Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  Together they pressed forward into the ranks of southern soldiers, desperately trying to turn back the tide of scarlet and emerald. Despite being cut off from half their number, the Tsar’s force still stood strong, and was now beginning to press them back. Inch by inch, the ragged front Merydith’s people had formed was bowing beneath the pressure.

  Only around their Queen did the northerners still stand their ground. But with both flanks bending back, the Tsar’s soldiers were beginning to spread out around her force. If the line was not reinforced, their greater numbers would envelope her people in a ring of iron.

  “Forward!” she called, desperately willing her people to hold.

  A few of those nearby heard the call and hurled themselves into the battle with renewed fury, but those on the flanks were too far away. The line continued to bend, and she sensed the will of her army flickering, about to give.

  Then a cry echoed down the hillside behind them. Merydith glanced back, her heart lifting as she saw Betran and his Trolans streaming down towards them. They split in two, reinforcing the flanks to either side of Merydith. With a roar, they hurled themselves into the battle, and the line straightened.

  Merydith shared a grin with Damyn. “We’re not done yet!” she shouted over the clash of blades, clapping him on the shoulder.

  His face pale, Damyn nodded. Looking for all the world like a dead man walking, he lifted his sword. “Haven’t won yet either.”

  Nodding, Merydith gave his shoulder a squeeze and released him. Stepping back into line, she hurled herself at the enemy with renewed vigour. Damyn joined her, fighting mechanically now, while to her left Mokyre moved with a deadly efficiency. Each time his sword flashed out, an enemy fell back, more often than not clutching at some mortal wound.

  Time stretched out unending, but for every southern soldier they slew, another was ready to step forward, fresh and ready for the fight. Hope withered in Merydith’s heart as she realised they weren’t going to break. The cavalry charge, the earthquake, the Trolan reinforcements, none of them had succeeded in shattering the enemy spirit. Still outnumbered two to one, the only thing the rebels had left to give was their lives.

  Merydith’s only consolation was the Tsar had not attacked. In splitting his army in two, Helen and her people had burned through most of their strength. Now every man and women on the hillside lay exposed to the Tsar’s power.

  And yet he had not sought retribution.

  Struggling to catch her breath, she stepped back from the line, nodding as another soldier took her place. She looked out over the heads of the enemy, to where their camp stretched out down the valley. The Tsar’s tent was easily seen from her vantage point, but it remained silent, dark. A shiver touched her as she looked at the men and women fighting below. Clearly, the Tsar would rather spend their lives to destroy her, rather than waste his own power on so trivial a matter.

  A cry went up from the wall of soldiers ahead, and then Damyn was staggering back, Murdo draped over his shoulder. Her heart lurched as she raced forward and helped lower the old man to the ground.

  “Murdo!” she called, looking around for someone to carry him back to the camp.

  But his eyelids were already fluttering closed, and with a long, rattling exhalation, he died. A sob tore from Merydith’s chest as she scrunched her eyes closed, her hand locked in a death grip around the old man’s shirt.

  “Damnit!” she screamed.

  In a rage she lurched to her feet and threw herself at the line of soldiers. Her blade flashed as she tore into the enemy. She felt the satisfying crunch of flesh giving way to steel, and watched as a man crumpled beneath the blow. Dragging back her weapon, Merydith advanced.

  Men and women launched themselves at her with renewed fury, but her sword and dagger were like extensions of her own body now, their blades flashing out to steal away the lives of her enemies. Decades of training at the hands of Enala flowed through Merydith, turning her into a living weapon that sent opponents falling back in dismay.

  But the battle had been raging for hours now, and even she could not last forever. As she began to slow, a man lurched forward, his sword opening up a cut on her arm. Crying out, she drove her dagger through his neck and staggered back. Mokyre leapt to her defence, his sword slamming into the thigh of the next soldier in line.

  Gasping, Merydith straightened, surprised to find herself edged on either side by Trolan soldiers. Her gaze travelled back, taking in the scores of Northlanders lying fallen in their wake, the enemy staked high around them.

  As she watched, her people on both flanks were thrust aside, and the Tsar’s army rush through the gap.

  “No,” she whispered.

  But it was already too late. With the flanks collapsing around them, her dwindling force was pressed back on itself, and surrounded within moments. Shields raised, the enemy launched themselves at their rear.

  “Fighting square!” Merydith cried out, desperate now.

  The men and women around her moved quickly, those on the flanks and rear of the force spinning to meet the threat. Many of her people had taken up shields from the enemy, and joining ranks, they presented a united front against the mass of humanity surrounding them. As one, the last of the northern army stood and faced the enemy gathering around them.

  Her heart hammering, Merydith spun, seeking a way out. Less than two thousand men and women stood with her now. Trolans and Northlanders together as one, they showed no sign of fear as they faced the Tsar’s soldiers, though they knew now there was no way out.

  Movement came from the ranks of soldiers ahead of Merydith as their line parted, emitting the Tsar’s envoy to the front. The two forces were separated now by several yards, and wearing a slick smile, the envoy took a step towards their line. Coming to a stop beside the body of a Northlander, he stared down at the corpse, then back at her.

  “Tell me again, Queen, how we will all burn?” he asked softly.

  Hatred for the man burned in Merydith’s heart. She took a quick step forward and hurled her dagger. The smile on the envoy’s face faltered as her blade embedded itself in his unprotected chest. He staggered sideways, looking down at the dagger in disbelief. Without another word, he slumped to the ground beside the dead Northlander.

  “Who’s next?” Merydith screamed, gesturing at the ranks of Plorsean and Lonian soldiers with her sword.

  Not a soul spoke, but with a rattle of steel shields, the front ranks swept closed. A harsh crash rang out as they started forwards.

  It was as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over Merydith’s rage. Stepping back into line, she lifted her sword and readied herself. The gap between the two forces narrowed, the southern soldiers silent but for the trod of their boots. There were no battle cries or jeering now. The Northland army and their Trolan allies had paid for their respect in blood.

  Smoothly, the lines came together, and the screams of the dying resumed.

  Chapter 39

  Standing on the edge of the valley, Devon looked down at the battle raging below. The roar of a thousand voices whispered up to his vantage point, more like the buzz of insects than the sound of men and women dying. The morning on the road had stretched out, their progress slowed by the older members of the Trolan party. Now that they were finally here, Devon feared they may already be too late.

  Below, a great fissure divided the battlefield in two. On one side, a great force could be seen on the march, seeking to find a way across to the battle raging on the other side. From what Devon could see, the crevice stretched out down the valley for well over a mile, dividing even the massive camp that had been set back from the battle.

  On the side closest to Devon, the Queen’s force stood surrounded by a sea of red and green cloaks. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched the Tsar’s army surge forward, slamming into the ranks of the defenders and pressing them back upon one another. If something didn’t change, the Queen would be overwhelmed within the hour.

  “Still plan
ning on helping out?” Joseph asked from beside him.

  Stepping back from the edge, Devon turned and looked back at the thousand men and women gathered behind him. Their numbers had swollen as they came across more stragglers heading for the battle. Now, Baronians and Trolans alike watched him with fear in their eyes. They had not yet seen what waited below, but they could hear the distant screams, the bellowing of trumpets.

  They had followed him this far, but he was still unsure whether they would take the final step, if they could set aside their grievances and find common cause with himself and the Baronians. Now though, the time had finally come to find out.

  “The battle has been joined,” Devon called out. “The Tsar’s army has been sundered, but a mighty force still remains. They have the Queen and her people surrounded.”

  A nervous whispering spread through his followers, but he raised a hand, his eyes fixing them with a glare. Silence fell, and he went on.

  “She is not finished yet. We are not finished yet.”

  Devon sucked in a lungful of air and drew kanker from its sheath. Looking out at the faces of those who had followed him across the mountains and through these rolling hills, he wondered how it had come to this. These men and women were farmers and potters, bakers and butchers—not soldiers. This was not their life, not their calling. And yet they looked at him with trust in their eyes, believing he would guide them through the coming storm.

  Standing amongst the crowd, Selina’s lips moved, mouthing the words: Lead them.

  “I know many of you don’t want to be here.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider what he was saying. “I know you would rather be safe in your homes, back with your families, anywhere but on this barren hillside. This isn’t your place, but you’re here anyway, ready to lay down your lives for what you believe in.”

  “And what do you believe in…Devon?” Corrie’s voice emerged from the crowd of faces.

  Devon smiled. “Love, life, a future for us all,” he said simply, lifting kanker up in the sunlight. “This is kanker. You know it well. With it, I carved my name into your legends. But a legend needs an ending. Today, we will carve that ending in the blood of your enemies, and write a new future for the Trolan nation.”

  An eerie silence fell over the hillside as he lowered his weapons. All eyes seemed to shift to Corrie. The young man stared back at Devon, his eyes shining. Swallowing visibly, he reached down and drew his sword.

  “For Trola!” he cried.

  “For Trola!” the call echoed off the hillside, lifting Devon up, feeding him strength.

  He shared a glance with Corrie. Then he turned and strode over the edge of the hill into the valley beyond.

  And a thousand warriors followed after him.

  Chapter 40

  Exhilaration swept through Alana as her brother’s illusion melted away, revealing her to the room. Across from her, she watched her own face flicker, then vanish, revealing Braidon standing in her place. Beside her brother, horror was written across Quinn’s face. Her father still stood poised in shock, struggling to comprehend what she’d just wrought.

  She flashed him a smile. It had been so simple in the end. All she’d needed was physical contact, and just the slightest nudge with her magic. Anything more, and her father might have sensed her power, even through Braidon’s illusion. But changing one word, one name, and her magic had slid by undetected.

  And instead of inviting the Storm God into his son’s body, the Tsar had summoned Jurrien into his own.

  Alana watched with growing amusement as realisation came to her father.

  “You…how?” he stammered.

  Almost immediately, rage replaced his shock, and raising the Sword, he started towards her. Before he could complete a step, however, a brilliant light flashed from his eyes, and he staggered sideways, a cry tearing from his lips.

  “No!” he screamed, clutching at his skull, as though that could possibly save him from the Storm God.

  “Not so fun now, is it Father?” she hissed, stepping towards him. “It’s not fun, having someone else in your head. How does it feel, when it’s you being controlled, when it’s your mind being burnt away?”

  Her father had sunk to his knees now. Another scream whipped the canvas as the Sword of Light and Earth slipped from his fingers. He scrambled for its hilt, but she kicked it away, and then drove her boot into his face, flipping him onto his back. Plucking her dagger from where she had tossed it while disguised as Braidon, she crouched beside him.

  Groaning, the Tsar looked up and saw her kneeling there. “Please, daughter, help me!” His eyes flickered, the sapphire blue deepening for half an instant.

  “Help you?” she hissed, pressing the dagger to his throat. “You were going to destroy me, to sacrifice my brother, your own son, all for what? So you could have ultimate power? And now, now you dare ask for my help?”

  “Please,” he choked, and Alana laughed in his face.

  “Nothing was ever enough for you, was it Father? No matter how hard I tried, I was never strong enough, never fast enough, never smart enough. All my life, I tried to satisfy you, but now I see it was your own twisted pain that held us apart. You were always second-best to Eric’s son, weren’t you? To the true Magicker in the family. And even when you killed him, you still couldn’t achieve what you had planned. Even with all the powers you had accumulated, even with the Sword of Light, still you wanted more.” She laughed, the sound harsh and unforgiving.

  She stood and stared down at him. “And where is your power now, father? Even after everything you have achieved, you are nothing to the Gods.”

  Her father stilled at her words. His eyes flickered again as he stared up at her, and with an effort of will he pulled himself to his knees. “You’re wrong, Alana,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted to save us.”

  “You wanted to save yourself.”

  “No…” he groaned, his eyes scrunching closed. “I can…feel him, taking control.” He looked up at her again, open panic on his face now. “You can’t let him live. He must…not, my daughter. His rage…he will destroy all of it, everything I have created.”

  “You have created nothing, Father,” Alana hissed. “Besides, I have met Antonia. She only ever wanted to help us.”

  “The Storm God is not Antonia…” The Tsar swayed on his knees. “You think he will show you mercy, after what we have done to his siblings?”

  “We?” Alana cried. “It was you who killed them!”

  “Even so…”

  The Tsar dragged himself to his feet. Air hissed between his teeth as he stood there. Alana could sense the power building within him now, the raw energies of the Storm God. Her father was fighting Jurrien with everything he had, no doubt draining the energies from all those in his thrall…but even the Tsar could not fight the power of creation.

  “Goodbye, Father,” she whispered, stepping back from him.

  “Goodbye,” Braidon echoed.

  “Please, Alana—”

  Her father’s words were cut off as he stiffened, his eyes darkening to the deep blue of the Storm God. Lightning materialised around him, coalescing in his fingertips, staining the tent white. A howling wind came swirling from nowhere, tearing the tent poles from the earth and flinging the canvas skywards. The Tsar’s guards cried out as the black fabric slammed into them, hurling them from their feet.

  Standing so close, Alana was forced to her knees by the power of the wind. The temperature plummeted as rain hissed into existence and then froze in an instant. Ice lashed at her face as she strained to see through the swirling vortex that had appeared around her father. Amidst the tempest, she could still see the glow of his eyes, sense the rage that burned behind them. Her ears popped as the pressure built.

  “Where are my siblings?” The words came from the Tsar’s mouth, but it was no longer her father’s voice. They boomed across the camp, freezing all who heard it in place.

  “Jurrien, we are not your ene
mies!” Alana had to yell to be heard.

  “Where is my sister? Where is my brother?” the Storm God screamed.

  “Here!” a voice cried from behind the God.

  Squinting through the vortex, Alana saw Quinn the second before he acted. The warning was on her lips as he lifted the Tsar’s Sword from the ground and leapt. White and green rippled from the blade as it slammed into Jurrien’s back.

  In an instant, the lightning vanished, the roar of thunder dying away. The wind fell to a whisper, and the soft patter of falling sleet whispered in Alana’s ears. Light flashed from her father’s eyes one last time as his brow wrinkled in surprise.

  A final boom sounded, then her father’s body slumped to the ground, the blade that had ended his life tearing free.

  Mouth wide, Alana stared as Quinn lifted the Sword, his face lit by the flickering white, green, and blue of its power.

  Chapter 41

  Fully engaged with the Queen and her soldiers, the Tsar’s forces didn’t notice Devon barrelling down on them until he was just a few yards away. At the last second, a shout went up from a scarlet-cloaked soldier, but there was no time for them to re-form, and bellowing a war cry, Devon brought his hammer down on the man’s skull. The rest of his people followed him, the momentum of their charge driving them deep into the disorganised ranks of the enemy’s rear.

  Reversing his swing, Devon smashed kanker into the chest of another soldier, hurling the man from his feet. Striding into the gap he’d created, Devon lashed out around him, each swipe of his weapon downing another soldier. His people poured into the gap after him, forming a wedge with Devon at its tip.

  Then Joseph was alongside him, Selina on the other, and together the three of them sliced forward through the Tsar’s forces. Already he could see men beginning to panic, their courage strained to breaking point by the new turn of events. On his left, Joseph was like death itself, his twin-bladed axe rising and falling with terrifying proficiency, while Selina seemed to dance through the southern soldiers like grace embodied. They fell to her blade all the same.