Dawn of War (Legend of the Gods Book 3)

by Aaron Hodges

  Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the light flickered out, leaving Merydith crouched on the grass, untouched. Sitting up, she saw the bewilderment on the faces of her people as they looked around, in disbelief that they were alive. Merydith could hardly believe it either—for a second, she’d thought Devon had been wrong, that the Tsar still lived and had launched a final attack against them.

  A harsh sobbing drew her attention back to the present, and standing, she searched for the source. She found Helen and the other Magickers nearby, each crouched with their faces to the ground. Listening to their cries, Merydith could not understand what had happened to them, but she heard the pain of loss in their voices.

  “What is it?” she asked, moving to Helen’s side.

  The Magicker looked up, her eyes red. “It’s gone,” she whispered.

  “What’s gone?”

  “The Gods, magic, all of it,” Helen cried.

  Merydith stared at her, uncomprehending. Before she could respond, another cry drew her attention to the other end of the valley. Men and women there were shouting and running towards her, their eyes filled with panic. Her heart beat faster, though she barely had the strength to stand now. The day had just about consumed her last reserve of strength.

  She looked beyond her people, out to where the valley twisted out of sight. The crevice that Helen and her Magickers had opened ended there. Marching towards them up the valley was the other half the Tsar’s army.

  Merydith could have laughed. As Mokyre and Damyn formed up on either side of her, she walked towards the approaching force. Her people parted for her, their eyes wide. She felt no fear though, only a strange nothingness, a knowledge that she had done all she possibly could to save her people.

  The thud of twenty thousand marching boots rumbled up the valley as the army neared. When they were still a hundred yards away, a trumpet sounded, and the silence resumed. Merydith came to a stop at the front of her people. Folding her arms, waited for the enemy to make their move.

  A gap appeared in the front line of soldiers, and three men stepped into the open. Merydith exchanged glances with Mokyre and Damyn, and then the three of them walked out to meet them. They came to a stop midway between the two forces. Merydith folded her arms once more as the three men stopped before her.

  “My name is General Saryn,” the frontmost of the three spoke, his voice clear and crisp, carrying with it the air of command. “What happened here?”

  “The Tsar is dead. His army is defeated. The empire is done,” Merydith said.

  A smile touched the general’s face. “Is it?”

  “It is,” Merydith replied. She sighed, her gaze looking out over the men and women aligned against her. “Have enough not died already, General?”

  The smile faded from his face. “It has been a grim day indeed.”

  “Then shall we put an end to this?”

  He sighed. “The Tsar is truly dead?”

  “He is,” Merydith murmured. “And magic with him.”

  “Then you shall have your peace,” Saryn replied, sinking to his knees. “My Queen.”

  Epilogue

  Devon walked slowly up the sloping streets of Ardath, taking his time in the stifling heat. His leg still ached where a shard of his hammer had embedded itself in his thigh, and he couldn’t go at much more than a slow amble anyway. With magic gone from the continent, it would take months for the wound to fully heal.

  Not for the first time in the past few weeks, he wondered what had gone through Alana’s head in those final moments. Had she known what she was doing, when she’d turned the Sword on its makers, destroying the spirits of the Gods, and magic with them? It had been her father’s purpose in making the Sword in the first place, but…

  He shook his head. There was no point in fretting over it. What Alana had done could not be reversed. The moment she’d broken the Sword, it was too late. Now all the Three Nations could do was move on, and forge a fresh future for themselves in a world without magic.

  Merydith had decided to remain in the Three Nations for a time, to oversee the transition of power as the empire broke up. Her aide, Mokyre, had been sent back to Northland to oversee the nation in her absence, while the Queen herself was rarely seen without Damyn at her side. They had ridden hand in hand for much of the trip to the capital, and at night had made little secret of their passion.

  Along with Braidon and Selina, Devon had joined them for the journey back to Ardath. First though, he had returned to the site where he had last seen Alana. He had needed to see the truth for himself, to know she was not hiding out there somewhere, alone and afraid. But in the end, there had been nothing left to see. The marble tiles that had marked the spot where the Tsar’s tent had stood were gone; even the earth beneath had been torn apart, leaving a crater the size of a house where Alana had lain.

  He’d known then she could not have survived, that at the end she had made the ultimate sacrifice. Why, they would never know, but he liked to think she had her reasons.

  The surviving Baronians had remained behind with their Trolan comrades. With the Tsar gone, the threat of persecution had lifted, and most had been excited at the thought of returning to a stationary lifestyle.

  With plenty of land and few hands to work it, the Trolans had welcomed them with open arms. In the days following the battle, Devon had been overjoyed to learn it had been Betran who had raised the rebellion in Trola. If not for his efforts, the Queen’s army would have lost long before Devon and his followers arrived.

  Much to his protest, the Queen had named Betran as the next Trolan King. Devon smiled at the thought of the timid-looking man he’d first met in a bar beneath the streets of Kalgan ruling a nation. The idea appealed to him, and he began to whistle a familiar tune as he continued through the maze of alleyways.

  Braidon had been cool towards him on the journey home. Devon could not fault him for it. The boy blamed him for Alana’s death, for not saving her as Devon had saved him. Devon had tried to explain, but the hurt was too fresh. The loss of Braidon’s magic had been a double blow, and for days there had been no reasoning with him. Devon hoped that might change, given time.

  The Queen intended to give Braidon the Plorsean crown once he came of age. After watching him grow and prosper over the last few months, Devon thought the boy would make a fine king, though he had no doubt there would be those who watched him closely for hints of his father’s madness.

  Merydith herself planned to stay out the year and then return to Northland next summer. With Lonia already holding elections to bring a new council to rule, only Plorsea needed her help putting itself back together. They had suffered the most during the battle, with most of their leaders dead or missing. It would take time to find someone trustworthy enough to rule in Braidon’s stead until he came of age. Personally, Devon was more than glad to know Merydith’s hands were at the helm for the moment.

  Devon came to a stop outside the blackened remains of a building. Placing his hands on his hips, he cast an appraising eye over the ruin of the Firestone Inn. The stone walls still stood strong, but the fire had consumed the clay tiles of the roof, and there was nothing left of the wooden steps out front.

  Climbing up into the building, Devon stood looking on the ruin, remembering the long days and nights he had spent there with Kellian. Sometimes he’d been a customer, others a bouncer, paying off some damage or debt he’d managed to cost his friend. Regardless, they had been good times, simpler and filled with joy, long before they had rescued the Tsar’s children and embarked on a quest that would see an empire topple.

  Devon chuckled to himself as he studied the gutted interior, and wondered what his friend would think of him standing there now.

  “It’s going to take a lot of work, you know.” A voice came from the doorway behind him.

  Turning, Devon smiled as Selina wandered into the ruin.

  “Ay, it will.” Devon replied. Reaching into his belt, he hefted an old clawhammer. Dented and rust
ing in places, it told no stories, held no ancient spells. But it would do. He smiled at Selina. “But I’m game to try. Care to join me?”

  Selina laughed. “I just might, hammerman.”

  Here ends book three of

  The Legend of the Gods Trilogy

  For more adventures in the Three Nations, read on…

  For five hundred years the Gods have united the Three Lands in harmony. Now that balance has been shattered, and chaos threatens.

  A town burns and flames light the night sky. Hunted and alone, seventeen year old Eric flees through the wreckage. The mob grows closer, baying for the blood of their tormentor. Guilt weighs on his soul, but he cannot stop, cannot turn back. If he stops, they die.

  For two years he has carried this curse, bringing death and destruction wherever he goes. But now there is another searching for him – one who offers salvation. His name is Alastair, and he knows the true nature of the curse. Magic.

  The Sword of Light

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  Note from the Author

  Phew, what a ride! I’ve gotta say, my stories in the Three Nations are still my favourite to write, even after six novels and a novella or two! And as you might have guessed from their ending, there’s still more tales left to explore in this brave new world. They’ll have to wait a while though - first I plan on writing something a little different. I’ll let you know when I figure out what that is!

  In the meantime, if you haven’t already you should definitely check out my prequel series - Sword of Light Trilogy. The three books are set a hundred years before events in this series, so they might explain a few gaps you might have noticed in the Dawn of War! Be sure to read on below for a free excerpt…

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  THE SWORD OF LIGHT TRILOGY

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, you might also like

  my prequel trilogy:

  The Sword of Light

  When Eric was young a terrible power woke within him. Horrified by the devastation he had unleashed, Eric fled his village, and has spent the last two years wandering the wilderness alone. Now, desperate to end his isolation, he seeks a new life in the town of Oaksville. But the power of the Gods is fading, and in their absence, dark things have come creeping back to the Three Nations. Civilisation is no longer the safe haven he once knew, and Eric will soon learn he is not the only one with power…

  Prologue

  Alastair sat alone in the darkness, staring into the flickering fire. Holding out his arms, he let its heat wash through his rain sodden cloak. The autumn storm had caught him in the open, drenching him to the skin before he could guide his horse to the shelter of the nearby trees.

  A rumble of distant thunder echoed through the trees, and shivering, Alastair shifted closer to the flames. He stifled a groan as his old joints cracked with the movement.

  Adding a fresh stick to the blaze, Alastair watched the greedy tongues of flame lick up its length. Wind rustled in the dark branches overhead and the fire flickered, its feeble light casting long shadows across the tiny clearing.

  A head appeared in the nearby trees, its long face stretching out towards him. Alastair’s heart clenched and he reached for his sword, before he realised it was only his horse. Snickering, his mount shook its head and retreated into the shadows.

  Shivering, Alastair released his sword hilt and cursed himself for a fool. He knew all too well the dangers of the night, the creatures that stalked the shadows of the Three Nations. Once he had been one to stand against such things. Now though…

  He shook his head, forcing away the morbid thoughts. He was still a warrior; his name was feared by the beasts of the dark.

  But he could not dismiss the whispers of his own doubt. It had been decades since he’d last fought the good fight, and the long years between had stripped him of his strength. The old man shivering at autumn shadows was a spectre, a ghost of the Alastair that had once battled the demons of winter.

  And now the demons had returned.

  “If only,” he whispered to the cold night. The words carried with them the weight of regret, the sorrow of wasted decades.

  If only he had known.

  If only he had prepared himself.

  Instead, the great Alastair had settled down and put the dark days behind him. And in his absence, the dark things had come creeping back. Now their shadow stretched across the Three Nations, threatening to shatter the fragile peace he had worked his whole life to create.

  It was only when Antonia came to him that he had realised his folly. Her reappearance shattered the peaceful world he’d built for himself, and dragged him back to a life he’d thought long buried.

  “Find them,” she’d ordered, and he had obeyed.

  Yet things never were simple when she was involved. For two years now he had searched, seeking out the family he had helped to hide so long ago. But the trail was ancient, and his quarry had long since perfected the skills he’d taught them.

  He had tracked them as far as Peakill before the line vanished. For all he knew, they were all gone. He prayed to Ansonia it was not so.

  The wind died away and the chirp of crickets rose above the whisper of the trees. The fire popped as a log collapsed, scattering sparks across the ground. He watched them slowly dwindle to nothing and then looked up at the dark canopy. Through the branches, he glimpsed the brilliance of the full moon.

  Alastair gritted his teeth. She would come tonight. His hands shook as a sick dread rose in his throat. The world would feel the consequences of his failure.

  “Not yet, there is still time,” the soft whisper of a girl’s voice came from the shadows.

  Antonia walked from the trees. A veil of mist clung to her small frame, obscuring her features. But her violet eyes shone through the darkness, the firelight pale by comparison. Those eyes held such power, such resolve, that Alastair shrank before them. The scent of roses filled the grove, cleansing the smoky air as she strode towards him.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone, and I’m not strong enough to continue. Find someone else to fight this battle, I’m done!” He lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.

  “There is no one else. You were there at the beginning – now you must see things through to the end,” her voice shook with anger. “Look at me, and tell me you would abandon everything we have worked for!”

  Alastair glanced up. “I abandoned my family for your cause,” he ground out the words. “I have sacrificed everything for you, what more do you want? It’s over, they’re gone.”

  He stared at Antonia, expecting anger, scorn, disappointment. She smiled. “It’s not over, Alastair. There is still hope. Elynbrigge has found them.”

  The breath caught in Alastair’s throat as he stared at the Goddess. “Where?” he choked.

  Antonia laughed, the sound like raindrops dancing on water. “The trail was old, but they are alive and well in Chole. You will find them there. He will watch over them until you arrive.”

  Alastair jumped to his feet, scattering firewood into the flames. The blaze roared, leaping to devour the fresh meal. He ignored it. The fire be damned, they were alive!

  “Wait,” Antonia’s tone gave him pause. “First, you must go to Oaksville. There is someone there who needs you. When you find him, take him with you. Be quick; Archon won’t be far behind.”

  “Who is in Oaksville?” The town was close, but the detour would cost precious time.

  “Eric.”

  Before he could question her further, she was gone.

  For a long time Alastair stood staring at the space where she had sto
od. Her words trickled through his thoughts, banishing his guilt, his anguish. In their place, a fragile spark of hope lit the darkness.

  He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he mounted his horse and rode through the darkness, into the dawn. As the sun rose into the sky and drifted towards noon, he topped the rise over Oaksville and looked down on the town.

  Below, Oaksville lay nestled in the crook of a valley. Sickly pillars of smoke curled up from behind its walls, obscuring the rooftops.

  Alastair kicked Elcano into a gallop.

  Chapter 1

  A pillar of smoke rose from the burning house. Flames roared and heat scorched his eyes, but he could not look away. The blaze lit the night, chasing the stars from the sky.

  Amidst the fire, the silhouette of a boy appeared. He stumbled from the wreckage, clothes falling to ash around him. Sparks of lightning leapt from his fingertips, leaving scorch marks on the tiled street. Soot covered his slim face, marred only by a trail of tears running down his cheeks. The wind caught his mop of dark brown hair, revealing the deep blue glow of his eyes.

  He wore an expression of absolute terror.

  “Help me!”

  Eric screamed as he tore himself from the dream. Gasping, he fumbled for his knife, fear rising to swamp his thoughts. The blade slid clear of his belt, and then tumbled through his hands. Diving forward, he caught it by the hilt and rolled to his feet.

  A wall of vegetation rose around him, sealing him in. The dark fingers of branches clawed at his clothing as he spun, scanning the clearing. But there was no one there.

  He was alone.

  His shoulders slumped as the last traces of the dream fell from him. He sucked in a breath, his heart still thudding hard in his chest. Returning the blade to his belt, he cast another glance around at his surroundings.