Oathbreaker (Legend of the Gods Book 1) Page 2

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

  He was going home.

  But the boy who had left had died long ago.

  Chapter 1

  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 an
d 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.

  Chapter 2

  Devon watched in silence as the couple walked slowly up 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 f
ew 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.