Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

She shivered, thinking of what was to come on the morrow. At sunrise, she would lead five thousand men and women south through the crags of the Northland mountains, through caves and tunnels and narrow canyons that would bring them out onto the plains above the southern stronghold of Fort Fall.

  So few…

  “And yet so many,” she whispered, trying to reassure herself.

  The words only reminded her of the responsibility she now carried on her shoulders. Her legs trembled, and she paused her climb for a moment to steady herself.

  Five thousand.

  Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, even a few grandparents, they were the cream of the Northland clans surrounding Erachill.

  The Tsar’s army would outnumber them ten to one, yet they were all she had. Word had already reached them of a southern army on the march, making their slow way up through northern Plorsea. If they were allowed to reach The Gap and retake the abandoned fortress, the war would be over before it began.

  Looking out over the dizzying expanse of the land below, Merydith found herself wishing for the powers of the Dark Magicker, Archon. With his magic, he had swept across the unending span of their fledging nation, summoning his people to war, marshalling them from every corner of the land. But Merydith had no such sorcery, and while messengers had gone out, it would be weeks before there was any response.

  She didn’t have weeks. So she would make do with her five thousand, and pray it was enough to hold them. At the least, her force was well-trained, with most coming from the warrior clans that guarded the mountain fortress of Erachill.

  Merydith was within the cliffs now, making her slow way up towards the mountain peak. Shadows clung to the narrow passageways, making the going slow, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally dragged herself back into the sunlight.

  Emerging from the crag at the top, she sat herself down on the edge of the cliff. Despite her worries, a smile came to her face as she looked out over the fading plains. This place, more than any other, reminded her of Enala. Scaling these treacherous paths with the wily old woman had become a ritual for Merydith since the time she first learned to walk. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the old priest.

  “Where are you, Enala?” she whispered to the howling winds. “I need you.”

  No, you have outgrown me, girl.

  Merydith swallowed as she recalled the old woman’s words when she’d seen her last. At the time, the old woman’s faith had filled her with pride. Yet that had been the day Enala had left. Ever since, things had gone from bad to worse, and Merydith couldn’t shake the growing despair in her heart. Without Enala, they were naked in the fight against the Tsar, exposed to his nightmarish powers. The few native Magickers she had under her command could do little against the Tsar.

  Demons and dragons and Magickers would come against them, and Northland had only cold hard steel to answer with.

  Lowering herself onto a boulder, Merydith pulled her cloak more tightly around her to fend off the cold. The climb up the mountainside had kept her warm, but now that she’d stopped, she was already beginning to shiver. The winds were harsh on the slopes, strong enough to scrape the stones clean of snow and ice.

  In the silence, she contemplated the task she faced in the morning. She would be expected to ride at the head of the army, to show no fear in the face of the challenge they faced. There was no one else—certainly no one she could trust. She had already appointed several clan leaders to oversee Northland in her absence, but most of her best were marching south with her. It was there the war would be won or lost.

  Even if we win, how many of us will return?

  Merydith shivered at the thought. Like most of her people, she had lived her whole life in the north. Now she would lead five thousand men and women south to die on foreign soils, far from the lands of their birth, from those who loved them. If she failed, they might all be lying in the cold hard ground by the summer.

  The thought sent a tremor through her soul.

  Rising, she was about to start back down to the entrance into Erachill, when a crunch of stones echoed from the crag below. Her hand dropped to her sword hilt as she scanned the shadows. Ever-vigilant since the assassination attempt, her guards had insisted on scouring the mountain paths before her hike, and then taken up position at the exit to ensure she enjoyed the last few hours of daylight undisturbed.

  Her heart beat faster as she wondered if her guards had been slain like the ones outside her room, when the Tsar’s assassin had come for her. Her fear only lasted a second, as her advisor Damyn appeared on the path between the cliffs. Letting out a long breath, the tension left her body. Another figure appeared alongside him, and together the two dragged themselves clear of the crevice.

  It took her a moment to recognise the rugged features of the woman who stood alongside Damyn, and a few moments more to recall her name.

  “Helen.” She frowned. “What brings you here?” The woman was one of the Magickers who’d fled the Tsar’s rein—one of the first, in fact. She and her family had sought passage on a cargo vessel departing Lon. They’d been discovered in the Northland port of Duskendale and brought overland to Erachill to face her judgement. Merydith hadn’t spoken with Helen in years, and she wondered what matter was urgent enough for the woman to seek her out now.

  Helen shifted on her feet and glanced sidelong at Damyn. Clearing his throat, Damyn stepped forward. While he still looked exhausted, the man seemed to have regained some of his vigour since she’d seen him last. It was a welcome sight, given she had promoted him to captain. He would command a cohort of five hundred cavalry, and she needed him at his best.

  “Merydith,” he said swiftly, and she was surprised to hear the excitement in his voice. “Helen brings news!”

  “Does she?” she asked, her tone a gentle rebuke at his familiarity in the presence of others.

  For once, Damyn didn’t seem to notice. He gestured the Magicker forward, and Helen hesitantly moved up alongside him.

  “Be at ease, Helen,” Merydith said gently, trying to dispel the woman’s nerves. “Say what you have come to say. It must be important, to brave these mountain paths at so late an hour.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty,” Helen began after another second’s hesitation. “I know you must have much on your plate, with the army to march at first light. But…” She trailed off, swallowing visibly. “But I…or that is to say, we, have decided, Your Majesty, to accompany you south.”

  “Accompany me south?” Merydith asked, not understanding.

  Eyes downcast, Helen fiddled absently with the cuffs of her robe. “Yes…” she murmured. “We, I, we would like to help you, against the Tsar.”

  Merydith blinked, surprised at the woman’s words. Standing there on the mountainside, far from any danger, Helen was as jumpy as a hare in an open field. Folding her arms, Merydith appraised the woman. She must have been fifty years of age by now, though her mousy brown hair had yet to see the streaks of age. At five-foot-five with rounded cheeks and smile lines streaking her face, she was not an imposing figure, and magic or no, Merydith could hardly imagine the woman capable of harming a fly.

  Letting out a long sigh, Merydith shook her head. “Helen, that’s not necessary,” she said, trying to let the woman down gently. She needed Magickers desperately, but she also could not afford weakness in her army. If there was a single fault, a single soul who broke and fled, her entire force might crumble. “I offered you and the others sanctuary, so that you would be safe, so that you might raise your families free of the darkness of the Tsar. I can’t ask you to march back into the fire.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty,” Helen replied sharply, “I wasn’t asking.” Lifting her head, she met the Queen’s eyes for the first time. Merydith was surprised to see the ferocity burning there. “I know what you think of me, that I am old and afraid, that I would run at the first clash of swords. Well you’re wrong. I have known this day would come since I first came here,
that one day the Tsar would set his sights on Northland. And I will not stand idly by when I might do something to stop him. Nor will the others.”

  “The others?” Merydith asked, shocked at the woman’s defiance.

  “Yes,” the Magicker growled. “When I first heard the news the Tsar was marching, I went to my fellow Magickers, to the other refugees who fled here to escape his wrath. I brought them together, gathered them to see who else wished to fight for their adoptive nation. And I am here to tell you that myself, and a hundred others, are ready to march on the morrow, Your Majesty. And we’re not asking.”

  Helen trailed off into silence, as though suddenly realising she’d gone too far, overstepped her bounds. Silently she dropped her gaze back to the rocky trail.

  Merydith was too shocked by her news to care. She stood staring at the woman, struggling to comprehend what her news meant.

  A hundred Magickers.

  They could prove all the difference, might even be enough to hold off the dark powers of the Tsar. But what Helen was offering went against everything Merydith believed in, everything she’d sacrificed to save the refugee Magickers.

  “Are you sure, Helen?” she tried one last time, though her words sounded half-hearted, even to herself.

  Helen smiled. “Northland opened its arms for us, took us in when we had nowhere else to go. This is our home now, and the Tsar threatens it. We will march beside you to defend its freedom, will die if needs be, to ensure our families live on in peace.”

  Merydith nodded, her eyes shining. “So be it.”

  Chapter 9

  Alana swallowed as the aroma of roasting fish drifted to where she sat on a rounded boulder. Her mouth salivated as the old woman turned the makeshift spit they’d erected over the flames. A howling wind swept through the valley, adding to the watery chorus of the running stream and causing the fire to flicker dangerously. Shadows danced across Enala’s face, and it seemed to Alana that the abyss was calling to the woman, summoning her to her grave.

  An icy draft slid down Enala’s spine and shivering, she looked away. They had spent the long day combing the forests around where Enala and her dragon had crashed, searching, seeking, hunting for any sign of her brother…

  A lump lodged in her throat at the thought of him lying somewhere in the frozen snow, his face pale with death, staring off into nothing. Closing her eyes, Enala summoned an image of her father. Hatred rose within her, sweeping aside the grief. She shuddered and clung desperately to the emotion, determined not to allow herself the weakness of sorrow.

  It was no use though. The other part of her cried out within, her anguish slicing through Alana’s hatred like a knife to pierce her heart. She choked back a sob as tears spilt down her cheeks.

  She had done her best to hold herself together during the search, to conceal her emotions from the old woman who strode alongside her. Even when they’d broken for the night to set up camp, Alana had thrown herself into the old routine with zest, determined to keep herself distracted. Collecting firewood, tickling a trout from the stream, building the fire—she’d kept her emotions in place through all of it.

  Now though, in the silence of the night, they returned to haunt her.

  Looking at the old woman, Enala recalled the grief on her aged face as she’d knelt beside the dragon. She had thought it strange at the time, but now she wondered whether her sorrow had been for the beast, or for Braidon. Clutching desperately at the distraction, she rose from her boulder and jumped down beside the fire.

  Enala glanced up, one eyebrow raised in question.

  “How did you come to know the dragon?” Alana asked tactfully.

  “I once knew many Gold Dragons, in my youth,” the old woman replied with a smile. “My parents raised me in Dragon Country, when the Gold tribe still ruled that land. They were allied to my family, bound by an ancient pact with the old king of Trola.” She paused, her eyes flickering in Alana’s direction. “To our family.”

  Alana swallowed. “How did the beast end up in Northland then?”

  “Her name was Dahniul,” Enala admonished, “and she was there because she came with me. After the war against Archon, Gabriel and I returned to Dragon Country. It was there we raised your father, alongside my brother’s family. But the Gold Dragons had suffered terribly against Archon. After losing so many of their numbers, they failed to prosper. Dahniul was the last of her kind, as I suppose, I am the last of my generation.”

  “So she joined you when you left for Northland?”

  Enala nodded and was about to reply, when a thump came from the trees lining the slope of the valley. They were both on their feet in an instant, swords leaping into their hands.

  Alana squinted into the darkness beyond their fire, suddenly all too aware of Onslow Forest’s reputation. This was a land for rough and wild company. Two women alone in the wilderness would likely be seen as an easy target.

  Gripping her sword hilt tighter, Alana smiled at the surprise any wood-be robbers would get if they tried to attack.

  The shadows at the edge of their firelight shifted, and a giant figure loomed in the darkness. Alana’s eyes widened, her heart skipping a beat. Devon’s name was on her lips as the man stepped into the light.

  The word died in her throat as she stared at the stranger looming over them. A terrible scar ran from one side of the man’s face to the other, and his hazel eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. His jet-black hair had been pulled into a bun that would have been comical on a smaller man, but with this giant it only seemed add to his ferocity. White streaked his matted beard, though with a massive double-blade axe in hand, Alana wasn’t thinking about his age.

  He stood there in the light of their campfire, appraising them in silence. Enala shifted nervously on her feet, eyes on the axe. Though she didn’t doubt the two of them could best him, with such a weapon there would be no room for mistakes. One blow from that monster would end her life.

  “What do you want?” Enala asked, her voice edged in steel.

  The giant chuckled as he looked over at the old woman. “Such a frosty greeting from a priest,” he rumbled.

  Enala smirked. “Yes, well, the Goddess didn’t see it fit to bless me with much patience.”

  Their visitor laughed again. “Ay, I bet.” He scratched his beard, as though contemplating his next move. “Well, to be honest, I came here to see whether you might have anything of value.”

  Alana tensed, but the giant continued before she could make a move. “But I see now I’ve stumbled across the campfire of a priest. Seems like it would be bad luck to harm a servant of Antonia, being in her own forest and all. Wouldn’t want a vengeful Goddess after me, would I?”

  Alana exchanged a glance with the old woman. “Since when does a thief care about the Gods?”

  The giant’s face darkened at her words. “The name’s Joseph,” he growled. “And I’m a Baronian, not a thief.”

  Alana frowned. “Baronian? My father hunt—”

  “As far as I recall,” Enala interrupted her, “Baronians hunt in packs. Not much of a terror by yourself, are you Joseph?” As she finished, the old woman flicked a glance at Alana, silently reprimanding her for the near-mistake.

  “You’ve got a tongue like acid, priest,” Joseph replied good-naturedly. “Glad I don’t have to fight you, if you’re half as ferocious with that sword.” He picked at his sleeve. “And pack or not, I am a Baronian. Why else would I be all in black?”

  “You look like a poor knockoff of the Tsar’s Stalkers,” Alana snapped. She glanced at Enala, irritated the woman hadn’t ordered the man to leave yet.

  Instead, Enala threw back her head and howled with laughter. Alana jumped, and stared at the old woman, open-mouthed.

  “The girl is right, you do look like you’ve seen better days, Baronian. So sit,” she said, ignoring Alana’s apocalyptic look. “No need for you to go away with an empty stomach as well as empty-handed.”

  Shocked into silence, all Alana could do
was watch as the giant took a seat on a rock near the fire. Sheathing her sword, Enala joined him, and the two started to talking like long-lost friends who had just been reunited. Alana stood there a moment longer, sword still in hand, but the two seemed to have forgotten her very existence.

  Finally she sank back to her seat, though she laid her sword alongside her rather than returning it to her sheath. Enala took the fish from the flames and sliced it into three morsels. Handing Alana her portion, she turned back to Joseph. The two continued to talk as they picked at the soft flesh of the trout that Alana had frozen her hands off to catch.

  Alana’s anger built as she watched them eat, and she barely touched her own fish. She began to wonder whether the loss of her dragon had caused Enala to snap, if the old woman suddenly had a death wish, inviting the self-proclaimed Baronian to share their fire. The Baronians had been stamped out by her father in the early days of his rein, but she recalled tales of their people well. Great tribes of them had once roamed the wild lands of the Three Nations, harrying travellers and settlements at will. The kings of the time had been powerless to stop them, so great were their numbers.

  That is, until the Tsar had come.

  “You’re awfully quiet, girly.”

  Alana jumped as she realised the giant had addressed her. She looked up from her food and glared at him. “My name’s Alana,” she snapped, a scowl curling her lips. “And I’m not used to sharing my food with scum.”

  “Is that so?” Joseph replied with a hairy grin. “Good to know.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, word is there’s another Alana in these parts, Daughter of the Tsar or some sort. Lot of folks looking for that one, Stalkers and the like. Causing a lot of trouble in my forest.”

  Ice ran down Alana’s spine. She dropped her hand to her sword, preparing to launch herself at the rogue.

  But Joseph only shrugged, another chuckle whispering through the smoke-filled air. “It’s a good thing you’re not that Alana, right?” He looked at her with one eyebrow raised.