Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  In the ranks ahead, frightened soldiers tried to pull back, terrified of finding themselves crushed between the Queen and this new threat. Beyond, Devon glimpsed the Queen herself. Wearing her gold-embossed half-helm, she hefted a sword in each hand and led her people against the mass of soldiers separating them, fury written across her face.

  Throwing himself back into the fight, Devon was swallowed up by the fury of combat. His thoughts, his heartbeat, everything fell away before the rhythm of the battle. A screaming man came at him and died, then another and another, each falling to a single blow.

  Joseph and Selina struggled to stay with him as he surged forward, forcing the Tsar’s soldiers back. Selina staggered as a blade sliced her arm, but Joseph downed the man with a swing of his axe. Towering over Selina, he dragged her back to her feet.

  Devon was barely aware of his comrades’ plight. As they pressed the enemy back, his eyes alighted on the black tent peaking up from the campsite. His heart beat faster as he recognised the tent of the Tsar from his days in the civil war. It was there that the battle would be won or lost. Why had the man not acted yet…?

  A flash of blue light suddenly lit the distant tent, then a clap of thunder seemed to shake the very earth. Around Devon, men and women froze, turning to stare at the distant campsite. As they watched, the Tsar’s tent seemed to lift from its support, as some invisible force hurled it skyward and then sent it crashing down again some half-mile away.

  There was a moment’s silence as the opposing forces stood staring at the scene in shock. Unsure of what would come next, they stood waiting for the Tsar to show himself, to hurl his wrath down on the Queen and her allies.

  But nothing came, and hefting his hammer, Devon shouted a cry.

  “Get em!”

  It might not have been the most creative speech, but around him the Trolans and Baronians roared and threw themselves at the enemy. Still stunned by their Tsar’s absence, the southern soldiers fell back in disarray. An echoing shout went up from the Queen as the Northland army pressed the attack from the other side.

  Leaping forward, Devon pushed ahead once more, carving a path through the gathered bodies. For a moment it seemed as though the enemy would hold. Then a man appeared before Devon, his eyes wide with terror. Glimpsing the giant warrior descending on him, he gave a terrified scream and threw down his sword.

  “Run!”

  His scream carried through the Tsar’s ranks like the plague as others picked up the call. Suddenly, what had been a battle turned into a rout, as half the enemy turned tail and fled. Those who remained found themselves alone, surrounded. Devon’s people swarmed over them like ants, and they vanished beneath hacking swords and axes.

  Across the battlefield, the Queen’s soldiers chased the fleeing men, driving them back towards the camp. Men and women stumbled amidst the tents, tripping over canvas lines and scattering ashes from the morning’s campfires. Flames leapt up amongst the broken army, and smoke swirled through the valley on broken winds.

  Stumbling to a stop, Devon gasped, taking a moment to catch his breath. His people swept on around him, harrying the fleeing enemy, but he remained where he was. Looking back over the ground they had crossed, a chill spread to his stomach at the death he had left in his wake. Bodies covered the churned-up ground, many still moving, their desperate cries sounding on deaf ears. Hundreds of Trolans and Baronians lay amongst the fallen, but the Tsar’s losses numbered in the thousands. Bile rose in his throat, and scrunching his eyes closed, Devon sank to his knees.

  Baronians rushed past him, screaming their triumph. They leapt on the backs of fleeing soldiers and bore them to the ground. Overcome by their sudden victory, the Trolans ran with them, hacking and slashing at anyone they could find wearing the colours of Lonia or Plorsea. Scores of unarmed enemy were torn apart as they tried to surrender.

  Horrified, Devon staggered back to his feet and bellowed an order. “Stop!”

  But his cried went unheeded amidst the chaos, and the slaughter continued unabated.

  “So the sheep become wolves,” Joseph said, stumbling up beside him.

  Devon was about to snap at the man, when the Baronian slumped to his knees. The words stuck in Devon’s throat as he caught the man by the shoulder and knelt alongside him.

  “What happened?” he asked urgently.

  “Didn’t see the bastard,” Joseph coughed. Blood splattered his beard as he slumped into Devon’s arms. “Got 'em though. We’ll walk the dark path together, he and I.”

  “No, sonny,” Devon growled. “Not today.” Desperately he looked around, searching for help, but his slaughtering forces had moved on, chasing after the fleeing Plorseans.

  Then movement came from nearby, and he let out a breath of relief as Selina appeared. She still carried her sword and blood coated her jerkin, but none of it appeared to be hers. She moved quickly through the corpse-strewn battleground and crouched alongside Devon. Ignoring him, she lifted Joseph’s shirt, revealing the tear in his chainmail, and the gaping wound beneath. Blood pulsed down his side, feeding his life to the grassland.

  “You were careless, axeman,” she murmured, replacing his shirt.

  “Too busy keeping an eye out for the boss,” he grunted.

  “Can you help him?” Devon snapped, lowering Joseph to his back.

  Selina shook her head. Her lips twisted in a frown, she gently brushed the hair from Joseph’s face. “No, Devon. He’s not long for this world.” Her eyes flickered up, looking from Devon to the distant screams. “But you are needed elsewhere.”

  Devon shivered at her words. Looking out at the slaughter, he shook his head. “You were right.”

  “No, I was wrong,” Selina murmured sadly. Devon looked at her sharply, and she went on. “The farmers were as quick to the slaughter as you or I.”

  “Rubbish,” Joseph coughed, blood dribbling down his cheek. “You…watch. Devon’ll…lead ‘em…home.”

  Devon squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Joseph,” he said, “for giving me a place in this world.”

  Joseph forced a grin. “You’re welcome, boy.” He groaned, his face scrunching with pain. “Oh…” he murmured, “were I…a gambling man…I’d say your woman…had something to do with that.” He extended a finger to indicate the Tsar’s ruined tent.

  Devon’s heart clenched at the man’s words. Staring out over the campsite, he held his breath, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on. For a second, he saw flashing lights amongst the tents, but it quickly died back to nothing.

  “He’s right, Devon,” Selina murmured, touching his shoulder.

  “Go save the lass,” Joseph breathed.

  Devon stood. “If you knew her like I did, you’d know she doesn’t need saving.” His head whipped around as thunder crashed in the camp. “But perhaps she might need a hand.”

  Chapter 42

  “Quinn, what are you doing?” Alana whispered, staring at the Sword.

  He seemed to take a long time to hear her words. Lowering the blade, he looked at her, a frown touching his forehead.

  “Alana…” He said her name like it was foreign to him, as though he had all but forgotten her. Then his eyes hardened, and the Sword came up again, pointing at her from across the tiles that were all that remained of her father’s tent. “You betrayed me!”

  Instinctively, Alana hurled herself to the side. A bolt of lightning arced towards her and struck the tiles with an awful boom. Shards of marble sliced Alana’s face as she rolled across the ground and came to her knees. Reaching for her sword, she swung around, readying herself for another attack.

  But Quinn was standing staring at the Sword again, as though surprised by what he’d done. “Incredible,” he murmured.

  “Quinn, I am not your enemy,” Alana shouted.

  “No?” He glared at her, his eyes shining with the power of the Sword. “Then why are you the source of all my pain?”

  Baring his teeth, he pointed the sword again. Alana tried to
hurl herself aside once more, but it was not lightning that came for her this time. Vines tore through the tiles, rushing upwards to envelop her. Winding around her limbs, they lifted her from the ground and bound her tight. Suspended in the air, she watched as Quinn approached.

  “Everywhere I look, everywhere I go, I find you, haunting me. Even when I thought you dead in an alleyway somewhere, there you were, fleeing with your brother across Plorsea. Even when I saved you from yourself, from your own father, you betrayed me, rejected me. And for what? That…that bumbling brute?”

  Alana strained against the vines, but they held her like steel shackles. Slumping into their grasp, she looked at him with disgust. “I am not some prize for you to win, Quinn. All these years, I thought you were my friend.”

  “I loved you,” Quin growled, his face just inches from hers. “I would have done anything for you.”

  “You’re sick,” Alana hissed. “Twisted, if you think this is what love is.”

  Quinn shook his head. “You still do not see.” He lifted the Sword, his eyes drinking in its power. “But I do. I see all of it now. This thing, it is knowledge purified, the very essence of creation.” He grinned at her. “Your father was a brilliant man, you know? I read of these blades, when I was young: Archon’s greatest creation. But your father perfected them. Where your ancestors struggled with their powers, this Sword leaps to do my bidding.”

  A shout came from behind them, as forgotten, her brother charged at him. Quinn spun, and a burst of flame rushing out towards Braidon. Crying out, he vanished, and the flames caught only empty air. Reappearing beside Quinn, he leapt for the Sword.

  “Braidon, no!” Alana screamed.

  Alerted by her cry, Quinn turned back. His fist caught Braidon in the forehead and hurling him to the ground. A gesture from the sword, and fresh vines sprang from the earth to bind him in place. Quinn stood over him a second, sword poised.

  “Don’t,” Alana whispered. “Please.”

  Shaking himself, Quinn looked at her, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. “I wouldn’t hurt the boy,” he murmured.

  “Thank you,” she said, watching as he approached.

  “I’m not evil, Alana,” he replied. “You don’t see it yet, but you will.”

  He lifted the Sword and held it in front of Alana’s face. She squeezed her eyes closed, but even then its light burned dots in her vision.

  “Please, don—”

  Alana’s words were cut off as the cold steel touched her forehead. A gasp tore from her as the Earth magic of the Sword entered her, burning into her mind. Like a wolf tracking its prey, it twisted through her thoughts, hunting out her memories, her consciousness, trapping them in bands of fire. She screamed as the flames swelled, as she felt her mind being consumed.

  Unlike her own power, the God magic sought not to trap her memories and lock them away, but to erase them, to scorch them from her consciousness forever. It was like a holy fire, burning away all that its master considered blasphemy.

  Tears streamed down Alana’s face as she watched, helpless, as her memories of Devon burnt. His rescue, his bravery, his love, all of it was incinerated by the unyielding fire of the Sword. She screamed as her brother was enveloped, as Enala’s weathered face was torn from her. Every piece of hope, of goodness she had kept locked away, was hunted out without mercy, condemned to the flames.

  She sobbed as that other part of her, the one who had loved and grieved and felt joy, was murdered before her eyes, cried out until all that was left was the hard, unyielding woman her father had shaped her to be.

  “There…” Quinn murmured, stepping back. “Now, we shall see.”

  Alana slumped to the ground as the vines unravelled from her arms and legs. She landed lightly, looking around to see her father’s body, his blood pooling slowly on the marble tiles. She crouched beside him. With the loss of his magic, his face had aged, his hair turning white. Yet there was no mistaking the man who had raised her, who had fashioned her into the woman she was today.

  “You always were a fool, Father,” she said.

  As she straightened, Alana saw the boy lying nearby, unconscious and still wrapped in vines. She felt a pang of recognition, but as she looked at his face, she could not recall ever seeing him before. A sword lay nearby and she collected it before turning to face Quinn. Blood stained the flickering blade he carried.

  “So, you killed him?” she asked, gesturing at the Tsar.

  The lieutenant shrugged, a weary grin on his lips. “It needed to be done.”

  Laughter bubbled up from Alana as she looked at the destruction around them. “You don’t say?”

  She moved to Quinn and wrapped her arms around his waist. Standing so close to the Sword, she could feel its power bathing them both. The Earth magic at its core called out to her own, and she moaned as her own magic rose in response, filling her with the ecstasy of her power. Standing on her toes, she pulled Quinn down into a kiss.

  Electricity leapt between them as their lips met, raising every hair on Alana’s body. She gasped as Quinn drew her hard against him. Her hands danced along his back, tempting him to greater passions.

  Then she paused, noticing the distant sounds of battle, the cry of voices drawing nearer. She pulled back from Quinn and looked around. The tents closest to them had been flattened by some explosion, giving them a clear view of the battlefield beyond the campsite. There, Plorsean and Lonian soldiers could be seen fleeing the field, as Northland soldiers gave chase.

  “What is going on?” she murmured.

  Before Quinn could reply, movement came from the nearby tents, and a giant of a man stepped into the open. The breath froze in Alana’s throat as his amber eyes caught her gaze. She watched his features twist in surprise, even as her own heart leapt in her chest. In her arms, Quinn tensed, and she glanced at him, surprised to see the sudden hatred in his features.

  “You’re too late, Devon,” he laughed. “She’s mine.” He pushed Alana aside and lifted the Sword of the Gods.

  Across the clearing, the man called Devon hurled himself to the ground as lightning slammed into the earth where he had been standing. Moving faster than she would have believed possible for such a large man, he recovered and charged at Quinn. He carried a warhammer with glowing runes carved into its head. With a bellow of rage, he swung at Quinn.

  The Sword leapt to meet him, and sparks flew as the weapons collided. A concussion erupted where they met, leaving the men untouched but hurling Alana from her feet. She rolled across the marble tiles and came to one knee, a snarl on her lips. Gaining her feet, she hefted her sword and started towards the intruder.

  A harsh shriek sliced the air as the weapons met again, but this time Alana braced herself and remained standing. Devon leapt back as Quinn attempted to slice his head from his shoulders. As he moved, his eyes turned to her. Alana froze in place at the warmth she saw reflected there. She clutched at her chest as something tore in her heart, and closed her eyes, struggling to draw breath.

  The sound of battle resumed, the crackling of flames filling her ears, but Alana did not open her eyes. Standing fixed in place, she swayed on her feet, struggling to comprehend the sudden emptiness swirling at her core. The sight of Devon had set her mind adrift, filling her with an awful pain, a loss she couldn’t begin to explain.

  Across the marble tiles the two men battled. For a moment it seemed the giant warrior might have the best of Quinn. His hammer slammed into the Sword again and again, its shining head absorbing whatever attacks Quinn hurled his way—magic or otherwise. The power in his blows forced Quinn to retreat, his own blade barely keeping measure of the giant.

  Then with a curse, Quinn leapt back out of the giant’s range. He lifted the Sword and pointed it at Devon. “Your legend ends today, Devon,” he screamed.

  A beam of pure energy went screeching from the blade, flashing across the tent to strike at the giant. His hammer lifted in response, catching the assault in a tempest of swirling energy. For a
moment the energies seemed to vanish—then the hammer started to glow, and a sharp shriek filled the air. Cracks spread through the hammer like the threads of a web, and with an awful pop, the weapon shattered into a thousand pieces.

  The forces unleashed from the weapon lifted Devon from his feet and hurled him backwards. He landed with a thud on the marble tiles and lay still, his desperate gasping the only sign he still lived.

  The breath caught in Alana’s throat as Quinn strode across the tiles to stand over Devon.

  “Did you really think some old spell would protect you from the power of the Gods?” he asked.

  Groaning, Devon struggled to sit up, but the giant’s prodigious strength seemed to have given up, and he slumped back to the ground. Wheezing, he ignored Quinn and looked again at Alana.

  “Run, princess,” he whispered.

  The hackles on the back of Alana’s neck stood up at his words. She opened her mouth and closed it, her heart racing, though for the life of her she could not say why. Her man had defeated the brute, and now stood poised to take the world. What did she care for the barbarian lying at Quinn’s feet?

  Yet, each time his amber eyes met hers, she felt something stir within her. And when he had called her ‘princess’…

  The light in Devon’s eyes faded as he saw her stand there, unmoving. He looked back at Quinn. “What have you done to her, Stalker?” he whispered.

  “I restored her true self,” Quinn replied. “Returned her to the Alana I knew before you spoiled her.”

  “You’ll pay—” Devon tried to sit up, but a vine erupted from the ground beneath him, catching him by the throat and dragging him back down.

  Blood pounded in Alana’s ears as she listened to them, her mind a whir. What was Quinn talking about? What had he done to her? Sensing her panic, magic leapt to her fingertips. It bubbled through her veins, drawing her inwards, seeking out the change Quinn claimed to have wrought, searching for her missing memories.