Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  “A few coppers…” he trailed off, then spread his hands. “There was trouble in Ardath. We left in a hurry.”

  “So I heard.” Her eyes narrowed, and Devon wondered what the couple had told her. “You’d best not be bringing any of that trouble into my establishment.” She jerked her head at the alleyway leading to the rear of the inn. “You’ll find some uncut wood rounds out back. When you’re done, there’ll be a hot meal and straw bed for each of you. Don’t go tramping any of that mud inside.”

  Before either of them could reply, she disappeared back into the building. Devon grinned at Braidon as the door slammed behind her. “What’d I say, sonny?”

  Braidon groaned but said nothing, and together the two of them wandered around back. Devon hesitated as he saw the pile of wood waiting for them. Stacked along the rear wall of the building, it came almost up to his shoulders.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a shilling tucked away somewhere, sonny?” he asked.

  The boy grunted, his knitted brow revealing his displeasure. Two blocks of wood had been left out, an axe head buried in each. Unstrapping his sword belt, Braidon wandered over and gripped the haft of the first axe with both hands. He placed his boot on the block of wood and yanked. The haft slipped from his fingers and he went stumbling back, toppling over the second round of wood.

  Devon roared with laughter as the boy scrambled to his feet. “This is ridiculous!”

  “Oh relax, sonny.” He wandered over to the axe Braidon had attempted to free and yanked it clear. Tossing it into the air, he caught it by the head and offered it to the red-faced Braidon. “Here, I’ll show you how it’s done. Together we’ll make short work of that stack.”

  Braidon studied the axe suspiciously before accepting it. Devon retrieved the second blade, then took a round from the wood pile and placed it on the chopping block.

  The axe whistled as he hefted it above his head and slammed it into the round. The power of his swing drove the blade clean through, splitting the wood in a single strike and embedding the axe in the block beneath. Twisting the haft, he jerked it free and knocked the cut pieces aside.

  “Grab me another, would ya sonny?” he asked with a grin.

  His eyes wide, Braidon leapt to obey. They continued for twenty minutes, Devon chopping, Braidon fetching the uncut rounds and stacking the cut pieces in a fresh pile for firewood. Each worked in silence, content to go about the business of earning their dinner as the last daylight faded beneath the trees at the edge of the settlement.

  The woman from the inn appeared at the back door, a lit lantern in hand. She took a moment to inspect the pile Braidon had been stacking before hanging the lantern in a bracket and retreating into the building.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Devon shared a grin with Braidon. “Think it might be time you took a turn, sonny.”

  Braidon looked at the round he’d just placed on the block, then cast an apprehensive glance at the axe in Devon’s hand. “Are you sure?”

  Reversing the axe, Devon offered it handle first. “It’ll help put some muscle on you. You’ll need it if you’re gonna use that sword of yours. Promise I won’t laugh.”

  The boy pursed his lips, but he took the axe and moved to stand in front of the block. Casting a final glance at Devon, he hefted the tool above his head and slammed it down on the waiting wood. His aim was poor, and the blade struck with a dull thud, then rebounded from the round and struck the block beneath.

  Devon’s laughter boomed out across the courtyard, and Braidon’s face turned red in the light of the lantern. “Hey!” He pointed the axe at Devon as though it were a sword. “You promised not to laugh!”

  Grinning, Devon shook his head. “Sorry, sonny. Won’t happen again.” Moving to stand beside Braidon, he used his boot to push the boy’s feet further apart. “You need to widen your stance,” he explained. “Most of the swing comes from your hips. You’re far too rigid, so when you swing the axe, you have no power, no accuracy.”

  Braidon hmphed, but he obeyed, and standing back, Devon nodded for him to try again.

  This time the blade struck true, but only made it a third of the way through the round. Braidon yanked at the handle, trying to free the blade, but the round came with it. Its weight tore the axe from his hands, and Braidon cursed, leaping back as axe and wood toppled to the ground.

  Devon retrieved the round and pulled the axe loose as Braidon unleashed a string of words that impressed even Devon.

  “Relax, sonny, you’ll get it,” he said, offering the axe once more.

  “I’m not strong enough!” Braidon snapped, eyes flashing. “I’m not a monster like you, I don’t have arms the size of a bear.”

  “Then use what you’ve got!” Devon replied. “Those legs of yours have kept up with me all this way, use them.”

  Braidon snorted. “Sure. And how exactly can I do that?”

  “Like I said, the swing comes from your hips, same as everything else. This time when you go to swing, take a step towards the log. Focus on transferring the momentum from your hips up through your chest, into your arms. Go on, try it,” he added, when Braidon still didn’t move.

  Muttering under his breath, the boy hefted the axe and moved back into position. This time he positioned himself farther back from the log. He paused a moment, the breath whistling in his nostrils, then nodded, as though reassuring himself he could do it. Lifting the axe, he stepped forward and drove it down into the round.

  There was a soft thunk as the blade sliced clean through the wood and struck the stump beneath. Wandering forward, Devon grinned at the surprised look on Braidon’s face.

  “Told ya sonny,” he rumbled, slapping Braidon on the back. Then he crossed to the stack of uncut rounds, and placed another before the boy. “Now let’s see you do it again.”

  They continued for another half hour with roles reversed. Their pace was slower with Braidon handling the woodcutting, but nonetheless, Devon was proud of the way the boy took to the task. He might have been raised in a palace, but Braidon was no shirker for hard work.

  They were toiling by lantern light alone when the woman reappeared at the back door. Surveying their work, she gave a satisfied nod. “I suppose that’ll do.” She cast an appraising eye over Devon before adding, “There’ll be no trouble in my establishment, understood?”

  Devon agreed, and she waved for them to join her. They had started up the steps when she suddenly turned back, her nostrils flaring. “On second thought, you’d best take a bath. The smell of the two of you would drive a sow from its pigsty. There’s a trough over there. Join me when you smell less like a horse’s ass.”

  She vanished, leaving Devon staring dumbly up at the closed door. Anger rumbled in his chest as he clenched his fists, but beside him, Braidon chuckled.

  “She’s right you know, you stink!”

  Devon turned slowly to look at the boy. “Is that so?”

  Braidon blanked, but before he could react, Devon scooped him up over his shoulder. The boy’s protests range out across the courtyard, but in three quick strides Devon reached the trough. Normally, he guessed it was used to water horses, but Devon had no doubt it doubled for the stable-hand’s bath when the crotchety owner demanded it. With a grin, he hefted Braidon and dropped him into the ice-cold water.

  The boy vanished beneath the surface and came up screaming. Water sloshed over the sides as he scrambled to his feet. He spluttered wordlessly as torrents ran from his face and clothes. His teeth chattering, he pointed a trembling finger at Devon.

  “You bastard!” he shrieked.

  Devon started to laugh, but Braidon surged forward, using his feet to send a wave splashing up out of the trough. The water caught Devon in the chest, soaking him to the skin, and cursing, he stumbled back. By then it was too late—his pants and shirt were already soaked.

  “Thanks,” he said wryly.

  Braidon glared at him, looking ready to do much worse. Chuckling, Devon stripped off his shirt and pants befo
re any further damage could be done.

  By the time the two of them wandered into the warmth of the inn’s dining room, they were both frozen to the core. Devon had done his best to wring the water from their clothes, but without anything else to wear, they’d been forced to put them back on still damp. Teeth chattering, they shuffled across to where a fire burned in the giant hearth.

  “There, isn’t that better?”

  Devon turned to find the innkeeper standing behind them, a wry smile on her face. Despite himself, he found himself grinning back. “Not really.”

  “Oh well, better for the rest of us at least.” She carried a bowl of stew in each hand. Handing them over, she wandered off to serve the rest of her customers.

  Steaming bowl in hand, Devon followed the woman’s path through the dining room. He saw the couple they had rescued at a table in the corner, but the two were now studiously ignoring him. Sighing, he rolled his eyes. It seemed their gratitude hadn’t even outlasted the daylight. His gaze continued around the room, but there were only a few locals present, old men mostly, too engaged in their evening meals and the day’s gossip to notice Devon or Braidon. It seemed whatever pursuit the Tsar might be mounting, it hadn’t yet reached this part of the Onslow Forest.

  Not that they had much forest left. They were nearing the mountains now, and he hoped the crevasses and canyons of the Sandstone peaks would be enough to shield them from the roaming eyes of the Tsar’s dragons.

  The broth the innkeeper had served them was bland, but its warmth at least helped thaw the ice that had lodged in Devon’s chest. When they’d finished, she returned with a tankard of ale and a plate stacked with mashed potatoes, beans and sausages. They accepted both offerings with thanks, their stomachs still aching from the measly rations they’d managed to scavenge on their trip through the forest.

  Finally Devon sat back with a groan, his stomach full for the first time in weeks. “Well, sonny, how does it feel to earn your own meal?”

  Braidon smiled, but before the boy could reply, a harsh bang came from the entrance to the inn. He trailed off, his eyes flickering to the shadow that had appeared in the doorway. Devon followed his gaze, and watched as a man larger than any he’d ever seen stepped into the room. Sharp hazel eyes scanned the occupants from beneath brows as thick as slugs, and a terrible scar ran from one side of his face to another. His hair had been pulled into a bun atop his scalp.

  Leather boots thumped loudly on the wooden floors as he strode across the inn. Every inch of fabric he wore had been stained black—even the haft of the giant axe he carried one-handed. Not a man or woman spoke as he came to a stop in the centre of the room.

  “You all know who I am,” he growled. “I’m here for the bastard that killed my men.”

  Devon’s heart quickened as the hazel eyes found him from across the room. As the newcomer’s words trailed off, he rose to his feet.

  “That would be me, sonny,” he said. “Who’s asking?”

  Chapter 15

  Braidon watched in horror as the newcomer came to a stop beside their table. The man was so large, even Devon barely reached his shoulder. A shiver slid down Braidon’s spine, and he scrambled from the bench to stand alongside Devon. No one else in the establishment so much as moved a muscle. Then a flicker of movement came from behind the bar, and the innkeeper appeared, her thin lips pursed.

  “What are you doing here, Joseph?” she asked, her voice a low hiss. “We have an arrangement.”

  The giant glanced in her direction. “Ay, we do, Selina,” he rumbled. “Last I checked it didn’t include you harbouring those who murder my people.”

  “Murder?” Braidon squawked.

  Alongside him Devon chuckled. “Since when is it murder to kill a few good-for-nothings intent on theft and murder?”

  “They were Baronians, little man,” Joseph growled, “and you’d best show some respect.”

  He swung an arm at Devon, as though to bat him aside, but the hammerman blocked it with his forearm and shoved the giant hard in the chest. Caught off-guard, Joseph staggered back a step. His hideous face twisted and his bushy eyebrows knitted together into a ferocious scowl.

  “We doing this here?” Devon snapped before the man could speak. “Or shall we step outside?”

  The giant blinked, momentarily taken aback by Devon’s forwardness. He stood glowering down at the hammerman for a full second, then glanced at the innkeeper. With a sigh, he shook his head and started to chuckle.

  “You’ve got balls, little man,” he rumbled. Turning on his heel, he started for the doorway. “Outside. Selina’s paid her due. No need for her to be cleaning your blood off her walls.”

  Braidon stared in disbelief as Devon followed the giant through the double doors. Hinges squealed as the doors swung shut behind them, loud in the silence that had swallowed the room. Looking around at the other occupants of the inn, Braidon searched for someone that might help, but not a man or woman would meet his gaze.

  A steely resolve settled over Braidon as he realised it was up to him to help his friend. He clutched the table for a moment, struggling to control the trembling in his knees. Then he drew his sword and stumbled towards the exit.

  The sight that met him outside froze him in his tracks. Standing on the inn’s porch, he looked out at the square. A hundred men and women stared back at him, their pitch-black clothing seeming to merge with the night. The swords and axes in their hands shone in the light of a dozen bonfires that now lit the settlement.

  A chill spread through Braidon’s stomach, and he clenched his sword tight, remembering the man’s words inside the inn.

  Baronians!

  It wasn’t possible. The last of the Baronian tribes had vanished decades ago, their brutal traditions expunged from the Three Nations in the early years of the Tsar’s rule. A few tribes were said to have fled to Northland, beyond his father’s reach, but even those were believed to have died out.

  Yet the proof before them was undeniable. With their black-garbed leather armour and rusted weapons, the people gathered below him were like an illustration from the history books, drawn from a time when hordes of Baronian tribes had plagued the wildlands of the Three Nations, waylaying travellers and wreaking havoc at will.

  Below, the giant axeman the innkeeper had called Joseph was leading Devon through the horde. The crowd parted before him like he was a king, backing away until a ring formed around the two men. Devon walked a few feet behind the Baronian, his face impassive as he surveyed the surging crowd.

  Braidon couldn’t understand how his friend could be so calm. With Devon surrounded, there was no way for Braidon to reach him, and he stood frozen on the porch, watching as the two came to a stop in the centre of the square. The doors squealed behind Braidon, and then the innkeeper Selina appeared beside him. Arms crossed, she studied the scene outside her establishment.

  “Hope your friend can fight,” she said impassively.

  Braidon nodded, unbale to find the words to speak.

  Joseph raised his axe, and a hushed silence fell over the crowd. A grin on his lips, he turned to face Devon. “So, hammerman, how do you wish to die?”

  “With kanker in hand, as my ancestors did before me.” Devon smirked. “But my time hasn’t come yet, old man.”

  To Braidon’s shock, Joseph threw back his head and howled with laughter. The sound echoed through the square like thunder as the crowd joined in. The rattle of shields followed as they began to chant.

  “Death, death, death!”

  Braidon wilted as the sound washed over him, the roar of the crowd’s bloodlust draining away his courage, feeding his fear until it was all he could do to remain standing.

  Devon watched on, arms crossed, face impassive as the crowd screamed for his death. Kanker still hung sheathed on his back, even as Joseph thrust his axe skyward, encouraging his followers to greater excess.

  Finally he turned back to Devon. With a gesture of his axe, silence returned to the square. To Brai
don, the sudden change was shocking, the absence of sound almost as bad as the screams. He swallowed hard, willing his mind to piece out some escape. His thoughts turned to his magic, and he wondered whether he could make them both invisible and flee. Yet surveying the crowd, he realised that even invisible, there was nowhere for them to run. Looking at Devon, he prayed the man had the strength to prevail.

  “My followers disagree, little man,” Joseph roared. “But draw your hammer, and I will grant you your final wish.”

  Devon sighed. His head dropped, and Braidon’s heart lurched as Devon spread his empty hands. “What about your final wish, elder?”

  Joseph’s face darkened. “I don’t need one,” he snapped.

  “Very well.”

  Before anyone could react, Devon surged forward, his fist flashing up to catch the giant Baronian square in the chin. Taken unawares, the blow lifted Joseph to his toes. He staggered back, and for a second it seemed he would lose his footing and fall. Devon moved after him, but snarling Joseph lashed out with the axe, forcing the hammerman back.

  For a moment the two stood facing each other. Then Devon reached up and drew kanker from its sheath, and the battle began in earnest.

  Air hissed as the axe sliced for Devon’s head. Ducking low, the hammerman sidestepped the giant’s charge and swung out with kanker. Joseph spun, revealing a speed that belied his size, and wrenched his axe down, the massive muscles in his arms rippling with the effort, and an awful shriek rang out as the two weapons collided.

  Sparks flew as the warriors leapt back, and Braidon winced at the power behind the blows. He was shocked Joseph’s axe had not shattered with the impact, though as the Baronian hefted his weapon, Braidon saw a dent had been left in the steel blade.

  Recovering almost as quickly, Devon straightened, hefting his hammer. The magic-blessed weapon didn’t show so much as a scratch, and grinning, the hammerman started forward. Braidon held his breath as the two colossal warriors clashed again, the shrieking of their weapons sending shivers down his spine. This was no duel between master swordsmen; there would be no minor wounds inflicted before the end came. One touch with either weapon meant dismemberment or death.