by Aaron Hodges
“I saw the children earlier.” Quinn didn’t seem to have noticed her change in mood.
Alana was glad for the change in topic. “What did you think?” she asked. Recalling her efforts earlier with the young Magickers, she felt a warm sense of satisfaction. Krista had left a troop of weak and unruly children in her wake, but Alana was determined to turn them into the Battle Magickers her father needed. “They have a long way to go, but I think they can be saved.”
Quinn grunted. “You don’t think you might be pushing them too hard?”
“What?” Alana hissed, sitting up. Her irritation turned to anger as she swung on him. “How dare you?”
“Let’s not have this discussion again,” Quinn replied with a sigh.
“No, let’s,” Alana growled.
She rolled from the bed. Scooping up a nightdress, she slipped into the soft silk, though it did little to conceal her curves. Quinn stared back at her, a pained look on his face, but it did nothing to quell her rage.
“Alana…” he started, then trailed off. Silently he reached for her, but she pushed him away. “Alana…it’s just….beating them, running them until they drop, that’s not how I trained you.”
“No,” she answered coldly, “that is what my father taught me.” Quinn said nothing, but seeing the defiance in his gaze, she went on: “You may have taught me how to control my power, but it was the Tsar who forged me into a weapon, who gave me the strength to resist my magic’s call.”
“You were already strong…”
“Not strong enough,” Alana snapped. For an instant, she recalled the first time she’d reached for her power, the icy chills that had engulfed her as the emerald Feline rose in the void. Shivering, she forced the image away. “If it had been up to you, I would have been lost. The magic would have taken me, turned me, made me into a demon.”
“So now all your students must suffer the same torment that you did?”
Alana laughed, the sound harsh in the stone confines of her quarters. “I am letting them off easy, compared to what my father subjected me to.”
Quinn’s eyes were sad now. “And what about your brother? Is that what you wish for him, when he returns?”
The retort died in Alana’s throat, and she stood staring at Quinn mouth open. Ice spread through her stomach as she imagined delivering her brother to the Tsar, the agony he would suffer, the fear and dread, and eventually, the awful hatred.
“What about the boy, Liam?” Quinn went on, taking a step closer. “I saw him in the corner of the dining hall, bruised black and blue, all alone. The others told me he is to take his examination tomorrow. I spoke with him—he’s not ready, not even close. If he goes before the Tsar, he will fail.”
“Then he will die, and my father will have another demon to serve him!” Alana screamed, her rage washing away all thoughts of her brother.
“You’re condemning him to a fate worse than death.”
“Get out,” Alana roared, pointing at the doorway.
For a moment it looked as though he would refuse. Teeth bared, Alana stepped towards him, hand outstretched, her power bubbling in her chest. His eyes widened in fear, and before she could reach him, he spun and retreated through the outer doors. The thud of them closing behind him echoed loudly through her bedchamber.
Lowering her arm, Alana stared at the place where he had stood. The anger drained from her, slipping away until she felt only a strange emptiness. Her shoulders slumped, and she retreated to the bed, she dropping onto the satin duvet. Closing her eyes, she tried to bring back the anger, to feel anything but the awful void in her chest. But it would not come, and tossing and turning amidst the cushions, she drifted slowly into sleep.
Chapter 20
Night was falling as the Stalkers led Devon and Kellian through the gates of the citadel. The day had been a hard one for both of them, sitting helpless on their horses as they drew ever closer to Onslow. The Stalkers had taken no chances with either of them. Kellian had been searched as he lay unconscious, all his knives taken from him. And not even Devon’s prodigious strength could break their bindings. Even if they were to slip free, there were still more than twenty warriors and the captain’s magic to deal with.
So instead, they had waited with growing frustration as they were loaded into the shallow-bottomed barge like sacks of grain. On the water, they had no hope of escaping, and the day had stretched out, the sun hot on their faces despite the cool winter breeze. Sailing upriver, Devon had watched as the waterway converged and broadened out into the great expanse of Lake Ardath.
Overhead, the black sails had creaked and groaned, a constant reminder of days long since passed, when Devon had first marched to war. The army had set off from Ardath with the rising sun, its scarlet rays staining the waters of the lake red. Standing on the deck of his ship, Devon had felt a thrill in his heart, a rush of joy as the trumpets sounded. Five years later though, there was only sorrow as he looked on the black sails of war.
Now, standing beneath the gates of the citadel, Devon couldn’t help but wonder where everything had gone so wrong. He had been in his prime when the war ended, a warrior renown across the Three Nations. Fame and fortune had been his for the taking, if only he’d remained with the army. Instead, he had turned his back on his career as a soldier, and embraced a life of misery and despair.
Yet, as the gates swung shut behind them, he realised he felt no regret, and a smile came to his face.
“What are you grinning about, traitor?” Darnell snapped, coming alongside him. She was carrying kanker loosely in one hand.
Still smiling, Devon shook his head. “The folly of the young,” he said.
Her face darkened and her fist lashed out to catch him in the solar plexus. His hands tied behind his back, Devon was unable to avoid the punch, and he doubled over, gasping for breath. But it was not the first blow he’d suffered that day, and after a moment he straightened with a laugh.
“You pack quite the punch, missy,” he grunted, “but next time try putting your hips into–”
He broke off as she struck him again, a blow to the side of his head sending him reeling. Stars flashed across his vision and he almost fell, only the wall of the corridor keeping him upright.
“One more word, and you’ll lose more than just your wits, traitor,” Darnell said, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
This time, Devon decided to keep his mouth shut. Beside him, Kellian was in even worse shape than himself. His quick tongue had earned him several beatings on the voyage across the lake, but he had fallen silent now, his face a mess of purple and blue.
Marching deeper into the citadel, they followed the Stalkers through dimly lit courtyards and long marble hallways. Outside, the sun had dropped below the citadel walls, and here and there they encountered servants running about with fresh lanterns. As they passed through another courtyard, Devon glanced up and saw the stone lattices shielding the upper floors. Idly he wondered what unseen eyes might be watching their progress through the citadel, before they disappeared into yet another corridor.
Curiously, there weren’t many guards in sight, though those they did see were heavily armed, their steel-plated armour shining in the lantern light. Most of their company had departed now: Godrin’s men had remained outside while he continued with them, and most of the Stalkers had peeled off during their passage through the citadel. By the time they finally stopped outside a set of double doors, there was only the captain and two of her Stalkers left alongside Godrin. Together, they entered a white-walled chamber lined with steel doors.
One of the Stalkers entered one of the doors, while the other helped Godrin shepherd the two prisoners after him—though neither Devon nor Kellian attempted to resist. With their arms still tied behind their backs, they would be quickly overtaken if they did. No, the time to strike would be when their bindings were finally loosened.
Devon turned as the door clanged closed, watching their captors with a wary eye. The room in wh
ich they found themselves was unadorned but for several sets of chains hanging from the stone walls. There were no windows, and the only exit was the door through which they’d entered. His eyes were drawn to a single table set in the corner. Ice slid down his spine as he saw the implements laid out on the wooden surface.
“This isn’t the dungeons,” he murmured.
“You thought I would share my glory with the dungeon master?” Darnell replied, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Moving to the table, she unbuckled her sword belt and placed it on the table, then set kanker down beside it. “No, these are my private…quarters. Jarson, Olie, if you could introduce Devon and his friend to their new accommodations?”
Devon tensed as the two Stalkers moved forward, readying himself. This was their chance. They would have to loosen his and Kellian’s bonds before chaining them to the walls; in that instant, there would be a moment when he could act. The Stalker to his right was a woman, almost as large as himself, while the man on his left was slightly smaller. Beyond them, Darnell and Godrin were standing too far back to interfere immediately. If he could down the two Stalkers, steal one of their weapons, he would stand a chance.
As the woman closed on him, he gathered himself, preparing to unleash bloody chaos the moment his bonds were loosened. But the moment the woman touched the ropes around his wrists, Darnell raised her hand. Before Devon could react, a sharp, piercing cold wrapped around his skull. Crying out, his legs crumpled beneath him, but the Stalkers caught him before he could fall. Through the agony, he hardly felt their jostling as they tore the ropes from his arms and shoved him up against the wall.
A sharp click sliced through the pain, and the cold vanished as quickly as it had come. He blinked, light dancing before his eyes, and he realised with dismay his arms had already been cuffed to the wall. Slumping against the cold stone, he watched in growing despair as the same procedure was repeated with his friend.
“And you have the gall to call me a coward,” he finally managed to croak as the spell was lifted from Kellian.
Darnell only smiled. “One can only make use of the tools with which they were gifted.” She said. “It is not my fault you chose to spurn yours, Devon. I know your story. You were blessed beyond all other warriors, a legend amongst the Tsar’s soldiers, but you threw everything away.” Stepping back, she shook her head. “Thank the Tsar I had a strong teacher, or I may never have mastered this power.”
“Whoever he was, he sure did a fine job of turning out monsters,” Kellian groaned, lifting himself to his feet and taking the weight off the chains now fastened around his wrists.
The captain smiled. “She is a great woman, and the daughter of the Tsar.” She turned to one of her Stalkers. “Go and fetch Quinn, tell him I’ve brought him Devon. I can’t wait to see his face when he learns it was I who finally brought the cowardly hero to justice!”
The black-cloaked Stalker nodded and left the room, the heavy wooden door slamming closed behind him. Watching him go, Devon strained against the chains holding him to the wall, testing their strength. The one holding his left arm seemed to move slightly; letting off the pressure, he stared at their three remaining foes.
The captain was no longer paying them any attention. She turned towards the table in the corner, then seemed to notice Godrin standing nearby. “Trolan, what are you still doing here?”
Devon pulled against the left-hand chain again as Godrin coughed. “There is the small matter of my payment, captain.”
Darnell narrowed her eyes. “You’ll get your gold, Trolan. But not now, it’s late. Go back to your men, return in the morning. You’ll receive your payment then.”
“Do you think me a fool, captain?” Godrin murmured, stepping in close. He gestured at Devon and Kellian. “The second I step through that door, my involvement in this whole affair will be forgotten.”
“You overstep yourself, Trolan,” the captain growled. Raising her fist, she opened her fingers. Blue light seeped across the room.
The sight gave Godrin pause. He stepped back, his hands raised in deference. “My apologies, captain,” he said quickly. His eyes went to the other Stalker, who stood close to the prisoners, then back to Darnell. He lowered his hands. “It will be as you say. I shall return in the morning.”
Darnell waited until he turned away before lowering her fist. Smiling, she faced Devon and Kellian. Gritting his teeth, Devon strained against his bindings, feeling the bolt in the wall beginning to give…
“Only one thing, captain,” Godrin said suddenly, pausing at the door.
Growling, Darnell swung towards him, her hand coming up. “And what is tha–”
She never got to finish her sentence. As she turned, Godrin’s hand whipped out, and a knife flashed across the room to bury itself in her throat. Darnell gasped, her hand reaching for the ivory hilt. Blood bubbled between her fingers as she tried to pull it free, but then the strength fled from her and she toppled silently to the ground. A pool of blood began to spread across the floor, almost black in the dim light.
“What the hell?” The one remaining Stalker stood stunned, looking from his captain to Godrin.
He scrambled for his sword as Godrin started towards him. The Trolan had left his sword at the gates, but he already had a fresh knife to hand. Steel scraped on leather as the Stalker drew his sword and roared.
Before the two men could meet, Devon yanked again at the weakening bolt. With a sharp crack, it came free. The Stalker had his back to the prisoners, but at the noise he glanced back, and Devon’s fist crunched into his face. The blow sent him staggering backwards out of Devon’s reach, straight into Godrin’s dagger. Twisting the blade, Godrin dragged it back, and the man collapsed in a heap alongside his captain.
Leaning down, Godrin wiped his dagger clean on the man’s shirt. Calmly he recovered a short sword and the keys from Darnell. Then, still smiling, he stepped towards Devon and Kellian.
“Time to be going, don’t you think?”
Chapter 21
“What the hell is going on?” Devon asked, gaping in disbelief at the bloody corpses on the floor.
Godrin shrugged. “You said you needed a way into the citadel. I arranged one.”
“I didn’t mean in bloody chains!”
The Trolan held up the keys. “Easily fixed.”
Devon stared at them for a moment, then snapped. “Well what are you damn well waiting for?”
Feeling his anger mounting, Devon strained against the remaining chain holding him to the wall. When it wouldn’t budge, he stilled, and a tremor shook him. Despite his earlier bravado, for a moment he had truly thought they were doomed, and the shock of that realisation was just beginning to touch him.
Godrin stepped towards them, then paused, his smile faltering. He glanced at Kellian, then back to Devon. “Sorry about the beatings…had to make it believable, you know?”
Devon bared his teeth. “Delaying isn’t helping your cause. Now get these damn chains off of us!”
Godrin showed his hands. “Gladly!” He paused. “Just…we’re all friends here okay? No need to rehash the last few hours.”
Straining his arms, Devon tested the remaining chain again, but there was no give in it. He let out a long sigh and looked at the Trolan. “Just get us out of here, before the Stalker returns with Quinn,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Godrin watched them a moment longer before apparently making up his mind. Moving forward, he unlocked the chain from around Devon’s wrist, then moved to do the same for his friend. Kellian groaned, slumping slightly against Godrin before finding his feet. Rubbing his wrists, he pushed the Trolan away from him. Godrin stumbled back, opening his mouth to complain, but broke off when he saw Kellian sweep up a fallen knife.
“Hey, what–”
Kellian’s empty fist caught Godrin in the jaw before he could finish the question. The blow sent the Trolan reeling sideways. His foot caught on the Stalker’s lifeless body and he went down hard. Gasping, he rol
led onto his knees and tried to rise, only to freeze as Kellian’s blade touched his neck.
Kellian raised an eyebrow at Devon. “What do you think, should I kill him?”
Still on his knees, Godrin glowered at them. “Typical Plorseans, can’t trust a single one of ya.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” Kellian snapped. His face was swollen, and a cut above his eyebrow was seeping blood.
“I did what I said I would,” Godrin said coldly. “I never said it would be easy. You’re lucky I got you this far.”
“Am I?” Kellian leaned down, the blade pressing harder. Devon saw the Trolan flinch back, bleeding now from a shallow cut on his neck.
Godrin reached up to touch the wound, his hand coming away wet with blood. As he turned his gaze back on them, Devon saw the familiar hate lurking behind his eyes. It seemed not everything had been an act. Stepping up beside his friend, Devon gently lowered Kellian’s hand.
“What a world we live in, when it’s the butcher who stays the innkeeper’s hand,” Godrin spat. Rising slowly to his feet, he glared at Kellian. “Well?”
Kellian didn’t answer, leaving Devon to address the Trolan. Devon sucked in a breath, seeking to quell his own anger, even as Kellian circled the room, collecting a sword and several more knives from the fallen Stalkers.
“I’m…sorry for our anger,” he said at last. “You were true to your word, I can’t fault you that, sonny. Might be you could have found a…gentler subterfuge, but you have my gratitude for getting us this far.”
Godrin smiled coldly. “If you don’t mind, I require a little more than just gratitude.” He walked across to the table and hefted kanker.
Devon narrowed his eyes, his heartbeat quickening at the sight of the Trolan holding his ancestor’s weapon. “That’s mine,” he said.
“Yes, well, times change,” Godrin replied. When Devon said nothing, he sighed and waved at the door. “You came here to save your friend. I understand that, though I can’t bring myself to wish you luck. I only came here to kill the Tsar.”
