Age of Death

by Michael

  Her voice, like the light, fell on him with a physical sensation. The words stung like cold pinpricks of ice; they hit him from above, from out of the impenetrable glow.

  “Havar of Mari stood his ground in the face of the countless Uber Ran that poured out of Erebus. He stood alone on the field before the golden gate. When everyone else fled, he remained rather than abandon his dog, which had been mortally wounded, beyond help. We pleaded with him to run, to fight with us another day, but still he stayed. And he died. The great Havar gave up his life because he loved that stupid dog—because he loved it.”

  The overhead light shifted. Tesh heard movement, and when the queen spoke again, her voice was closer. “Brin doesn’t love you. Maybe she did once. Then she learned what you were, what you are, and what you did. Those things drove a wedge. Convinced her that your allotted place wasn’t with her—it’s with me. You are one of my kind, Tesh. You don’t live in a dream. You see the world for what it is—a fight. All of us have been thrown into this arena and were given weapons to survive if we can. Loyalty has to be earned and cruelties repaid. That’s how war is conducted, and it doesn’t end when you die. Life is merely the process of qualifying for entrance. Living decides whose team you join. You belong on mine. She doesn’t. Your feelings for her were misplaced. If the two of you had lived, she would have left you just as easily as she did on the battlefield. She could never love a murderer.”

  Those last words were more than chilling, more than mere pinpricks of ice. They were like a stabbing icicle. The truth did that. He cringed, gasped, and clawed the floor in real pain—the white floor that wasn’t stone but bleached bone.

  “Tell me, Tesh,” the queen asked in a soft near-whisper that came close to his ear. “Where is the key?”

  He shivered.

  “We searched you. Didn’t find it. Is it Moya? Brin? Does she have it? Gifford maybe?”

  She waited.

  Tesh stayed silent.

  The queen moved away, taking the light with her. “You’re here now, Tesh.” She spoke louder. “You’ll be here for eternity. There is no changing that. You might as well meet your new family.”

  With the light dimmed, Tesh could see—not far, but enough to view the faces of those around him. Many were unknown—the Galantians were not. The only face that surprised Tesh was Tekchin’s, who stood with the others circling him. Most of them he’d killed, all taken by surprise, caught when weak or off-balance. He didn’t regret any of it. Nor would he make any apologies. They got what they deserved. Their slaughter of his village hadn’t been a fair fight, either.

  Sebek watched him with particular intensity. The Fhrey was no longer injured, and his swords, Lightning and Thunder, were undamaged and once more at his sides.

  “Tesh,” the queen said, “you aren’t going to be with Brin, no matter how things turn out. She won’t stay here. But you will. You understand that, don’t you? And it’s important to know that I’m not speaking of a year, a decade, a lifetime, or even a century. No, I refer to all of eternity. This is where you will be—this is your home now, and I am your ruler. I can make things very pleasant for you. My realm might lack frills, might seem dark, cold, and unappealing at first glance, but there is pleasure here—great pleasure. My world holds delights beyond the imagination, granted to you by the miserable life you led. In your brief years under the sun, you ate slop; I will feed you banquets of exotic beasts and birds. You drank muddy water; I will satisfy your thirst with wines, beers, and liquors the likes of which you’ve never dreamed possible. I’ll see you have servants, your own kingdom, a castle built to your liking. In life, you had but one woman. I will grant you thousands to use and discard as you please. Each day will be filled with the joy of battle followed by nights of drunken pleasures. This will be your eternity if . . . you help me find that key.”

  Tesh could see her. She was the light, and looking at the queen hurt. Her features were sharp and beautiful. As he watched, her razor-thin lips frowned, and he felt as if something squeezed his heart.

  “Should you choose to deny me this small thing, your future will be less than pleasant. Sebek has requested that you be given to him, asked that you be shackled as his slave for that same unending amount of time. Apparently, he has plans for the two of you, plots he hasn’t even shared with me. But I can guess. Knowing him as I do, you won’t experience a dull moment.”

  The queen came closer, and as she did, the oppressive light returned, crushing him. “Tell me, Tesh. Where is the key?”

  There was no resisting her, no gritting his teeth and enduring the pain. This wasn’t a matter of his spirit standing fast against the tortures of the body. He had none. This was a bare-knuckled war of wills, and in a contest with Ferrol, Tesh came up short.

  Reduced to a puddle before her, he blurted out, “Tressa . . . Tressa has it . . . It’s on a chain around her neck.”

  “He’s lying,” one of those around him said—a human with a thick black beard and a bearskin cloak. “And I could have told you that’s what he’d say. They all hate my wife. Despise her. No way they’d let her have the thing, but of course, she’s the first one he’d give up.”

  “Is that true, Tesh?” The light bore down hard, causing him to make noises he never thought he could. “Are you being tricky? Are you capable of resisting me? Did you lie?”

  Tesh couldn’t have answered if he wanted to. At a certain point, when pain became too great to bear, he had always passed out. That wasn’t happening this time. The pain kept increasing, and he knew it would never stop. There would be no unconsciousness, not even a release through death. He cried and screamed, but the pain was always there. Nothing would make it go away, not ever.

  Seven sets of staircases had brought them to the bowels of the Bulwark, a fearful place of fire and darkness that Brin wouldn’t have had the courage to descend into if it hadn’t been for the fact that Beatrice was leading. Great gear wheels rotated, shrieking with the voice of stone on stone. Massive vats of glowing molten metal spilled from gargantuan kettles bursting yellow light. A chorus of hammers beat a continual ringing rhythm while chains jangled a melody that steam whistled to.

  The daughter of King Mideon, a pale-white ghost against a fiery-red world, swept through the maze of columns and arches until she came to a small, battered desk tucked into a back corner. Far from the belching brilliance, a small lantern hung overhead, illuminating a dwarf with a long gray beard and rolled-up sleeves who sat on a tall stool. He was bent over the work area. Brin thought he might be laboring on something very detailed, as his head was quite close to the surface. Then she heard the snore.

  “Est Berling?” Beatrice said respectfully.

  The head came up slowly. The dwarf on the stool grunted, then coughed long and hard, as though he had a couple of stubborn mice nesting in his throat. He wore a pair of little glass windows held on his nose by thin brackets of metal. He peered at the group through these while mashing his lips together. He pointed at their guide. “Beatrice, right?”

  She frowned, and the dwarf on the stool smiled.

  “This is Alberich Berling,” Beatrice said with a slight flourish and a nod of her head. “Est Berling, these are the ones I spoke of.”

  He tilted the pair of windows down the bridge of his big nose and looked over the top. “The ones you want armor for?”

  “Yes. If it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

  “He’s . . .” Rain started, then just stared at the dwarf for a moment with a look of disbelief. “You’re—you’re the Alberich Berling? Of Clan Brundenlin?”

  The dwarf on the stool raised a very expressive single eyebrow and smirked. “Aye. I’m not aware of another, are you?”

  “Oh, no! Certainly not,” Rain said.

  “Well, there you are then.” The dwarf studied Rain and scowled. “Is this ’ere what passes for clothes now?”

  Brin scrutinized Rain’s outfit looking for issues but saw none.

  Apparently, neither did
Rain, who looked down at himself. “Aye, I made them meself, I did.”

  Alberich reached out and took hold of Rain’s hands, spreading his fingers. “Odd.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t understand it. Ye have ten fingers like everyone else, and this is what you make?” He let go of Rain’s hands, shook his head in disgust, and turned away after gesturing again at Rain’s clothes.

  “Est Berling, can you outfit them?” Beatrice asked.

  “Aye. O’ course, I can. I’m Alberich Berling, aren’t I?”

  “It needs to be done quickly. My father is already taking steps to launch a counterassault. These six will be going out with the first wave.”

  “Seriously?” Again, Alberich peered at them over the top of his little glass windows. “Don’t look like warrior types.”

  “They aren’t, hence the need for armor—your best.”

  “Best?” That single eyebrow shot up again, and he took the windows off his nose to glare. “I’m Alberich Berling, child. We’ve established this, yes?”

  Beatrice nodded. “Sorry.”

  Moya looked at Brin expectantly. She wanted information, but Brin had none to give. Brin was the Keeper for the Rhune clans. She knew nothing about dwarfs. “Pardon me?” she said. “Should we”—she motioned to herself, Moya, Gifford, and Tressa—“should we know who Alberich Berling is?”

  This time both bushy brows were hiked up.

  “He’s a craftsman, I believe,” Roan said. “Frost and Flood spoke of him often.”

  Alberich dropped his windows into his lap.

  Beatrice covered her face in embarrassment.

  Rain was shaking his head as if trying to dry his hair. “Alberich Berling is no craftsman. Alberich Berling is the Master of Trades.” Rain looked at them for a spark of recognition and saw none. “He’s legendary.”

  Still nothing.

  “He’s the inventor of gemlocks, and he crafted the Drakon Hart. Throughout antiquity only his father, Andvari, is said to have been his equal, and Andvari Berling designed and helped build Drumindor, the greatest fortress the world has ever known.”

  “I apprenticed on Drumindor,” Alberich said. He fished up his wire-rimmed windows and set them back in place.

  “Oh!” Gifford smiled as if a light had been lit inside his head. “He’s like Roan.”

  Rain opened his mouth as if to protest, then he stopped and looked confused, his eyes shifting back and forth between the dwarf and Roan.

  “Who is this—Roan?” Alberich asked.

  “She is,” Gifford said proudly, laying a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Beh,” Alberich said dismissively, and he walked away into the darkness beyond the lantern’s light.

  They all watched him go.

  Before anyone could answer, Alberich returned with a measuring ribbon. “You there—Roan—come ’ere.”

  Roan looked nervously at Gifford, then crept slowly forward.

  “We’ll start with you, shall we?” Alberich said. “Can’t have the Rhune version of me getting skewered by some pathetic bit of bronze spear, can we? Now, stand with your arms straight out, like you’re a flying bird, and don’t move.”

  “Armor?” Gifford spoke to Beatrice. “I—I guess I don’t understand. How can—I mean, none of this exists, right? Not really. Even our own appearance is invented. What good is armor that isn’t real?”

  “Not real?” Alberich shouted. Getting up, he walked into the shadows again. They heard clanking, and this time when he returned, he brandished a great sword that glimmered with a bluish light all along the edges.

  Roan gasped at the sight.

  The dwarf’s angry expression caused Gifford to draw his own weapon. Moya took a step back and raised Audrey, but the dwarf either didn’t see her or didn’t care. His eyes were on Gifford and his sword.

  “Ha!” Alberich Berling shouted at him. “You see!”

  “No—not really. I mean, I see you coming at me with a sword,” Gifford said while holding his weapon with both hands.

  Berling sighed, shook his head, and gave Beatrice a frown. “It’s as if they just arrived.”

  “They did,” Beatrice replied.

  “Oh.” Berling looked to be chewing on something as he frowned again before facing Gifford. He waved the glowing blade, and Gifford took a step back. “Why are you scared of me wee sword, boy?”

  “Wee?” Gifford said. “That is in no way little.”

  “Beh! ’Tis nothing, you say. Doesn’t exist, you say. A figgyment, yes? Not real? So, why are you nervous of a figgyment?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know a lot of things, I think.” Alberich set the sword on the desk, and he resumed measuring Roan, who hadn’t moved an inch. “Everything is eshim, ’ere.”

  “Everything is—what is everything?” Gifford asked. “Eshim? What is eshim?”

  “Eshim is eshim,” Alberich said, slapping his own chest. “You don’t have that word in Rhunic?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Alberich scowled. “Stupid language you have, then. Eshim is—is heart, is understanding, is belief.”

  “Confidence?” Moya asked. She had strung Audrey but no arrow had appeared.

  Alberich shrugged. “Sort of, only more so. More from ’ere.” Again, he hit his chest. “Understand?”

  Brin nodded along with the rest, but honestly, she wasn’t sure.

  “You pulled your sword because it gave you more eshim—made you feel stronger, safer, bolder, aye? The armor I will make will do better than a sword. My armor will give a boost to your eshim that will make you strong.”

  “So, the armor isn’t metal; it’s reassurance?” Gifford asked.

  “It helps increase your sense of willpower,” Beatrice said. “Makes it harder for others to impose their will on you.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Gifford said. He started to slide his sword back into its scabbard.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Alberich held out a hand, opening and closing it. “Let me see this thing you have ’ere.”

  Gifford hesitated. Beatrice mouthed, Give it to him! and Moya nodded. He handed it over.

  The dwarf brought it closer to the light, rapped on it with his knuckles, then licked it. He swished his lips back and forth contemplating the taste. “This is formed from your eshim, but you didn’t make it. This is a memory. You used it in life. From whence came the original?”

  Gifford glanced at Roan. “She made it.”

  “Roan,” Alberich said, eyeing her with a new intensity.

  Roan still had her arms out, but they were starting to droop.

  “She calls it steel,” Gifford said.

  Alberich looked at Beatrice with suspicious eyes. The princess showed no reaction but held his gaze. Her awestruck respect for Est Berling had vanished, and her face became an unassailable wall. The glaring continued for several awkward minutes until finally Alberich slammed the flat of the blade hard on the desk, making them all jump. Roan had had enough of standing out with her arms up, and she retreated to Gifford, who grabbed her.

  “The impression the original made on you is strong,” Alberich said, looking at the blade. “Must have been good metal.” To Roan, he said, “Good . . . steel, Roan.” He laughed a bit like a madman. “Ha-ha! She is me!” He handed the sword back to Gifford. “And for you, for all o’ you, I will make my best armor. Aye, the very best.”

  With the measurements completed, Beatrice offered to show them the view from the top of the Bulwark, but Tressa, Roan, and Rain remained in Alberich’s workshop to watch “the show,” as they called it. That Roan and Rain wanted to observe a master craftsman was understandable, but Tressa was the surprise. Despite feeling better within Mideon’s walls, it was obvious the woman still wasn’t up for a lengthy climb. As a result, only Moya, Brin, and Gifford followed Beatrice up the long stairway to the high tower. Upon reaching the pinnacle, they were rewarded with a view that Brin wanted to memorize b
ecause she knew she’d never see anything like it again. Below were the colossal walls of the Bulwark, made small by the height of the tower. Flashes of firelight sparked all along the fortification in perfect timing as the defenses of Mideon’s fortress continued to send forth flaming missiles that flew out and exploded in the midst of the attacking armies surrounding the fortress.

  An ant war.

  That’s how it looked—if ants fired flaming projectiles.

  Brin saw ladders and rams. Great creatures with giant hammers beat against the Bulwark’s walls while rocks, spears, and boiling liquid were thrown down from the ramparts. So high were they that the sound of war was muffled—made small. The thunderous explosions were pops, the drums taps, and the cries of pain and cheers of victory a soft hum.

  “Out there is the White Tower,” Beatrice said, pointing at a singular column. At such a distance, Brin could have hidden it with her outstretched hand. “The home of the Queen of Nifrel.”

  The tower looked like a tree with a massive root system but not a single branch. From its base, hundreds of tangled white lines spread for miles in all directions. This vast white web of roads, walls, outposts, and fortresses seemed to be made from the same pale dull material: stone or possibly the salt and sun-bleached wood that drifted onto the beaches of Tirre. The network of white created a large circle, but other fortresses infringed on it, most notably the Bulwark itself.

  The fortresses, towers, outposts, and roads were not, however, the dominant feature of the land. Nor were the mountains, hills, valleys, or plateaus, of which there were many. The most abundant characteristic of the landscape was the fissures. Dark zigzagging scars broke the land with unnerving cracks that reminded Brin of a dry lakebed. They ran everywhere, necessitating numerous bridges, which required battlements and towers to control each of them.