Age of War
Page 1
Age of War is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Michael J. Sullivan
Map copyright © 2016 by David Lindroth Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Map by David Lindroth was originally published in Age of Myth by Michael J. Sullivan (New York: Del Rey, 2016).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sullivan, Michael J.- author.
Title: Age of war / Michael J. Sullivan.
Description: New York : Del Rey, [2018] | Series: The legends of the first empire ; book 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2017060618 | ISBN 9781101965399 (Hardcover) | ISBN 9781101965405 (Ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | FICTION / Action & Adventure. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical.
Classification: LCC PS3619.U4437 A75 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9781101965405
randomhousebooks.com
Designed by Christopher M. Zucker, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Arielle Pearl
Cover illustration: © Marc Simonetti
v5.3.1
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Map
Chapter One: The Road to War
Chapter Two: Before the Bronze Gates
Chapter Three: The Rhist
Chapter Four: Council of the Keenig
Chapter Five: The Giant and the Hobgoblin
Chapter Six: Second Best
Chapter Seven: Dreams and Nightmares
Chapter Eight: The Tetlin Witch
Chapter Nine: The Pottery Man
Chapter Ten: Lord of the Rhist
Chapter Eleven: Monsters in the Dark
Chapter Twelve: The Witness
Chapter Thirteen: Avempartha
Chapter Fourteen: House of Bones
Chapter Fifteen: Through a Narrow Window
Chapter Sixteen: Lighting the Fire
Chapter Seventeen: The Signal
Chapter Eighteen: The Race Begins
Chapter Nineteen: Drawing Swords
Chapter Twenty: The Battle of Grandford
Chapter Twenty-one: Casualties
Chapter Twenty-two: The Pile at Perdif
Chapter Twenty-three: Inside the Kype
Chapter Twenty-four: Dawn’s Early Light
Chapter Twenty-five: The Art of War
Chapter Twenty-six: The Butterfly and the Promise
Chapter Twenty-seven: Malcolm
Chapter Twenty-eight: Wolves at the Door
Chapter Twenty-nine: The Light on Shining Armor
Chapter Thirty: The Dragon
Chapter Thirty-one: Saying Goodbye
Chapter Thirty-two: The Message
Afterword
Glossary of Terms and Names
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Michael J. Sullivan
About the Author
Author’s Note
Welcome back to The Legends of the First Empire! When I started this series, I planned to write a trilogy that told the events leading up to the first conflict between men and elves. Age of War was slated to be the final book. As a result, you’ll likely notice many plot elements and character arcs have come to fruition. There is a kind of finale feeling to the book. But when I finished the tale, I realized I hadn’t gone far enough. If the series had ended here, I’m sure you would agree.
My problem was that this series was titled The Legends of the First Empire. Sure, I’ve introduced you to the characters, the Legends if you will, but the formation of the Empire was still an untold tale. If you’ve read The Riyria Revelations, you already know who won the war, but if I ended the series here, I wouldn’t have fulfilled my mandate. Also, those who haven’t read Riyria would be left confused, wondering what the eventual conclusion came to be.
Those who have read The Riyria Chronicles (my prequel Royce and Hadrian tales) know that I strive to do more than rehash previously mentioned events. I search for ways to make those stories fresh and worth reading. I’ve done this by revealing untold aspects and, in some cases, showing how what readers believed to have happened, didn’t—at least not the way they thought. This is the same technique I employed to get from the end of Age of War to the formation of the First Empire, and I did so by doing something no one expected, including myself. I wrote three more novels to provide readers the closure they deserved. The result is two closely related trilogies under a single banner. In practical terms, what that means is that the next book, Age of Legend, will continue the tale but with a slightly different focus. Don’t worry, it’ll pick up where Age of War leaves off, and you’ll continue to travel with the same characters, but the tale will expand. I’m quite proud of my solution and how I turned a potential problem into an opportunity, but that’s for another day and another book’s author’s note.
As for Age of War, one of the reasons I write author’s notes is to give readers a backstage pass, a behind-the-scenes look into my head. I’m not vain enough to think such a tour matters to many, but some people have found these insights interesting. I’ve already mentioned a lot of things regarding this book and the series as a whole, but I’ve not previously talked about my inspirations, so let’s do that now, shall we?
The most significant influences for Legends of the First Empire are The Wizard of Oz and the island of misfit toys from the Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas special. Some similarities you might already recognize. Many of the characters in my story weren’t likely to be picked first in gym class. They are the castoffs, the unwanted, the useless. They are the broken toys losing hope of ever finding happiness with each passing year.
You may also have noticed that the majority of the primary characters are women. Few classic fantasy books have featured females in all the major and most powerful roles (good as well as evil) with as much success as The Wizard of Oz. One of the things I noted from that story (and from my own life married to an incredible businesswoman, who spent much of her early career in the male-dominated engineering field) was how women deal with conflict. Male protagonists—even my own—have a proclivity to play the hero by charging in, often alone. By contrast, Dorothy Gale of Kansas gathered a team of like-minded individuals of diverse backgrounds and unique abilities that afforded her victory. I saw value in Dorothy’s approach that I sought to build on. Now that you know I’ve been having fun paying homage to these two classics, maybe you’ll know what to look for, and I suspect you’ll likely spot when I tip my hat. I hope you’ll smile when that occurs.
Okay, what else should I mention? Oh, I know. If it has been awhile since you’ve read the other books and you want to catch up, you’ll find recaps under the Bonus Material menu of The Legends of the First Empire website: firstempireseries.com/book-recaps. I should note that reading these shouldn’t be necessary, because I’ve put in little reminders about essential facts from previous
events. These are not lengthy dissertations, just little memory joggers. Also, keep in mind that each book has an extensive spoiler-free glossary of terms and names. So if you forgot who Konniger is, you could look him up in this book’s glossary. What you’ll find will be different than the entry in Age of Myth, because it’ll reflect what is known up to this point in the overall story, but you’ll not find anything that’ll ruin this book. I should note that there are a few entries that will be left out of the Age of War glossary, for instance, the name Turin. Why? Because there just isn’t any way to write a spoiler-free entry for that. However, if you look it up in a future edition of Age of Legend, you’ll be reminded why that name is important. Bottom line, if you want further memory refreshers, go ahead and skim through the glossary.
Well, I think that’s plenty for now, except to say that I’ve greatly appreciated receiving all the amazing emails, so please keep them coming to michael@michaelsullivan-author.com. As I’ve said before, it’s never a bother hearing from readers—it’s an honor and a privilege. So now that the preamble is over, I’d like to invite you back to an age of myths and legends, to a time when mankind was known as Rhunes and elves were believed to be gods. In this particular case, allow me to take you to the Age of War.
CHAPTER ONE
The Road to War
Life had been the same for hundreds of years. Then the war came, and nothing was ever the same again.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Suri the mystic talked to trees, danced to the sound of wind chimes, hated bathing, howled at the moon, and had recently leveled a mountain, wiping out centuries of dwarven culture in an instant. She had done so mostly out of grief, but partly out of anger. A dwarf had been insensitive after the death of Suri’s best friend. He should have been more sympathetic, but during the days since it happened, Suri had come to realize she could have shown more restraint. Perhaps merely setting Gronbach on fire or having the earth swallow the vile wretch would have been a better choice. Neither option had occurred to her at the time, and an entire civilization had suffered. It had been a bad day for everyone.
Nearly a week later, Suri woke in a field amidst salifan, ragwort, and meadow thistle, the sun peeking over distant hills. Golden shafts made diamonds of dewdrops and revealed the labor of a thousand spiders who had cast nets between blades of grass. Having spent the night outside, Suri, too, was soaked and a bit chilled, but the sun’s kiss promised to make everything better. She sat in the dew, the sun on her face, and stared at the fields surrounding the seaside dahl, listening to the faint hum of bumblebees as they began their morning’s work. Then a butterfly flew across her sight and ruined everything.
Suri began to cry.
She didn’t bow her head. Keeping her face to the sunlight, she let the tears roll down her cheeks, spilling onto the grass, adding to the dew. Her little body hitched and shuddered. Suri cried until she was out of tears, but the pain still tore at her heart. Eventually, she merely sat in the field, shoulders stooped, arms limp, fingers reaching out for the warm fur that wasn’t there.
Since returning from across the sea, most days started this way. Mornings offered a tiny respite from the pain, but before long she remembered, and reality crashed in. Then the sky became less blue, the sun not nearly as bright, and not even the flowers could make her smile. And there was one more loss left to face. Arion was dying.
“Suri!”
She was slow to react, slow to realize it was her name being called. Somewhere behind her, the grass rustled and feet thumped. The rapid tempo of those footfalls indicated it could only be one person, and that meant just one thing.
“Suri!” Brin called again.
The mystic didn’t bother to turn. Didn’t want to see—didn’t want to face—
“She’s awake!” Brin shouted this time.
Suri spun.
“Her eyes are open.” Brin was running, plunging through the tall grass, soaking her skirt.
Every muscle in Suri’s body came alive. She sprang up like a startled deer and sprinted past Brin, racing toward the road. In no time she reached the tent Roan had built specifically for the Miralyith. When Suri burst in, Arion was still on the pallet, but her eyelids fluttered. Padera was helping her sit up to drink.
“Tiny sips,” the old woman barked. “I know you want to guzzle like a drunk, but trust me, it’ll come right back up on you—and me. Even if you don’t care, I do.”
Suri stood under the flap, staring. Part of her refused to believe what she was seeing. She was afraid it was merely a dream and worried that the moment she embraced the sight, the illusion would dissolve and the pain would rush back with twice the force. She didn’t know how many more blows she could survive.
“Come in—go out—pick one!” Padera snapped. The old woman, her lips sunken over toothless gums, squinted with her one good eye against the blinding sunlight.
Suri took a step forward and let the flap fall. The lamp was out, but sunlight burned brightly through the cloth walls. Arion was resting against Padera’s shoulder. The old woman helped the Fhrey hold a ceramic cup to her lips. Over its top, Arion peered back with weary eyes as she slurped loudly.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough for now,” Padera said. “We’ll let that settle a minute. If it stays down, if you don’t erupt like a geyser, I’ll give you more.”
The cup came away and Suri waited.
Arion’s voice—Suri needed to hear it to be sure, to make it real.
The Fhrey tried to say something but couldn’t. She pointed apologetically at her throat.
Suri panicked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” Padera grumbled. “Well, nothing beyond sleeping for almost a week without food or water, which made her dry as the dust she nearly became.” Padera looked at the Fhrey with a small shake of her head and a confounded expression. “With as little water as she’s had, she ought to be dead. Any man, woman, child, rabbit, or sheep would have passed three days ago. ’Course, she’s none of those, is she?”
Once more, sunlight pierced the room, blinding everyone. Brin stood in the entryway, holding the flap. She didn’t say anything, just watched from the gap.
“Come in—go out—pick one!” Suri and Padera barked in unison.
“Sorry.” Brin stepped in, letting the flap fall.
All of them watched Arion. The Fhrey lifted her head slowly, focused on Suri, and smiled. Arion reached out a shaky hand. That was enough. Suri fell to her knees and discovered she still had tears left. She buried her face in the side of Arion’s neck. “I tried, I tried, I tried…” Suri managed in between sobs. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I opened a door and found a dark river. I followed it toward a light, a wonderful and yet terrible light. I…I…I tried to pull you back, to fix you, but…but…”
She felt Arion’s hand patting her head.
Suri looked up.
“Not…tried,” Arion managed to croak with a voice as coarse as gravel. She then mouthed the word succeeded.
Suri wiped her eyes and squinted. “What?”
With more effort, the Fhrey said, “You…saved…me.”
Suri continued to stare. “You sure?”
Arion smiled. “Pretty…sure.”
* * *
—
Raithe refused to sit. Something about being seated in the face of such lunacy felt too much like acceptance. The rest of the clan chieftains, who referred to themselves collectively as the Keenig’s Council, sat in the familiar circle inside Dahl Tirre’s courtyard. Four chairs had been added: three to accommodate the chieftains of the Gula clans and an elaborate seat with carved arms for Persephone. Gavin Killian, the prolific father of numerous sons and the new chieftan of Clan Rhen, sat in Persephone’s old chair.
Nyphron wasn’t seated, either; he was up and speaking. Persephone nodded when the Galantian paused.
Sh
e’s not actually considering this, is she?
Besides the ten chieftains, most of the other usuals were there, except for Brin, the keenig’s personal Keeper of Ways. Raithe had last seen her heading toward Padera’s tent, the one they had Arion in. The Death House some called it, since the Miralyith hadn’t shown any sign of life in nearly a week. The other non-chieftains in attendance included Moya, Persephone’s ever-present Shield with her famous bow; the dwarf named Frost, who always stood in for Roan and reported on weaponry progress; Malcolm, who simply had a habit of showing up; and Nyphron, who represented the Fhrey. That’s how Raithe saw Nyphron’s role, as the voice of a small band of warriors. Given that Raithe represented only himself and Tesh, he couldn’t begrudge the Galantian leader a place at the council.
At least I shouldn’t, but I’m not making insane recommendations that will get everyone killed.
“We must take Alon Rhist, and we must do so immediately,” Nyphron repeated. He wasn’t asking or suggesting; this wasn’t a bit of advice or an option being presented. The Fhrey leader was demanding agreement.
Raithe usually refrained from talking in the meetings, and he felt Nyphron should keep quiet, too, for the very same reason: They represented virtually no one. But Raithe didn’t like the look on Persephone’s face. Her expression indicated she was weighing Nyphron’s words carefully.
None of the other chieftains possessed the courage to challenge the Fhrey leader, so Raithe had to say something. Lack of proper weapons had been the reason he’d refused to be the keenig in the first place, and Nyphron wanted to take the Rhist before they had time to prepare. Persephone had returned from Belgreig with the secret of iron, but forging enough weapons for an army would take time.