by Aaron Hodges
Braidon cried out as the men surged forward. Taken by surprise, he had no chance to resist. The first struck him hard in the stomach, driving the wind from his lungs and dropping him to his knees. The second man stepped in, grabbing his arms and pinning them behind his back.
Gasping, Braidon swayed in the man’s grip. An awful heat spread through his chest, his magic stirring, rising through the depths of his consciousness. Fear flared inside him, but it was too late to cool the flickering glow, and he felt a rush as the power flowed from him.
Blinding light flashed across the cavern and a great boom echoed from the cliffs, igniting screams from nearby. A shout came from behind him as the hand holding Braidon loosened. Anger took him then, and he surged backwards against his attacker. The sudden movement sent the man stumbling. As his hands came free, Braidon spun and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach.
Lights were still flashing around them, appearing overhead and rushing away, sizzling through the air like fireworks. Nearby, the marketplace had descended into chaos as people rushed to and fro, unaware the light show was nothing more than an illusion. Even the Queen had retreated, her hands raised over her face to protect her eyes.
But now the other guard had found his courage. Drawing his sword, he advanced on Braidon with murder in his eyes.
Before the man could reach him, Enala stepped between them, her eyes burning red.
“Stop this!” Her words rang out, slicing through the chaos.
The guard froze at her command, his eyes suddenly fearful, and Braidon saw that Enala’s hands were aflame. Beyond her, citizens were stumbling around the bazaar, their faces twisted in terror. Shame filled him then, his anger dying away. The light went with it, and silence fell once more over the cavern.
Weariness swept through Braidon. Sinking to his knees, he watched as the Queen straightened, her hands falling to her side. He swallowed as their eyes met, and the strength of her rage washed over him.
“Take. Him,” she spat, pointing a trembling finger at Braidon.
Her men hesitated, still shocked by the sudden display of magic, and Enala quickly barred their way.
“What is the meaning of this, Merydith?” she growled. The fire in her hands had died away, but now her eyes shone with a rage to match the Queen’s.
“Get out of my way, Enala,” the Queen snapped. “This does not concern you.”
“The boy is under my protection,” Enala replied, her voice trembling. “And you will answer to me if you wish to harm him.”
“Harm him?” came the Queen’s reply. “The boy may have brought about the destruction of my kingdom—and you worry about my harming him?”
Braidon could only look in confusion from the Queen to Enala. Her words made no sense to him. Surely she couldn’t mean the Tsar intended to invade Northland because Enala had given him refuge?
“What are you talking about, Merydith?” Enala asked, the anger falling from her voice.
The Queen sucked in a breath, her hands shaking. “The boy is not who he would have us believe, Enala,” she said softly.
“What?” Braidon gaped, but the two woman ignored him.
“What do you mean?” Enala asked for him. “Who could he be that the Tsar would threaten war with us?”
The Queen closed her eyes, a pained look coming over her face. “His emissaries just arrived. Unless we return him, they claim the Three Nations will march north with all their strength. They’re claiming we have kidnapped the Tsar’s only son.”
Braidon’s mouth dropped open. The colour slowly drained from Enala’s face, her skin turning a paled grey. The old woman swayed on her feet, and it seemed as though she had aged ten years in a matter of heartbeats. Reaching out, she gripped the Queen’s arm.
“What did you say?”
The Queen’s stared at Enala, her frown softening. Then she looked across at Braidon, and he saw the hate lurking behind her eyes. “I’m saying Braidon is the Tsar’s son, Enala. I’m saying he has betrayed us all.”
Chapter 14
That evening Devon and Kellian made camp beneath the cliffs, taking advantage of a small crag to shelter them from the cold winds sweeping down the valley. As darkness fell, they lit a fire against the cliff-face, so that its heat would be reflected back on them.
After eating a meagre stew of toughened beef and tubers, Devon wandered away from the others. His mind was distant and he was in no mood for company. Seating himself on a boulder some distance from the camp, he stared out over the moonlit valley. Images rose from the vaults of his memory. It had been here, in this valley, that he’d first tasted glory.
In those early days, victory had been far from assured, flitting above the heads of the armies like a firefly, always just out of reach. The Plorseans had battled for every inch of ground, forcing the Trolans back with nothing but sheer bloody-minded determination. Devon had stood at the front, his hammer rising and falling like death itself, smashing his way through the Trolan line, a giant amongst men.
Back then, there had been no doubt in his mind of the Tsar’s righteousness, of Plorsea’s right to govern the Three Nations. But that had been before the destruction of Kalgan, before the razing of cities and the slaughter of innocent civilians. Before he’d brought shame to his ancestors.
Now, looking out over the former battlefield, he felt only sadness. In the moonlight, the boulders lining the valley shone a ghostly white. He could almost imagine them to be the souls of fallen men, doomed to wander these faraway mountains, forever in search of home.
“I hear them too.”
Devon jumped as a voice spoke from behind him. Betran appeared in the moonlight, his eyes distant as he looked out over the valley. Devon was surprised he hadn’t heard the little man approaching, and he felt a flicker of irritation at the intrusion on his solitude. It faded as he untangled the Trolan’s words.
“Hear who?” he asked.
“The ghosts,” Betran shivered. “How many lives have been lost here, in this pass, do you think? How many generations of young men and women have marched to their deaths, their lives lost to the futility of war?”
“They say twenty thousand met here, when the Tsar marched against your…people.”
“Ay,” Betran replied, “and before that? Ours was not the only battle these lonely peaks have witnessed.” He sighed. “My brother will have no shortage of company in the afterlife.”
Devon’s throat tightened, and he eyed the man, seeking some sign of anger. But there was only sadness on the Trolan’s face. He glanced down at kanker, his guilt swelling. “You two were close?”
Betran shrugged and took a seat on the boulder next to Devon. “He was my younger brother. I marched to look out for him, more than anything. Little good it did him.” He smiled ruefully. “I didn’t even see you coming. One moment we were pressing your line back, the next minute you and that hammer of yours had broken our ranks, and my comrades were streaming back around us. Kieran, fool that he was, tried to stand his ground. He was dead before I could reach him.”
“I’m sorry,” Devon whispered, but the little Trolan only shook his head.
“I think it must be the folly of the young, to want to test their skills against their fellow man. Maybe that’s why our nations have been so cursed with war.”
“A depressing thought,” Devon mused. “You think that means another war is inevitable?”
There was a long pause before Betran answered, and when he spoke, there was an edge to his voice. “What choice do we have?” he murmured. “I’m thirty-five, with a wife and son, but since the war there’s been no work. Of the little I do earn, most goes towards the Tsar’s taxes. When you showed up, my family was a week away from starvation.”
“And you believe a war with Plorsea will free you?”
“No.” To Devon’s surprise, there were tears on the Trolan’s face now. “We would be crushed. But I can sense the hate in my people, even in my own son. One day soon it will spur them to rise up. And the Tsar
will return with his armies, with his demons and his dragons, and destroy us once and for all.”
Devon swallowed, struggling to find the words to reassure the young man that they could change things. Before he could speak, another voice came from the shadows. “You’re wrong, Betran.”
Godrin came wandering across the rocky slope. He looked from Devon to Betran before seating himself alongside the Trolan. His hand gripped Betran’s shoulder, though his eyes were fixed on Devon. “Your son is right to hate the Plorseans,” he said quietly, “and one day, we will make them pay for your brother’s life, and all those other lives they stole.”
Devon saw the hate in the Trolan’s eyes. Godrin had agreed to this mission partly because of Enala, partly because they offered him a chance to strike at the Tsar, and save his nation from a long, slow death. But that had done nothing to change his heart. The hate remained, festering, tainting his mind with thoughts of revenge. Seeing it, Devon wished he had the words to mend the fracture in the man’s heart, to restore the unity that had once existed between the Three Nations. But Kellian was the one with the silver tongue, and all Devon could do was sit there in silence.
“And what will that achieve?” Betran spoke up, his voice touched with sadness. “My brother will still be dead, but the hate will have been spread. When you’re done, some young Plorsean will be left to nurse the hatred in his heart. Then one day he will return to take his revenge on the foul Trolans who killed his loved ones.”
“It won’t be like that.”
“How can it not, when you talk only of hatred and revenge?”
“So when the time comes to free our nation, you will not be with us, Betran? Will you hide in the shadows while your comrades fight for your freedom?”
Betran turned cold eyes on the crime lord. “I will be there, Godrin. I will stand with my people and fight for our right to live, because I believe the Tsar is evil, and evil must be countered wherever it is found. But know this—the day you march on Plorsea, the day the war turns from liberation, to conquest, I will stand against you. And I will implore our people to do the same. Unlike you, I remember our legends. I will not lead our nation into yet another act of folly.”
Godrin snorted. “They are only legends, Betran,” he said scornfully. “Told to scare unruly children. Or do you truly believe these mountains once came alive, and consumed entire armies?”
“Maybe not, but I choose to see the message behind the words. War has no victors, only survivors. And I will not be a part of it. Should the day come, I will return to my home, and hold my wife and child in my arms. I will do my best to live with love in my heart, and hope that is enough.”
“I believe the legends are true,” Devon said, as a quiet settled over the mountain slopes. With the mention of the past, his thoughts had turned to Enala, and the tales that were still told of her. Realising the other men were staring at him, he scratched his beard and went on. “Before all this started, I thought the same, that the stories were just that—stories. But in the last few weeks, I have witnessed trees come to life, have fought with a demon and escaped a dragon’s flames. I’ve met a woman over a hundred years old, who fights like a wraith. And I’ve seen Trolans unite with Plorseans in the hope of freeing their nation.” He paused, eyeing the others, a grim smile on his lips. “After all that, who’s to say these mountains couldn’t eat an army or two?”
Silence fell over the others at his words, and he turned away, looking back out over the valley. He knew the legend of which they spoke. It dated back to a time long before Archon’s reign, when the Great Wars had been fought between Lonia and Trola. The conflict had consumed the land now known as Plorsea, turning them into lifeless desert. Legends told that a final battle had been fought here, in Brunei Pass. But as the two great armies came together, the surrounding cliffs had snapped closed, entombing thousands in solid rock.
Devon suppressed a shiver at the thought of the towering cliffs closing in on him. Within the pass, there would be nowhere to run, no hope of survival. Five years ago, he had barely given the legend a second thought, but now the old tale sent a shiver down his neck.
The voices from the campfire had quieted now, and Devon was beginning to feel the weight of the day’s travel. Yawning, he stretched his arms and stood, sheathing kanker on his back. Bidding the two men goodnight, he started back towards the camp. The fire had burned low now, and there was little light. Squinting in the darkness, he was still searching for his bedroll when a distant thud carried down the valley.
Turning, he scanned the gloom in search of the source. The ground lay open around them, but the moon’s light was shrouded in cloud. He could see no sign of movement below them, but as he looked up the valley, he caught a flicker of movement near the cliffs at the top of the pass.
Abandoning the search for his bedroll, Devon wandered back down to where Betran and Godrin still sat talking. They looked up at his approach, their mouths opening to question him, but he waved them to silence. Straining his ears, he listened for further signs of movement, and caught another thud, as of a horseshoe on stone.
Silently, Devon lifted kanker from his back. The other two rose to stand alongside him, their eyes focused on the darkness at the top of the valley.
“Someone’s coming,” Devon whispered.
“I know,” Godrin said, before something hard struck Devon in the back of the head.
Stars flashed across his vision and he found himself suddenly on his knees, the strength flowing from him. Kanker slid from his hands as he swung to see Godrin standing over him. Betran lay on his stomach nearby and for a moment, Devon thought he was dead. Then a low moan whispered through the night, and Betran shifted, his hands curling into fists, but he did not rise.
Devon tried to summon the strength to stand, but the movement caused his vision to swirl. He swayed on his knees as Godrin loomed above him. There was a pause as their eyes met. The man raised his fist for another blow. Devon tried to defend himself, but his arms only lifted weakly in response. Snarling, the Trolan batted them aside, then hammered his fist into Devon’s face.
There was a flash of light, followed by a rush of colour—then darkness.
Chapter 15
Quinn’s mind was far away as he walked the ramparts of the citadel, consumed by thoughts of the night before. The meeting with the Tsar had been frustrating, especially after learning he’d been passed over to lead the pursuit after Devon. His frustration was tempered by what had come next, though he could still hardly believe it.
After years spent watching her grow, after the long lessons in magic and watching her as a young woman take lover after lover, Alana had finally come to him. While he was some seven years her senior, Quinn had always felt a shared attraction between them, a tension that neither had quite dared break.
Last night, that barrier had been shattered, the two of them making love long into the night. Even now he rejoiced in their shared passion, savoured the sight of the young woman standing before him naked. Her momentary confusion had given him pause, but at her touch his hesitation had vanished, and he’d spent the rest of the night in a state of ecstasy, their lips locked together, their bodies entwined…
Feeling himself growing aroused, Quinn clenched his jaw and forced his thoughts to other matters. He had risen with the dawn, leaving the still-sleeping Alana to her rest, and headed to the walls for his morning rounds. Relieved of his duties with the Stalkers, the Tsar had placed him in charge of the citadel’s defences, along with reporting progress on preparations for the Northland invasion.
When he looked out over the lake, Quinn could just make out the foothills that hid the gathering men. By now, the army would be nearing twenty thousand men and women—a force unlike any the Three Nations had seen in generations. It would be needed if they were to take the north. The Queen’s nation spanned more land than the Three Nations combined, and after centuries of poverty, the generosity of their southern neighbours had finally allowed Northland to grow, becoming a
power in its own right.
And how did they repay us? Quinn wondered to himself.
Since the Tsar’s decree outlawing magic, the Queen had given refuge to hundreds of Magickers. Her motives were obvious—by aiding them today, she joined their power with hers, making her nation a force to be reckoned with. Little good it would do her; the Tsar planned to neutralise the threat before the Queen could exploit her budding force of Magickers.
Quinn paused on his patrol to inspect the uniforms of two guards standing in the northern gatehouse. They stood to attention at his approach, eyes fixed straight ahead as he scanned their chainmail and spears. Quinn drew their swords from their sheaths one by one, inspecting the blades for nicks or rust, but there was not a spot to be seen. Nodding, Quinn moved on, his thoughts returning to the Northerners.
The biggest risk from the northern invasion was if a Lonia or Trola rose up behind the invading army. Already, Stalkers stationed in Trola were reporting unrest amongst the common folk. If the Tsar marched north with most of his forces, there would be little to stop an uprising. Boosting the garrison stationed in Kalgan might squash thoughts of rebellion, but they could ill afford to waste the soldiers.
No, it would be better if the threat were neutralised before it ever began. He made a note to talk with the new Lieutenant of the Stalkers about rounding up potential ringleaders. The mob would quickly disperse if their leaders were taken.
Reaching the eastern tower, Quinn considered taking another round of the battlements, but dismissing the idea. The men and women guarding the walls were chosen from the best of the city guard. They needed no instruction from him on how best to defend the citadel. All carried the standard spears and short swords of the Plorsean army, and many were also equipped with crossbows. It would take an army to storm the citadel. Even if Devon and his friend managed to evade Darnell’s Stalkers, they would meet a quick death if they tried to reach Alana here.
