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.
“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.
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.