Shield of Winter Read online

  Shield of Winter

  Legend of the Gods Book II

  Aaron Hodges

  Contents

  Foreword

  About the Author

  The Three Nations

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Also by Aaron Hodges

  I. Stormwielder

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  II. Rebirth

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Edited by Genevieve Lerner

  Proofread by Sara Houston

  Illustration by Alex Raspad

  Typography by Christian Bentulan

  Map by Michael Hodges

  Legend of the Gods

  Book 1: Oathbreaker

  Book 2: Shield of Winter

  Book 3: Dawn of War

  The Sword of Light Trilogy

  Book 1: Stormwielder

  Book 2: Firestorm

  Book 3: Soul Blade

  The Praegressus Project

  Book 1: Rebirth

  Book 2: Renegades

  Book 3: Retaliation

  Book 4: Rebellion

  Book 5: Retribution

  Copyright © June 2018 Aaron Hodges.

  First Edition. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9951056-8-3

  Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he grew tired of the 9 to 5 and decided to quit his job to travel the world. During his travels he picked up the old draft of a novel he once wrote in High School—titled ‘The Sword of Light’—and began to rewrite the story. Six months later he published his first novel—Stormwielder.

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  THE THREE NATIONS

  Prologue

  Betran coughed as a whiff of smoke drifted towards him from the fireplace. Leaning sideways on his stool, he hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat it on the mudbrick floor, then took another swig of ale to wash away the acrid taste of the coal fumes. The mood in the tavern was sombre, the low curved ceiling seeming to mute what little conversation there was to be had. Not that Betran was in any mood to talk with his fellow Trolans.

  Catching the eye of the man behind the counter, he raised a finger and pointed at his empty mug. The bartender narrowed his eyes, but after a moment’s hesitation swept up the mug and wandered over to the kegs lining the wall behind the bar.

  Golden ale streamed from the keg while Betran allowed his gaze to roam around the room. The hour was growing late, and the few customers in the underground tavern were finally beginning to disperse. The poorly constructed tables were almost empty, leaving only a few men sitting at the bar. Most of them were known to Betran, except for the man seated two stools down from him.

  His chest tightened as he stared at the stranger. Even seated, he was the largest man Betran had ever seen. Barrel-chested with arms like tree trunks, he seemed to radiate a power all of his own. He had been sitting in the gloomy tavern for over an hour now, downing tankard after tankard of the innkeeper’s finer ale. Betran had caught a glint of gold the last time the man had reached for his belt purse, and had been watching him ever since.

  Swallowing, he looked away as the man caught the attention of a barmaid and waved for another drink. She flashed him a smile as he slipped a silver shilling into her palm. It wasn’t long before she returned, the tankard almost overflowing.

  A few moments later, the bartender finally came back with Betran’s own mug. Scowling, he reached out to take it, but the man lifted the drink out of reach.

  “Ya got the coin for it, Betran?” he asked, his voice gruff from the days spent in the smoky tavern.

  Betran’s stomach twisted with anger as he glared at the man. He was well known here—had grown up just down the road in old Kalgan, before the Tsar had burned everything above ground-level to ash. Only a few thousand survivors lived amongst the ruins now, making do with what they could as they slowly rebuilt the former jewel of Trola. Normally, locals were only asked to settle their bill at the end of the night.

  But then, Betran shouldn’t have been surprised. It had been months now since he and the other labourers had finished restoring the bathhouse, and with no new prospects on the horizon, Betran was quickly growing desperate. Word had obviously gotten around he had little coin left to spare.

  Gritting his teeth, Betran reached into his purse and slammed a silver shilling down on the bench. “Good enough for you?” he snapped.

  The innkeeper only smiled and swept the coin into his pocket. “Good for now.” He placed the tankard in front of Betran and moved away.

  Muttering under his breath, Betran lifted the tankard and gulped down a mouthful of the cool liquid. His eyes flickered back to the stranger. He was already halfway through the new drink, making it his eighth in less than two hours. Betran had known strong men to slide unconscious beneath a table with less, yet the man still seemed alert. Only a slight swaying on his stool suggested the ale was taking effect.

  Betran shivered as the man looked around, the amber eyes seeming to stare straight through him. He quickly looked away, fixing his eyes on his tankard of ale. When he finally looked back up, the man had returned to his drink.

  Unconsciously, Betran dropped his hand to the knife on his belt. It would take only moments to follow the man into some darkened alleyway and drive the blade through his back. No one would miss the stranger—or the purse on his belt. Even a single gold Libra would be enough to feed Betran’s family for a month, and from what he’d glimpsed, the stranger had far more than that.

  How did it come to this?

  A sick feeling settled in Betran’s stomach as he contemplated his victim. Six years ago, he’d been an officer in the Trolan army, marching to glory against the Plorseans, determined to liberate his nation from the tyranny of the Tsar. But within the year, his dreams had turned to ash, scattered to the winds along with the remnants of the Trolan army.

  He had only survived because his cohort had been cut off from Kalgan while out on a scouting trip. Harried by marauding bands of Plorsean soldiers, they’d retreated into the mountains and watched from afar as the city fell.

  Now, six years later, Trola was a shadow of its former glory. Kalgan was slowly being rebuilt, but elsewhere the fields lay untended, towns and village
s empty of life. Even here, much of the city remained underground, its former cellars and basements converted to taverns and homes, as though Kalgan’s occupants feared reprisal if they showed their heads above ground. But even the darkness could not hide them from the Tsar’s taxes; as things stood, an entire generation was hovering on the brink of starvation.

  Thinking of his wife and child back home, Betran sucked in a breath, steeling himself for the task to come. He clenched his fists, seeking to calm the trembling in his hands. Petra and his son, Onur, were relying on him. He had come here to drown his despair in ale, but now that an opportunity had shown itself, he could not allow it to pass him by.

  Courage, Betran.

  The thought made his heart beat faster. He’d been a brave man once, before the weight of poverty had dragged him down. What his former self would think of him now, he could only guess. Would he understand the desperation, the despair that had driven him to this point? Or would he despise the filthy man who sat silently at a tavern, contemplating theft and murder?

  His hands were shaking again. Clenching the hilt of his dagger, he ran his mind over the plan. There was no doubt the stranger was a fighter—and while he didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon, Betran had no desire to risk a direct confrontation. No, he would wait for the giant to leave and follow him, then strike when the moment was right.

  You are not a murderer, Betran.

  The thought came to him unbidden, but he pushed it aside. Thoughts of honour and morality in Trola had died along with its freedom. Few could afford such luxuries now. The city had become a place of corruption, where the strong ruled and the weak were used and discarded at will.

  Betran tensed as the stranger pushed back his stool and stood. Slamming a handful of shillings on the bar top, he swayed on his feet, then bid the barmaid goodbye and headed for the door.

  For a moment Betran hesitated. Then he stood and started after the man.

  As the giant strode towards the worn stone steps leading up to the street, a bang came from the door above. The sound of raised voices echoed down into the tavern. Betran froze as a group of middle-aged men came thumping down the stairwell. They stopped as they reached the bottom and found themselves face-to-face with the giant. A long silence stretched out as the five newcomers stared at the stranger.

  “You going to stand there all day, sonny, or are you going to get out of my way?” the stranger asked suddenly.

  Betran winced as he heard the man’s Plorsean accent. Until now, the stranger had only spoken in hushed tones, his origins disguised by the other noises in the tavern. The faces of the newcomers darkened as the one barring the way dropped a hand to the knife on his belt.

  “Plorsean, are ya?” His eyes narrowed. “You look familiar.”

  The giant stood in silence and returned the man’s stare. The other newcomers fanned out as the ringleader continued. “Yes, I do know you. You’re the Butcher of Kalgan. I heard you were dead.”

  “Apparently not.” The giant’s words were softly spoken, but they reverberated through the tavern.

  Betran retreated a step, the ale in his stomach curdling with sudden fear. Even the ringleader swallowed, but a glance at his friends seemed to restore some of his courage. Advancing a step, he forced a grin. “You’re a wanted man, butcher,” he growled. “Though most in these parts would kill you for free.”

  “They’re welcome to try,” the giant replied.

  “Might be we will,” snapped the man, drawing his dagger.

  In that moment, the giant surged forward. One hand flashed out, blocking the dagger’s thrust, the other snapping out to catch the ringleader in the jaw. A sharp crack echoed from the low ceiling as the man collapsed. He struck the floor with an audible thud, and did not rise again.

  Straightening, the giant swept his gaze over the remaining men. “You know my name. If any of you wish to stop me, you’re welcome to try. One way or another, I’ll be leaving through that door.”

  The men around the stranger wavered, their eyes wide, faces pale. Silently, the man started forward. His attackers exchanged glances. The man had almost reached the stairs when Betran saw the change come over them. With the giant’s back exposed, one man drew his dagger and leapt. The others followed, weapons in hand.

  As the first reached the stranger, he raised his dagger to strike. Before the blow could fall, the giant spun, his fist flashing out to catch his attacker in the face. The Trolan staggered back into two of his fellows, slowing their charge. The final man leapt past them, dagger held low.

  Roaring, the giant swung to meet his attacker. His hands swept down and caught the knifeman by the wrist. Before the assailant could tear himself free, he was dragged forward into a crunching headbutt. Betran winced as the man dropped without a sound. His dagger slid across the floor, coming to a rest at Betran’s feet.

  Beyond, the remaining three had recovered, but the giant was already closing on them. Stepping in close, he caught two by the head and slammed them together with a sicking thud. As he released them, their legs crumpled beneath them, and they slid to the ground.

  The last man, realising he was alone, tried to flee up the stairs, but the giant caught him by the collar. He cried out as he was hauled back, trying to bring his dagger to bear. The giant punched him square in the forehead, and the weapon slid from his suddenly limp fingers.

  Grunting, the stranger released the man, allowing him to tumble to the floor alongside his comrades. Silently his gaze studied the room. Betran shuddered as the amber eyes settled on him.

  “What about you?” the giant growled.

  His mouth suddenly dry, Betran jerked his head sideways. “No…no I’m good,” he stuttered. The giant stared back, seeming to see right through him. Betran glanced at the dagger lying at his feet. He quickly kicked it away, then drew his own blade from his belt and tossed it aside. Raising his hands, he nodded at the discarded weapons. “See?”

  To his surprise, the stranger chuckled. Moans came from the fallen men as he walked past them and slapped a hand down on Betran’s shoulder. “That’s good to hear!” he boomed. “I was meant to be keeping a low profile. The name’s Devon.”

  “I know who you are,” Betran said, staring up into the man’s grizzled face. “My name is Betran. You killed my brother in the battle for Branei Pass.”

  For half a second, a look of pain crossed the giant’s face. Then it was gone. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Devon said, shaking his head. “There’s a lot I regret, from my past. But that’s life I suppose. Can’t change what’s been—only what’s to come!”

  Betran found himself nodding. “I can believe that,” he lamented, thinking of their king’s foolhardy march into Plorsea. “There’s plenty I regret too.”

  Devon nodded. “The curse of old age,” he said with a grin. He studied the fallen men for a moment. “Don’t think they’ll be going anywhere for a while. Still, it won’t take long now for word to spread I’m in town. Don’t suppose you know where I can find someone by the name of Godrin.”

  A lump lodged in Betran’s throat at the mention of the name. Godrin was a former soldier turned crime lord, who’d all but taken over the impoverished city. He had built a reputation for himself during the war as a competent General, and been one of the few to survive the city’s fall. His cohort had mostly avoided the final battle and subsequent purge of the army, though there were conflicting rumours about how Godrin had accomplished this.

  All anyone knew for sure was that, in the aftermath of the war, Godrin had used his cohort to take control of a section of the city. His territory had only expanded since then. Those under his sway were forced to pay for protection, only adding to the burden imposed on the citizens by the Tsar’s taxes.

  Godrin was not a man Betran wanted to cross. And if the Butcher of Kalgan was looking for him…

  “Why would you be looking for a man like Godrin?” he asked softly.

  “I was told he might help me solve a problem.”

  Bet
ran eyed the man. He sensed if he refused the man, Devon would become angry again. Yet if Betran took him to Godrin, and Devon killed him, Betran’s life would no doubt be at risk from Godrin’s conspirators. Biting his lip, he opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to come to a decision.

  Grinning, Devon reached into his belt purse. His hand emerged with a Gold Libra, which he flicked into the air. Jumping in shock, Betran caught the coin before he knew what he was doing. Speechless, he looked from Devon to the coin.

  “For the bother,” the giant said quietly. “There’s another in it for you if you take me to Godrin. I swear, I’m not looking for trouble.”

  Betran hardly heard Devon’s words. He stared down at the coin, his eyes misting, and he quickly blinked back the tears. The coin would get his family through the rest of winter. With the coming of spring, the long task of rebuilding the city would resume and he would have work again. Biting back the emotion swelling in his throat, Betran found himself nodding.

  “I’ll take you,” he said quietly.

  Pocketing the coin, he waved at the bartender, who glared back at them, clearly upset about the unconscious patrons lying on his floor. Remembering the man’s earlier discourtesy, Betran only grinned and turned away.