by Aaron Hodges
Thinking back to the wily old priest, Devon found himself wishing Enala had joined them on this quest. Recalling that last day in the gate tunnel of Fort Fall still filled him with awe. With fire and sword in hand, Enala had sliced into the Stalkers like a scythe through the wheat fields of northern Lonia. Only the arrival of the Tsar’s Red Dragons had prevented her victory. As it was, they’d been forced to flee on the back of a Gold Dragon the old woman had summoned.
Devon would never forget that wild flight; yet as they’d soared high above the mountains, it had been sorrow, not joy, that had filled his heart. They had escaped, but Alana had been left behind, trapped in the vile clutches of the Stalker lieutenant, Quinn.
His heart twitched at the thought of Alana, of what she must now be suffering for his failure. If only he’d managed to kill Quinn, things might have ended differently. Instead, a crossbow bolt had torn through his shoulder, all but incapacitating him. The wound would normally have taken months to heal, but after their escape, Enala had directed the dragon to a temple high in the Northland mountains. There, they had discovered an order of priests dedicated to the Goddess, Antonia. Several of the men and women there had possessed the healing magic of the Earth, and had quickly set about tending to the wounds of their visitors.
The hairs on Devon’s neck stood on end as he recalled the soft green light that had seeped from the hands of the priests. His pain had fled at its touch, his wounds stitching themselves together before his eyes. Within minutes he’d been whole, without so much as a scar to remind him of the desperate battle in Fort Fall.
The healers had taken more time with Alana’s brother, Braidon. The wound in his stomach had been deep, and the boy was barely clinging to life when the priests reached him. Hands raised, three priests had gathered in a circle, their power forming a glowing dome of green around the boy. For hours they had stood thus, unmoving, their eyes closed and brows creased, features like stone.
Devon’s worry had reached a fever pitch by the time they finally lowered their hands. Shuffling forward, he’d barely dared to breathe as he searched for signs of life in the young man. Only as the last of the green light faded away did he glimpse the gentle rise and fall of Braidon’s chest, and that the wound in his stomach had vanished.
Even now, Devon could hardly believe he’d witnessed such a miracle. During the war, he’d watched the Tsar’s Magickers decimate the Trolan army with their power. Yet there were few healers amidst their ranks, and their powers were never wasted on regular soldiers. Thinking of friends he’d lost to lesser wounds than the one Braidon had taken, Devon felt the familiar anger stirring.
After the temple, Enala and her Gold Dragon, Dahniul, had flown them further into the mountains, to the hidden city of Erachill. It was there Devon had announced his decision to return to the Three Nations, and save Alana from the clutches of the Tsar.
To his surprise, Enala had readily agreed, though she had left it up to Dahniul to decide whether the dragon would carry them. He could still remember the dragon’s soft voice in his mind, after asking why he would risk such a quest. Devon’s response had been simple and to the point.
Because I do not desert my friends.
A rumble had come from deep in the dragon’s chest, and Devon had felt an odd warmth spreading through his mind, even before the reply came.
Then I will take you.
Afterwards, Kellian had been quick to announce he would be coming as well, hopeless though their mission seemed. Devon had tried to dissuade his friend, but there was no changing the man’s mind once it was made up, and two days later they’d left the mountain fortress on dragon back.
Enala had joined them for that first length of the journey, directing Dahniul south and west across Northland until they reached the northern coast of Trola. The dragon had landed near the ruins of Straken. There, priest and dragon had bid them farewell.
“The Tsar will sense me if I journey further with you, my friends,” Enala had told them. “Now he knows I live, he will be searching for me. He won’t be taken by surprise again, and even I don’t have the power to fight the creatures he will send.”
So Enala and Dahniul had bid their farewells and soared back into the northern skies, to Erachill and the boy they’d left behind.
Devon found himself smiling as he thought of Braidon. The boy had wanted to come as well, to help save his sister, but he’d found the rest of the party aligned against him. No one wanted to face Alana’s wrath if she discovered they’d allowed her brother to return to the Three Nations. As it was, it was a relief to know Braidon remained in Northland, beyond the reach of the Tsar.
“Master that power of yours, Braidon,” Devon had told him. “Then we’ll see.”
He wondered how Braidon’s training was progressing beneath Enala’s watchful eye. Bright as he was, the boy seemed to be struggling in the days before Devon and Kellian had left. The loss of Braidon’s sister had left him despondent. His eyes were often distant, his mind far away in another world. Devon prayed to the Gods he could find a way to save Alana and reunite the two siblings.
“We’re close.” Betran’s voice from the road ahead snapped Devon back to the present.
Looking around, he shivered. The streets were dark, most of the buildings just crumbling remnants of the ancient structures which had once decorated the Trolan city. Here and there lights flickered, the dim lanterns of the few residents piercing the gloom. Above, the sky was black, the stars hidden by clouds. Even so, he could sense Kellian’s tension beside him.
“Where are we heading?” Kellian asked, keeping his voice low.
“The bathhouses,” Betran replied. When Kellian muttered something choice, the man shrugged and replied, “Can’t rebuild a civilisation without bathhouses.”
Devon chuckled, but Kellian caught him by the arm and pulled him back as Betran moved on. “Are you sure we can trust this man?” he hissed.
“Probably a bit late to be asking that now,” Devon replied with a grin. When Kellian only glared at him, he elaborated. “If he’d wanted trouble, he would have already taken us down some darkened alleyway and had his friends waylay us. Now come on, if I smell half as bad as you, we’re both in need of a bath.”
He continued down the street to where Betran now stood beneath a bright cluster of lanterns. Kellian grumbled something unintelligible behind his back, but a moment later his friend’s footsteps followed after him. As they approached the building, a wooden door swung open and a burly man stepped out into the street. Folding his arms, he studied the three of them, then settled his gaze on the Trolan.
“What’s this, Betran?” he rumbled. “Last I heard you couldn’t afford a barber, let alone a bath.” The man waved a hand in front of his face to emphasise his words. “Certainly smells like it.”
Betran bristled, but Kellian stepped forward briskly before their companion could find the words to respond. “Betran here was just showing us the way. We’re new in town.”
Taking a breath, Betran collected himself. “They’re here to see Godrin.”
The doorman narrowed his eyes. “He’s not taking visitors.”
“We’re friends,” Kellian said quickly, then in a voice no louder than a whisper: “Enala sent us.”
For a second it seemed the doorman had not heard. He stood still as a statue, the muscles of his neck and shoulders bulging. Devon tensed, readying himself for a fight, but before he could move the guard silently turned and stepped back into the establishment. Leaping forward, Devon jammed his foot into the doorway to keep the man from locking them out.
Inside the bathhouse, the guard glanced back and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, or are you going to come inside?”
Devon blinked. Beneath his beard, he felt his cheeks grow warm. Giving a gruff nod, he stepped through the doorway, followed closely by Betran and Kellian. Inside they waited as the door was closed and bolted behind them, then followed the guard down a long corridor leading int
o the earth.
The temperature rose as the corridor ended abruptly, giving way to a circular chamber with a domed ceiling. On the other side of the chamber was another stone corridor, but elsewhere wooden booths lined the room. Most had their doors closed, but the guard gestured to one that still stood open.
“Cloaks, clothes and boots in there, please. You’ll find towels and slippers inside,” he said.
Grinning, Devon shared a glance with Kellian and Betran. “Right boys, who’s first?”
“I’ll wait out here,” Betran said quickly, his eyes flickering nervously towards the exit.
Devon couldn’t fault him for his worries—no doubt he’d get the blame if things went wrong with Godrin. He was about to agree with the Trolan, when the guard spoke again.
“You’ll join your friends, Betran,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
A strained silence followed. Feeling the tension rising, Devon glanced at the guard, then shrugged. “Well, we’d best get to it boys!” Grinning, he stepped into the booth.
After a moment’s hesitation the others followed. The small wooden room sported a single bench and hooks for their clothing, but it was clearly designed for two occupants at the most. A lot of grunting and shuffling followed as they fought to remove their clothes in the cramped quarters, before quickly wrapping towels around their waists to hide themselves.
Finally, they stepped back out into the stone chamber and locked the door behind them. Entrusting the key to Kellian, Devon looked around for the guard, feeling more than a little exposed with only a towel to cover him. It wasn’t the being naked that bothered him, so much as the sudden sense of vulnerability. It was one thing to walk into danger unarmed—it was something else entirely to do so without even a thread of clothing on his back.
The guard appeared from the corridor that presumably led deeper into the bathhouse, his expression still unreadable.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice echoing off the stone ceiling.
Devon nodded, and the man turned on his heel without another word. They followed him a short way down the corridor, until he stopped in front of a heavy metal door. He undid the latch and heaved it open. A cloud of steam billowed out, and the guard gestured them inside.
One by one they ducked through the door and entered the sauna. Through the steam, Devon glimpsed a circular stone bench in the centre of the room. Several men lounged there, laying with their backs to the stone or sitting in silent contemplation. Around the edges of the chamber were more ledges, along with stone bowls and steel faucets. Sweat dripped from Devon’s forehead as the hot air swamped him.
As they moved further inside, the guard’s voice came from behind them. “Cross the room and go into the next chamber. You’ll find a thermal pool. Godrin is waiting for you there.”
An ominous screech came from behind them as the door swung closed, followed by the muffled click of the latch being locked. Despite the heat, a chill slid down Devon’s spine. Doing his best to ignore it, he straightened his shoulders and walked around the stone bench in the centre of the room, taking care not to trip over any outstretched limbs.
The doorway took shape from the steam as he approached the far side of the chamber. Sweat trickled down his brow as he stepped through, eager to leave behind the scrutiny of the half-naked men. The walls narrowed around him as he entered a corridor, then widened again into a secondary chamber. Here, the ground ended abruptly in the clear waters of a steaming pool. It was difficult to see more than a few feet into the rippling waters. As he came to a stop a voice called out to them in a Trolan twang.
“Devon, Kellian, how pleasant of you to join me. I heard you were dead.
“I’ve been hearing that a lot,” Devon replied with a grunt.
Laughter carried across the water. “Come, join me. You must be weary after your travels.”
Devon shrugged, and removing his towel, stepped into the water. He winced as the heat engulfed his leg, reminding him of the blows he’d taken in the bar, and he paused. Beside him, Kellian stepped past, a weary smile on his face. Walking down the steps into the bath, he sank beneath the surface, only to reappear a few seconds later. Silently he raised an eyebrow at Devon.
Muttering under his breath, Devon steeled himself and followed his friend into the scalding water. A splash came from behind him as Betran did the same, and together they walked forward until they were submerged up to their waists. Slowly the heat became more bearable, and Devon found the aches in his muscles beginning to fade.
Kellian had already disappeared into the steam, and gritting his teeth, Devon chased after his friend. Back in Ardath, Kellian had been wealthy enough to afford luxuries like the bathhouses. Devon usually had to make do with washing himself in the pig trough nearest the Firestone. Ahead, Kellian reappeared, but he was no longer alone.
Lounging on the other side of the pool was a man almost as large as Devon himself. He sat with the water up to his chest, bulging arms stretched out on either side of him, an amused smile on his clean-shaven face. Muscles along his shoulders rippled as he lowered his arms and stood, his hawk-like brown eyes studying them intently. Devon shivered as they settled on him.
“Well, if it isn’t the Butcher of Kalgan,” the stranger said softly.
“I take it you’re Godrin.”
The man nodded. “I hear you have a message for me from Enala. You had better hope it’s important. Your life depends on it.”
Devon glanced around them, but the steam hid the rest of the room from view. As far as he could see, they were alone. Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling, and his heart beat quickened.
Forcing a bravado he didn’t quite feel, Devon smirked. “Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re the message.”
Godrin’s brow deepened as he looked from Devon to Kellian. “You’d best explain,” he said. As he spoke, he raised a hand. Movement came from behind him as two men stepped into view, crossbows in hand. “Or I’ll be sending you back to Enala in pieces.”
Chapter 3
For Braidon, the weeks since the final confrontation at Fort Fall had dragged by with excruciating slowness. Each day he waited for news of his sister, for word of her public torture and execution at the hands of the Tsar. With each passing hour he could feel his anxiety rising, the strain of expectation slowly tearing him apart. His nights were spent tossing and turning, his thoughts consumed by the awful things the Stalkers might be doing to Alana.
Yet still there was nothing, not a single whisper of her fate. It was as though she had vanished off the face of the continent.
Often Braidon would find his thoughts drawn back to the last battle, to what he might have done differently to save Alana from the Stalkers. But those final moments were little more than a blur now. From the moment the crossbow bolt had torn through his stomach, he could recall only glimpses, of Quinn laughing and Alana crying out in agony, of flames burning in the darkness, and a golden dragon soaring through icy skies.
Only when the warming light of the healers had touched him did the memories resume, drawing him back to the agony of a reality without his sister. He had woken with a cry in the quiet sanctuary of an Earth Temple. For a moment he’d thought himself back in Sitton Forest, in the ruins of Antonia’s temple. But as his vision cleared and he saw the light fading from the hands of the priests surrounding him, he’d realised the truth.
He was no longer in the Three Nations, no longer under the influence of the Tsar. He was finally free.
And Alana had given her life to make it so.
Exhaustion had taken him then, and he’d faded back into the darkness. When he’d woken next, he’d found himself here, in the strange city known as Erachill. Hidden deep in the mountains of Northland, it was difficult to know where the city itself ended and the original caves began. Even now, as he wandered down the winding corridors of the city, he could only wonder at the centuries of toil it must have taken to construct such a place.
Ahead the light was gro
wing, the flickering lanterns giving way to natural sunlight. He breathed a sigh as he stepped out into the open, his chest swelling with relief to have open space around him. Above the cliffs stretched up a hundred feet, the worn granite pockmarked by dozens of caves identical to the one from which he’d just emerged. Around each opening, blocks of marble formed great facades of polished white, each engraved with runes and glyphs depicting the rooms hidden within. Great staircases had been carved into the cliff-face, winding their way up between the caves without so much as a banister for safety.
Shivering, Braidon turned his gaze to the distant floodplains of Northland. They fell away below him, the rocky slopes of the mountain giving way to open ground. With winter now gripping the continent, snow blanketed the land as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional rocky outcrop. Above the mountains the sky was grey and beginning to darken, the heavy clouds promising the approach of yet another winter storm.
Hoping there was still time before it struck, Braidon set out across the rocky slopes, taking care to avoid patches of ice as he searched for the flash of green robes that would reveal his mentor’s location. The mountain winds had already blown the slope clear of snow, but the going was still precarious, and it was a few minutes before he finally saw her. She was in her favourite spot, seated atop a ledge with her legs hanging out over the five-hundred-foot drop. Swallowing hard, Braidon picked his way towards her, coming to a stop when he was still a few feet from the edge.