Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  “What about Devon?” Quinn demanded. “We are so close, I can still destroy him.”

  “No, Lieutenant,” the Tsar growled, blue eyes flashing within the shadows of his hood. “You will not. My children are coming here, and I would like my Stalkers at hand to detain them, rather than wandering the countryside carrying out your personal vendettas.”

  “Devon is dangerous!”

  “The man is mortal. He cannot hide from me. I will deal with him when the time is right.”

  “But—”

  “You!” Cutting Quinn off, the Tsar turned to a nearby Stalker. Zarent’s head jerked up as he realised the Tsar was addressing him, his eyes widening. “You are in charge now. Arrest Quinn. Bring him and the rest of my company to my camp.”

  The man hesitated, his eyes flickering from Quinn to the other Stalkers, then back to the Tsar. He nodded slowly, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to adjust to his sudden change of fortunes.

  “Can you to do that, Stalker?” the Tsar asked dangerously. “Or should I find someone else?”

  “No, sir!” the Stalker shouted, standing to attention. “It shall be done at once.”

  “Excellent,” the Tsar murmured. His shadowed gaze turned back to Quinn. “Then I shall see you soon, Lieutenant.”

  With his words, the dark figure faded from sight, leaving Quinn and his Stalkers alone on the hillside.

  Except they were no longer his Stalkers.

  His heart still hammering hard against his ribcage, Quinn faced his former followers. Zarent grinned, reaching for his sword. “You going to come easily, Lieutenant?” he asked as the sword slid free. “Or shall we do this the hard way?”

  “Oh, please say hard,” another Stalker added as he joined Zarent, blade already in hand.

  Panicked, Quinn took a step back. He glanced around, searching for his horse, but in the turmoil inspired by the Tsar’s appearance the gelding had galloped clear. Power built in the air as he sensed the black-garbed Stalkers nearest him drawing on their magic, readying themselves for a fight. Slowly they closed in on him.

  Silently vowing revenge on his treacherous men, Quinn raised his hands. “I surrender.”

  “How disappointing,” Zarent said, before stepping forward and slamming the hilt of his sword into Quinn’s skull.

  Chapter 32

  Merydith paused as a breeze blew across the hilltop, savouring the warmth in its touch, the promise it carried of winter’s end. The northern army had set up camp on a lonely hilltop overlooking a narrow valley. Her people were busy fortifying their camp for the coming battle. Men and women were hard at work digging a trench along the northeast slope of the hill, facing the distant mountains from which they’d escaped just a few days before. Still trapped in the grip of winter, snow glimmered on the stark peaks.

  It was from there the first attack would come. A rider had reached them that morning—their rearguard had been overrun, the few hundred soldiers tasked with slowing the Tsar’s advance massacred. Now he was coming for them, and there was nowhere left for the northern army to run.

  Merydith had thought to reach Kalgan and make her stand there, but Betran said the city now stood empty, abandoned by its citizens in anticipation of the coming war. Those who believed in the cause had marched with Betran to join her, while the rest had dissipated into the countryside, spreading the news of the rebel Queen far and wide.

  In the two days since escaping the mountains, more Trolans had joined them, in ones and twos and groups large enough to fill an inn, though none as great as the thousand Betran led. Many were veterans from the civil war, hard men and women with little give in them. She had given Betran the title of captain and set him to work alongside Mokyre to ready their two forces to work in concert. Together with those who had joined them on the road, her force now numbered a little over six thousand.

  Still barely a fraction of what the Tsar would field against them.

  Merydith continued along the ridgetop, casting an expert eye over the defensive trench and rampart they were erecting. Unfortunately, the rolling farmland of northern Trola offered little in the way of wood for a palisade, and the rocky soils on the hilltop were making the going hard. At least they still had a day before the Tsar could bring the full force of his army down on them.

  Terrified farmers and displaced villagers were already streaming down from the north, fleeing the coming army. Many chose to skirt Merydith’s force altogether, seeking to disappear into the wildlands of southern Trola. She could hardly blame them; they had already witnessed first-hand the wrath of the Tsar. It would take a brave soul to face him again, after the devastation he had wrought on the nation during their first rebellion.

  Satisfied the ramparts and trench would be completed by nightfall, Merydith returned to her tent.

  “How’s it looking out there, Merydith?”

  Blinking, Merydith’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the gloom. A smile touched her lips when she found the aged figure of Murdo seated in the corner beside Damyn’s stretcher. His strength normally unquenchable, Damyn’s fate had sapped the old man’s spirit. Both members of clan Crae, Damyn was as much Murdo’s family as he was Merydith’s.

  Merydith crossed the room and pulled up a stool beside the clan leader.

  “We’ll be ready,” she murmured, her eyes drawn as always to Damyn. His complexion remained pale, but his breathing was easier now that they had left the mountains. Over the last few days, they had managed to feed him a gruel made of roots and tubers, but still he would not wake.

  “He’s a strong lad, Merydith,” Murdo said, as though reading her mind. “He’ll be alright. Just make sure you win this war, so he has something to wake up to.”

  Merydith smiled. “If only it were so easy.”

  “Ha!” Murdo cackled. “Don’t tell me our relentless Queen is having doubts now?”

  “I’ve had doubts all along, my friend,” Merydith replied. “I just keep them to myself.”

  “Ah, well, don’t go bringing down this old man’s hopes then, would ya?” he rumbled. “You’re of the Kenzie Clan, woman. As far as us Craes are concerned, you’re unstoppable.”

  Merydith snorted. “I never said I was the problem,” she replied. “I’m just hoping the rest of you can keep up with me tomorrow!”

  “You won’t have to worry about the Trolans!” Merydith swung around as Betran’s voice came from the entrance to the tent. The young Trolan wandered inside, followed a second later by Mokyre.

  The latter nodded, adding his agreement: “Ay, they’re tough bastards out there. We’ll give the Tsar’s army something to think about.”

  “They’ll have to do more than that,” Merydith replied, waving for them to pull up stools and join her. “Our scouts report the Tsar’s force still numbers close to forty thousand.”

  The mood in the tent turned sombre at the reminder of their odds. Mokyre was the first to break the silence. “You’ll find a way, my Queen,” he said softly. “And even if we fail, at least we bought the rest of our people some time.” He eyed her through the gloom. “Come what may, you were right to lead us here.”

  Merydith nodded her thanks as Betran voiced a fresh worry. “What about the Tsar’s magic?” he murmured. “Last time, our cities only held as long as our Magickers’ stamina.”

  “Helen and the others remain strong, for now,” Merydith replied, thinking of her meeting with the woman earlier in the day.

  A great tent had been set in the centre of the camp for Helen and her hundred Magickers. Within, the shadows were lit by a single torch. Men and women sat in circles spreading out from the centre, legs crossed and eyes closed. Even magicless, Merydith had felt the power bubbling on the air as she entered.

  Helen had set her people to work in shifts through the day and night, with a quarter of their number rotating to sleep every six hours. Even so, the effort it was taking them to keep the Tsar from the camp was obvious. In the time since they’d stepped foot in the Three Nations,
the flesh had vanished from Helen’s bones, so that she seemed but a shadow of her former self.

  Even so, the Magicker had greeted Merydith warmly, and reassured her they would hold the Tsar to their dying breath. But it was not that for which Merydith had visited them. She had gone in search of a way to attack.

  In the end, she’d left without an answer, but Merydith prayed to the Gods that Helen and her people could find a way to turn the tables on the Tsar. Because without something, she feared no matter how brave, how daring her people, in the end the sheer weight of numbers would overwhelm them.

  “How much longer can they hold for?” Mokyre asked, disturbing her train of thought.

  “Helen could not say,” Merydith said.

  “Then it’s a good thing we face them on the morrow,” Murdo put in.

  “Agreed,” Merydith replied. “I just wish we’d found a more defensible position.”

  “We’re on a big hill surrounded by valleys and steep sides,” Murdo rumbled. “What more could you ask for?”

  “Walls, a well or two, some food or supplies might have been nice.”

  “Ha, well, beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” Murdo laughed.

  “Another group of farmers just came in,” Betran added. “They brought their livestock with them. A few dozen sheep and a couple of cows. We won’t go hungry before the fight.”

  “Your people are a gift that keeps on giving, Betran,” Merydith replied with a smile.

  “It is our pleasure, my Queen,” he said, stroking his beard. He eyed her closely. “All we have desired for this last decade is our freedom.”

  Merydith took note of his tone. “And you shall have it, my friend,” she responded. Her eyes travelled around the room, taking in the ancient eyes of Murdo, the youthful fire of Mokyre, the unyielding stare of Betran. Unlikely friends, in normal times, but common cause had united them under her banner. “First though, we must win it back. For all of us.”

  The others nodded. With a wave from her, they departed, each returning to the myriad of tasks needing to be completed before the day was out. Before the Tsar and his army arrived.

  Finally alone, Merydith turned and looked down on the sleeping face of Damyn. Gently, she stroked his brow, feeling the warmth of his skin, the cloying dampness of his hair. His cheekbones stood out starkly in the candlelight, so that it seemed he were already half-skeleton.

  “Where are you, my friend?” she murmured, a shiver touching her.

  They had spent so much of their childhood together, she could hardly imagine a world without him. Back then, before she was Queen, they had just been boy and girl. Two troublesome youngsters, they’d often slipped her guards and disappeared into the winding tunnels of Erachill.

  Together they had explored the deepest crevices and highest tunnels, venturing even up to the high peak beneath which the city was built. Upon that viewpoint, it had seemed they could see the entire world, from wild steeps to dense forests to rugged coastlines. Even to far the north, the three jagged peaks of Mount Chole and its volcanic siblings had just been visible.

  As a child, it had scared her sometimes, standing on that peak and looking out on their realm, knowing one day it would be hers to govern. When she’d told Damyn of her fears, he had stood there beside her with a roguish grin on his youthful face, and laughed. He’d told her she had nothing to fear, that her parents and Enala and he would all be there beside her, that together they would lead Northland to greatness.

  Now her time had come, Merydith found herself deserted. Her parents were long dead, Enala she knew not where. Even Damyn had abandoned her, his mind fled, leaving Merydith alone to face the darkness that was the Tsar.

  “You said you would be here,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You promised.”

  Closing her eyes, Merydith let the tears fall. How had everything gone so wrong? For the thousandth time, she wondered if she’d made the right decision, protecting the boy. If she had simply handed Braidon over to the Tsar, Northland might never have needed to fear the Tsar’s wrath. All those who had given their lives to her cause these past few weeks would still live, happy and safe in the mountains of Erachill.

  And the boy would be dead, she tried to convince herself.

  Yet still she had heard nothing of Braidon and Enala, nothing but rumour and whispers. It was said a Gold Dragon had been spotted in the skies above Ardath, but it had fled across the lake, never to be seen again. Now she wondered if even her one small act of defiance had been in vain, if the Tsar had taken the boy all the same.

  “Was I wrong?” she whispered to the shadows in the tent.

  “You could never be wrong, Merydith,” a rasping voice responded from beside her. Her head flicked around as Damyn groaned and struggled to sit up. “It’s just the rest of the world hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  Chapter 33

  Evening was setting on Devon and his followers as they topped a rise and found themselves looking down on the ruins of Westdale. Devon remembered the town well from the civil war. Close to the mountains, it had once been a place for revellers of all race and creed. Its popularity had done nothing to save it though. The inhabitants had surrendered in the early days of the Tsar’s conquest, and been spared, but the city itself had still been gutted.

  Now though, Devon was surprised to see fires glowing amongst the burnt-out buildings. A quick count in the dying light estimated there were well over a hundred people camped out in the ruins. Though the Baronians outnumbered them five to one, Devon considered skirting them. On closer inspection though, he realised the people below were kitted out much the same as his own. They sported worn woollen cloaks of various colours, and their weapons consisted of rusted swords and farm hatchets. After a brief discussion with the others, he decided to risk approaching.

  No watch had been set, and he was halfway to the ruins by the time anyone within noticed the approaching tribe. A warning cry carried up the slope as chaos descended on the camp. Devon watched as people rushed in all directions; some gathering up fallen weapons and racing in his direction, while others fled for the wilderness.

  “Who goes there!” a voice called up to him.

  In the growing darkness, Devon could not make out the man’s face, but after a quick check that the Baronians weren’t far behind, he lifted kanker and shouted a reply. “An enemy of the Tsar!”

  Below, the figure staggered to a stop. “Oh!” Before Devon could say anything more, he swung around and shouted to those further down the slope. “It’s okay! They’re on our side.”

  Now it was Devon’s turn to halt midstride. He frowned, staring at the men and women now gathered on the slope below them. A few carried torches, their soft glow illuminating the hillside. By their light, the first man who had spoken continued forward, a roguish grin on his youthful face. “In that case, well met, stranger!” he said as he strode up.

  Devon could only shake his head. The Trolans who’d rushed to defend the camp were already heading back to the ruins, leaving only a few to stand in their path. Beyond, those who had run in the other direction had paused where they stood, and now watched on in silence, as though awaiting the outcoming of the meeting on the hillside. As far as Devon was concerned, they were the smart ones.

  “Awfully trusting of you,” he said, looking back to the young man. “We might have been lying.”

  The man looked suddenly unsure of himself, but Devon sheathed kanker on his back and waved for his people to do the same with their weapons. Their newfound friend relaxed visibly. Devon was just glad the man hadn’t recognised kanker. The weapon was infamous amongst the Trolans, and he doubted his reputation had improved at all in the last few months.

  “There’s not many brave enough to declare themselves enemies of the Tsar,” the stranger replied.

  “Then what drove a young lad like you to do so?” Devon asked.

  “The battle, of course!”

  “Battle?” Devon asked.

  “You haven’t heard?” The
man frowned. “Where’ve you been, mate? The whole of Trola has been talking about it. The Northland Queen has come to liberate us. She’s just a little way north of us, camped out on Turkey’s Knoll. The Tsar is marching to meet her. We’re hoping to reach ‘em before the battle begins!” His frown deepened as he glanced over Devon’s shoulder, his gaze taking in the Baronians gathered above. “You…aren’t from Trola, are you?”

  A grin split Devon’s matted beard. “No, sonny, but if the Queen’s here, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year. What was your name?”

  “Corrie.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “And what did you say yours was?”

  “I didn’t,” Devon laughed.

  Slapping the man on the shoulder, he strode past, gesturing for the Baronians to join him. Beyond the ruins, the Trolans who had fled were returning to the city. Watching them, Devon wondered what would have happened had it been Quinn who’d come across them first. There were children below, and old men and women bowed with age. Most weren’t soldiers at all, though many sported the signs of the last civil war.

  They would have been swept away had it been the Tsar’s people who came across them first, the earth stained with their blood. And if Trola was in open rebellion again, there would be no mercy this time. His soldiers would slaughter every man, woman, and child they found.

  Walking through the broken walls of the city, Devon wondered at the desperation that had brought these people here. Amongst the crumpled buildings and burnt out hovels, there was no escaping the devastation the last war had left. Their population had been decimated by the Tsar and his army. Devon had played no small part in that massacre. Looking around now, he tasted the familiar tang of guilt in his mouth.

  “Where have you all come from?” he asked as he watched a one-armed man walk past him, carrying a stack of firewood.

  “Kalgan, Palma, Drata, everywhere in between,” Corrie said as he joined Devon.