Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  A grin touched Merydith’s face as she urged her steed onwards, watching as the panic spread through the Tsar’s ranks. The southerners had expected Merydith to hide behind her barricades and wait for them to come to her. Now they found themselves facing a charging horde, the frontmost soldiers were hurriedly staggering to a stop. Some even tried to turn back, but the ranks of soldiers coming up behind prevented them from fleeing the field.

  As chaos descended on the southern army, Merydith swung towards the right, so that their charge would strike the enemy’s flank. Sabre raised in one hand, the reins in the other, she shouted a cry as the last few yards vanished in the blink of an eye.

  Then she was amongst them, her sword hacking and cutting, her momentum hardly faltering as her mount smashed aside a man and trampled him beneath iron-shod hooves. A crash like thunder echoed across the hillside as the rest of her cavalry struck, sweeping aside the leading ranks of footmen like leaves before the autumn winds.

  Screaming a battle cry, Merydith charged on. Those beyond the first ranks were still struggling to link shields, and they collapsed inwards as she sliced through their midst. A desperate rage built in Merydith’s chest as a man leapt at her, grabbing at her leg and trying to drag her from the saddle. Her sabre flashed down, half-severing his arm before dancing clear. Another cried out as she plunged it through his eye.

  Suddenly her horse went down, but she leapt free of the saddle and rolled to break her fall. Surging to her feet, she deflected a wild blow from a charging soldier and then drove her blade into his chest.

  Tearing it clear, she swung around and saw one of her men topple from his saddle. The horse reared, scattering the enemy, and she leapt for it. From the corner of her eyes she saw a scarlet-caped Plorsean raise his sword and begin to swing, then Damyn charged into view, and the man disappeared in a flash of hooves.

  Catching the riderless horse by the reins, Merydith swung herself into the saddle. She nodded her thanks as Damyn pressed closer. Amidst the sudden calm, she looked around, surprised to find them deep in the enemy formation. Behind them was a broken field of corpses, while ahead the endless ranks of the Tsar’s army stretched on towards his distant tent.

  A shout came from away to their left, and glancing around, Merydith saw the leftmost ranks of the Tsar’s force pressing forward to sweep across the hillside. If they succeeded, the northerners would be cut off from their camp, their flanks exposed. With the impetus of their charge broken, the Tsar’s forces would be free to surround them, and cut them down at will.

  Watching the advancing ranks, Merydith held her breath, and sent up a silent prayer to the Gods—and Helen. For a moment it seemed time stood still, and she sat there in silence, watching the slow advance of the soldiers as they crossed the hillside behind them, like a giant set of jaws stretching out to swallow the northern soldiers.

  Then a boom echoed across the churned-up hillside. The sound swept through the battle like a ripple on a lake, as every man and woman paused to seek out its source. Confusion appeared on the faces of those around her, and even Damyn looked in the direction of the Tsar’s tent with fear.

  A terrible scream tore from the earth as the earthquake struck, hurling men and women from their feet. Merydith’s horse screamed and bucked beneath her, but she dragged back on its reins, refusing to give it a second’s control. Around her, the northerners struggled to do the same.

  An ear-rending boom echoed across the battlefield like thunder, drawing the eyes of all to the hilltop. Together as one, they watched as the earth itself split in two, and a crack raced down towards the Tsar’s army. Screams came from the men gathered there, but it was amongst them before any could regain their feet and flee. Like an axe parting a melon, it tore through the centre of the Tsar’s forces, hurling hundreds into the void and continuing down the valley towards the distant camp.

  Slowly the thunder of the earth faded away, to be replaced by the screams of the dying. Drawing back on the reins of her unfamiliar mount, Merydith brought the gelding under control. Her guards were already doing the same, and she glimpsed Damyn and Murdo nearby, their eyes on the damage Helen and her Magickers had wrought.

  Steeling herself, Merydith turned to examine the aftermath of their magic. A gaping crevice now split the slope leading down from their camp, dividing the Tsar’s forces clean in two. The left flank that had sought to encircle them was now trapped on the other side of the gulf.

  Merydith looked back at the ranks ahead of them.

  And smiled.

  The next day found Devon and the Baronians on the road north. Corrie and his Trolans trailed behind them in broken clusters, unorganised and unprepared for the march to come. Within an hour, they were lagging well behind, and Devon was forced to call a stop and wait for the intermittent groups to catch up.

  Watching them trail up the hill, he was reminded of Selina’s words from the night before. He cursed beneath his breath as Corrie marched up with the last group. Overhead the sun was shining, its warmth already banishing the frost that had set in overnight.

  “You’re in a bad mood this morning,” Joseph said as he joined Devon.

  Devon mumbled something unintelligible, but the Baronian only laughed and slapped him on the back.

  “Saw Selina leaving your tent last night,” Quint replied. “That have anything to do with it?”

  “The woman’s got a way of getting under a man’s skin,” Devon grunted.

  “That she does,” the Baronian agreed. “Usually because she’s right, of course.”

  “Well in that case, you might be interested to hear she wants me to lead all of you, and all of them.” He waved in the general direction of the Trolans. “Against the Tsar’s army.”

  “Wonderful,” Joseph replied. “You think I could reconsider that mutiny?”

  “You’d be more than welcome.”

  Joseph shook his head. “We’re already on our way, aren’t we?”

  “Afraid so,” Devon nodded.

  “You know he has dragons, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And demons.

  “Yup.”

  “Magickers too. Don’t suppose Alana and her brother have shown up in the night?”

  “No,” Devon murmured.

  Joseph drew his axe from his shoulders and gave it a practice swing. His face twitched, but otherwise his injury didn’t seem to bother him. He took a moment to inspect the blade before turning back to Devon.

  “You really think the Trolans will follow you?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Devon muttered. Drawing kanker, he strode across to where Corrie was sitting with several other Trolans.

  The man looked up as he approached, his face darkening. “What do you want, Butcher?”

  Devon took a moment to inspect the man before allowing his gaze to travel on, taking in the half dozen men that surrounded him. “Listen up!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the road to where the other Trolans were gathered. Several faces turned to stare at him. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about me by now.”

  “Ay, they’ve heard,” Corrie growled, stepping in front of him. “But they don’t need to hear from you.”

  “That’s too bad,” Devon snapped. Corrie opened his mouth to object, but Devon’s hand flicked out, catching him by the shirt. He dragged him close and stared into his terrified eyes. “Listen up, sonny,” he murmured. “Whatever you think of me, you can keep on thinking it. Tomorrow. But for today, the past, the future, they don’t exist. Because if the Tsar wins, you’ll all be dead. Trola will burn. Northland will burn. And there will be no one left to remember any of us. Understand?”

  His eyes wide, Corrie’s head jerked up and down.

  Releasing him, Devon straightened and looked out over the gathered Trolans. “I know you hate me,” he started. “I don’t blame you. But as I just told your young leader here, today we must set aside our differences. Today, I am not the enemy.” He lifted a hand to point the way ahead. “Today, our e
nemy is the Tsar, and he will destroy us all if we cannot stand together.”

  “What do you want from us, Butcher?” a voice called from the back of the crowd.

  Devon sighed. “I am no king, no general,” he replied, “but I understand our enemy, and how he works. These people behind me, they’re Baronians.” A whisper spread through the crowd at his words. Devon drew kanker and lifted it above his head. “Silence!” He bellowed. He pointed his hammer at the shocked watchers. “These Baronians, they have already fought against the Tsar, against his Stalkers, against his dragon. Together, we struck a blow against the enemy, and then fled through the mountains. They have followed me through hell and back, and they’re still here. Do you know why?”

  His gaze swept the gathered Trolans, but not a one of them spoke. He smiled.

  “They’re here because my name is Devon, and I do not lose.”

  A cheer erupted from the Baronians behind him as he thrust kanker skywards. Looking around, he glimpsed Selina standing amongst them, the slightest hint of a smile on her lips. She nodded as their eyes met, and grinning, he turned back to the Trolans. Silence fell as he lowered his weapon.

  “Today, I march against the Tsar. Who will follow me?”

  Chapter 37

  Quinn shivered as ripples formed around the Tsar, sheer energy pouring from his outstretched hands, seeming to bend the very fabric of reality. His chant whispered through the tent, incomprehensible, and yet it sent a tingling down to Quinn’s very core. He could feel the magic building, coalescing around the boy in the centre of it all.

  Sadness touched him as he looked at Braidon. Alana had always kept him at an arm’s length from the boy, but seeing the terror in his steely eyes, Quinn felt a wave of pity for him. The boy had come here to call on his father’s love. How it must pain him to see now it was not enough, that the Tsar would sacrifice everything he loved to bring about the change he sought.

  Tearing his gaze from the boy, Quinn found himself looking at Alana. She barely seemed to notice him, so intent was she on her brother. Teeth bared, the veins on her neck bulging, she strained against the forces holding her in place. Quinn grinned despite himself, and crossed to where she stood.

  “You cannot save him,” he murmured. He circled her, barely able to contain his glee at her sorrow. “You cannot even save yourself.”

  “Quinn,” she whispered. “Please, he never did anything to you. Help him.”

  “Never,” Quinn hissed. “The boy may be innocent, but you are not. You brought this on for the both of you, Alana. I—”

  He broke off as the ground beneath his feet began to shake. Staggering sideways, he thrust out a hand, using Alana to steady himself. Locked in the Tsar’s magic, she didn’t so much as stumble. Slowly the shaking faded away, and he straightened. Quinn jerked back his hand as he realised he was still touching Alana and could have been influenced by her magic, but she only had eyes for her brother.

  “What was that?” In the centre of the tent, the Tsar had broken off his chanting and was looking towards the Queen’s army.

  “Let me check,” Quinn said quickly, springing to the doorway of the tent.

  Ducking outside, he glanced at the stunned faces of the Stalkers, then at the battlefield. His jaw dropped as he took in the jagged tear in the hillside. Half the Tsar’s force had been stranded on the green fields on one side, while those on the left were battling furiously with the mounted forces of the Northland Queen.

  “What do we do?” one of the Stalkers was saying.

  Quinn shook himself free of his shock and swung on the man. “Join the battle,” he snapped, pointing up at the hill. “The Tsar is already engaged in the final summons. When he’s done, the Queen and her people will be wiped from the field. In the meantime, make sure she’s occupied.”

  His group of Stalkers stared at him, before one stepped forward, a sneer on his lips. “You forget yourself, Quinn,” he said. “You’re not lieu—”

  He never got to finish his sentence, as Quinn’s blade plunged through his throat. Dragging back the sword, Quinn glared at the others. “Any other objections?”

  As one, the remaining Stalkers turned and fled in the direction of the battle. Quinn followed their progress, wondering whether he should take the chance to escape. It was only a matter of time before the Tsar finished with his work and remembered Quinn’s folly. Then there would be a reckoning, one which he was unlikely to survive.

  Yet if the Tsar succeeded, there would be nowhere in the Three Nations Quinn could run that he would not be found. Closing his eyes, he returned to the darkness of the tent.

  “What’s happening out there?” the Tsar demanded. He was at the table now, an assortment of potions and herbs sprawled across its surface.

  “The Queen’s Magickers have struck. I sent my Stalkers to deal with them,” Quinn said quickly.

  The Tsar waved a hand. “The Queen will wait, this cannot.” Returning to his concoctions, he began mixing ingredients into a mortar.

  “Quinn, help me.”

  Quinn looked around as the boy’s voice whispered through the darkness. Swallowing, he clenched his fists. Help him? The boy had tricked him, sentenced him to the same fate as his own. Teeth clenched, he watched as the Tsar worked, as outside the distant roar of voices and clashes of steel carried through the camp.

  Finally the Tsar lifted the mortar and held the contents up to the light of a lantern. Nodding to himself, he moved across to where Braidon still stood frozen. He came to a stop before the boy, his face twisted in regret.

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, my son,” he murmured.

  Braidon’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “Just do it!” he snapped.

  Nodding, the Tsar reached out and grabbed his son by the jaw. Forcing his head back, he poured half the contents of the mortar down Braidon’s throat, then held his mouth and nose until he was forced to swallow. Then he moved away, and swallowed the remaining potion in one gulp.

  The chanting resumed as the Tsar wandered the room, the Sword of Light and Earth now gripped firmly in his hand. Light flickered from the blade, at first brilliant and blinding, then dimming to barely more than a spark.

  He returned to stand before the boy and gripped Braidon by the shoulder. His voice grew louder, and finally Quinn understood the words he spoke. Magic bubbled through the tent, and Quinn flinched back at its touch, his own magic boiling up in response. It gathered in the air between the Tsar and his son as the Tsar’s voice boomed out:

  “I summon you, God of the Sky.” At his words, a moan rose up from Braidon’s chest. He stiffened, his face taking on a look of terror as he sought to tear himself from his father’s grip. “I summon you, Jurrien, return to this mortal realm,” the Tsar continued. “I bid you, take host in this vessel, in the body of the man marked by the name Theo. Take his mortal body and return your immortal soul to this world.”

  Quinn’s heart lurched forward at the Tsar’s words. Standing there, he struggled to understand whether he’d heard them correctly. He took half a step forward, but the magic pressed against him, forcing him back. Stretching out a hand, he tried to call a warning, but it was already too late. With a triumphant shout, the Tsar slammed his hands together.

  A blue light burst into life, blinding, crackling with untold energy. Quinn felt a part of himself respond, drinking it in, his magic exhilarating in the touch of its creator. He gasped as the power of the Storm God swept through him—and then went rushing away. Swirling about the room, the blue light coalesced into a single stream, flowing inwards to a point between the Tsar and his son.

  Then with a flash, it vanished.

  Letting out a long breath, the Tsar stepped back from Braidon and lifted the Sword of Light and Earth. Braidon stared back at him, his grey eyes shining with a new light, with the triumph of victory. A frown touched the Tsar’s forehead as he looked around, saw the horror on Quinn’s face, and the joy radiating from the eyes of his two children.

  “What is
it?” he growled.

  “You...you said your own name,” Quinn whispered.

  The Tsar stared at him blankly, uncomprehending. Before he could respond, a harsh laughter rang through the tent, drawing their attention back to where Braidon stood. Except it was no longer Braidon who stood there.

  It was Alana.

  A smirk twisting her lips, she folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Surprised, boys?”

  Chapter 38

  Merydith cursed as her sword caught in the chest of an enemy soldier and was torn from her grip. Screaming, the woman fell back, but another leapt forward to take her place, his spear driving through the thigh of Merydith’s horse. The beast screamed and fell, hurling Merydith from the saddle. She came up, dagger in hand, and braced herself as the spearman charged—only for one of her guards to run in and drive a sword through his heart.

  Her guard scooped up a discarded blade and tossed it her way. She caught it by the hilt and spun to block a blow from another soldier. Her guard moved alongside her, but another spear came flashing from the ranks of soldiers, taking him in the throat. He staggered back, blood bubbling from the wound, and collapsed alongside her.

  Sword and dagger in hand, Merydith killed the second spearman, then leapt back as three red-cloaked soldiers charged her. Movement came from her sides and Damyn and Mokyre stepped up. They had lost their horses as well, and a quick glance told Merydith most of her force were fighting on foot now.

  Steel clashed as they met the Plorseans. Turning aside a stabbing sword with her buckler, Merydith lashed out with her adopted sword, catching her assailant beneath the arm. She dragged back the blade as the man cried out, staggering sideways into one of his comrades. Damyn took advantage of the confusion to finish them both, as Mokyre drove his blade through the heart of the soldier to Merydith’s left.