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 progression 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 day’s 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
