Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What do you think?” Suri asked.

  Raithe sighed, then shook his head. “We can’t leave them. And it seems stupid to start being smart now.”

  Suri nodded. “Yes. You’re absolutely right. You must be the world’s wisest—” She caught herself, mortified. Everything felt so familiar that the words just came out as they always used to, just as if she were walking with…

  Suri began to cry. She felt guilty and hated herself for betraying Minna’s memory so easily.

  He stood quietly, waiting beside her without judgment.

  Suri embraced him then. There was no thought in it. She needed to hug something and he was there. Suri thought he might pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, she felt his arms wrap around her, settling gently, holding her. Raithe never said a word, and she knew that was exactly how it should be between friends.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Before the Bronze Gates

  Alon Rhist was just one of the seven Fhrey fortresses that dominated our borders, but it was more than the seat of the Instarya tribe and the tomb of a long-dead fane. Alon Rhist was the personification of Fhrey power and the absurdity of challenging it.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Raithe pulled Persephone up the last ledge. She could have climbed it on her own, and none of the chieftains had needed or been offered a hand, but she took his. Persephone felt it best to be agreeable when she had the luxury, knowing she couldn’t always be so generous. That’s what she told herself, but she knew that if anyone else had made the gesture, she’d have waved them off.

  Raithe was brave, capable, and handsome, wearing his leigh mor with a casual indifference. The young Dureyan was a popular topic among the women, but he took no notice of their flirtations. What he wanted, she couldn’t give. Persephone was still married to her dead husband in ways she couldn’t put into words, or even thoughts; emotions had a language of their own that didn’t always translate.

  Raithe and her husband were nothing alike. Reglan, nearly thirty years her senior, had been more like a father, a teacher, a guide. With Raithe, she was the wise one, the steady hand that kept the rows straight. And yet, Raithe’s hand felt good—safe, warm, strong. She was the keenig, chieftan of the ten clans, and supreme ruler of millions, but she still needed more. Power couldn’t replace respect, devotion couldn’t replace friendship, and nothing could replace the enveloping warmth of love. He did love her, wanted her, and while she couldn’t grant his wish—at least not yet—she cherished the idea. The gift of his desire was another of those impossible-to-translate, difficult-to-corral feelings. Passion was a wild, selfish thing that didn’t respect boundaries or common sense, but without it life felt pointless.

  “What did you call this?” She looked around, getting a feel for the natural pillar of rock rising sixty feet above the plain.

  “Misery Rock,” Raithe replied.

  The sheer drop on all sides of that far-too-small-for-comfort pillar produced a flutter in her stomach. She nodded. “I can see that. Sure.”

  Persephone walked in a tight circle, shuffling her feet, too scared to lift them. Falling was an irrational fear as long as she didn’t do anything crazy. The rock was as flat as a table, but she didn’t trust herself. Stumbling isn’t an option, unless flying is, too.

  Persephone had never been one for heights. As a child, she stopped climbing trees at a young age and escaped roof-thatching duties by claiming illnesses that were greatly exaggerated. Standing on Misery Rock, looking down and seeing the tops of all those walnut-sized heads that made up the Rhulyn clans, she felt dizzy. How did I ever find the courage to jump off that waterfall in the Crescent Forest? That incident seemed decades ago rather than just a few short months.

  Wolves, she recalled. Yes, a pack of wolves in pursuit provided the necessary incentive.

  Persephone watched in awe as Suri scampered up as if the summit were a foot off the ground. The young woman was beyond fearless; she appeared thoroughly bored.

  From where they stood, Persephone could see for miles. “Did you live around here?” Persephone asked Raithe.

  He pointed toward the northeast.

  Most of Dureya was a dusty plateau, one great rock interrupted by jagged stone formations like the one they stood on. Looking in the direction he indicated, she spotted a black mark on the consistently blond plain.

  “That was my village, Clempton,” Raithe said. “Thirty-seven buildings, forty families, and almost two hundred people.” He continued to stare without blinking, a hard, brutal look. She wondered what he was thinking, then imagined herself gazing on the ruins of Dahl Rhen.

  Persephone put a hand on his arm. Her touch broke his stare, and he offered her a forced smile.

  All the Rhulyn chieftains were with her on the summit, while the Gula leaders were with their men, strategically stationed among the dips and clefts of the Dureyan plain. Nyphron had positioned them the night before, saying he knew the places where Alon Rhist’s watchtower was blind. Persephone had been forced to repeat his instructions; the Gula refused to take orders from the Fhrey. A wild and vicious people, the Gula-Rhunes were little more than a pack of rabid animals—great when you needed that sort of thing, maddening when you didn’t.

  Persephone forced herself to inch closer to the edge to get a better look at the world below. The northern boundary of the yellow plateau was a steep, jagged gorge that from their vantage point formed a curve resembling a frown. At the bottom of that canyon, the Bern River flowed, which historically marked the end of Rhulyn and the start of the Fhrey lands. Somewhere beneath Misery Rock, a worn path, appearing little more than a chalk mark on that open plain, ran north from Dureya to the gorge. The vague line ended at a set of white stone stairs that climbed to a bridge. For miles, the only place to safely ford the river was that span, which linked the Fhrey and human sides of the canyon like a single stitch in the gaping wound that was Grandford. On the other side was the city and fortress of Alon Rhist with its great dome and soaring watchtower, the whole of it protected by massive stone walls and a pair of impenetrable bronze gates.

  Persephone had crossed that bridge of sculptured stone every year while married to Reglan. Each time had terrified her.

  We had been invited, but I was still scared.

  “They’re at the stairs,” Tegan announced. The Chieftain of Clan Warric looked like an overgrown dwarf with neat dark hair and a brushed beard. Possessed of a sarcastic wit, he had a sharp mind and had become one of Persephone’s closest advisers. Tegan pointed, and everyone on Misery Rock looked toward the Grandford Bridge.

  “I can’t believe you agreed to this.” Raithe was shaking his head while looking at the sky.

  “Nyphron knows what he’s doing,” Persephone said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. Her hands were clenched tight. She forced them open and made a deliberate effort to relax her shoulders.

  “What if he’s wrong? What if they kill him?” Raithe asked.

  “My people aren’t prepared for this,” Harkon said. “Most of Clan Melen are carrying farm tools. We can’t fight.”

  “If that happens, we fall back. We already have a sizable lead,” Persephone told them.

  “And Nyphron?” Harkon asked. “If things don’t go well, will he retreat?”

  “I don’t think Nyphron or his Galantians understand that concept,” Tegan said. “They always assume they’ll win.”

  “Let’s hope there’s good reason for that.” Persephone straightened up. She kept reminding herself to stand tall. Her mother had always complained about her bad posture. No one will respect the wife of a chieftain who hunches over like a troll. Her mother could never have imagined that Persephone would be a chieftain, much less the keenig, but Persephone guessed the advice was still valid.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Krugen said.

  “Then pray this is not that time.”<
br />
  True to his word, Nyphron hadn’t asked a single human to cross the bridge with him. Persephone’s army was barely in sight of the Fhrey forming on the far side of the Bern. The Gula were even farther away—more than a mile—having formed on the crest of the high plain. That was the way Nyphron wanted it. Persephone hoped that his plan was designed to give them ample time to scatter if something went wrong, but Tegan was correct: Galantians didn’t understand defeat. She agreed that the odds of Nyphron anticipating failure were equal to his expecting a day without a sunrise.

  From the vantage point of Misery Rock, Persephone could see the Galantians approach Alon Rhist. The little troop of Fhrey appeared like a line of seven ants. They reached the bridge and without hesitation began to cross.

  Trying to see better, Persephone took a step forward, forgetting—if only for that instant—that she was standing near a deadly precipice. Raithe caught her by the arm, silently reminding her of the danger and his concern for her. She glanced at him, and Raithe let go, looking embarrassed.

  Harkon, the Chieftain of Clan Melen, shook his head in awe. “Fearless.”

  “Crazy,” muttered Krugen, whose only interest beyond fine clothing was sleep—something the man did a great deal of, snoring far too loudly to hide the fact.

  “Why isn’t anyone stopping them?” Lipit asked.

  “Same reason you wait when catching rabbits,” Raithe replied. “Better to be sure you have them fully in the snare before pulling it closed.”

  Persephone’s hands resumed their fists, and much to the dismay of her dead mother, she was imitating a troll again.

  “What’s that?” Krugen pointed.

  “Do you see it?” Harkon asked. “On the plain—on our side!”

  “More Fhrey,” Raithe said.

  Persephone saw them as well. Two dozen bronze-armored warriors had appeared out of nowhere, cutting off Nyphron’s retreat.

  “Where’d they come from?” Tegan asked.

  “Cracks,” Raithe explained. “The rocks out there are split with fissures and fractures. You can get into them, cover yourself in a dirt-colored blanket, and an enemy will walk right by. We did it all the time.”

  “Shouldn’t Nyphron know about that?” Krugen asked.

  “And there you have it—not as smart as he thinks,” Raithe concluded with a morbid, self-righteous tone. Persephone knew he was directing his frustration at Nyphron, but she felt it spilling on her. After all, she had been the one who had sanctioned this action. The callousness of his cold judgment stung because he’d been right, and she hadn’t listened.

  “Do you think they planned for this?” Alward of the Nadak pleaded as if those gathered on that rock could grant wishes.

  “The Galantians?” Tegan said with an incredulous expression. “They don’t plan for anything. Forethought ruins the adventure, I’m told.”

  Alward frowned, his mouth still partially open, his shoulders slumping.

  Persephone took another step forward. Once more, Raithe grabbed her arm.

  The first time was bad enough; twice was uncalled for. Persephone was about to chide him, but then she looked down and saw she was less than a foot from the edge. Sucking in a short breath, she drew back.

  “Can’t afford to lose both you and the Galantians in one afternoon,” Raithe said.

  Lose them? The idea, so impossible, coalesced for the first time. What if they are killed or taken? What happens to them? What happens to us?

  Persephone looked down at the hundreds of her people nearby and out beyond them at the thousands. She turned to reassure herself that Suri was still there. The girl had leveled a mountain, so she ought to be able to protect them from a few hundred Fhrey. That was why she was on the rock, why Persephone had insisted she come. But Persephone had no real clue how magic worked, what Suri was really able to do. And the mystic had embraced Arion’s distaste for killing. A good thing, Persephone often told herself, but just then she wasn’t so certain.

  She noticed the black patch on the plain, the village that had once housed forty families, and she wondered if she’d made her first and last mistake as the Keenig of the Ten Clans.

  * * *

  —

  Clutching the rolled-up flag in his right hand, Nyphron led his Galantians across the Grandford Bridge toward the bronze gates. Forty feet above the entrance, the crossed-spears symbol of onetime fane Alon Rhist frowned down. It would have been damn hard to erase, but the fact that Petragar hadn’t tried illustrated the difference between the current ruler of the Rhist and himself—one of the differences. Only Ferrol knew how long that particular list might be if anyone thought to sit and compare. Nyphron imagined that he and Petragar didn’t even chew food the same way. If the situation were reversed, Nyphron’s own symbol would have replaced the mark of Rhist. Nyphron didn’t have a symbol yet, but he would soon—a dragon or perhaps a lion—something fierce, something powerful, something worthy. All great leaders needed to leave their mark on the world, and he would have already chiseled his on that wall.

  “You shouldn’t have come back,” Sikar said, standing first and foremost among a brace of shields at the far end of the bridge. He wore full armor, as if he expected trouble. He also wore the red-plumed crest on his helm, an indication that the spear commander had risen in rank since the Galantians’ banishment.

  “Couldn’t stay away.” Tekchin threw out his arms and puckered kisses at Sikar. “We missed you too much.”

  Sikar frowned and shook his head. The captain of the Rhist wasn’t in a joking mood. “You’re an idiot, Tekchin.” His gaze moved to Grygor and paused briefly on the wooden box the giant carried, then it shifted to the flag in Nyphron’s hand. “Surrender or truce flag?”

  Elysan, an older Fhrey who had been a close friend and adviser to Nyphron’s father, stood on Sikar’s right and answered first. “Truce. When have you known the Galantians to surrender?”

  Sikar kept his eyes on Nyphron. “You know, it’s customary to wave that before approaching. Not that it would do any good. The fane has declared you exiles—no longer protected by Ferrol’s Law.” There was a terrible gravity in his tone and enough remorse in his eyes for Nyphron to make a mental note.

  Tekchin chuckled as he folded his arms across his chest. Nyphron had given orders that no one was to touch weapons, and Tekchin was likely going through withdrawal. “So this is your big chance to rid yourself of those gambling debts you owe me, isn’t it?”

  “This isn’t a joke!” Sikar shouted. “They’re going to—”

  Overhead, horns blared and the gates opened.

  “Quiet,” Tekchin said. “Your boss is coming. Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything.”

  Sikar didn’t look irritated; he looked sad. He slowly shook his head as he sighed.

  “Relax, Sikar,” Nyphron told him. “I’m back now. I’ll make everything right again.”

  “They’re going to execute you—you understand that, right?”

  Nyphron only smiled.

  Out of the gate poured a cohort of Instarya warriors. Nyphron didn’t need to look behind him to know that more would be blocking their retreat. He guessed Petragar had turned out the entire First Spear to welcome them. The show of force was more than a compliment, more even than evidence of Petragar’s cowardice; it was exactly what Nyphron needed.

  The warriors fanned out in precision to either side of the bridge, filling the landing before the gates and denying them entrance. Nyphron didn’t have any intention of taking another step. He had planned this meeting down to the block of stone he stood on and, more importantly, the landing where the Instarya had gathered. After centuries, Nyphron knew every blind spot and vantage point.

  Petragar was the last one out. A brave one, he is.

  At his side waddled Vertumus, legate to the fane. A portly Gwydry, he’d somehow managed to rise in s
tation—or fall out of favor—in order to earn his post in the wilderness of Avrlyn. Vertumus had accompanied Petragar when the latter arrived to replace Nyphron’s dead father as lord of the Rhist. All Nyphron knew about the man was his complicity in the plan to send Rapnagar and the other giants to destroy Dahl Rhen and kill Nyphron, Arion, and Raithe. The boy and his weasel make quite the pair.

  “Nyphron, son of Zephyron,” Vertumus began, “you have been—”

  “Shut up,” Nyphron ordered. “I didn’t come all this way to speak to you.”

  Petragar’s eyes widened. “You have no—”

  “Didn’t come to talk to you, either, you son of the Tetlin Witch.”

  Petragar looked confused by the Rhunic insult, the tone of Nyphron’s voice, and…well, everything. That was just the sort of Fhrey he was. While he looked to the others for understanding, Nyphron took in the gathered faces of his family. He knew them all.

  Nyphron’s father was a tyrant when it came to his son. Zephyron, lord of Alon Rhist and supreme commander of all the western outposts, granted Nyphron no privileges or special treatment. His son was forced to sleep in the barracks with the other Instarya. Nyphron was also made to take his meals in the communal dining hall. Zephyron’s son marched in the same mud and fought and bled alongside the lowliest soldier. At the time, Nyphron had protested, but now, while standing on the Grandford Bridge, he mentally thanked his father. This was just the second time he’d done that; the first was when Zephyron had gotten himself killed during the Uli Vermar.

  “I’ve come home to speak to my brothers.” The moment he said this, Grygor set the box down and Nyphron stepped up. “Instarya!” he shouted from his elevated position, wielding the still-rolled flag as a baton conducting a symphony of eyes. “The lord of Alon Rhist has returned. I come as a liberator to free you from the tyranny of morons and cowards.”

  “How dare you!” Petragar nearly screamed, his voice a perfectly discrediting screech. “You are a—”