by Aaron Hodges
There were still a dozen left, and alerted by their friends’ deaths, several turned to face Devon. A man carrying a rust-speckled axe charged, the others reforming behind him. Braidon was still several yards behind Devon. He rushed forward, desperate to offer his aid.
Helped by the narrow path, Devon knocked aside a vicious blow from the axe-man, then reversed his hammer and slammed it into the bandit’s chest. Striding over the falling body, he ducked a wild slash of a sword, then caught his attacker with a right hook. The man reeled back clutching his nose, until a blow from kanker ended the threat.
Leaping the first of the bodies, Braidon rushed forward, but Devon’s bulk filled the narrow animal track, and there was no way for him to enter the fray. The big man was laughing now, his mirth bellowing out with each swing of his hammer.
As Braidon watched, another man came at the giant. A sword thrust beneath Devon’s guard, but a swing of his gauntleted wrist smashed the blade aside. Before the bandit could react, Devon’s hand flicked out, catching the assailant by the shirt and dragging him into a headbutt. There was an audible crunch of breaking bone. Tossing the unconscious man aside, Devon continued forward.
On the wagon, the man had downed one of his assailants, while the woman had recovered a sword and was making short work of a bandit trying to gain a foothold beside her.
Suddenly a cry went up, and as Braidon watched, the remaining bandits turned tail and fled. Devon dispatched a bandit and then swung around, searching for his next opponent. He blinked, a frown creasing his forehead as he observed the suddenly empty trail.
Seeing the last of the men vanishing into the woods, he bellowed after them, “Cowards!” His cry echoed loudly on the trail, though none of the thieves stopped to challenge his accusation.
“They’re thieves, Devon,” Braidon muttered, moving alongside him. “It’s not like they’re the stuff of legend.”
The big man glanced down at him. Blood matted his beard, and there were several cuts on his arms, but otherwise he didn’t seem injured. His frown faded, and Braidon watched as the tension slowly drained from the warrior’s body.
“True,” Devon grunted, finally.
A shriek from the wagon drew Braidon’s attention back to the couple. One of the bandits they’d downed was climbing to his knees, but before he could stand, the woman leapt from the wagon. Her sword cleaved his spine and he crashed back to the ground. Hurling aside her sword, the woman kicked him in the side.
“Serves. You. Right.” She punctuated each word with another kick. “Trying. To. Rob. Us. Good. For. Nothing. Bastard!”
“Enough, Elynor!” Sheathing his sword, the man came up behind the woman and grabbed her arm.
She screamed at his touch and swung a fist to fight him off. The man staggered back from the blow, raising a hand to fend off further attack, but seeing it was him, the woman lowered her hand. “Just making sure he got the point.”
Braidon glanced at the bandit. Blood slowly spread out around him, forming a scarlet pool in the hard-packed earth.
“I’d say he gets it,” Devon rumbled. Braidon nodded his agreement.
On the path, the two spun to face them. The man raised his sword and the woman quickly recovered hers. Braidon raised his hands, but Devon only chuckled.
“Is that any way to treat your saviours?” the giant warrior asked, gesturing to the bandits he’d felled.
The woman scowled. “We had things handled,” she snapped, but her sword lowered a fraction. Beside her, the man did the same.
Grinning, Devon wandered towards them, surveying the fallen men as he went. “What were there, a dozen?” He glanced back at Braidon. “How many would you say made it into the woods, sonny?”
“Six?” Braidon replied uncertainly.
“A few more than a dozen then,” Devon replied.
Beyond, the couple shared a glance. They were well-dressed in warm woollen coats and thick leather boots. Though the snow from earlier in the week had thawed, Braidon found himself wishing he was similarly attired. However, the clothing worn by the slain bandits was even shabbier than his own fraying jerkin and boots. His eyes settled on a sword pitted with dents and rust. Thinking it might be better than his tiny dagger, he scooped it up.
“Yes, well, whatever our chances were,” the man was saying, “I thank you for your help, hammerman.” Striding forward, he offered his hand. “My names Carcia, and this is my wife, Elynor. The two of us are in your debt.”
Devon shook the man’s hand, though Braidon noticed his eyes were on the wagon. The bandits had managed to tear off the blanket covering the back, and Braidon could see a handful of household items lying in a cluttered pile. It looked as though the two had packed in a hurry. They might have been well-dressed, but Braidon guessed they had fallen on hard times to find themselves so far from the Gods Road without so much as a sellsword to help guard their belongings.
“What brings you so far into the forest with a rocking chain and spindle?” Devon asked, sheathing his hammer on his back. Braidon removed a sword belt from one of the bandits and put away his new sword. With their weapons secured, the couple seemed to relax.
“Elynor and I are running away,” the man explained. “We’ve had enough of the wars, so we’re getting out.” He paused, his eyes flickering to the hammer on Devon’s back. “Just like you, if my suspicions about that hammer are correct.”
Devon shrugged. “True enough.” He gestured at the wagon. “How about the two of you mount up and we continue this conversation on the road. Who knows if there’s more of them scum out there.”
Casting nervous glances at the woods, the couple nodded and returned to their wagon. Carcia took a moment to inspect the horse as Elynor climbed into the seat and picked up the reins. A few moments later Carcia joined her, apparently assured the gelding was okay. Braidon guessed the bandits had been intent on taking the beast as their own—after all, it was the most valuable thing he could see in the couple’s possession.
With a flick of the reins, the horse started off. Devon strode along beside it, his eyes on the trees, and Braidon hurried to catch up. Now that the adrenaline was fading from his body, his exhaustion returned, and he looked at the back of the wagon with longing.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got room up there for the boy?” Devon asked as Braidon reached them.
Braidon opened his mouth to argue, but the woman was already nodding, and before he could react Devon was scooping him up and tossing him down amongst the wooden chairs and furnishings.
“There’s probably room for you as well,” Carcia offered, though his face betrayed his doubt.
Devon shook his head. “I’m just as happy walking, sonny,” he replied. “Good for the heart.”
Brushing dust from his clothes, Braidon climbed forward until he could seat himself behind the couple. “Thanks for the ride,” he said sheepishly. “The name’s Braidon, by the way. I guess you already know Devon’s.”
“Least we could do after you helped us out,” Carcia replied, though beside him his wife snorted. He flicked her a scowl before continuing. “What brings you so far from the capital, young Braidon?” he asked. “That’s an Ardath accent, if I’m not mistaken?”
Braidon shared a glance with Devon. “Same as you, I suppose,” he said hesitantly, belatedly attempting to add a more rustic tone to his voice. “Devon was a friend of my parents, before…they passed. He’s looked after me ever since. I’m fifteen last year, and Devon thought it best we leave before I was conscripted into the war.”
Alongside the wagon, Devon’s eyebrows rose at the lie, before he quickly nodded in response to the couple’s inquisitive stares. “We’re heading into the Sandstone Mountains,” the warrior said. “See if we can make a life for ourselves out here, least until the war dies down.
“I hear the Queen is marching on us with the Northland army,” Carcia said in a hushed tone, as though the woman were close by, and not a thousand leagues to the north.”
“That�
��d be the day,” Devon grunted. “More likely, the damned Tsar is looking for an excuse to conquer another kingdom.”
Braidon’s heart skipped a beat at Devon’s treasonous words. A strained silence followed. Braidon looked at the couple out of the corner of his eye, trying to judge their reactions by the expressions on their faces. Beside the wagon, Devon’s face blanked and his hands tightened into fists.
“I suppose that could be true,” Carcia said, then laughed. “By the Three Gods, it’s nice to hear some plain speaking for once!”
The woman was still eyeing Devon closely, but after another moment she seemed to shrug his comment off. “Perhaps, but whatever his faults, I’d still rather have the Tsar ruling us, than those barbarians in the north. Might not be such a bad thing to put them in their place, either. The Gods know they can’t be trusted.”
Anger flared in Braidon’s chest. Remembering the kindness the Northland people had shown when they’d taken him under their protection, the woman’s words grated on him. Clenching his teeth, he swallowed back an insult.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a problem with 'em,” Devon said diplomatically. “Their traders have certainly proven more trustworthy than some of the Lonians I’ve dealt with.”
Elynor snorted. “They might pretend they’ve changed, but a Feline doesn’t change its stripes. They’ve tried to invade—twice. Now that they’ve got this new Queen, Merydith or whatever her name is, what’s to stop them trying it again?”
“Respect, trade, peace?” Braidon asked.
“Those might mean something to a rational leader, little boy, but who’s to say we’re dealing with someone rational?”
“And what would you prefer?” Devon rumbled. “We invade them unprovoked?”
“If needs be.”
“How would that make us any better than those who marched under Archon?” the hammerman asked.
“We’re the Three Nations,” Elynor replied as though the answer were obvious. “We’re the good guys.”
“Tell that to Trola,” Devon grunted.
An awkward silence stretched out between the four of them as they continued on their way. Braidon shared a look with Devon, but with nothing left to say, they let the conversation drop. Lying back in the wagon, Braidon closed his eyes, pleased for the chance to rest. The soft creaking of the wooden wheels played in his ears like a lullaby, the gentle rocking of the wagon beckoning him to sleep.
Chapter 12
“Woah, boy!” Merydith said, pulling back on the reins.
Her mount came to a stop on the hilltop, and she allowed herself to glance back over her shoulder. Away to the north, the towering mountains of Erachill rose from the foothills she and her army had just traversed. The tall bows of beech trees rose from the hillslopes, their canopies thick with leaves even in the depths of winter, concealing her forces below.
Turning her gaze to the way ahead, Merydith looked on the empty hillside leading down the last ten miles to the coast. There, the land fell away sharply to the raging waters of two oceans—except where the narrow stretch of land known as The Gap spanned the channel. The ramparts of Fort Fall rose from the earth there, its granite walls standing in defiance of the centuries.
Once, it had been the impenetrable fortress of the Three Nations, the bane of her people. From its gates the southerners sallied out to raid the clans of the north, crushing any hint of rebellion—until Archon had united them beneath his dark cause. Only once had the fortress fallen, during Archon’s first coming.
Now, thankfully, its gates stood open to them. Merydith breathed a sigh of relief to see the Tsar’s people had not yet reached the fortress. Her plans relied on crossing into the Three Nations before Fort Fall could be secured against them. Once they had a foothold in northern Lonia, the Tsar would be forced to bring his army against her, or risk having his supply lines cut when he tried to march farther north.
With luck, Merydith and her five thousand would lead him a merry chase, buying enough time for those back in Erachill to gather the rest of their army.
Supplying her own forces would quickly become difficult though, if her allies in Lonia and Trola fell through. She had sent messengers before their departure from Erachill, but so far there had been no word on whether they had reached their destination. Like so many other parts to her plan, all she could do was pray.
“We made it.” Damyn brought his horse alongside her.
Merydith smiled at her childhood friend and new captain. “Did you doubt it?”
Damyn rolled his eyes. “Do you have to ask?”
Chuckling, Merydith shook her head. “I hope you didn’t let your cohort see it.”
She had placed him in command of the vanguard. His soldiers were gathering around them even now, their horses kept in tight formation. Steam rose from their flanks in the morning chill, and the men wore thick woollen coats over their chainmail. Most wore steel helmets and were armed with sabres and iron bucklers for shields. They looked to her in anticipation, awaiting the command to advance.
A smile touched her lips as she raised her hand. With a shout, Damyn kicked his horse forward. The thunder of five hundred horses rumbled across the slopes as the vanguard followed him. Watching them ride, she found herself wondering at the change time had wrought. Whereas a century ago, her people had united with dreams of conquest and destruction, today they rode south in defence of their nation. Her heart swelled at the sight, and with a shout she started down the slope after them.
Ahead, her five hundred cavalry slowed as they neared Fort Fall. Damyn knew his orders well. He was to search the fortress and ensure no ambush waited, before continuing south to scout out the enemy’s position. She hoped they had time yet before the Tsar arrived, but she had no desire to be taken unawares.
“The true test begins now.” Murdo’s dry, rasping voice came from behind her.
Merydith smiled at the sight of the old man in the saddle. In the warmth of the southern sun, he looked younger than she’d seen him in years. Her smile faded as she recognised the figure who rode beside him.
“The beginning of the end,” Mokyre said bitterly.
“Did you want Clan Cranook to join the vanguard, Mokyre?” she asked coldly. Distasteful as she found his presence, Merydith had disliked the prospect of leaving the Cranook clan leader behind in Erachill even less. She didn’t need enemies stirring things up behind her back while she was risking her life in the south.
The man scowled, but wisely kept his silence. Merydith nodded her approval, as Murdo chuckled, a mischievous grin on his face.
“So, my Queen, the invasion begins. Did you ever dream you’d end up leading an army against the Three Nations?”
Merydith smiled despite herself. “I can’t say I did,” she replied with a wink, “but after everything they’ve done for us, I figure it’s the least I can do.”
Murdo laughed, while Mokyre only scowled and looked away.
Silence fell as they approached the walls. Damyn and his vanguard had already disappeared within the fortress. Merydith took the silence as a good sign. With a glance at her guard, she continued towards the walls.
“I always forget how large this place is,” Murdo murmured, his old eyes on the granite walls. “A wonder it was ever taken.”
“Hardly difficult with the magic at Archon’s command,” Merydith replied.
“Do you think he has become more powerful than Archon? The Tsar, I mean?” the old man mused.
“I don’t know or care,” Merydith answered. “I just hope Helen and her Magickers are powerful enough to hold him back.”
“They will be,” Murdo said with confidence. Alongside him, Mokyre snorted but said nothing.
“They will or they won’t. There’s nothing I can do to change it,” Merydith sighed. “Much as I might wish it otherwise.”
Merydith’s thoughts returned to Enala and Braidon. She found herself wondering again what had happened to them, what had gone wrong. Because if the Tsar was marching north w
ith an army, it could only mean they had failed. As for Devon and Kellian, she hadn’t heard a single whisper of them since they’d made contact with Enala’s connection in Trola.
“She will return to us,” Murdo said from beside her. “She always has.”
Glancing at the old man, Merydith sighed. She’d forgotten her face was like an open book to him. Her eyes burned at his words and she quickly blinked back the unspilt tears. “This time was different. This time, she said goodbye.”
“The woman isn’t one to go down without a fight,” Murdo murmured. “We’ll see her again, you’ll see.”
Merydith nodded, though she couldn’t bring herself to believe the old man’s words. The morning Enala had said her goodbyes, Merydith had known in her heart it would be the last time she saw her. But she could not let the others see her despair.
“I know,” she replied, forcing a smile to her lips. “I’m just afraid the stubborn old woman has bitten off more than she can chew.”
“Better not let her hear you call her that.” The old man winked.
As they approached the walls of Fort Fall, Merydith directed her horse towards the open gates. The two clan leaders followed, her guard bringing up the rear. While Merydith had passed this way many times as a child, of the others only Murdo had seen the fortress in person, having been her mother’s bodyguard during her journeys south.
Despite his opposition to their quest, the Mokyre’s awe for the fortress was clear from the way his mouth hung open as they passed through the first of the gate tunnels. There were three walls in total, each thicker and taller than the last, with wide killing grounds spaced between them. The land rose beneath them as they passed through each gate, so that the defenders did not have so high to climb to reach the ramparts. Beyond the third wall, the gates led into the citadel itself, the tunnel giving way to a series of courtyards overlooked by marble mezzanines and passageways lined with murder holes. Finally, they emerged into the courtyard before the southern gate.
