Daughter of fate, p.1
Daughter of Fate, page 1
part #1 of The Knights of Alana Series
Daughter of Fate
The Knights of Alana Book I
Aaron Hodges
Contents
Foreword
About the Author
Also by Aaron Hodges
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
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Also by Aaron Hodges
I. The Legend of the Gods Trilogy
Prologue
II. The Sword of Light
Chapter 1
Edited by Genevieve Lerner
Proofread by Sara Houston
Illustration by Joemel Requeza
Map by Michael Hodges
Copyright © June 2019 Aaron Hodges.
First Edition. All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9951202-7-3
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 Master 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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Also by Aaron Hodges
THE THREE NATIONS
The Sword of Light Trilogy
Book 1: Stormwielder
Book 2: Firestorm
Book 3: Soul Blade
Legend of the Gods
Book 1: Oathbreaker
Book 2: Shield of Winter
Book 3: Dawn of War
The Knights of Alana
Book 1: Daughter of Fate
Book 2: Queen of Vengeance
Book 3: Signup for Updates
OTHER WORKS
The Evolution Gene
Book 1: The Genome Project
Book 2: The Pursuit of Truth
Book 3: The Way the World Ends
THE THREE NATIONS
Prologue
Ikar's heart quickened as his horse rounded a curve in the mountainside, revealing a town nestled on the edge of the fiord below. The setting sun shone on the crystal blue waters, where several ships bobbed at anchor, shielded from the open ocean by the enclosing arms of Golden Ridge. Barely a cloud could be seen in the sky and the slopes ahead were a parched-brown, strewn with gravel except where the thin line of the trail wound its way down towards the village.
Studying the quiet seaside settlement, Ikar wondered how a place so beautiful could breed such treason.
“We have arrived,” he announced, twisting in his saddle.
His armour creaked, confining his movement, and though the heavy steel had long been a part of him, he felt a moment’s longing to hurl it from him. The journey through the mountains had taken over a week, and in all that time he had removed his armour only to sleep. It was forbidden for a Knight of Alana to remove his helmet in public, least an unbeliever learn their identity.
But with the summer sun beating down upon them, the faith of even the most devout of Knights had been tested. The Saviour had granted them her strength though, and none had given in to temptation.
Only Merak, an Elder of the Order of Alana, was permitted to go without his helmet. He edged his horse past Ikar to study the landscape.
“The Saviour has blessed us.” His voice was soft, for he was far older than the rest of their party. He was one of the first of their Order, born in the days before magic left the world. His days as a Knight were long past, but an Elder had been needed for this quest, and he had volunteered. “We have arrived in time to thwart another of their profane ceremonies.”
“You are sure?” Ikar asked, edging his horse alongside the Elder.
The shuffling of hooves on gravel came from behind them as the other Knights pressed forward, eager to see an end to their quest. Word had reached their Castle weeks ago, brought to them by a devout farmer who had stumbled upon the ritual while tending his goats. They’d been fortunate; this was old country and there were few believers in the Saviour. Ikar shuddered to think how long the evil here had been left unchecked.
Ikar tightened his grip on the reins. How anyone could commit such blasphemy was beyond him. For a thousand years, the Three Nations had suffered beneath the yolk of the False Gods. Only thirty years ago had they finally been liberated, when the divine Alana had slain the Gods and purged the world of their magic.
Before that fateful day, Magickers had roamed the Three Nations at will. Granted powers beyond imagining by the False Gods, they had wielded their magic without thought of consequence. Those not cursed with power had been reduced to nothing, slaves to the will of Magickers.
After the death of magic, many had despaired, so accustomed had they been to the rule of the Gods. Thousands had suffered as the rulers of the Three Nations sought to survive without the crutch of magic. Amidst the chaos, the Order of Alana had been born. The first Elders had shown the lost the way, revealing a new path—the true path—for humanity, one of independence and freewill.
But there were those who still longed for the past, who wished to restore the power of the False Gods. They gathered in the shadows, joining their minds, seeking out old secrets. Perhaps they even knew the truth, that with the solstice approaching, the old powers were rising.
The thought filled Ikar with rage, but with an effort of will he pressed it down. A Knight must always remain in control, for they were blessed with the strength of the Saviour, and had sworn to wield it only in service to the Order. The Elders had plans for the ones below, designs that would ensure their false Gods would be forever bound in the darkness.
“I am sure,” Merak finally answered Ikar’s question. He turned and addressed two of their Knights. “There is a ship at the pier. You will go ahead and convince the captain to grant us passage.”
“We will not fail you, Elder,” the Knights answered, their voices made metallic by their helmets.
Ikar shivered as the Elder’s eyes fell on him. “Ikar.”
He inclined his head. “Yes, Elder.”
“They say you are descended from Alan the Great, who fought the False Gods on the walls of Fort Fall.”
“It is true, sir,” Ikar replied, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
“Then in the name of your ancestor, I ask you to lead our Knights against the enemy.”
Merak pointed down the path towards the town, and Ikar saw now the ruins of a temple rising from the slope of the mountain. The three spires of the False Gods had begun to crumble. Only one now stood. Ikar took it as a sign and smiled.
“May Alana bless our swords.”
Chapter 1
Pela let out a long breath as she topped the stone stairs and stepped onto the ramparts of Skystead. She had finished her chores early—mopping up the floors of the dining room, hanging out the linens for drying, refilling the stable troughs—and had departed before their guests in the upstairs rooms had awoken. Despite growing up in the town’s only inn, Pela preferred her own company, and had little desire to stammer through pleasantries with the strangers.
They were leaving today anyway, heading out on the ship that had come into port the night before. Hearing the shouts of the captain from below, Pela stepped up to the edge of the crenellations. The wall fell sharply into deep water beneath where she stood, but away to her right were the main gates of the town. They opened out onto the stone docks, where sailors carrying wares darted frantically to and fro. With high tide only two hours away, they would need to be quick if they wanted to depart this morning.
Pela thought they would probably make it. The captain looked like an experienced hand. With no other travellers in sight, the inn would be peaceful tonight—though her mother, Kryssa, would be worried at the lack of business.
Thinking of her mother, Pela sighed. No doubt Kryssa would be searching for her by now, to drag Pela to their weekly meditation at the temple.
As though summoned by her thoughts, a distant voice echoed from the town. “Pela!”
Pela slid off the crenellation and ducked down, hoping her mother had not spotted her.
But Pela’s mother, who turned her nose at such notions, would be in the alleys below. She would not spot Pela on her remote perch.
“Pela, I know you’re up there!” Her mother’s voice rang from the stone walls, sounding as though she were directly below.
Cursing, Pela stood and looked into the alley behind the wall. Kryssa stood with hands on hips, a furious scowl etched across her face. In many ways, she was Pela’s twin, though Kryssa was outspoken where Pela was quiet. Her mother wore the platinum hair that marked them both as outsiders in a tidy braid. The sight made Pela wish she’d at least run a brush over her head that morning. Their sun-kissed skin, narrow noses, and sharp cheekbones proved their relation. Only their eyes were different: her mother’s a brilliant silver, while Pela’s were a hazel-green she was told had come from her long-deceased father.
“What do you want?” Pela called down.
“You know what, young lady,” Kryssa hissed, her voice quieter now.
“I told you, I don’t want to go anymore,” Pela groaned. “All those people…can’t I just meditate up here?”
Kryssa tapped her foot on the tiled road. “You still live under my roof, young lady. Until you turn eighteen, you’ll do as I say.”
“Or what?”
“Would you like to clean out the barn tonight?”
Pela suppressed a groan. “Fine!” she relented. “I’ll meet you there.”
Before her mother could call her back, she darted along the ramparts to one of the taller buildings. Here, the drop to the rooftop was only five feet. She leapt before her mind could dwell on the fall, her boots thumping down hard. A voice called up from the alley, but Pela was already gone, leaving her mother behind.
She took the circular route across the town towards the mountain path, her good mood restored. She was in no rush to beat her mother to Temple. If she took enough time, meditation might already be underway when she arrived, and she would not have to bother herself with any clumsy conversations.
Mountain peaks loomed overhead as she wandered the rooftops. Skystead straddled a narrow patch of land where Golden Ridge met the deep fiords of the coast. They were as far south as anywhere in Plorsea, and it was a long boat ride and a longer walk to anything else resembling civilisation. Only once in her seventeen years had Pela made the trip to Townirwin, the nearest settlement, and that had been so long ago she barely remembered it.
Her gaze roamed the skyline as she neared the mountain gate. A winding road led up the steep slope, where a dozen workers could already be seen making their way to work. High above, beyond sight of town, the coffee plantations that were Skystead’s lifeblood awaited. Even further up, the road led eventually to the nation of Trola. But no one ventured there now, not since the Trolan King had closed their borders under penalty of death.
But Pela’s destination was nowhere near so far. Three hundred feet above the town, a second path branched from the main road, leading along the stark slopes to where a cluster of ruins clung to the mountainside.
Once three spires had risen above the walls of granite and marble, but only the jagged remnants of one remained now. The outer walls were mostly solid, though small sections had begun to crumble, the mortar rotted away. Summer storms had taken their toll, smashing in the roof in several places, leaving the insides exposed to the elements. One day, it was said, the whole thing would be washed away, and all that remained of the Three Gods would vanish from Skystead.
The temple had been abandoned for over thirty years, but only in recent times had the ruins become a source of controversy. There were those who said now that the Three Gods had been evil, that the gift of their magic had been a poisoned chalice, that they had enslaved humanity to some unknown purpose.
For Pela’s mother and others who still knew their history, the Three Gods remained the true saviours of the Three Nations.
Coming to the edge of town, Pela found a narrow staircase and returned to ground level. There was no sign of her mother at the gates, but far above she spotted Kryssa at the fork in the road. Despite the distance, Pela could sense the anger radiating from her mother’s distant figure. Her cheeks warmed, and feeling slightly abashed, she hurried up the winding path.
Within minutes her calves were burning. The mountainside was steep here, rising sharply from the fiord up to the peaks three thousand feet above. There were exactly 1,555 steps from the town to the temple—Pela had counted them many times before—and in the burning summer sun, her tunic was quickly soaked with sweat. The undulating mountains of Golden Ridge stretched away to the north in an unbroken line, dividing the lands of Plorsea from Trola to the west.
It took half an hour to make the crossroad, and another ten minutes to reach the ruins. The mountainside was quiet as she approached; her mother and the others must have already begun their meditation. Her shame returning, Pela darted through the doorway. Darkness engulfed her and she let out a sigh, relieved to be out of the sun.
Inside, cursory efforts had been made at repairs, though rays of light still filtered through cracks in the ceiling. Whispers carried down the corridor, drawing Pela deeper into the ruin. The temperature dropped as she followed the familiar path towards the central chambers. Rubble lay strewn across the granite tiles hazardous in the dark, but Pela had explored these corridors as a child, and could have negotiated the temple blindfolded.
The whispers grew louder as Pela turned a corner and found herself at the entrance to the main chamber. At least two dozen villagers were already present. Many had taken up positions on the faded emerald and sapphire carpets, their eyes closed, and legs crossed as they sought the inner calm taught by the Gods. Several others still stood near the entrance speaking quietly. An old man, his face wrinkled and hair grey with age, saw her and offered a greeting.
“Welcome, Pela,” he murmured, “it is good to see you. How are you?”
Pela’s heart beat faster as he held out both hands, palms up. She took them in hers and smiled, though internally she was struggling desperately to recall his name. The awkward silence stretched out as he looked at her with kind eyes.
She opened her mouth, garbled something nonsensical, then blurted out: “Thank you!”
Her cheeks grew hot and she darted past him before he could ask anything else. Internally, she cursed her bumbling tongue. Slipping between the seated meditators, she approached the altar and lit a stick of incense to honour the Goddess Antonia, setting it alongside those already left by others.
As she turned away, she caught the scent of rose petals and earth in her nose. Instantly, her mind was whisked away to a forest grove, lit by sun and filled with the chattering of squirrels and the whispers of branches in the breeze. She clung to the image, but inevitably the realm of the Earth Goddess faded, leaving her standing once more before the altar.
Letting out a long sigh, Pela searched for her mother. Finding Kryssa seated cross-legged nearby, she sat beside her. Kryssa cast a sidelong glance in her direction and Pela quickly lowered her eyes. She didn’t know why her mother dragged her here every week.
