Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  “The Tsar is immortal,” the man snapped, “and I come under the flag of truce. You cannot kill me.”

  “Is that so?” Gesturing her guards to remain where they were, she stepped towards the man, her long legs eating up the distance between them. She looked at the white flag he carried. “You think your little flag protects you?” Her sword flashed out to rest against his throat.

  The envoy jerked back, his legs stumbling on the uneven ground. With a cry he crashed onto his back. Merydith quickly planted her boot on his chest. Gently she touched her blade to his throat again. He had lost his grip on his flag, and Merydith bent down and picked it up.

  “You know, another like you came before me under such a flag.” Taking it by the haft, she slammed it into the earth beside his head. “I welcomed him into my city, honoured him as my guest. And how do you think your Tsar repaid me?”

  “You…you can’t!” the negotiator stuttered.

  Lifting her sword, Merydith touched it to his lips, silencing him. “That man tried to kill me,” she continued conversationally. “He took his sword and murdered my guards. His assassination almost succeeded. Now another comes before me with a white flag; what am I to do?”

  There were tears streaming down the envoy’s face now. He managed to blurt out several nonsensical words between sobs.

  “Honestly, you’re not much of a negotiator. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Please, pray, speak more clearly.”

  The man stilled, his terrified eyes fixing on her. “I have only one message to deliver, witch,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Surrender to the Tsar’s mercy, and he shall spare half of your people.”

  Anger rose in Merydith’s throat. Teeth bared, she pressed down with her blade, until blood ran from the man’s cheek. Silently, she fought the urge to skewer him, aware her people were watching. Whatever crimes the Tsar had committed, she must not let herself sink to his level, lest she become the monster she fought to destroy.

  With an effort to will, she withdrew her sword and stepped back. “We reject your terms. Northland will stand to the last against evil.”

  Turning, Merydith started back towards her people, leaving the man lying in the muck.

  His words chased after her, echoing up the hill to the watchers beyond. “Then you will all burn!”

  She glanced back, and saw him flinch from the rage in her eyes. “Then you will burn with us.”

  Chapter 35

  It took a day and a night for the Stalkers to lead Quinn into the Tsar’s camp. Quinn had been surprised to learn the army was already in Trola, but the other Stalkers had been able to ascertain the Tsar’s location using their connection to him through their silver bracelets. Their horses were puffing hard by the time the sun broke over their company. Zarent signalled a halt as they topped a rise and looked down at the army camped in the valley below.

  Sitting on his horse with his hands tied to the pommel, Quinn realised with a conflicted heart that they had arrived just in time to witness the final battle. Already the Tsar’s forces were gathering at the head of the valley, above which the Queen had set her fortifications. An earthen rampart impeded Quinn’s view of the rest of the camp, but several hundred soldiers could be seen waiting, their eyes on the army below.

  “We’re just in time,” one of his former Stalkers said with a grin. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, Lieutenant. The Tsar might send you to the front lines, to die with honour.”

  Quinn smiled darkly. “Maybe he’ll send you.”

  The Stalker’s eyes burned into Quinn. “If my Tsar requires it of me, I will ride into battle with laughter on my lips.”

  “Of course you would,” Quinn spat. “I doubt you’ve ever had an original thought in that tiny brain of yours.”

  The Stalker bared his teeth, but the boom of drums drew their attention back to the battlefield. On the hillside beneath the Northland army, a single figure could be seen retreating back to the mass of men and women camped in the valley.

  “Guess the negotiations fell through,” Quinn commented dryly.

  “Let’s go,” Zarent snapped from the front, urging his horse forward.

  Another Stalker held Quinn’s reins, leaving him with no choice but to follow the others down the hillside. They rode down towards the camp, where a guard stationed on the outskirts moved to intercept them. The man quickly backed down, though, when he recognised the slick black uniforms of the Stalkers, and they continued on through the campsite, following the familiar layout that was used by the Tsar’s army during all campaigns in hostile territory.

  Anger coiled around Quinn’s gut as they approached the massive tent erected in the centre of the camp. He wanted to hate the Tsar for this betrayal, to rage against Zarent and the other Stalkers, but in the end it was his own failure that had spelt his end. Yet again, the Tsar’s children had eluded him. Now the time had come for him to face his judgement.

  The other Stalkers dismounted outside the tent, but Quinn was forced to wait until Zarent came and cut his bonds. Clenching his fingers to restore their circulation, he glared down at the Stalker, before climbing from his saddle and joining the others on the ground. Two men took a firm grip on his shoulders and pushed him towards the entrance. Grinding his teeth, he shook them off and strode ahead of them.

  Cursing, Zarent pushed past him and took the lead. Quinn followed a step behind as they approached the Tsar’s tent. Two guards stood outside, but they parted without hesitation upon sighting the black-garbed Stalkers. A third stood within, spear held at the ready. He retreated into the gloom to announce their arrival. A moment later he reappeared, and waved them forward.

  Standing on the threshold, Quinn hesitated. For a moment he wondered whether he should flee, if he should summon his power and blast the Stalkers from his path, and use the chaos that ensued to disappear into the hills. Yet even as he considered it, he dismissed the idea. His doom might wait within the darkness of the tent, but it was a doom to which he had dedicated his entire life. Whatever his fate, Quinn could not abandon the Tsar now, not when he was so close to his final goal.

  Besides, where would he go? The Queen, with her reckless defence of Magickers, was anathema to him, and Devon and his Baronian thugs were even worse.

  Straightening his shoulders, Quinn strode into the gloom of the tent. Zarent marched eagerly at his side, while the others waited without. Inside, the tent was huge, and it took a moment for Quinn’s eyes to adjust. Marble tiles, packed in an oaken trunk and carried by the army each day, covered the floor, their smooth white surfaces a stark contrast to the churned-up mud that was the rest of the camp. A massive poster bed stood on the far side of the tent, while two iron braziers burned to either side of them.

  In the middle of the Tsar’s quarters, the man himself sat at an ornate table fashioned from polished steel. He looked up as they entered, a frown on his face. There was a plate before him, heaped with steak and sliced potato. Finishing his mouthful, he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, ignoring Zarent. “I take it you have news for me.”

  Surprised at the Tsar’s casual words, Quinn glanced at Zarent. The other man said nothing though, just stood staring at the Tsar, his face hard. Clearing his throat, Quinn faced the table. “Ahh, no, sir, you ordered us to return?”

  The Tsar stilled at his words, his brow knotting into a frown. “Did I?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “And how, pray, did I do that?”

  “You…you appeared to us, sir,” Quinn replied, his stomach suddenly a knotted mess. “You ordered Zarent to take command, and bring me here to face your judgement…didn’t you?”

  “I did not,” the Tsar rumbled.

  Face dark, he came slowly to his feet. Quinn opened his mouth, searching for a way of explanation. Around him, the temperature in the tent plummeted, as though all substance were being drawn away. He staggered, his breath misting on the air as he struggled to inhale. Strength fled his muscles as the Tsar walked sl
owly around the table towards him.

  “I…I…it was him!” Clutching at the lifeline that was the other Stalker, Quinn stabbed a finger at Zarent.

  Zarent stood staring back, his face impassive, his sapphire blue eyes fixed on the Tsar. Quinn frowned, sensing a wrongness to the man…

  “I grow weary of your ineptitude, Lieutenant,” the Tsar grated as he came to a stop in front of Quinn. “I have been patient, given you chance after chance, but this final disappointment…it cannot be forgiven.”

  Blue fire appeared in his palm as he raised his hand. Its heat radiated through the tent, the only warmth in the suddenly frigid air. Quinn gasped, his mind racing, struggling to put sense to what the Tsar was saying.

  “We…were tricked!” he gasped.

  He tried to inhale, to regain his strength, but it was as though all substance had been drained from the air. His legs shook, and then collapsed beneath him, sending him toppling to the ground. Chest heaving, he looked up at the flame dancing in the Tsar’s hand.

  “Of course you were, Lieutenant,” the Tsar murmured. “Now, goodbye.”

  “Don’t!”

  The Tsar swung around as a high-pitched voice shouted from across the tent. His eyes straining, Quinn struggled to find the speaker. He frowned, unable to make sense of the light swirling around Zarent. Then suddenly his vision seemed to clear and the lights faded away. Quinn blinked, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. Zarent had vanished. In his place now stood the boy, Braidon, his arms folded and sapphire eyes burning with spent magic.

  “Please, father,” he said, taking a step towards the Tsar. “This is not his fault.”

  “My son,” the Tsar said softly. The fire in his hands died as he faced the boy. “So it was you who tricked my lieutenant.”

  “I needed a way to find you.”

  The Tsar looked around, searching the tent. “And where, pray, is your sister?”

  “Safely away from here,” he replied.

  “Really?” The Tsar’s cocked his head. “That seems unlike her.” He raised a hand.

  “Stop!”

  Quinn looked around as another voice spoke from the corner of the tent. For a moment, he saw nothing, and then Alana stepped forward, a swirling mist falling away from her as she moved.

  “I’m here, Father,” she said, her eyes on the floor.

  “A happy reunion,” the Tsar murmured, turning back to Braidon. “You impress me, my son. But pray, what sudden change of heart has brought my children before me?”

  “We didn’t come here to fight,” Alana said, stepping towards the Tsar.

  Before she could come close, he lifted a hand and pointed it at her chest. The gesture froze her in place, and Quinn recognised the familiar look of panic on her face as the Tsar’s power trapped her. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing more than a squeak came out. Quietly, Quinn rose to his feet and edged backwards into the shadows.

  “I spared your life at Enala’s request, daughter, but you no longer play a part in this,” the Tsar said. He turned back to Braidon, leaving Alana immobilised. “Now, why have you come, my son?”

  Reaching into his belt, Braidon drew a short sword. He stared at the blade for a moment as though deep in thought. Then he tossed it aside.

  “My sister thought we might take you by surprise,” he said solemnly. “I never thought it would work.” He took a step towards the Tsar. “I thought I would call on your mercy, instead.”

  “My mercy?” the Tsar murmured.

  Braidon swallowed. “Yes, Father,” he replied. “I know my past now, I’ve seen the truth. I know you love me, love both of us in your own way.”

  “And how do you know this, my son?”

  “I remember…” Braidon’s voice broke, and Quinn glimpsed tears in his eyes. “I remember a day you took me to the top of the citadel, and showed me our world. You told me that everything you did, you did it for us. Was it not true?”

  Shadows hid the Tsar’s eyes as he shook his head. “Ah, my son, how I have yearned all these years for you to stand at my side.” Moving across the room, he knelt beside Braidon and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I remember that day well. It was the day of my greatest despair, when I thought I had failed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was the day I learned the Sword of Light was not enough to accomplish what I desired, that I would need the power of the other Elements to succeed.”

  “But why did you despair? You had already claimed the power of one God as your own.”

  “Because I knew I did not have the strength to do what was needed.”

  Braidon swallowed. “You knew we would have to be sacrificed.”

  “Ay,” the Tsar replied, standing. “On that day I discovered the true weakness of humanity: not magic or hate or war, but love.”

  “No,” the boy murmured. He tried to take a step back, but the Tsar’s magic bubbled through the air, freezing him on the spot.

  “Yes,” the Tsar whispered. “Fickle, relentless, dangerous, it was love that stopped me then. But not now, not ever again.” Steel hissed on leather as the Tsar reached down and drew the Sword of Light and Earth.

  “Father?” Braidon whispered, staring up at the man.

  Tears shone in the Tsar’s eyes as he towered over the boy. “Oh, my son,” he said, his voice taut. “How this pains me, but I will not stop now. The stakes are too great. My enemies surround me, but with your death, their powers will be dust in the wind before us.”

  Fear showed on Braidon’s face as he struggled in his father’s bindings. “Please, you don’t have to do this, Father!”

  “But I do,” the Tsar replied. He raised the Sword, studying the flickering green and white light emanating from the blade. “It is the only way. Jurrien will not possess your sister. Only you can host the God of the Sky. I am sorry, my son, but you must die to seal magic’s fate.”

  Chapter 36

  The Tsar’s envoy had barely reached the bottom of the hill before the southern army began to move, its ranks advancing to the rhythmic stomping of boots. Merydith watched from her vantage point atop the earthen ramparts for a few moments, and then retreated beyond the line of Trolan defenders.

  “Your mount, Your Majesty,” Mokyre said, stepping forward and handing her the reins of her horse.

  Merydith nodded her thanks and swung into the saddle. After taking a moment to adjust her buckler, she straightened. Around her, four thousand northern soldiers did the same. The soft whinny of horses whispered across the hilltop, coupled with the ring of steel and creaking of leather.

  “Are we ready?” Merydith asked as Mokyre appeared alongside her, freshly mounted.

  He nodded, and she turned to look for Betran. She found him standing nearby, his lips twisted in a grim frown. Edging her horse towards him, she shouted to draw his attention.

  “Don’t look so miserable, Betran,” she called when he looked up. “The day is finally here that you get to spit in the face of the Tsar!”

  “Oh I know it,” said Betran, forcing a smile. “I’m just disappointed I don’t get the first stab at him.”

  “Your time will come, my friend,” Merydith replied, though she knew the man did not mean the words.

  She glanced back to where the Northland clans were still forming up. Beyond the horses, she could just make out the red steeple of the Magickers’ tent. The day’s efforts would hinge on not just the courage of those on the battlefield, but on Helen and her people. If they failed, Merydith’s gamble would fail with it, and they would all be left exposed to the Tsar’s power.

  From beyond the ramparts, a distant bugle call drifted up to them. One of the soldiers on watch glanced back at them, his eyes wide with fear. “They’re coming!” he called.

  Merydith nodded and lifted the gold-enamelled helmet from her saddle. She placed it on her head and then drew her sword. But as she opened her mouth to shout the order to advance, a cry came from behind her, followed by the thump of hooves
approaching. She swung around, her determination giving way to sudden fear as she saw Damyn riding up.

  His face was pale and streaks of red still stained his eyes, but he sat straight in the saddle, a sabre resting across his pommel. He wore no helmet, but his chainmail shone in the morning light. A smile touched his lips when their eyes met, and Merydith’s heart gave another twang as she realised there would be no talking him out of joining the fight. Murdo came up behind him, his face more alive than she’d seen it in a decade.

  “Save me from the folly of men,” Merydith muttered under her breath as the two drew up beside her.

  “Were you going to leave without me?” Damyn asked, his voice tight. There was still a greyness to his face, and she wondered where he’d found the strength to leave his stretcher.

  Merydith edged her horse closer to the two. “Please don’t do this, Damyn,” she whispered, trying to keep the panic from her voice. She looked at Murdo, seeking an ally, but the old man only shook his head and gestured at Damyn.

  “Please don’t try and stop me, Merydith,” he replied, his voice shaking slightly. “I can’t…I can’t just lie here and wait to find out what happens. If we…” His voice broke and he shook his head. “I have to do this.”

  Understanding touched Merydith as she saw the fear behind his eyes, and she nodded quickly. “Stay close, my guards will protect you.” Before he could respond, she turned and lifted her sword once more. “For freedom!”

  Trumpets rang out from their camp, and as one, the northern cavalry surged forward. Up the earthen rampart they raced, and down the other side where planks had been tossed across a section of the trench. Then they were on the open hillside for all to see, racing down towards their approaching foe.

  Below, the Tsar’s forces were already halfway up the hillside, but their charge faltered when they glimpsed the cavalry come pounding into view. The glee on their faces turned to sudden terror as realisation spread through their ranks. In their eagerness to reach the defenders, they had broken ranks and charged in open formation.