Shield of Winter

by Aaron Hodges

  “You’re welcome to him,” Devon growled. “What does kanker have to do with it?”

  Godrin grinned. “You didn’t think I hadn’t heard the rumours, did you, Devon?” he asked. “The whole Empire has been talking of it, how you defeated a demon, and fought off a hoard of Stalkers, even one with magic. It’s simply not possible for a mortal to have accomplished such feats—not even for a warrior like you. Not unless…” he trailed off, his eyes drifting to the hammer, “not unless you had a magic hammer.”

  Devon swallowed, his words abandoning him, and Godrin nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  “You can’t have it,” Devon hissed.

  “Think of it as a loan,” Godrin said.

  “We don’t even know if its powerful enough to defeat his magic,” Devon argued.

  “Yes, well, that’s a risk I’m going to have to take,” Godrin murmured. “If it’s not…then at least I’ll be making up for running away while your army overtook Kalgan.” As he spoke, a haunted look came over his face, and Devon caught a glimpse of the pain within.

  The fight went from Devon then, as he realised the crime lord shared Devon’s own sense of shame over his decisions during the war. Yes, he had saved lives by fleeing the city with his cohort and a ship full of civilians. But in doing so, Godrin had abandoned his comrades, leaving them to their death.

  He sighed. “Fine,” he said, “just make sure you don’t get any scratches on her.”

  Godrin chuckled. “I’ll take good care of her.” He paused as Kellian returned to stand alongside Devon. Silently, he handed over a short sword, then turned his gaze on the crime lord. Godrin coughed, only finding his voice after several seconds of strained silence. “As for your friend…I asked some of the Stalkers about her, told them you were looking for her…”

  “Yes?” Devon pressed when the Trolan did not continue.

  “They laughed,” Godrin said, his eyes on the floor. “They said…they said she’d be the death of you, Devon. If you ever found her.”

  Devon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “They didn’t elaborate. But she’s here, in the citadel. I got that much from them.”

  “In the dungeons?”

  “No, the eastern wing. From what I managed to discern,” Godrin said.

  “Can you take us there?” Devon asked.

  “You know I can’t,” Godrin replied. “I have my own mission. If I wait until you free the girl, the chance will be lost. No, we must part ways here. I can only send you in the right direction.”

  Swiftly he outlined the passageways they would need to take to reach the eastern wing of the citadel. They were close, fortunately, but once there Godrin’s instructions ran dry. They would need to locate Alana’s room themselves, and find a way to avoid any guards stationed in the hallways along the way.

  “Good luck, to the both of you,” Godrin said finally.

  Devon swallowed, then stretched out his hand. Godrin took it after a moment’s hesitation. “I expect you to live, sonny,” Devon grunted. “Don’t you go disappointing me. I like that hammer.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Godrin grinned.

  “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure,” Devon added as they broke apart.

  Godrin laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he replied. “I got to beat the Butcher of Kalgan, after all. Something to tell the young ones about one day.”

  “You’ll be telling them how you lost your teeth in a minute,” Devon growled, but the Trolan was already disappearing through the door.

  Alone now with Kellian, he glanced at his friend. “I have to say, he’s starting to grow on me.”

  “He would,” Kellian replied wryly. He rolled his shoulders, wincing in pain, before looking at Devon again. “Well, shall we get on with it? The night’s already old, and we’ve got a princess to save.”

  Gripping the unfamiliar short sword in one hand, Devon nodded, and together the two of them passed through the door, and out into the passageways of the citadel.

  Chapter 22

  “Sir, a moment?”

  Quinn looked up from the reports he was reading, irritated at the interruption. Unable to sleep after his argument with Alana, he had headed for his office, intent on finalising his reports on the army’s preparation. But his irritation faded as he recognised the Stalker standing in the doorway as one of Darnell’s squad, the ones who’d been tasked with hunting down Devon. He rose to his feet and waved the woman inside.

  “Has something happened?” he asked, his heart beating faster.

  If Darnell had made a mistake and let Devon slip through her fingers, the hammerman might even now be close, in the city even, seeking a way into the citadel. A sliver of ice seeped into his stomach as he thought of facing the man again.

  Gripping his desk, he lowered himself back into his chair and indicated for the Stalker to do the same. Unconsciously he reached for his magic and felt it surge within him. The fear subsided, replaced with a cold determination. If Devon came, he would be ready. Hammer or no, the man could not face all the forces at the Tsar’s command and expect to survive.

  “No, sir.”

  Quinn’s head jerked up at the woman’s words. The Stalker sat nervously across from him, her eyes flickering from Quinn to the doorway. His irritation returning, Quinn scowled. “No?” he growled. “Then why are you here, soldier?”

  “I…Darnell sent me,” she said quickly. “She wants you in her chambers.”

  “In her chambers?” Quinn said, momentarily confused. “She’s here?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Stalker replied, “we arrived just after sunset.”

  Speechless, Quinn stared at the woman for a long moment, before finally finding his words. “She has given up the pursuit of Devon and Kellian already?”

  The Stalker swallowed. “That’s…not for me to say, sir,” she said. “The captain only said for you to come as quickly as possible. She wishes to brief you herself.”

  Quinn glared at the Stalker, and watched with satisfaction as she shrank in her seat. “The captain thinks to command me?”

  “I…no…she only requested…your presence, sir,” the woman finished lamely, her eyes blinking rapidly in the fading light of a single candle.

  “Tell me why you’re here,” Quinn growled, “instead of chasing down the renegades, as you were commanded by the Tsar.”

  The woman blanked. “We…we already have them…sir,” she managed.

  “What?”

  “We caught them,” the Stalker said. “They were taken unaware by the Trolans. All we had to do was march up and arrest them.”

  “Devon is here?” Quinn said, leaping to his feet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then take me to him,” Quinn growled.

  The Stalker snapped to attention, and sweeping up his sword, Quinn followed her out the door. In the corridor he strapped his sword belt to his waist as they started on their way. The Stalker constantly flicked glances back at Quinn as they walked, revealing her fear. She had betrayed her captain’s command, and while Quinn had given her little choice, no doubt Darnell would make her life a living hell for it.

  In that moment, Quinn didn’t care. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sabre, gripping it tight. The hammerman was here. How had that happened?

  He’s in custody, Quinn reminded himself.

  Yet something didn’t seem right about the story. Devon and Kellian were wily men; it was unlikely they would be taken unawares by anyone, let alone some washed-up ex-soldiers from Trola. Jaw clenched, he picked up the pace, yelling at his companion to do the same.

  They reached Darnell’s quarters a few minutes later. A single door hung open and unguarded. Inside, they found the crumpled bodies of Darnell and one of her Stalkers, their life blood spreading slowly across the tiles floor.

  The woman who had led Quinn there stood frozen in the doorway as Quinn strode past.

  “I…I…” she stuttered.

  Ignoring h
er, Quinn studied the room. Darnell lay face down, a dagger buried in her throat. The other Stalker had managed to crawl a few inches, before he too expired, succumbing to the terrible wound someone had torn in his belly. Of Kellian and Devon, there was no sign.

  “Alert the guards. Devon is in the citadel. Send men to the princess’s quarters—he’ll be heading there,” Devon said, swinging on the Stalker still standing in the doorway. When she didn’t move, he roared: “Now!”

  His command echoed loudly in the room and the Stalker leapt to a salute. She made to turn, then paused. “Sir…” she said, her voice fading as he glared at her.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “There was someone else here: Godrin, the Trolan who betrayed the two renegades.”

  “Of course,” Quinn growled. “Now go!”

  So the Tsar’s informant had double-crossed them. Darnell should have expected it—Trolans could only be trusted as far as their next bribe. No doubt the thought of being a thorn in the Tsar’s side had been too tempting for the man to pass up.

  He frowned. Turning back, he surveyed the room, searching for clues, but the Trolan’s motive remained a mystery.

  Why would the a Trolan help Devon?

  His anxiety was growing. With every passing moment, Devon could be drawing closer to Alana’s quarters. He fought the urge to go racing there immediately—now that the princess was herself, she was more than capable of taking care of Devon. A smile came to his lips as he thought of the shock Devon would receive if he found her.

  The smile faded as his thoughts returned to the Trolan spy. Here was the real mystery—and danger. He knew of Godrin’s reputation. He did not take unnecessary risks, certainly not ones that were sure to end in his death. And however impressive his deception was, he couldn’t hope to escape the citadel with the Tsar’s daughter. Not alive.

  No, he had to be here for some other reason. The man had not come all this way to die for a hopeless cause.

  Perhaps he wants to assassinate the Tsar.

  Quinn smiled at the thought. By all accounts, Godrin had no magic. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the wealth of power at the Tsar’s command. The man would be destroyed with a whisper.

  Yet still something nagged at Quinn, as though he had the jigsaw puzzle before him, but a single piece was missing. He left the dead captain’s quarters and started walking. Without thinking, he headed for the Tsar’s private quarters. They made up the entire south wing of the citadel, and it wasn’t long before he reached their outer limits.

  Here he paused, surprised to find no guards standing on the doors. Cursing, he pushed on the double doors, but they were locked against him. His fear growing, Quinn raised a hand and summoned his magic. Outside, the wind swirled, then with a roar, it came racing into the corridor. It hissed around his arm, catching on his cloak. He sent it rushing at the doors with a gesture, caving them inwards.

  Striding through, he stopped for a second to inspect the dead bodies of the guards. The head of one was crushed, while the other had been killed when a blunt instrument had caved in his armour. Quinn swore again. There was little doubt the wounds had been caused by kanker. Had Devon decided to come for the Tsar instead of rescuing Alana?

  Everything he knew of his former comrade said no, and yet…silently, he cursed the reduction in guards around the citadel. If only someone had heard the commotion, the hammerman would have been surrounded the second he engaged with the guards. Instead, he was now inside the Tsar’s quarters, with little more than a few patrols standing between his hammer and the ruler of the Three Nations.

  Quinn’s breath caught in his throat at the thought.

  The hammer!

  Now he was running, sabre already in hand, his boots slapping hard against the smooth stone. He took the corners without slowing as he mapped out the path to the Tsar’s room in his mind. It was still some minutes away. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the pace.

  As he turned the final corner, a shout echoed down the corridor. Breathless, Quinn raced towards the open door to the Tsar’s rooms, sword raised, magic gathering in his chest. He burst through the door, a roar on his lips, the wind already swirling around him.

  Halfway across the room, a man turned and saw him. He held kanker in one hand and blood covered his jerkin. For a moment, shock registered on his face. Then, lifting the ancient hammer above his head, he screamed a battle cry and leapt at the poster bed in the middle of the room.

  Quinn threw out his arm, and the wind raced from him. Above the intruder’s head, kanker began to glow. Quinn cursed as he sensed his winds being sucked into the weapon, but he kept on. A strange whisper spread through the room as the gale vanished into the hammer. Yet not all of the gusts were consumed, and with a muffled thud, what remained struck the stranger hard in the back.

  There was enough power in the blow to send the man toppling forward. Crying out, he flung out his arms, and kanker slipped from his fingers to fly across the room. Triumphant, Quinn sent another blast of wind at the man. He went flying backwards and struck the corner post of the Tsar’s bed with a hard thud. As he slumped to the ground, Quinn lowered his arm.

  Movement came from the bed as the Tsar, looking more mortal than Quinn had ever seen him, sat up. He frowned as he saw Quinn. His gaze transferred to the intruder, and his frown deepened.

  “What is going on here, lieutenant?” he said calmly.

  Quinn stepped into the room. “The citadel has been…compromised, your majesty.”

  A groan came from the intruder. His head shifted, his eyes flickering up to look at Quinn.

  “You must be Godrin,” Quinn said.

  Grimacing, the man looked around, assessing the situation. Quinn smiled. Kanker lay on the ground at his feet, and idly he placed a foot on the weapon’s haft, pinning it to the ground. “Looking for this?” he asked.

  But Godrin wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on the bedpost he had come to rest against. Quinn followed his gaze upwards, and saw with horror a sword looped over the corner of the poster bed, just within reach of the intruder.

  “Don’t–” he started, but the Tsar’s voice cut him off.

  “You came to kill me?” he whispered, pulling himself from the bed.

  The Tsar looked undignified in his silken pyjamas, but Quinn could sense the power radiating from him. Smiling, he relaxed. Without the hammer, the assassin stood no chance now.

  Godrin looked from the Tsar to the sword, obviously trying to judge whether he could reach it before being incinerated by the man’s powers. Quinn frowned. Was it his imagination, or was there light seeping from its hilt?

  “Go ahead,” the Tsar said, gesturing at the weapon. “Perhaps you have what it takes.”

  The Trolan hesitated. The Tsar stood before him, his hands empty and wearing only his night clothes. Even knowing of his power, Quinn could see the temptation. If ever there was an opportunity to strike down the ruler of the Three Nations, this was it.

  With a roar, Godrin surged to his feet and swept the blade from its sheath. Light flashed across the room as it slid clear, but to Quinn’s surprise, it did not originate from the Tsar. A white glow shone from the blade, bathing the room, forcing Quinn to shield his eyes as he struggled to glimpse the Trolan.

  The light died as quickly as it had appeared, revealing the two men still standing in place, unmoved. Quinn looked at the Tsar, noticing the grim smile on his unshaven face, before turning to the Trolan. The breath caught in his throat.

  Godrin no longer breathed. The skin of his face had hardened to crystal, his eyes turned as black as coals. His hair had burnt away, leaving his head smooth, shining with the dim light still emanating from the sword. Quinn retched as a putrid stench hit him, of scorched hair and roasted flesh. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he swore a distant scream whispered to him on the breeze.

  Then with a suddenness that made Quinn flinch, the Trolan shattered, his body disintegrating before their very eyes. Shards of crystal crashed to the gro
und and turned to dust. The sword rang as it struck the stone tiles, then lay still, a faint light still dancing in the blade. Silence fell over the room.

  Quinn bit his tongue to keep from screaming. An awful voice was yelling at him to run from that place, to flee whatever magic was capable of dealing such an awful ending. Instead, he remained where he stood. Licking his lips, he looked at the Tsar, wondering if he would soon be following the Trolan for allowing an intruder so far inside the citadel.

  The Tsar smiled. “My thanks, lieutenant,” he said. “Though perhaps next time, you could stop the assassin before he reaches my quarters.”

  Chapter 23

  “Alana.”

  The voice whispered through the darkness, soft, rich with sadness. Alana shivered as she found Devon’s amber eyes watching her.

  “Alana,” he called again, sending ripples racing through her spirit.

  She went to him then, arms outstretched, soft sobs tearing from her. “Devon,” she cried, “please, help me! She’s destroying me—please!”

  “It’s okay,” he said as his muscular arms encircled her, holding her tight. She sighed, his warmth filling her with a feeling of safety.

  “Please help me,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to escape her.”

  “We will face her together,” came his reply.

  She nodded, pulling back and smiling up at him. Standing on her tiptoes, she made to kiss him. Before their lips could meet, an awful pain tore into her. She cried out and stumbled, her fingers fumbling for the wound and finding the hilt of a dagger piercing her stomach. The strength went from her legs, sending her crumpling to the ground. Green fire rose to encircle her. She tried to scream, but the burning green went pouring down her throat, choking off her cry.

  Desperate, she stretched out a hand for Devon, but he was no longer looking at her. He still stood above her, but his eyes were fixed on the woman in front of him. Smiling, he opened his arms to embrace the other Alana. Their lips locked, their spirits joining as they fell against each other. Anguish filled Alana as Devon began to kiss her neck. Cackling, the other woman glanced back, pure malevolence in her steely eyes.