by Aaron Hodges
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Oathbreaker
Book One of the Legend of the Gods Trilogy
Aaron Hodges
Contents
Foreword
About the Author
The Three Nations
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Also by Aaron Hodges
I. Stormwielder
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
II. Rebirth
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Proofread by Sue Currin, Sara Houston, and Genevieve Lerner
Illustration by Alex Raspad
Typography by Christian Bentulan
Map by Michael Hodges
Legend of the Gods
Book 1: Oathbreaker
Book 2: Shield of Winter
Book 3: Dawn of War
The Sword of Light Trilogy
Book 1: Stormwielder
Book 2: Firestorm
Book 3: Soul Blade
The Praegressus Project
Book 1: Rebirth
Book 2: Renegades
Book 3: Retaliation
Book 4: Rebellion
Book 5: Retribution
Copyright © March 2018 Aaron Hodges.
First Edition. All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9951056-6-9
Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he grew tired of the 9 to 5 and decided to quit his job to travel the world. During his travels he picked up the old draft of a novel he once wrote in High School—titled ‘The Sword of Light’—and began to rewrite the story. Six months later he published his first novel—Stormwielder.
FOLLOW AARON HODGES:
And receive free books and a short story!
http://www.aaronhodges.co.nz/newsletter-signup/
THE THREE NATIONS
Prologue
The tent was still dark when Devon woke. He lay there for a few minutes, listening to the distant call of the trumpets, knowing he had to rise, but dreading the coming dawn. Finally, unable to delay any longer, he threw off his blanket and rolled from the camp stretcher. Reluctantly he began to dress, pulling on a fresh pair of leather leggings, followed by a woollen gambeson and his chainmail vest. He shivered as the heavy armour settled on his broad shoulders, its icy touch already seeping through to his skin.
Rubbing his hands to fend off the winter cold, Devon laced up his boots and shuffled across to the portable camp brazier. If he was quick, he might have time to reheat last night’s gruel before the morning’s…festivities began. Bending down, he added kindling to the iron stove, then struck the flint until a spark caught. Allowing himself a smile, he blew gently to stoke the flames before adding a log from his dwindling stack of firewood.
Satisfied the fire had caught, he closed the steel grate and stirred the pot sitting on the brazier. The scent of spiced beef filled the tent, mixing with the stench of smoke and sweat. It had been days since he’d last bathed—but at least that was more than most of his fellow soldiers could say. At twenty years old, his promotion to lieutenant had been hard earned, but at least it had come with a few privileges.
Still, he was quickly growing weary of the fame his promotion had brought him. Devon had once worn his reputation as a badge of pride; but now that a real badge had been pinned to his chest, he found himself weighed down by guilt, shamed by the praise men heaped on him for his exploits on the battlefield.
He shivered, thinking of the festivities planned for the day. Straken, the last Trolan stronghold, had fallen yesterday—its walls sundered, its Magickers crushed, its army shattered. The war was over. Plorsea’s supremacy had been restored over the Three Nations. The Tsar finally had his victory.
Devon had played his part, leading the vanguard as they charged through the broken gates. With his warhammer in hand, he had carved his way deep into the ranks of Trolan soldiers. Men had run screaming before the ferocity of his charge, allowing Devon’s comrades to scramble through the breach after him.
The shriek of the men dying beneath his hammer echoed through Devon’s mind, and closing his eyes, he forced the memories away.
His nose twitched as he caught the stench of burning. Cursing, he lifted the pot from the camp stove. The bottom had caught, but most of the stew remained untouched. Reaching for a spoon, he scooped a piece of meat into his mouth.
The sharp screech of the Tsar’s trumpet sounded as Devon began to chew. He glanced at the pot, his stomach still rumbling with hunger, then returned it to the stove. The rest of his breakfast would have to wait. Leaving the fire to burn down, he took up his half-helm and placed it on his head.
Then he picked up the warhammer from beside his bed. It weighed almost ten pounds, but he hefted it as though it was no heavier than a short sword. The smooth haft of elm felt at home in his meaty hand, more like an extension of himself than a weapon. A dozen runes, worn with age, were etched across its head, written in some long-forgotten language.
He knew what they said, though. Their meaning had been passed down through generations, from father to son, from a time when the heroes had strode the land.
Kanker.
The hammer of heroes. That was what Devon’s father had called it, late at night as he told the story of Alan, their an
cestor who had stood with the Gods atop the walls of Fort Fall and defied the dark powers of Archon.
Thinking of the legend, Devon’s shame returned, and he quickly sheathed the ancient hammer on his back. Times had been simpler back then, when men had followed the paths of the Gods, knowing they fought for the side of good.
Yet the Gods were a hundred years gone. The age of man had come, and with it, the lines between good and evil had blurred. Two years ago, he had joined the Plorsean army as it marched from Ardath, eager to defend of his nation, to banish the Trolan invaders. They had done that and more, driving the foreign army back through mountain passes, all the way to the Trolan capital of Kalgan.
Only then, driven to desperation, had the Trolans sued for peace. But by then it had been too late, and the Plorsean armies had razed the city to the ground. It was during that great battle that Devon had earned his promotion to lieutenant.
Just thinking of it now made Devon’s stomach tie itself in knots.
After the city’s fall, the Tsar had ordered his armies on, marching them north along the Trolan coast. Now, six months and four fallen cities later, the war had finally come to an end. After today, Trola would never rise again.
Shaking his head, Devon cast off his melancholy and stepped through his tent flap. Outside, he squinted into the dawn’s light, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. His stomach twisted when he saw the scarlet glow of sunrise.
The beginning of the end.
Silently he started down the hill. Movement came from the other tents as more men stepped out into the open. They walked quickly to join the progression making its way down the hill. Soon the trickle became a flood, as ten thousand soldiers formed up for the day’s ceremony.
Straken, like every other city since the fall of Kalgan, had chosen defiance over surrender.
Now its citizens would face the consequences of their choice.
As the light grew, Devon’s eyes were drawn out across the silent plains, to where the walled city waited near the sea. So far north, the city’s walls were thick and tall, a remnant from the day’s when Archon and his hordes had walked the Northern wastelands. Though now a hundred years past, the stone walls remained, unbroken.
Until now.
It hadn’t taken long for the Tsar’s catapults and siege towers to tear the stone and mortar asunder. As the watch towers collapsed and the gates broke open, Devon had made his charge, leading his fellow soldiers into the storm of battle. Even with their defences shattered, the Trolans had fought like demons, men and women alike standing together against the coming flood.
In the end, it had availed them nothing.
With kanker in hand and the bloodlust on him, Devon had sliced through the defenders like a God amongst men. His slaughter had been indiscriminate, his victims reduced to shattered skulls and broken bodies. Only when the end came had he looked back over the carnage and felt the familiar shame.
Now, as he stared out over the broken towers and shattered spires of the temple, the shame swelled. The people of Straken had not been soldiers. The Trolan army had died with the fall of Kalgan. Those who remained here had been civilians, called up to defend their city, their nation, from the foreign army of the Tsar. They had only been trying to protect their livelihood, their families, their homeland.
Yet who was Devon to question the Tsar? After all, the man had been the first to bring peace to the Three Nations, uniting the warring states of Trola, Plorsea and Lonia into a single empire. It had been Trola who’d broken that peace, Trola who’d first marched through the Branei Pass to attack western Plorsea.
They had earned this fate.
So why did he feel so ashamed?
Devon came to a stop as another horn sounded. Standing to attention, he stared straight ahead. The head of his hammer dug uncomfortably into the small of his back, but he did not move to shift it. Around him, ten thousand men stood with him, their eyes fixed to the wooden stage at the foot of the hill.
Movement came from the city gates. Prisoners taken after the fall of the city had been kept there overnight, overseen by a host of soldiers and the Tsar’s Magickers. Now the gates were swinging open, and the Plorsean soldiers who’d kept watch were beginning their slow ascent up the hill.
Between them, blindfolded with their hands bound in chains, came the Trolan Magickers who had survived the final battle. They would be marched back to Plorsea, where the Tsar would ensure their magic never posed a danger anyone ever again.
As the last of the soldiers left the city, the great wood and iron gates swung shut behind them. They had been hurriedly repaired during the night—along with the worst of the breaches in the wall. With the gates barred, Straken’s remaining citizens were trapped inside the city.
“People of Straken!” a herald boomed, his voice carrying out over the crowd of waiting soldiers.
Movement came from the men and women surrounding the platform. The royal guards came marching through the crowd, weapons held at the ready. They wore the familiar crimson cloaks of the Plorsean army, but their golden half-helms left no doubt of their identity. Sunlight glinted from their steel-plated armour as they formed two lines leading up to the stage.
“People of Straken!” the herald on the stage repeated as he stepped aside. Lifting a hand, he pointed to a figure now moving through the ranks of royal guards. “Behold, your final judgement!”
Devon shivered as his eyes settled on the Tsar. The man stood no taller than Devon’s own six-foot-five, but he carried himself with an aura of invincibility, as if the Gods themselves might bow to his powers. Jet-black hair curled down around his shoulders, while on his head sat a golden crown inset with a dozen diamonds. Thick eyebrows framed his crystal blue eyes. His pale cheeks showed no sign of his fifty years, except where a pale white lock of hair hung across his forehead.
A frown creased the Tsar’s brow as he looked down at the enemy Magickers gathered before the stage. Even from where Devon stood, he could see the anger in the man’s eyes. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he wondered what it would be like if those eyes were to turn on him.
The crystal eyes swept past the Magickers, to where the city of Straken waited with its paltry gathering of survivors. Not a murmur came from the towering walls. Somewhere within, Devon knew the people waited, praying to long-dead Gods for deliverance. It would not come, he knew. Just as it had not come for Kalgan, or Cascade, or Drata, or Palma before them.
When the king spoke, his words boomed across the fields like thunder, his voice magically projected so all could hear.
“Three long weeks ago, you were offered a choice.” The king’s tone was soft, sorrowful, as though the city’s decision had brought him great pain. “You were told to bow to your one true ruler, or perish. Alas, you chose death.”
With his final word, an awful roar came from the hills behind the army. Another followed, then another and another, the sounds merging to create a terrible thunder, a chorus of demonic voices that promised only one thing.
Death.
Devon looked up in time to see the first beast sweep past. The air crackled as great wings rose, sending wind rushing through the men gathered below. The stench of ash and rotting meat filled the air. Clenching his jaw, he watched on as the great beasts flew towards the city.
Moments later, the first flames blossomed.
Even standing far up on the hill, Devon felt the heat of the inferno on his cheeks. He held his breath as the beasts roared again, the sunlight glinting off their blood-red scales.
In Straken, the silence broke as the first screams carried up to the watching soldiers. From the hilltop, little could be seen of the townsfolk huddled inside the city, but there was no mistaking the terror carried by their cries. As the dragons circled back, the flames rushing from their awful jaws, the screams rose, the first traces of agony joining the chorus.
Inside the walls, there was no escape from the dragons’ wrath. For weeks the enemy Magickers had held the beasts at bay,
driving them back with wind and lightning and light. But with their Magickers defeated, the survivors were defenceless. Trapped within the ancient battlements that had protected them for so many centuries, the city would now become their tomb.
The Plorsean army watched in silence as the flames engulfed the city. Not a man moved as the five Red Dragons circled. They were the Tsar’s creatures, taken from Dragon Country, bound and chained by his magic. Once, the Gold Dragons had fought alongside man, willing allies against the powers of darkness. They were extinct now, but with the vicious Reds as slaves, the Three Nations now had little need for their more docile golden cousins.
Overhead, the Red Dragons turned and dove back towards the city. The great jaws opened as one, and the crimson flames rushed down, engulfing the last bastion of refuge within the city. Heat washed over the watching men and women. Sweat dripped from Devon’s brow as he listened to the screams slowly die away.
When it was finally over, and silence had returned to the city, the king spoke again.
“It is done.” As before, the sorrow was heavy in his voice. “The war is won. Tomorrow, we return to Plorsea.”
A cheer went up from the army. Despite himself, Devon joined in, raising a fist skyward in celebration. He had waited so long to hear those words, to know the slaughter was finally over, that he could return to the city of his childhood and hang up his hammer.
