Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

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Subscribe now

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Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

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The tent was still dark when Devon woke. He lay there for a few minutes, listening to the distant call of the trumpets, knowing he had to rise, but dreading the coming dawn. Finally, unable to delay any longer, he threw off his blanket and rolled from the camp stretcher. Reluctantly he began to dress, pulling on a fresh pair of leather leggings, followed by a woollen gambeson and his chainmail vest. He shivered as the heavy armour settled on his broad shoulders, its icy touch already seeping through to his skin.

Rubbing his hands to fend off the winter cold, Devon laced up his boots and shuffled across to the portable camp brazier. If he was quick, he might have time to reheat last night’s gruel before the morning’s…festivities began. Bending down, he added kindling to the iron stove, then struck the flint until a spark caught. Allowing himself a smile, he blew gently to stoke the flames before adding a log from his dwindling stack of firewood.

Satisfied the fire had caught, he closed the steel grate and stirred the pot sitting on the brazier. The scent of spiced beef filled the tent, mixing with the stench of smoke and sweat. It had been days since he’d last bathed—but at least that was more than most of his fellow soldiers could say. At twenty years old, his promotion to lieutenant had been hard earned, but at least it had come with a few privileges.

Still, he was quickly growing weary of the fame his promotion had brought him. Devon had once worn his reputation as a badge of pride; but now that a real badge had been pinned to his chest, he found himself weighed down by guilt, shamed by the praise men heaped on him for his exploits on the battlefield.

He shivered, thinking of the festivities planned for the day. Straken, the last Trolan stronghold, had fallen yesterday—its walls sundered, its Magickers crushed, its army shattered. The war was over. Plorsea’s supremacy had been restored over the Three Nations. The Tsar finally had his victory.

Devon had played his part, leading the vanguard as they charged through the broken gates. With his warhammer in hand, he had carved his way deep into the ranks of Trolan soldiers. Men had run screaming before the ferocity of his charge, allowing Devon’s comrades to scramble through the breach after him.

The shriek of the men dying beneath his hammer echoed through Devon’s mind, and closing his eyes, he forced the memories away.

His nose twitched as he caught the stench of burning. Cursing, he lifted the pot from the camp stove. The bottom had caught, but most of the stew remained untouched. Reaching for a spoon, he scooped a piece of meat into his mouth.

The sharp screech of the Tsar’s trumpet sounded as Devon began to chew. He glanced at the pot, his stomach still rumbling with hunger, then returned it to the stove. The rest of his breakfast would have to wait. Leaving the fire to burn down, he took up his half-helm and placed it on his head.

Then he picked up the warhammer from beside his bed. It weighed almost ten pounds, but he hefted it as though it was no heavier than a short sword. The smooth haft of elm felt at home in his meaty hand, more like an extension of himself than a weapon. A dozen runes, worn with age, were etched across its head, written in some long-forgotten language.

He knew what they said, though. Their meaning had been passed down through generations, from father to son, from a time when the heroes had strode the land.

Kanker.

The hammer of heroes. That was what Devon’s father had called it, late at night as he told the story of Alan, their ancestor who had stood with the Gods atop the walls of Fort Fall and defied the dark powers of Archon.

Thinking of the legend, Devon’s shame returned, and he quickly sheathed the ancient hammer on his back. Times had been simpler back then, when men had followed the paths of the Gods, knowing they fought for the side of good.

Yet the Gods were a hundred years gone. The age of man had come, and with it, the lines between good and evil had blurred. Two years ago, he had joined the Plorsean army as it marched from Ardath, eager to defend his nation, to banish the Trolan invaders. They had done that and more, driving the foreign army back through mountain passes, all the way to the Trolan capital of Kalgan.

Only then, driven to desperation, had the Trolans sued for peace. But by then it had been too late, and the Plorsean armies had razed the city to the ground. It was during that great battle that Devon had earned his promotion to lieutenant.

Just thinking of it now made Devon’s stomach tie itself in knots.

After the city’s fall, the Tsar had ordered his armies on, marching them north along the Trolan coast. Now, six months and four fallen cities later, the war had finally come to an end. After today, Trola would never rise again.

Shaking his head, Devon cast off his melancholy and stepped through his tent flap. Outside, he squinted into the dawn’s light, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. His stomach twisted when he saw the scarlet glow of sunrise.

The beginning of the end.

Silently he started down the hill. Movement came from the other tents as more men stepped out into the open. They walked quickly to join the crowd making its way down the hill. Soon the trickle became a flood, as ten thousand soldiers formed up for the day’s ceremony.

Straken, like every other city since the fall of Kalgan, had chosen defiance over surrender.

Now its citizens would face the consequences of their choice.

As the light grew, Devon’s eyes were drawn out across the silent plains, to where the walled city waited near the sea. So far north, the city’s walls were thick and tall, a remnant from the days when Archon and his hordes had walked the Northern wastelands. Though now a hundred years past, the stone walls remained, unbroken.

Until now.

It hadn’t taken long for the Tsar’s catapults and siege towers to tear the stone and mortar asunder. As the watch towers collapsed and the gates broke open, Devon had made his charge, leading his fellow soldiers into the storm of battle. Even with their defences shattered, the Trolans had fought like demons, men and women alike standing together against the coming flood.

In the end, it had availed them nothing.

With kanker in hand and the bloodlust on him, Devon had sliced through the defenders like a God amongst men. His slaughter had been indiscriminate, his victims reduced to shattered skulls and broken bodies. Only when the end came had he looked back over the carnage and felt the familiar shame.

Now, as he stared out over the broken towers and shattered spires of the temple, the shame swelled. The people of Straken had not been soldiers. The Trolan army had died with the fall of Kalgan. Those who remained here had been civilians, called up to defend their city, their nation, from the foreign army of the Tsar. They had only been trying to protect their livelihood, their families, their homeland.

Yet who was Devon to question the Tsar? After all, the man had been the first to bring peace to the Three Nations, uniting the warring states of Trola, Plorsea and Lonia into a single empire. It had been Trola who’d broken that peace, Trola who’d first marched through the Branei Pass to attack western Plorsea.

They had earned this fate.

So why did he feel so ashamed?

Devon came to a stop as another horn sounded. Standing to attention, he stared straight ahead. The head of his hammer dug uncomfortably into the small of his back, but he did not move to shift it. Around him, ten thousand men stood with him, their eyes fixed to the wooden stage at the foot of the hill.

Movement came from the city gates. Prisoners taken after the fall of the city had been kept there overnight, overseen by a host of soldiers and the Tsar’s Magickers. Now the gates were swinging open, and the Plorsean soldiers who’d kept watch were beginning their slow ascent up the hill.

Between them, blindfolded with their hands bound in chains, came the Trolan Magickers who had survived the final battle. They would be marched back to Plorsea, where the Tsar would ensure their magic never posed a danger to anyone ever again.

As the last of the soldiers left the city, the great wood and iron gates swung shut behind them. They had been hurriedly repaired during the night—along with the worst of the breaches in the wall. With the gates barred, Straken’s remaining citizens were trapped inside the city. 

“People of Straken!” a herald boomed, his voice carrying out over the crowd of waiting soldiers.

Movement came from the men and women surrounding the platform. The royal guards came marching through the crowd, weapons held at the ready. They wore the familiar crimson cloaks of the Plorsean army, but their golden half-helms left no doubt of their identity. Sunlight glinted from their steel-plated armour as they formed two lines leading up to the stage.

“People of Straken!” the herald on the stage repeated as he stepped aside. Lifting a hand, he pointed to a figure now moving through the ranks of royal guards. “Behold, your final judgement!”

Devon shivered as his eyes settled on the Tsar. The man stood no taller than Devon’s own six-foot-five, but he carried himself with an aura of invincibility, as if the Gods themselves might bow to his powers. Jet-black hair curled down around his shoulders, while on his head sat a golden crown inset with a dozen diamonds. Thick eyebrows framed his crystal blue eyes. His pale cheeks showed no sign of his fifty years, except where a pale white lock of hair hung across his forehead.

A frown creased the Tsar’s brow as he looked down at the enemy Magickers gathered before the stage. Even from where Devon stood, he could see the anger in the man’s eyes. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he wondered what it would be like if those eyes were to turn on him.

The crystal eyes swept past the Magickers, to where the city of Straken waited with its paltry gathering of survivors. Not a murmur came from the towering walls. Somewhere within, Devon knew the people waited, praying to long-dead Gods for deliverance. It would not come, he knew. Just as it had not come for Kalgan, or Cascade, or Drata, or Palma before them.

When the Tsar spoke, his words boomed across the fields like thunder, his voice magically projected so all could hear.

“Three long weeks ago, you were offered a choice.” The Tsar’s tone was soft, sorrowful, as though the city’s decision had brought him great pain. “You were told to bow to your one true ruler, or perish. Alas, you chose death.”

With his final word, an awful roar came from the hills behind the army. Another followed, then another and another, the sounds merging to create a terrible thunder, a chorus of demonic voices that promised only one thing.

Death.

Devon looked up in time to see the first beast sweep past. The air crackled as great wings rose, sending wind rushing through the men gathered below. The stench of ash and rotting meat filled the air. Clenching his jaw, he watched on as the great beasts flew towards the city.

Moments later, the first flames blossomed.

Even standing far up on the hill, Devon felt the heat of the inferno on his cheeks. He held his breath as the beasts roared again, the sunlight glinting off their blood-red scales.

In Straken, the silence broke as the first screams carried up to the watching soldiers. From the hilltop, little could be seen of the townsfolk huddled inside the city, but there was no mistaking the terror carried by their cries. As the dragons circled back, the flames rushing from their awful jaws, the screams rose, the first traces of agony joining the chorus.

Inside the walls, there was no escape from the dragons’ wrath. For weeks the enemy Magickers had held the beasts at bay, driving them back with wind and lightning and light. But with their Magickers defeated, the survivors were defenceless. Trapped within the ancient battlements that had protected them for so many centuries, the city would now become their tomb.

The Plorsean army watched in silence as the flames engulfed the city. Not a man moved as the five Red Dragons circled. They were the Tsar’s creatures, taken from Dragon Country, bound and chained by his magic. Once, the Gold Dragons had fought alongside man, willing allies against the powers of darkness. They were extinct now, but with the vicious Reds as slaves, the Three Nations now had little need for their more docile golden cousins.

Overhead, the Red Dragons turned and dove back towards the city. The great jaws opened as one, and the crimson flames rushed down, engulfing the last bastion of refuge within the city. Heat washed over the watching men and women. Sweat dripped from Devon’s brow as he listened to the screams slowly die away.

When it was finally over, and silence had returned to the city, the Tsar spoke again.

“It is done.” As before, the sorrow was heavy in his voice. “The war is won. Tomorrow, we return to Plorsea.”

A cheer went up from the army. Despite himself, Devon joined in, raising a fist skyward in celebration. He had waited so long to hear those words, to know the slaughter was finally over, that he could return to the city of his childhood and hang up his hammer.

Yet now he felt no joy, no happiness—only relief.

He was going home.

But the boy who had left had died long ago.

Five years later

Fire.

The thought came to Alana as she drifted through the darkness. Rising from the depths, it sent waves rippling through her consciousness. Comprehension came moments later, as the first tendrils of awareness returned. Heat washed over her, urgent and demanding, drawing her back.

Then the first sounds reached her ears - screams and shouting, the pounding of feet...the crackling of flames!

Touched by panic, Alana fought the pull of sleep and forced her eyes to open. The sight that greeted her was one of pure chaos.

She lay on a smooth stone ledge, looking down over a pit some hundred feet deep. Steps lined the walls of the pit, leading down to the dark waters far below.

A stepwell.

The name rose from the depths of her subconscious, but her mind was already moving on. All around the stepwell, people were fleeing, clambering up the steep stairs, desperate to escape. Sitting up, her gaze travelled down into the depths of the pit, where flames raged on a platform beside the water. There, a small figure was dancing amidst the flames.

She stared as the figure staggered to the edge of the platform and hurled himself into the pool. He vanished beneath the surface, but the fire was undeterred. Its orange tongues danced across the dark waters. Somewhere in its depths, the figure continued to thrash, lit by the flame’s glow.

Finally, the figure forced himself to the surface, his desperate screams echoing up from below. High above, Alana shuddered. The cry had not been one of pain or agony, but of fear.

Magic.

As the word formed in her mind, a fresh terror lit in Alana’s chest. It was followed by another name, one that sent tendrils of ice coiling around her spine.

Stalkers.

They would be on their way by now, drawn by the pulse of the wild magic below. They could not be allowed to find her, could not be allowed to take her brother.

With the thought, she twisted around, searching for him. Her panic eased as she found her brother lying nearby. He was still unconscious, but gathering herself, she crawled across and shook him.

“Braidon, wake up!” she hissed in his ear.

At fifteen, he was eight years her junior, but he was already closing on her own five foot and seven inches. His eyelids flickered at her touch, and she let out a breath as his blue eyes found hers. His eyebrows knotted into a frown as he looked up at her.

“Alana?” he asked, his voice groggy. “What’s going on?”

Brushing the curly black hair from his face, she helped him sit up. “Wild magic.”

“Not…mine?”

She shook her head and gestured into the stepwell, where the flames were finally starting to die away. The young Magicker had pulled himself from the water and now lay on the platform once more, his chest heaving. Alana swallowed as her eyes now found the bodies lying on the steps nearby.

“We’d better go,” she said quietly.

He nodded, and with her help, regained his feet. Together they turned and made their way up the rows of staircases, legs aching with the exertion. Struggling with her brother’s weight, Alana scanned the top of the stepwell, watching as the last survivors of the conflagration disappeared over the lip. There was still no sign of the dark-cloaked Stalkers, but they couldn’t be far off. Gritting her teeth, she picked up the pace.

They had just reached the top of the stairs when a shout carried across to them. Twisting, Alana glanced back, and watched as a group of five dark-cloaked figures started down into the pit. She held her breath, waiting for them to look up and spot the two fugitives. But their eyes were fixed on the depths of the stepwell, where the boy had just turned to watch their approach.

Fire lit the boy’s hands as he stood. The Stalkers scattered as flames rushed up to greet them. Only one stood his ground. Alana felt a tingle of recognition as the man raised his hand. Around the stepwell, wind swirled, hastening inwards, crackling as it gathered around the Stalker. The inferno roared, then went out as the gale pushed them back down into the waters of the stepwell.

Below, the boy groaned. He swayed on his feet, then his knees went out from beneath him, and he collapsed face first onto the stone platform. The Stalkers quickly regathered and, drawing their blades, descended towards the motionless figure.

“Alana!” Braidon’s voice came from behind her. He tugged urgently at the sleeve of her coat. “We have to go!”

Alana nodded, her eyes still fixed on the Stalker who had turned back to the flames. He led the way down into the stepwell, the winds still swirling around him. His black hair was streaked with blonde, and there was a coldness in his brown eyes as he approached the fallen boy. A golden star pinned to his chest marked him as lieutenant of the Stalkers—the man in charge of capturing rogue Magickers and bringing them before the Tsar’s justice. Since the civil war five years before, all magic had been forbidden except by the Tsar’s allowance.

Magic like her brother’s.

She turned away then, following her brother over the edge of the stepwell. At the last moment, a voice called her back, shrill and filled with pain.

“Please, no, don’t hurt him!”

Looking back, Alana glimpsed a woman on the opposite side of the stepwell. Soot stained her face and there were burn marks on her plain dress. She had clearly been caught up in the conflagration below, but now she started down into the pit, face set, eyes fixed on the Stalkers.

“Please,” she called again, “he’s just a child!”

Across the pit, the lieutenant looked up. His eyes took in the woman with a single glance. He said nothing, but with a gesture, one of his men advanced in her direction. Her face paled as she watched the man stride towards her, but she did not flee. She cried out as the Stalker grabbed her arm and tried to pull away. Before she could resist further, his sword hilt slammed into her head. She collapsed without a sound.

Turning away, Alana grabbed her brother’s hand. Together they rushed into the shadows of a nearby building and disappeared into the alleyways of Ardath. The capital of Plorsea was massive, and for what felt like weeks, they had sought anonymity amongst its crowds. Yet now Alana felt exposed, as though with her glimpse of the Stalkers today, she had revealed herself to them. She could feel the noose closing, the hunt drawing near.

Only when they were several blocks away did Alana finally allow them to slow. Heart hammering in her chest, she slipped from the shadows back out into the bustling street, drawing her brother onwards. They had come out in the spice market, and hand in hand, they made their way through the press of bodies.

Alana was still struggling to comprehend what had happened. The events leading up to the explosion were a blur, the memories already fading, as though she were viewing them through a narrow tube. There had been an explosion, a rush of white, then…darkness.

All she knew was they had almost been caught—that pure chance had nearly brought the full wrath of the Tsar down on them. In her mind, she imagined the Stalkers closing in, their swords seeking her flesh, while the lieutenant with his cold brown eyes dragged her brother away.

Shuddering, Alana forced the thoughts away. But she knew they could not ignore the warning. Today the illusion of safety she’d felt in Ardath had been stripped away. There was no doubt in her mind any longer—they had to get out.

If only it were so easy. Ardath stood alone on the cliffs of an island, located in the centre of the largest lake in the Three Nations. The gates were guarded day and night, as were the great granite stairwells leading down to the docks. While she had scavenged enough coin for the ferry crossing, there would be little left to spare. They would travel the Gods Road as paupers, unable to afford passage further down the river to Lon.

At any moment during the long journey, they might be discovered. Then everything would be for naught. She and her brother would be dragged back to Ardath in chains, to face the Tsar’s justice. Her life would be forfeit, and her brother…

She shuddered. No, she would not think of that. Tonight, she would visit the inns and pubs frequented by merchants; perhaps there would be one leaving in the next few days with need of extra workers. Alone, she and her brother were sure to draw the attention of the guards. With other travellers, they would blend in with the crowd. Or so she prayed.

Either way, Alana’s heart told her they could not wait. They would leave sometime within the week, whether she found a merchant caravan or not. The journey would be long and treacherous, but she had her sabre, even now slapping at her thigh. Together they would make it to Northland, and the safety promised there for rogue Magickers.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Devon watched in silence as the couple walked to the gallows. They moved with heads bowed, shoulders slumped by the weight of defeat. A crowd was already gathering as the excitement in the plaza built. Public executions were becoming a rarity nowadays. The last of the Trolan rebels had been quashed years ago, and few now dared defy the Tsar’s rule.

Not these two. He himself had warned them of their folly just days ago, when they had come to him for help. He’d known they were desperate—most were by the time they came seeking his services. But while coin was short, Devon was no fool. It didn’t matter how much they offered, no amount of money was worth incurring the Tsar’s wrath. Not here in Ardath, at least, in the centre of the empire.

How right he had been. His mood was dark as he watched the scarlet-cloaked guards drape the ropes around the prisoners’ necks. Around him, angry murmurs spread through the crowd as the couple looked out over the square. Several bystanders had been killed by the wild magic their son had unleashed, and the mood in the city had quickly turned on them.

Shaking his head, Devon lowered his gaze from the platform, his eyes sweeping the crowd. He picked out several guards moving amongst the clustered bodies, faces alert for danger, hands never far from their sword hilts. With the Tsar’s new laws forbidding magic, it had been almost a year since the last outbreak. The sudden return of danger had left people afraid and angry. It wouldn’t take much for the mob to turn violent.

Devon’s jaw tightened as a black-garbed man joined the couple on the raised gallows. The golden star marked him as a lieutenant, but Devon didn’t need such reminders to recognise Quinn. They had fought together five years ago during the civil war, but since then their paths had diverged. Quinn had continued his service with the Tsar, advancing from Battle Magicker to Stalker, and eventually being promoted to lieutenant.

And Devon…

Well, he had chosen his path that cold morning when the dragons had burned Straken.

Up on the platform, Quinn attempted a smile, but even from a distance the gesture looked forced. The man had proved himself a ferocious warrior during the war, aided in no small part by his magic, but charisma had never been a part of his skillset.

“Good citizens of Ardath.” He spoke softly, but nonetheless his voice carried to every watcher in the square. Devon guessed Quinn had one of the Tsar’s heralds sequestered somewhere in the crowd, magically enhancing his voice. “Thank you for joining me today to witness the Tsar’s justice. By his command, these two traitors are to be executed for the destruction of the stepwell. The deaths caused by their betrayal will long be remembered in our hearts, not least because they could so easily have been avoided—if only the condemned had not selfishly kept their son’s power a secret.”

Around Devon, men and women shouted their approval, their fists raised to the sky. Applause swept through the crowd as Quinn turned to the couple standing at the gallows. The man’s eyes were fixed to the wooden trapdoor beneath his feet, but the woman stared back at the dark-cloaked Stalker, her silver eyes untouched by tears.

“Do you have any last words for yourselves?” Quinn asked, his eyes meeting those of the woman.

The woman straightened, her silver eyes flashing out over the crowd. “We were only protecting our son.” Her voice carried across the square without any help from the hidden Magicker. “Which of you would not have done the same?”

Despite himself, Devon lowered his eyes. His chest constricted as he remembered how the same woman had come pleading for his help. He had dismissed her with a cold wave of his hand, eager to rid himself of her presence as quickly as possible. Now he found himself wondering if he could have changed things, if he could have convinced them to choose another path.

He shook his head. There was no point wondering ‘what if’ now—the deed was done, their fate decided.

On the stage, Quinn moved towards the woman. “Your son killed four innocent Plorsean citizens,” he said softly. “Had you brought him to the citadel when his power woke, their lives could have been spared. Instead, you allowed evil into our great city.”

The woman stared back at him, undaunted. “We did what we had to, to protect our son,” she hissed. “To keep him away from vile people like—”

Before the woman could finish, Quinn stepped forward and slammed his fist into her stomach. The woman doubled over, the movement pulling the noose tight around her neck. With her arms tied behind her back, she staggered sideways, almost losing her balance. Her mouth opened as she desperately tried to draw breath. Her feet kicked against the wooden stage, and finally found purchase. Gasping, she pushed herself back up. A red streak now marked her throat where the rope had caught her.

Ignoring the woman, Quinn looked out across the crowd. “The Tsar has spoken—”

He broke off as the woman spoke behind him, her voice broken, half a whisper now. “May Antonia protect my son.”

Quinn looked back at her, a scowl marking his brow. “The Goddess is dead.”

And so is her son, Devon thought sadly, though no one knew what truly became of the Magickers brought before the Tsar.

“The Tsar has spoken,” Quinn continued, ignoring the interruption. “All Magickers must be brought to the citadel for the safety of our empire. Those who aid fugitive Magickers, who conceal them from the law, face death. The law is clear. Let it be done.”

As he spoke, Quinn lifted his hand, and then dropped it down in a sudden cutting motion. A sharp crack rattled across the square as the trapdoors beneath the prisoners gave way, sending the couple plummeting downwards.

Devon quickly averted his eyes, but there was no keeping out the roar of the crowd’s approval. All around him, the citizens of Ardath began to cheer. Shaking his head, Devon waited a few minutes, and then made his way through the crowd. There was no need to linger any longer. Normally, he would rather fight a Raptor unarmed than watch a public execution, but when he’d heard about the couple’s arrest…

Swallowing, he threaded his way through the crowd, eager to escape the ignominious joy of his fellow citizens. How they could celebrate the death of two loving parents was beyond him. The press of bodies made his passage difficult, but slowly he found his way to the edge of the plaza and slipped into the relative peace of a side alley.

Only then did he let his anger show. A scowl appeared on his lips as he remembered the woman’s pleas, her desperate call on the Gods, on their long-lost power to protect her son. He could only shake his head at her faith. The Gods had been gone for over a century now—if they’d ever existed in the first place. They sure as hell weren’t going to save the young Magicker.

No, more likely the boy was already dead. The second his magic had manifested, his life had been forfeit, his future stolen. That was the way of things now, ever since the end of the civil war. The outlawing of Magickers had been the Tsar’s first decree on his return to Ardath—and had been welcomed by much of the population. The Trolan Magickers had wreaked a dreadful toll on the Plorsean army, and the destruction caused by wild magic was well known nowadays.

Unfortunately, one did not choose to become a Magicker. And those who had surrendered themselves to the citadel had rarely been seen again. A few children had re-emerged as Magickers in the employ of the Tsar, but the others…

Well, no one knew what became of the others.

Forcing the thoughts from his mind, Devon threaded his way through the darkening alleyways. Above, the light slowly faded from the sky, the sun dropping away to the west. He picked up the pace, his thoughts on the path ahead. After the display in the square, he needed a place to drown his sorrows, a haven where he could escape, and forget the face of the woman as she dropped from the gallows.

Devon sighed in relief as he turned a corner and found himself standing in front of the Firestone Pub. Shaking off his lethargy, he crossed the street and stomped his way up the wooden steps. The door gave a familiar screech as he pushed his way inside. Leaving behind the icy air outside, he crossed to the bar and waved at the bartender.

Behind the bar, Kellian waved back, a clay mug already in hand. It was half-full by the time Devon slumped into the seat across from his friend. Topping off the pint, Kellian sent it sliding across the bar with a grim smile.

“Bad?” he asked.

“Worse than I expected,” Devon replied gruffly. He took a long swig of ale before placing the mug back on the bar. Putting several silver shillings on the wooden counter, he looked across at his friend. “Keep ’em coming, would ya?”

Kellian raised an eyebrow. “So long as you don’t make trouble, Devon.”

Like Quinn, Devon had met Kellian during the war. Unlike Quinn, Kellian had chosen to retire alongside Devon. Now thirty years of age, he was five years Devon’s senior, and all the richer for it. Of course, he’d also done a far better job squirreling away his earnings. On his return from Trola, Kellian had traded his sword for an innkeeper’s club, and quickly settled into the new life.

Devon, on the other hand, had a habit of spending his shillings as fast as he earned them. To make matters worse, his superiors had not expected the renowned warrior to retire his commission after the war. Plans had been made for him, promotions planned without Devon’s knowledge. His announcement had sent shock waves rippling through the army—and caused no small amount of humiliation for several of his superiors. He’d made enemies, but there had been no help for it.

After the charnel house they’d made of Trola, Devon had lost his stomach for war.

“Who do you take me for?” Devon asked, smiling despite himself. “A Lonian?”

Kellian snorted. “Who was that ancestor of yours again? Alan something or other? A Lonian through and through, if I’m not wrong!”

Devon scowled. “Don’t remind me.”

Scooping up his mug, Devon downed the rest of his ale. Once, tales of the great hammerman had inspired him. Ever since he’d been old enough to lift kanker, he’d dreamed of living up to the legend, of carving new tales with the fabled hammer. He’d marched against Trola with dreams of glory in his young head. Instead, he’d found only death and shame.

Silently Kellian refilled his mug. “Sorry,” he said softy. “I forget, sometimes.”

Devon forced a smile. “It’s nothing, old friend. Come on, why don’t you join me for a drink? It’ll be hours before any customers show after that…display.”

Kellian nodded. He had just picked up a fresh mug when the screech of the door announced a new customer. Raising an eyebrow, Devon turned to look at the newcomer. His heart sank as he recognised the golden helm held in the crook of the man’s arm.

Royal guard.

A grin stretched across the man’s stubbled chin as he saw Devon sitting at the bar. He strode quickly across the room, his boots thumping hard on the wooden floor, and slid onto the stool beside Devon.

“Why, if it isn’t the cowardly hero!” Laughter boomed across the bar as the newcomer slapped Devon on the back. “What are we drinking? I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

Scowling at the man, Devon ignored the question—and the insult. He was familiar with the nickname, though few dared say it to his face. Undeterred by Devon’s icy glare, the guard waved for Kellian to pour him a pint of ale. Kellian glanced once in question at Devon, but there was little either of them could do to rid themselves of the man. As a royal guard, he had connections of which they could only dream. Silently, Kellian drew another mug from beneath the bar and poured the man his drink.

“Ahhh, that hits the spot!” the guard boomed after he’d slurped down a mouthful of ale. Turning to Devon, he offered his hand. “The name’s Anthony. Just came from the plaza. Don’t suppose you got a chance to watch the traitors hang?”

Devon stared at the man’s hand for a moment before reaching down to shake the pale fingers. Squeezing a little too tightly, Devon couldn’t help but take some pleasure watching the man flinch. Anthony’s brow hardened as he retrieved his bruised hand, and it was a while before he spoke again.

“Hard to believe a man like you won’t use a blade,” he said quietly. Reaching down, he drew a dagger from his belt. The steel glinted in the light of the oil lamp as he pointed it at Devon. “No wonder you earned the nickname. I swear, if I was as big as you, I’d be rich!”

Devon turned his amber eyes on the guard. The man was a full head and shoulders beneath his own six-foot-five, but his slender frame was heavily muscled. He’d moved with the graceful balance of a warrior as he entered the bar, and he held the dagger with the air of a professional. If that wasn’t enough to warn Devon of the man’s skill, the golden helm resting on the bar left no doubt. Weak men did not get to be guards for the Tsar.

The man was clearly spoiling for a fight, but Devon had made his friend a promise. Letting out a long sigh, he climbed to his feet and looked down at the guard. He placed a hand on the man’s back and shook his head.

“If you’d ever used that sword outside the training grounds, you’d understand,” Devon said softly.

Turning on his heel, he left the bar before the man could form a response. He moved quickly through the double doors and outside. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the screech of the doors came from behind him.

“I’ll not be insulted by the likes of you,” called the guard.

Turning, Devon watched the man stride down the steps towards him, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Devon glanced at the blade, then back at the guard’s face. His eyes narrowed, his heart beating faster at the thought of a fight. “You draw that, you’d better be ready to use it, Sonny.”

Anthony hesitated, his eyes flickering in either direction, but the street was empty. Swallowing, he straightened. “I don’t need a blade to beat a coward,” he growled.

“Is that so?” Devon asked.

He stepped forward, so that he stood just an inch from the man. Anthony might have had the height and muscle to match most foes, but Devon was no ordinary warrior. He had proven that during the civil war, when men had fallen beneath his hammer like wheat before the scythe. Now unarmed and unarmoured, the power of presence still sent fear slicing through the young guard’s bravado.

 “Go home, Sonny,” he said quietly.

Turning away, he started off down the street. He only made it a couple of steps before the scuffing of leather on stone announced the guard’s pursuit. Devon leapt to the side and heard a curse as Anthony stumbled past. His arms windmilled, and screaming, he twisted to give chase.

Devon met him with a right cross to the face. The blow halted the man in his tracks and sent him lurching back. But to Devon’s surprise, he did not fall. Staggering sideways, he straightened and came at Devon in a rush. Caught out, Devon caught a blow on his chin before he could register the man’s speed. He twisted with the blow, deflecting its power, and slammed a left hook into his opponent’s stomach.

Breath hissed between the guard’s teeth as he bent in two. Pain throbbing from his cheek, Devon felt the old rush of his anger returning. Blood pounding in his ears, he stepped in and drove two blows in quick succession into his reeling opponent. The man’s strength went from him in a rush, but before he could fall Devon caught him beneath the arms.

Anthony’s head sagged as Devon lifted him up. “Not so tough now, are you Sonny?” he snapped.

Bone crunched as he smashed his fist into his opponent’s chin. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he no longer cared. A low rumble came from Devon’s throat as he lifted the man above his head and hurled him across the street. He landed with a crash in a pile of old pottery, and did not rise.

Teeth bared, Devon watched the man for several seconds before shaking his head. If that was the best the Tsar had to draw on, it was a good thing the man had magic. Letting out a long breath, he allowed his anger fade. Guilt rose to replace it. For just a moment, the rush of battle had overwhelmed him. He had allowed the joy of combat to wash away his common sense, and set the beast free.

Now there would be repercussions. The man was a royal guard and wouldn’t hesitate to make Devon’s life a living nightmare. But that was a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Turning towards home, he started off down the bricked street, before a voice called out behind him.

“Wait!”

Alana shivered as the giant of a man turned towards her. Blood ran from a cut on his cheek, and his unkept beard and flattened nose gave him a look of such ferocity she almost took a step back in shock. The silence stretched out as his amber eyes watched her, a dark scowl written across his forehead. His massive shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists as he watched her, waiting for her to speak.

Swallowing, Alana forced herself forward. “I know you.”

“I don’t know you,” he replied, his voice gruff and unwelcoming.

“No,” she murmured, biting her lip, “but then, I wasn’t a hero in the war.”

“What’s that to you?”

“Is it true you’re a sellsword now?” she asked quickly, before the words deserted her.

She had spent the last three days visiting Ardath’s various pubs and inns, asking for word of travellers leaving the city, for merchant caravans in need of an extra hand. But with the onset of winter, few dared to venture out into the wilderness at this time of year. A few planned to take ship all the way to Lon, but Alana had neither the coin nor the skill to aid on such a venture.

Desperate, she had turned her search to the poorer quarters of the city. The Firestone Pub was one of the nicer establishments in this area, but as she had turned the corner and started towards it, the two men had staggered outside and begun their fight. She could not recall seeing the legendary hammerman before, but it hadn’t taken much to make the connection. Few people in the Three Nations matched the size of the man standing in front of her. And if he was willing to help them…

“No offence, missy, but you don’t look like you could afford me,” Devon replied, one eyebrow raised.

Heat spread to Alana’s cheeks. She’d heard the man was a brute, a soldier who’d do a man’s dirty work for a few coins, but she wasn’t about to be talked down to. Her cloak rustled as she pulled it back, revealing the hilt of her sabre.

A smile twitched on the giant’s lips. “Are you sure you want to threaten me?” He gestured to the man still lying in the pile of broken pottery. “Didn’t turn out so well for the last man.”

“I’m not a man,” Alana growled. She held his gaze for a moment, and then allowed her cloak to settle back into place. “But you’re right, I didn’t come here to fight.”

“What did you come here for?”

“For help.” She paused, eyes flickering to the shadows of the street. Biting her lip, she decided to take a chance on the brute. “My brother and I are leaving the city in the morning. I’ve been trying to find someone to make the voyage with…”

“Not many travellers on the road this time of year,” Devon said, chuckling softly.

“I noticed,” she snapped. Taking a breath, she continued in a calmer voice. “Maybe you could help us, though.”

Devon’s laughter boomed across the street. Scratching his beard, he shook his head. “I could,” he said, “but like I said, I don’t work for free.”

“I can pay,” Alana said through gritted teeth.

“Really?” The laughter faded away as the giant looked at her with fresh eyes. With her tatty cloak and tangled blonde hair, she knew what he was thinking—that she couldn’t possibly have the money for such a journey. “Show me.”

The heat returned to Alana’s cheeks at being caught in her lie. She lowered her head to hide her blush. “My uncle,” she said quickly. “He lives in Lon. You’ll get your pay when you deliver us safely to him.”

Devon snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday, missy.” Shaking his head, he started to turn away.

“Wait!” Alana shouted, anger flaring.

The giant waved a hand. “Goodnight, missy. We’re done here.”

“They’ll come for you now, you know!” she shrieked. Teeth bared, she moved after him. She gestured at the unconscious guard as he glanced back. “That’s one of the Tsar’s guards. I doubt he’ll take too kindly to you assaulting one of them.”

A smile twitched on Devon’s face. “You think that fool would admit to the Tsar he got knocked on his face by some washed up ex-soldier?”

“If not the Tsar, his friends!” Alana pressed, unwilling to back down. “You think you can fight a dozen of those brutes?”

“They can try,” he grunted.

Alana snorted. “Your arrogance is going to get you killed. Face it, you need to leave the city. Why not make some coin helping us while you’re at it?”

For a moment Devon seemed to waver. His amber eyes stared down at her, unblinking, until finally he shook his head. “Sorry, missy,” he mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Turning, he strode off down the street without a backwards glance. Alana stared after him, her mind still sluggishly trying to concoct an argument that might persuade the warrior. Only when he turned a corner and disappeared from view did her shoulders slump in defeat.

Swallowing her disappointment, she turned and headed off in the opposite direction. The Firestone looked empty, and after the confrontation with Devon she was in no mood to try and convince anyone else to help them. Exhausted, she threaded her way through the dark streets towards the abandoned building she and her brother had claimed as their own.

She found her brother inside the rundown hovel, struggling to light a fire in the crumbling hearth. He looked up as she entered, his blue eyes brightening as a smile replaced his frustrated frown. Standing, he moved across and pulled her into a hug. Her heart warmed as they embraced, a smile of her own touching her lips.

“Sorry it’s so cold in here,” he mumbled as they separated. “The wood won’t catch.”

Alana gave his arm a squeeze. Since his magic’s awakening, it had just been the two of them. Everything before that single moment seemed a distant memory now, as though she were viewing her life through another’s eyes. She recalled golden days spent on the lake with her brother, and cold winter nights as she wandered the marketplace. There had been pain too, of course; from bruises collected while learning to fight, heartache as her first dog passed away. But that pain seemed distant, false somehow. It could not compare to the agony of their parents’ betrayal…

Shivering, she moved towards the fireplace. “Here, let me.”

Crouching down, she took up the flint and expertly struck sparks into the wood her brother had placed awkwardly around the debris from the collapsed chimney. A few minutes later she had a small flame blazing amongst the stones. Its orange light sent shadows dancing across the room as she sat back on her haunches and looked at her brother.

“Still no luck?” he asked, reading her mind.

She shook her head. “Almost, but no, no one seems willing to help us.” She sighed then, leaning her head back against the brick wall. “I think we should leave tomorrow. The longer we delay, the more dangerous things become.”

Her brother nodded. Crossing the room, he rummaged in their meagre pile of supplies and came up with half a loaf of stale bread. Taking his dagger, he stabbed it through the loaf and used the blade to hold it out to the flames.

“I think I can help us get past the guards,” he said softly, eyes on the flames.

Alana sat up at that, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not!”

His blue eyes flashed as he looked at her. “I can do it, Alana.”

“That’s not the point!” she hissed. The heat of the fire washed across her face as she looked at her brother. “They’d sense your magic the second you tried to use it.”

“But we’d be long gone—”

“No,” Alana cut him off mid-sentence. Baring her teeth, she pointed a finger at his chest. “Braidon, we don’t know the first thing about your power. You don’t even know if your magic would work, let alone if you could control it.”

Braidon stared back, his blue eyes dark with anger. “You could at least let me try,” he said. “It’s my magic, not yours. You don’t know the first thing about what I can do.”

Alana leaned towards him. “That’s right, I don’t,” she said softly. Reaching out an arm, she squeezed his shoulder gently. “You could hurt someone, Braidon. Kill someone, even. Then they’d never stop hunting us.”

Her brother’s mouth opened, but no words came out, and after a moment he closed it again. Lowering his gaze, he shook his head. “But how will we get out without it, Alana?” She heard the fear in his voice now. “I don’t want you to hang like those people.”

“Hey, that’s not going to happen, okay?” She spoke the words softly, keeping her own fear hidden.

She had caught a glimpse of the couple as they were led to the gallows. The woman had been the same one from the stepwell, who had tried to protect her son from the Stalkers. She didn’t recognise the man, but it was easy to see his relation to the young Magicker the Stalkers had taken. They had the same hazel eyes.

“How do you know that?” Braidon whispered, a tremble in his voice.

“I just do.” She spoke the words with confidence, as though voicing them out loud would make them true. “We’ll leave tomorrow. There’s no point waiting any longer.”

“What about the guards? If they ask too many questions…”

Alana suppressed a shudder. “Let me worry about the guards.”

Moving past her brother, she took a moment to examine their tiny quarters. The building had been a stable at some point, and the faint whiff of horses and straw still hung on the air. Fortunately for them, the inn next door had burned down some time ago, leaving the stable empty. The broken fireplace in the corner had probably once been used by the stableboys to keep warm on cold winter nights.

Their meagre possessions lay scattered across the cobbled floor—no more than a few moth-eaten clothes and some scraps of food they’d scavenged from the alleyways behind the market. It wouldn’t take them long to pack. They could be away at first light.

Braidon shuffled across the room to stand beside her. Silently he offered the bread he’d heated over the fire. The outside was half-blackened by the flames, but she took it with a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she said, then gestured at the knife in his hand. “Just make sure you have that dagger sharp tomorrow. We may need it.”

A fire lit in her brother’s eyes at her words. He held out the dagger proudly for her to inspect. She took it with a smile. The blade was still razor sharp. Like her sabre, it was made of fine steel, its value far greater than anything else in their little hovel. She had stolen them as they’d fled, slipping into the darkness of the armoury, all the while terrified they would be caught…

Alana shivered and, reversing the dagger, offered it back to her brother. She reached out and ruffled his hair as he took it. At just a hundred and thirty pounds, Braidon would be outmatched by most grown men, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in ferocity. She would feel better with him at her side tomorrow, though she knew if anything went wrong, there was little chance either of them would survive the day.

“Get some sleep,” she said softly. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

“You really think we’ll be okay, on the road by ourselves?” Braidon asked.

Alana shrugged and looked away. Her stomach churned as she recalled her conversation with Devon. The man had hardly bothered to consider her offer. He’d taken one look at Alana and dismissed her as a pauper. She clenched her teeth at the memory and forced her anger aside. It didn’t matter now—the fool had made his decision. Sure, she didn’t actually have the coin to pay him, but she hadn’t been wrong about the royal guards.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, though even to her the words sounded weak. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded to the pile of rags that served as her brother’s bed. “No more questions, mister. Off to bed with you!”

Braidon scowled at being treated like a toddler, but he went eventually, muttering under his breath as he pulled the blanket around him. Alana smiled, glad the fading light hid her amusement. Devon might have added muscle to their little party, but the giant hammerman was a fool. No, things were better off with just the two of them. Alana had her sabre, and the scars to prove she knew how to use it.

Stretching out before the fire, she stared at the white lines marking the backs of her hand. Her mind drifted through the corridors of her past, memories rising and fading, carrying her off to sleep…

“Again, Alana!” There was anger in her father’s voice as he tossed the practice blade.

Reaching up, she plucked the sword from the air. Pain from her bruises radiated down her arm, but she took care to keep it from her face. She straightened and lifted the sword, readying herself.

He attacked without warning, his heavy practice blade flashing for her face. Alana danced back, her own blade leaping to meet the attack. Steel clashed, and she flinched back, the power of the blow almost knocking the sword from her hand. Spinning on her heel, she attempted a riposte, only for a heavy boot to catch her in the chest.

Her lungs emptied as she staggered backwards, still clutching the sword to her side. The scrape of leather on the stone pavings warned Alana of her father’s approach. Still gasping for breath, she thrust out with her sword, and felt a satisfying crunch as its blunted tip caught him in the stomach. Groaning, he staggered back. She took the opportunity to suck in a fresh lungful of air.

They circled each other for a moment, wary now. He attacked in a rush, his sword slashing viciously for her head. Alana skipped backwards, her own blade parrying desperately, but now her father seemed to move with superhuman speed. In the dream, she watched in horror as he became a blur.

She screamed as his blade struck her elbow. Agony tore through her senses. Her vision swam as she glanced down, and saw blood gushing from her arm, staining the cobbles. She swayed on her feet, staring at the bloody stump where her hand had been just moments before. Suddenly, her knees gave way. She tumbled to the cobbles, her head ringing as it struck stone.

A face appeared over her, but it was no longer her father’s. It was the Stalker from the stepwell, the lieutenant who had captured the boy Magicker. He wore a sad smile on his face, and regret in his almond eyes. His long hair fell around his face as he shook his head.

“Too slow, Alana.”

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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The boy stumbled as the guard shoved him from behind. His bare feet slipped on the cold stone steps, and he would have fallen had Quinn not reached out a hand to catch him. He waited until the boy had righted himself, his depleted strength struggling to keep him upright, before shooting the guard a glare. The man quickly looked away, but not before Quinn saw his fear. Nodding, he turned his attention back to the boy.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Steel manacles encircled the boy’s wrists. Chains hung from his ankles, making it difficult for him to walk. Dirt streaked his hollowed-out cheeks, and there was terror in his hazel eyes as he looked up at the guards.

Quinn offered a friendly smile. Crouching beside the boy, he offered his hand. “My name is Quinn, lad,” he said softly, “and you don’t have to worry anymore, now I’m here. We’ll have those chains off you shortly. They’re just to keep your magic under control, until we’re someplace safe.”

When the boy didn’t take the offered hand, Quinn let out a long sigh and stood. Flashing another glare at the guards, he took the boy by the shoulder and led him gently down the corridor. “The gardens are just ahead, lad,” he continued, as though this situation were nothing unusual. “We can take your chains off there.”

Silently, Quinn cursed the men he’d left in charge of the boy. Many among the Tsar’s Stalkers had no sympathy for the young Magickers they caught, and were quick to take retribution for the destruction their captives had caused. With the damage he’d caused in the stepwell, this boy had more than earned the men’s wrath.

Quinn had found him locked deep in the bowels of the dungeons, alone but for the rats. He’d screamed and fled to the corner of his cell at Quinn’s appearance. No one had gotten a word out of him since. Quinn prayed his men’s foolishness hadn’t ruined the boy; the loss of another potential Magicker would not please the Tsar—especially not after the recent disappearances.

Shaking his head, Quinn sighed as they stepped through a wide marble doorway and out into the gardens. Beneath his hand he could feel the boy trembling, but as they continued across the manicured grass, the shaking began to slow. The boy blinked, his freckled cheeks wrinkling with confusion.

Quinn allowed himself a smile at the boy’s wonder. Here the air was unnaturally warm, heated by the Tsar’s magic to protect its inhabitants from the icy winter beyond the citadel’s walls. The emerald green lawn spread out around them, dotted with stone courtyards and marble arches, rose bushes and towering oak trees.

Laughter carried through the gardens. Quinn turned and watched as a group of children came running across the grass. Beside him, the boy shrank at the sound, his wonder turning to fear. Quinn cursed again his own men’s stupidity. The boy would never learn if he was too terrified to look beyond the edge of his nose. Moving across to him, Quinn placed a hand beneath his chin and forced the tiny face to look at him.

“What do you think, lad?” he asked with a smile. “This will be your home now. Shall we remove those chains?”

The boy nodded and quickly looked away, as though afraid the offer would be rescinded. Taking a key from his pocket, Quinn unlocked the cuffs on the boy’s wrists, then moved to his ankles. Metal clattered as the chains tumbled to the ground. Where the chains had been fastened, the boy’s skin had been rubbed raw, and Quinn made a silent note to send a healer to check on the boy’s health. It wouldn’t do for him to collapse in the middle of his lessons.

“Well, would you like to meet your new teacher, lad?” Quinn asked as he stood.

“Teacher?” The boy’s head jerked up at the word, the hazel eyes wide. “Wh—what?”

Quinn flashed him a grin. “Of course. A fellow Magicker. How else would you learn to control your magic?”

“Control it?” the boy said, swallowing visibly. “I thought…I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

“Only without permission from the Tsar,” Quinn said, gesturing at the citadel. It stretched up behind them, all glistening marble and towering domes of silver and gold. “Why do you think I brought you here? The Tsar only wants his people to be safe. Wild magic is a deadly thing, but if you are good, and train hard, you can master your power. Then you can use your magic to serve the Tsar.”

“Like you?” The boy whispered.

“Like me,” Quinn agreed, “and many, many others.”

Biting his lip, the boy looked away. For the first time his eyes swept out over the gardens, taking in the vivid green of the grass, the scarlet hue of the roses. Quinn’s heart twisted as he saw tears appear in the child’s eyes. Following his gaze, he saw the children playing nearby.

“Are they learning, too?” the boy asked, his voice barely more than a murmur.

“Yes, they’re Magickers, too. Everyone in this place has been brought here to learn, just like you. We all serve the Tsar.”

“And what about my teacher?”

“I’m right here.” They looked around as a woman’s voice came from across the courtyard.

Quinn forced a smile to his lips as he watched the woman emerge from a nearby archway. Long legs carried her quickly across the grass, her bare feet silent on the soft ground. Scarlet hair tumbled around her shoulders. A plain dress of cream wrapped around her tiny figure, and her green eyes shimmered as she watched them, a teasing smile on her lips.

Wandering across to where they stood, she crouched beside the boy. “My name is Krista. And who might you be, young man?”

“Li…Liam,” the boy stammered.

Krista offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Liam.”

“You’re…you’re going to teach me magic?” the boy asked as he took her hand.

“I’m going to show you the way.” Krista grinned. “The rest will be up to you, Liam. You’ll need to be brave. Do you think you can do that?”

With his hand in Krista’s grip, basking in her warmth, the boy nodded. “I’d…I’d like to try.”

Behind them, Quinn smiled despite himself. Krista had only just started teaching the children a couple of weeks ago, but he had to admit, she showed promise. Her warmth had won the boy over, where all his shows of kindness had brought only suspicion. She hadn’t even needed to use her power. With luck, she would have the boy ready to consciously reach for his magic within a few weeks.

Now, though, it was time for Quinn to take his leave.

Nodding to Krista, he took his leave and turned away. He was just starting towards the doorway when a sharp tingling sensation shot down his spine. Gasping, he stood fixed in place, his fists clenched tight. Beside the boy, Krista rose, suddenly rigid as steel. Her eyes turned towards the north, in the same direction Quinn found his gaze drawn. They stood together in silence, staring at the distant wall, waiting for the last trembles of magic to die away.

“It was close, inside the city,” Krista said finally, turning to look at Quinn.

Quinn nodded. “Somewhere north of us. I had best investigate.” He glanced across at the teacher, his eyes hard. “Good luck with the boy, Krista. I trust you will prove your worth in this appointment. You know the legacy that came before you.”

Krista stared back at him. Her eyes glinted, but Quinn turned away before she could respond. His mind was already elsewhere, feeling out the power he had sensed, seeking its source. Somewhere in the city, another Magicker was at large.

It was his job to bring them to justice.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Devon groaned as the sound of knocking pulled him from his sleep. Rolling over, he lifted his head and swore loudly at the intruder, and then buried his head in his pillow once more.

“Devon, open up!” Kellian’s voice carried through the thick wooden door. “We need to talk!”

Devon winced as the banging resumed. He held his hands to his ears, but it did little to stop the drums pounding in his head. He swore again and finally relented. Pulling himself out from beneath the thick blankets, he crossed the room and yanked open the door.

Kellian stood outside, his hand still raised mid-knock. He blinked, then after glancing quickly down the street, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Still muttering to himself, Devon moved across to the fireplace. The coals from last night were cold, but it only took a few strikes of the flint to get a fresh fire burning in the kindling.

His stomach swirled as he stood and looked at his friend. “There, we have heat. Now, what did you want?”

His friend only shook his head, his eyes venturing around the room. “Anything here you’d like to keep?”

Devon frowned. “Keep?”

He glanced quickly around the room, but there was little to see. Other than the single cot he slept in, there was a small dresser that was half-full of clothes and a plain table with just one chair. The tiny brazier had one dented pot and a pan. His sole possession of value was the chest at the foot of his bed. Made of solid oak, it was held together by steel bolts engraved with his family’s insignia—a pair of warhammers crossed at the hafts. Inside were his armour and weaponry from the war. It hadn’t been opened for almost five years.

“What are you talking about, Kellian?” he asked, turning back to his friend.

Kellian was busy peering out the tiny window beside the door, but he glanced back at Devon’s words.

“The man you fought last night came back this morning. With friends,” Kellian said, voice hard. “They were looking for you.”

Devon snorted. Moving to the table, he lowered himself into the chair with a groan. “Let them come,” he laughed. “Pretty fools, all of them with their golden bonnets. They don’t scare me.”

“They should!” Kellian snapped.

Something in his friend’s tone made Devon look up. “What is it?”

“They’re out for blood, Devon,” his friend replied quietly. “They woke me by kicking in the front door to the Firestone. By the time I made it downstairs, they’d already smashed half the furniture. I sent them in the wrong direction, but it won’t be long before they realise they’ve been tricked.”

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Devon said softly. Standing, he gripped Kellian by the shoulder. “I’m sorry they wrecked the Firestone.”

Kellian shook his head. “I don’t care about the pub, Devon. But those men, they’re not going to stop; at least not while you’re close. You need to leave the city.”

“A woman told me the same thing last night.”

“An intelligent one, by the sounds of it,” Kellian muttered. He gestured around the room. “Now, as I said, is there anything in here you’re fond of?”

Devon took another moment to look around, but, in the end, he shook his head. His controversial retirement hadn’t left him with many commendations, and in the five years since, he had struggled to find work as a sellsword. His refusal to use weapons tended to put off potential employers.

“What about the hammer?” Kellian asked quietly.

A shiver ran through Devon as his eyes were drawn back to the oaken chest. Inside lay not only his chainmail armour and iron half-helm, but the ancient warhammer, kanker. He had not touched it since that final day on the fields above Straken. But the weapon had been passed down through his family for generations. Kellian was right, he could not leave it for Anthony and his men to find.

Even so, he hesitated. The thought of lifting the weapon again filled him with trepidation. He recalled the thrill of power he had felt carrying it into battle, the terror in the eyes of his enemies as he scythed through their ranks. And he saw again the pain of the survivors, the agony of men and women as they found the bodies of their loved ones.

An ache began in Devon’s chest as the old guilt returned, but forcing it to the side, he strode across to the chest and flicked it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out the chainmail vest. Its steel links rattled softly as he pulled it over his head and settled it in place. The greaves followed, their iron panels engraved with the same insignia as the chest. The small pouch of silver shillings, all that remained of his wealth, he tied to his belt. Finally, he reached down and lifted the hammer.

“Ready then?” Kellian asked impatiently.

Devon nodded. Looping the warhammer’s sheath over his shoulders, he kicked open the door and stepped out into the street. A cold wind swirled across the cobbles as Kellian followed him outside. The boom of the door closing echoed off the narrow walls of the neighbouring buildings.

“What will you do?” Devon asked, turning to face his friend.

“I’ll be fine, Devon,” Kellian replied. “Just get yourself someplace safe and wait out the winter.”

“I’ll head for Lon.” His various dealings had drawn him to the Lonian capital on more than one occasion. It was a rough, dangerous place, its sprawling streets hosting almost twice the population of Ardath. He had contacts there though, former soldiers he’d fought alongside during the war. His retirement may have made him enemies among the officers, but his heroics on the battlefield had earned him the respect of the common soldiers. With luck, someone would have need of him.

Still he hesitated, looking sidelong at his friend. “Maybe you should join me, Kellian. That guard and his friends won’t take too kindly if they discover you misled them.”

Kellian grinned at that. “My clientele don’t take kindly to those who threaten their local watering hole. It’ll take more than a golden helmet to protect them if they venture into the Firestone again.”

“Be sure to give them my regards if they do.”

Laughing, Kellian extended his hand. “Take care, old friend. I’ll see you in the summer.”

Devon took Kellian’s hand and pulled him into an embrace. “In the summer,” he agreed.

Without another word, they separated. Turning, Devon headed off down the street without a backwards glance. His mind was already planning his route through the city. He would head for the northern gates and down to the quays. With only a few silvers to his name, he couldn’t afford to book passage down the river to Lon, but it was common for ships departing Ardath to carry passengers across the lake. From there he could walk the Gods Road to Lon.

He had just reached the end of the street when a shout came from behind him. He recoiled as Kellian came racing past him. Devon had time to glimpse a dozen men racing down the street behind his friend before Kellian grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around the corner. The sharp crack of arrows striking stone came from the wall beside them.

“Missed me already?” Devon asked as they started to run.

Kellian answered with a string of curses. Ahead, the shadow of an alleyway beckoned and the two of them raced inside. Shouts chased after them. A crash warned Devon they’d entered the alleyway. He leapt a fallen pillar and ducked low. Arrows hissed and sparks flew as they struck the brick walls, but in the darkness Devon and Kellian were little more than shadows. Together they sprinted down a side passage.

“You really know how to make friends, don’t you?” Kellian shouted as they fled through the maze of alleyways that was central Ardath.

Devon’s laughter boomed from the walls, drawing their pursuers on. “They say a man…is judged by his enemies,” he panted.

His friend didn’t deign to reply, and they ran on in silence. In the twisting alleyways, they soon became lost, but the maze was the perfect place to hide, and it wasn’t long before all sound of pursuit faded away. Gasping for breath, Devon drew to a stop behind his friend, a grin on his face.

“Decided to rethink that trip to Lon then, old friend?”

Kellian glared back at him. Reaching into his jacket, he drew a dagger and flipped it into the air. His hazel eyes narrowed as it spun. As it started to fall, his hand flashed out and caught it by the blade. Before Devon could react, he drew back his hand, then whipped it forward. The hiss as the throwing knife swept past Devon’s face raised the hackles on his neck. It was quickly followed by a thud—and a strangled cry.

Turning, Devon raised an eyebrow as he watched a man several feet away slump to the ground. Steel rattled on stone as the sword slipped from his fingers. Glancing around, Devon checked for other pursuers, but the man was alone. He watched in silence as Kellian strode past and retrieved his knife.

“I guess I could use the fresh air,” Kellian muttered as he cleaned the blade on the man’s shirt. He studied the blade for a moment, before pointing it at Devon’s chest. “You’ve cost me a small fortune, you know.”

Devon chuckled lightly. Moving forward, he thumped his friend on the shoulder. The gesture was hard enough to send Kellian staggering sideways. “Ay, but at least you’ll have an adventure. Admit it, your talents were wasted as an innkeeper.”

His friend only scowled. Grinning, Devon strode past him. “Come on then, we’d best get out of Ardath before they decide to set the city watch on us.”

“Just what we need,” Kellian muttered, but a moment later the crunch of footsteps on the rubble-strewn ground told Devon he was following.

Together they wound their way through the narrow maze. It was several blocks before Devon found a landmark he recognised, but afterwards they made their way steadily north towards the gates. Finally, they emerged from the shadows into a broad thoroughfare. Picking up the pace, they threaded their way through the crowds leading into marketplace.

Devon swore as the throng jostled them. The marketplace stretched the entire length of Ardath’s northern boundary. Despite the wide avenue running alongside the wall, the bustling stalls and vendors made progress difficult. At least their pursuers would have difficulty spotting them amongst the press of bodies. Even so, Devon could feel his anger rising as men staggered across his path. Clenching his fists, he struggled on after Kellian.

Amidst the crowd, it was difficult to gauge their progress. Above, the sun continued its slow climb into the sky. Despite the cold winter winds, sweat dripped down Devon’s brow. Only when the shadow of the gate tower fell across them did he know they were close. Looking up, his eyes were drawn to the gleaming spire. The walls facing the city shone with gilded gold, interspersed with mosaics of diamond that depicted effigies of the sun. The northern gates to the city had been dedicated to the Light, the most powerful of the three magical elements. The Earth and Sky were represented on the eastern and western gates, while the south was adorned by inscriptions dedicated to the Tsar—the saviour of the Three Nations.

Devon let out a long breath as the men guarding the gate tunnel came into view. They stood at ease, working their slow way through the line of people waiting to leave the city. Kellian glanced back and flashed him a grin. Together they continued forward, pushing their way through the last of the crowd.

As they stepped out into the open, a shout came from behind them. Turning, Devon looked out over the crowd. His eyes alighted on the familiar face of the guard from the night before. Anthony’s left eye was so swollen he looked to be having trouble seeing, and his face was now a mottled purple. If anything, it was an improvement on his looks. He wore the same tunic from the night before, now stained with dirt and blood.

Standing just beyond the crowd, he was separated from Devon by a hundred feet of jostling bodies. With a roar, he drew his sword. His voice carried across the low rumble of the marketplace.

“Devon, you bastard, you’re mine now!”

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

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Alana’s heart sank as she threaded her way through the last of the market stalls and found a line of wagons stretching away from the gates. Sunlight glittered from the golden spire that towered above them, but below they remained in the shadow of the wall. The cold of night still hung in the air, and Alana shivered as she glanced back at her brother. Dust billowed as people and wagons rumbled past on their way to and from the market.

“You have your knife to hand?” Alana asked, leaning in close.

Braidon nodded and patted his waist where a slight bulge beneath his coat was all she could see of his dagger. Alana squeezed his shoulder, offering her reassurance, and then turned and led him to the back of the queue to leave the city. As they walked up, her boot caught a loose brick on the cobbled street, and she stumbled forward into the back of the last man in the line.

“Oi, watch where you’re walking, runt,” the man snapped as Alana recovered her balance.

Shaking herself, Alana looked up into the man’s dark eyes. “Sorry, sir,” she said quickly.

He didn’t seem any worse for wear, but his brow deepened at her words. The muscles of his jaw clenched as he advanced. One meaty finger jabbed at her chest. “You better watch yourself, girl.”

Alana stood her ground. Pushing back her cloak, she rested her hand on the hilt of her sabre. “Is that so?” she asked, her voice hard now. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped closer to the man. “Want to try me?”

She watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down and grinned. He shook his head and looked away, edging forward to catch up with the rest of the line. Glancing at her brother, Alana winked.

“Never let them push you around,” she whispered.

Her brother laughed, and some of the tension left him. Alana wished the same could be said for her. Her eyes travelled down the queue, taking in the silk merchants and spice traders, the bulky woodsmen heading east into the forests, the hunters with their huge bows and fishermen heading down to the lake to begin the day’s work. There were almost fifty in all, and while the sun was still low in the sky, at the pace the guards were letting people through it might take them all morning to get away. Shaking her head, Alana closed her eyes and tried to still her racing heart.

“Just the two of ya travelling?” Alana’s eyes flew open as a voice spoke from behind them.

Glancing around, she realised a sailor had joined the line behind them. He wore an easy smile on his face, but she swallowed hard, her mind racing. The man had obviously already seen their rucksacks. He knew they were leaving town. Two young travellers alone on the road would be easy prey—if not for him, for someone he might inform.

“We’re meeting our uncle on the docks,” her brother answered before Alana could think of a response. “He went ahead to make sure everything was ready.”

The easy smile didn’t change, but Alana thought she caught a flicker of suspicion in the man’s eyes. She glanced at his belt, but he seemed to be unarmed. Relaxing a little, she fixed a smile to her face. “We didn’t expect the line. Hope he waits for us!”

The man laughed. “It’ll move faster once old Bodric finishes his shift. Don’t know why they keep ’im on the gates. Man must be blessed by a spell or something.”

Alana snorted. “More likely he comes from the right family.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” The sailor scratched at his beard, his eyes looking out over the crowd. “There goes the old fart now. His replacement is usually faster. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”

His words were quickly proven true as the queue started to move. Alana sneezed as dust kicked up around them. The echo of hooves on stone grew louder as they approached the gate tunnel. Ahead of them, the man Alana had bumped into kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but she could sense his antagonism. Ever since the attack in the stepwell, the people of Ardath had seemed on edge. Alana would be glad to see the back of the city.

Finally, the man moved forward to the table set up in front of the gates. There a man sat with a great binder of paper, a feather quill gripped in one meaty hand. Two guards in chainmail vests and scarlet cloaks stood behind him, spears at their sides and swords strapped to their waists.

Usually the city guards stood at ease, but today the men at the gate were jumpy, their eyes alert and weapons gripped tightly. Alana swallowed, lowering her eyes so they wouldn’t see her staring. Silently, she sent a prayer to the Goddess to see them safely from the city.

“Name?” Alana was only half listening as the guard at the table took down the traveller’s details. Her mind was busy elsewhere, taking in the dark shadows of the gate tunnel, unguarded but for the men around the table. If they moved quickly, she and her brother could be through the gates and out the other side before the guards could react.

Only she couldn’t see what waited beyond the tunnel. If the watch had more guards stationed there, they would be caught before they even reached the steps down to the docks. And then there was the matter of securing passage across the lake…

“Next!” Alana blinked and looked up. The man sitting behind the table was staring at her, his eyebrows knitted together in a scowl. “Next!” he said again.

Beyond him, the man ahead of them was already disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel, but as she watched him, he flashed a glance back at them. For a second, a grin split his unshaven chin. Then he was gone.

Shaking her head, Alana forced the man from her mind and approached the table. The guard glared up at her, eyes hard. “Name?” he asked in a cold voice.

Alana swallowed. “Margaret and Jon,” she lied.

“Where are you heading?”

“Onslow,” she lied again. Onslow was halfway to Trola—west through the mountains rather than north along the Gods road. “There’s meant to be a ship leaving shortly.”

“Always a ship leaving shortly,” the guard grunted. He looked in the direction of the gate tunnel, then back at them. His eyes narrowed. “Travelling alone, Margaret and Jon?”

“Our uncle’s waiting on the ship,” Alana replied quickly.

The guard nodded as he scratched notes in his binder. “What’s the name of this ship?” he asked finally.

Alana stood gaping down at the man. His beady eyes were watching her closely. She could see the suspicion on his face. He was asking too many questions, and she wondered suddenly what the man before them had told him. Opening her mouth, she was about to blurt out the first ship name that came to mind when a shout carried across the marketplace.

“Devon, you bastard, you’re mine now!”

Alana spun on the spot and stared as the giant from the night before came muscling his way through the crowd. He was armoured now, the steel links of his chainmail glinting as the first rays of sun broke over the top of the wall. Bloodshot eyes glinted from beneath an iron half-helm, and the haft of a warhammer stretched up over his right shoulder.

A second man moved alongside Devon. He stood almost a foot shorter than the giant and was less heavily muscled. Though he wore no sword, he moved with the balanced steps of a fighter. He was older than Devon, the flesh around his eyes crinkled with wisdom. As another shout carried across the marketplace, he skipped quickly around the queue for the gate and headed for the guard sitting at the table.

“Oi, you two, back of the line!” Alana glanced back as the man behind the table stood and pointed at Devon and his friend.

Alana grabbed her brother by the shoulder and stepped aside, moving slowly towards the gate. She watched as Devon’s friend walked up to the table. He was puffing hard, his chest heaving with each intake of breath. Behind the table, the guards bristled. Stepping out into the street, they levelled their spears at the newcomers.

Standing behind the distracted guards, Alana and Braidon continued to edge towards the darkness of the gate tunnel. She watched as Devon moved up beside his friend. The hard amber eyes looked down at the guards with scorn. “Get out of our way.”

Steel rattled as the guards hefted their spears.

“Friends, one moment!” Beside Devon, the smaller man finally found his breath. Lifting his arms, he showed his empty hands. “Excuse my friend his rudeness. We only wish to pass through the gates.”

“You and your friend aren’t going anywhere without waiting in line, Kellian,” the guard behind the table growled, eyes flashing with anger. “Now if you’ll excuse—”

“I’m afraid we really do need to be going,” Kellian interrupted. Another shout came from somewhere in the crowded marketplace. He cast a nervous glance back before continuing, “but I’m sure we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”

Before the guard could reply, Kellian’s hand disappeared into his tunic and reappeared with a gold libra. “One apiece would seem fair, don’t you think?” he asked, his eyes flickering to the two spearmen.

In the road, the spearmen wavered, their weapons dropping half an inch. Alana and her brother picked up the pace. The tunnel was just a few steps away now, but she didn’t dare make a run for it. The guards were bound to notice any sudden movement. But if Devon and his friend finished their business before they made it into the tunnel…

“One each?” The guard at the table was eyeing the coin greedily.

Still moving backwards, Alana shivered as the air turned cold. She staggered slightly, but glancing around, she breathed a sigh of relief. They had made it into the tunnel. Grabbing her brother by the arm, she turned and pulled him deeper into the darkness. The weight of the wall pressed in around them, the massive blocks of granite hovering overhead. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, where she could just make out the glimmer of sunlight on water.

Beside her, Braidon gripped her hand hard. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the darkness. Unable to see where she was placing her feet, Alana pressed her hand to the wall, using the moss-covered stone to steady herself. The wall was only twenty-five feet thick, but the passage seemed to take an age. The light ahead swelled, until it was suddenly all around them.

Alana stumbled to a stop as they stepped back into the open. For a second her vision swam, and a red light stained the world. Looking out beyond the walls, it seemed as though she stood on the edge of a lake of red. Far below, ships bobbed at anchor, their sails pitch-black, their decks packed with warriors. She watched them sail away to the west, her heart soaring with the display of Plorsean power…

“Alana, Alana!”

Alana blinked as a voice called her name, and the vision faded. She glanced around and found Braidon standing next to her, his face creased with concern. Turning back to the lake, she saw its waters were the deep blue of midday. They stood at the top of the great stairwell leading down the cliffs to the docks far below. There, several ships waited, but they sported only white sails, not the black sails of war.

Shaking her head, she looked at her brother. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

She set off down the marble staircase without waiting for a response.

Devon caught a glimpse of blonde hair from the corner of his eye as he stepped towards the gates. He turned to look for the owner, but one of the guards moved into his line of sight. Fixing the spearman with a glare, he couldn’t help but smile as the man retreated.

Beside him, Kellian was still negotiating with the captain of the watch. Devon glanced around, scanning the crowd for the first sign of their pursuers. The hammer weighed heavily on his back, and he fought a sudden yearning to reach up and lift it clear. Swallowing the temptation, he shook his head and looked at his friend.

“Yes, a gold libra for each of you,” Kellian was saying, his eyes flickering from one man to another, “and there’s another in it for you to split, if you’d be so good as to delay some friends of ours.”

The man behind the desk nodded slowly. Devon could almost see the wheels of his mind whirring as he considered the offer. Grinding his teeth, Devon struggled to contain his frustration. A shout came from the marketplace and he checked the crowd again. People were turning towards a commotion behind them: Anthony and the others were drawing close. Devon clenched his fists and fought the urge to begin cracking skulls.

He had not lied to Kellian. He did not fear the royal guard, however many friends the man had brought with him. No, Devon feared what would happen if he faced them, what he might become if he unleashed his rage, and carried the ancient hammer into battle once more. He had lost himself once in Trola, becoming the warrior of dark renown, a man who killed without restraint or mercy. If he gave himself over to that same darkness, Devon wasn’t sure he would ever resurface.

Turning, Devon stepped in front of his friend. “Times up. You want the gold or not?” he hissed. A gold libra was five times what these men made in a week, and they couldn’t wait any longer.

The captain of the watch blanked, his face paling as he realised a small fortune was about to slip between his fingers. Standing, he gestured quickly at the spearmen. “Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, friends. I forgot your paperwork was already filled out yesterday.”

Devon smiled grimly as the two men stepped aside. Kellian flicked a golden coin to each of them. Placing a fourth on the table, he nodded back at the crowd. “Our friends should be arriving presently. I trust you’ll see they’re suitably delayed?”

“Of course,” the captain replied with a smile. He quickly pocketed the fourth coin. “A pleasure doing business with the two of you. Happy sailing.”

Kellian and Devon moved off without another word. Ahead the gates stood open, the heavy wood reinforced by steel. Engraved into the metal were the faces of animals—dragons and felines, raptors and great lizards—beasts of old which had fought alongside the forces of Archon. All long dead now.

As they stepped into the cold beneath the wall, the shouts behind them rose to a roar, and Devon looked back in time to see Anthony and his friends charging towards the gates. A smile crossed his face as the guards stepped across their path, spears extended. Their pursuers faltered mid-charge, the elation falling from their faces as the captain barked orders. Normally the royal guard out-ranked those in the city watch, but the Tsar allowed no exception at the city gates. All citizens coming and going from the city had to be registered. Unless of course, you paid the right fee.

Shaking his head, Devon strode down the tunnel after Kellian. With luck, the guards would delay their pursuers long enough for them to find passage across the lake. Beyond the walls, they moved quickly to the stairwell and started down. Five hundred steps were carved from the cliff-face itself, the stone worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Devon took them two at a time, his eyes on the ships waiting below. Ideally, there would be a ship heading for the northern or eastern shores, but with their pursuers not far behind, Devon would settle for the first ship leaving port.

At the bottom of the cliff, Devon took the lead, moving quickly out onto the docks. His eyes scanned the vessels gathered nearby, searching for one looking ready to disembark. A commotion near the end of the wharf drew his attention, and his eyes widened as he saw the blonde woman from the night before arguing with a black-bearded sailor. A tall young boy stood beside her, his dark hair glinting in the sunlight as he watched the woman facing off against the larger man.

“We only want passage to the shore!” the woman’s voice carried across to them.

The man, who Devon guessed was the captain of the ship behind them, shook his head. “Only room for folk going all the way to Lon. Can’t be wasting space for such a piddling fee.”

“But you’re leaving now!” the woman growled.

The captain shrugged. His eyes found Devon and Kellian standing nearby. A smile appeared on his face as he waved them over. “How about you, lads? Fancy booking passage to Lon?”

“Depends how much you’re asking?” Kellian asked, moving quickly down the wharf to join them.

Beside the captain, the woman’s grey eyes widened as she looked up and saw Devon standing there. Her surprise was quickly replaced by anger, though. Her face hardened as she stepped between the captain and Kellian, drawing the sailor’s attention back to her.

“We were here first,” she hissed.

“Ay, but you can’t pay,” the captain shot back, “and the price is five in gold, my good man.”

Devon’s stomach twisted as he thought of how much he was costing his friend, but Kellian was already shaking his head. “Then I’m afraid we cannot pay, either. But did I hear it right, you’re about to depart?”

The captain’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded. “Ay, as soon as someone fills my last beds for Lon,” he said, turning away.

“We’ll pay twice the usual ten shillings for you to drop us at the Scarlet Feline,” Kellian interrupted, “but only if you cast off now.”

Pausing mid-stride, the captain looked back at them. “In a hurry, are you?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “The price is thirty, then.”

Beside them, the woman’s grey eyes flashed with silent rage. They settled on Devon, and fists clenched, she stepped towards him. Sunlight flashed from the sabre strapped to her waist. “My brother and I need to be on this ship.”

Devon shrugged. “So do we.”

“Wait your turn,” she said.

“Sorry, princess,” Devon replied with a grin. “I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes life’s not fair.”

She made to reach for her sabre, but the boy beside her gripped her arm and tugged her back. “Alana, don’t,” he said quietly. “Let me try.”

“No!” Alana spun towards her brother, Devon forgotten, and gripped him by the collar of his jacket. “Don’t you dare!”

Shaking his head, Devon looked around and saw Kellian had finished negotiating with the captain. He stood beside the gangplank gesturing for Devon to join him. The hammerman moved forward, his eyes drifting over the waiting ship. Paint was flaking from the wooden hull, revealing rot beneath, and there were large patches covering the mainsail. Several men were moving about the ship, while a trapdoor led down to what he guessed were the cramped quarters below deck. A cabin perched precariously at the rear of the vessel, but he presumed it belonged to the captain. Scarlet letters had been painted across the railings, but he could no longer read what they said. Seeing the state of the vessel, Devon was suddenly glad they would only be spending a few hours onboard.

Before he could reach his friend, Alana stepped between them again. “I won’t let you leave without us.”

Devon laughed again, his voice booming out across the open water. He stood a head and shoulders taller than the young woman. Scratching his beard, he shook his head. “And how do you intend to stop me?”

Her eyes darkened. “You two were in an awful hurry to leave up there by the gates,” she said, her voice barely audible above the winter breeze. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with last night, would it?”

“What’s it to you, princess?” Devon growled.

She took a step closer to him, her grey eyes never leaving his face. “I bet the captain would like to know the kind of men he’s carrying. You think you have enough silver to be worth him making enemies of the royal guard?”

Devon stilled, his eyes flickering back to the winding staircase. A steady trickle of people moved calmly up and down the stone steps, but there was no sign of Anthony or his men. His heart thudded in his ears as he looked back at Alana and felt the first stirring of his anger.

“Get out of my way, before I make you.”

Alana only raised an eyebrow. Her eyes flickered to the hilt of Devon’s hammer, then back to his face. “That’s a nice hammer,” she said, her voice rich with laughter. “Care to give me a closer look?”

A strained silence stretched out over the dock. Devon’s hand twitched, but he made no move to unsheathe his weapon. His body shook with rage as he stepped forward to tower over her. “Step aside,” he hissed, “or I’ll feed you to the fish.”

“Try me,” she growled, unflinching.

“Fine.”

Devon’s hand shot forward to grab her arm, but Alana was faster still. She twisted sideways, and he found only empty air. Before Devon could recover, her fist shot out and slammed into his ribcage. Pain jarred in his chest and gasping, he reared back.

A red haze filled Devon’s vision as he roared. Fists clenched, he hurled another punch. This time Alana stood her ground, her arm swinging up to deflect the blow from her body. Even so, the power in Devon’s arm was enough to stagger her. Crying out, she retreated a step, and Devon moved in for the kill.

“Devon, enough!” He looked around as Kellian’s voice carried down to them. His friend stood at the railings of the ship, his face pale as he made rapid gestures towards the gangplank. Looking around, Devon glimpsed a flash of gold on the staircase. Cursing beneath his breath, he moved towards the gangplank.

Steel rasped on leather as Alana stepped into his path, sabre drawn. “Let’s wait around and see what they have to say, shall we?” she asked calmly.

Devon’s hand was halfway to the haft of his hammer before he caught himself. His fingers twitched. He could feel the ancient weapon calling to him, urging him to draw it forth. Heat washed across his face as he imagined smashing aside her fragile blade and crushing the life from her tiny body. His heart raced as he imagined the screams, the blood…

Shuddering, Devon violently shook his head. “What do you want?” he asked, looking down into her steely grey eyes.

“Passage to the shore,” Alana said quickly. “For me and my brother.”

“Captain!” Devon yelled. The captain’s face appeared over the railings of the ship. “These two are coming, too. Kellian, pay the man.”

Ignoring the two interlopers, Devon strode past them and up the gangplank. He heard the thud of boots on wood behind him but did not glance back. His stomach still roiling with anger, he strode up onto the deck.

Kellian met him at the railing, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll bankrupt me by the end of this trip, you know.”

Not in the mood to explain, Devon shook his head and stomped past his friend. He heard the rustling of clothes as the two newcomers joined them on the vessel, but kept his gaze fixed on the lake. The sun had just passed its zenith. The winds were beginning to pick up, and far out on the lake he could see flecks of white as waves broke the surface. It would be a rough journey, and silently he hoped Alana suffered from seasickness. At least with the wind behind them, the crossing would only take a few hours.

Shouts came from the dock as the sailors set about casting them off. His stomach lurched as the ship began to pull away, the gentle waves close to the island lifting the ship beneath them. He let out a long sigh, relief rising to wash away his anger. Idly, his mind returned to the confrontation with Alana, and he suddenly wondered why the two were in such a hurry to leave Ardath.

“Men, pull anchor, let’s sail!” he heard the captain call from the helm.

The ship gave another lurch, and, looking back, Devon smiled as he saw the docks slowly drifting away. But as they began to turn in the water, a distant horn carried down from the clifftops. Still clenching the railing, Devon stared up at the stone walls of the city. The tiny figure stood there beneath a red flag, a trumpet held to his mouth. As Devon watched, another cry rang out across the water.

“Hold on, boys!” the captain shouted as the horn faded away. Shaking his head, he moved across the deck towards his passengers. “Sorry, folks, looks like we’re going to be a little while yet. They’re ordering all ships to remain in port.”

“We’ve already set sail,” Kellian replied smoothly. “Surely the order does not include us?”

Shrugging, the captain walked away. “Sorry lad, your silver’s not worth the risk. Can’t go defying the Tsar’s orders now, can we? I’m sure it won’t take long.”

Devon shared a glance with Kellian as a sailor leapt across the widening gap between the ship and the docks. They both knew who it was the guards were after. Above, the golden-helmed men were nearly halfway down the stairwell. There wasn’t much time before they reached the docks.

Silently, Kellian slid a hand into his coat. Devon knew he was checking the fastenings on his throwing knives. Closing his eyes, Devon felt the familiar yearning for combat roar in his mind, demanding he draw his hammer, unleash the beast. Fingers trembling, he reached up for the haft…

“Please, captain, I’m sure they don’t want us.”

Devon’s eyes snapped open as Alana’s voice carried across the deck. She stood beside the captain, her brother beside her, eyes wide, hands clenched into tiny balls.

Blinking, the captain shook his head, his brow knitting in confusion. “I…no, we have to wait,” he said finally.

“Please,” Alana persisted. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. Her brother shuffled closer, the wind swirling in his unkept black hair. “We’re in a hurry. Like they said, we’ve already left the dock.”

For a moment, it seemed the man would shout her down. Devon held his breath, waiting for the anger to flare in the man’s eyes. Instead, it faded, his shoulders slumping as he waved a hand.

“I guess you’re right. And I can’t go delaying an entire shipment for some bureaucratic nonsense.” Turning to the man on the dock, he waved him back to the ship. “Cast off!”

The sailor frowned, his eyes uncertain, but his hesitation vanished as the captain began bellowing orders. Long poles were extended as the man leapt back to the ship, shoving the shore away and turning to the northeast. Oars slid out from the space below the deck. As they dug down to strike the water, the ship surged forward. Overhead, wood creaked, though the mainsail remained furled.

Devon stood staring at Alana and her brother as they moved to the front of the ship, the relief on their faces palpable. Behind them, the docks shrank from view as they picked up speed. Men stood on the other ships staring after them, but no one tried to call them back. Beyond, Anthony and his friends had finally reached the bottom of the great stairwell. They raced out onto the wharf, arms waving, faces pale with exhaustion. Devon allowed himself a smile as their shouts carried out across the water, made unintelligible by distance.

“Well, she was worth the extra silver,” Kellian commented wryly as he re-joined Devon at the railings.

The smile fell from Devon’s face as he remembered his confrontation with Alana. His anger stirred, but he forced it away, turning his thoughts to the coming journey.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said quietly. “I hope that means you’ve still got a few shillings tucked up your sleeve. I have all of five left to my name.”

“Perfect.” Kellian slapped him on the back, his laughter whispering out across the lake. “You’ll be paying for our room at the Scarlet Feline tonight then. After that ordeal, I’m broke. At least until I can liquidate a few assets in Lon.”

Devon groaned, but Kellian was already moving away, his eyes dancing with amusement.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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It took Quinn four hours to track the lingering taint of magic north through the city. With a squadron of Stalkers at his back and his own magic at the ready, he didn’t doubt they would be able to match whoever was behind the outpouring of power; finding them was another matter. Unlike the young Magicker’s outburst a week before, this usage had been subtle. It tasted of the Earth, perhaps a healing conducted by some hidden priest.

Only as the day grew old did Quinn begin to suspect something more sinister might be at hand. When they reached the northern gates with still no hint of the Magicker’s location, he knew it was no Earth priest they were after. His heart sank as they moved through the gates, following the dwindling scent of power down the stone stairs to the docks.

There, finally, Quinn sensed they were close to the source. Ignoring the stares of sailors and merchants, they made their way through the docks. People and wares packed the heavy wooden planks, hindering their passage.

Quinn cursed aloud as a man staggered into him, shattering his concentration. Spinning on the man, his hand snaked out to catch him by the shirt. The sailor cried out as with a roar, Quinn sent him tumbling over the side. He struck the water with a splash and came up shouting.

Turning away, Quinn continued through the crowd. Now people quickly stepped aside, forming a path for the party of black-cloaked Stalkers. Keeping the smile from his face, Quinn turned his thoughts back to his renegade Magicker. Taking his own power firmly in hand, he used it to reach out from himself, to taste the last traces of magic.

“Here,” he said, coming to a sudden stop.

His men halted beside him, their eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd. But Quinn had eyes only for the open water. Beyond the docks, a dozen ships raced across the surface of the lake, their white sails billowing in the afternoon winds. Overhead, dark clouds were gathering, the beginnings of a storm forming over the city. The last traces of Earth magic were fading now, but they had erupted into life somewhere on this dock.

The Magicker had taken passage on a ship. Even now they were winging their way from Ardath, far across the waters, nearing the distant shores. From there, they could go anywhere, threaten any community in the Three Nations.

He swore again, and sensed his own magic rising in response. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his rage a moment’s consideration before turning his attention to other matters. He swung back to face his men. “They’ve taken a ship. Search the docks. Find out if anything unusual happened here four hours ago.”

With that, Quinn moved away, heading for the stairwell back to the city. All travellers in and out of Ardath were recorded by the city watch. Whoever had snuck out would have left a trace. He wondered idly if the occurrence was related to the disappearances at the citadel, but quickly dismissed it. It had been a month since the escape. He doubted they could have hidden in Ardath all this time without raising suspicions.

Shaking his head, he moved up the spiralling stairwell. He was puffing by the time he reached the gates, and in no mood for nonsense. The guards were speaking as he walked up, and he slowed to listen to the conversation.

“We ’ave to split it evenly,” the spearman standing nearest the gate was saying.

“I don’t have to do anything, Jasper.” The captain of the watch sat behind his desk, eying the two spearmen guarding the tunnel. “You have your gold libra, don’t get greedy now.”

Quinn emerged from the tunnel before the spearman had a chance to reply. The guards fell silent at his appearance, their eyes flickering nervously amongst themselves. Fixing an easy smile to his face, Quinn wandered across to where the captain sat behind his desk. The sun was hidden behind storm clouds now, and the space beneath the wall was cold. Placing his hands on the desk, Quinn leaned in close to the captain.

“Si- sir, how can I help you today?” the man managed to stutter.

Quinn answered with a cold smile. “Anything interesting happen here today, captain?” he asked quietly.

The colour drained from the man’s face. “No! No, sir!”

“Is that so?” He leaned forward so his face was just an inch from the captain’s. “Then why, pray, did I just hear you and your men talking about gold libra?”

A low moan came from the captain’s mouth as it opened and closed. Reaching down, Quinn grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the table. “If I find out you’ve aided a Magicker’s escape, captain…”

“Ma…Magicker?” The man blinked, then shook his head violently. “Ain’t been no Magickers here, I swear!”

Quinn reached down and tore the coin purse from the man’s belt. Upending it on the table, he watched as several coppers and two golden libra tumbled onto the table. “Then you’d better start explaining where you came by that gold, captain,” he growled.

“It was the coward, Devon, sir! Him and his friend. That’s all, I swear it!”

“Devon?” Quinn asked, his grip loosening momentarily on the man’s collar. He had fought alongside the man years ago, but hadn’t seen him since his shameful retirement. “What has he got to do with my missing Magicker?”

“I don’t know anything about a Magicker!” the captain shrieked. “But Devon and his mate, they were in trouble with the royal guard. Paid us to make a quick exit and hold up their buddies. I never knew he had anything to do with a Magicker, I swear!”

Quinn slapped the man hard across the face as he started to ramble. Behind him, he could hear the spearmen edging away, but Quinn kept his attention focused on the captain, sensing he would find his answers there.

“Devon has no magic,” he said dangerously. His sabre left its sheath with a hiss. He tossed the captain to the ground, then knelt beside him and placed his blade to the man’s neck. “So, tell me why I should believe you?”

“Please, sir!” the guard shrieked, his eyes pressed tightly closed. “I swear I’m telling the truth. Devon and his friend came through, caused a big commotion, that’s all I know.”

Quinn eyed the man for a moment, waiting to see whether he had anything else to reveal. Finally, he released him and stood, ignoring the pathetic blob of a man as he curled into a ball and started to sob. Moving to the desk, he flicked through the papers, but could find nothing of use. Turning, he walked back through the gate tunnel and out into the dying light of dusk.

Stopping at the railings overlooking the stairwell, Quinn looked out over the harbour. The port was empty now, the last ship just beginning to pull away. From its bearing, he guessed it was making for Trola. His eyes travelled farther out over the lake, taking in the distant glow of white sails. They were racing against time now, their sails at full mast as they sought the safety of the river before the storm caught them.

Closing his eyes, Quinn settled in to wait for his men.

When they finally appeared, they could offer nothing but confirmation of the captain’s story. Apparently, several royal guards had come bursting onto the docks around the time Devon had fled. Devon and his friend Kellian had left aboard a ship bound for Lon, though several sailors who’d overheard their conversation with the captain vouched that they’d only paid for passage to the shore.

Quinn shook his head. It didn’t make any sense. Devon was a formidable warrior, but he possessed no magic. Nor did his friend, Kellian. Both men were stubborn, borderline treasonous fools, but even they weren’t foolish enough to aid a Magicker. The very idea of going up against the Tsar’s decree was suicide, and coward or no, Devon was too fond of his own life for that.

Still, something didn’t quite add up. Quinn had learnt long ago there was no such thing as coincidences. There was no denying that magic had been used out on the docks. By whom and what for, he had no way of knowing.

But he had a suspicion Devon and Kellian might.

Turning, Quinn looked at his men. “Ready yourselves for the hunt,” he said quietly. “We leave as soon as the storm breaks.”

Alana groaned as she fell back on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered closed, the day’s strain finally catching up to her. Outside the wind howled, its violent gusts tearing at the shutters. They had watched the storm building through the afternoon, felt the beginnings of its power as the waves grew around them. By the time they’d reached the shelter of the river, Alana’s stomach had been heaving. Even the giant warrior Devon had looked a shade paler, and his friend had been too busy with his head in a bucket to pay them any more attention.

It had been a relief for everyone when the ship finally docked at the Scarlet Feline—which turned out to be a riverside inn a league down the river towards Lon. With the rain just starting to fall, Alana had used the money she’d intended for the ferry to purchase a room and meal for herself and Braidon.

Unfortunately, Devon and his friend had also taken a room for a night. With the innkeeper still busy preparing the evening meal, Alana and her brother had retired upstairs. They would have to return to the serving room soon though—or risk going hungry. She wasn’t looking forward to facing the big man’s anger.

Thinking of her desperation back on the docks, Alana felt a pang of guilt. She could hardly believe she’d resorted to blackmailing the former soldier. The memory flashed before her eyes, blurred by adrenaline. Already it seemed distant, more a dream than reality. Maybe that was the only way she could accept what she’d done. With the ship about to depart and the guards closing in, blackmail had been her only option. Even so, the act did not sit well with her.

And it had almost been for nothing anyway. Silently Alana sent her thanks to Antonia for the captain’s sudden change of heart. If not for his grudging acceptance that they could leave, the royal guards would have boarded the ship. And then…

Alana shivered and forced the thought from her mind.

“You think supper’s ready yet?” Her brother’s voice came from the other bed.

Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food and she stifled a groan. Through the wooden floorboards she could hear the dim thud of feet downstairs. The inn was empty except for themselves, Devon, and Kellian, which meant the other two were already in the dining room.

“You’re really that hungry?” Alana asked, sitting up on the bed and looking at her brother.

Braidon rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to bite,” he replied with a grin. “It was only a little blackmail.”

Alana raised an eyebrow. “And just who taught you your morals, young man?”

Her brother’s brow wrinkled, his eyes dropping to the floor. “The same people we ran away from…”

A strained silence stretched out. “Sorry, Braidon,” Alana whispered. Inwardly cursing her thoughtless mouth, she stood and moved across to sit beside him. Rubbing his back, she continued. “We’re safe now, though. No one has any idea we’re here. We made it. It’s all downhill from here.”

She smiled as his eyes brightened. “How long will it take us to reach Northland?”

“A long time.” Laughing, she stood. “But longer if we travel on empty bellies. Come on, let’s get some food.

With Braidon’s hand in hers, they left the room. Pausing in the hallway, Alana quickly ducked back inside and picked up her sword belt before bolting the door behind them. With a wave from her, Braidon led the way to the stairway at the end of the corridor. The wooden floorboards squeaked beneath their boots with every step, announcing their approach to those below. The sound of voices ceased as they made their way down the stairs and turned into the dining room.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the little stowaways!” Devon’s booming voice greeted them as they moved towards the bar.

Alana glanced in the giant’s direction. He and his friend sat at a table near the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the orange fire burning behind the grate. Two half-empty mugs of ale sat at their table, but Alana guessed it was not their first round. Devon had removed his chainmail and helm, and no longer carried the warhammer on his back. Even so, with his hulking shoulders and matted beard, he was an imposing sight.

Silently, Alana flashed a glare in their direction, but it only brought another boom of laughter from the dark-garbed hammerman. Shaking her head, she looked away, and found the innkeeper waiting for them behind the bar.

“Enjoy your rest?” he asked with a smile as they walked up.

“Very much, thank you,” Alana replied, feeling herself relax at the man’s easy demeanour.

The innkeeper was easily into his fifties, with greying hair and smile lines that spread across the breadth of his cheeks, but he moved with the vigour of a much younger man. Which was fortunate, since it was only him in the lonely inn.

“Good, good! Well, what can I get my second-best customers for the night?”

Alana laughed: they were his only customers, aside from Devon and Kellian. Most travellers chose to take a ship directly between Lon and Ardath nowadays, rather than risk the landward journey through southern Lonia. Since the losses suffered during the civil war, the Tsar had been forced to cut patrols along the Gods Road, and bandits were no longer as rare as they’d once been. There were even rumours of wandering Baronian tribes making a resurgence.

“What do you have for supper tonight?” Alana asked.

“Got a pot full of traditional curry from Chole, if a bit of spice is to your liking?”

Alana’s stomach rumbled her agreement and she nodded quickly.

“Take a seat then, folks,” the innkeeper replied. “I’m sure the lads over there would love some civilised company.”

Alana laughed. “We’re just having a quiet night. Got an early start tomorrow.”

“Ay, fair enough. It’s a long trip downriver on foot. ’Specially if you’re the superstitious sort.”

“How so?”

“New in these parts are ya?” the innkeeper questioned. When they nodded, he went on. “The Sitton Forest lies to the south of here. There’s some folk who believe it’s haunted. Too many travellers go in that don’t come out, they reckon. Can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention to the rumours myself. Travelled the entire forest plenty of times, even seen the ruins. I’ll admit the place is creepy. Some of the trees even have faces. But I’ve never encountered any spirits.”

“Good to know, I guess,” Alana replied, “but I think we’ve got it covered.” She patted the hilt of her sabre with a smile.

“Ay, you look like a capable lass. Ah well, I’ll see to that curry. I’ll bring you your plates shortly.”

“Cheers!” Alana’s thanks carried after the innkeeper as he rushed through the double doors behind the bar.

Sharing a grin with her brother, Alana led him across the room to a table in the corner. It was further from the fire than she would have liked on such a cold evening, but she had no wish to be any closer to their fellow guests. Unbuckling her sword belt, she looped it over the back of her chair and sat down opposite her brother.

“What do you think, sis?” Braidon asked.

“Huh?” Alana asked, glancing in his direction. Her gaze had been across the room, where Devon’s amber eyes kept flicking them dark glances. Outside, lightning flashed, followed by the rumble of thunder.

“About Sitton forest?” her brother elaborated. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“There used to be a city there, but it was destroyed during Archon’s last reign,” Alana replied.

Her brother shivered. “Sounds like a place we should avoid.”

“He’s dead, Braidon. It’s been a hundred years since the Gods destroyed him.”

“Yeah, but the Gods are gone now,” her brother shot back.

Alana sighed. “Yes.”

Like most people their age, she was well versed in the tale of the Three Gods and their war with the infamous Archon. A century ago, the mortals Enala, Eric, and Gabriel had wielded the legendary Sword of Light, and worked with the Gods to destroy the dark Magicker. After his fall, the Three Nations had flourished under the rule of the Gods. The only problem was, they’d left. Without their guiding hands, it hadn’t taken long for war to return to the Three Nations. Only the emergence of the Tsar fifty years ago had restored peace to the land.

“Where do you think they went?” her brother asked, his voice dropping low.

“I don’t know,” Alana said simply. “I like to think they’re still out there somewhere…watching over us, but they could just as likely be dead. Either way, don’t get your hopes up, praying for them to come rescue us.”

Her brother’s shoulders fell. Instantly, she regretted the harsh words, but there was no taking them back now.

“Here ya are!” Alana looked up as the innkeeper placed two steaming bowls of curry and a plate of rice between them. “Anything else I can get you folks?”

Alana smiled. “I think we’re good.”

Nodding, the innkeeper moved away. Alana took the chance to inspect the contents of her bowl. The curry was a bright red, thick with ground up herbs and spices. The few chunks of chicken she could see were mostly bone and gristle, but they were more for the flavour, anyway. The dish came from the nearby city of Chole, where for almost a century the land had been plagued by drought. The drought had finally broken with the fall of Archon, but their fiery cuisine remained, remnants of a time when fresh meat was a rare commodity.

Alana’s stomach rumbled as she breathed in the rich scent of paprika and turmeric. Almost drooling, she reached for the spoon lying beside her bowl.

“Enjoying your meal, princess?” Alana jumped as Devon’s gruff voice came from behind her chair. Metal clattered as the spoon slid from her fingers and jumped across the tabletop. She cursed as her knee struck the table leg.

Gritting her teeth, she turned to find the man towering over them. “I was about to,” she growled, “before I was interrupted by a hideous talking donkey.”

Devon’s mouth dropped at the insult, and his face flushed a mottled red. Fists clenched, he took a step closer and placed his hands on the back of her chair. Alana’s heart pounded against her chest as she caught the glint of rage in his amber eyes.

“Excuse me?” he said dangerously.

Alana stared back, brow creased, unflinching. “I said you were a donkey,” she replied. When he didn’t respond immediately, she added, “A hideous one.”

For a second, she thought the giant would explode. His face darkened, turning from red to purple, and he tilted her chair back, its front legs lifting from the floor. Alana tensed, readying herself. Her sabre was trapped behind the chair, closer to Devon than to her, but she inched her right hand towards her table knife.

Then Devon threw back his head and laughed. Alana jumped as the sound echoed from the shutters. Pain shot up her leg as her knee struck the table leg again, but she was too shocked to notice it. She sat staring as the giant hammerman shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes.

“You’ve got stones, princess,” Devon managed finally, his laughter fading away. “No one’s spoken to me like that in years. At least, not to my face.”

Despite her fear a few seconds earlier, Alana found herself smiling. “Well, anytime you need a reminder, let me know. I’d be happy to help.”

“I bet,” Devon said, still chuckling. He nodded to her brother. “How about you, sonny? You as tough as your sister?”

Across the table, Braidon wore a grin as broad as the giant warrior’s. “No one’s as tough as Alana.”

Alana’s heart warmed at his praise and she found herself speechless.

“I don’t doubt it!” Devon continued, “So, the name’s Alana, is it? What’s yours, sonny?”

“Braidon,” came her brother’s reply before Alana could stop him. Inwardly she cursed her foolishness for using their real names in front of people.

“Well, allow me to apologise for my rudeness. It’s nice to meet the two of you.” He offered his hand. “My name’s Devon, though you already knew that. My friend over there’s Kellian. You’re welcome to join us for a drink, if you’d like?”

Alana smiled at the offer. “Thanks, but we’ve got an early start tomorrow. We’re just going to eat and hit the hay.”

Devon nodded, flashing an easy smile. “Fair enough,” he replied. “I’d better be getting back to my drinking companion. Perhaps we’ll see you on the road.” At that, he turned and strode back across to the table where his friend waited.

“Well, that was…strange,” Alana said finally.

Braidon shrugged. “Probably realised he’d met his match.”

Alana laughed. “I guess so.” Her stomach rumbled as she turned her attention back to the food. “Well, we shouldn’t let it get cold. Let’s eat!”

Later in their room, Alana smiled as the heat of the curry spread through her stomach. Her mind still sluggish with sleep, she moved straight to the bed. Lying down, her eyes fluttered closed, her thoughts drifting. Images flickered before her mind, then faded into the darkness of sleep…

“Alana!”

A smile came to Alana’s lips as her brother ran across the shimmering grass. His curly black hair bounced as he ran, falling across his face and forcing him to pause and brush the locks away. She opened her arms and he continued his dash, and she staggered back as he threw himself into her hug.

Laughing, they fell to the grass in a heap. Her brother’s giggling echoed from the stone walls as they rolled several feet before finally coming to a stop. Sitting up, Alana brushed grass from his hair.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s been ages, Alana!”

“I know, I know. But I have responsibilities now, you know that. I’ll try not to be so long next time.” She winked at him as she stood, offering her hand.

Braidon took it with a knowing smile and stood. Together they made their way through the gardens, following the broad stretch of wall beside them. Rose bushes were dotted across the lawns, and they were forced to detour several times. Their sweet aroma lingered in the air, drifting on a soft, warm breeze.

“Have you been studying hard?” Alana asked as they finally stepped onto a path.

Her brother wrinkled his nose. “I’m trying, I swear,” he replied. “It’s just, hard…”

Alana felt a twang in her chest as she looked down at him. “It’s not that difficult—” she began.

“Not for you!” Braidon cut her off. “You’re the smart one, remember…”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Alana dropped to one knee beside him. Reaching out, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. “You’ll get there, it just takes practice, okay?”

He eyed her for a moment, his lips pursed tight. “Okay,” he said finally. Then he smiled, his eyes dancing. “But first you’ll have to catch me!” Spinning on his heel, Braidon took off through the gardens before Alana could grab him.

“Hey, no fair!” Alana laughed, chasing after him. “You get back here, you little brat!”

“Ha!” Her brother glanced back and pulled a face. He ducked around a row of roses, placing the thorny plants between them. “Catch me if you can!”

Alana gave a dramatic sigh, then darted towards him. Her brother’s laughter echoed off the high walls, drawing stares from the other occupants of the garden. Laughing to herself, Alana ignored them. It was good to have time with her brother, time to be a child, to run and play again.

Ahead, her brother disappeared behind a line of trees. Picking up the pace, Alana darted to the left. She sprinted along the treeline until she found a gap between the broad trunks, then dashed through, ducking as the branches snapped at her face. Exploding back into the open, she spun in time to catch her brother mid-leap.

“Argh!”

“Gotcha!” Alana cried, a triumphant grin on her face.

Braidon squirmed in her grip, but there was no breaking free. Finally, he gave up, his body going still. Looking up, he extended his lower lip in a pout.

Alana laughed. “I told you there was no escape!”

“How very true.”

Alana froze as a cold voice came from behind them. Her heart, already racing from the chase, thumped hard against her chest. Warmth spread to her cheeks as she looked down at her brother. He stood frozen now, eyes fixed over her shoulder, hand gripped tight to hers. Swallowing hard, Alana turned towards the voice.

The world seemed to spin as she moved. A collective groan came from the nearby trees, their branches suddenly becoming twisted and misshapen, their bark stained black. She shrank as they leaned towards her, their branches like limbs, reaching out to grab her. The sky above darkened, the warmth falling away, replaced by a chill breeze that swept through the garden, its touch as sharp as a knife.

Amongst it all stood Quinn, the lieutenant of the Stalkers. He wore the same dark legging and jerkin as that day in the stepwell, only now a chainmail vest covered his torso. Folding his arms, he stared at her, a smile on his face.

Alana’s eyes slid down to the longsword at his waist. She clenched her fists, feeling the hopelessness rising within. Empty handed, she moved between the Stalker and her brother.

“What do you want?”

Unfolding his arms, Quinn stepped towards them.

“Such a warm reunion.” He shook his head, his eyes boring into Alana’s. “I’m sorry to break it up. Are you ready, Alana?”

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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Devon looked back as the rumble of galloping hooves approached behind them. Overhead, the remnants of last night’s storm still darkened the sky, threatening rain. Open fields spread out around them, obscured by a low haze that had swept in overnight. Squinting, Devon tried to make out the oncoming horsemen. Beside him, Kellian loosened a dagger in its sheath.

The wind swirled, the mists parting to reveal the dark-cloaked riders. Devon breathed a sigh of relief as he saw their helms were of black steel, rather than the gold of the royal guard. Coming to a stop, they watched as the riders closed in on them, their burly steeds moving at pace. Only when they were a few yards away did the men finally pull back on the reins, bringing their horses to a halt.

The rider in the lead reached up and removed his helm. Devon swore beneath his breath as he found the cold brown eyes of his former comrade staring down at him. Silently, he cursed the ale they’d drunk last night. He’d spent his remaining shillings getting roaringly drunk with Kellian in celebration of their newfound ‘freedom’. As a result, they’d both slept long past the dawn. The sun had been high in the sky by the time they’d set off down the Gods Road. 

The slightest smile touched Quinn’s lips. “Devon, so good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Devon replied softly.

While they’d fought together during the civil war, things had never been more than professional between the two warriors. Quinn had built himself a fearsome reputation with his blade during the war—and his magic only made him all the more formidable. Yet it had been Devon who’d been promoted to lieutenant, something that seemed to rankle the former Battle Magicker. Devon’s rejection of a commission after the war had only added fuel to the man’s hostility.

“Kellian, too, I see,” Quinn added, looking down at the smaller man. “What brings two former soldiers so far from the capital at such an inhospitable time of year?”

Devon narrowed his eyes as he looked around the gathered horsemen. They had formed up in a semicircle around the two travellers, leaving them only one direction to flee. His fists tightened as he saw several hands resting on the pommels of swords. He returned his gaze to Quinn. The man spoke as though he’d expected to find them out here. Suddenly, Devon wondered whether the royal guard had sent the Stalkers after them. He quickly dismissed the idea—Quinn and his men had no interest in petty squabbles.

“Thought Lon might have better prospects for work,” Devon answered. He cleared his throat. “And what brings the legendary Stalkers riding so hard down the Gods Road?”

“Hunting,” Quin replied with a grin that sent ice trickling down Devon’s spine. The Stalker studied the two men a moment longer, before swinging down from the saddle. He was shorter than Devon by a head, but he carried himself with the authority of a much larger man. Stepping in close, he looked up at Devon. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Devon frowned. This time there was no need to fake the expression. “Hunting?” He spread his hands. “Afraid not. I keep myself well clear of anything magic related. Bad for my health.”

“The couple we hung a few days back, they came to you for help. Do you deny it?” Quinn replied, his eyes hard and unblinking.

“They did,” Devon replied, unsurprised by the man’s knowledge. He didn’t need to ask how Quinn had come by the information. “I told them they should hand their son in to the Tsar.”

Quinn nodded slowly. “Didn’t think you needed to share your information with the authorities, though?”

Devon clenched his jaw. “Guess it slipped my mind.”

The Stalker jabbed a finger at Devon’s chest. “I could put you away for that.”

Anger flaring, Devon moved in close to the dark-cloaked man. “Is that so, lieutenant?” he asked quietly. His eyes flickered around the ring of horsemen. There were twelve of them, all armed with sabres. His gaze returned to Quinn. “Are you sure you brought enough men for that?”

Quinn didn’t flinch, but Devon could see the sudden fear in his eyes. A smile spread across the hammerman’s unshaven cheeks. The lieutenant’s face turned red and he straightened, a sneer appearing on his lips.

“Did you suddenly find your manhood then?” he laughed, nodding to the hammer on Devon’s back. “Or were you intending to hide behind your friend’s skirt?”

Iron bands wrapped around Devon’s stomach. He bared his teeth, his hand moving unbidden to the haft of his hammer. Quinn’s eyes widened, but this time he did not move. Gripping kanker more tightly, Devon stared down at the man, feeling the rage burning through him. The moment stretched out, the air taut as a wire. Around them, the other Stalkers watched in silence.

Finally, Devon let out a long breath and released his hammer. He took a step back, adding breathing space between himself and the lieutenant.

“At least I haven’t made a living murdering women and children,” he muttered.

Quinn bared his teeth, his hand dropping to his sabre. “You’d better show some respect, coward.”

“Respect is earned, sonny,” Devon replied.

“Earned?” Quinn said dangerously. Now it was his turn to step forward, his hand still wrapped around the hilt of his sabre. “Have I not earned your respect with all my years of service? For the decade I have spent serving our Tsar, protecting our nation from the scourge of wild magic?”

“That couple was no threat to anyone.”

“Their son was,” Quinn replied, eyes glittering. “Or did you not see what he did at the stepwell?”

“Ay, and what became of him, I wonder? Is he sitting in some dungeon now, or did you kill him yourself, lieutenant?”

A smile appeared on Quinn’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, big man,” he whispered. “But I digress. Where is the Magicker you’re hiding?”

“There is no Magicker,” Devon growled. He spread his arms, as if to show he wasn’t hiding anyone up his sleeves. “Unless you think I suddenly developed the gift.”

Quinn snorted. He stared at Devon for a long moment as though weighing him up, searching for some deceit or trick that would reveal the truth. But for once, Devon had nothing to hide. A smile twitched on his lips as the Stalker finally turned his attention to Kellian.

“And what about you, Kellian?” he snapped.

Kellian laughed. “Still just a simple innkeeper, I’m afraid.”

Sneering, Quinn shook his head. “I heard the Firestone burned down. That would make you just a simpleton then, I guess?” Ignoring Kellian’s sudden loss of colour, Quinn looked back at Devon. “You had best watch yourself, Devon. Lots of accidents can happen on the road. Would be a shame if something happened to our cowardly hero.”

With that, the man turned his back and returned to his horse. Mounting, he placed his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. The squadron surged forward, the massive horses racing around Kellian and Devon before setting off down the Gods Road at a trot.

When the horsemen had faded back into the fog, Devon shook his head. “What do you think that was all about?”

“I don’t know,” Kellian replied, his voice hollow, “but they’re out for blood. I hope those two kids aren’t on the road when they ride past.”

***

The afternoon found Alana and her brother on the road, already half-a-dozen leagues from the Scarlet Feline. Alana had spent much of the night imagining the Stalker lieutenant she’d glimpsed in the stepwell chasing her and her brother through the gardens of her dreams. No matter how she tossed and turned, she could not escape him, couldn’t keep from returning to that same scene, that same question.

Are you ready, Alana?

No!

How could she ever be ready to face such a man? She was good with a sabre, but the Stalker had access to magic, had been trained since youth to use it. She’d watched Quinn smash aside the young Magicker’s feeble flames and knock him unconscious in a matter of moments. What chance did a mere mortal like her stand against him?

Unable to sleep any longer, Alana had risen with the first crow of the rooster and dressed quickly. Waking her brother had been difficult. He hadn’t been eager to leave the comfort of his bed, but in the end, she’d forced him, dragging him out from beneath the duvet and dumping him on the floor.

He walked sullenly beside her now, his head down, lips pursed tight. He had hardly said a word all day, but she was just glad they’d gotten away without seeing Devon and his friend again. She’d been afraid they’d offer to join them on the road. She still had her reservations about the man’s apparent change of heart, but it was her brother that concerned her more. He was untutored in his power. What if he accidentally revealed it to the two men? Friendly as they now appeared, Alana knew she couldn’t trust such a secret to strangers.

As they walked, she scanned the roadside, her eyes travelling out over the rolling farmland in search of danger. Here the land was used for pasture, the bright grass reviving the memory of her dreams. Sheep and cattle dotted the fields, heads down as they grazed. Earlier they’d walked past fields of maize and wheat, their long fronds obscuring her view. Even now a fog covered the ground, and she could only see several dozen yards in either direction. Away to her left she could just make out the towering treeline that marked the banks of the river Lon.

Eventually they would have to cross the river to enter Lonia, but for now Alana was happy to follow the road as far north as they could. They would have to make the crossing themselves—after last night’s stay, there was no way they could afford another ferry. But there were bound to be narrow points they could ford.

She paused midstride as dark shapes appeared through the fog ahead. Her heart started to race, but a moment later she let out a sigh as she realised they were only trees. Ahead, the open fields gave way abruptly to the twisted mass of a forest. Beside her, Braidon continued on with his head down, ignorant to their surroundings. Racing to catch up, she gripped him by the arm and nodded at the trees.

“I think that’s Sitton Forest,” she murmured.

His eyes widened as he looked up and saw the waiting trees. Shadows clung to the earth beneath their twisted trunks. Mould had turned their bark black, giving them an otherworldly look. Where the Gods Road met the trees, it split in two, one heading east around the forest, the other straight through. Small saplings sprouted from the overgrown path leading through the trees, and roots riddled the hard-packed earth.

“Are you sure you want to go through?” her brother asked, his anger apparently forgotten.

The fog seemed to press in around them as they came to a stop at the fork in the road. Alana swallowed, eyeing the trees. The sun remained hidden behind the clouds, but they still had several hours of daylight left. Not so in the forest. Beneath the canopy, darkness reigned. Biting her lip, she looked at her brother.

“I—” She broke off as the sound of hooves pounding earth carried to them.

She spun around, eyes searching the fog for sign of the horsemen. Her heart hammering in her chest, Alana shared a glance with her brother, but there was no telling who approached. The thick fog pressed closer, concealing everything more than a few feet from them.

“The forest!” Alana hissed. Grabbing Braidon by the shirt, she dragged him down the path. “Come on, before they spot us.”

An icy breath slid down her back as they staggered down the Gods Road and ducked into the trees on the side of the path. Crouching in the leaf litter, Alana stared back towards the south, seeking out the first sign of the riders. Her breath quickened as she glimpsed shadows through the blanket of grey-white. Blood rushed to her ears, deafening her. She held her breath, trying to still her nerves. Reaching out, she gripped her brother’s hand tight.

As the horsemen neared, she began to make out details. They wore dark cloaks and black helms, the markings of the Tsar’s Stalkers. Alana crouched lower in the foliage and sent up a desperate prayer to any deity who might be listening. The blood froze in her veins as she recognised the face of the leader; the same face that had haunted her dreams.

Quinn.

His presence could not be a coincidence, surely? Did the Tsar have the power to reach out into her very mind now? Had his power led the Stalkers after them? The thought sent a shiver down to her very soul. Breath held, Alana watched them come, expecting the racing horsemen to plunge straight into the trees after them.

The horsemen slowed as they approached the fork in the road. Alana cursed herself for rushing down the path without taking care to hide their tracks. The light was dim, and she prayed they would not spot any sign left by the two travellers.

Quinn pulled his horse to a stop not twenty feet from where they hid, his eyes fixed to the ground. The other horsemen gathered behind him, their eyes on the forest and surrounding farmland. A frown furrowed Quinn’s face as he studied the trail, the gelding jostling beneath him. Its snorts were audible from Alana’s hiding place, and she could see foam flecking the coats of their horses. It was clear these men had been riding hard. Closing her eyes, Alana waited for the inevitable shouts of discovery.

She caught the murmur of voices, and looked up again in time to see the lieutenant point his horse down the other trail. “We’ll take the ring road. If there’s still no sign of this Magicker by the time the paths re-join, half of us will head back through the forest, while the rest recheck the Gods Road.”

Without waiting for a response from his men, Quinn kicked his horse. The beast leapt forward, racing down the path away from the forest. Alana let out a breath as the other men followed suit. Slowly, the pounding of hooves faded into the distance. Sitting back on the damp ground, she looked at her brother with a smile.

“Guess we’re going through the forest,” she panted, her heart still racing.

Braidon said nothing, only nodded, and she read the fear in his eyes. The Stalkers had been so close, that a single movement might have given them away. She could only guess how the hunters had discovered them. The Tsar was said to have power beyond any ordinary Magicker, but surely if he knew their location, the Stalkers would not have ridden past them. She could only assume that meant the riders had no way of magically locating their prey.

Alana had no intention of making the chase any easier for them. From here on out, they would keep off the road. If they walked amongst the trees alongside the path, she was confident they could find their way, and still prevent the riders from taking them by surprise again. It would make for slow going in the gloomy light beneath the canopy, but at least they’d be safe.

Standing, Alana pulled Braidon up with her. “Come on, the faster we move, the more distance we put between us and them.”

“Didn’t you hear what they said?” Braidon hissed. “They’re going to ride back through the forest.”

“Yes, but they won’t see us,” Alana replied with a confidence she didn’t feel. “We’ll stick to the trees, follow the path from a distance.”

She felt her brother trembling as he took her hand. “The trees?” His voice shook as he glanced around.

Alana tried to keep the fear from her face as she followed his gaze. The innkeeper had been right, there was a weirdness to this forest, a wrongness she couldn’t quite place. But there was no movement beneath the canopy, no sign of danger—just twisting branches and curling green vines that crawled along the forest floor.

“It’s the safest way,” she replied finally. “Come on, the faster we move, the sooner we’ll put this place behind us.”

“What do you think?” Kellian asked.

Devon glanced at his friend, one eyebrow raised. “I think I’ve passed this way a dozen times without a problem,” he replied with a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re getting superstitious in your old age, Kellian?”

Kellian snorted. “I was more concerned about bandits. In those trees, we’d never see them coming.”

“What would a bunch of bandits want with a couple of paupers like us?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t spent the last of your coin on ale last night, we’d have something for them to steal,” Kellian shot back.

Devon laughed, but shook his head. “Come on, the Sitton road is faster.”

“Yes, and our old friend’s tracks go around. Are you sure you’re not just avoiding another encounter?”

“There is that,” Devon said, grinning. “Are you spoiling for a fight so soon after the last one?”

Kellian rolled his eyes, but he stepped onto the forest path without further argument. Chuckling to himself, Devon strode after his friend. To the west, the sun was just beginning to sink behind the trees on the riverbank, while  ahead the forest of Sitton lay in darkness. He shivered as they entered the shadows, the temperature plummeting.

“I hope you’re right about this place,” Kellian muttered as they pressed deeper into the forest.

Darkness clung to the track here. The road was becoming overgrown as the forest reclaimed the hard-packed earth, making the way difficult. Several times Devon cursed as a root tripped him, or he found the soft trunk of a sapling in his path.

“Do me a favour,” Kellian said after an hour, “keep that hammer of yours handy.”

“You worry too much, old friend,” Devon replied in a light-hearted voice, though even as he spoke he reached up and loosened kanker in its sheath. “What ever happened to the wily warrior I fought beside in Trola?”

“He got old,” Kellian snapped. Devon looked round in surprise, but in the gloom it was difficult to make out his friend’s expression. After a moment, Kellian went on in a softer tone. “He grew a brain, stopped taking so many unnecessary risks.”

Devon nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. His friend was right, taking the forest path was an unnecessary danger. It would take at least two days to clear the forest—longer if they lost their way. The road was badly overgrown and it would be easy to wander off the path. That was a long time for any disreputable souls inhabiting the forest to learn of their presence. He and Kellian might not have anything of value, but the bandits wouldn’t know that.

Silently he lengthened his stride. “Come on, we can still make good ground before nightfall.”

Kellian muttered something beneath his breath, but he picked up the pace. They staggered on for another hour before the darkness became so thick they could barely make out their hands in front of their faces. Several times Devon was struck in the eye by unseen branches, his height for once a disadvantage.

Cursing, he finally staggered to a stop. “This is far enough, I’ll not be thrashed half to death by a forest. We’ll wait for the light of—”

He broke off as a piercing shriek carried through the trees. A tingle of fear shot down Devon’s spine as he swung towards the sound. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck as the cry came again. He glanced at his friend, but Kellian was staring in the same direction, his hand gripped tight around the hilt of a knife.

Kellian looked around as the scream died away. His face was drained of colour. “Someone’s in trouble,” he said softly.

“How far, do you think?” Devon whispered.

“Close,” Kellian replied, “It’s difficult to tell in the trees.” He looked at Devon, his hazel eyes wrinkled with concern.

Devon’s heart was racing at the thought of danger. He glanced back the way they’d come, but the light had died and there was no sign of the path. The scream came again. The hammer weighed heavily on his back. He could feel the burden of its history calling to him, the legends of his ancestors. He thought again of Trola, of the burning cities and bloody streets, and shuddered.

Was he strong enough to wield it once more, and keep to the path of good?

As the scream slowly died away, Devon made up his mind.

“Let’s go,” he hissed.

He bounded into the trees without waiting for a reply. Leaves and branches crunched beneath his boots as he ran, kanker suddenly in hand. He tightened his grip around its wooden haft, drawing reassurance from its weight. A sense of elation filled him as he fought the trees, picturing the battle to come, the spilling of blood and screams of the dying. His breath came faster, his heart pounding like a wagon racing over a rutted street.

Another shriek carried through the trees, loud and piercing, calling him on. The darkness pressed in around them, but Devon no longer struggled with the roots and branches. His feet found their way with sudden accuracy, dancing through the unseen obstacles. He ran on through a tunnel of darkness. He was aware of Kellian’s presence beside him, but in that moment, he felt alone with the shadows, at one with the power thumping through his body, the beast writhing within him.

Ahead, the trees opened up, giving way suddenly to a clearing. Movement came from its centre. Lifting his hammer, Devon leapt towards it, mouth open to scream a battle cry…only to stagger to a stop as shapes took form from the darkness.

Alana stood alone in the clearing, grey eyes wild, blond hair a tangled mess. She held her sabre in one hand, the silver blade a blur, darting in and out, striking at the green things that reached for her. For a second, Devon thought they were snakes, only they had no heads, no mouths, no scales. As he watched, one shot out and wrapped a slender tendril around her ankle. The scream came again, one of pure, unbridled rage. Twisting, Alana’s sabre flashed down, severing the living vine, allowing her to dance clear.

But already more vines were closing in. Her sabre flashed again as one wrapped around her wrist, but it was clear she was fighting a losing battle. At her feet, her brother lay motionless, wrapped in a seething mass of green. Even as Devon watched, his body jerked, and started to slide away from Alana.

Shouting, Alana leapt after him, her sabre slashing wildly at the vines encasing her brother. Then she staggered, her feet coming up short as several tendrils trapped her legs. Before she could lift her sabre to cut herself free, they jerked violently, sending her crashing to the ground.

“What are you waiting for?” Kellian screamed as he shot past. “Help her!”

Devon shook off his shock and staggered after his friend. Kellian held a dagger in each hand now, their steel blades shimmering as they slashed at the vines around Alana. Beyond, Braidon’s body gave another jerk, the tangled vines dragging him across the clearing. Grasping his hammer, Devon charged after the boy.

The thrill of battle boiled in Devon’s veins as the weight of the weapon settled into his hands. Roaring, he bounded towards the nearest vines, the ancient hammer sweeping down to crush them. The vines fell back at kanker’s touch, and he charged on, a war cry on his lips.

Nearby, Alana was back on her feet. She stood back to back with Kellian, her sabre sweeping out to fend off another attack. But the vines had separated them from Braidon. Gritting his teeth, Devon fought his way after the boy.

The blood froze in Devon’s chest as his eyes followed the vines to the trees, and he saw what waited there. In the darkness, red eyes glowed from the trunks of the trees. Beneath the eyes, great fissures split the trunks, forming gaping jaws of hardened bark. Alana’s cry came from across the clearing as her brother slid inexorably closer to the awful mouths.

Devon flinched as a tendril wrapped around his bicep and he felt the bite of thorns piercing his flesh. Kanker swept down, its hardened head catching the vines mid-swing. At its touch, they fell back, their colour fading to black as they dropped to the forest floor. Teeth gritted in rage, Devon forced his way through towards Braidon, fighting to place himself between the boy and the demonic trees.

Behind him he could hear the cries and grunts of Alana and Kellian as they fought for their freedom. Flashing them a glance, his heart lurched in his chest as he saw his friend go down, his feet whipped out from beneath him by writhing vegetation. Alana leapt to defend him, but another vine trapped her sword arm. Cursing, she drew her dagger and sliced at her supernatural assailants, but the steel blades no longer seemed effective.

Torn between his friend and the helpless boy, Devon hesitated. Panic rose in his chest. Around him the vines closed in, forming a writhing wall of green. Tightening his grip on the hammer, he made up his mind. Smashing a path through the vines, he started towards the dark glow of the nearest tree. The red eyes seemed to be watching him, an ancient hatred in their bloody depths. His breath coming in raged gasps, Devon fought his way towards them, driven by instinct now. The vines grew thicker around him, but just a touch from his warhammer was all it took for them to fall back.

With a roar, he reached the demonic tree and raised kanker above his head. A high-pitched shriek tore through the clearing, driving shards of pain deep into Devon’s skull. The noise seemed to come from all around, but he recognised it for what it was—a last, desperate attempt to halt his attack. Clenching his jaw, he gripped the hammer in both hands and swung.

Vines flashed for his face, wrapping about his neck and torso, but not even the thrashing tendrils could halt his attack now. The great tree seemed to shrink an instant before kanker struck, the vile glow dying in the red slits of its eyes. The mouth snapped closed.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as kanker plunged home. The vibration of the blow shook Devon to his core, almost making him drop the hammer. Clenching his teeth, he held on, and lifted the ancient weapon for another swing.

An awful groan came from the tree, but the vines continued to thrash, the terrible tendrils all around him now. Razor-sharp thorns tore at his thighs and he could feel blood dripping down his back, but still he raised the hammer high.

“Die, bastard,” Devon growled.

Red light flashed across the clearing as he drove the ancient weapon down into the blazing eyes. The wooden mouth groaned open, and it seemed a pure darkness came rushing out, a cloud of evil that fled away into the forest.

Devon staggered back as a sudden stillness came over the clearing. A wave of exhaustion swept through him, but summoning the last of his strength, he forced himself to look around at the surrounding trees. The other eyes had vanished, plunging the clearing into darkness. His gaze continued around to find Alana and Kellian standing nearby. The boy, Braidon, lay not far from where he stood.

Suddenly kanker felt unbearably heavy in his hands. Devon let the hammer fall. The thud as it struck the ground seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. He swayed on his feet, and Kellian quickly stepped forward and offered his shoulder. Cuts marked his friend’s arms and face, but he seemed to have fended off the worst of the attack.

Alana gave a strangled cry and ran to her brother. Devon watched as she dropped to her knees beside the boy. He heard a voice sound from far away. Turning, he tried to focus on the face of his friend, but the world was fading now, darkness swirling at the edges of his vision. Relieved, he opened his arms and embraced it like an old friend.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

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“What the hell is that?” Quinn pulled hard on the reins of his horse, bringing the beast to a halt mid-trot.

His men did the same, milling about him as they turned to stare in the direction their lieutenant was looking. Only a few had magic to sense the disturbance radiating from the forest to the west, but they were experienced enough to recognise the look on their lieutenant’s face.

Closing his eyes, Quinn allowed the waves of magic to slide through him. They pulsed on the air, dark and unnatural, a power from another time. This was no rogue Magicker, no wild magic. It was something else—dark magic, primal and raw, powerful.

He looked around at his men, sharing glances with the few gifted with magic. He could see the question in their eyes. Something was happening in the forest of Sitton, something against not just the laws of the Tsar, but those of the earth itself. Dark magic was a perversion of the natural world; it was their duty to investigate its sudden appearance.

Yet the detour would mean abandoning their hunt for the rogue Magicker, wherever the renegade had vanished. Quinn still wasn’t sure whether they were on the right path. The confrontation with Devon had left him angry and humiliated, and still no closer to finding their quarry. He wished he’d pressed the man more. If he’d managed to goad Devon into drawing his hammer, Quinn would have slain him where he stood. He could have killed him regardless, of course, but it would have shamed Quinn to kill an unarmed man—even one so cowardly as Devon.

Still, with their only lead a dead-end, Quinn had pushed his men onwards in the hope they would stumble upon the rogue Magicker. He had sensed nothing of their prey since leaving the capital, but Quinn’s instincts told him they were close to something.

Now, though, dark magic was radiating from the forest. Was this something to do with the Magicker, or something else entirely? He had sensed no Earth magic amongst the dark, as he had back in Ardath, but that did not mean their quarry was not involved. He had heard rumours of the forest before; perhaps the Magicker had awoken something in the old ruins.

Quinn shook his head. His gut told him two outpourings of magic in two days could not be coincidence. Swearing under his breath, he turned to his men.

“Vim, take three men,” he said, pointing at his deputy. “Continue north along the Gods Road until the roads merge again, then follow the forest road back towards Ardath.”

“What about you, sir?” his deputy asked.

“The rest of us will retrace our steps and take the other road. With luck we’ll meet tomorrow near the ruins of Sitton.”

His deputy nodded and saluted quickly. “Good luck, sir.”

Quinn tightened his grip on the reins. A breath of wind stirred around him, picking up dust and lifting it into the air. He smiled as the magic swelled in his chest, feeding strength back to his weary muscles.

“And to you, deputy.”

With that, Quinn turned his horse and kicked the tiring beast into a gallop. The roar of hooves chased after him as his eight remaining men followed suit.

“How goes your brother’s teaching, Alana?” Her father’s voice was cold, echoing from the stone walls.

Alana shivered, looking up into his weathered face. “He’s…progressing, father.”

“Progressing? His birthday is in two months. Will he be ready, or not?” He spoke the final words in a hard, grating tone that left no doubt such an outcome was not an option.

She nodded quickly, raising her hands in deference. “He will be ready, I swear it, Father.”

“Good.” As quickly as it had come, her father’s anger vanished. “He will achieve great things, one day. As will you, Alana. When the two of you are ready.”

Rising from his chair, he wandered around the dining table and gestured for her to stand. “Come, walk with me, my daughter.”

Alana smiled, the weight lifting from her chest as she accepted her father’s hand. Together they wandered out into the courtyard. Snow was falling over the roses, but her father led her around the covered walkway, her hand still in his.

“What are your dreams, Alana?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the white frosting covering the garden.

Glancing up at him, Alana frowned. “To make you proud, Father,” she replied quickly.

A smile appeared on his bearded face. “Ever the dutiful daughter,” he murmured. A light appeared in his blue eyes as he spoke again. “Now, the truth.”

Unbidden, the words bubbled up from the depths of Alana’s soul. “To be free.”

Laughter whispered through the courtyard as her father led her towards the exit. Between the great columns holding up the roof, she glimpsed a shadow approaching. Something inside her screamed a warning, but in the dream, Alana walked on, oblivious. A cold crept through the scene, blurring its edges, as the couple stepped into the doorway leading outside.

Alana staggered to a stop as she found herself staring into Quinn’s hard brown eyes.

“Are you ready, Alana?”

“No!” Alana screamed, sitting bolt upright on the forest floor.

Gasping, she stumbled to her feet, hands scrambling in the darkness for her blade.

“Alana, stop, what’s wrong?” A voice came from nearby, familiar yet strange.

Steel rasped on leather as she found her sabre and drew it. “Stay back!” she warned, spinning in the voice’s direction.

“Alana, stop, it’s Kellian!”

Light blazed suddenly in the darkness as someone tossed fuel on the dwindling fire. Flames danced, casting their glow on the man’s face. She let out a long sigh as she recognised Devon’s friend. Lowering her sabre, she slumped back to the ground, her breath still coming in ragged gasps.

“Are you okay?” Kellian whispered, moving closer.

She shook her head and lifted a palm towards him. “Just give me a second,” she panted.

He nodded. Turning away, he crouched beside the fire and stocked it. After a moment, Alana moved across the clearing to sit beside him. She let out a sigh as she felt the fire’s heat on her cheeks. Her brother lay nearby, and she reached across to tuck the blanket firmly around him. Brushing a curly lock of black hair from his face, she watched him sleep. His eyes flickered at her touch but did not open. A moan built in her throat, but she pushed it down, willing herself to be strong.

Silently, she cursed her decision to venture off the Gods Road. She had been so confident they could keep in touch with the path, but within half an hour they’d become horribly lost. With the path nowhere in sight, they had stumbled on through the growing darkness. For a moment, Alana had thought them saved when they’d found the clearing. Then the red eyes had appeared in the shadows of the trees, and the vines had come for them, knocking Braidon unconscious before either of them had a chance to fight back. Only pure instinct had saved Alana, her sabre sliding into her hand before she even understood the danger threatening them. 

Now, with Devon and Braidon unconscious, she crouched in the same clearing and stared at the silent trees. Alana hadn’t left her brother’s side since Devon smashed the demonic tree, but afterwards Kellian had ventured close enough to inspect them. Apparently several of the trees lining the clearing had dark faces etched into their bark. She expected them to reawaken at any moment, but there was little they could do if the trees threatened again. Between herself and Kellian, they could barely lift the massive hammerman—let alone her brother.

Instead, Kellian had lit a great fire in the centre of the clearing, and together they had sat down to wait out the night. She must have fallen asleep, because she could already see the first light of morning creeping through the treetops.

Her gaze shifted to Devon’s motionless figure. Sleep had softened the rugged features of his face, the furrows in his forehead vanishing, the scowl replaced by a slight smile. Beside his massive shoulders and muscular arms, her brother seemed but a child, precious and fragile. She cursed herself again for ever bringing him to this place.

She flinched as a low groan came from across the clearing. Reaching for her sabre, she made to stand, her eyes going to the trees, before the sound came again. Across the fire, Devon shifted and sat up, his amber eyes blinking in the shadows. His gaze shifted from Kellian to Alana, before returning to his friend.

“We beat the bastards, then?”

Kellian chuckled. He reached down to pick up the warhammer and handed it to Devon. “You beat them, old friend.”

“Good.” Taking the hammer, Devon placed it beside him and held his hands out to the fire. “No wonder I’m starving. We got anything for breakfast?”

Alana’s heart lurched in her chest as another moan came from her brother. She scrambled across to him as he sat up, his brow creased with confusion.

“Alana? Where are we—” He broke off as she smothered him in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, breaking away. She quickly wiped a tear from her eye. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I think,” he replied, rubbing his head where the vine had struck him. “What happened…” He jerked as he looked around and saw the faces on the trees, lit now by the light of day. “The trees!”

“It’s okay,” Alana said quickly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “They seem to be…asleep,” she finished lamely.

“Scared, more like,” Devon said gruffly.

“Whatever they are, your breakfast will have to wait,” Kellian said, standing. He gestured at the trees. “I don’t know about you, but now you’re both awake, I’d rather not stick around in this place.”

Alana nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

There was no telling which direction they’d come from, but Kellian climbed a tree and was able to pick a path northwest towards the river. So long as they kept to that direction they would eventually stumble onto the road. It would take another day to leave the forest by those paths, but with Quinn and his Stalkers behind them, no one was enthusiastic about heading back the way they’d come.

They walked on through the morning in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When they finally reached the road, the four of them exchanged brief glances, relief etched into their faces. Turning to the north, they continued on, determined to escape the forest as soon as physically possible. Kellian dug into a small pack as they walked, coming up with a few strips of salted jerky. The scraps were passed around without speech. With Alana’s meagre supplies lost in the battle with the trees, there wouldn’t be any more food until they left the forest.

The day dragged on. The sun rose high above the treetops, but its light did not penetrate beneath the canopy. Shadows clung to the path, and when they breathed there was ice in the air. As the sun crept towards the horizon, Alana’s breath began to cloud before her face. Shivering, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and marched on.

Only as the light began to fade did Alana glimpse the first traces of the city that had once been Sitton. Fallen stonework, shaped by human hands, appeared amongst the trees. She glimpsed a wall to their left, its surface turned green by moss, then tripped as the path beneath her feet changed to stones, a groove worn into the rock catching her boot. Mounds of broken tiles lay amongst the trees, and as she looked more closely, she realised the path was now threading its way through former buildings, their roofs long gone, their walls crumbling.

“Sitton,” she breathed.

Up front, Devon nodded. “All that remains,” he murmured, glancing back. “I’ve come this way before. There’s a temple ahead. Its walls are mostly intact, they should offer some protection. We’ll camp there for the night.”

True to Devon’s word, the temple was in better condition than many of the other buildings, though a massive tower had fallen across half the structure, burying everything beneath a mound of stones. The remaining three walls stood strong, offering their ancient protection from the elements. Devon led them to a doorway in one of the walls, its wooden arch long since rotted away.

Alana paused in the doorway as the others moved ahead, her eyes scanning the interior of the temple. There was no sign of broken tiles or roofing material, and she guessed this section must have once been a courtyard within the temple’s inner sanctum. Several trees grew in its centre, their long branches stretching high above the height of the walls. She stared at their trunks but could see no sign of the demonic faces.

Allowing herself to follow the others into the temple courtyard, Alana scanned the walls. Moss and lichen covered the stones, but she could just make out the old etchings in their surface—of lightning bolts and spiralling trees. The symbols meant the temple had once been dedicated to Antonia and Jurrien—the Gods of Earth and Sky.

Kellian and Devon moved quickly about the courtyard, gathering branches and kindling for a fire. A tinderbox appeared from Kellian’s bag and within minutes they had a fire burning against the far wall of the courtyard. Taking her brother by the hand, they moved across to join them, savouring the warmth on their faces. Silently the four of them sat round the fire, eyes to the flames.

“What were those things?” It was Kellian who finally broke the silence.

Alana shuddered. Her skin crawled where the vines had touched her, their inexorable strength threatening to drag her to her death. She recalled the red eyes, glowing through the dark, the gaping maws opening to greet her. Shivering, she pushed the memory away.

“Nothing I’ve ever seen,” Devon mused, his voice strangely calm. The hammer lay beside him, his hand rested on its haft. “Something evil.”

“Really?” Alana snapped. She looked up to find the eyes of the other three on her. Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just…” she trailed off, unable to put words to the terror that had lodged in her soul.

“Afraid,” Kellian finished for her. His eyes flickered around the fallen temple. “Are we safe here, do you think?”

“I’ve camped here before,” Devon answered, “when I travelled this way in the past. But those things…who knows how far their darkness reaches.”

Beside her, Braidon shuddered. “I barely saw them. They knocked me down before I knew what was happening.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Kellian murmured. His eyes flickered from Braidon to Alana. “Why did you venture off the path in the first place?”

A shiver swept down Alana’s spine as she glimpsed suspicion in the man’s eyes. They had been behind them on the Gods Road—that meant they’d seen the Stalkers ride past. Reaching down, Alana took a swig from the water skin, buying herself time.

“We stumbled from the path,” she said finally. “It was dark and the path was overgrown. I didn’t realise how lost we were until we found that clearing.”

“What I don’t understand,” Devon said quietly, his eyes flickering down to the hammer at his feet. “Is why the vines fell back from kanker. Your blades barely cut them, but as soon as kanker touched them, they withered away.”

The others looked back at him, unable to offer any answers. Alana was about to ask where the hammer had come from when her ears caught the soft whisper of noise from beyond the walls. Goosebumps tingling on her neck, she rose quickly, waving a hand to silence the others. Clutching at her sword hilt, she crept towards the doorway, eyes fixed on the shadows beyond, ears straining.

Crunch.

This time the noise was unmistakable—the sound of a footstep on stone.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Behind Alana, the others rose, weapons in hand. Gritting her teeth, Alana drew her sabre. At the rasp of steel on leather, all sounds from outside ceased. Cursing softly, Alana slid closer to the temple’s entrance.

She lifted her blade as movement flickered in the doorway, preparing to hurl herself at the unknown intruder. Before she had a chance to attack, a hunched figure stepped from the shadows into the light.

Alana blinked, her feet almost tripping over themselves as she pulled herself up short. Soft laughter whispered through the courtyard as the figure took another step towards them. Firelight illuminated the withered folds of a woman’s ancient face. Blue eyes glowed in the darkness, and silvery hair hung around her shoulders. Green robes cloaked the woman’s ancient body. While she moved at a shuffle, Alana did not miss the glint of a sword hilt at the woman’s waist. Taking a hasty step back, she lifted her own blade and pointed it at the old woman.

“Stay back!” Alana cursed inwardly as her voice shook.

The laughter came again, quiet, filled with mirth. “Are you so afraid of an old woman?”

“These are strange times,” Kellian said, stepping up beside Alana. “Trust does not come easily. Who are you?”

“A priest.”

“What’s a priest doing in a place like this?” Devon asked gruffly. He walked forward, kanker in hand, firelight reflecting from the steel head.

“Looking for you,” the priest replied.

Taking her blade in a two-handed grip, Alana advanced a step on the old woman, until the point rested on her chest. “Why?” she hissed.

The blue eyes dropped to the blade, then back to Alana. The smile never left the ancient face. “You fought the Arbor,” she said quietly. Her eyes turned on Devon. “You killed one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Devon growled.

“The magic of the black trees clings to you like a cloak.” The woman continued as though the giant hammerman had not spoken. “You were fortunate to survive.”

“The black trees?” Kellian asked calmly. “That’s what you mean by the Arbor?”

The woman nodded, turning to face the innkeeper.

“And what do they have to do with you, priest?” he pressed.

“I hunt them,” the old priest said simply.

Silence met her answer. Then Devon threw back his head and began to laugh. The booming sound echoed around the courtyard. When it finally faded away, the big man wiped tears from his eyes and looked at the woman. “You hunt them?” he asked. “And how does someone as old as you manage that?”

The old woman had said nothing as the hammerman laughed, but now a smile of her own spread across her lips. “Like this.”

Before anyone could react, the woman moved. Short sword suddenly in hand, she lashed out, catching Alana’s sabre just above the hilt. The shock of the impact knocked the blade from Alana’s hand, then a booted foot lashed out to catch her in the chest. Stumbling backwards, she crashed into Kellian and the two of them went down in a heap.

Cursing, Devon lifted his hammer and swung at the old woman, but she had already slipped below his guard. He froze as the silver steel of her blade touched his throat.

“Do you need another demonstration?” she asked into the sudden silence.

Devon carefully shook his head. “I take your point.”

The woman’s laughter bubbled forth as she sheathed her blade and wandered across to their fire. She sat down with a low groan, only then glancing back at them. “Well, are you going to stand there all night in the cold, or are you going to join me?”

“Join you?” Alana snapped. Finally managing to disentangle herself from Kellian, she scooped up her sabre and leapt to her feet. “Why don’t you try me in a fair fight, you old hag?”

The blue eyes flickered up at Alana. She froze mid-stride, reading the danger there. “Put away your blade, girl,” the woman said, her words like ice. “Before I take it from you.”

Alana swallowed, suddenly lost for words. The threat in the woman’s eyes was unmistakable, and despite their obvious mismatch, she sensed it would be a mistake to attack. After a long moment, she pushed down her anger and sheathed her sabre.

The smile returned to the woman’s face. “Good girl.” She nodded to the log beside her. “Why don’t you join me and tell me of the Arbor you fought? I would like to hear the tale.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the four of them shuffled across to join the woman. Embers of rage still burning in her stomach, Alana took the seat across the fire from her. Kellian busied himself with his bag, pulling out a pot and a few stray leaves he’d collected from the jungle. Within a few minutes he had a pot of water bubbling over the fire. Tearing the leaves into smaller pieces, he added them to the pot to make tea.

“There’s not much to tell,” Alana said shortly. “My brother and I got lost. We stumbled into a clearing, where they attacked us.”

“But how did you survive?” The priest asked. She leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows across her wrinkled face.

“We were lucky enough to hear their cries,” Kellian answered. “I helped Alana fight off the vines, while Devon destroyed one of the…Arbor.”

“Yes,” the priest mused. “Its death lingers on you still, hammerman.”

Devon shrugged. Lifting his hammer, he held it out to the flames. “It was no match for kanker.”

The woman’s eyes widened as they alighted on the hammer. “I know that hammer,” she whispered. “Where did you come by it?”

Devon glanced at his friend before answering. “It has been passed down through my family for generations.”

A smile appeared on the old woman’s face at that. “The bloodline of Alan runs true.”

To Alana’s surprise, Devon’s face darkened at the woman’s comment. The hammer slipped from his fingers and struck the cobbles with a sharp crack. Rising, he moved away without speaking, his eyes downcast. He vanished into the trees without a word.

The strange woman stared after him, confusion on her face. She glanced at Kellian. “Did I say something?”

“No, my lady,” he replied gently. “Only, his ancestor’s deeds have weighed on him his entire life. It is no easy thing, being descended from a hero.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the priest murmured.

“It is his demon to battle,” Kellian replied. He trailed off a moment, before looking at the old woman again. “I’m afraid we still do not know your name, my lady.”

The edges of the woman’s eyes crinkled as she laughed. “Forgive my poor manners,” she said. “I have not been amongst civilised company for a long time. I go by Tillie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tillie.” Braidon, silent until now, finally spoke.

“And you, young man,” the priest replied.

“Braidon,” he added with a smile, “and this is my sister, Alana. And Kellian and Devon.”

“Pardon my interest,” Kellian broke in as he took up a piece of bamboo and began cutting it into pieces. “but why have you spent so much time in this forest, Tillie?”

“As I said, I have been hunting the Arbor.”

Kellian poured the tea into his makeshift bamboo cups and then offered them around the circle. Alana accepted one with a smile, before taking a sip. The tea tasted of rosehip and mint, and smiling, she took another mouthful.

“But why you?” Kellian asked finally. “I mean no offence, but surely there were younger priests to undertake such a dangerous mission.”

Tillie laughed. “You do not pull your blows, young Kellian.” She shook her head, considering his words. “Perhaps I did not wish such youthful lives to be risked in such a dangerous task.”

“A noble thought,” Kellian offered.

Tillie grinned. “I did not say it was true though.” She trailed off, her face thoughtful. For a moment, Alana didn’t think she was going to speak. When the words finally came, they were soft, filled with sorrow. “There were others once who stood with me against the darkness. I’m the last of them now, though.”

“That sounds lonely,” Braidon whispered.

Reaching out, Alana gripped his hand, thinking of their own plight, their rush to escape the grip of the Tsar.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the old woman’s eyes turned towards her. “And what brings the two of you into this forest, young Alana?”

Alana swallowed, seeing again Quinn’s eyes, whispering in her dreams.

Are you ready?

“We’re passing through,” she said quickly, determinedly keeping the tremor from her voice. She looked around at the ruin of the temple, as though seeing it for the first time. “What happened to this place?”

“Sitton was never a large city, but it once served as a waystation between Lon and Ardath, a safe port for ships to dock and resupply. It was destroyed during the final war between Archon and the Gods, when his demon was hunting the Sword of Light.”

Kellian snorted. “That old myth?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “Surely you don’t believe the Gods were ever foolish enough to hand their powers over to a mere mortal?”

“Who am I to question history?” the priest replied, her eyes dancing in the firelight. “Even so, there is no question that the God of the Sky met Archon’s demon here. The battle shook the very earth, and in the end Sitton was razed to the ground. Empowered by the demon’s magic, the forest grew up around the city overnight, spreading for leagues and cutting off the ruins from the rest of the world. Amidst that forest, the Arbor took root.”

“And you decided to change that?” Braidon spoke in a low voice, his eyes wide.

“I have tried,” Tillie replied sadly. “But I fear it has been for naught. The trees are rooted deep. They resist mortal weapons. Fire can hurt them, but only magic has the power to kill the creatures. I have cleared them from the city and the Gods Road, but others still remain, hidden in the depths of the forest.”

“You’re a Magicker then?” Alana asked, her heart quickening at the thought.

The old woman didn’t look up from the flames. “That would make me a renegade from the Tsar, would it not?” she asked, her voice barely audible above the popping of burning wood.

No one spoke for a moment, and quietly Alana let the subject die. Her eyes drifted to where kanker lay in the dirt, and her thoughts turned to the question they’d been pondering before the woman appeared. Reaching out, she lifted the weapon and brushed it clean with her hand.

“How did Devon kill the tree, then?” she asked quietly. “He has no magic.”

“Alan,” Tillie replied. “The man was a mighty warrior, not just because of his strength and courage, but because his hammer was no mortal weapon. He married the daughter of a powerful Magicker. I don’t doubt the old man bound his power into the weapon kanker, to protect his son-in-law in battle. Though exactly what its nature is, I cannot tell.”

“How has Devon carried it for so long then, without coming to the Tsar’s attention?”

The priest chuckled dryly. “The Tsar may be a Magicker beyond compare, but even he does not possess all the secrets of magic. The power contained within the hammer is dormant. Other Magickers would not be able to sense it.”

Alana nodded, still processing the new information. Before she could reply, a cold voice came from the shadows.

“Thank you, priest, for answering that mystery.”

Devon sat amongst the trees, his mind far away, lost in memories of his past. He could still hear the screams of men as they fell beneath his hammer, smell the stench as their bowels gave way, see the terror in their eyes at the approach of death. For years he had gloried in the triumph of battle, confident in his own invincibility.

Then the war had turned into a slaughter, and doubt had come gnawing into his mind.

Hero?

How could he call himself that, when his hands were stained with the blood of innocents?

Shivering, he clenched his fists, feeling the power in his meaty hands. He had never desired any other trade but war. He was bred for it, as his father and his grandfather had been before him. They had marched in the legendary footsteps of Alan, following Gods and Kings as they fought against the bandits and monsters who still roamed the Three Nations. Devon’s grandfather had even joined the Northland alliance to help cleanse the northern wastelands of Archon’s creatures.

Now an evil force had finally shown its face to Devon, and he had faced it down with courage. But he was afraid it had come too late. His soul was already stained, corrupted by the darkness of his past. He didn’t deserve to wield kanker, wasn’t worthy of his ancestor’s name.

“Drop your weapons!”

The voice cut through Devon’s melancholy, and he looked back to where the firelight glittered between the trees. He frowned as he saw shadows dancing there. Rising from the tree stump, he reached for his hammer, then swore as he remembered he’d left it behind.

Laughter whispered through the trees as Devon took a step towards the campsite.

“Move and you die!” a voice growled.

Devon stilled, but the words had not been directed at him, and after a moment he continued edging towards the camp. Treading carefully between the sticks littering the broken courtyard, he crept towards the fire. Ice slid down his back as he paused at the treeline and looked out at the men surrounding the campfire. The others stood beside the fire with the priest, but now they were surrounded by eight dark-cloaked figures, their swords drawn.

His friends had their hands on their weapons but had not yet drawn them. For a moment he wondered why, until he saw the man leading the intruders. He held one hand stretched out towards Kellian and the others. The tips of his fingers were obscured by a strange haze, and it was a moment before Devon realised the air itself changed there. 

His eyes flickered to the man’s face, though he knew now who it was.

Quinn!

By the fire, Alana drew her sabre in a rush and charged the lieutenant. But before she could take two steps, there was a roar of air and then a great gale of wind caught Alana in the chest and hurled her back. Tumbling over the ground, she crashed through the campfire, scattering embers across the courtyard. Her brother leapt to her side and brushed her clear of the flames while she struggled to regain her feet.

“Anyone else?” Quinn’s icy voice carried across to where Devon hid in the trees.

He ducked lower, praying the shadows would conceal him from the prying eyes of the Stalkers. The company was smaller than he’d last seen it, and he wondered where the rest of Quinn’s men were lurking.

“What are you doing here, Quinn?” Kellian said, his voice hard and unyielding.

Quinn ignored the question. He stood motionless, still staring at the woman on the ground. “Alana?” he whispered.

Alana looked up sharply at her name, her eyes widening. She stood quickly and retreated a step, dragging her brother with her. “Stay back, Stalker,” she hissed. Her sabre had been lost when the wind struck her, but she drew a dagger and pointed it at the lieutenant’s chest.

Almost casually, Quinn flicked a hand. The wind tore at Alana, threatening to knock her flat. Screaming, she drew back her blade and hurled it at the lieutenant, but the wind caught the knife and tossed it far into the trees. Ignoring her warning, Quinn continued towards her. He wore a strange look on his face, his brow creased in a frown, but with the slightest of smiles on his lips.

“It was smart, hiding in the city so long,” he whispered, “but it’s over now. You must come back with me, before it’s too late.”

The look on Alana’s face had turned from shock to confusion now. She stared back at the lieutenant, mouth agape, fingers clenched tightly on her brother’s cloak. With obvious effort, she bared her teeth, eyes flashing. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”

The smile left Quinn’s lips. “You cannot stop me.” He started towards them again, but the priest stepped between them.

“That’s far enough, young man.” Her voice was soft as a summer breeze, but there was iron in it.

Quinn blinked, as though seeing the priest for the first time. “Who are you, old woman?”

“A priest of the Goddess, Antonia,” Tillie replied. “This is her temple still—you are not welcome here.”

The Stalker took a moment to look around, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “This pile of rubble?” He laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. “I did not realise your order had fallen so low, priest.” His tone hardened and he took a step towards her. “Now get out of my way, before I make you.”

Amongst the trees, Devon’s heart sank as he studied the men surrounding the campfire. Anger flared in his chest. Between himself and Kellian, they might have stood a chance—although eight men would have been difficult even for them. But Quinn’s magic put the contest out of reach. They were helpless against his power. He turned his gaze on Alana, wondering what Quinn wanted. If he was not mistaken, the lieutenant knew her. If that was true…Devon didn’t like to think of the consequences.

Either way, he was better off minding his own business. He had done his best to avoid drawing the Tsar’s attention since his retirement, and he had no wish to break the pattern now. Whatever Alana and her brother had done, this was their fight. The thought of surrendering them to Quinn made his gut squirm, but there was no help for it. Clearing his throat, he stepped from the trees and waved at the Magicker.

“Well met, Quinn,” he grunted, walking slowly towards the group standing around the fire.

Several of the men stepped in his direction, but Quinn waved them back when he saw Devon’s empty hands. Fixing a smile to his bearded face, Devon strode through the ring of men and held his hands out to the flames.

“Cold night for riding,” he said softly. “What brings you and your men into this cursed forest, Quinn?”

Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Dark magic.”

Devon nodded. “Might be I know something about that.”

“Oh?”

Turning toward the man, Devon nodded. “Ay, I do. Perhaps you’d like to put away your magic, and we can talk like men?”

A dark smile twisted Quinn’s lips, but after a moment he lowered his arm.

Nodding, Devon went on. “The priest called them the Arbor—demonic trees that feed on human flesh. Something the Stalkers should have dealt with a long time ago, I would have thought.”

Quinn’s eyes hardened. “What my men and I do is the Tsar’s business,” he spat. “And the trees might have drawn us here, but I see now it is you I have been hunting. Did you really think you could keep a Magicker from the Tsar?”

Devon reeled back at Quinn’s words. “What?”

A sneer appeared on Quinn’s lips. “Do not play dumb with me, Devon. Now stand aside.”

Before Devon could react, a blast of wind caught him in the chest and hurled him backwards over the fire. The breath hissed from his lungs as his bulk struck the ground. Gasping, he hauled himself onto his hands and knees, and began to cough.

He looked up in time to see Kellian leap to the attack, a dagger glinting in each hand. Steel flashed as one flashed towards the Magicker’s throat, but a flick of Quinn’s wrist sent it whirling away. Before Devon’s friend could reach the Stalker, another breath of air sent him hurtling sideways into the priest. The two went down in a pile of thrashing limbs.

Quinn laughed and turned on Alana and her brother.

On the ground, Braidon straightened and lifted himself to his feet. He stood over his sister, blue eyes flashing. Screaming, he threw out his hands at Quinn.

In an instant the courtyard descended into chaos. Light flashed from the boy’s hands, and a great, awful howling rent the air. The ring of Quinn’s men scattered at the sound, weapons raised to fend off the sudden attack. The very air seemed to vibrate, and with each flash of light, thunder crashed deafeningly. Even Quinn was shaken by the attack. Staggering back, he held up his hands before him. Wind swirled around his body, forming an evanescent shield.

Shocked by the explosion of magic, Devon crouched frozen on the ground, watching in horror as the black-garbed men retreated from the violence of the boy’s power, their faces a picture of terror. Quinn retreated to join them, but a loose brick caught his foot and sent him crashing to the ground. Instantly, the howling wind died away.

“Come on!” Suddenly Alana was at Devon’s side, her eyes wild, hair turning from blonde to black with each flash of light. She shoved kanker into his hands and hauled him to his feet. “We have to get out of here!”

Spinning on her heel, she disappeared into the flashing light. He saw her an instant later, grabbing her brother by the waist and heaving him over her shoulder. The flashing light faded away as he collapsed against her, leaving shadows of its presence burning in their eyes. Half blind, Devon stumbled after them, listening as the screams of the Stalkers turned to shouts of confusion.

Without looking back, Alana darted for the broken doorway, her small size belying her strength. The strange old woman followed, and Kellian had already vanished. Around them, the Stalkers were in disarray. Heart hammering in his chest, Devon raced after his friends.

As they emerged from the doorway onto the road, the thunder of horses came from to their right. Devon spun, hefting his hammer, only to find Kellian bearing down on them riding a stolen mount. He held the reins of two more tightly in one hand. Alana leapt forward, pulling herself into the saddle and dragging her brother up with her. Offering his hand, Kellian helped the old woman into his own saddle, while Devon took the reins of the last horse.

He shared a glance with his friend. There was no need for words. The second the Stalkers had walked into that courtyard and found them with the boy, their fate had been sealed.

They were dead men now.

Knowingly or not, they had harboured a Magicker from the Tsar. The Stalkers would hunt them to the ends of the earth to see his justice carried out.

There was no time to linger on that thought now though, so, kicking his horse, Devon turned it towards the north. Alana gave a shout, her horse leaping beneath her as she led the way. Anger flared in Devon’s chest as he followed her. Alana had known, Quinn had said as much. She had led the Stalkers straight to them, and sentenced Devon and Kellian to death alongside her.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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“They’re gone, sir.”

Quinn stared at the scout, jaw clenched, fist wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. He was still raging at his own foolishness. He, more than anyone, knew how dangerous wild magic could prove to be. His home town of Oaksville still told tales of the boy Magicker who’d all but razed the town to the ground.

Yet he had stood and talked with them, instead of eliminating the threat posed by the boy. It had been a costly mistake.

He sucked in a breath to quell his racing heart, then grated out a response. “How?”

The scout swallowed, his eyes flickering to the other men before returning to the lieutenant. His fingers fiddled absently with the button of his coat. The man was a veteran of five years with the Stalkers, but even he had been shaken by the boy’s attack. His magic had come from the Light element—pure and powerful. It was a miracle they’d all survived.

“The horses, sir,” he managed finally. “We’ve rounded up five of them, but three are missing. Seems they managed to steal them in the chaos.

Quinn gritted his teeth. “Which way did they go?”

Silently he cursed himself for allowing Devon to distract him. He had humoured himself, gloating at the man’s folly, in the thought of finally bringing the coward to justice. But the boy had always been the true danger.

“North, sir, as far as we can tell in the dark,” the scout replied.

Quinn allowed himself to suck in a long breath. If they’d gone north, they were heading straight into the path of Vim and his men. The deputy would be outnumbered, but he trusted his experience. With luck, they could capture Devon and his friends quickly. At the very least, they would slow the fugitives’ flight.

Letting out his breath, Quinn’s anger flowed away, replaced with a steely resolve. “Good.” He glanced around at his other men. They were missing three horses now, and riding double, they would never catch their quarry. He clenched his fists, testing the strength of his magic. It burned in his chest, a deep well of power, only slightly expended by his earlier use. Nodding to himself, he pointed to the three men who’d lost their horses. “You men will return to the capital and report to the Tsar.”

“What should we tell him, sir?” the first asked.

“Tell him we’ve found them.”

There was no road where they forded the river, but it was hardly needed where they came ashore in Lonia. Sitting atop his horse, Devon glanced back from the muddy shore of the river. The trees of Sitton forest rose above the far banks, casting their shadows across the broad waters. He had travelled through the forest many times since his retirement, but never before had he noticed the malevolence that hung over the trees. The second they had climbed the banks into Lonia, he had felt a weight lift from him, as though a cloud had passed from the sky.

Remembering the terror of the Arbor, Devon silently vowed to never step foot in the forest again. Shivering, he urged his horse forward. Kellian had taken the lead now, starting his horse up through the thin trees on the Lonian riverbank and out into the green farmland.

They rode on through the day at an easy pace, taking turns to walk and rest their horses. Devon stayed at the rear, checking their backtrail every so often for signs of pursuit. The horizon behind them remained empty, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before Quinn and his men found the trail where they had left the road. At best, Lon was a two-day ride away. Despite their exhaustion, they would have to press on through the day to stand any chance of reaching the Lonian capital before their pursuers.

His eyes drooped as he rode, and he found his mind drifting, the warm haze of sleep settling around him. He clung harder to the saddle horn, struggling to stay awake. Ahead, he could see Kellian talking with Alana. Braidon was asleep in front of her, his young head bobbing with each thump of the horse’s hooves. Tillie was taking her turn to walk alongside them.

Devon felt a pang of regret for his angry words. Braidon’s sleeping face was one of innocence, a young boy alone in the world but for his sister. Idly he wondered what had happened to the pair’s parents, why they had not been the ones to bring them on this journey. He remembered Alana as he had first seen her that night outside Kellian’s inn. Her eyes had held a familiar strength, a determination to survive whatever the odds. They reminded Devon of himself, all those years ago when he’d marched off to defend his nation from the Trolans.

He swallowed, forcing the memory from his mind. His eyelids drooped again, the warmth of sleep falling on him, dragging him down.

“You are not what I expected, hammerman.” Devon’s head snapped up as the old woman’s voice spoke from beside him.

Blinking, he looked around and found the priest walking beside him, her blue eyes watching him closely. He shook his head, throwing off his fatigue. “What you expected?”

“Ay,” she smiled. “My mother knew your ancestor, Alan. She fought alongside him at Fort Fall, when the end came for him. She spoke highly of him.”

Devon grunted and looked away. “People always do.”

Tillie laughed. “You mistake me, Devon,” she replied. “I only meant you were right earlier—you are your own man. Alan was a great warrior, no doubt, but, at the end of the day, he was only human, like all the other men and women who stood at Fort Fall.” Her voice trailed off, before she added, “Just as you were only human when you marched with the Tsar against Trola.”

Silence fell as Devon stared at the horizon. They were moving across open fields now, the distant movement of cattle wandering the paddocks the only signs of movement. Finally, he shook his head.

“It was different. They faced an army they could not defeat, and faced it with courage,” he said quietly, clenching his fists. “The Trolans were our equals—until the Tsar trapped their army between his magic and our blades. After that, their nation lay helpless. There was no need for the slaughter that followed.”

“Perhaps,” Tillie mused. “Or perhaps it prevented more years of conflict. Did you know, before the Gods came, Lonia and Trola were at war for decades? Their battles cost tens of thousands of lives—and turned the land we now know as Plorsea into a wasteland.”

“A shame the Gods abandoned us, then,” Devon muttered.

Tillie bowed her head, the words leaving her. It was a while before she spoke again. “Perhaps they trusted us to govern our own lives.”

“Or perhaps they grew tired of settling our petty disputes,” Devon snorted, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter now, though, does it? They’re gone. This is the way things are. The Three Nations are a joke—there is only Plorsea now, only the Empire. The Tsar rules us from east to west.”

“But not the north,” Tillie whispered.

“What is the north but jagged mountains and desolate plains?” he asked. His stomach twisted at the words. “Some exile,” he finished bitterly.

“Why not fight instead?” the priest questioned.

“Fight?” Devon’s head whipped around at that. “You can’t be serious? Quinn alone has twelve men. Even without them, I would be no match for his magic. And that’s just one squad of Stalkers. The Tsar has hundreds. Not to mention an army. Oh, and dragons.”

Laughter shone in Tillie’s eyes. “Did you not just say Alan was a hero because he fought against impossible odds?”

Devon chuckled. “Trying to trap me with my own words, priest?” He shook his head. “Ay, Alan fought the hordes of Archon, knowing he would lose. But he also knew the evil Archon would unleash on his world. Men stood beside him because it was right. Who would stand with me against the Tsar? As you said, there is no right or wrong here. He is evil to Alana and her brother because he seeks to stop their magic. He is a threat to me and Kellian because we inadvertently stood with a Magicker. But to the common people, he is protecting them from the menace of wild magic.”

The priest watched him for a long time, her blue eyes seeming to see straight through him. Finally, he shivered and looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

“All that is true,” her voice carried over the clip-clop of hooves, “but that is not why you will not fight. Why did you set aside Alan’s hammer?”

At its mention, Devon’s eyes were drawn to kanker. It hung from his saddle horn, bouncing with each stride of his horse. Fear tingled down his spine as he thought of lifting it, of wielding it. Back in the temple, when Alana had handed him the weapon, he’d felt a surge of strength sweep through him. For a moment he’d been tempted to charge Quinn—to end his threat there and then. Bloodlust had flooded through him, and only Alana’s cry to flee had turned him aside.

He swallowed, remembering other such moments when he had not stopped, when he had allowed the beast inside him free reign. A lump lodged in his throat as he looked up at the priest.

“I don’t deserve to wield it,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

Devon shook his head, unable to put the truth into words. “I am afraid of what I might do.”

“It is just a hammer, Devon,” she replied. “It has power, but there is no darkness in it.”

“Ay,” Devon murmured, “but there is darkness in me.”

The priest said nothing at that, only stared at him, eyes soft, waiting.

Swallowing, Devon went on. “I used kanker to do terrible things in Trola,” he said. “I will not bring any more shame to my ancestor’s name.

“Rubbish.” He looked up at the anger in the priest’s voice. Her eyes flashed as she continued. “You brought shame to Alan’s name when you refused to fight for Alana back in Sitton. You shamed him when you threatened to take two innocents back to those who want them dead.”

Devon’s own anger flared in answer. “You wouldn’t understand—”

“I understand fear when I see it,” Tillie hissed. Moving in close, she gripped his reins, bringing his horse to a stop. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You are afraid, hammerman. Afraid of yourself, of your own strength, your anger, your life.”

Devon’s rage died at her words and he looked away, unable to form a response. Silence stretched between them as he stared ahead, watching Alana and Kellian as they rode on. There was still no path, but the fields made for easy riding, and he trusted his friend to navigate them safely through the countryside. Glancing at the sun, he saw it was dropping quickly towards the horizon. Winter was looming closer, and it wouldn’t be long before the snow found them. He hoped they had reached the safety of Lon by then.

“You are stronger than you think, hammerman,” the priest said finally, her words wriggling their way into Devon’s soul. “When next danger threatens, take up the hammer. I fear Alana and her brother cannot survive without it.”

At that, she walked away, leaving Devon sitting alone on his horse at the rear of their party. Kicking his horse back into motion, he stared off into the distance, his mind drifting, far away in another time, another place. Only as the setting sun stained the horizon red did he remember to check their backtrail. Glancing over his shoulder, his heart sank as he saw the distant shadow of riders on the open fields.

“We should ride on,” Alana insisted, looking around at the others.

Their exhausted faces stared back at her. Dark shadows ringed their eyes. Her brother was barely on his feet, and his skin had turned an unnatural shade of yellow.

Shaking her head, Tillie stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We can go no further today, Alana,” she said kindly. “I know you’re afraid, but the riders will not reach us tonight.”

Alana’s heart beat faster at the mention of the Stalkers. Devon had warned them of the riders’ presence as the sun was setting, and they had ridden hard through the fading light, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the hunters as they could. They had reached the second river Devon had mentioned, fording it as the last light slipped away.

They had only been halfway across when darkness found them. Alana shivered at the memory of the black water lapping at her legs, only the power of the horse beneath her keeping her from the cold. Without sight to guide them, they had kept together using the sound of each other’s voices. Only when she had felt the thud of her horse’s hooves touching solid ground did Alana realise she’d been holding her breath.

Now though, an urgent need to continue was building in her chest. According to Devon, the riders were still at least half a day’s ride away—but that lead would be cut down to nothing if the Stalkers rode on through the night.

“We can’t let them catch us,” she whispered, her eyes flickering to her brother.

“If we press on, the horses won’t make it through the night.” She looked around as Kellian spoke, and he went on. “They’ve hardly rested in two days. Another night of riding through the dark and their strength will give out. They need a respite as much as any of us.”

Alana clenched her fists, a helpless frustration gnawing at her soul. She wanted to be galloping with her brother across the open fields, to put as much distance between themselves and the hunters as possible. Yet she could not argue with Kellian or Tillie’s words—if they continued now, they risked losing everything.

Her shoulders slumped and she nodded quickly. Wordlessly, she moved across to her brother and drew him into her arms. She felt his thin body trembling, the cold and exhaustion wearing him down, and squeezed her eyes closed.

The boom of thunder forced her to look around. She caught a flash of light as lightning forked across the sky to the north. Beside her, Devon swore.

“There’s a storm rolling in,” he growled. “Come on, I spied a grove of trees before we crossed the river.”

A groan came from her brother, and despite her earlier argument, Alana found herself echoing him. Separating, Alana took up the reins of their horse and lead it after Devon. She could already feel the temperature dropping as the storm raced in from the north. Air burned in her nostrils as she sucked in a breath. Lightning flashed again, followed by an awful crash that seemed to break right above their heads.

A horse screamed, and releasing her brother, Alana gripped the reins in both hands. The horses were the only thing keeping them ahead of the pursuers. They couldn’t afford to lose any now.

Eyes rolling in its skull, her mount reared back, almost tearing the reins from her grasp. Alana held on, speaking softly through the violent crackling of the storm. As the thunder fell away, the horse dropped back to all fours. Hearing her voice, it seemed to calm, and with her heart beating wildly in her chest, Alana chased after Devon.

They walked for several minutes, trusting Devon’s sense of direction, before finally stumbling across the grove. It was little more than a few trees clustered together in a circle, but their broad trunks and thick canopy would at least keep off the worst of the storm.

Tying her horse to a low-lying branch in the shelter of the trees, Alana stroked her mount’s coat. She could feel the poor beast trembling beneath her hands. Its eyes were wide with terror, and its snorting breath revealed its exhaustion. Brushing down its coat, she untacked the saddle and dragged a blanket from the bags to throw over the mount. Finally she turned to the others.

Devon was tending to Kellian’s mount, while his friend had set about lighting a fire. He already had a small blaze burning in the centre of the clearing. Though the trees protected them from the worst of the wind, Alana watched as the fire flickered dangerously, threatening to go out. She quickly moved across to the innkeeper and used her body to help shield the flames from the wind. Slowly, Kellian added more wood, building up the flames.

A few minutes later the five of them sat around the warmth of the fire, listening as the power of the storm raged around them. Lightning flashed, casting long shadows between the trees, and Alana shuddered as memories of the Arbor returned, their dark tendrils reaching out for her. The crash of thunder drew her back to the present.

Another flash of light came, but this time there was no thunder to follow. Looking around, she saw the terror on her brother’s exhausted face. He flinched as a far-off boom rolled across the plains. Light flashed from his palms, flickering and growing before dying away. A moan whispered from Braidon’s throat as he clenched his fists tight.

“Braidon, what’s going on?” she hissed, shuffling across to him.

He shook his head, his blue eyes wide with terror. She gripped his wrist and felt the rapid pounding of his pulse beneath her fingers. She looked into his eyes, but they were far away. Taking him by the shoulders, she shook him gently, calling his name.

Blinking, Braidon looked around at her. “Alana,” he croaked. A shiver went through him. “Alana, it’s inside me.”

Fear slid down Alana’s throat at his words, though she could make no sense of them. Braidon flinched as blue lightning lit the clearing, marked by an awful boom. White light shone from her brother’s hands, burning their eyes.

“Braidon!” Tillie’s voice came from Alana’s side as the old woman crouched beside them. “Braidon, you must calm yourself!”

Her brother’s terrified eyes turned to the priest. He opened his mouth to reply, but another crash of thunder drowned out his words. The wind howled, sweeping through the grove, scattering the fire. As Kellian and Devon struggled to save it, Tillie pushed Alana aside and grabbed her brother by the shoulders.

“Braidon, listen to me!” she shouted over the gale. “Your magic seeks to protect you, but you are too weak. If you allow it free rein, its power will consume you.”

Braidon stared back at her, his mouth opening and closing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I can help you, Braidon,” the old priest yelled over the raging storm. “But you must listen. You must trust me.”

A gurgling growl came from deep in Braidon’s throat. For a second, his eyes flashed white. Alana blinked, terror clamping a vice around her chest, but when she looked again, her brother’s blue eyes were staring back at her.

“How?” he croaked, his voice strained.

Tillie pressed her hand to either side of the boy’s face. “Close your eyes, young Braidon,” she murmured. “Breathe.”

Jaw clenched, Braidon closed his eyes. Alana could see his hands shaking in the flickering light of the fire, the tendons straining on his neck. She crouched nearby, hardly daring to move, a terrible helplessness holding her frozen.

“Take a deep breath, young Braidon,” Tillie’s voice was gentle, calm despite the crashing thunder.

On the ground, Braidon sucked in a quivering mouthful of air. Light flickered in his hands, seeming to pool in his palms now, growing and shrinking. Beside him, the old priest never took her eyes from Braidon’s face.

“Focus on your breath, boy, let it out, that’s it, now take another. Listen to my voice.”

The light in Braidon’s hands flickered again as he followed the woman’s instructions. His throat swelled as he swallowed, his brow furrowing with each boom of thunder. Kellian and Devon had the fire blazing again now, its heat washing through the grove. They moved quickly into the trees in search of more fuel. Her brother’s trembling eased as the freezing cold released its icy grip.

“That’s it, in and out, think only of your breath. Feel your heart slow, allow yourself to relax, forget the storm, the hunters, the magic. Only your breathing. In and out.”

Slowly, the light in Braidon’s hands died away, seeping back into his flesh as though it had never been. His eyes remained closed, his breathing deepening, his chest rising and falling with each inhalation. As Alana watched, the tension drained from her brother. His shoulders slumped, and he sagged forward into Tillie’s arms.

And slept.

Lowering the boy gently to the ground, Tillie covered him with a blanket before moving back to the fire. Alana checked on her brother before joining her in the warmth.

“What…what was that?” she breathed.

The old woman let out a weary sigh. “Wild magic, young Alana. In his exhausted state, your brother’s fear of the storm overwhelmed him, giving life to his magic.”

“But what did you do?”

“I only helped to steer him through the storm,” Tillie said with her familiar smile. “Among priests of the Earth, it is called meditation, among others, mindfulness. It is the same—a way of controlling our emotions.”

“And it helped him control his magic?”

“In a fashion, yes.”

“Thank you,” Alana said softly, turning her eyes to the fire. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost him.”

Twigs crunched as Kellian and Devon returned, their arms laden with firewood. They took in the sleeping boy. “He okay?” Devon asked, his voice gentle, almost kind.

“Sleeping,” Alana replied with a weary smile.

The two nodded and took their places on the other side of the fire. Kellian added several branches to the flames. Outside the grove, the rumbling of the storm had moved away, but rain was beginning to fall now. Shivering, Alana hunched closer to the fire, glad for the heavy jacket she’d found in the saddlebags of her stolen horse.

“It’s a good thing they already knew where we were,” Devon commented wryly as he sat back.

Alana sighed. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Devon.”

Across the fire, Devon shrugged his massive shoulders. His eyes flickered to Tillie, then back to Alana. “I shouldn’t have needed dragging,” he said quietly.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the group as they sat there. Beyond the trees, the soft patter of rain grew, becoming a roar as the storm broke over them. Rising, Kellian moved into the shelter of the trees and returned with a pot. Filling it with water from their skins, he placed it over the flames and began adding roots and salted jerky from the saddlebags.

“May as well have something in our stomachs,” he muttered.

Alana smiled, just the thought of a hot meal already warming her. She moved around the fire and helped the innkeeper prepare the broth. Devon wandered into the woods and returned a few minutes later with large chunks of bark torn from the trees. Washing them with water, he passed them round. A few minutes later, Kellian announced the stew ready, and they each held out their rounded pieces of bark to receive their portions.

Their stomachs rumbling, they ate quickly, the meagre stew disappearing in minutes. Finally they sat back, their hunger sated.

“At least we’re dry,” Devon said, stretching his arms with a groan. “Bet Quinn is cursing us tonight.”

Kellian chuckled. “No trees on that side of the Jurrien,” he said with a grin. “Although I don’t think the rain’s going to do anything for his temper.”

Smiling, Alana shook her head. “You said you knew him?” she asked, looking at Kellian.

“We both did,” Devon answered for his friend. “We fought with him against the Trolans. Always was boring as old leather, though.”

Alana looked away at that, remembering her dreams, how Quinn had come to her, demanding an answer to his question.

Are you ready?

Always she had felt the familiar terror at his question. His brown eyes unnerved her, robbing her of strength, demanding an answer. Yet in the broken temple, when they’d finally come face to face, it hadn’t been terror she’d felt, but warmth—and confusion. Her anger had quickly risen to mask it, but thinking back now, she couldn’t help but wonder at it.

That, and the fact he’d known her name.

It could mean only one thing, though she couldn’t bring herself to picture it. It meant their parents had given them up, had sent the Stalkers after them. Her heart ached with the knowledge, and she quickly forced the thought from her mind.

Yet as she lay down beside the fire and sought sleep, Alana’s mind returned to the confrontation in the temple, to the Stalker’s greeting as he stepped towards the fire. Thinking of Quinn staring at her, she found herself wondering at the strange look he’d worn on his face.

Her thoughts drifted, giving way to the pull of sleep. She fought it at first, knowing what waited for her there, and not waiting to face it. But exhaustion weighed on her, pulling her down. There was no fighting it any longer. Slowly the mists of sleep formed around her mind, the brown eyes of her hunter appearing through the darkness.

And her heart quickened.

***

Quinn led his men toward the river banks at the first light of dawn. He had felt the flicker of the boy’s magic during the night, but out on the plains at least, such power could do little damage. It had died quickly, without the surging rush of release, and he wondered whether the boy had somehow found a way to control it. The priest, perhaps…

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the path. Ice crunched beneath their horses’ feet, and snow lay piled around them as they forced their way towards the river. What had begun as a torrential downpour had turned to heavy snow during the night. The night had been so cold, he and his men had hardly slept. Only by burning the coal in their saddle bags had they survived. Now, as the sun crested the horizon, he welcomed its heat on his face.

His breath misting in the dawn’s light, Quinn pressed on, leading his seven remaining men. Vim had met them near the ruins of Sitton around midday, empty handed. Cursing, Quinn had led them back along the Gods Road until they discovered where Devon’s party had left the path. Barely more than a deer trail, they had followed their prey to the river and crossed into Lonia. But their horses were tiring by then, and while they’d pressed on hard through the day, they hadn’t been able to catch their quarry before the light faded.

Today, though, Devon and the others would not evade them. The boy’s magic had not been far, just across the river, and their horses had to be close to exhaustion. They would catch them before the day was done. Then he would finally crush the fool Devon and end his pitiful life.

The ground rose slowly beneath them as they climbed the river bank. The man in the lead drew his horse to a stop at the top of the bank, his eyes flicking back to Quinn. Seeing the worry written on the man’s face, Quinn cursed and pressed his horse into a trot. Moving alongside him, he looked out over the river…and swore again.

Brown water lapped at the edges of the riverbanks, rushing past in a swirling torrent, engorged by the night’s rain. Massive trees tumbled amongst the flooded waters, and he glimpsed the white body of a sheep as it bobbed to the surface before vanishing back into the murky depths. There would be no crossing the river now, not until the floodwaters receded.

Quinn’s eyes continued across to the opposite bank. Snow had covered the lands beyond, where they rose slowly away from the river, up into the foothills of the Lonian mountains. Yesterday the land had been a rich green, but there was only white now, a wasteland barren of life. Except where a lazy curl of black smoke rose from a frozen grove of trees.

As Quinn watched, a dark-garbed figure stepped from the grove leading a horse. He recognised Devon from his size and clenched his fists. The others followed, until all five stood there in the open, taunting him. The soft whisper of their laughter carried on the wind, drifting down to Quinn. The giant figure of Devon raised a hand and waved.

Quinn gritted his teeth. He didn’t need to hear the words to know what the hammerman was saying.

Better luck next time, sonny!

Clenching his reins in one gloved hand, Quinn turned to his men.

“Watch the river,” he snapped. “We cross as soon as the waters are low enough to ford.”

With that, he tugged on his reins, pointing his mount back towards the camp, and kicked the beast into a gallop.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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Devon swore loudly as a wagon rumbled past on the busy street, its iron-rimmed wheels just inches from his feet. The driver did not so much as glance back as Devon’s curses chased after him. Muttering under his breath, Devon pressed on through the crowd, doing his best to keep his head down. He kept watch on the city guard from the corner of his eye. They lined the marketplace, their wary eyes hunting for pickpockets and trouble. He doubted Quinn had managed to send word to Lon so quickly, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

He was close to the port now, and quickly losing patience. This would be the third tavern he’d visited—and there was still no sign of his contact. He had left Alana and her brother in the room they’d rented, while he sought a ship to carry them north. For now, it was best to keep them as far from this business as possible—he doubted there’d be many ship captains willing to help a Magicker.

Around him, the streets of Lon were packed to bursting. He had never liked the city, where people scurried along the rutted streets like flies on a corpse. Long ago, Lon had been the quiet capital of the farming nation, but those days were long gone now. With Lonians fleeing the impoverished countryside, its population was now twice that of Ardath, with half the wealth.

Devon wrinkled his nose as he walked past an alleyway choked with human refuse. He had long since given up walking around the animal dung lying thick in the streets. Amidst the press of humanity, emaciated sheep wandered freely, while stray dogs darted amongst the legs of pedestrians, seeking their next meal. Broken glass and pottery lay discarded in corners, and he saw more than one barefooted beggar with a limp. In another alley, he glimpsed a figure lying in the shadows—either sleeping or dead. No one stopped to check.

Ahead, the streets opened out, the three storey buildings finally giving way to the docks. This was an older section of Lon, its streets at least cobbled, with a raised sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the overburdened wagons rumbling up from the harbour. As the closest remaining city to Northland, Lon was still the centre of trade between the north and south. That alone should have made the city rich—if not for the Tsar’s taxes.

At the end of the street, the cobbled road turned to wooden planks where it reached the docks. No longer penned in by the narrow streets, Devon took a deep breath, savouring the sudden tang of salt in the air. A cool breeze blew across his face, carrying with it the stench of rotting fish. Smiling wryly, he shook his head and pressed on.

Out on the harbour, hundreds of ships sat at anchor, while dozens more came and went from the docks lining the city front. Men and women moved quickly across the wharf, unloading wagons and carrying heavy crates up gangplanks onto waiting ships. The neighing of horses mingled with the shouts of men, punctuated by the odd crash as something was dropped. Gulls cawed as they circled overhead, their beady eyes on the lookout for food.

Shouldering his way through the crowd, Devon made his way along the docks until he spotted the inn he had been directed to. He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught a glimpse of the Black Seagull and steered his way towards it. Manoeuvring his way around a pile of cages filled with wriggling lobsters, he found himself outside the heavy wooden doors, and pushed his way inside. 

Warm air billowed out to greet him, banishing the cold. This close to the coast, the snowstorm had not reached the city, but there was still ice in the air and he was wearing several woollen layers. Stripping off his coat, he hung it beside the door, before looking around to appraise the inn’s occupants. It was still early in the afternoon and the bar room was reasonably quiet—although in this case that meant there were only twenty revellers crammed into the tiny tables. His eyes swept the room, seeking out his contact, but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. Muttering under his breath, he forced his way to the bar and ordered a pint of ale.

When the bartender returned, Devon handed him several copper Austral for the drink and then caught him by the hand. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a friend of mine? Goes by Julian.”

The bartender eyed him closely. “Who’s asking?”

“A friend.”

The man nodded, eyes still suspicious, and moved away without answering. Shaking his head, Devon gulped down a mouthful of ale and turned to give the patrons of the bar another look-over. Most of the men were sailors, their beards long and grizzled, faces tanned by the constant sun. They would be enjoying their brief time ashore before their next voyage. More than a few women sat amongst them, looking just as rough, their hair dry and split, heavy knives on their belts. Devon grinned as he saw one sailor get too friendly, only to have his head slammed into the table top. The men around him boomed with laughter as one of the bar’s minders quickly dragged the man outside.

“Sailors,” Devon muttered, turning back to his drink.

“I know a ship in need of some muscle, if you’re looking to join the lifestyle, Devon,” a man said with a laugh as he sat on the neighbouring stool.

Unlike the sailors in the bar, the man’s beard was neatly trimmed, though a few grey hairs had appeared amongst the black. His hair remained the same jet-black as during the war, but it was starting to recede at the brow. Wrinkles had appeared around his hazel eyes. He wore a clean white tunic and sleek black pants, along with a slim rapier strapped at his waist.

Devon flashed Julian a grin. “I’ve no taste for the sea, old friend.”

“No, now that you mention it, I seem to recall you growing rather green on that last voyage.”

Devon snorted. “Not sure how, since you spent most of your time huddling below deck.”

Julian held up his hands, the ale sloshing from his mug. “What can I say? One must know his strengths! I never had your talent with death, Devon.”

“Ay,” Devon replied, his amusement falling from him like water. “Few do.”

An awkward silence followed, punctuated by a man’s yell as one of the fisherwomen hurled him across a table.

“So, what brings you to Lon, old friend?” Julian asked finally. “Not like you to be skulking around these parts.”

“Business,” Devon replied with a grunt. “Got a client who needs a ride.”

“I see.” Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing to do with that spot of trouble you got yourself into in Ardath, then? Heard you’ve got a bit of a bounty on your head.”

Devon tensed at his friend’s words, his heart beating faster. “What did you hear?”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “So serious, Devon? Didn’t think a few royal guards would worry you overly much.”

Devon let out a long breath and forced himself to smile. “Oh, it’s not that greenboy and his friends who worry me. It’s the bloody bounty on my head!”

“The bounty?” his friend guffawed. “Well, you need not worry about that. The fool put out a bounty alright, but it’s hardly worth the paper it’s written on. Half a gold libra, if you can believe that? And he wants you alive! Not a hunter in the Three Nations foolish enough to take on a legend like you for such a piddling sum.”

Devon feigned anger. “It’s almost insulting,” he replied. Knocking back his ale, he hailed the bartender for another. He turned back to his friend and went on. “I’ve half a mind to go back and hit him again.”

Julian grinned. “So, these clients of yours, where are they headed?”

“Northland.”

Sitting back in his chair, Julian eyed Devon. “Sounds like a dangerous client.” He paused. Licking his fat lips, he eyed Devon, as though seeing him for the first time. “Are you sure these are clients you want to get in bed with, Devon?”

Devon stared back, jaw clenched. “Do you have a ship or not, Julian?”

Julian was silent for a moment longer, before offering a quick nod. “It just so happens the Songbird is sailing on the morning tide. She’s a Northland ship, heading for Duskenville. How many passengers we talking?”

“Five,” Devon replied. Duskenville was the closest Northland port. Nestled at the foot of the coastal cliffs, the colourful town was only a few days’ sailing from Lon. 

“You wouldn’t be one of those five, would you?”

“Could be I am,” Devon said with a shrug. “Let’s just say my recent troubles have opened my eyes to new adventures.”

“It’ll be costly,” Julian shot back, eyes alight.

“My clients can pay,” Devon replied with an easy grin.

Julian raised an eyebrow. “I should hope so.” There was open scepticism in his voice.

Devon laughed. “What, you don’t trust me, old friend?”

Julian relaxed at Devon’s laughter. He shook his head. “Forgive an aging man his distrust. Course I trust you!” He trailed off, then added quickly, “Only, you do still owe me a gold libra for that business back in Coral.”

“You do have a long memory, don’t you?” Devon muttered. “Well, you can add that to the tab for our passage tomorrow. I take it ten libra per passenger is still the going rate?”

“Ten!” Julian exclaimed, spilling more of his ale. “You have been gone a while. The price is now twenty!”

“Ha! You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Julian? It can’t be more than twelve.”

The exchange continued for a few more minutes before Devon finally settled on fifteen gold apiece. He winced at the cost, though he had no doubt Kellian would have the coin. At least they’d managed to get a decent price for the horses they’d taken from the Stalkers. Their branding meant they’d been forced to sell them on the black market, but they’d still been able to use the profits to pay for their lodging and supplies.

He spent another hour talking with Julian, going over details for the journey, which eventually turned to tales of one another’s exploits during the war. Despite his regrets, Devon felt a touch of nostalgia as Julian regaled him of his heroics during their march through the Branei Pass into Trola. Those had been the early days of the war, simpler times when the Trolans had been evil aggressors, the Plorsean army the noble defenders of the innocent.

Finally, Devon knocked back his ale and stood. Bidding his old friend farewell, he promised to meet at the fourth dock the next morning at daybreak. There was plenty more to do before the day ended, and outside he could already see the light beginning to fade. He threaded his way through the crowd and claimed his coat from the rack, before stepping back out into the cold.

Alana shivered as she stepped back from the window and slammed the shutters closed. The sky was thick with clouds, the air untouched by the sun’s heat. Inside their room was little better. The ceiling was thick with mould and its only window faced north, allowing in a thin breath of cold whenever the wind blew. There had been no other lodging available though, and it was better than sleeping in the gutters.

Earlier, Kellian had headed out to collect his funds from a local merchant. Devon was organising them a ship for Northland, leaving Alana and her brother to stew in the tiny room with the old priest.

She was sitting now in a chair before the fire, her blue eyes distant. Braidon sat in the opposite chair, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face still lined with exhaustion. They had ridden hard through the Lonian foothills yesterday, reaching the city only as the last light was fading from the sky. It had taken all her brother’s strength just to make it up the stairs to their room. Food and a full night’s sleep had done them all good, but it would be days before Braidon was fully recovered.

The room consisted of a fireplace, a wooden table and stools, the two chairs near the fire, and three beds—Devon and Kellian were bunked next door. Taking a stool from the table, Alana dragged it across the moth-eaten carpet and joined the others at the fireplace.

Her brother smiled and held out a plate of chocolate biscuits. Seating herself, Alana took one with a smile.

“Do you think they’ll be back soon?” Braidon asked quietly.

“Patience, young one,” Tillie answered for Alana. “They will be back when they’re done—and not a moment sooner.”

Alana wondered for a moment whether she’d made the wrong decision in trusting the men. At this moment they could be fetching the city watch, or a squadron of Stalkers, while she and her brother sat here in blissful ignorance. Even now the hunters might be closing around them. Shivering, she shook her head to rid herself of the thought, and turned to the priest.

“Tillie, during the storm you told me my brother’s magic could be controlled by…what did you call it, meditation?”

The priest nodded, her eyes dancing. “Of course. Meditation is how Magickers have controlled their power for centuries.”

Alana shared a glance with her brother. “Can you teach him?”

“I could, if he wished to learn,” Tillie replied, turning her eyes to Braidon.

Her brother nodded quickly, his blue eyes alive with excitement. “Yes, please!”

The old woman laughed. “Very well, would you like to start now?”

Braidon nodded. Moving from her chair, Tillie seated herself on the rug before the fire and nodded for Braidon to join her. Then her eyes looked up at Alana. “You may join us if you wish, Alana.”

Alana blinked. “It’s not just for Magickers?”

“Of course not. Anyone can take part—though only with dedication and practice can you truly master the art.”

Alana looked from the priest to her brother and then joined them on the rug. Copying the old woman, she folded her legs beneath her, then looked to Tillie in question.

“Do we have to sit like this?” her brother asked suddenly, already wriggling.

Alana sighed—her brother had never been good at sitting still. No wonder he had never excelled in his studies…

“You may sit however you wish, young Braidon, but…” Tillie trailed off as Braidon quickly flopped onto his side. Shaking her head, Tillie continued with an amused smile. “But sitting with your legs crossed will prove most comfortable over long periods, I assure you.”

Alana’s backside was already aching but she kept her mouth shut, trusting the old woman was right. “Okay then,” she said, glancing at her brother. “Should we give this meditation thing a go?”

Braidon rolled his eyes. “It’s only breathing, how hard can it be?” He let out a long breath. “But I suppose I’ll give it a go.”

“Very good,” Tillie replied. “But first, what do you know of your power, young Braidon?”

Her brother shrugged. “Not much. That was only the second time its appeared. The first was…on my birthday.”

Tillie nodded. “Yes, magic always awakens on the anniversary of a birth. That is why we sometimes call it the Gift.”

Braidon looked away at that. “Some gift,” he muttered.

“Perhaps not now, but I have seen Magickers do wonderful, incredible things.” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant look. “How else do you think the drought around Chole was broken?”

“That drought was created by magic in the first place, wasn’t it?” Alana cut in.

“Dark magic,” Tillie replied, “is an altogether different beast.”

“How so?” Braidon questioned.

Tillie sighed. “Dark magic sits outside the natural order of our world. It is capable of incredible feats, but always there is corruption, a perversion of the wielder’s original intent.”

“What makes my magic different then?”

“Your magic stems from one of the Three Elements, and so operates within the natural world. A true Magicker can manipulate part or the entirety of one Element, but never more than that. For instance, your magic, while I don’t yet understand all of its nature, comes from the Light. Your power may be able to manipulate fire, or light, or magic itself, but you will never control the weather, nor speak with plants, since those abilities come under the Elements of Earth and Sky.”

“So his power could start a fire once he gets control of it?” Alana asked, her curiosity growing.

Tillie smiled. “Perhaps. As I said, from the brief display back in Sitton, I couldn’t discern Braidon’s true power – only that it came from the Light. Now, enough of this! The others will return soon, so if you want to practice, young Braidon, we had best start. To begin, we must close our eyes.”

Alana nodded, remembering the old woman’s instructions from the night in the grove, and did as she was bid. Idly, she wondered how ridiculous they must look, the three of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. She hoped Devon and Kellian did not return while they sat there.

“Now, we begin by exhaling until our lungs are completely empty,” the old priest said. “When you can breathe out no longer, inhale, and allow the air to fill your chest.”

Alana did as she was told, exhaling until the longing for air grew too much, and she was forced to suck in a fresh breath. Across from her, she could hear her brother giggling as he did the same, and struggled to keep from laughing herself.

“Keep your mind focused on your breath,” Tillie continued, ignoring the laughter. “It may feel strange at first, uncomfortable or, yes, amusing, but trust me. There is purpose in this madness.”

Smiling to herself, Alana continued the exercise. For a while she concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest, the swelling of her stomach with each inhalation. But after a time, she noticed her mind drifting, her thoughts turning to the Arbor, to Quinn and Devon, to their voyage across the lake…

“Your mind will drift,” Tillie’s voice cut through her thoughts. “It is to be expected. When it does, allow yourself to examine what distracted you, then turn your mind back to the breath.”

Alana shivered, turning her thoughts inwards once more.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

Her mind flickered, centring in on the mindless process of her breathing. Other thoughts continued to press against her, but as each rose into the darkness of her mind, she took it firmly in hand, considered it for a moment, then sent it spinning back out into the void. To her surprise, the exercise came naturally to her, and she found the chaos fading away, the cacophony of ideas and worries becoming but a drop in the infinity of her mind.

Finally, only one sensation remained to her—the strongest one of all.

Fear.

Fear that she would be captured, that her brother would be taken from her, that he would disappear into the bowels of the Tsar’s citadel and never be seen again.

Fear that she would fail.

Taking another rhythmic breath, Alana allowed the emotion to fill her, to rise to the surface. Her body shook, the hairs standing up on her arms as she saw again the stepwell, the Stalkers racing down the steps, dragging away the boy. Then the circle of trees, the vines encasing her brother, the twisted mouths opening to snatch him away. And, finally, the eyes of Quinn as he stepped into the firelight, magic at the ready.

Trembling, Alana scrunched her eyes tighter, her body taut with the power of her fear. Time passed, unknown, uncountable, as she sought to release the feeling, to allow it to pass from her. Finally, she shuddered, her shoulders slumping as the tension rushed from her. Her breathing relaxed into the gentle rhythm of sleep—but she was not asleep.

Opening her eyes, Alana found herself adrift on a sea of darkness. Watching the infinite black, Alana knew she should be panicked, that she should fear the eternity around her, but she felt only peace.

Slowly she drifted, alive but not alive, free but still trapped. For the longest time she was alone. Then, like a fire igniting in a cold room, she became aware of something else. She turned amidst the black and found a distant source of light. It glowed scarlet through the darkness, calling to her.

Unbidden, her ethereal body shot towards it, and she watched the light grow, swelling until it became an angry ball of red and orange. Emotion pulsed from it—fear and anger, jealousy and love, all tangled together in an endless puzzle. And within, she could sense something else, something different, something hidden.

Drawing closer, Alana allowed her mind to flow through the knot, seeking out its puzzle. It called to her, begging her to solve it. A tingle of energy swept through her as it touched her mind, and somewhere deep within a voice called a warning. Retreating, she waited, a speck of light drifting in the void.

When nothing happened, Alana approached again. Her mind circled the knot, picking at its tangles, pulling threads. It began to spin, slowly at first, then more quickly as it unravelled. Lines red and orange spun off into the void, shooting stars lighting the facets of her mind.

Unease rose within her as she watched the knot shrink, as though with its release, she had lost the peace she’d found in the void. Fear returned, piercing her spirit, filling her with sudden terror.

She retreated from the knot, allowing her work to cease, and alarm tingled in her soul. The knot was almost gone now—only a tiny ball of flaming red remained. She was so close to discovering what lay at its core. She could still sense it calling to her, its secrets just beyond her reach.

Resisting its call, Alana pulled away. Rage washed over her, as though some other’s emotions now possessed her. She shrank from it, racing away, darting through the darkness, up towards the light that appeared far above…

Alana awoke with a gasp. Trembling, she opened her eyes and found herself still sitting on the floor before the fire. Braidon and Tillie sat unmoving, their eyes closed, the soft whisper of breath the only sign of life. Looking around, Alana saw the lamp in the corner had burned low, and the light outside was fading into dusk.

Hours had passed.

Her gaze was drawn to Braidon. He almost looked asleep, but as Alana leaned in, she saw his eyelids flickering. She smiled, remembering Tillie’s warning that only the experienced could master her drill. Apparently her brother had taken to it far faster than the old woman had expected.

Looking back at her brother’s face, anxiety touched her. In the darkness of her mind, she had sensed a danger, an unknown threat the old woman had not mentioned. Now she saw a shadow cross her brother’s face, the slightest tremor to his lips, a twitch on his brow. She leaned closer, and saw his hands were shaking. Reaching out, she touched a finger to his wrist. His pulse was weak and erratic, his skin clammy to the touch.

“Braidon,” she called, tugging at his arm. “Braidon, wake up!”

When her brother didn’t stir, she gripped him by the shoulder and shook him. His head lolled on his shoulders and slumped to the side, his eyes still closed. She caught him by the waist and pulled him upright. A low whisper came from his lips as she turned his face to look at her.

“Braidon!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the room.

Beside her, Tillie jerked to wakefulness. Blinking, she looked around, frowning when she saw Alana with Braidon.

“What’s going on, Alana?” she asked.

“He won’t wake,” Alana growled, turning on her. “You did this!”

Tillie shook her head, the light coming back to her eyes. “I did nothing.” She leaned closer, staring at Braidon’s face. “You both fell asleep. I took the chance to refresh my spirit.”

“I did not fall asleep!” Alana snapped. “Does it look like he’s sleeping?”

The old woman’s frown deepened as she looked from Alana to her brother. “He could not have advanced this quickly. Even the finest students take a few attempts to delve into their subconscious.”

“What does that mean?” Alana hissed, grabbing the old woman by the wrist.

Ignoring her, the priest leaned closer, inspecting Braidon’s face. Shaking her hand free of Alana’s grip, she pressed her hands to Braidon’s cheeks. “Braidon,” the old woman called, her voice soft. “Come back.”

Alana sat with breath held, watching the old woman closely. Her heart was pounding in her chest. While she did not understand what was happening, she sensed something was wrong. She recalled the rage she’d felt, the fear and anger tangled up at the centre of her soul, and felt a sense of impending doom.

“What’s wrong with him, Tillie?” Her voice was tinged with desperation now.

Tillie shook her head and waved her back. “Braidon!” she called, more urgently now. “Come back, before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” Alana shrieked, her chest tightening.

In a rush of panic, she shoved the priest aside and took her brother’s arms in hers.

“Braidon!” she called, then again in her head, Braidon, Braidon, Braidon!

Her cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her face. It spread down her neck, a warmth that lit her body aflame. It swirled in her mind as she called her brother’s name again and again, fear giving rise to desperation, desperation to panic. As the heat reached her hands, she felt her ears pop, and suddenly the heat was gone.

Exhaustion swept through Alana like an incoming tide. Slumping back on her heels, she gasped in a breath of air and released her brother. Closing her eyes, she fought back tears.

“Alana?”

Her eyes snapped open as her brother croaked her name. Across from her, Braidon sat blinking, his blue eyes streaked with red. Her heart leapt as he yawned and stretched his arms. “What’s going on? We done?”

Ignoring his question, Alana threw herself forward and wrapped him in her arms. “You scared the Goddess out of me!”

Braidon cried out in protest, but it was several minutes before he managed to disentangle himself from her. He sat back, confusion written across his youthful face.

“What’s got you so worked up?” he questioned. “I was just napping.”

“You were not asleep, young Braidon,” Tillie’s voice cut in. “You were meditating.”

Braidon snorted. “Felt a lot like sleep to me.” He shook his head and yawned again. “Although I’ll admit I had some strange dreams.”

Silently, Alana reached out and hugged him again. He flashed her another smile, though there was doubt in his eyes now. A long silence stretched out. Braidon broke it suddenly with a yawn. His eyes flickered from Alana to Tillie.

“Err, if we are done, you don’t mind if I take an actual nap, do you?” he asked.

Alana forced a laugh and nodded. Rising, Braidon crossed quickly to his bed and dragged himself under the covers. Within minutes his soft snores filled the room. Alana watched him for a moment, reassuring herself he was okay, before turning her eyes back to the priest.

“What happened to him?” she asked, voice hard. “He was in danger, wasn’t he?”

Tillie was eying her closely now, a slight frown on her forehead. “Where did you say the two of you came from?” she asked, ignoring Alana’s question.

Anger flared in Alana’s chest at the woman’s impertinence. She caught the priest by the front of her olive-green robes.

“I asked you what happened to my brother!” She ground out through clenched teeth.

The old woman stared back at her, eyes hard. “Release me,” she commanded.

Despite herself, Alana did so, but she refused to drop the matter. “It was his magic, wasn’t it?”

After a long pause, Tillie nodded. “He shouldn’t have been able to go so far so quickly, especially in his exhausted state. That’s why I thought he was merely asleep. It was fortunate he didn’t manage to reach his magic before we could call him back.”

“What would have happened then?”

“The consequences would have been...severe.”

Alana’s lips drew back in a snarl. “What do you mean, ‘severe’?”

There was no humour on the old woman’s face now. “He would have been lost…” Her voice trailed off. Alana was about to press further when she continued. “Do you know the story of the demon who destroyed Sitton?”

Alana opened her mouth and then closed it again, surprised by the sudden change of topic. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

“That demon was once a great man, descended from the line of Trolan kings who had ruled over the west for centuries. His name was Thomas, and he was a powerful Magicker.”

A tremor went down Alana’s spine at the woman’s words. She knew the tales of Thomas—of the ancient king who had stood with the Gods against Archon. A myth, surely? Yet she sensed there was more to the old woman’s story. Swallowing, she asked the question burning on her lips. “How did he become a demon?”

“His magic took him.”

“Took him?” Alana could not keep the fear from her voice. “What do you mean?”

Tillie sighed. “Magic is not an inert force—it lives! Lives to fight, to make war, to break free. A Magicker is forever at war with the force inside them. Each time they touch it, they risk losing themselves in its power. Once lost, they become what we know as demons, drowned by their own magic, taken over by its energies.”

“And…my brother…” Bile rose in Alana’s throat as she stumbled to her feet. “How could you not have told us?”

The priest rose quickly beside her. “It is not something you speak of during ones first attempt at meditation,” she snapped. “The fear would make the exercise impossible.”

“You’re telling me he might never have woken up?” Alana shrieked, hardly hearing the woman’s words.

“Calm yourself, Alana,” the priest snapped suddenly, her eyes flashing. She caught Alana by the wrist and dragged her forward. Alana swallowed as her gaze was caught by the crystal blue eyes. “Your brother is stronger than you know, girl,” the old woman continued, “but he will never be able to grow if you continue to smother him.”

Alana tore herself free, anger giving her strength. “Smother him?” she gasped. “I’m protecting him!”

The cold eyes stared back at her, unblinking. “So you say.” The woman strode after her. “Who are you, Alana? Where did you come from?”

“None of your goddamn business!” Alana said, baring her teeth. She pointed a finger at the woman’s chest. “And if you so much as touch my brother again, I’ll kill you!”

She swung towards the door, but her brother’s voice called her back. “Alana, no.” Freezing midstride, Alana turned back to see Braidon sitting up in his bed. His eyes caught hers, holding her in place as he continued to speak. “She’s right,” he whispered. “This power is inside me, whether we like it or not. I can’t ignore it. I don’t want to hurt anybody. If she can teach me to control it, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Alana swallowed. “But it might kill you.”

Braidon’s eyes flashed. “It can try,” he said, his voice like iron now.

Crossing the room, Alana buried herself in his arms once more. “I don’t want to lose you,” she sobbed into his shoulder.

His soft hands stroked her hair as they held each other. “You won’t, sis,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

A spasm racked Alana’s chest as she nodded, aware her tears were soaking her brother’s shirt. “Okay,” she croaked finally. Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. “Okay, I trust you, Braidon. But you have to be careful, okay?”

He nodded, a crooked smile on his face. “I’ll be fine, sis.” He winked. “Remember what happened with the Stalkers.”

Alana smiled, stroking a hand through his soft hair. “That was instinct,” she murmured. “Just be careful when it’s the real thing. We don’t even know what your power does, remember?”

Braidon sighed. “Okay, Alana, but only because I’m afraid you’ll have another tantrum if I don’t.”

“That wasn’t a tantrum!”

Her brother snorted, humour dancing in his eyes. “Sure. So, you weren’t going to slam the door on your way out?”

Scowling, Alana shoved him back on the bed. “I take it back, go ahead and use that magic of yours. Don’t think it’ll protect you from me, though.”

Laughter spread around the room as Alana sat on the other bed. She didn’t look at the old priest—her anger at the woman’s omission was still fresh, and Alana wasn’t sure whether she could keep the rage from her words. Before their laughter could fade into awkward silence, the door to the hallway banged open.

Spinning around to face the newcomer, Alana relaxed when she saw Devon step into the room. Water dripped from his jacket as he pushed the door closed behind him.

“Bloody rain,” he muttered, glancing around the room. One bushy eyebrow lifted as he saw the tears on Alana’s cheeks. “Am I interrupting something?”

Alana quickly wiped the last of her tears away and shook her head. “No,” she replied, more sharply than she intended. Silently, she cursed herself for allowing the warrior to see her weakness. “What kept you so long? Did you find a ship?” she asked, more harshly than she intended.

Shaking his head, Devon moved to the spare seat by the fire and lowered himself into the chair with a groan. He held out his hands to the blaze, allowing its warmth to wash over him. “You could show a little gratitude, you know,” he said gruffly. “I’ve been out all day in the cold searching for this ship. And poor old Kellian, who knows how many strings he’s having to pull to get to his funds on such short notice.”

Heat flushed to Alana’s cheeks at his admonishment. Her eyes dropped to the ground. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I do appreciate it, I swear. It’s just...been a stressful afternoon.”

Devon chuckled. “Getting a little restless in this little room?” He waved a hand. “You can relax, I found a ship that leaves tomorrow at first light.”

Alana’s heart lifted at the news, then sank as she realised Kellian still had not returned. “If Kellian gets the gold.”

“Oh, he will,” Devon grinned. “He’s a good man in a pinch, don’t worry about him. He’ll come through. Now, what’s say we get some supper? We’ve some time to wait yet before he returns, I think.”

The loud rumble of Alana’s stomach was all the answer he needed.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.

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Quinn sighed as he lowered himself down into the chair behind the mahogany desk. It had been a long and drawn out night, filled with urgent meetings and the furious scribbling of messages. The morning was already approaching, and he still had not slept. His back ached from the hard days of riding, and his heart was weary with failure.

When the river had finally receded, he and his men had spent a day and a night racing across the Lonian plains, following the fading tracks of their quarry. He’d thought they’d continue heading north, but instead the party had veered east towards the Lonian capital.

Now Devon and his friends had vanished into the human cesspool otherwise known as Lon. Quinn’s men were scouring the city, checking in with contacts and informing the city guard, but amidst Lon’s slums and backstreets, it would not be hard for the Magicker to disappear. Despite their best efforts, they might be forced to wait for another outburst of the boy’s magic.

In the meantime, he and his men would keep a low profile, so as not to alert Devon of their presence. If they were lucky, the giant warrior or his friend, Kellian, would slip up and reveal his presence. Quinn knew the men well—neither was suited to a life of poverty and anonymity.

No, the more he considered it, the less he thought it likely the two would seek to remain in the city. And if they left its crowded streets, there was only one other place they could turn to—Northland.

With the Trolan revolt, the Tsar’s plans to conquer the independent state had been put on hold, but it would not be long before his eyes turned north once more. It was well known that the northern state still allowed Magickers the freedom to wander its streets. This could not be allowed to continue—lest they return to the Three Nations unknown and continue the spread of wild magic.

Quinn had several contacts on the docks. He had sent out messages to them but had yet to hear back. The delay was frustrating, but there was little he could do now but wait.

Reaching into the drawer of his desk, he took out an old bottle of whiskey. It had been almost a year since his last visit to Lon, and he was pleased to see its contents remained untouched. Pouring himself a glass, he took a sip, savouring the fire as he swallowed.

He looked up as a knock came from the door. Glancing out the window, he saw the distant glow of the rising sun on the horizon and sighed. Exhausted, he lit another candle, but as he moved to open the door it swung inwards. He was about to bark a reprimand to whichever servant dared let themselves into his office, when a figure stepped into the room.

Swallowing, Quinn took a step backwards. The intruder followed him, the very air seeming to blacken with its approach. A dark cloak swathed the small body, its hood casting the pale face in shadow. But there was no hiding from the pitch-black eyes as they gazed around the room.

Quinn. The demon’s voice slithered through his mind like a snake.

Knees shaking, Quinn managed to reach out and grip the edge of his desk for support. With the demon’s presence, all warmth seemed to have been sucked from the room. Terror gnawed at his stomach, but he straightened, drawing on reserves of strength he hardly knew he had. Walking around the desk, he lowered himself into his seat.

The figure followed him, gliding across the room as though it no longer had need for its feet. It was small in stature, barely coming up to his shoulders, but that only added to its terror. Darkness swept before it like a wave, the candles sputtering, the lanterns dimming to little more than pinpricks.

“What are you doing here, demon?” Quinn asked, struggling to keep the fear from his voice. “I did not send for you.”

The Tsar sent me, the creature hissed. He is…disappointed with you.

Quinn gritted his teeth. “I will have them shortly.”

Laughter bubbled through the room, sending icicles dripping down Quinn’s spine. She has evaded you again and again…

“The boy surprised us.”

A mistake that was…beneath you, came the demon’s reply. Its head bent horribly sideways, as though to inspect him. Perhaps age has dulled your instincts.

“No,” Quinn growled, anger pushing back the fear. He stood, hands gripped around his desk. “I will have them soon.”

They have all of Lon to hide in.

“They won’t stay,” Quinn shot back. “They’ll try and flee to Northland. When they do, I’ll be waiting for them.”

So sure of yourself, the demon laughed again. Yet they evaded you at the temple of the Goddess, slipped through your fingers by the river.

“Luck!” Quinn said, trying to keep his desperation from showing.

Perhaps… the demon hissed. Perhaps you want them to escape.

“Never,” Quinn whispered, his face paling. His fingers twitched as the demon moved closer. He felt his magic beginning to stir and pressed it down. “I am loyal to the Tsar.”

Pray that is true, Quinn. The demon stood in front of him now. Before he could move, pale fingers shot out and pressed into his forehead.

Colours swirled across Quinn’s vision, flashing to black. Slowly the darkness faded, and he found himself in a windowless cell, his hands chained to the wall, his body naked to the freezing cold. A shadow moved towards him, blade extended. White-hot agony burned in his side as the blade bit him, driving through his kidney, stealing his breath.

Even as the physical pain tore at him, he felt something else, another force, a dark violation as something cold and terrible slid into his body. The pain fled as ice spread through his veins, then returned a thousand-fold as talons lashed at his insides, tearing him asunder. An awful darkness ripped into his mind, harrying his spirit. Opening his mouth, Quinn made to scream…

And found himself back at his desk. His brow soaked with a cold sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he threw himself back from the demon. His boots scraped loudly on the stone floor as he stood.

“They will not escape,” he wheezed. “I swear it.”

Very good, came the demon’s reply. Its laughter whispered through the room.

Quinn nodded, struggling to calm his racing heart. “Perhaps you could help us.”

He clenched his fists, hating himself for showing such weakness. But if the Tsar had sent the demon, it meant Quinn was at terrible risk. One more mistake, one more loss, and the vision the creature had shown him would soon become a reality.

As much as Quinn hated the dark creatures, its presence would ensure success. Few Magickers could withstand their power. A mortal like Devon would be swept away like sand before the tide.

Of course, the demon said, a sly smile spreading across its face.

Before Quinn could reply, another knock came from the door. Beside him, the demon vanished without a sound, though he didn’t doubt it remained close. Quinn shivered, and called out for the newcomer to enter.

One of his men stepped inside, his eyebrows raised as he looked around the empty room. “I thought I heard voices…” He trailed off as Quinn waved a hand.

“You have something for me, Kaylib?”

His man blinked, looking as though he’d momentarily forgotten why he was there. He stared blankly at Quinn, then nodded quickly and cleared his throat. “Ye…yes, sir! We…it appears we may have a lead on our prey, sir.”

Devon sucked in a lungful of air, savouring the fresh taste of salt on the wind. Overhead, the familiar gulls circled, their harsh cries mingling with the gentle creak of the ship as it rocked against its berth. Shifting his feet, he leaned over the railing and looked down at the docks, checking the progress of the sailors as they prepared to depart.

As far as he could tell, things were running to schedule. The five of them had arrived just before sunrise, having left the inn early to avoid being seen by morning commuters making their way to work. The crew of the Songbird was just beginning their preparations when the party arrived on the docks to board.

Now those preparations were almost complete, with only a few crates of supplies left to be brought aboard. From what Devon had seen so far, the ship was mostly transporting silks and spices to the northern port. No doubt they would fetch a high price, though buyers might be in short supply in the developing nation.

Shaking his head, Devon checked on the others. Alana and Braidon stood at the bow with the priest, their eyes on the harbour. He could read Alana’s impatience by the way she stood at the railing, her shoulders tight, one hand resting on the pommel of her sabre. He couldn’t blame her. They were exposed out here on the docks. He had heard no word of Stalkers entering the city, but that meant little if Quinn and his men were keeping a low profile. If they were recognised before the Songbird set sail, they would be trapped on the ship with nowhere to go.

His eyes travelled to the other end of the ship, where a lantern burned in the window of the captain’s quarters. Kellian was there now, settling their bill with Julian and the captain. The night before he had brought back a small fortune in gold, and not for the first time, Devon found himself cursing his wasteful youth. If he’d set aside more of his salary while he’d been in the army, he might have avoided this mess altogether.

Devon cursed as he returned his gaze to the docks in time to watch two sailors drop a crate. The box shattered on impact, scattering clay jars across the wooden boards. Several cracked open, sending red spices flying as the men raced to save the remaining jars. Beyond the chaos, all progress loading the ship came to a halt as the other sailors waited for the men to clear the way.

Grating his teeth, Devon forced himself to take another breath. His heart was pounding against his chest, his nerves more than a little raw. He shook his head, trying to relax. The sun was still low on the horizon, and they would be away soon enough.

At the thought, the door to the captain’s cabin banged open, and he turned to see Julian approaching. Forcing a smile to his lips, he waved a greeting.

“Still get that unsettled stomach, ay, Devon?” Julian’s laughter rang out across the docks as his friend joined him at the railing.

Devon flashed the man a scowl. He’d never liked sailing. During the civil war, he’d been on more than his fair share of ships, but his stomach had never grown used to the rocking motion of the sea. “Nothing wrong with my stomach,” he muttered. “It’s the ocean that makes me sick. It’s unnatural, floating all the way out there with nothing but a few planks of wood to keep you from a watery grave.”

Julian grinned and patted the railing. “I wouldn’t worry, old friend. The Songbird’s one of mine. I trust her more than I’d trust my wife.”

“I thought your wife ran off with half your fortune?”

“Hardly!” Julian exclaimed. His eyes flickered furtively at Devon and he forced a grin. “It was a few gold bars and my favourite horse. Hardly half!”

Devon chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. “The single life suits you better.” He turned his eyes back to the dock. The men had finally cleared the spilled jars and loading had resumed. “Are you joining us on this voyage? We should be away shortly, I hope?”

“Ever the impatient one, Devon!” Julian laughed.

A grin spread across Devon’s cheeks. “If I’d known this was your ship, Julian, I would have waited until noon to show up. Once upon a time you couldn’t leave port less than two days late.”

Julian snorted. “Like I told my lieutenant at the time, conditions weren’t right to sail.”

“Tell that to the twenty other captains who arrived on time,” Devon replied.

“Reckless souls, all of them!” Julian said, then the smile fell from his face. “Thankfully those days are past. I wasn’t made to captain ships. My instinct for self-preservation is far too strong.”

“You seemed to have found your calling,” Devon murmured, eyeing his suddenly sombre friend.

Julian nodded, his eyes on the men below. “It’s been a hard year, Devon,” he said. “Business has been slow. I’ve had to make sacrifices.”

Devon sighed. “Things will improve.”

“I can only hope so.” Shaking his head, Julian looked up at Devon and forced a smile. “It’s been good seeing you again, old friend. I had best be going, though. Wouldn’t want to get in the way.” He paused a moment. “You sure you and Kellian don’t want to reconsider this journey? It’s going to be a cold winter in Northland.”

“Sorry, old friend, but our minds are made up!” Devon replied, offering his hand.

Julian gripped his palm. “Until next time then, old friend.”

“Until next time,” Devon replied.

Devon watched as he turned and wandered down the gangplank, wondering at the sudden change in his friend’s mood. The former ship captain paused on the docks, shouting a few words to the men there before continuing through the crowd. The remaining sailors moved quickly up the gangplank, carrying the last of the crates with them.

His eyes continued on across the docks. The crowds were building as the sun lifted higher in the sky, and other ships were beginning to pull away from the docks now, readying themselves to set sail on the high tide. He caught a last glimpse of his friend’s red cloak through the press of bodies, then he was gone.

Devon was about to look away when something else caught his attention. He frowned, staring into the crowd. His stomach swirled as he caught sight of a black-cloaked figure, then another. Swallowing, he clamped his hands around the railing and licked his lips. Silently, he prayed to the Storm God he was wrong.

Boots thudded on the wooden boards as Alana appeared beside him. “I thought we were leaving?” she asked, leaning against the railing.

“We’re meant to be,” Devon muttered, his eyes never leaving the crowd.

The dark-cloaked figures had come together now, their long strides eating up the distance to the Songbird. Fear clawed its way up Devon’s throat as he recognised the figure in the forefront. It was Quinn. He and his Stalkers would be on them in minutes.

Out on the docks, people were moving quickly about their business, filing between fish stalls and weaving their way between ships. Their presence was hindering Quinn and his men, but it would not delay them long. Already people were noticing the Stalkers and falling back, flinching away from the advancing black tide, almost fleeing in their eagerness to avoid them.

Beside him, Alana cursed as she saw Quinn and his men. Ignoring her, Devon turned from the railing and strode across the deck. Kellian and the captain were in conversation beside the cabin, and he made straight for them. Kellian looked up at his approach, but Devon had eyes only for the captain.

“We need to leave,” he said shortly.

The captain looked around, seeing the last of his men had just come aboard. “Looks like we’re ready to sail, just let me go sign the log book and we can be off.”

“No.” Devon caught the man by the wrist as he made towards the gangplank. “We need to leave now.”

Shaking his head, the captain tore his arm loose and fixed Devon with a glare. “Listen, young man, I understand your journey is somewhat…urgent, but I cannot simply depart without the proper paperwork.”

“You can and you will,” Devon snapped, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt. With his other hand, he pointed out at the crowd. “See those men? They’re Stalkers. They’re here for us, and anyone caught helping us. So, unless you fancy spending the rest of your wretched life in a Lonian dungeon, you’d best get this ship moving!”

The man’s eyes flickered out across the docks, alighting on Quinn and his men. He swallowed, his eyes turning back to Devon.

“Don’t even think about giving us up,” Devon growled. Reaching up, he unsheathed his hammer and hefted it. “You wouldn’t live to see the reward.”

The man swallowed again, eyes wide, mouth gasping. Finally, he gave a curt nod. Devon released him but followed closely as the man marched around the deck screaming orders to his crew. Across the ship, men leapt into action, throwing off mooring lines and raising the anchor. Overhead, cloth rasped as the sails unfurled.

“That won’t work,” Devon said quickly, grabbing the man by the arm. He pointed at the rows of oars below the deck. “They have wind magic. Your men will need to row.”

The captain nodded quickly and began shouting fresh orders. Devon’s stomach lurched uncomfortably as the ship started to move. Freed of its restraints, it rocked gently beneath them and began to drift away from the docks. Still a hundred yards away, Quinn and his men redoubled their efforts to reach them.

“You think Julian betrayed us?” Kellian asked, coming alongside him.

Devon nodded. “He was jumpy,” he said softly, keeping the hurt from his voice. “I should have guessed. He must have sent someone to fetch Quinn.”

Steel rasped on leather as Alana drew her sabre. She didn’t speak, just stared out over the crowd, watching as the Stalkers advanced. From below the deck came the thump of oars being shipped. Behind them, the captain stood at the tiller, slowly turning the ship away from the dock. As Devon had predicted, the sails hung limp above them. The wind had died away to nothing.

A foot opened between the ship and the dock, then a yard, then more. As the gap widened, Devon’s panic began to ease, his heartbeat slowing. His eyes followed Quinn and his men, but he could see now they weren’t going to arrive in time. Slowly, the ship drifted away from the dock and turned towards the open sea.

“Devon!” A voice carried to them on a sudden breath of wind.

Devon turned back, his spine tingling as he saw Quinn had come to a stop. The Stalker’s words carried to them across the open water. “Turn back now, or die.”

Grinning, Devon stepped up to the railing and laughed. The sound boomed out as he lifted kanker above his head and shouted. “Come and get me, sonny!”

With that, he turned away, his anxiety melting like ice before a flame. Quinn and his Stalkers had almost had them again, but it seemed luck remained on their side. Julian had betrayed them, but his  strange manner at the end had been enough to alert Devon in time. He breathed out a long sigh, a smile touching his lips.

“That was too close,” he said, looking at the others.

Just close enough, an ice-cold voice replied, whispering through their minds.

Just close enough.

Alana spun away from the rail as a dark voice whispered through her thoughts. Her gaze swept the deck, passing over crew and captain to settle on the figure of a boy sitting on the port railing. Swathed all in black, he sat on the railing with legs crossed, hands clenched before him. A hood hid his face, but as the Songbird’s passengers looked on, pale hands reached up and pulled it down.

The jet-black eyes swept the ship before settling on Alana. She knew instinctively what it was, that this was a demon sent by the Tsar to bring them back.

Alana, the voice came again, drilling its way down into her consciousness. How good to see you.

The voice was shocking, like a cold breeze on a summer’s day. Fear tied Alana’s stomach in knots as she staggered back from the creature. She grabbed her brother by the wrist, pulling him close. Dragging him with her, she retreated towards the gap in the railing where the gangplank had been.

“Stop.”

Alana groaned as the demon spoke out loud, the command bringing her feet to a sudden halt. She stood trembling, her brother’s wrist locked in her iron grip, and watched as the creature slowly climbed from its perch. As it moved, its cloak swept out, revealing the dark hilt of a sword at its waist. A smile twitched on its pale face as the black eyes swept the sailors crowding the deck. At its voice, all movement had ceased.

The creature’s awful laughter rent the air. Alana gritted her teeth as it turned back to her. “You have led Quinn a merry chase, Alana,” it whispered, dark eyes flashing. “But it is over now.”

A terrible sob tore from Alana’s lips. She could feel her brother trembling in her hold. Alana looked across the deck, seeking help, but as she looked on the faces of Devon and Kellian, their eyes fell away.

“Come to me.”

She gasped as her foot took an involuntary step forward. A low keening came from the back of her throat. She tried to release Braidon as her legs marched her towards the creature, but her hand had become a vice around his arm. He cried out as Alana dragged him with her. Their eyes met, and she wept at the horror she saw in his face. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Alana swung back to the demon.

“Please,” she whispered, staring into the merciless face of the creature. There was no sign of life in its pitch-black eyes, no compassion on which to draw—only darkness.

Alana suddenly realised that a great hush had come over the ship. The cries of the gulls had fallen away, the distant shouts of street vendors were silenced. Only the gentle creaking of the ship beneath them remained.

She watched in open terror as the demon strode forward. It moved with a strange grace, its boots making no sound as it trod across the wooden planks. A chill breeze wrapped around Alana as it approached, as though its presence sucked the very life from the air. A thin white hand reached out, stretching towards her. She closed her eyes, waiting for its touch, knowing it would be the last thing she ever felt…

“No.”

The voice was gruff, almost shaking, but with an iron in it that brooked no argument. Alana’s eyes snapped open. She stared as Devon strode across the deck, placing himself between them and the demon. His amber eyes flickered in her direction, shining with fear, but, nonetheless, he turned and faced the demon. He held kanker gripped tightly in one hand.

Awful laughter whispered over the ship as the demon looked at the giant hammerman.

You are in my way, mortal.

The muscles along Devon’s back rippled as he straightened. “You’re not taking her anywhere, demon.”

Devon hardly knew what he was doing.

A moment ago, he’d been standing beside the railing, staring at the dark creature that had appeared in their midst. As the black eyes had fallen on him, he’d frozen, memories rising up from his past. Demons had been the Tsar’s secret weapon during the civil war, the reinforcements sent in to sweep away the enemy when all else failed. He had watched creatures such as this one toss full-grown men around like ragdolls, had seen their dark magic tear buildings to pieces. Now one was standing on their ship, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. A glance at Braidon was all it took to see the boy was exhausted, his youthful energies spent from the hard ride across southern Lonia. Without magic, they didn’t stand a chance against the creature’s power.

Then the demon’s voice had whispered across the ship, calling Alana to it. Her eyes had flickered in Devon’s direction, but he’d quickly looked away, kanker suddenly heavy in his hand as shame welled inside him. Yet even the legendary weapon could not aid him against such a creature. No mortal in recent memory had ever stood against a demon and lived.

But as Alana had continued towards the demon, Devon’s gaze had caught in the crystal blue eyes of Tillie, and her words from the road had come rushing back.

You are stronger than you think, hammerman.

And Devon had suddenly found himself moving forward, stepping between Alana and the creature, kanker held at the ready.

“No,” he heard himself saying. “You’re not taking her anywhere, demon.”

Now, as the awful eyes looked up at him, it was all Devon could do to keep himself upright. They bored into him, piercing his soul, robbing him of strength. He gripped the haft of kanker harder, willing himself to defy the creature, to stand strong. A shudder went through him as it laughed again.

“Devon,” came Alana’s voice from behind him. “Don’t.”

He ignored her. Breath held, he glared down at the demon, every muscle in his body taut, ready to do battle. He forced himself to move, to take another step towards the creature. It watched him come, a smile on its ghostly face. Slowly, it unfolded its hands and shook its head.

Do not be a fool, hammerman.

Devon gritted his teeth as the awful voice spoke in his mind. “Get off my ship,” he growled, drawing on his anger.

The demon’s eyes flashed, and, despite himself, Devon found himself retreating a step. The dark laughter chased after him, sliding its way inside him. His legs shook, but with an effort of will, he forced himself to stop, to stand his ground.

Very well.

Grinning, the creature reached down and drew its sword. The black blade glinted in the sunlight as it slid free, gripped in a paperwhite hand. Lifting it high, the demon laughed, and a darkness pulsed from the weapon, stretching out to encircle the creature.

From somewhere deep within, Devon found the courage to speak. “A pretty trick, demon,” he laughed. Hefting his hammer, he started towards it.

For a second, a flicker passed across the creature’s face. The brow of the boy it had once been creased. A low hiss came from the awful mouth as it pointed the blade at Devon.

Die!

The shadows swirling around the blade crackled, gathering on its iron tip. A boom sounded across the ship, and then the darkness rushed from the sword towards Devon.

Watching it come, he found himself smiling. The fear had fled now, the doubt of the last five years vanishing like mist before the dawn. Gripping the weapon of his ancestor, he lifted it high and screamed a battle cry. The dark magic rushed onwards and crashed into the steel head of the hammer.

Another boom rang out, sending gulls screaming in flight. Across the deck, men were thrown from their feet. Devon stumbled back, still waiting for the pain, for the rush as his life was swept away.

Instead, there was only a strange, drawn out silence.

Blinking, Devon shook his head and straightened. He glanced down at his body, expecting to see a tangled mess, but he remained whole. Not even the stained fabric of his brown tunic had been touched by the creature’s power. His eyes turned to kanker. The weapon glinted in the morning sun, but the ancient runes on its head glowed with a light all of their own, although it was already fading.

Devon smiled as he looked back at the demon. Around him, the occupants of the ship were picking themselves up and staring with wonder at the giant warrior standing against the demon.

The demon still stood with its arm outstretched, sword extended, a look of pure bewilderment written across its ghostly face. It was clearly as shocked to see Devon still standing as he was himself.

Devon’s laughter rung out across the deck as he pointed kanker at the demon.

“Now you die, demon.”

Still cackling, he advanced on the creature. The demon blinked, drawing back its sword and straightening. For a moment it stared at the oncoming warrior, before pointing the blade again. The shadows gathered once more. With a scream from the demon, they sliced across the deck towards him.

This time, Devon did not so much as break stride. With a contemptuous swing of kanker, he sent the darkness swirling off into the harbour. The water hissed and boiled where it struck, and pure hatred twisted the demon’s face.

With a roar, he charged.

For a moment the demon’s hatred gave way to fear. It staggered back, the dark cloak rustling around it, the sword extended uselessly before it. Devon closed the gap, his powerful shoulders directing the hammer down at his foe’s head.

Sparks flashed as the demon recovered and raised its blade. Moving with impossible speed, it twisted in place, its own sword arcing back out to slash at Devon’s ribs. He leapt backwards, cursing softly as he felt the tip slice through his shirt. Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, he had neglected to put on his mail-shirt before boarding the ship.

The demon growled, chasing after him with eyes of dark fire, its tiny figure belying its awesome strength. Kanker leapt to meet it, the ancient hammer shining like gold as it deflected another blow from the black blade. Vibrations shuddered down Devon’s arm as their weapons met, but he held tight to the hammer’s haft, and swung it back at the creature’s face.

Spinning, it ducked the blow. A grin spread across its face as its blade lanced for Devon’s stomach, too close to avoid. Dropping kanker, Devon’s arm swept down and caught the creature by the wrist, halting the attack. The demon’s eyes widened as he lifted the thing from the ground and hurled it at the mast.

A dark cackling carried across the ship as the creature twisted, landing easily on one foot. Its blade flashed up, black energies crawling along its length to surge at Devon, but he had already recovered kanker and batted the attack aside.

Steel rang as they came together again. Devon grunted, the demon’s speed and strength forcing him back, only raw instinct keeping him alive. The creature’s movements grew more frenzied, its arms becoming a blur, and twice he felt the lick of its blade on his flesh. There were no words now, only silence as the two combatants tore at each other.

The initial thrill of combat faded, and Devon felt his energies tiring, his body unused to the rigours of armed combat. Still he fought on, driven by a primal need to conquer the enemy before him, to best the creature who dared challenge him. Swinging his hammer, he roared, fighting his way back against the demon’s blistering assault.

Devon saw something cross the creature’s eyes as he pressed forward. The black blade still moved with unnatural speed, flicking out to turn aside his blows, but there was a hesitation now, a doubt before each movement. This was a beast unused to defiance. Its enemies fell to its power like trees before the storm, devoured by its magic.

Yet now a mortal man stood against it, unyielding, and Devon could sense its doubt.

Snarling, the creature pressed forward again, but Devon began to laugh. He swept his hammer down, blocking a disembowelling cut.

“Is that all, demon?” Devon’s mirth boomed out across the waters.

The demon’s face twisted and a screech tore from its throat. The air grew cold, and it seemed the very light was being sucked from the world about it. Yet where Devon stood, kanker in hand, the sun shone brightly, setting the runes of his hammer aglow. Screaming, the demon hurled itself forward.

Devon met the creature’s charge with a scream of his own, kanker rising to block its desperate attack. Once, twice, three times their weapons met. Then, with a shriek of breaking metal and boom of sundered energies, the black blade shattered. Bellowing his triumph, Devon drove forward and brought the ancient hammer down on the creature’s skull.

A white brilliance flashed across the ship, and with a sharp suddenness, light and sound and life were restored to the world. A gull cawed, circling overhead, and the sun shone brightly across the watchers on the Songbird. Wind blasted into the sails, sending the ship surging forwards.

Drawing back his hammer, Devon watched as the creature collapsed face first onto the deck. A whisper went through the crew and, looking around, he saw the fear in their eyes. Ignoring them, Devon dropped kanker and strode across to the creature. Lifting the frail body above his head, he carried it to the railing. In the distance, he could see the Stalkers gathered on the docks, watching the Songbird’s retreat.

With a great heave of his shoulders, Devon hurled the body of the demon over the side. It struck the waters with a crash and vanished beneath the surface without a sound, as though it had never been.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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Quinn stood on the deck of the Ice Queen and looked out over the empty waters, seeking sign of the missing ship. The air was crisp and cool, the sun sinking towards the western coastline. Wind crackled around him, called by his magic, filling the sails to drive them on through the silent waters. Yet still a cold dread clenched around his heart.

Devon had killed the demon. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he had seen it himself. He had watched in disbelief as the giant hammerman turned aside the creature’s dark magic and fought off its frenzied attacks. The shock of the final blow had caused him to stagger back in horror. In silence, Quinn had stared as Devon carried the body to the side of the ship and hurled it out into the harbour.

His message had been clear: come after us and die.

Yet, here he was.

Quinn shivered again, forcing the doubt from his mind. The man might have found a way to counter the creature’s power, but Quinn still had the weight of numbers on his side. He had brought another company of Stalkers with him from Lon. Their sixteen men would be more than enough to kill Devon. The man was a fearsome warrior, but he was not invincible.

If only he could convince his men of that. Already he had caught them speaking in hushed whispers of the giant warrior, about his exploits in Trola and his battle with the demon. Enraged, Quinn had ordered any man caught spreading rumours about the hammerman be lashed. All his life it seemed he had been standing in the shadow of the man. In Trola, Devon had been promoted to lieutenant ahead of Quinn, despite his common upbringing and lack of magic. When the fool had rescinded his commission and quit, Quinn’s hatred had only grown, seeing it as an attack on everything in which he had ever believed.

It galled him now to find himself still standing in that same shadow. Worse yet, Alana stood with the man.

He gritted his teeth, turning his mind to other pursuits. Leaving the railing, he strode across the deck to where the captain stood at the helm. The man’s nervous eyes flickered in Quinn’s direction as he approached. He hadn’t wanted to set sail after the escapees, but Quinn hadn’t given him a choice, commandeering his ship and crew in the name of the Tsar. To refuse would have meant death.

Unfortunately, the Ice Queen had proven a poor choice. Despite full sails, it was sluggish in the water, and Quinn guessed it had been a long time since the hull had been scraped clean of barnacles. Silently, he cursed the captain for a fool.

“How goes our progress?” he asked out loud.

“With your magic, we’ll catch them, my lord,” the captain replied, an edge to his voice.

Supressing his anger, Quinn shook his head. “We had better, captain,” he said dangerously. “It’ll be your head if we don’t.”

With that, he wandered across the deck to where the captain’s cabin waited. His soul was weary, the strain of using his magic draining him. Yet he could not release it—without his power, the ship would slow to a creep.

Pulling open the cabin door, he moved inside and slumped onto the captain’s bed. Leaning his head back against the wall, he struggled to keep his eyes open. Magic still poured from him, drawing wind into the sails, but as he looked inside, he saw his pool of power shrinking. It would only last a few more hours.

They would not catch Devon’s ship before then.

Defeat settled on his shoulders like a blanket. His heart ached, and he wondered how long it would be before the Tsar came for him. Despite all his faithful years of service, this failure would cost him everything.

If only Julian’s informant had come sooner, he might have caught them before the ship departed. If only there had been another ship ready to leave the instant the Songbird had escaped. If only he’d had the power to strike the ship down with lightning.

Instead, he’d been forced to watch, helpless, as the Songbird carried his prey beyond reach. He had robbed the wind from their sails, even tried to force them back with his powers, but the rowers aboard were strong, and he was not strong enough to overcome all of them.

Now he found himself aboard another ship, leagues behind his quarry, praying to long dead Gods to bring them within his reach.

Hours crept past as Quinn tracked his magic’s slow decline, until it was nothing more than a blue spark in the darkness of his mind. Outside, night had fallen over the ship, but still they sailed on. He sighed as he heard the sails overhead flapping, then fall silent as the last breath of wind left them. Curses whispered through the wooden walls as the captain shouted for the few sailors he could spare to take to their oars.

Closing his eyes, Quinn lay back on the bed as the ship rocked beneath him. The rowers would soon tire. Devon and his wards had slipped through his fingers again. Within days, they would disappear forever into the vast expanse of Northland. And he would feel the Tsar’s wrath.

He fought against the pull of sleep, dreading what would find him there, but it was insistent, his exhaustion beyond his will to resist. Slowly the darkness wrapped around him, drawing him down into nothingness…

When Quinn woke, the gloom was still all around, but he was no longer alone. A man moved through the shadows, his aura flickering with multicoloured hues, drawing closer. Quinn shuddered as he looked on the figure and felt the fiery blue eyes of the Tsar pierce him.

“You have lost them.” The voice rang with power.

Quinn bowed his head. “The demon failed.”

“You failed,” boomed the voice.

Shuddering, Quinn drew back, but bands of fire swept out to wrap around him. He screamed as the flames burned into his spirit. He reached for his magic, but the power was gone, consumed by his futile pursuit of Devon.

“For years I have watched you.” The Tsar’s voice was soft now. “Nurtured you, made you one of my most trusted servants. And how have you repaid me?”

“I am sorry, your majesty,” Quinn croaked, forcing back a scream. Bowing his head, he began to beg. “Please, they have not escaped me yet. I can catch them!”

“You cannot,” came the Tsar’s reply. “Your weakness has betrayed you.”

Anger gave Quinn strength. Summoning his courage, he looked into the Tsar’s burning eyes. “No!” he growled. “They shall not escape me, not while I still breathe.”

 The form of the Tsar flared, the spiralling colours of his form shifting. A smile appeared on his ethereal lips. “Your spirit remains, Quinn,” he spoke quietly. “Perhaps you might yet serve me.”

“Anything, your majesty,” Quinn whispered as the flames binding him died away.

A long silence stretched out as the Tsar studied him. Colours spun and grew amidst his form, red and green and white and blue, plus a thousand others unnamed. Quinn found himself drawn to them, a part of himself yearning to join the swirling display.

“Feshibe and her children have been sent to intercept them,” the Tsar said at last.

Quinn’s spirit flickered at the mention of the beast’s name. His heart twisted. The creatures would bring death to everyone aboard the Songbird. Alana’s face rose into his thoughts.

“She has had her chance.” There was regret in the Tsar’s voice now. “I can spare her no longer. She will die with the others. Only the boy must survive. You will retrieve him for me.”

“If she dies, we cannot reverse—” Quinn tried to argue, but the Tsar waved a hand and his voice faded away.

“So be it,” the man’s words whispered through the void. “Bring me the boy. His power intrigues me.”

Quinn swallowed. “The beasts, they will bring him to me?”

Laughter sent a tremor through Quinn’s soul. “No, you must find him,” came the Tsar’s reply. “Scour the coast. You will find the boy there.”

Quinn bowed. “Yes, your majesty.”

With his words, the darkness shook, the vision of the Tsar fading away. Quinn lingered there a moment longer, wondering at his ruler’s words, and the death now winging its way towards his quarry. There would be no stopping the beasts when they came to them. No magic or hammer would turn them aside.

Alana would die alongside Devon and Kellian.

Alana sat on the bow of the ship, staring out over the open ocean, to where the coastline flickered in the distance. The burning globe of the sun was just beginning to disappear behind the scraggly trees. A cool breeze blew across her neck as darkness slowly crept over the ship and the last calls of the seabirds faded away.

Safe.

She could hardly bring herself to believe it. For hours she had been watching to the south, waiting for sails to appear, for the first signs of the pursuit that would drag them back to the capital. But the seas had remained empty, and, bit by bit, hope crept unbidden into her heart.

Freedom.

It seemed such a strange word to her, after so long spent in the darkness. It was so close now; she could taste it in the salty air, feel it in the cold wind, smell it in the fishy tang of the cargo hold.

“How long will it be?” her brother asked, coming to sit alongside her.

Alana shook her head. The wind was weak, and the captain was using the rowers below sparingly. From Lon to Duskenville was a journey of many leagues, and it could take days to reach the northern city. Even so, a smile crept to her lips as she looked at her brother.

“As long as it takes,” she said. “They won’t catch us now, Braidon.”

Her brother nodded solemnly, his eyes trailing out to where the last red of the sunset was fading to black. “Why did he fight the demon?”

“I don’t know,” Alana whispered, remembering Devon’s amber eyes as he faced the creature.

Her thoughts drifted, recalling the battle between hammerman and demon. Trapped by the demon’s power, she and her brother had stood on the brink of defeat, staring into the black eyes of death. Had it not been for Devon, they would both be sitting in the Tsar’s dungeons by now.

Instead, they were free.

She saw him now, sitting on the deck with his back pressed up against a barrel. His eyes were distant, their amber depths catching the last glint of the dying sun.

How had he done it? The ancient warhammer lay at his side, his hand resting on its haft. Tillie had said the weapon had magic, but none of them had guessed it possessed the strength to turn aside the demon’s power. More so, Devon had matched the creature’s superhuman strength, blow for blow. She had never seen the like.

“You going to sit there all night staring, princess?” Devon’s voice called across to her.

Alana jumped, while at her side Braidon laughed. She flashed a scowl in his direction. Devon hadn’t moved from his perch, but she saw the hint of his smile on his lips.

“Who says I was staring?” she shot back.

“You were, sis, I saw it,” her brother cut in. His mouth snapped closed as her grey eyes turned on him.

Devon stood and sheathed kanker on his back, then walked across the gently pitching deck towards them. As he moved, several sailors cast angry glares at his back. The entire crew now knew they’d been tricked into safeguarding a Magicker from the Tsar. Most were from Northland, beyond the southern ruler’s influence, but the ship’s name would need to be changed if they ever wished to trade with the Three Nations again.

Devon ignored them. Silently, he lowered himself down beside Alana and trailed his legs out over the side of the ship.

“You think they’ll get us to Duskenville?” Alana asked suddenly, her gut churning at the thought of failure.

“They’d better,” Devon replied loudly. Reaching up, he tapped the haft of his hammer. “Or they’ll soon learn what a kiss from old kanker feels like.”

Alana shuddered despite herself. In the moment Devon had faced off against the demon, he’d been as fearsome as any God, his eyes burning, his face impassive, his shoulders rippling with power. Such had been his ferocity, even the demon seemed to shrink before him. Sitting there now, his massive arms pressed against hers, Alana couldn’t help but shiver, fear and admiration welling within her.

“How did you do it?” she asked, more to distract herself from his nearness than seeking an answer.

“Do what?” Devon asked. Leaning forward, he stared down at the racing waters, his eyes hidden by shadow.

Beside Alana, Braidon stood suddenly and wandered away. She stared after him, frowning as he approached Tillie and Kellian at the other railing, before returning her gaze to the hammerman.

“Umm.” She bit her lip, struggling to put words to her question. “How did you face it? How did you beat it?”

The big warrior laughed, the sound gentle, almost mocking. “The same way I always have.”

“Oh?”

Devon scratched his beard, the amber eyes flickering in her direction. “I didn’t think.”

Alana raised an eyebrow. “That sounds more like a way of getting yourself killed.” 

“Ay, Kellian used to say the same thing, during the war.” His face darkened and he looked away. “But it’s the truth. Other men, they worry about what will happen if they fail, about dying, or being wounded, about their family and friends and comrades around them. For me, once I pick up the hammer, there’s none of that. There’s only myself and the enemy.”

His words sent a shiver down Alana’s spine. “But it was a demon,” she countered. “It was faster and stronger than you. How could it have lost?”

“Doubt,” Devon replied simply. “I could see it in the thing’s eyes. Its magic had never failed it before today. Sure, it had fought other men with its sword, but that was only ever a game. Today it had no choice, it was forced to cross arms with me. That unnerved it, sowed the slightest seeds of doubt in its mind.”

“And then you laughed at it…” Alana murmured.

Devon smiled.

“It lost control,” Alana continued for him, “grew reckless.”

A gentle silence fell between them. Alana closed her eyes, feeling the heat of him pressed against her. A smile tugged at her lips. In that moment, she felt safer than at any other time in recent memory.

“Thank you,” she whispered suddenly, “for protecting us.”

A giant hand settled around her own. “Anytime, Alana.”

She nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her thoughts wandered as she sat there, and after a while she found herself drifting off to sleep, the exhaustion of the past few days returning to claim her.

This time, when she dreamed, Alana found herself a silent observer, a ghost standing amidst the green gardens of the past. She watched in silence as her brother ran through the roses, surrounded by other children, their youthful faces relaxed and smiling.

But as she drifted closer, she found one who did not smile or run with the others, who stood in silence, his face turned away, watching the others play. She circled him, her heart hammering hard in her chest as the boy’s face came into view.

The demon stared back at her, his eyes the brightest shade of green…

Suddenly, darkness fell across the garden, a great shadow plunging the roses into black.

And Alana woke…

Sitting up on the ship, Alana glanced around quickly, surprised to find herself in the small cabin they’d taken over from the captain. Her heart raced as she looked for the others, and found Devon, Kellian, Braidon and Tillie sleeping close by. She breathed out a sigh of relief, touching a hand to her heart.

Closing her eyes, she sought sleep once more, but now it would not come. She tossed and turned for a time, struggling to forget the dream, and the dark cloud that had covered the garden. Finally, she surrendered to her wakefulness. Rising, she clipped her sword to her belt and moved outside, leaving the others to their sleep.

Overhead, the night was crisp and clear, the stars shining in the sky. A half-moon was slowly rising. The air was calm, the sails furled, leaving the ocean around them as still as glass. Standing at the railing, it seemed to Alana as though they sailed through the sky itself, their boat becoming a bird to soar through the stars.

At that moment, she saw something flicker across the moon. She frowned, squinting her eyes to search the night sky. Had it been a bird? It had seemed too big for that, as though some great hand had covered the moon for half an instant.

As she stared up at the sky, she heard the door to the cabin squeak behind her.

“Alana?” Devon’s voice carried across the deck.

She turned towards him, raising a hand to silence him, then pointing at the sky. He glanced from her to the stars. Her heart eased as she saw he had kanker strapped over his shoulder. Whatever might be out there, she was confident they could face it with the ancient weapon on their side.

Devon moved towards her, his eyes on the sky now. Before he could reach her, the shadow passed across the moon once more. He came to a stop and reached for the haft of kanker.

As his hand gripped the weapon, an ear-splitting roar pierced the night. Alana’s heart froze in her chest as she swung towards the sound, hand fumbling for her sword. Around them, the sailors asleep on the deck came alive, scrambling from their hammocks. The door to the cabin slammed open as the others emerged onto the deck.

“What is it?” Kellian called.

Devon had joined her at the railing now, his amber eyes fixed on the stars. “Nothing good,” he muttered, though Kellian would not have heard his words.

Alana shivered. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. With her second glance, she had recognised what it was, the death that hovered overhead, but the knowledge would do them no good. Whatever magic her brother might possess, whatever power Devon’s hammer had imbued in its steel head, they could not fight this beast. It would kill them all.

Dragon.

The word was on her lips as the first flames blossomed. An angry red flashed across the sky, blotting out the stars. By its light, they saw the beast’s head illuminated against the sails. Blood red scales rippled across the massive body as it dove towards them, jaws wide, flames building in the black void of its mouth. Teeth glinted in the moonlight, each the size of her brother’s dagger. The great wings spread out to either side of it, crackling in the wind as it rushed towards them. A long tail slithered out behind it as the golden globes of its eyes slid across the deck to find them.

“Dragon!”

The cry went up from the crew, then the men were hurling themselves overboard. Alana shivered, readying herself to follow. In the darkness she could not tell which direction the shore was, or how far, but it was better than remaining on the ship to burn.

“Get down!” Devon crashed into her as the dragon swept past.

His weight pressed her down against the deck as a wave of heat engulfed the ship. A whoosh came from the mast as the wood went up in flames, and overhead the sails turned to ash. Screams came from the crew who remained on the ship as their clothes caught fire. One staggered sideways into the railing and tumbled overboard, the flames dying as he struck the sea. Others crumpled to the deck, overwhelmed by heat and smoke.

Light flashed, brilliant and blinding. Shielding her eyes, Alana saw her brother standing outside the cabin, arms extended. Power crackled as he pointed at the dragon. Light shot upwards to meet the beast. Its roar washed over the ship as it seemed to freeze in the middle of the sky. But as the light struck its scarlet scales, the magic shattered, spiralling outwards into the night. With a roar, the dragon twisted and came at them again.

The great wings swept down, sending them reeling in a blast of wind. The flames leapt higher, fed by the fresh air, and in seconds the entire ship was ablaze. There was nowhere left to go but over the side.

Alana staggered to her feet. Flames separated her from Braidon and the others. Choking on the smoke, she waved a hand and screamed over the crackling of burning wood. “Make for the shore!”

She couldn’t tell if they’d heard her, but Kellian waved back and then grabbed Braidon and Tillie by the hand. Turning, they staggered to the railing and disappeared over the side.

Alana was about to follow them when she remembered Devon. She searched the flickering shadows for him. The flames hissed, leaping through the rigging overhead, and a great groan came from the mast. If it fell, it would drag the entire ship down with it. Another roar came from the sky as the dragon turned for another pass.

Glimpsing movement nearby, she found Devon on his knees, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. She rushed to his side, dropping to a crouch beside him and offering her shoulder. Wordlessly, she heaved him to his feet. The hammer was still sheathed on his back and, gritting her teeth, she began to half-carry him towards the side of the ship.

As they reached the railing, a rush of wind came from overhead, and, looking up, Alana saw the dragon heading straight for them. The great jaws opened, flames blossoming. Without thinking, she dove forward, dragging Devon with her.

Ice swallowed Alana as they struck the dark waters. She gasped at the sudden cold, her breath rushing out as salty water filled her mouth. Choking, she thrashed, kicking out. Breaking the surface, she coughed out water and sucked in a breath. She looked around, searching for Devon, but there was no sign of him. Cursing, she sucked in another lungful of air, and dove back into the depths.

Forcing her eyes open, Alana squinted through the black water. Lit by the flames overhead, she glimpsed Devon below. Eyes closed, the hammer strapped to his back, he was sinking slowly into the abyss. Diving down, she slid his arm over her shoulder and began to kick.

The man’s giant bulk slowed her, the weight of the hammer fighting her. Alana clung on, determined to save him. Her sabre, still strapped to her waist, slowed her ascent, but there was no time now to stop and remove it. Above, she could see the surface glowing, the flames of the burning ship calling her upwards.

She gasped as they burst through the surface. The sudden heat of the flames burned her lungs, but she sucked in the breaths as though the air were fine wine. Finally, she turned her attention to Devon. He was still breathing, but his eyes refused to open. A dead weight beside her, she could barely keep his head above the surface.

Somewhere overhead, the dragon’s roar came again. She sensed its eyes scanning the waters. Grabbing Devon by the back of his shirt, she began to kick away from the burning ship. With Devon lying on his back, the air in his lungs would keep him afloat, leaving her the hard work of moving them towards the shore.

Or so she hoped.

Slowly, the flames faded behind them, and with it, the screams of the dragon. She prayed it would be gone by dawn. On land the creatures could smell a human from a league away, but their vision was poor in the darkness. With the smoke and ocean all around, it was unlikely the beast would find them now.

When a partially scorched board from the ship bumped against them, Alana snatched at it desperately. Exhaustion weighing on her, she helped Devon grip one side of the board. He was half-conscious now, and it was large enough to keep them both afloat, for a time. Together, the two of them clung to the wooden raft and allowed the cold ocean currents to carry them where they would.

Devon woke to the sound of waves crashing on a rocky shore. Moments later, the pounding in his head struck him, sounding through the darkness like a hammer on a gong. Groaning, he rolled onto his side, the contents of his stomach churning. In a rush, he vomited onto the smooth gravel, the taste burning in his throat.

When he was done, he lay back, gasping at the cold air. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, and he shivered as a wave washed up the beach to soak his leg. Looking around, he found Alana lying next to him, her eyes closed, the sabre still strapped to her waist. He stared at her a moment, breath held, until he saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Taking a moment to gather his strength, he watched the waves as they lapped gently at his boots. Finally, he stood and, lifting Alana in his arms, he began to make his slow way up the beach.

The gravel shifted beneath his boots, making him stumble, but he did not fall. Shifting Alana to his shoulder, he looked up at the low cliff ahead of him. Its face was crumbling away, leaving piles of gravel around its base, but it was still too high for him to scale. If he tried, he would likely bring half the cliff down on the two of them.

Looking along the beach, he saw a thin gleam of water threading its way down towards the ocean. He moved towards it, knowing the creek would have carved a path through the gravel cliff and hoping he could follow it up into the forest beyond.

By the time he reached the break in the cliffs, he was panting hard. His clothes were heavy with sea water, and Alana still hadn’t woken. The warhammer strapped to his back only made matters worse. Shaking his head, he looked up at the cliffs. The creek was little more than a trickle, but his guess had been correct, and the water had cut a narrow slit through the cliff-face. Soft sand and gravel had given way on either side, forming a ramp for the water to trickle its way down. Wooden debris from the trees further upstream had lodged in the little gorge.

Glancing back out over the ocean, Devon scanned the skies, but they remained empty. He breathed a sigh of relief—he had no wish to go up against the creature again. A shudder went through him as an image of the dragon flickered into his mind, its blood-red scales glowing in the light of its flames. Shaking his head, he turned his thoughts back to escaping the beach.

The ground over which the creek ran looked soft and unstable, but the broken trees and branches lining the stones offered a better path. Taking a firmer grip on Alana, he started up the trail.

He was halfway up the ramp of wooden detritus when Alana suddenly began to thrash in his hands. A sharp shriek echoed off the gravel walls. Cursing, he tried to set her down, only to catch an elbow in the face. The blow knocked him backwards, sending them both crashing into the creek bed. The stones crumbled beneath him and he began to slide. His hand shot out and wrapped around a fallen tree branch, the other snatching at Alana before she tumbled away.

“Alana?” he panted, lying back on the shifting stones.

Alana didn’t reply, and he saw that her eyes remained closed, her eyelids fluttering with untold dreams. A low muttering came from her lips, but he couldn’t make out the words. Devon swore and pulled them both back onto the broad branch of the fallen tree.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Devon sat up and looked down the gully towards the sea. They could be anywhere in Lonia now—or in Northland, for that matter. He had no way of telling which until he had a better look at their surroundings.

His heart twitched as he thought of Kellian and the others. There had been no sign of anyone on the beach—not even the crew. He tried to think back to the ship, whether anyone else had made it off, but his memories were foggy. Only the image of the dragon remained crisp in his mind. Shaking off his melancholy, Devon stood, dragging Alana up with him.

There was nothing he could do for the others now. If they survived, they would head north. If not…he shook his head and pushed the thought away.

At the top of the gully, he found himself amongst the trees of a youthful forest. Looking around, he glimpsed larch and juniper trees; all species among the first to colonise barren land. Spotting a few oak and hickory trees, newcomers which only grew beneath the shade of older trees, he guessed the forest was probably fifty years old. That, along with the gravel cliffs, told him they were still south of Fort Fall – still within the realm of the Tsar.

His eyes turned eastward to the ocean. The waters and sky remained empty, but there was no telling how long this would last. They needed to get going before someone or something came looking for them. Settling Alana on his shoulders, he started off towards the north, keeping the treeline in sight but never venturing too close. If the dragon was nearby, he had no wish to be spotted by the beast.

Devon’s thoughts drifted as he walked, turning to Kellian. Had his recklessness finally gotten his friend killed? He thought back to the night at his friend’s inn, when he’d insulted the royal guard and left him unconscious in a pile of garbage. If only he’d left things alone, they would still be in Ardath now, beyond the Tsar’s knowledge.

Instead, he was carrying a fugitive through an unknown forest, his friend lost, probably dead. Stalkers and demons and dragons were hunting them, and there was little sign of hope. The odds were impossible, the challenge unassailable.

Despite himself, Devon found himself grinning as he walked. He remembered the look in the demon’s eyes as he struck it down.

The stuff legends are made of!

Late in the afternoon, the trees finally began to thin, the taller trunks giving way to scraggly bushes of mulberry that offered little shelter. Devon continued casting glances at the eastern horizon, but it seemed the beast had given up for the moment. He wondered if that meant Braidon had been captured.

His heart sank at the thought of the boy, the weight of Alana pressing down on him. Imagining Alana’s face when he told her the boy had been lost sent a shiver down his spine. He would rather fight ten demons than face the young woman’s anger again. She would not be stopped, not by anyone. If the boy had been taken, she would turn around and march straight back to Ardath and demand his return. Silently, he prayed to the Storm God, Jurrien, that the boy was safe.

As the last of the trees fell behind, Devon’s eyes were drawn out across the plains. Ahead, the coast twisted inwards on itself, the cliffs growing into the towering expanse of The Gap. There, lifting above the granite cliffs, were the immense walls of the greatest fortress ever constructed.

Fort Fall. 

For more than five hundred years the fortress had stood in defiance of the north, the first and last bastion of the Three Nations against the ragged wasteland. In all that time, it had fallen only once, when the dark Magicker Archon had used his power to sweep the defenders from the walls. Eventually the Gods had defeated him, but even with their powers, they had only been able to banish him to the wasteland.

A hundred years later, he had returned. Only this time, Fort Fall had held, the courage of men prevailing, restoring the power of the Gods and casting down the dark Magicker.

Afterwards, the Gods had brought peace between the Three Nations and Northland. With peace had come trade and prosperity, and soon the borders had opened. Then there had been no more need for the great fortress.

Now Fort Fall stood empty, the gates torn asunder, the ancient walls unguarded but for the ghosts of long-dead warriors.

Looking at it now, Devon shuddered, the tales of his ancestor rising up from his childhood. His hand drifted to the haft of his hammer. It was on those walls where the legends of his ancestor had come to an end, as Alan stood in defiance of the dark Magicker’s power. Already a legend amongst the Lonians, his strength faded with age, Alan had stood with kanker in hand and fought the enemy until his dying breath.

It was said he had fallen on the first wall, holding it with a handful of men against the dark Magicker’s beasts, allowing the bulk of the army to retreat to the second wall. His sacrifice had saved hundreds of lives, keeping the defenders from being overtaken by Archon’s vile beasts.

Devon’s heart twitched as he thought of his own deeds, of the hundreds of souls who had fallen beneath the same hammer his ancestor had wielded in defence of the Three Nations.

In his arms, Alana twitched and moaned. A shiver went through her, and, touching a hand to her forehead, Devon cursed as he realised she had grown cold. Knowing where he was by Fort Fall’s proximity, he set off across the open landscape.

He found the pools a few minutes later, their crystal-clear waters untouched by the darkness that had once come creeping into the land. Setting Alana down, he pulled off his jerkin and covered her with it. Quickly, he set about collecting dry wood for a fire.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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Stones crunched as the Ice Queen ground its way up the beach, the wooden boards quivering beneath Quinn’s feet before coming to a halt. Without waiting for a gangplank to be lowered, Quinn moved to the bow and leapt down onto the gravel shore. The loose stones slid beneath his feet as he landed, but he quickly straightened and looked around.

The burnt and blackened remains of the Songbird lay scattered along the beach, interspersed here and there by silent corpses. He walked away from the Ice Queen while his men disembarked, his eyes scanning the wreckage for signs of life. Here and there he found injured sailors, their chests still rising with the breath of life. Those who were unconscious, he killed quickly. Those who were awake he questioned, but none had seen what had become of the Stalker’s prey, and they soon followed their comrades. Beyond the wreckage, three red specks circled on the horizon.

The sun rose higher in the sky as he continued along the coast. His heart sank as the amount of debris from the sunken ship grew thinner. He could hear the crunch of his Stalker’s footsteps as they spread out behind him, but he ignored them. His movements became more frantic as the wreckage finally came to an end, and he looked out over empty gravel.

“Where are they?” he muttered into the wind.

Unable to turn back emptyhanded, Quinn marched on, his hopes fading with each footstep. In the distance, the red specks grew larger as the dragons approached. His stomach coiled into knots at the sight, and he picked up his pace, desperate for some sign, some hint Devon and his party had survived.

His eyes scanning the coastal cliffs, Quinn almost tripped over an indentation in the gravel shore. Stumbling, he cursed and righted himself. He was about to press on when he noticed the slight depressions of footsteps leading away from him. Looking down, he saw now the hollow beneath his feet matched the shape of a large man.

Devon.

A smile tugged at his cheeks as his eyes followed the footsteps to where they led up a break in the cliffs. So the big warrior had survived. If that was true, there was hope that Alana and her brother might also live. Glancing back, he found the eyes of his men watching him.

“They’re alive,” he said softly.

Before he could continue, a sharp crack came from above them, and a shadow fell across their company. Quinn caught a flash of red scales and the stench of rotting meat, before the dragon crashed down. The force of its impact sent gravel flying, and he quickly turned away as the hard stones pelted him.

The humans live?

Quinn shuddered as the dragon’s words reverberated through his mind. There was a madness to its voice, a terrible hate for the creatures standing before it. For centuries the Red Dragons had loathed mankind, slaughtering any who ventured into their territory. Only the Tsar’s power kept the creatures in check.

Swallowing, Quinn looked up into the beast’s golden eyes. The scarlet scales shone in the morning sun, the muscles beneath rippling with pent up power.

“It seems that way,” he said, struggling to keep fear from his voice.

Where? The dragon growled, its great talons tearing up the gravel in emphasis of its question.

“We will find them,” Quinn replied quickly. “You and your…offspring, should remain here.”

No. The great head leaned closer, its breath like the bellows of a furnace. We shall follow you, Stalker.

Suppressing his anger, Quinn blew out his cheeks and nodded. “At a distance,” he countered. “So you do not give away our position.”

The golden eyes stared down at him for a long moment, as though appraising him. The slits of the beast’s nostrils widened as it sucked in a breath.

Your magic is diminished, Stalker, the dragon replied finally. Turning, it moved away along the beach. Call us when you fail.

Quinn gritted his teeth as the beast spread its wings and leapt into the air. Dust swirled across the stones as the great wings beat down, hurling it into the sky. Fists clenched, he turned back to his men and saw the disdain in their eyes. Cursing inwardly, he straightened.

“What are you standing there for?” he snapped. “Get moving! Devon cannot be allowed to reach Fort Fall!”

Alana woke to the crackling of fire and the acrid smell of smoke. Wrinkling her nose, she lay still, eyes closed and mind racing as she tried to recall how she’d come to be there. The memories returned slowly, images swimming past her eyes before receding back into the fog of her past. She saw a garden, its leaves and flowers strangely aglow, the colours over-bright, then a ship at sea, its sails full and oars pounding the smooth waters. Drawing closer to the ship, Alana saw herself with Devon on the bow. Darkness fell, and her eyes slid closed, fading into sleep.

The image drifted away, then snapped back into sharp focus—only now the ship was ablaze, the mast burning, the flames creeping closer. And overhead…

With a scream, Alana jerked upright, her arms thrashing to escape the flames. Her eyes shot open, taking in the fire dancing in the darkness. She scrambled backwards, her hands digging like claws into the soft earth.

“Alana, stop!” Devon’s voice called through the black.

Her eyes swept up and found the hammerman standing nearby, his brow furrowed with concern. She shuddered, her heart still pounding. Slowly, she looked around, taking in the small blaze of the campfire and the stars overhead. A few yards away she saw the glint of water in the firelight.

“Devon?” she gasped, her throat feeling like she’d swallowed sand. “Where are we?”

Devon moved across to where she lay and lowered himself down onto a log beside the fire. “A day’s walk from Northland.”

Alana nodded. Placing a hand on her chest, she willed her heart to slow. A few more breaths and she finally started to calm. She fixed her eyes on Devon.

“Where’s my brother?”

“I don’t know,” Devon replied, looking away. “The others…I’m not sure if they made it off the ship.”

A lump lodged in Alana’s throat, robbing her of words. She swallowed. “No,” she croaked.

Something about his words seemed wrong. Sitting up on her knees, she closed her eyes and saw the dragon again, its scarlet scales flashing in the night sky.

A dragon!

The memory sent a shiver through her soul. Only the Tsar himself could have sent such a creature. Why was the man so determined to stop them from escaping? Her stomach chilled at the thought of what he would send against them next.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her fear aside and concentrated on the memory. She saw again the dragon flashing from the sky, felt the impact as Devon tackled her from the path of its flames. She was about to speak, to thank him for saving her, when the sight of Kellian, Tillie, and Braidon diving over the railing emerged from the fog.

“They made it off the ship,” she said as relief flooded her.

“You’re sure? All I can remember when I think back is the dragon,” Devon replied. He lifted a hand to his forehead. “Do you know how I struck my head?”

“Nope,” Alana replied straight-faced, deciding the hammerman didn’t need anything else on her. “Probably something fell from the rigging. I had to drag you off the ship and halfway to shore.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he murmured.

Alana laughed. “Anytime, big man,” she shot back, then added, “Well, maybe lose some weight first.”

Devon snorted. Unstrapping kanker from his shoulders, he placed the hammer beside him and stretched his legs out towards the fire. His amber eyes did not look at her, but she could see his hands were trembling.

“What do we do now?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Now?” he sighed. “Now we cross into Northland. We’ll be safer there. If the others survived, they’ll be heading in the same direction.”

Gathering herself, Alana started to rise. Her legs ached as though she’d been running all day, but she managed to stumble to her feet. Devon stared up at her, open astonishment on his face, and then he started to laugh.

“Princess, I’ve been carrying you all day. I’m not going anywhere tonight unless you’re returning the favour!”

Alana stood looking down at him, as though considering the idea. In truth, she was shocked at the pain radiating through her body, and, despite her need to find her brother, she knew she wouldn’t make it far either. At least not without risk. After a moment, she sighed and sat back down.

“Alright, big man,” she said with a grin. “You’d better be able to keep up tomorrow, though.”

Amusement danced in Devon’s amber eyes. “Without your dead weight, princess, I could walk all day!”

Laughter bubbled up from Alana’s chest, joined a moment later by Devon’s. The sound whispered out into the darkness, light and filled with an unknown joy. When it finally died away, they sat in a companionable silence for a while.

“I’m glad I met you, you know,” Devon said after a while, his eyes on the flames.

Alana smiled. “Me, too.”

She lay back, staring up at the stars glistening in the night sky. They weren’t half as bright in Ardath, where the lanterns dimmed your vision and masked the night’s beauty. Here, though, their number seemed infinite, a million, million tiny pinpricks of light. Her eyes slowly drifted closed, her mind strangely at ease despite her brother’s absence. With Devon at her side, she felt safe, as though no harm could come to her and no task was too great.

Tomorrow they would enter Northland and find her brother. Tonight, she could rest.

A soft curse from nearby pulled Alana back from the brink of sleep. Sitting up, she found Devon standing, pulling off his jerkin. His amber eyes saw her looking and she could have sworn his face reddened in the darkness.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “it’s the salt, itches like the devil. I’m going for a swim.”

Alana raised an eyebrow as he stripped down to his undergarments. “You’re going to freeze!” Beyond the heat of the fire, a frost was beginning to gather on the grass.

“Probably!” Devon muttered.

He moved towards the glimmering pool, muscles rippling along his shoulders and arms. The fire lit his skin, showing long white scars where swords and axes had cut him. She shivered, remembering the man he had once been, the tales told about his bloody conquest over the Trolans. The way the bards put it, Devon had won most of his battles single-handedly.

The splash of his body hitting the water sent waves sliding out across the icy pool. Alana shook her head as he surfaced and began to curse. Laughing softly to herself, she lay back down and closed her eyes.

But as she lay there, she now felt the itching Devon had described, the dry rubbing of her clothes against her skin, an irritation on her scalp. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore it but knowing it was useless. Now he had pointed it out, the sensation had become unbearable. Swearing, she sat up and began to strip down.

“Don’t look!” she shouted as she made her way to the pool in nothing but her underclothes.

“What sort of gentleman would I be if I looked?” Devon laughed, his eyes glittering as he watched her approach.

Alana snorted. “Rogue!” Gathering herself, she leapt out over his head.

Arms raised, she slid into the water like a knife through butter. The cold engulfed her, but after the heat by the fire, it was a refreshing change. Surfacing, she swam across the pool with smooth strokes of her arms. Growing up in the lake city of Ardath, she had always loved to swim. The pool was not wide, and it wasn’t long before her hand struck the stone edge on the other side. She turned and swam back to where Devon waited.

“You swim well,” he murmured.

Smiling, she flicked back her head, her long hair sending water spraying across the pool. “The best,” she agreed with a grin.

Now they were away from the fire, Alana’s eyes were adjusting to the moonlight. She saw the pool in which they floated was one of several. Their shining waters were clustered closely together, separated by thin lips of rock. The ground lifted gradually away from them, the pools forming a staircase in the rocks that lead up towards a distant line of trees.

“What is this place?” she whispered.

“An old iron sand mine,” Devon replied. He moved alongside her, sending water rippling outwards. “The pools formed around where they dug the sand down to the bedrock.”

She nodded, turning her eyes on him. “How did you know it was here?”

Devon smiled. “I know many things, princess.” He floated closer to her. “I have travelled much of the Three Nations in my twenty-three years.”

Inexplicably, Alana’s heart beat faster as he neared. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Her hands moved by memory, keeping her afloat, but as they swept out once more, they bumped into Devon’s chest. Before they could move away, his hands caught hers by the wrist. He lifted her, and she realised he was tall enough to stand above the water.

A shudder swept through Alana as she looked into his amber eyes. They stared back at her with a burning intensity. Her lips parted, and she found herself leaning towards him, her own eyes fluttering closed.

Alana jumped as something small and sharp struck her foot. In the same instant, Devon cursed, jerking away from her. The movement sent water splashing across the pool and crashing over the rocky lip. They glanced at each other, and then down at their feet. In the feeble light of the moon, Alana could just make out the fish circling her legs.

She yelped again as one darted in and bit her heel. Her flesh crawled and, suppressing a scream, she struck out for the edge of the pool. In her mind she pictured the fish following her, their tiny mouths poised to strike, ready to strip the flesh from her bones, to tear her to pieces.

Reaching the end of the pool, Alana threw out an arm and grabbed at the rocky lip. As she hauled herself up, she twisted, looking around for Devon, terrified the fish had already taken him…

And found him still standing in the middle of the pool, a broad grin on his bearded face. His laughter boomed out through the night.

Alana stared at him a moment, mouth agape. Before she could question him, she felt another sharp twinge in her leg, and she scrambled quickly out of the water. Sitting on the stone lip, she glared across at Devon.

“What the hell?” she shrieked.

Devon’s laughter trailed away as he shook his head. “They’re called Doctor Fish,” he called across to her. “They’re harmless.”

“They don’t feel harmless!”

He chuckled again. “They’re just eating the dead skin, princess. Don’t be such a coward!”

Alana gritted her teeth and glared at the big man. “I am not a coward.”

“Then come back in,” he replied with a grin. “The water’s warmer than out there!”

At his words, a cold wind swept across the pool, raising goosebumps on Alana’s flesh. She shivered, eyeing the eerie waters, and then slowly lowered herself back in. The water was still cold, but she would brave the fish for a few minutes more, if only to prove Devon wrong.

He swam across to her, but her glare kept him at bay. She floated there a while, her breath ragged, her body tensed with expectation.

Her sudden movements had spooked the fish, and they took a while to return. When they did, Alana almost leapt straight back out of the pool at the first creature’s bite. But Devon was watching her, and she was determined not to show her fear. Teeth clenched, she scowled at him, seeing the laughter in his eyes. She did not so much as flinch as the next fish struck.

Bit by bit, the fish grew bolder, until she had several of the tiny creatures nibbling at the soft flesh of her feet. The creatures continued up her legs, some biting hard and fast, others almost gently as they set about their meal.

Biting her lip, Alana fought to keep from crying out. Several of the fish had found the sensitive flesh on the bottoms of her feet. She felt laughter bubbling up from her chest as the sensation began to tickle. Eyes watering, she looked at Devon.

“This is weird,” she gasped.

He nodded, face twitching, and she realised he was struggling to hold back his laughter. Snorting, Alana splashed a wave of water into his face. The suddenness of her attack sent him stumbling back. The slick rocks slipped under his feet and he vanished beneath the surface, reappearing an instant later, coughing and spluttering.

“Idiot,” Alana said, grinning. The fish had scattered at her movement, and, swimming back to the edge, she hauled herself out. Quickly she used her clothes to towel herself down and then slipped back into them. She glanced back as Devon swam up. “You’ll pay for that, you know.”

Devon’s eyes danced. “I look forward to it.”

Straightening, Alana’s stomach rumbled and her eyes turned to the distant trees. A smile crossed her face.

“Wait here,” she said. She wandered away before he had a chance to respond.

The fire was burning low by the time Alana returned. Devon threw off the dregs of sleep and sat up. Picking up a stick, he quickly stirred the flames back to life. Adding wood, he surreptitiously studied Alana as she wandered up to the camp. Back in the pool, for half a moment it had seemed there was something between them. He recalled the thumping of blood in his ears as they drifted together, eyes locked, her skin beneath his fingers.

Alana wore the same smile she’d left with, only now she carried the carcass of a hare in one hand. Devon raised an eyebrow in question as she tossed it down in front of him.

“I caught it, so you get to cook,” she said with a grin.

Unable to keep the admiration from his face, Devon wordlessly picked up the pitiful creature. Away in the darkness, crickets chirped as Alana took a seat nearby. Taking a hunting knife from his belt, he set about skinning it.

 “How did you manage to kill it?” he asked as he worked.

“We used to hunt them in the fields around the lake when I was younger,” she said by way of an answer. When Devon only shook his head, she added. “I hit it with a stone.”

“Impressive,” he murmured. His stomach rumbled and Alana laughed. “I never was much of a woodsman,” Devon admitted.

“Really?” Her grey eyes studied him closely. “You always seem so…capable.”

Devon smiled despite himself. “I’m capable in one thing only, Alana,” he murmured, touching the haft of kanker.

The conversation trailed off, and Devon busied himself with his task. The skin removed, he gutted the little hare, then quickly set up a spit from a few thicker pieces of wood. Placing the spit with carcass attached over the fire, he stoked the flames.

 “Will it take long?” Alana asked, her eyes aglow with hunger.

“Long enough,” Devon said, sitting back. He looked across at her, recalling her lithe frame as she dove over him into the pool. “Alana,” he said suddenly, “what will you do if Braidon has been taken?”

She sat in silence for a long while, staring into the flames. When she finally answered, her voice was soft, distant. “I’ll go back and find him.”

“They’ll kill you.” Devon said the words without judgement.

Alana nodded. “Probably.”

Devon shivered as he watched her. His earlier thoughts had been right; there was no give in the young woman sitting before him.

To his surprise, he found himself speaking. “You wouldn’t be alone.” She looked up at that, her grey eyes wide, and he went on. “I’ll walk beside you.”

Alana stared across at him, and for a second Devon thought he glimpsed tears in her eyes. She quickly looked away. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Devon chuckled, thinking back to the fiery woman he’d met on the streets of Ardath. “Truth is, my life before was empty. I had nothing to live for, no purpose. I lost myself back in the war, and I’ve been trying to find my way ever since.”

“And my destroying your life changed that?”

Devon grinned. “In a way,” he replied. “Maybe it was Kellian’s words, or that woman Tillie’s, or maybe just being around you and your brother, but I feel like my old self again. Thank you for that.”

“You’re a strange man, Devon,” Alana said. “You thank me for destroying your life, but not for saving it!”

Laughter roared up from Devon’s chest. “Ha! I figured you owed me that one!”

“I see!” A smile danced on Alana’s face. She edged closer, her eyes on the rabbit. Devon quickly reached out and turned it before it could burn. “How much longer, you think?” she asked.

“Hungry critter, aren’t you?” Devon took up his dagger and sliced a cut down the rabbit. The meat beneath was beginning to darken. “Soon, princess,” he teased.

She punched him in the arm. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

Devon sat back and looked at her. “I have trouble remembering people’s names sometimes,” he admitted.

“So you gave me the nickname princess?” she asked. “Do you think I’m too weak to look after myself?”

Laughing, Devon shook his head. “The opposite,” he replied. “You’re the fiercest woman I’ve ever met.”

“So why?”

Devon grinned. “Because of the fire in your eyes when I say it.”

She hit him again, but this time Devon reached out and caught her by the wrist before she could retreat. Their eyes met, and she did not pull away. He leaned towards her, his heart pounding in his ears.

“It’s burning!” Alana said suddenly, jumping up and snatching the hare from the flames.

Cursing inwardly, Devon helped her set it down. Fat bubbled from the roasting meat, and in a few places the flesh had blackened.

“You aren’t much of a cook, either, you know?” Alana said, her eyes dancing.

Devon muttered something choice under his breath. Ignoring her, he took up his knife and went to work on the hare. It was difficult with the meat still scorching hot, but from the look in Alana’s eyes, she wasn’t going to wait until it cooled.

Silently he cut a slice of meat and offered it to Alana on the blade. She raised an eyebrow, and he grinned at her.

“Ladies first,” Devon said.

Alana’s lips twitched as she took the morsel from his knife. “Such a gentleman,” she said, before sinking her teeth into the chunk of hot meat.

A dribble of juice ran down her chin as she chewed, and Devon chuckled. “I take it back,” he said. “Kellian is more of a lady than you!”

“No one’s perfect.” Alana winked, still chewing on her mouthful.

A comfortable silence fell across the campfire as they ate. Cutting a slice for himself, Devon sat back, savouring the rich flavour of the fresh meat. It could have used a bit of seasoning, but Kellian was the innkeeper and cook. They’d be lucky if Devon managed not to poison them with the skinny hare.

“Why did you leave the army?” Alana asked into the silence.

Devon froze mid-bite. He swallowed slowly and turned to look at her, finding her grey eyes on his hammer. He glanced down at kanker, its steel head glistening in the firelight. His thoughts drifted, returning to the dark days in Trola. He shuddered.

“I didn’t like what I’d become,” he murmured.

“A soldier?”

“A killer,” he replied, a shadow passing across his soul. Reaching down, he hefted kanker. “A murderer. An ender of life.”

“You fought to protect us from the Trolan invaders,” Alana replied, though when he looked at her he could see the doubt in her eyes.

“That’s how it began,” Devon murmured, his mind distant, his thoughts on a place far away, a past long ago. “Not how it ended.”

“You mean the conquest?” she pressed.

Devon’s fist tightened around kanker. “It was no conquest. It was a slaughter.”

Alana fell silent, her eyes on the fire. “It ended the war.”

“It did,” Devon replied. “Because there was no one left to threaten the Tsar.”

“Or our people,” Alana added.

Silence fell again, but Devon knew it was not an end to Alana’s questions. He squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for it to come, for the question to be asked.

“Why did you give up your hammer?” Alana whispered. “You had the Tsar’s favour, the love of the people. You could have been rich.”

Devon sucked in a breath, gathering his courage. Only Kellian knew the truth, knew of things he’d done when the bloodlust was on him. “Because I liked it,” he whispered. He saw her eyes come up, the question on her lips, and continued before she could speak. “Because I enjoyed it. I lived for the thrill of battle, for the destruction and the slaughter, for the sight of life fading from an enemy’s eyes.”

“You have the warrior’s spirit—” Alana began, but he cut her off.

“I killed all who came before me. Men, yes. Women, too. Old men and boys barely out of childhood. It didn’t matter who they were, only that they stood in my way.” He paused. “I killed a child once. He ran at me with a spear, and I didn’t even think.” Reaching down, he lifted kanker and held it up before the firelight. “My ancestors wielded this hammer to defend the innocent, to protect the Three Nations from darkness. Now it’s stained by my evil. If my ancestors could see me now, they would spit at my feet.”

Devon drew in a great, shuddering breath, and let the hammer fall. It struck the ground with a thud. Silence fell, strained and awful, but he kept his eyes fixed to the ground, terrified to look up and see the judgement on Alana’s face. But as time stretched out, he knew he could hide from his past no longer. Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to look at her.

She stared back, lips parted, her grey eyes sad. For a moment it seemed she would speak, then her mouth closed again, her jaw tightening. She bit her lip and looked away.

Shame swelled in Devon’s chest as he returned his gaze to the fire. He wanted to defend himself, to explain how it had been, how when the bloodlust took him he had no control. But the words would not come. In his heart, he knew what he’d done could never be forgiven. Never mind that he’d been following orders, that the Tsar had commanded all who stood against them be swept away.

Darkness descended on the campsite as the fire burned down. Devon’s stomach was warm now, filled with the meal of half-burnt hare, but his spirit was low. Across from him, Alana sat staring off into the distance, refusing to meet his gaze.

Silently, Devon settled himself down on the ground. His body was exhausted, refreshed by the swim, but aching from the long day’s march. He needed to sleep, but even as he closed his eyes, he knew it would not come. Letting out a sigh, he settled in for a long, cold night.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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Alana walked across the open ground in silence, her heart heavy, her thoughts far away, dreaming of a war she could hardly remember. How many men and women had marched with Devon into the mountains of Trola? How many others had stained their hands with the blood of innocents? Had they all succumbed to the same bloodlust as Devon?

Staring at his broad back now, she realised it didn’t matter. A thousand others could have admitted to the same foul deeds as the hammerman and it wouldn’t change things for her. Whatever those other soldiers had done, in the past few days she had come to see Devon as a man above others, a warrior beyond repute. From the moment he had charged the Arbor, to the day he’d faced the demon and won, he’d become a hero in her eyes.

She heard again his words, the terrible admission that had brought her image of him crumbling down, and suppressed a moan. His past should not have mattered, not after everything he’d done to protect her and her brother; yet it did.

Her eyes dropped to the ground as Devon checked their backtrail, and a pang of guilt touched her. She could sense the hammerman’s pain. Last night in the pool, for the briefest of moments, she had felt something growing between them, something she hadn’t dared to put into words. A warmth in her chest, a smile that came to her lips when she was in his presence.

That feeling had died like flames in the rain. The warmth was gone, her face fixed in a frown, her eyes set on the distant fortress.

“That’s not good.”

Alana looked up as Devon spoke, his first words since the night before. His eyes were still studying their backtrail. Alana glanced around and swore as she saw the men emerging from the distant woods. Garbed all in black, there was no mistaking the band of Stalkers. She counted them silently as they moved into the open, settling finally on sixteen.

“They’re a league off,” she said, swinging back to Devon.

“Quinn must have taken a ship and followed us,” he muttered, looking from the Stalkers to Fort Fall. “They move fast, even on foot. We’ll be hard pressed to outrun them.”

“We’d better get moving then,” Alana replied, pushing her way past him.

She studied the fortress looming in the distance. The grey walls towered above the ocean cliffs. Sitting astride the narrow patch of land known as The Gap, it marked the border between the northern and southern continents. But with its garrison disbanded and its gates long since rotted away, the ancient fortress would offer them little protection from the Stalkers.

They raced on through the morning, the cold wind blowing harder as the land narrowed. She glimpsed the sea to their west now, its blue waters a mirror of those to their east. Storm clouds were forming in the distance, and she prayed they would come soon. Rain would wash away their tracks, giving them a chance to lose Quinn and his men in the lands beyond the fortress.

As they drew closer to Fort Fall, the last of the vegetation vanished, the earth becoming barren beneath their feet. The ground turned to a soft red sand, sinking beneath each footstep and slowing their progress. Narrow gorges criss-crossed the wasteland, barring their path in places. Devon took the lead once more, guiding them through the maze of gullies.

They ran on, boots slipping in the soft sand, eyes wary for loose rocks. Every few minutes, Alana cast a glance over her shoulder, checking on their pursuers’ progress. Despite their speed, Quinn and his men kept pace with them, then, as the day dragged on, began to close the gap.

Muscles burning, Alana gritted her teeth and forced herself on. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. The loose sand dragged at her feet, draining her strength with each laboured step. Time slipped by, her strides growing shorter. Ahead, the towering walls and spires of Fort Fall seemed no closer.

Bit by bit, they fought their way across the northern desert of Lonia.

Dusk found them nearing the walls, legs weary and backs bowed by the weight of their exhaustion. Walking with her head down, Alana almost slammed into Devon’s back as he staggered to a stop. Blinking in the red light, she looked around, surprised to find the empty arch of the gates just a few dozen yards away. Beneath the granite blocks of the wall, the shadows of the gate tunnel beckoned.

She frowned at Devon. He stood over her, his eyes fixed in the direction from which they had come.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, exhaustion making her impatient. “The gates are right there!”

He nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “Almost there.”

Devon turned and moved across the open ground towards the tunnel. After a moment, she followed him, still wondering why he had stopped. Then the shadow of the wall fell over them, and she looked up at the massive structure. They were approaching the southern wall of the fortress, which only stood fifty feet high and was attached to the inner citadel. Towers rose to the east and west, their marble ramparts looking out over sheer cliffs that dropped down into the hungry oceans.

A cold breeze blew across Alana’s neck as she found herself at the mouth of the tunnel. Darkness opened out before her, beckoning. She shivered as something moved in the gloom, before her eyes adjusted and she realised it was only Devon. A frown formed on her lips as she saw he had drawn kanker from its sheath.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, glancing behind her. Beyond the gates, the ground lifted slightly, cutting off her view of the Stalkers, but they couldn’t be far now.

“Go, Alana,” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“We’ll never outrun them,” he replied. “Not unless I slow them down.”

“No!” Alana’s heart lurched in her chest as she stepped towards him. “Devon…you don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” he whispered, still not meeting her eyes.

A lump lodged in Alana’s throat as she looked at him. The warmth came flooding back, wrapping her chest in tendrils of heat. Silently, she cursed herself a fool for judging him, for thinking less of the man who’d saved her from a demon. Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head, but the words would not come.

Swallowing, Alana stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t do this,” she croaked.

Devon didn’t move, but his eyes flickered down at her. Grief radiated from their amber depths, mingling with the shame and guilt written on his bearded face. A smile touched his lips as their eyes met. Transferring his hammer to his left hand, he reached out and wiped a tear from Alana’s cheek.

“Go, princess,” he murmured. “I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

Alana nodded, choking on a grief all her own. Blinking back tears, she stumbled past him, and onwards into the darkness.

Devon let out a long breath as the crunch of Alana’s footsteps faded into silence. His heart ached with the parting, but for one reason or another, he knew he had made the right decision. Together, they would never have escaped Quinn and his men. There were too many of them to fight and win, no matter their strength or courage. But here beneath the wall, he might delay them long enough for Alana to escape.

Where he stood, the tunnel curved inwards to its narrowest point, the design intended to funnel attackers onto the defenders’ spears. It was still three-men wide, but with his hammer in hand, Devon was confident he could prevent the Stalkers from encircling him. With luck, they would pay a heavy toll to gain entry to the fortress.

His heart twitched as his thoughts turned to the night before, and he saw again the accusation in Alana’s eyes. She’d been disgusted by his admission, but he could hardly blame her—he’d felt the same self-loathing every day for the past five years.

But this was his chance at redemption. Closing his eyes, he pictured the beast inside him, the awful bear chained at his core. The creature represented everything he hated about himself—all his rage and bloodlust tangled into one awful monster. For half a decade he had kept it shackled, hiding it from the light. He would need it now, though, if he was to stand any chance of holding back the tide of dark-cloaked warriors.

It wasn’t long before the first man appeared over the lip of the hill leading up to the fortress. The others quickly followed, their long shadows stretching out across the plain towards him. He counted them as they approached, though he already knew their number.

Sixteen.

Each was heavily armoured, their torsos covered by glimmering chainmail, with iron greaves and gauntlets to protect their arms and legs. They glittered prettily in the fading light and Devon couldn’t help but grin. They would kill him in the end, but their armour would not protect them from kanker. The warhammer had been created to kill men in armour. A sense of harmony settled on his soul as he gripped the weapon tighter.

Inside, the beast growled, tasting freedom.

The Stalkers slowed as they approached the tunnel, their hands dropping to their sword-hilts as they saw the man waiting for them. Devon’s grin faded as he recognised their leader—Quinn. The man’s brown eyes swept over him, studying the empty tunnel before returning to Devon. A smile appeared on the lieutenant’s face as he drew to a stop.

“All alone, Devon?” His voice echoed through the shadows.

“I thought I’d stay behind to greet you and your friends,” Devon replied gruffly. He brought kanker up, pointing it at the man’s chest.

Quinn’s soft laughter echoed through the tunnel. “Come now, Devon,” he said finally. “Do you really want to die here?”

Devon rolled his shoulders, his neck cracking loudly in the silence that followed. “Seems as good a place as any.”

Anger replaced mirth on the lieutenant’s face. “So be it.”

The man’s arm snapped out. A great roaring came from beyond the tunnel, and a rush of air struck the lieutenant, sending his cloak whirling about his body. Sand lifted from the ground to join the conflagration. It hovered there only an instant, and then came rushing down the tunnel towards Devon.

He met it with a roar, swinging his hammer in defiance. The ancient weapon struck the whirling gusts and a sharp hiss whispered through the tunnel. As quickly as they’d appeared, the winds died away, sucked into the shining head of kanker.

In the mouth of the tunnel, Quinn swayed on his feet for a second, arm still outstretched, teeth bared.

Devon’s laughter boomed in the darkness. “You always were a coward, Quinn,” he said, taking a step towards the waiting Stalkers. “No wonder they passed you over for promotion so many times.”

“How dare you?” the Magicker growled.

“I have earned the right to dare, coward,” Devon spat. “While you cower behind your magic, I meet my enemies face to face, man to man. You think yourself a warrior? Prove it!”

He watched as the lines on Quinn’s face tightened, saw the uncertainty in his former comrade’s eyes as he glanced at his men. Baring his teeth, Quinn drew his sabre and started towards Devon.

“Very well,” he said quietly. There was no trace of fear in his voice now. “Come then, Devon. Let us discover once and for all who’s the better man.”

His sabre cut the air as he moved forward, his boots shifting carefully on the packed sand beneath the wall. Devon grinned in response, widening his stance and hefting kanker. He stood almost a head over the Stalker, and the long haft of his hammer gave him more reach than the man’s sabre. Still, despite his mocking words, he had seen Quinn fight during the war. The man was a deadly swordsman.

“Let’s see if the legend bleeds,” Quinn hissed.

He darted in, sabre flashing for Devon’s face. Standing his ground, Devon raised kanker to block the blow. The clash of steel rang loudly in the passageway. Devon shivered as the beast in his soul shook free its bonds and roared. Unleashing a roar of his own, Devon charged, his hammer swinging out at his opponent’s chest.

Quinn danced back, his feet moving lightly to carry him clear. Devon gave chase, seeking to close the gap, but the sabre danced out once more, almost impaling him on its silver tip. His feet sliding on the uneven ground, Devon was forced to retreat as Quinn went on the offensive, his blade slashing out again and again.

Teeth clenched, Devon fended off each blow, studying his opponent’s actions, waiting for the right moment to counter. But Quinn moved in perfect balance, his feet shifting in constant movement, his blade never still.

Devon was breathing heavily when they finally separated. Eyes fixed on Quinn, he sucked in a great gulp of air, struggling against his exhaustion. Across from him, the Stalker chuckled, rolling his head on his shoulders.

“Need a break, Devon?” he asked.

Devon lifted kanker and charged again, a battle cry on his lips. Sparks flew as Quinn’s sabre deflected the blow sideways. Then Quinn surged forwards, his blade lancing out. Devon swayed to the side, unable to bring kanker up in time to deflect the attack. Pain rippled through his arm as the sword sliced his skin.

Kicking out, Devon’s boot caught Quinn in the chest and sent the smaller man staggering back. Devon chased after him, but the lieutenant recovered quickly, his blade hissing out, almost catching the hammerman mid-charge.

Leaping sideways, Devon narrowed his eyes, studying his former comrade as they circled one another. Blood dripped down his left arm, but a quick glance told him the wound wasn’t deep. Quinn closed on him, his eyes hard, sabre poised at the ready. A slight sheen of sweat showed on his forehead, but otherwise the lieutenant looked as fresh as when the fight began.

Quinn came at him in a rush now, his sabre hissing out, fast as lightning, and it was all Devon could do to catch the blows on kanker’s shining head. He was forced back a step, then another. Around him the walls of the tunnel widened. His eyes flickered to the other Stalkers and he saw several of them beginning to edge forwards.

Sucking in a breath, Devon straightened. He brought up his hammer to deflect another blow, and then struck out at the lieutenant’s head. Quinn ducked, but the riposte halted his momentum. Muscles straining, Devon surged forward, forcing his opponent to retreat. Anger fed strength to his weary limbs. He was Devon, hero of Plorsea, slayer of demons. He would not be defeated by a mere mortal.

Laughter echoed through the tunnel as Devon swung the ancient hammer. A madness took him then. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the clash of steel and gasping of breath, until there was only the roar of his inner beast. He grinned as he saw the change come over Quinn’s face. With each attack, his confidence seemed to shrivel. Fear shone in the man’s eyes as he was forced back, each swing of Devon’s hammer drawing closer to finding its mark.

Then the Stalker slipped, his feet tripping over a crack in the earth, and he went down. Screaming his triumph, Devon lifted kanker, ready to crush the man’s skull with one final blow.

Before it could land, a sharp pain tore through Devon’s shoulder, sending him reeling backwards. He gasped, clutching the hammer to his side as the strength fled his arm. Swaying, he glanced at his shoulder and saw the crossbow bolt sticking from his flesh. He turned and found the archer standing amidst the other Stalkers. The click-clack as he rewound his crossbow echoed loudly in the tunnel.

Rage swept through Devon as he turned his gaze on Quinn. The lieutenant had recovered and was standing nearby, a grim smile on his face.

“Coward,” Devon hissed.

Quinn’s face twitched, the smile faltering for half a second before falling back into place. “This is war, Devon. There is no honour in death.”

“No,” Devon said. Gathering his courage, he straightened, switching kanker to his left hand. “So come and die.”

Quinn’s laughter chased him down the tunnel. “Such bravery.” He shook his head. “Your skills are wasted here, Devon. A shame your legend must end this way, in disgrace and death.”

Devon bared his teeth but said nothing. Agony radiated from his shoulder, and it took all his willpower not to give voice to the pain. He could feel the wound pulsing, his strength fleeing with every ounce of blood trickling down his side. Beyond Quinn, the crossbowman raised his weapon again, but the lieutenant waved him down.

“No,” Quinn whispered, “he’s mine.”

Despite the pain, Devon found himself smiling. He licked his lips, his eyes flickering to the other Stalkers, then back to Quinn. Smiling, the man darted forward. Devon growled and tried to meet the man’s charge, but his movements were sluggish now. He stumbled, and Quinn slipped past, his sabre flashing out.

A scream tore from Devon as the sabre slashed through his hamstring. His legs gave way and he found himself suddenly on his knees. Kanker slipped from his hand, pain stealing away the last of his strength. Swaying, he looked up at Quinn. Silently, the lieutenant placed his blade to Devon’s neck.

“Any last words, Devon?”

Alana fled through the shadows of the citadel, blood pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. From behind her she could hear the ring of steel as blades met, and knew Devon still stood. Her heart screamed for her to turn back, but she ran on, driven by her friend’s final command. Her eyes swept the gloom, finding a corridor to her right. She took it, not knowing where it led, only that she had to keep moving.

The gate tunnel had led into the unlit hallways of Fort Fall’s citadel. Without a torch to light the way, she’d been forced to stumble blindly through the endless courtyards and receiving rooms, finding her way by instinct and guesswork. But now the last glow of sunlight had dropped behind the outer walls, and Alana feared she would never find her way to the northern battlements.

Panic rising, she forced herself to breathe, to stop and think. Standing alone in the darkness, she closed her eyes, struggling to overcome the terror rising in her chest. How long could Devon hold the men at the gates? How long did she have before they came stalking through the corridors, hunting her with torches, their swords poised to strike her down?

She cursed loudly, forcing the thoughts from her mind. Swinging around, she squinted through the gloom. She stood at another fork in the corridor. Her eyes flickered from left to right, struggling to choose which way to take. Then she frowned, ice forming in her chest as something flickered in the left corridor. The movement came again, a sudden glow lighting the shadows, coming closer.

As quietly as she could, Alana drew her sabre and started towards the light. If the Stalkers were ahead of her, there would be no escaping them now, but at least she could take a few with her.  Creeping forward, she held her blade low, ready to slam it into the chest of the first man she saw.

The light at the end of the corridor grew brighter as she approached the corner. She could hear the soft padding of footsteps, the crackling of the torch, the whisper of voices, and knew her hunters were just out of sight. Taking a breath, she gathered herself, and sprang…

“Alana!”

Alana froze, sabre poised to strike, as her brother’s voice echoed through the corridors. He stood standing in the middle of the hallway, torch in one hand, knife in the other. Eyes wide, he stared back at her, his mouth agape.

With a half-choked cry, Alana dropped her blade and threw herself at Braidon. He yelped as she swept him off his feet, and then he was hugging her back, his thin arms tight around her waist, his head buried in her shoulder.

“I thought I’d lost you!” she managed at last, placing him back down. Holding him at arm’s length, she looked down at him, checking him for injuries. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, though by the light of the torch she could see he was pale, his eyes ringed by shadows. “We’re okay.”

For the first time, Alana noticed Kellian standing a few steps further along the corridor. He looked as worn out as she felt, his clothes torn, his face streaked with dirt. He held a hunting knife in one hand, a dagger in the other.

“Devon?” Kellian asked as he moved forward.

Alana swallowed. “At the gates,” she whispered. “Holding off the Stalkers. Where’s Tillie?”

“Disappeared when we got here. Don’t know where she went. How many does Devon face?” Kellian asked.

“Sixteen, including Quinn.”

Kellian nodded. “Take your brother.”

“What about you?”

A smile spread across the innkeeper’s face as he drew a second dagger from his shirt. “I never did like Quinn.” At that, he stepped past Alana, heading in the direction from which she’d come.

Alana stared after him for a moment, and then dropped to her knees beside Braidon. “Go find Tillie,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”

Braidon’s eyes flashed as he shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, sis,” he growled. Before she could argue, he slid past her and started after Kellian.

Alana opened her mouth and closed it again, her throat suddenly dry. For a moment, she wanted to scream and rage, but the words died on her lips as she watched Braidon walk away into the darkness. Tears welled in her eyes, her heart swelling with pride. Wordlessly, she followed the bobbing light of her brother’s torch.

***

Quinn grinned as the giant warrior closed his eyes. Hamstrung and on his knees, there was nowhere the man could go, and he knew it. Heart hammering in his chest, Quinn lifted his sabre, preparing to deliver the final blow, and put an end to the man’s legend.

Before the blow could fall, he glimpsed a flicker of light from the corner of his eye. Something flashed from the shadows, catching the hilt of his sabre and tearing it from his grasp. The clang of steel on rock echoed around him as he gasped, staring dumbly at his fallen blade.

At his feet, Devon’s amber eyes snapped open, alighting on Quinn’s fallen weapon. A throwing knife lay alongside it. With a roar, the giant warrior threw himself at the blade. But Quinn was on his feet and he dove for the weapon, reaching it mere moments before his foe. Sweeping it up, he spun, and caught the glint of another blade as it sped from the shadows. The sabre swept up, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the ground.

Kellian came racing from the darkness, a knife in each hand, and hurled himself at Quinn. Still reeling from the sudden attack, Quinn was forced back, his sabre flashing out to deflect the two shorter blades. Gritting his teeth, he absorbed the fury of the man’s attack, and gathered himself to strike back.

Then Alana was there, her blade flashing out, and cursing, Quinn was forced back another step. Blood pounded in his ears as he retreated, the sudden rush of fear taking hold of his heart.

“What are you waiting for?” he screamed to his men. “Help me!”

The cries of his Stalkers as they charged gave him strength, and he straightened, fending off a blow from Alana and replying with a riposte that almost speared the old innkeeper through the chest. A second later, his men were alongside him. The weight of their numbers forced the two backwards to where the tunnel narrowed and Devon still sat crouched on one knee.

“Stop!” Quinn shouted, waving his men to stand back. In front of him, Alana and Kellian paused, their eyes hesitant, weapons still raised. Lowering his sabre, Quinn took a step forward. “There’s no need for this, Alana. Come with me, and I will let your friends live.”

She was tempted, he saw it in her grey eyes, but beside her Kellian only sneered. “Don’t listen to him, Alana, the man’s a snake if ever I saw one.”

Behind them, Devon groaned, and drew slowly to his feet. With kanker clutched in one hand, he staggered forward to join them. “He’s right, Alana. Don’t give up your life for us.”

Alana swallowed, looking from the men to Quinn. Sensing she was wavering, he spread his arms, sabre held flat. “There are no other options, Alana,” he said. Movement came from the tunnel behind them. Looking up, Quinn saw Braidon approaching. “Ah, your brother survived as well.” He turned back to Alana. “I give you my word, he will not be harmed, but you must give yourselves up.”

For a moment, it seemed she would agree. Her eyes flickered back to her brother, and her head bowed. The blade quivered in her hand. He licked his lips and remained silent, allowing the weight of doubt to work its way into her mind.

“No.” Quinn’s head whipped up as Braidon spoke from behind the others. He walked slowly forward, blue eyes hard, fists clenched, teeth bared. “Why don’t you give up, Quinn, and I’ll promise not to kill you,” he growled.

Quinn allowed himself a smile. “Young Braidon, your power may be great, but do not think an untrained Magicker can match me!” He pointed at the boy to emphasise his words.

Delving down into his consciousness, he sought out his magic, determined to smash aside the boy’s resistance. He fell away into the darkness, his mind probing out, searching for the flicker of blue. It appeared as a flash of light, brilliant and shining, but as he approached, his spirit sank. His stomach clenched as he looked on the tiny pool of magic, all that remained of his power now. The long chase and the brief fight with Devon had used up what little he had left.

“Give up, boy. Don’t make me hurt you,” he bluffed.

A smile twitched on Braidon’s face. He pointed at Quinn’s chest. “No.”

With a boom and a flash of blue, lightning appeared in the palm of the boy’s hand. Screaming, he threw out his arm. Blue fire arced towards the Stalkers, and struck their feet with a crash of thunder.

Alana screamed as lightning went crackling over her head and struck the feet of the Stalkers. Light flashed, blinding her, and she staggered back, one hand raised to shield her eyes. Her ears rang with the crash of thunder. Forcing open her eyes, she watched as the Stalkers fell back, panic spreading through their ranks.

The stench of burning filled the air as blue light drove the shadows from the tunnel. Movement came from alongside her as Braidon strode forward, eyes aglow, hands still outstretched as he hurled his power at their hunters. Beside her, Devon and Kellian stood frozen, locked in the grip of her brother’s power.

Alana shivered as she watched Braidon advancing on the Stalkers. Lightning flashed from his hands, sizzling through their ranks, sending the men reeling. Several turned and fled, their screams like whispers before the boom of thunder. Others threw themselves to the ground, desperate to avoid the awful power flashing around them.

As Alana watched, a bolt struck one of the Stalkers in the back, igniting a booming crash. She blinked, staring as the man continued his flight from the tunnel. Another was hit, his clothes turning black, but he did not go down. The roar and smell of burning was all around, but now Alana realised not a single Stalker had fallen.

Her eyes flickered to her brother as the truth came to her.

It’s an illusion!

Beyond her brother, a few of the Stalkers were coming to the same realisation. They hovered near the walls of the tunnel, eyes still wary, but growing in confidence with each crash of thunder. In the centre of the tunnel, Quinn dragged himself to his feet. Knowledge shined in his brown eyes as he looked around. He pointed at Braidon and screamed an order. A man beside him straightened, lifting a crossbow to his shoulder.

“No!” Alana screamed. She started forward, even as the crossbow twanged.

Time seemed to slow as she moved towards her brother. She watched as the bolt sliced across the open space, its steel tip flashing with the glow of the illusory lightning. Stretching out a hand, she strained to throw herself between Braidon and the archer. But she was too far away.

The bolt shrieked home, burying itself in the soft flesh of her brother’s stomach.

In an instant, the lightning vanished. The light flickered and died, plunging the tunnel back into shadow. Silence fell around them, absolute and terrible. In the gloom, she watched her brother fall, heard his low moan as he collapsed, the thud as his body struck the ground.

Alana staggered to a stop, a sob tearing up from deep inside her. Grief washed over her, threatening to tear her heart to pieces. But, as her eyes swept up and saw Quinn watching her, rage rose to drown her sorrow and clenching her sabre tightly, she advanced on the Stalker.

“Alana…” he whispered as she approached.

The hiss of her blade answered him. Steel clashed as he blocked the blow and retreated. Teeth bared, Alana lashed out with her blade again, rage driving her on. This time Quinn moved too slowly, a gash appearing on his arm as her sabre sliced beneath his guard. He cried out, falling back, but there was no escaping her fury.

“Alana!” he screamed, fear showing in his eyes.

“How do you know my name?” Alana shrieked back, the crash of steel ringing in her ears.

Around them the Stalkers began to regather. They edged closer, coming at her from all sides. She paid them no attention; she had eyes only for Quinn now. He had given the order, had seen her brother cut down.

Quinn did not answer her. He stumbled back, but her sabre caught him again, opening a cut across his chest. Cursing, he swung out with his blade. Alana threw herself back, almost taken by surprise. Space opened between them, and Quinn retreated another step to widen the gap.

“How do I know your name?” he hissed, wheezing for breath. “I know everything there is to know about you, Alana! Where you come from, who you are. Can you say the same thing about yourself?”

Alana paused as his words struck home. She frowned, her thoughts drifting backwards in time, through their long flight across the Three Nations, to the day she had woken beside the stepwell. Her frown deepened as she sought the memories beyond that day, but was met by a dense fog, a sudden darkness. Blood pounded in her ears as she shook her head.

“What have you done to me?” she gasped.

“What have you done to yourself?” Quinn shot back.

Alana’s rage came rushing back as she looked at him. “Give me back my memories!” she screamed, hurling herself forward.

This time Quinn met her blade to blade, blow for blow. The words died away as they attacked one another, swords flashing. Death circled them like a vulture overhead; one slip, one mistake, and it would find them with the icy tip of a sword. Alana gasped as Quinn’s blade sliced her forehead, but she countered with a riposte that came within a feather’s breadth of his throat.

“Stop this, Alana!” Quinn attacked again, forcing her to retreat. “I only want to help you!”

“I don’t know you!” Alana fought back, stabbing out for his groin.

But Alana’s strength was fading now, her movements slowing, and Quinn dodged her attack easily. She still had not recovered from the long swim from the burning ship, or the flight across the wasteland. Sabre flashing, Quinn pressed the advantage.

Behind her, Alana heard the ring of steel as the other Stalkers engaged with Devon and Kellian, but, at a wave from Quinn, none came near her.

“She’s mine,” he said, his voice low.

Alana’s eyes narrowed as rage fed strength to her tiring limbs. Gripping her sabre in two hands, she attacked with renewed fury. But he blocked each blow easily now, retreating slowly down the tunnel, a sad smile on his face. Screaming, Alana hurled herself at him.

“Fight back!”

Her arms aching from the shock of connecting blades, Alana leapt sideways, seeking to take him by surprise. Her blade licked out, lancing for his ribs, but he twisted at the last moment and she cut only empty air. His sabre slashed down with sudden violence, connecting with hers near the hilt. The shock of its impact drove the weapon from her hands.

Alana gasped, but recovering quickly, she kicked out. The blow caught Quinn in the chest and sent him wheeling backwards. Diving for her sabre, Alana swept it up and spun in time to deflect a blow from Quinn. Sparks leapt as their blades met.

Behind her, she glimpsed Devon and Kellian staggering back. Her eyes widened as she saw Devon had her brother slung over one shoulder. A sudden hope surged in her chest. Did her brother live? But a dozen Stalkers still stood, and, alone, Kellian could not hold them off. The weight of their numbers was forcing him back to where the tunnel opened out.

Quinn gasped as she swung on him and renewed her assault. Filled with righteous fury, her sabre became a blur, drawing closer and closer to his flesh. A dagger appeared in his other hand as he fought desperately to defend himself.

But her strength did not last, her legs beginning to shake, and she sensed the end was growing close. Pain flared in her arm as his blade caught her, opening a shallow cut. Hope fading, she staggered back a step.

“Give up, Alana,” Quinn murmured. “You’re better than this.”

 “Never,” she grated.

She renewed her attack, but he parried her easily and riposted, forcing her back. Panting, she dropped her sabre arm to her side, the last of her hope fading away. “Just kill me!” she spat, holding back tears. “I won’t let you take me back!” The words bubbled up from her chest.

Quinn watched her, his eyes sad. “You know I must.”

Alana shook her head, though somehow, she knew he spoke the truth. Lifting her blade, she launched a last, desperate attack. His sabre flashed out, quick as a viper, and smashed the blade from her hands. It struck the stones with a crash of steel. A shiver ran through Alana as she looked up and found him standing over her.

“Kill me,” she repeated, begging now.

Quinn shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Before Alana could move, his arm flashed out, the hilt of his sword descending on her head. A sharp crack echoed in her ears, followed by a flash of red.

Then everything went black.

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Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.

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“Alana!” Devon screamed as she collapsed at Quinn’s feet.

He staggered forward, but pain shot up his leg and a wall of men moved to bar his path. Gritting his teeth, he hefted kanker and made to lower Braidon to the ground.

“No.” Kellian’s hand grasped Devon firmly by the arm and pulled him back.

In front of them, the Stalkers edged forward, swords held at the ready, their eyes filled with loathing. Despite his injuries, Devon had downed several with his hammer, Kellian two more. But now they’d been forced back to where the tunnel widened, the Stalkers threatened to encircle and overwhelm them. Their only chance was to keep retreating.

Devon’s anger flared as his eyes swept across to where Quinn stood. He watched with teeth clenched as the man crouched down and lifted Alana into his arms. Turning, he walked away down the tunnel. For a moment, Devon thought he was sparing them; then his words carried back to the Stalkers facing them.

“Kill Devon and Kellian. Bring me the boy, if he lives.”

“Come and get him!” Devon bellowed, but he knew the threat was an empty one. He could barely stand with the boy’s weight on his shoulder.

One of the Stalkers leapt towards them, sword extended. Kellian parried with a flick of his dagger, then buried his second blade in the man’s eye. Screaming, the man reared back, tearing the weapon from Kellian’s grip. His comrades charged forwards, but the man staggered blindly to the side and sent two more crashing to the ground with him.

“That’s far enough!” rang out a voice from the tunnel.

Devon froze where he stood and cast a glance over his shoulder. The voice had been softly spoken, barely audible above the pounding of his own heart, yet it carried with it a ring of power. At the other end of the tunnel, Quinn stopped and swung back towards them. The other Stalkers exchanged looks.

Turning, he stared as the demure figure of Tillie walked from the shadows, stepping past Devon and Kellian and advancing on the men. She held the familiar short sword in her right hand—and fire in her left.

“Who are you, woman?” Quinn’s voice came from the end of the tunnel. “How dare you use magic in the Tsar’s lands?”

“How dare I?” Tillie laughed. “By the power of Antonia, I defy your false god!”

The colour drained from Quinn’s face. Even from a distance, Devon could see the man’s fear as he looked at the flames crackling in the priest’s hand. As the Stalkers hesitated, the old woman flashed a glance over her shoulder, a smile on her lips.

“Sorry I’m late, boys,” she said in response to their stares. “I was finding us a ride.”

With that, she turned back to the Stalkers. The fire in her hand roared, doubling in size, and the men stumbled back. Beyond them, the last of the colour fled from Quinn’s face.

“Stop her!” he yelled, then turned and fled, Alana still draped over one shoulder.

The remaining Stalkers hesitated, looking from one another back to the old Magicker. But they were soldiers still, well trained and professional. For the past five years they had spent their days hunting down rogue Magickers, trapping them and dragging them back to the Tsar’s dungeons. Overcoming his fear, one unleashed a battle cry, and the spell broke. Together, the men charged.

And died.

Devon stared as Tillie carved through the warriors, her sword little more than a blur, flames dancing out to engulf men in its blazing light. A man ran at her screaming, and staggered back, choking on his own blood. Two tried to encircle her, but the old woman only spun on her heel and sent flames rushing out to swallow them. Acrid smoke stung Devon’s eyes as he retreated from the battle. One by one, the priest cut the Stalkers down, until none remained to face her.

Gaping, Devon watched as the old priest came to a stop, her shoulders heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Glancing back at them, she waved her sword towards the citadel.

“Get back to the courtyard beyond the gate,” she ordered. “Dahniul is waiting for you.”

Before Devon could ask who or what Dahniul was, the woman turned and started down the tunnel after Quinn and Alana.

***

Quinn’s heart pounded hard in his chest as he raced out onto the open plains before the gates of Fort Fall. Alana weighed heavily on his back, but he did not set her down. If he lost her too, there would be no more chances for redemption. The Tsar would see him locked away, his soul torn from his body, his mind destroyed. No, better he face death than succumb to that fate.

Sprinting across the barren land, he scanned the skies, searching for the dragons he knew were lurking nearby. An explosion echoed from the tunnel behind him. He watched the light flickering within the darkness. His men didn’t stand a chance against the woman, but if they could hold her long enough, he at least might escape.

He turned away from the fortress and continued his flight. Silently, Quinn cursed his recklessness, using up so much of his magic filling the ship’s sails. He’d barely recovered enough power to strike at Devon, but the man’s cursed hammer had turned away the attack as easily as it had the demon’s dark magic. Now a powerful Magicker had shown herself, and he had nothing left with which to fight her.

“Give her up, Quinn!” The old woman’s voice chased after him.

He glanced back, seeing her standing in the gate tunnel. Flames gathered in an outstretched hand, and then rushed towards him. Quinn threw himself to the side as the conflagration struck the sand where he’d been, showering him with molten glass. The unconscious Alana tumbled from his shoulder, her head lolling against her shoulders like a ragdoll’s.

Leaping to his feet, he hauled her up, but another blast of flame struck the ground before he could go further. He staggered to a stop, turning to face the old woman. She walked slowly towards him, her eyes flashing an angry red, power flickering in the palm of her hand.

Quinn swallowed hard. Where had this woman come from? She was certainly not a priest, not from the Earth Temple, at least. Had one of the Trolan Magickers escaped during the war, and bided her time for all these years?

“Drop her, Stalker!” Her command rang off the castle walls.

“Never,” Quinn growled.

Fire was building in the palm of her hand, but with Alana in his arms, he knew she couldn’t risk another attack. Quinn thought quickly, seeking an escape. She was still some fifty yards distant, but she was moving slowly, her aging frame betraying her. He started to back away, matching her stride for stride.

“You think you can escape me?” Her voice chased after him, harsh and mocking.

Quinn shook his head but didn’t reply. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the glint of three specks on the horizon. He smiled, keeping the relief from his face.

“Who says I wish to escape you, my lady?” he asked.

A frown appeared on the woman’s face. She spun towards the horizon, spying the specks of red hovering to the south. They were already growing larger. Returning to Quinn, she pointed a finger.

“Give her up, Quinn,” she hissed. “Now!”

It was Quinn’s turn to grin now. “You know what approaches, stranger. Even your magic cannot defy three Red Dragons. Perhaps it is you who should give up?”

The woman bared her teeth, rage showing on her face. She took a step towards him, her flames crackling, but Quinn pulled Alana’s unconscious body in front of his chest, forming a human shield.

“Go ahead!” He laughed as the woman lowered her hand.

“You truly are a coward,” she hissed.

A tremor went through her, and for a moment it seemed she would attack him, regardless of Alana. He pulled her closer against his body and held his sabre to her throat. “One more move, and she dies,” he snapped.

Slowly, the fire died in the woman’s hand. Her eyes shimmered, returning to a crystal blue. She stared at him a moment longer, fists clenched, then she sheathed her sword and swung away. Moving quickly, she retreated to the gate tunnel and vanished into the darkness beyond.

Quinn allowed himself a long breath out, his shoulders slumping in sudden relief. He watched the shadows of the gate a moment longer, then turned to watch the southern horizon.

Agony tore at Devon’s leg as he staggered after Kellian. His friend had sheathed his knives and taken the boy, but still Devon struggled to keep up. With each step he could feel the crossbow bolt grating against his collarbone. Fire radiated from the wound in his shoulder, but he still held kanker clenched in one hand. With sheer bloody-minded determination, he stumbled on.

Ahead, the darkness receded, giving way to the courtyard beyond the gates. His heart pounded hard in his chest as he moved out into the dying shadows, joining Kellian in the cobbled centre. With Braidon slumped over one shoulder, his friend had drawn to a stop and was looking back the way from which they’d come. Following his gaze, Devon’s stomach clenched as he saw the silhouette of the old woman approaching.

Alone.

“Alana,” Devon murmured. Without thinking, he stepped towards the tunnel, but a hand from Kellian held him back. Devon swung on him. “We can’t just leave her with him!”

“We must,” Kellian replied softly. He nodded to the boy. “Her brother lives. She would want us to save him—you know that!”

Devon swallowed, words abandoning him. The last of his strength fled into the void and he slumped against his friend. Kellian staggered but held him tight, supporting his weight. Eyes tearing up, Devon looked away, his gaze drifting upwards.

He frowned as a shadow swept across the sky. The hairs on his neck stood on end as, moments later, a roar echoed through the courtyard. Kellian tensed beneath him, and, gritting his teeth, Devon forced himself to take his own weight. Bile rose in his throat as his head swam, but he growled in defiance and hefted kanker above his head.

“Come on, dragon, come and get us!” he screamed at the sky.

A roar from above answered him, followed by the rush of wind and a violent crash as the beast came barrelling down into the courtyard. The ground shook beneath their feet as it struck, causing Devon to stagger and fall to his knees. The courage went rushing from him as he stared up at the beast.

The dragon towered over them, its jaws like an open doorway, stretching wide to swallow them. Giant claws sliced through the cobbled ground like it was butter. The scales glowed golden in the last rays of sunlight. Its massive tail lashed out, smashing through a cluster of pillars and causing a low roof to topple inwards. The great blue eyes blinked as the long neck twisted around to inspect the damage.

Sorry.

Devon blinked as the voice spoke in his mind. He stared up at the creature, taking it in, struggling to comprehend. It was far larger than the dragons he’d seen in the Tsar’s thrall. His fear slowly trickled away, replaced by awe. Pulling himself back to his feet, he shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Its scales were golden.

The Gold Dragons had fought alongside the Three Nations against Archon, and been wiped out during the final conflict. Yet here one stood, its head lifted high, its glistening blue eyes staring down at them with unmistakable intelligence.

Looking into those eyes, Devon suddenly realised it had been speaking to them. He glanced at the ruined pillars, then back at the dragon. He waved one shaking hand.

“It’s nothing…” he hesitated, trying to remember the name the priest had used. “Dahniul?”

A low rumble came from the dragon’s chest. Very well. There was a pause as the blue eyes flickered to the tunnel. You must be quick, if we wish to survive.

Beside Devon, Kellian still stood staring at the dragon, his face frozen with fear. Devon nodded for him, and the beast crouched down, offering a forearm. Gripping his friend by the arm, Devon dragged him towards the creature.

“What are you doing?” Kellian gasped, coming back to life.

“Gold Dragons are allies, remember?” he replied. “We’re going to ride him!”

“Are you insane?” Kellian yelled, but some of the fear had gone from his eyes and his resistance ceased.

Together, they made it to the dragon’s side. Even crouched, it was twice the height of a horse, and they were forced to use its forearm to climb up. With Kellian’s help, they managed to get the unconscious Braidon on the dragon’s back. Devon followed him, only the adrenaline thumping through his veins keeping him upright. Scrambling up, he glanced back and grimaced at the trail of blood he’d left on the golden scales.

Reaching down with his good arm, he helped Kellian up behind him. His friend’s face was pale and he settled into place without a word. They had both seen what these creatures were capable of, had watched as the Tsar’s Red Dragons burned entire fields of men alive.

“Now what?” Kellian yelled, his voice several octaves higher than usual.

The dragon shifted beneath them, its great head turning back towards the tunnel. Shadows flickered in the darkness as the green robes of the old priest appeared. Tillie was limping now, moving slowly. The dragon lowered its head to meet her, and Devon sensed words pass between them.

A second later, Tillie appeared. Her face was dark, her lips drawn tight. Her blue eyes flashed back at them as she sat in front of Devon.

“You have Braidon?”

Devon sat frozen by the power in her gaze, but Kellian’s voice came from behind him. “We have him.”

“Then go, Dahniul!” Tillie shouted.

Dahniul crouched, and leapt into the sky with a roar. Devon gasped as his stomach fell away. The air crackled as the great wings swept down, sending dust swirling across the courtyard. Below, the walls shrank as they lifted higher, unveiling the great expanse of the fortress beneath them. Devon glimpsed a dark-cloaked figure standing beyond the gates, looking up at them. A body lay on the ground beside him.

“Can’t you help her?” Devon screamed, his heart aching as he looked down at Alana.

But the dragon was already turning beneath them, its giant wings beating hard, heading north.

Tillie did not look back, but her words carried to him over the rushing wind. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sad. “I tried, but even Dahniul cannot fight three.” With her words, she pointed to the south.

His hope falling away, Devon twisted to look at the horizon, where three scarlet specks hung in the air. They grew larger as he watched, the great beasts rushing across the sky, trying to cut off their escape. 

As though in response, Dahniul unleashed an awesome roar. It rose higher in the sky, until it seemed the air itself would turn to ice around them. Trembling with the cold, Devon’s thoughts fell away as he concentrated all his energy into just hanging on. Through the clouds below, a desert was flashing past, a myriad of rocky escarpments and rolling dunes. They began to lift, growing and stretching, becoming rolling hills, then jagged mountains that reached up towards them. His gaze travelled on, the white-capped peaks rushing closer.

Devon glanced back and saw the Red Dragons had fallen far behind. Their smaller wings couldn’t keep pace with Dahniul, and now they were little more than specks on the horizon again. They would soon lose them in the mountains.

Despair welled in Devon’s heart he looked at the distant fortress. Fort Fall was just a black dot in the narrow neck of land that was The Gap now, its giant ramparts and spiralling towers reduced to miniature. Somewhere beyond, Alana lay unconscious, imprisoned by the vile lieutenant of the Stalkers. Closing his eyes, he sought to stem the pain, to assure himself they’d made the right decision. Alana would have wanted them to escape with her brother.

It was no good, and he found himself falling into the familiar trappings of guilt. If only he’d fought harder, had killed Quinn before the archer could stop him. If only he’d stayed, tried to save her. But he hadn’t, and now the fiery young woman was gone.

Devon remembered her words around the campfire then, the spark in her eyes as she told him she would go back for her brother. A sudden resolve came over him, a soft determination that cut through his pain and despair. He knew what he had to do.

He would regain his strength and march south. With an army or by himself, it didn’t matter. One way or another, he would free her from the dark clutches of the Tsar. He just prayed to the Gods Alana would survive that long.

Beneath them, the dragon drifted lower as they entered the clouds that clung to the mountains. Water formed on Devon’s beard, but he wiped it away, his eyes turning to the woman riding in front of him. He thought back to their first meeting in Sitton Forest. Where had she come from, this powerful Magicker? Why had she travelled with them all this time, helped them, saved them?

As though sensing his thoughts, the old woman stood suddenly. Balancing precariously on the dragon’s neck, she turned and sat down once more. Now she was facing them, Devon could see her eyes were blue again, their sapphire depths clear and piercing. He swallowed as she looked at him, remembering how she had carved through the Stalkers like they were amateurs, not accomplished swordsmen.

The question came to his lips unbidden, slipping out before he could catch himself. “Who are you?”

A smile appeared on her aged face, the wrinkles seeming to vanish for a moment, so it seemed a much younger woman sat before them. Her eyes danced as she spoke.

“My name is Enala,” she said, “and I was sent by the Goddess to find you.”

Consciousness came slowly to Alana. It began with the faint tug of wind in her hair, the awareness of a cushioned mattress beneath her, the warmth of the air in her nostrils. Light seeped through her eyelids, shaking away the last dregs of sleep. A frown creased her forehead as an unknown fear touched her, and she sought to return to her dreams.

An image floated through her mind, of a man with black hair streaked with blonde, and brown, piercing eyes. He stood over her, sword poised, the blade glistening as he prepared to strike.

A scream tore from Alana’s throat as she jerked upright, throwing off a heavy blanket and scrambling to escape. She yelled again as she tumbled sideways and fell from the bed. Stars flashed across her vision as her head struck something hard, followed by the thud of her body hitting the floor. Groaning, she struggled up, sanity creeping back into her thoughts.

Alana took in her surroundings, her confusion mounting. The bed on which she’d lain was massive, its heavy duvet thrown back, the silken sheets still tangled around her legs. Four columns at the corners of the bed held up a rich oaken panel and velvet curtains. The curtains were a vibrant red and sported embroideries of great dragons and shining knights in their plated armour.

Jerking back the curtains, Alana checked to see if anyone else was hiding in the bed, but it was empty. Shocked with the strangeness of it all, she looked around the empty room, hardly able to believe the riches surrounding her. Woollen carpets covered the floor, spilling out across the room like discarded afterthoughts. A meticulous mural had been painted on the far wall, showing a group of mounted nobles in a hunt. At one end of the wall, the men were gathered with bows raised, arrows already in flight, while at the other, an enormous feline fled their party. Shivering, Alana studied the faces, but there were too many to recognise any.

Alana rubbed her head where a bruise was starting to swell, and swore at the bedside table she’d struck it on. She stood and kicked it on its side. Realising suddenly that she was naked, her eyes alighted on a trunk at the foot of the bed. She moved cautiously towards it and flicked it open with a toe, fearful this was all some trap her captors were waiting to spring.

Nothing happened and, looking inside, she found a set of leather riding pants and a black jerkin with studded steel on its wrists. A couple of dresses lay beneath them, but otherwise the contents could have been mistaken for a man’s wardrobe. Hesitantly, she pulled on the clothes she’d chosen, feeling sick as they slid comfortably around her small frame. Somehow, she knew everything within the trunk would fit her perfectly.

Sucking in a breath, she turned, taking in the rest of the room. Beside the bed, two sofas had been arranged around a granite fireplace. Behind the steel mesh, glowing coals still burned, warming the room. Past the sofas was a massive archway, and beyond that, she glimpsed the grey light of a cloudy sky. On the other side of the room was a massive set of mahogany doors. Guessing they would be locked, Alana chose the archway.

A cold wind blew across to meet her as she started towards it. Noticing a heavy down jacket discarded on one of the sofas, she paused to pull it on. If she was going to escape, it wouldn’t be to end up freezing to death in the wilderness. Without any idea where she was, she moved to the archway and stepped outside.

Alana’s heart fell into her stomach as she found herself on a marble balcony, looking out across a shimmering garden and spiralling towers. Hope curdled in her chest. Beyond the towers, she could see the familiar red rooftops and shining blue lake of Ardath. Quinn had dragged her right back to where she’d started. Worst of all, she was now trapped in the citadel, at the very centre of the Tsar’s power. There would be no escaping this place.

Looking out over the balcony, Alana stared down at the six-storey drop to the stone paving below. She gripped the marble railing tight, gathering her courage. The walls on either side of her were smooth, unassailable, but if she just climbed onto the railing…

The slam of the outside door opening made her turn. Forcing the despair from her face, Alana turned and watched as Quinn paused in the doorway, a smile on his face. Seeing her awake and standing on the balcony, his smile grew and he stepped into the room. He carried a sheathed sword in one hand, and wore another at his waist.

 “Awake at last, I see!” he said brightly, moving towards her.

“Stay away from me,” Alana growled. She shrank back, until the railing of the balcony brought her up short.

He paused, a frown replacing the smile. “You still do not remember me? I thought the room…” he shook his head, waving a hand. “I apologise. Here, take your sword, if it makes you feel better.”

He tossed the sword across the room. Alana watched it twist through the air as though it were a snake. It made a soft thud as it landed on the carpet. She stood for a moment, still staring at it, before darting back into the room and snatching it up. Leather scraped on steel as she drew it and advanced on him, blade raised.

Quinn didn’t move, but his smile returned. “Magic or no, you have lost none of your fire, Alana.” He shook his head. “But my power has returned. You cannot defeat me with that.”

As though to emphasise his words, a soft breeze whirled across the room from the balcony, touching Alana’s cheeks. She stared at him for a moment longer, teeth bared, and then lowered her sword. Still holding it tightly in one hand, she glared at him.

“What have you done with my brother?”

His face tightened. “I am afraid your friends took him. I do not know if he survived without our healers’ aid.” He shook his head. “I am sorry for what my man did. He has been…dealt with.”

Alana’s heart fluttered at the thought of her brother free. For the first time since awakening, a smile touched her lips. She stared at the hunter, defiant.

“What do you want with me, Quinn?”

“You truly do not know?”

She shook her head, lips pursed. “I only know you tried to kill me.”

“That…was not me. The Tsar was…desperate not to allow you to escape his realm.”

Alana laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “The Tsar, desperate?” she shook her head. “What are my brother and I to the ruler of the Three Nations?”

Quinn sighed. “Let us find out, shall we?” He stepped aside, waving a hand at the open doors through which he’d entered.

Alana narrowed her eyes. Hesitantly, she stepped around him, and saw two guards standing in the corridor, waiting for them. Gripping her sword tightly in one hand, she considered charging them. Perhaps she could slay one and then flee before Quinn could react…

“Coming?” Quinn asked lightly, stepping past her.

Watching him join the guards in the corridor, her shoulders slumped. He would not let her escape. Even if she could slip past the guards and Quinn’s magic, the citadel was full of armed men. It wouldn’t be long before they all came hunting her. No, no one could escape this place without the Tsar’s leave.

“Would you like to come willingly, or be dragged before the Tsar in chains?” Quinn asked, his voice still light, as though discussing tomorrow’s weather.

Alana flashed him a glare, but she gave a curt nod. Ignoring the three men, she stepped out into the corridor.

“Which way?” she all but spat.

Chuckling to himself, Quinn moved around her and took the corridor to the right. The guards fell into place either side of Alana as they started off. They looked at ease, as though Alana posed no more danger than a child. She grated her teeth. Was that why Quinn had returned her sword? Did they truly consider her so little a threat?

Moving through the long corridors, Alana studied her surroundings, seeking potential escape routes. At every branch in the passageway, a pair of guards stood in full armour, equipped with spears and short swords and daggers. It would have taken an army to escape through the halls they walked along.

When they finally reached the throne room, Alana could hardly bring herself to step through the golden doors. She knew Quinn was marching her to her death, that she would likely never leave this place again. Perhaps the Tsar had invited all his nobles and courtiers to attend her execution, to remind his followers of his power, of what became of those who defied him.

Yet, as Alana stepped inside, she was surprised to find the throne room almost empty. Open space stretched out from her, marked only by the scarlet carpet leading up to a raised dais. A dozen guards stood there, the bulk of their armour shielding the throne from view. On either wall were enormous silken tapestries, each depicting a scene from the second battle of Fort Fall, when the men and women of the Three Nations had made their last stand against Archon.

In the tapestry to the right, she glimpsed a giant figure standing atop the walls, a familiar hammer in hand. Her heart ached as she thought of Devon, Kellian, and her brother. Silently, she prayed Quinn had spoken the truth, that they lived.

Movement drew her gaze back to the raised dais. The ring of guards shifted, parting slowly to reveal the throne behind them. A tremor went through Alana as her eyes alighted on the man who sat there. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.

The Tsar was not a large man, standing only a few inches taller than Alana, but about him he carried an undeniable power, a sense of invincibility that could not be denied. His jet-black hair had been slicked back close to his skull, and while there were streaks of grey there, his face was unmarked by the passage of time. His eyes flickered down, catching her in an ancient stare.

Alana froze, her body suddenly quivering, as if struck by an invisible bolt of electricity. Her mind ground to a halt. It felt as though, with a single glance, she had surrendered all control of her body to the man on the throne. Unbidden, her legs started down the red carpet, past Quinn and the guards, across the empty room. The blue eyes followed her every step as she approached the dais. Only at the stairs did she finally stumble to a stop. With a half-choked cry, she fell to her knees.

Chainmail rattled as Quinn joined her, bowing low. “Your majesty, I have returned her.”

Returned?

Movement came from the dais, and Alana watched as the Tsar started down the marble stairs. A shiver swept through her, an awful terror rising in her throat. Yet she remained on her knees, unable to move, trapped in the cold gaze. Looking into their eerie blue, Alana imagined herself in the grips of some ancient power, her mortal strength nothing before the man’s might. She felt death staring back from them.

And still Alana could not look away.

She knelt, frozen, as he walked down the steps and approached her. So close, she could feel the power radiating from his body. It seemed to ripple the very air around him, to distort the essence of reality. It reached out for her, and Alana gasped as she felt something inside her respond. Opening her mouth, she tried to scream, but no sound came out. Fire sprang to life in her chest, swirling, writhing, reaching out for the power emanating from the Tsar.

As quickly as it had appeared, the pain vanished. Tears streaming down her face, gasping at the sudden release, Alana looked up and found the Tsar standing over her.

Wordlessly, the Tsar reached out a hand. His skin was warm to the touch as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. Alana shivered, unable to move, struck now by the unexpected kindness of the gesture. His touch was soft, almost familiar, as though this scene had played out many times between them.

A smile touched his lips, transforming his face. Gone was the coldness, the silent judgement, the executioner. In his place was a friend, a comrade, a hero. Silently, his warm hand cupped Alana’s cheek and drew her to her feet.

“My daughter,” his words echoed in the silence of the throne room. “Welcome home.”

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