by Aaron Hodges
And then there was nothing.
Blinking, Quinn cried out at the sudden absence of pain. Still clutching his legs, he opened his eyes, and gaped to find the Tsar still standing over him, the Sword of Light pointed at his chest. Except the glow of its power was no longer white, but a brilliant, shining emerald. It streamed from the blade to bathe his legs, cooling wherever it touched. Quinn watched in astonishment as his flesh regrew from nothing, making him whole once more.
“The Goddess is mine,” the Tsar whispered. “So I will forgive you this one last time, Quinn.” He waved a hand, and light filled the inn, illuminating the broken body of the old woman.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, Quinn bowed. “They won’t get far, I promise you.”
“I trust not,” the Tsar replied. “Take the remaining Stalkers, and the soldiers. There are still more than enough to deal with the hammerman and his newfound allies.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Tsar regarded him coldly. “Do not betray me, Quinn,” he said finally. He gestured to the dead woman. “Or what happened to her will seem a dream compared with your fate.”
“Yes, sir,” Quinn repeated, dropping to his knees. “I will not fail you.”
To his surprise, the man snorted. “You probably will,” he cackled. “But for the moment, there is no one else in this forest I can trust.” Turning, the Tsar started for the doorway.
“Sir?” Quinn called him back, rising to his feet. “What of the dragon? How will you return to the army?”
“Feshibe’s children are already on their way,” he replied. His face darkened. “The Northland army has launched an ambush on our forces in Lonia.”
“They dare to attack us?”
“Ay, it seems they could not wait for death to come to them. No matter, it will find them soon enough.”
Chapter 23
Damyn had just moments to glimpse the horror on the faces of his enemies before his force slammed into their flank, driving them back up against the wagons. Hampered by the overburdened vehicles and their own oxen, the soldiers struggled to bring their weapons to bear against the northern cavalry. Scores went down before any sort of resistance could be mounted.
By then, Damyn’s forces outnumbered the defenders two to one, yet the enemy refused to break. Soldiers streamed through the gaps between the wagons as those caught on the other side of the baggage train reinforced their comrades. Linking shields, they sought to push back the horses.
Glancing along the road, Damyn cursed as he saw men streaming back through the trees towards them. The forces who’d marched to reinforce the vanguard hadn’t gone far, and now Damyn only had minutes before they were surrounded. He looked at the wagons, so close and yet still so tantalisingly far away.
A scream came from one of the oxen in the baggage train, and suddenly it was charging forward. Wagon still attached, it slammed into the men standing between Damyn and his goal, shattering their line. Panicked, another oxen followed suit, the traces holding its load in place shattering as it twisted and leapt away.
The scattered soldiers made easy targets, and screaming an order, Damyn pressed his horse forward. His sabre sliced left and right, cutting a path to the broken wagons. Finally, the southerners broke, first one, then dozens turning and fleeing up the Gods Road towards their reinforcements.
Well-trained, Damyn’s men dragged back on their reins when the soldiers were clear of the baggage train, turning their attention to the wagons themselves. Swords flashed, freeing the last of the oxen of their burdens, before torches appeared. Damyn lit his own and hurled it into the back of the nearest wagon. His men did the same, and within the minute thick columns of smoke stained the sky, rising high in the thin winter air.
Turning his horse, Damyn surveyed their work. A grin split his bearded cheeks as he waved to his men.
“Back to the hi—”
An ear-splitting roar drowned out his cry as a shadow passed across the sun. Beneath him, Damyn’s horse gave a scream of pure terror and reared. He tugged desperately at the reins as it hit the ground running, seeking to turn it, to bring it back under his control. Around him he sensed others doing the same, even as the thump, thump, thump of scarlet wings drove a spike of despair deep into his heart.
Finally, Damyn’s horse staggered to a halt, its coat drenched in sweat, its powerful body trembling from head to tail. Hardly daring to breathe, Damyn turned the gelding back towards the hillside. With a shout, he kicked his horse into a run, setting his sights on the distant hilltop.
“Pull back!” he bellowed, though his men were scattered around the Gods Road now, and few could hear him.
The shadow passed across the sun again before Damyn could reach the treeline. The Red Dragon came barrelling down, mouth wide, fire blossoming in the void of its throat. Warmth bathed his face as it gushed forth, engulfing the forest.
A dozen or more of his men had already reached the trees. Their screams were terrible to behold as the inferno swallowed them up. Manes aflame, several horses came racing from the forest, but their riders had already succumbed to the awesome heat.
Damyn’s horse stumbled to a stop. Its breath coming in ragged snorts, it stood trembling beneath him, too terrified even to run. Around him, what remained of Damyn’s cohort did the same. Each knew there was no longer any point in running; death had come for them, and there would be no escape.
The earth shook as the dragon slammed into the hillside, its wings scattering fire in all directions. Giant jaws stretched wide, revealing endless rows of glistening teeth. Talons tore the earth as it crept towards them, the yellow slits of its eyes speaking of an endless hunger. But it was not the sight of the dragon that filled Damyn with despair; it was the scarlet-cloaked figure perched on its back.
Light flashed from the sword in the man’s hand, rippling from white to green. The dragon bent low, offering one awful paw for the man to dismount. Leaping clear, the cloaked figure gestured again with his sword, and the beast leapt back into the sky.
Damyn hardly saw it go. His eyes were trapped in the sapphire gaze of the man before them, in the unyielding gaze of the Tsar. With casual slowness, the man advanced down the hill to where Damyn and his cohort waited. He was one against hundreds, and yet not a single northerner dared raise their sword against him.
The blackened earth crunched beneath the Tsar’s boots as he came to a stop before Damyn. Hands clasped before him, he appraised the captain in silence, face impassive. Sitting on his horse, Damyn tried to think of some way of fighting back, but his whole body seemed frozen, as though the man’s very presence was enough to rob him of his will.
A crease marked the Tsar’s brow as he looked beyond the horsemen at the burning wagons. Raising a hand, he gestured at the flames. A whoosh came from behind Damyn as the fires they’d started flickered out.
“I take it the Queen sent you,” the Tsar said, his voice deceptively quiet.
Damyn swallowed, his words failing him. The Tsar’s rasping laughter whispered through the burning forest as he took a step closer.
“Get down, Captain,” he hissed.
“No—” Damyn broke off as he felt something cold pierce his chest.
He gasped and looked down, expecting to see an arrow or blade impaling him, but there was nothing. Yet the sensation was already spreading, seeping out from his chest to fill him with icy fire. Opening his mouth, he tried to scream, even as the cold reached his throat. His shriek came out as a whimper and he slumped in the saddle, his every nerve alive with agony, yet unable to so much as squeak.
“Down,” the Tsar repeated.
To Damyn’s horror, his body responded without question. His horse whinnied nervously as he dismounted and moved to stand in front of the Tsar. The icy fire still setting his mind aflame, he sank to his knee before the leader of the Three Nations.
Smiling, the Tsar reached down and laid his hand on Damyn’s head. Whatever pain he’d felt before redoubled as a terrible force slid through his consciousnes
s. His back arched and he longed to draw his sword and lash out at his assailant, but there was no fighting this man, no resistance against the power gripping his body.
Finally, the Tsar withdrew, his magic going with him. Crying out, Damyn slumped to the ground. A thousand pinpricks needled his every muscle as he tried to move, to run or even crawl away from the man’s awful power. But all he could manage was the pitiful moans of a dying man.
“So the Queen is close,” the Tsar mused. “She must have powerful Magickers to have shielded herself from me.”
“Bastard,” Damyn spat. Finally regaining some of his movement, he managed to drag himself to his knees. “You will never conquer us.”
“Conquer?” the Tsar said sadly. He gestured to the burnt-out wagons, a smile appearing on his face. “It was not I who invaded a foreign nation, who ambushed and slaughtered innocent soldiers.”
“You left us no choice.”
“That is not how history will remember it,” the Tsar laughed. “If it remembers you at all.”
“You will never win,” Damyn choked.
“I have heard that before,” the Tsar murmured. Leaning down, he touched Damyn’s cheek. His skin was soft, the gesture almost tender, and Damyn jerked away. Chuckling, the Tsar straightened and turned to the other Northerners. “And yet I always do.”
“Just kill us,” Damyn growled, anger giving his words strength. “You’ll get nothing from us.”
“Oh, but you have already given me everything, young Damyn. Your Queen flees for the Sandstone Mountains, seeking to draw us away from her own people.”
“No,” Damyn whispered.
An awful rage took him then, fed by hatred and the realisation he had failed his Queen. A scream ripped from his throat as he scrambled to his feet. Sabre in hand, he hurled himself at the Tsar...
He made it two steps before a force like a raging bull struck him in the chest. Something went crack as he was hurled from his feet. Agony lanced through his chest as though he’d been stabbed. The breath went from him in a rush as he struck the ground.
Footsteps crunched as the Tsar appeared overhead. “Your loyalty is to be admired,” he murmured. “A shame your Queen was unworthy of it.”
“She will destroy you.”
“She will die, like all the rest.” The Tsar lifted his sword. “As will all of your people.”
“Get on with it then,” Damyn spat.
Lowering his sword, the Tsar smiled. The sight filled Damyn with a sudden dread, even before the man spoke. “Get on with it?” He shook his head, gesturing to the ruined wagons. “But you have brought me such pain, Captain. I cannot simply send you all to the void, without repaying the favour.”
Fear spread through Damyn like a poison as he looked into the darkness in the man’s eyes and saw his fate. In that instant, he saw what he had to do, and screaming, he surged to his feet. His sword lay just a foot away. He hurled himself at the hilt, sweeping it up and lifting it high.
Then he reversed the blade and drove it into his stomach.
Pain tore through him as the point struck home. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he slumped back to his knees. He looked up at the Tsar, his vision swirling, slowly fading away, and smiled.
“She will stop you,” he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.
Darkness closed in as the Tsar leaned down and tore the blade from his stomach. By then Damyn could feel nothing. But as the Tsar knelt beside him, warmth washed over him. He groaned as the darkness receded, the world returning, and with it the pain.
A smile touched the Tsar’s face as he stroked Damyn’s brow. “Don’t go leaving just yet, Captain,” he murmured. “I’m not done with you.”
Chapter 24
Devon waited until darkness before he allowed the Baronians to light their fires, knowing that even in the mountains, the smoke would be seen for miles around. He would have preferred a cold camp, but with the mountains in the grips of winter, half their number would freeze to death before morning without heat. As it was, the threadbare clothing of the Baronians was hopelessly inadequate.
But there was no turning back now. Braidon had been able to cloak their small group of leaders from the Tsar’s roaming eyes, but there was no hiding their tracks. Quinn and his Stalkers would not be far behind. It was unlikely the Baronians and their wagons could outrun the hunters, but they could at least make it harder for them.
At least the dragon was dead. Joseph himself had seen it fall from the sky, struck down by magic and a dozen crossbow bolts. They had Alana to thank for that, though Devon would never admit as much to the young woman. He still could not bring himself to speak with her.
Without the beast prowling the skies, Devon only had to concern himself with the Stalkers on their trail. From what he’d seen in the settlement, the Baronians had Quinn and his men badly outnumbered. Even poorly fed and armed, the weight of their numbers might have been enough to overwhelm their pursuers.
If not for the magic of the Stalkers.
Devon had considered setting an ambush further up in the mountains, but quickly dismissed the idea. Even with kanker and Braidon and Alana, they were badly outmatched by the powers Quinn and his followers could command. Forcing a pitched battle would be to risk everything on the hope the Stalkers didn’t react quickly enough to bring their magic to bear. Sadly, Devon knew Quinn well enough to realise that was unlikely.
No, their only chance for the moment was to retreat into the mountains, and pray to the Gods they could lose the Stalkers in the maze of caves and gullies.
Fat chance of that, Devon thought as he surveyed the camp.
The Baronians had taken the loss of their permanent camp in stride, though they’d been forced to leave many of their tents and wagons behind. A few had refused to come, and had remained behind with their measly possessions, but some five hundred had followed Devon into the mountains.
He had been surprised by their loyalty, though the weight of responsibility hung heavy on his shoulders now. In the brief moments they’d had to plan Alana’s rescue, he hadn’t thought this far ahead, about what it would mean to lead so many people into the mountain passes. Now though, Devon wondered whether he was escorting them to their doom, if his recklessness had finally caught up with him.
Devon looked up as the flaps of his tent parted and Joseph stepped inside. The former Baronian leader offered a nod, and then wandered over and took a seat on the other side of Devon’s camp stove. Holding his hands out to the hot iron, he grinned. “Glad to see this made it into the wagons.”
In no mood for company, Devon only grunted and waited for the man’s reason for being there. Seeing Alana again had left him feeling confused and dejected. When he’d first stepped into the inn and seen her standing there alive, Devon had experienced a surge of elation, quickly followed by despair as he remembered the Alana standing before him was no longer the woman he loved.
Unlike Braidon, he hadn’t been able to move past what had happened, what the woman who looked like Alana had done. When the boy had walked into camp with Alana in tow, there had been smiles all around, though the Baronians did not know what they were celebrating. But Devon had taken no joy from the occasion, and had quickly excused himself. Alone, Devon had found himself longing for the quiet comradery he’d enjoyed with the boy this past week, the tranquil peace as they wandered the forest paths, the silence of the night as they cooked their evening meals.
Instead, Devon now found himself alone but for a man who had tried to kill him just days ago.
“What do you want, Joseph?” he snapped after a minute, when the man still had not spoken.
“Grouchy, aren’t you?” The giant chuckled. “And I thought I was the old man. Thought you’d be overjoyed to have the woman back.”
“I’m happy she’s alive,” Devon growled.
“Truly?” Joseph asked. “Because you looked ready to scream murder when the boy led her into the camp.”
“It’s complicated,” Devon sa
id. Picking up the iron poker, he stabbed at the coals inside the camp stove.
“Ah, complicated, I see,” Joseph replied, as though Devon had just spilled his heart. “Never fun, complicated.”
“She killed my friend!” Devon burst out. Jabbing a little too hard with the poker, a coal spilled out and struck the cold earth with a hiss. Devon cursed and stamped it out with his boot. “Or close enough to it,” he added in a whisper.
Joseph shook his head. “You don’t strike me as a man who leaves a friend unavenged.” He sat back in his chair, his eyes boring into Devon. “So if she’s responsible, why did you rescue her?”
Devon looked away. “Because she reminds me of someone I used to know,” he murmured, remembering the fiery woman that had fought her way across the Three Nations to protect her brother. “Because I love her.”
“Complicated thing, love.”
Unable to find the words to reply, Devon only shook his head, and they fell back into silence. After a few minutes, Joseph groaned and rose to his feet.
“Anyway, she’s waiting for you outside,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait—” Devon started to his feet, but the Baronian had already vanished through the tent flaps.
Alana took his place, a hesitant smile on her face. “Devon,” she said formally.
“Alana,” he replied, his voice tight.
Her eyes slid to the floor as she let the tent flap fall behind her. Silently she wandered around the tent, her hands trailing over the canvas walls. Circling the room, Alana came to a stop beside the camp stretcher. There she crouched for a moment, then stood again with something in hand. As she turned, Devon saw she now held kanker. She pressed it into his hands.
Devon took the weapon with a frown. “What?”
“Use it,” she said, the words tumbling from her in a rush. “I can’t stand this anymore: the guilt, the pain, the loss. I never loved anything or anyone before, no one except my brother. Now I do, and all its given me is pain. I saw how much you hate me, back in the throne room. You were right to leave me to die, right to hate me. Kellian died because of me. So do it, please.”