by Aaron Hodges
“What is this place?” he found himself asking.
“A shrine to the Three Gods,” came Enala’s reply. “After the fall of Archon, the Northerners had it built here, at what was once the heart of his power, to celebrate their freedom.”
“I thought the people of Northland fought for Archon.”
“They did,” Enala said sadly. “But not all did so willingly. Though they were descendants of the banished, the people here were never the true enemy. They only wanted what was best for their families, for an escape from the vile creatures that stalked their land, from the wasteland that was this nation.”
“It doesn’t look like such a wasteland now.”
Enala smiled. “Before the Gods departed, they spent much of their time in Northland, healing the land of Archon’s magic, driving the monsters back into their holes. After their…disappearance, the kings and queens of the Three Nations continued their work.”
“That was how they built Erachill?”
“No. Erachill has always been here, though it was hidden from the peoples of the Three Nations for centuries. Even now, few know of its existence, since most trade with the Three Nations is conducted on the coast. It is the final bastion of the northern people, carved from the mountains where their ancestors first took refuge from the beasts.”
Braidon shivered, thinking of the terror the people must have felt then, forging a new life for themselves in the barren lands. From what he’d seen there was little fertile land even now, with much of the northern continent full of towering mountains and harsh steppes.
“Take off your shoes.” Enala said, pointing to his boots, then to a pile of shoes beside the entranceway.
Noticing she’d already removed hers, Braidon quickly followed suit. With that done, Enala led him across the room to a quiet rug in front of one of the altars. Sitting beside her, Braidon glanced at the altar, noticing the vines and strange creatures carved into the stone.
“Why is the temple dedicated to all three of them?” he asked, nodding at the Three Gods depicted overhead.
“Why not?” Enala smiled. “The Northerners saw the truth at the final battle of Fort Fall. Separate, the Gods could do little to halt Archon’s reign—it was only when they came together that he was defeated.”
“What really happened back then?” Braidon asked, still studying the mural on the ceiling. “There are so many tales now, no one seems to know the truth. I thought it was you and your brother who destroyed Archon, with swords the Gods had imbued with their powers.”
Chuckling, Enala shook her head. “Perhaps it seemed that way to some,” she replied, “but no, we played little part in the end. It was the Gods themselves who cast Archon into the earth, finally destroying him.”
“And what about you, Enala? How did you come to be here? You were a legend, a hero amongst our people. But you and your brother, you disappeared.”
Enala sighed. “After we…returned, my brother and I were supposed to be the heirs to the Trolan throne. But after everything we’d been through, we didn’t want it. Eric left with Inken for southern Plorsea. I married my love, Gabriel, and eventually followed them. Together, the four of us made our home in a forest far from the outside world, and for a time, we were happy. Sometimes a king, queen or council would send emissaries, asking for our help with some problem or another, but for the most part we kept to ourselves. They were good years. It wasn’t until my thirtieth birthday that I began to realise something was different. That Gabriel was aging, while I was not.”
Braidon watched the lines on Enala’s face deepen, her eyes beginning to shimmer. He said nothing, but reached out and squeezed her wrinkled arm. She nodded, a smile brightening her face, and went on.
“He was nearing sixty when his heart gave out. By then, I only looked like a woman in her thirties. After his death, our home was no longer the same, and I returned to civilisation, but there was almost no one left who remembered me. I was a remnant, a relic from a time long since passed, when Gods and Archon strode the land. So I left, took my sorrows and wandered the lands beyond the Three Nations.”
“Did you not have children?” Braidon asked.
“We had a son, a year after Inken and Eric gave birth to a boy of their own. They were fast friends, but I learned long ago a life of isolation is not for the young. They left when they were still in their teens, and forged lives of their own. By the time I returned…I thought it best not to interfere with what they had built for themselves.”
“And so you came to Northland?”
“Eventually. It was here that I finally found a people who had need of my…skills. I made a new life for myself in the northern wilderness, slaying creatures and helping to make the land safe. With other Magickers, we finished the work the Gods had started, lifting curses from the land, bringing rain and prosperity.”
“While the Tsar conquered the Three Nations,” Braidon murmured.
“Yes.” At his words, Enala’s eyes had taken on a haunted look. She grew very still, and when she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “He wasn’t always like that, you know. The leaders of the Three Nations raised him up as a peace bringer, to unite their troubled peoples. The laws he passed seemed just, placing limits on how magic could be used, on the harm it was capable of.”
“But he changed?”
“Perhaps,” Enala replied, “or perhaps we only saw the truth too late. He always hated magic. I wonder now, whether those early days were part of some greater plan.”
“Why does he hate magic?” Braidon whispered. “He is a Magicker himself.”
“No,” Enala replied, “he was not born with the gift.”
“But…that’s not possible. The Tsar is the most powerful Magicker in the Three Nations!”
“Yes. But he found another way...”
Braidon sat in stunned silence for a moment. “How?” he finally managed to gasp.
Enala did not answer immediately. She sat looking up at the painting of the Gods, the lines on her face making her look all of her hundred years. When she finally spoke, Braidon jumped, his heart beginning to race.
“He came to me once, in happier days, before Gabriel had passed. He wanted to know more about our tale, about what had truly happened during the days of Archon. He asked me what became of the old king of Trola, whose magic had been devoured by Archon’s curse.”
“What are you talking about, Enala? Which king?”
“King Jonathan,” she murmured. “The traitor king, who would have doomed us all to regain his magic. He tried to steal mine, took me to Witchcliffe and tried to rip it from my dying body. Eric stopped him.”
Braidon swallowed. A pit had opened up in his stomach, but he forced himself to ask the question. “What does any of this have to do with the Tsar?”
Enala’s ancient eyes turned on him, and he saw the pain there, the weight of regret. “The Tsar was not born of magic. All the power he has, he tore it from the broken shells of other Magickers.”
A terrible silence fell over the temple. Looking around, Braidon saw the other worshipers had vanished, leaving them alone in the great hall. He shivered, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he thought of all those Magickers who’d been taken before the Tsar. Had he truly murdered them all to feed on their magic?
But if that was the truth…
“Why did no one stop him?” The question tore from his lips, echoing loudly in the hall, growing louder, until it seemed an accusation, hurled into the face of the woman who’d saved him.
“They tried,” Enala whispered, “but it was already too late. My brother was the last to face him. Had I known what he intended to do, we could have faced him together. Instead, Eric stood alone against the darkness of the Tsar.”
“What happened to him?” Braidon breathed.
“He died.”
Chapter 9
Devon’s teeth rattled in his skull as the horse trotted along beneath him, its two-beat gait sending vibrations up his spine. He’d nev
er been much of a rider, and a dull ache was already growing in the small of his back. Resettling himself in the saddle, he eased back on the reins, slowing the beast to a walk.
Three days had passed since the meeting in the bathhouse, and now the mountains of the Brunei Pass stretched high above them, their white-capped peaks glistening in the afternoon sun. Away to his right, the Onslow River raced past, its white waters surging over unseen rocks and boulders. The land around them was barren but for a few scraggly bushes, the cliffs to either side stretching up over five hundred feet. Any army passing between Trola and Plorsea had to venture through this gorge—and many thousands had died over the centuries in battle for its possession.
Now though, it belonged to the Tsar and the Empire, the old borders drawn between the Three Nations little more than remnants of a time long passed.
Devon sighed as the riders in the lead picked up the pace. Urging his horse after them, he thought of the road ahead. The last time he’d passed this way had been at the end of the war, when the triumphant Plorsean army had marched home. It had been a stark contrast to his first passage through, when every inch of ground had been paid for in the blood of fallen soldiers.
Looking at the land now, he could almost hear the screams, smell the blood, see the anguish on the faces of the dying. Shivering, he realised his hand was clenched around kanker. The great warhammer rested on his pommel, the runes carved into its steel head shining in the afternoon sun. Its elm haft was smooth in his hand, comforting, but he forced himself to release it. Their Trolan companions were hostile enough as it was, without him brandishing the weapon that had killed so many of their comrades.
He turned his gaze back to the horsemen riding ahead of him. Despite Devon’s suggestion, Godrin had brought along five of his own men. They said little, other than to voice their disgust at riding with Plorsean soldiers. Devon couldn’t blame them, but he’d seen the hurt in Kellian’s eyes. The man was used to being liked—it was part of the reason he’d opened an inn after his retirement—and their hatred did not sit well with him.
Devon smiled as he watched his friend. Kellian was riding between Godrin and the young Trolan, Betran. After their meeting in the bathhouse, when the crime lord had told them of the men he’d be bringing with him, Devon had offered the man another Gold Libra to accompany them as far as Ardath. Despite the loss of his brother during the war, the young man had proven more than trustworthy, and Devon had a feeling another loyal sword wouldn’t go amiss on the long journey to Ardath.
Ahead, Kellian looked back. They shared a glance, and his friend pulled back on his reins and rode back to join him. Devon kicked his horse forward and they fell in step together, a dozen paces behind the Trolans.
“I don’t like it,” Kellian said, his words muffled by the click of steel-shod hooves on rock. “I don’t trust Godrin, certainly not his men. He could be leading us into a trap.”
“If he’d wanted us dead, he’d have killed us back in the bathhouse, old friend,” Devon replied reasonably. “Besides, if he plans to betray us, he should have brought more men.” He rested his hand on kanker with a grim smile.
Kellian rolled his eyes. “You’re growing arrogant in your old age, Devon,” he snorted. “Even with Betran, we’re still outnumbered two to one.”
“We faced worse odds in Fort Fall,” Devon said.
“And if not for Enala, we would have died,” Kellian snapped. “Anyway, he doesn’t need to fight us. We’re riding for Ardath—if he wishes, he could deliver us straight into the Tsar’s hands. Did you think of that?”
Devon shrugged. “It crossed my mind. But I don’t see what other choice we have. Without his contacts, we have no way of reaching the citadel, let alone getting inside. Our faces are known in Ardath, we wouldn’t make it through the gates without being spotted.”
“I have contacts of my own,” Kellian growled, but when Devon raised an eyebrow, he only shook his head. “You’re right, though, they couldn’t get us through the gates—maybe into the citadel if we were lucky. But I still don’t like it.”
“Enala trusts him, remember,” Devon added. “If Godrin had betrayed her, the Tsar would have known she was alive before Fort Fall.”
Kellian sighed. “You’re right, of course. Still, it just seems wrong, trusting the Trolans. What reason do they have to help us?”
“Freedom,” Devon murmured, his eyes sweeping out over the canyon. They fell silent for a moment, remember the final battle, the surging of men and horses, the crackling of magic and the clash of steel.
“Remember when the Trolan’s broke?” Kellian asked suddenly. Devon nodded, and Kellian went on. “I thought it was done then, that the Tsar would sue for peace with Trola, and we’d return home.”
“If only.”
Kellian chuckled. “If only. Now there’s the two useless words, if ever I heard them. If only he’d sued for peace. If only we’d defied him. If only the Gods would return.”
“You’re in a cheerful mood this evening,” Devon said dryly. He trailed off, his mind turning to Kellian’s last statement. “You ever wonder what happened to them?” he asked finally.
“The Gods?” Kellian replied. He shrugged. “Probably got tired of settling our childish bickering.”
Devon’s laughter echoed from the cliffs. At last he shook his head, his mirth dying away. “Perhaps they’ll return when the Three Nations are finally at peace. Either way, we’re on our own now. Not much point dwelling on the past.”
“I disagree,” his friend said. “There is every point wondering about the past, about the way the world has changed since the departure of the Gods. They say the days before Archon were a golden age, that the Gods ruled over the Three Nations as though we were all one people.”
“Ay, and now we have the Tsar.”
“He is the most powerful Magicker the world has seen since Archon,” Kellian agreed. “But many would consider him a force for good. Has there not, largely, been peace since he united the Three Nations?”
“Until the civil war,” Devon grunted.
“Ay, we have seen the darkness he wields over men and women. But remember, back in Plorsea, he is still seen as the saviour, the man that prevented a Trolan army from marching on our homeland. The atrocities we committed in his name took place far away. They are nothing but tales and rumours to them, easily forgiven. Especially when seen through the lens of peace.”
Devon fell silent, his heart heavy with remembered guilt. “I will not forget them, nor forgive myself what I did.”
“Nor I,” Kellian said, “but how do we make them see? And even if we win, without the Gods, how do we prevent another such tyrant coming to power?”
“We fight,” Devon said, resting his hand easily on the head of his hammer. “Whether we can win or not doesn’t matter, so long as we make a stand. You said ‘if only’ is nothing but useless words. I agree. But when we marched on Trola, when we sacked their cities and slaughtered their inhabitants, I knew it was wrong. If only I’d made a stand then, perhaps my soul would be clean. But I did not, and while I cannot change it, I will never allow myself to fall in with such evil again. I will stand against the Tsar, even if it means my death.”
“I will be with you, Devon,” Kellian said, his eyes shining in the dying light. “To the end.”
Silence fell at their words, so that the only sounds in the valley were the distant echoes of falling stones and the clip-clop of their mounts. Above, the sun disappeared behind the line of the cliffs, plunging them into shadow. They were high in the mountains now, and without the sun the temperature fell rapidly. Shivering, Devon pulled his woollen cloak tighter about himself. Ahead, the ground was still clear of snow, but despite the dry winter, the pass at the end of the valley was likely to be frozen over.
“I’d prefer to live though,” Kellian added suddenly.
Devon saw his friend’s face split into a grin. He raised an eyebrow. “You have a plan?”
“Call it a backup plan,” Kell
ian said lightly. “In case kanker isn’t as powerful as we hope.”
Devon looked at the fabled hammer, his stomach tightening. He hadn’t told Kellian, but Enala had come to him before they’d left. As though able to read his mind, she’d asked if he planned to use the hammer on the Tsar. When he’d nodded, she’d sighed, and told him there was little chance that such an attack would succeed. The Tsar’s powers were too great—but there was no need for the others to know that.
Forcing a smile to his lips, Devon chuckled. “Only time will tell, old friend. But kanker has yet to see an enemy it could not best.”
“You as well, Devon,” Kellian added. His smile grew, and Devon felt a pinch of guilt at the deception.
Shaking it off, Devon pointed at the way ahead. “I’d say we have another three days until we reach Ardath. Want to fill me in on this plan of yours?”
“No,” his friend replied, brushing a strand of black hair from his face. After the long weeks on the run, his usually well-trimmed hair now stretched halfway down his neck. “Not this time. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”
“Ha! Well, I’m sure we won’t need it. Godrin has a plan…”
“Which he also won’t share,” Kellian replied, his face hardening. “Whatever you say, I don’t trust him...”
“And we’ve come full-circle,” Devon cried, throwing his arms in the air with a dramatic flourish. Kellian scowled, but Devon only laughed and kicked his horse into a trot. “I’ll leave you to your worries, Kellian. At this point, even the Trolans sound like better company than you!”
“Fine, but send Betran back, will you?” Kellian’s voice carried after him.
Devon raised a hand to show he had heard, then directed his horse forward to where the six Trolans were riding close to the river. The men’s faces darkened as he approached. He grinned, knowing each of them would rather drive a dagger through his back than fight alongside him. But then, in his short life he’d seen his fair share of friends become enemies. He saw no reason why the reverse could not happen as well.