Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  Weighed down by their armour and the endless days of marching, their charge slowed as they neared the top. Merydith waited for the answering screams of the enemy, the twang of bowstrings and hiss of swords being drawn.

  Instead, there was only the howling of the wind through the jagged rocks.

  “Draw swords!” Merydith shouted as they topped the rise.

  The whisper of blades leaving leather came from around her. Merydith narrowed her eyes, the hackles on the back of her neck lifting. Still, there was no sign of the Tsar’s force, and she turned her gaze to the clifftops around them, wondering now whether she was leading her people into some fresh trap.

  The ground flattened out as the pass neared. Merydith slowed her advance, shouting an order for her people to do the same. Together they crept towards the shadows, swords in hand, eyes wide as the walls of the canyon rose up around them.

  Then they were through, and the ground was falling away before them, sloping back down towards the distant plains of Trola. Merydith stumbled to a stop, unable to believe it, to understand how they had taken the pass. Her gaze drifted out over the mountains, and then froze as movement came from the slopes below.

  Merydith frowned as she saw a man standing alone, his woollen cloak billowing around him. Beyond him the land fell sharply, the stark mountains giving way to rolling green hills. For a moment she thought he was alone, until she glimpsed movement against the cliffs further down the slope. Straining her eyes, she spied a large group of men and women camped in the shadows. She could not tell their number, but only a handful would have been needed to hold the pass.

  Yet inexplicably, they had made their camp in the most indefensible spot on the mountainside.

  Biting her lip, she turned her attention back to the man standing alone. Merydith started as she saw him advancing, but a quick glance at her guards reassured her. Raising a hand to warn them to stay put, she sheathed her sword and stepped towards the man.

  “That’s far enough,” she called when he was still a few paces away, before adding, “What do you want?”

  The man came slowly to a stop. He contemplated her in silence for a long time. Anger grew in Merydith’s chest as she waited for him to respond, still keenly aware of the Tsar’s forces advancing from behind them. Finally, her patience worn to a thread, she dropped a hand to her sword hilt.

  “I said, what are you doing here?” she growled.

  The man smiled. “Heard there was a war coming.”

  “Ay,” Merydith snapped, “and if you and your men don’t move, you’ll soon find yourselves in the middle of it.”

  The man laughed. “I see.” He stepped aside and held out an arm, as though to indicate the way was open. “Please, be my guest. Trola stands open for you, my Queen.”

  “You know who I am?” Merydith asked, blinking.

  “Who else would you be?” the man asked.

  Merydith opened her mouth, and then closed it, unable to come up with a reply.

  “They say you’ve come to grant freedom to the Three Nations.” He paused, a roguish grin crossing his face. “You’ve got a strange way of going about it.”

  Speechless, Merydith could only stand and stare at the man. Finally, pulling herself together, she shook her head. “Who in the Gods’ names are you?”

  The stranger crossed his arms. “You don’t know me?”

  “Should I?”

  “Devon and Kellian might have mentioned me?”

  “Devon…and Kellian?” Merydith repeated dumbly. “How…I haven’t seen either of them in months.”

  “Oh.” The stranger seemed to deflate at the news. “I was sure they’d escaped…” He sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’ll be up to us then, I guess.” He held out a hand and smiled. “Betran, at your service, my Queen. I helped Devon and Kellian break into the citadel. Now I’m here.”

  “Betran…” the Queen mumbled, still struggling to catch up. Her eyes flickered to the men and women camped below. They had begun lighting campfires, and laughter now whispered up the valley to where they stood. “And they are…?”

  Betran grinned. “Why, that would be the Trolan rebellion, my Queen. We thought we’d come see if you could use some help.”

  Chapter 29

  As Alana approached the entrance to Devon’s tent, the leather flaps lifted and her brother stepped out into the night. She froze, her heart lodging in her throat. Opening her mouth, she tried to voice the words Selina had urged her to say, but they would not come out. Braidon staggered to a stop as he noticed her standing there, and an awkward silence stretched out between them.

  Finally, Alana could take it no more. “Is Devon in there?” she blurted out, saying the first thought that popped into her head.

  Braidon nodded. “Yes…” he responded, and she cursed herself. It was Devon’s tent; where else would he be at this hour?

  “Umm, I’d better see him then,” she replied.

  Her brother shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He wandered off without so much as a ‘good night.’

  Alana watched him go, her throat slowly relaxing. A sudden urge came over her to run after him, to pull him into a hug and beg for his forgiveness. But the tent flaps rustled again, and Devon stepped out into the night with a scowl on his face. He looked as though he was about to call out after his departing guest, then he saw her standing there.

  “Alana,” he said, a little too forcefully. “What are you doing here?”

  Her anger flared as she realised the man had forgotten her. She crossed her arms and glared at him, waiting for him to realise his mistake. It took to the count of ten before his eyes widened and he cursed.

  “Sorry, I thought you weren’t coming,” he grunted, as though that explained his memory lapse. “I wanted you to talk some sense into your brother, but there’ll be no getting through to him just now. Come inside, enjoy some warmth.” Turning, he disappeared inside without waiting for a response.

  Left standing in the darkness, Alana had no choice but to follow him. Devon was already lowering himself into a camp chair as she hesitated in the doorway, suddenly uncomfortable. Silently she gave herself an internal shake.

  You are Alana! A voice hissed in her mind. You fear nothing!

  She dragged a camp chair across the room to the iron brazier and parked herself there, with legs stretched out towards the coals. Leaning back into the fabric, she eyed Devon, taking in the rings beneath his eyes, the added wrinkles that seemed to have appeared overnight. His hair was unkempt, his beard even worse, though he’d never kept either particularly neat.

  “You’re looking well,” she commented wryly.

  Devon blinked, rubbing his eyes. Seeing her smile, he chuckled. “I’ve had better days. Better years, for that matter.” Reaching behind him, he lifted a bottle of what looked like malt liquor and swigged a mouthful before offering it to her.

  Alana accepted it with a grin, enjoying the burning sensation that spread down her throat as she swallowed a mouthful. Despite the fire, her insides were still frozen, but the liquor was quickly changing that.

  “Cheers,” she said, then coughed as the aftertaste caught her. “Or maybe not,” she gasped finally, wrinkling her nose at the bottle.

  “Blame Joseph. Apparently he likes the stuff.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose,” Alana replied, helping herself to another mouthful.

  “Hey, leave some for me, would ya!” Devon laughed, snatching it back.

  After they’d passed the bottle back and forth a few times, Alana finally began to feel more…herself. She wasn’t sure what that meant nowadays, but sitting with Devon in the quiet of his tent, she could almost imagine herself the innocent girl who had travelled with him all those weeks ago. The girl who had swum and hunted and fought with him, who could never have imagined sending an innocent child to his death because he angered her.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Eyeing Devon across the tent, she wondered at his words outside, and her enco
unter with Braidon. She had been too occupied with her own self-loathing at the time, but thinking back now, he had seemed flustered, not the cool young man he had come to be in her absence.

  “Why did you want me to talk to my brother?” she asked.

  Sitting back in his chair, Devon sighed. “I’m worried about him,” he said at last. “Whatever you did with his memories, it’s changed him. Before, he told me he remembered a few bits and pieces, but they were more like a play than his own life. He could watch them, hear them, smell them, but it was through the eyes of an observer. Now he remembers living them, feeling them; it’s like there’s a whole other Braidon.”

  Alana looked away. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s the same for me. But he asked me to do it—to give him his memories back. After everything I’ve done, I couldn’t refuse him.”

  “Why did you take his memories in the first place?”

  “To protect him,” she whispered. “To hide us. Without them, our father couldn’t find us.”

  “I see,” Devon replied, though his tone suggested otherwise.

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  “You didn’t have any other motives? To hide from your past, perhaps?”

  “Maybe,” Alana murmured. “But the woman I used to be, she wasn’t much for caring about anything.”

  “Except when it came to your brother,” Devon rumbled, his eyes shining.

  Alana swallowed. “I did terrible things, Devon…”

  “We’ve all done terrible things, Alana,” Devon replied.

  She looked at him sharply. From the depths of her memories, she heard his words ringing out, his admission to the horrors he’d committed during the Trolan war.

  I killed a child once, he’d said.

  At the time, revulsion had curled around her gut at his words, but now when she looked at him, Alana saw only a man in pain. She shook her head.

  “I didn’t understand before, when you told me what you’d done,” she whispered. “I do now. I’m sorry for how I reacted. You’re a good man, Devon. Every act you’ve done since the war has shown it.”

  Devon said nothing, only offered her the bottle. She accepted it gratefully and finished the dregs, wondering how Devon survived beneath the weight of so much pain. She hated herself for being responsible for so much of it. Whatever his words earlier, he still hadn’t forgiven her. It was in his eyes, even now, in the great gulf that separated them.

  Alana swallowed as he looked up and caught her watching him.

  “Kellian…he would have been proud of you, helping these people.”

  Devon grunted. “I’m the reason they’re in this mess,” he mumbled. “I’ve led them to their doom.”

  “No more than if they’d stayed in the forest. Quinn knew about them. When he was done with us, my father would have hunted them down, killed every last one of them.”

  “It still doesn’t seem quite possible, the Tsar being your father.”

  Alana shrugged. “Perhaps not for you. But for me, for Braidon now, that is who he’s always been to us. For as long as I can remember, he has cast his shadow over our lives. My whole life, his way was all I ever knew. Until Braidon came, and I realised I didn’t want him to be what I had become. I tried to shield him from it, to protect him…” Alana’s throat contracted. “I just wish there had been someone to do the same for me.”

  “It’s really the both of you in there now, isn’t it?” Devon whispered.

  Despite herself, Alana smiled. “It is, big man,” she replied. Then she closed her eyes, and felt a tear streak her cheek. “You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?”

  “I…I have…” Devon started, but she shook her head.

  “Please don’t lie to me, Devon,” Alana whispered. “It’s okay, I understand, but please do not lie.”

  Devon swallowed, but he nodded, his eyes shining. “How…?”

  “You’re not a hard man to read, Devon,” Alana replied, a smile touching her cheeks. “And you haven’t called me ‘princess’ since the night you came to rescue me.”

  “Alana…” he started, then trailed off.

  Alana looked up, and was surprised to find Devon staring at her. Their eyes met and he quickly looked away. Her cheeks flushed and her stomach clenched. Clearing her throat, she looked at anything but him, embarrassed by her own reaction. The tension built, but still neither said anything.

  Then Alana’s anger rose to burn away her blush. She wasn’t some innocent teenager, no fumbling girl who couldn’t say what she wanted. She was Alana, the Daughter of the Tsar, and she would not be denied.

  Silently she rose to her feet. Devon’s head jerked up as she crossed the room and stood in front of him. Hands clenched at her sides, she looked down at him.

  “You want me,” she said.

  Devon opened his mouth, but all he could manage was an incomprehensible mumble. Smiling, Alana slid onto his lap and draped an arm around his neck. She watched with satisfaction as the shock in his eyes turned to…something else. He tensed beneath her, one arm lifting to grip her waist, and for a moment she thought he would throw her off.

  She stroked his brow, her own eyes caught in his amber gaze.

  “You want me,” she repeated.

  Still Devon did not move, and a sudden fear reared within Alana, that the desire she’d seen in his gaze all that time ago had died. She’d thought it was still there, but what if she’d been wrong, what if he didn’t want her, and was about to cast her aside, to reject her? Within, she felt the soft green light of her magic stirring. Temptation rose with it, and she reached for it, feeling its warmth bathe her mind. All she needed was to touch him with her power, to bend his mind as she had done to Quinn and so many others.

  Don’t.

  The command whispered through Alana’s mind, two voices as one. In that instant she realised if she tried it, she would lose him. It would be a betrayal of their friendship, a final act of evil that would destroy her in his eyes forever.

  “Devon…” she whispered, leaning down to press her forehead against his. “Say something.”

  His eyes flickered closed as he inhaled. The arm on her waist tightened, but he made no effort to throw her aside. Instead, he pulled her closer, so that she could feel the warmth of his broad chest against her breast, his breath on her neck. She trailed her fingers down his giant arms, tracing the outline of his veins, feeling the thump of his powerful heart. Lifting her head, she found herself trapped in his amber eyes, found herself leaning in…

  Heat exploded in her chest as their lips met. Her hands went to his head, drawing him deeper into the kiss, as his arm clenched around her. She shivered as their tongues met, tasting the earthly richness of him, feeling his power beneath her. A moan built in her chest and went rumbling from her. Trailing a hand down his neck, she nibbled playfully at his lip. Her fingers tugged at the buttons of his tunic.

  Lust rose within her as his hand slide beneath her shirt. She shuddered as his fingers danced across her naked back, tearing another moan from her throat. She wanted more, wanted his hands, his mouth on her flesh. Searching for his other arm, she found it hanging beside the chair. He flinched as she gripped him, her fingers trailing down in search of his own…

  Alana froze as she found his hand wrapped around a wooden haft. Her heart lurched in her chest, and pulling back, she looked down to where his arm hung beside the chair. Kanker lay there, its steel head shining in the dim light, his meaty hand wrapped around its handle. A sob caught in Alana’s throat as she looked at him.

  “You don’t trust me,” she whispered, her eyes burning with unspilt tears.

  “Alana…” he started, but she was already pushing away, scrambling to her feet.

  “I would never!” she all but shouted, even as she recalled the desire that had touched her, the temptation she’d felt to use her magic on him. She shook her head and looked at him. “Never,” she repeated in a whisper.

  Devon stared back. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, b
ut Alana was already shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said sharply. “Sorry I ever thought this would work.”

  He opened his mouth, struggling to speak, but Alana was already spinning on her heel. His words fell on deaf ears as she stepped from the tent and fled into the darkness.

  Chapter 30

  The rising sun found Braidon sitting alone on the outskirts of the Baronian camp. He watched as the scarlet light touched the mountaintops, and then came creeping down the valley towards him. The morning was clear, and so high up in the mountains, Braidon could see far out across the Trolan lands, where the light of the new day had yet to reach.

  Shivering, Braidon averted his eyes, his mind returning to the past. Memories flashed through his mind, a lifetime of sights and sounds, of joy and pain. Worst of all was the rift they caused within him, the warring emotions between the renegade and the Son of the Tsar.

  Alana had been wrong to mess with his mind, to rob him of his memories. He was sure now she had done it to escape her own guilt, rather than protect them from their father. Either way, it hardly mattered now—the damage was done. His mind had been fractured, and now he feared he would never piece it all back together.

  Warmth flickered in his chest as an image of his father passed through his mind, of the man holding him tight, his hand casting wide to encompass the great expanse of Plorsea around them. Then the image changed, and he saw again the sword plunging at Enala’s chest, heard the old woman’s cry as it speared her. He shuddered, feeling the gulf within him widen.

  Braidon’s old self had feared the Tsar, but amidst that fear there had also been love, born of the knowledge that everything their father did, he did for them. Yet the Braidon he had become under the spell of Alana’s magic had loathed and feared the Tsar in equal measure, and he wondered now whether that had also been of his sister’s making.

  In fact, he found himself questioning everything she’d ever told him, his every memory, every emotion he’d ever felt for her. As a child, he had seen her as his hero, the avenging angel that struck down any who dared threaten him. Looking back over those memories though, he found himself recalling the terror on the faces of her students, the nervousness of even their father’s guards in her presence. Alana had never been one to use her power sparingly—who was to say she had not been using it to manipulate him all along?