Age of Death

by Age of Death (retail) (epub)

  Tesh picked up the blades. He couldn’t help feeling better the moment he held them. Looking across at Sebek, everything seemed so familiar. Still, his arms felt heavy.

  Didn’t I do this already?

  “Can’t expect enemies to be courteous and only attack when you’re prepared,” Sebek said, stepping forward with a great smile on his face. “Sometimes they catch you off guard in awkward places where you can’t retreat.”

  Yes—but that was when I was on a bridge and Brin had saved me. She can’t do that this time.

  “So, you saw me kill your parents that day,” Sebek said. “Your mother—she had some sort of shawl, didn’t she? A miserable ratty cape that was dyed the color of clay, or was it just filth? I remember because I wiped Lightning on it after I cut her head off. Did you see that? I kicked it out of the way, I think. Did you see it roll? I seem to recall it wobbled with her long hair dragging behind.”

  Tesh felt his fists tighten on the sword grips, his feet striding forward without being told.

  Sebek’s grin grew. “I’m lying, of course. Honestly, Tesh, I really don’t remember. How could I? I killed hundreds just like her. But you know what I think? I think even you don’t remember. Not really. Such an important thing to you, but it’s been so long, and you’ve colored that day to suit your aims, to justify your life since then. I bet you aren’t sure anymore, are you? Did Mommy have a shawl? Did I kick her head? Did she even have long hair, or was it short? Was it tied up that day? Tell me, Tesh, what good is revenge when neither one of us can even remember what it’s for?”

  Sebek performed practice swings, just as fast as ever.

  Tesh didn’t bother. He didn’t want Sebek to know how weak he was.

  “Now you, I remember. Every detail of your visit to my sickbed. Of how you—”

  Tekchin shoved his long, thin blade through Sebek’s back. The tip poked out of the Fhrey’s chest. Sebek froze, hovered, then collapsed.

  Tekchin kicked Thunder and Lightning away. “I was going to let you fight him for a while, for laughs, you know? But he was talking way too much. What a brideeth eyn mer. Help me drag his ass to the pit. I don’t want to be near him when he wakes up.”

  “How long does it usually take?”

  “To wake up?” Tekchin shrugged. “No idea.”

  Tesh looked down at Sebek lying on his face. “If we cut his head off, will it take longer?”

  Tekchin shrugged.

  They grabbed Sebek’s arms, spinning his body around. “Let’s just get him in the hole. Won’t matter then.”

  Together, they lugged Sebek to where the marble floor faded into the rough dull rock of reality. The effort exhausted Tesh.

  “You all right?” Tekchin asked.

  Tesh shook his head. “I thought—” Tesh paused. “Why’d you do it?”

  Tekchin smirked. “Certainly not for you, but I have a woman, and she has this friend she thinks of as a little sister, who cares about you, and . . . well, you did step in the pool.”

  “Didn’t the queen—didn’t Ferrol interrogate you?”

  Tekchin shook his head. “The queen only knows the rumor that Gelston had spread. He wanted people to think better of Tressa, I guess, and he proclaimed that she and others would bring the key into Phyre. Orin had reported seeing seven in Drome’s palace—he said one was a warrior. When you were spotted in Nifrel, she assumed the warrior in Drome’s palace was you. I walked into Nifrel alone. No one even asked how I got here. I bumped into Eres and his brother Medak up by the gate. They were searching for Tressa and the others. They assumed you killed me.”

  Together, they rolled Sebek over the edge and heard a cry from below.

  “Andvari!” Tesh called. “You all right?”

  “Aye, but you nearly crushed me!”

  Tesh found the coiled rope and kicked it over the edge.

  “What are you doing?” Tekchin asked.

  “Grab onto that, Andvari,” he shouted down, then looked back at Tekchin. “I promised the dwarf I’d get him out if I survived.”

  “Seriously? We don’t have time for this. We need to get out of here.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be left down there. You know, if you’re in such a hurry, you might consider helping.”

  Tekchin rolled his eyes, but he also took a grip on the rope and together they pulled.

  The dwarf was light, and they hoisted him out to the marble where he flopped like a caught fish.

  “Can you walk?” Tesh asked.

  “Who knows,” the dwarf said, pushing to his feet.

  “Skip walking,” Tekchin said. “Time to run.”

  The dwarf looked miserable, but Tesh couldn’t help smiling. He could have shown more empathy given that he’d felt the same way.

  “Yeah—all right,” Andvari said. “Centuries in here and I keep forgetting: not real legs. Aye, I can walk.”

  “Ready?” Tesh asked.

  Andvari pursed his lips. “Ya realize there’s little chance of us getting away. This is her world, after all.”

  “Not only that,” Tekchin added, “but the queen will be in a really bad mood if she loses this battle. And she’ll take it out on us.”

  The dwarf forced a tight smile. “That, too.”

  “You could just stay in the hole,” Tesh said.

  “No, this is better.” The dwarf jogged forward, following Tekchin. “At least it’s different.”

  “Yeah”—Tekchin chuckled—“this will definitely be different.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Sword of Words

  The Killian boys always made me smile. I thought they were handsome and gallant. They flirted with Moya but never noticed me. Still, I loved them. After years of fighting, all save Brigham were dead, each, along with their father, lost to the war. Whenever I see Brigham Killian these days, I cannot smile . . . I cry. — The Book of Brin

  Brigham, the last living son of Gavin Killian, dipped the linen rag in the oil bowl, then applied it to the sword. He rubbed the metal carefully for two reasons. First, the blade, which was known as the Sword of Words, was a precious relic and deserving of special care, and second, it was incredibly sharp. He’d already nicked himself once, and he didn’t want to do that again.

  This was the first sword, the one Persephone had brought back with her from the dwarven lands, the one she had used to cleave Shegon’s blade in half, establishing her claim as keenig. It was also wielded on the plains of Dureya in the Battle of Grandford by the already legendary hero Raithe, son of Herkimer. But perhaps the Sword of Words’ greatest claim—from which it drew its name—was its magical nature. Enchanted by Suri the Mystic, it had once been used to kill a dragon. The markings were still on the blade. Brigham could feel them as he rubbed the oil into the metal—little grooves and lines along the flat, otherwise flawless surface.

  This is a dragon-slaying blade, he thought. Perhaps the only one.

  “Doing a good job with that sword, er ya?” Atkins asked. The big, bearded redhead crouched down between Edgar and Vargus on Falcon Ridge’s Sittin’ Log, as it was cleverly named—the bark having been worn off by the rumps of hundreds of men over the years. Brigham sat alone on his side of the campfire, perhaps due to how he held the sharp relic horizontally across his lap. Vargus had only recently established the little rock-ringed cook fire and was still cautiously adding small branches to feed the fledgling flames. The sun was going down, and the evening meal would be delayed.

  The Techylors were just now returning to the Harwood after a week of beer, hot food prepared by others, and a well-needed rest. They had been waiting for Tesh to return from the swamp, using that as a valid excuse for lingering at the Dragon Camp. Tesh was only supposed to be gone for a few days, but after nearly a week, Persephone sent a troop to look. Nyphron went with them, but before setting out, the Galantian leader had ordered Tesh’s men back to the tower. No one argued with Nyphron.

  With the fading light, Edgar had decided to spend the night up on Falc
on Ridge. All of them were tired and in no hurry to reach the legion camp where everyone would be begging for news and handouts of whatever they had brought back with them. The other Techylors would also want to know what had happened to Tesh—their leader, the founder of their band, and the commander of the First Legion. The men from the Dragon Camp didn’t have an answer.

  “You better take good care of that sword,” Edgar said. “If Tesh finds out his only inheritance has been mistreated, he’ll demand you spar with him.”

  Tesh was known for being a vicious instructor. He had learned combat from Sebek, who had a reputation for cruelty. Tesh felt the only way to teach others to match his skill was to put them through the same training. Just as with Sebek, no one wanted to face off with Tesh.

  “Where do you think he is?” Brigham asked.

  Atkins laughed. “He’s off with his woman. If I were him, I’d be in no hurry to return to the likes of us, either. Although, Avempartha is pretty at sunset.”

  Brigham looked up to make a retort, but his eye caught sight of the tower in the distance. It was always amazing at sunrise or sunset.

  The others turned to look. They were still several miles away—as the bird flew—up on the ridge, looking down at the falls where the last rays of sun made the water sparkle and the tower shimmer. From up there, they could see the bulk of the legion camp—a village of white tents in a clearing—and the tower beyond. Avempartha was beautiful, but the falls were the most impressive natural wonder Brigham had ever seen. The tower was simply the snow on the mountaintop, the welcoming smile on a beautiful woman.

  Vargus placed another set of sticks on the smoking fire. “Hillman was asking when he could finish his training in the Vorath Discipline. It’s all he has left, and he’s anxious to be a full Techylor.”

  “Why don’t you teach him?” Edgar asked.

  “Didn’t think I could,” Vargus said. “Only just got the title myself a few months ago.”

  “You’re a Techylor—you can train a Techylor. That’s how it works.”

  Brigham saw Vargus smile and didn’t envy Hillman.

  Mopping up the excess oil that had gathered around the guard, Brigham noticed Atkins still looking at the tower. Then Edgar stood up and he, too, stared. “What the Tet is that?”

  Brigham, still holding the rag and the sword, also got to his feet. Peering into the golden mists of the falls, he saw something move—something big.

  “Is that . . .” Atkins stopped himself and put up a hand to shade his eyes.

  Within the cloud that billowed up from the cataract, Brigham saw it swoop. Then two great dark wings flapped, and behind them, a long serpent’s tail swiped. A moment later, fire engulfed the tents. A stream of flame swept left to right, turning the riverbank into an inferno and setting the forest on fire. Massive trees cracked and split as they went up like dry blades of grass. The creature in the sky dove like a raptor, picking up men and tents. Banking, it dropped them off the cliff, where bodies tumbled through the air like chaff in a stiff wind.

  Brigham hastily shifted his grip on the sword, cutting himself for the second time on the oily blade.

  “Grab what you can!” Edgar ordered.

  “What are we doing?” Atkins asked as he picked up his pack.

  “We’re moving. Going back to the Dragon Camp.”

  “What?” Brigham was shocked. “That thing is killing everyone. They need help!”

  “They’re dead men!” Edgar shouted. “Nothing can kill a dragon.”

  This is a dragon-slaying blade.

  Brigham looked down at the sword in his hands. “With this, I might—”

  “Grab your things, boys! That’s an order! We are going back to report this to the keenig.” Another wave of flame blanketed the riverbank, creating a wall of fire and a thunderhead of dark smoke that churned and rolled upward. “Persephone needs to know that the elves have dragons.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Queen of the White Tower

  The most important battle of the Great War did not disturb a single blade of grass, nor spill even a drop of blood, and it did not leave any footprints on the face of Elan. The clash of legends that changed the course of human events went unnoticed far beneath the feet of those whose lives it forever altered. — The Book of Brin

  Gifford didn’t know what to expect as he came up those stone steps. He was still enthralled at how he was able to trot like everyone else, as if he were dancing. Gifford had always wanted to dance. He used to have fantasies where he twirled with Roan around a moonlit clearing in the middle of the Crescent Forest. Just the two of them spinning like fireflies, summer mist shrouding them from the rest of the world. With stars overhead, bright, clear, and sparkling, he would hold her in his arms, strong and sure, and she would let him kiss her. He imagined such a moment as perfect, but there was no such thing.

  Gifford had kissed Roan. He hadn’t been strong or sure, they hadn’t danced, and there were no stars or fireflies. The kiss, like all things in Gifford’s life, had been clumsy, but even with all its awkwardness, he wouldn’t have traded the moment for all the moonlit glades in the world. Still, he hoped for a chance to have that dance. Then he reached the top of the stairs.

  At first, Gifford couldn’t tell what he was seeing. They were on a flinty field of chipped rock. With the snow gone, it was a sheet of gray slate. Not far to his right, the White Tower of Ferrol was close enough to be frightening. Off to his left was the castle of King Mideon, made small by its distance. Straight ahead, a great stone bridge extended over vast emptiness. The long tongue was connected to a tiny pillar of stone, a weird twig-finger of rock. On top of it was what looked to be a small cave.

  All of this Gifford understood easily, which was good, as it gave him his bearings. What he didn’t understand was everything else.

  The body of a long-horned bull crossed his sight as it flew through the air, tumbling as it went. Gifford couldn’t begin to guess who or what had thrown the furious animal, but it slammed into a host of charging dwarfs, knocking them down.

  A dark-skinned, bald, and very husky man dressed in little more than studded straps of leather wielded a fiery sword. He used this burning blade to hew through a contingent of Fhrey who tried to scatter away from him.

  A giant—maybe the same one who’d tossed the bull—was throwing rocks the size of roundhouses into the most congested areas, igniting screams. Gifford couldn’t tell whose side the giant was on because the races were all mixed up. He couldn’t see a dividing line and soon realized there wasn’t one. The giant hurling rocks certainly didn’t care. That’s when Gifford took Roan’s hand with his left and drew his sword with his right.

  Even with his perfect feet and straight back, Gifford knew little about combat. He’d never had a lesson in wielding a sword.

  Why waste time teaching a cripple?

  All he knew was what he’d seen others do—swing the sharp edge at people. He’d done that while trying to save Roan in the Battle of Grandford and failed. As it turned out, swinging a sword was harder than it looked.

  Gifford had long envied normal people, the ones who could walk without leaving a drag mark, or talk without spraying faces. They could do most things so effortlessly that they took it all for granted. He knew that if he were like them, there would be nothing he would fear, nothing he couldn’t accomplish. Standing on two perfect feet on that field of battle made up of flying bulls and screaming men, he understood he’d been wrong. He was still Gifford the Cripple, and it didn’t matter if his feet worked or not. He could finally say Roan’s name, but he still couldn’t protect her—not from men, dwarfs, Fhrey with swords, and certainly not from giants heaving bulls.

  “Galantians attacking on the right!” shouted Melen, who could see over most of their heads.

  “Techylors, counter!” King Mideon ordered, and sixteen men in green cloaks, all who wielded dual swords, rushed toward the opening breach.

  Gath did nothing except display his palm to th
e six of them, commanding everyone to stay where they were. He wasn’t huge. That was the thing that surprised Gifford. Gath of Odeon was reputed to be the greatest hero of their culture. He was the first keenig, who united the tribes and convinced them to cross the sea to the unknown world that lay beyond. Many were the tales of how he and his fellow heroes fought sea monsters, dragons, and goblins before finally settling in Rhulyn. Hearing the tales over and over, Gifford imagined he must be a giant, rugged and handsome. This Gath of Odeon reminded him of a shaggy dog. Wearing only a skirt of leather, Gath had wild, dark hair growing from his head, shoulders, arms, and legs. The mane was so thick, snarled, and matted that he appeared more beast than man. When agitated, he bared his teeth, and when angry, he growled.

  Gath was snarling just then as he surveyed the chaos of the battle. All around them rushed a churning crash of violence held back by a wall of men and dwarfs. A handful got through, only to be crushed by one of Melen’s hammers or laid out by Bran’s ax. These three legends protected them from the very few that breached Mideon’s defenses. Fenelyus stood by as well, her eyes looking beyond the nuisance runners. What they watched for, Gifford had no idea, and he was certain he didn’t want to know.

  Only Beatrice, who stood with them in the center, in that quiet core, appeared unconcerned. Gifford checked her several times, feeling better with each glance.

  She knows it will be okay. She’s already seen it.

  “Okay, everyone forward, but don’t pass me!” Gath ordered.

  Like dutiful children, they all shuffled behind the first keenig, keeping their heads down as ordered. Before long, they were too far away to see the steps. Retreat was no longer an option. They swam in deep waters, the banks no longer visible, their futures cast among perils vast and veiled.

  “Can’t die when you’re already dead,” Moya told them. “Remember that.”