within, now he was using the power of the Sword to unlock the chains of her own magic, handing the beast its freedom. It was devouring her from the inside out, and there was nothing she could do to protect herself.
Just as Alana was sure her mind would crumble, her magic vanished, its sickly green energies going rushing back down into the void within. Its absence was so sudden Alana gasped out loud. Her body shook, and the metallic taint of blood filled her mouth. Collapsing to the ground, she sobbed into the wooden floor as a voice spoke from overhead.
“That should bring the boy running,” her father was saying. “Go prepare for his arrival, lieutenant.”
The hard thump of boots on wood came from nearby, followed by the thud of the door being closed. Alana cracked open her eyes as another set of footsteps approached, and found her father crouching beside her. There was no sign of Quinn or the other Stalkers in the inn. The Tsar’s eyes shone as he reached out and stroked her hair.
“Oh, my daughter, why must you torment me so?”
Alana shuddered, but when she tried to move away, she found the bonds of his magic holding her tight. The Tsar was taking no chances on her escaping this time.
“I am sorry it had to come to this,” he continued, sadness in his voice. “I searched for so long for another way, but your betrayal has forced my hand. I must complete my task, before my enemies find a way to stop me.”
“I won’t serve you, Father,” Alana croaked. “I would rather die.”
The Tsar straightened. “And death is what you shall have,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. “You’re right, no matter my power, I could never fix what’s broken in you. But you can still serve me, one last time.”
“Never!” Alana spat.
Ignoring her, the Tsar turned his attention to the figure lying alongside Alana. “And you, Mother…” He trailed off as Enala pushed herself to her knees, pain etched across her aged face. His lips pursed into a thin line. “Why must you fight me? I have only ever done what you raised me to do, to fight for the greater good, to protect our nation from the ravages of war and magic.”
Enala’s eyes shone like sapphires in the light of the Tsar’s sword. “And how did murdering the God of Light and trapping him in your sword serve our nation?” she murmured, gesturing to the blade. “Did you think I would not recognise his power? No wonder the Goddess came to me.”
The Tsar shrugged. “It was only a matter of time before they sought to rule us again.”
“You’re wrong, son,” Enala croaked. “They left because they no longer wanted any part of our world. It is the only reason you exist.”
“Lies!” the Tsar roared, pointing the Sword of Light at Enala. “You were corrupted by her touch, admit it! You are not the Enala you once were,
before Antonia consumed your soul.”
Enala smiled sadly. “Perhaps I am not,” she murmured. “But that is no fault of Antonia’s. It was my choice, to give her my body—and hers to return it.”
The Tsar bared his teeth. “And it will be mine to finally see an end to her.”
The old woman’s laughter filled the room. “Antonia is not her brother. You will not fool her so easily, my son. That shoddy copy of a Soul Blade will not stop her.”
“Copy?” the Tsar cackled. “I spent years studying Archon’s work, but I surpassed him long ago. This is no copy, it is an improvement. When I’m done, I won’t need others to help me wield the power of the Gods. This blade will contain them all.”
“You cannot!” Enala hissed, her eyes widening. “The power will destroy you!”
“I command the magic of five hundred Magickers, Mother. The power of the Gods does not frighten me.”
“It should,” Enala whispered. She shook her head. “But it does not matter, you will never trap the Goddess. Or do you think she will submit meekly to your blade?”
The smile fell from the Tsar’s face as his gaze drifted back to Alana. “No,” he whispered. “That is why I need my children. Only they have the bloodline to host their power.”
Alana’s blood turned to ice at his words. Her mouth fell open, but the words failed to form in her throat. Sword in hand, her father stepped towards her. She tried to scramble back, but at a gesture from him, the bands of power tightened their grip. Slowly they lifted her up, dragging her off her feet until she dangled helplessly before him.
“I am sorry, my daughter,” the Tsar whispered. “I wish there were another way.”
“Please, don’t.” Still reeling from the bite of her magic, Alana found herself sobbing. In the past weeks, she had suffered more than she could ever have imagined, and now she could hold herself together no longer. She screamed, fighting to tear herself free of the Tsar’s power. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she hurled abuse at the man who dared to call himself her father, and her feet kicked helplessly at empty air.