Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Raithe shrugged. “Take it up with him the next time we never come down here again, okay? Nyphron just gifted us this pretty place; might not be a good idea to get exiled before we’ve tasted the veal.”

  This made Malcolm smile. “They do have wonderful veal.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Council of the Keenig

  Persephone was my hero. I am proud to say she was also my friend—nearly a second mother. She was also the keenig. But that was just a word, just a title that did not mean anything until she stood beneath that dome and we heard the thunder of her voice.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Nyphron called the meeting.

  Persephone had told him they needed to sit down and talk with representatives of Alon Rhist, as well as discuss future plans with the other chieftains. They had only ruled the Fhrey fortress for four days, and already there was talk of the coalition breaking up. Many saw the surrender of Alon Rhist as a job well done and a problem solved. She, Nyphron, and the chieftains rode a wave of goodwill, but the men were tired of standing around and wanted to get back to their farms, livestock, wives, and children. What they didn’t realize, what she needed to explain, was what Nyphron had explained to her: This wasn’t the end. It wasn’t even the beginning. All they had done was shift position to higher ground. The first battle was still coming.

  Persephone had imagined the meeting would be similar to those she held at the lodge in Dahl Rhen, where a dozen men would gather around a fire and roast a lamb. She would sit in her chair and shout over the noise of belches and the bellows for more drink. If left to her, Persephone would have ordered a fire and a spit built, and a barrel of beer rolled out in the middle of the lower courtyard, an open space between the front gate and the general barracks. But she hadn’t called the meeting, Nyphron had.

  The lord of the Rhist, dressed in an uncharacteristically elegant long-shirt, blue cape, and sporting gold arm- and wristbands, escorted Persephone into the Verenthenon. Tiers of seats climbed the walls like the sides of a giant bowl, granting everyone a clear view over the heads of those in front. Waiting for her were hundreds of men and Fhrey. Nyphron led her down a central aisle that descended with wide steps to the bottom. Streaming shafts of sunlight entered through strategically placed skylights, illuminating a raised dais.

  That’s why he was so adamant about the time of the meeting. She had wanted it at night, but he insisted on just after midday.

  Realizing that Nyphron was leading her to that platform, she began to panic. This wasn’t something she was used to. Persephone had experience speaking with a handful of familiar men, but this was another matter altogether. What’s more—there was no chair. She’d always had a place to sit. The Chair had been the greatest symbol of her position, more important than the torc. She felt diminished without it, smaller, as she was forced to stand before all those seated at a higher elevation. She didn’t feel in command, but rather like an accused criminal brought forth for questioning.

  In the front rows sat all the chieftains, including the Gula, alongside several dignified-looking Fhrey she’d never seen before. Moya was there, too, bow in hand, standing just off to the side and out of the light. As the Shield to the Keenig, only she bore a weapon. Moya didn’t say a word as Persephone passed, but she expressed a wide-eyed exclamation that Persephone knew would have been a slew of profanity if the two had been alone.

  Nyphron walked with her as she climbed the remaining series of platforms, but then he stopped. He, too, remained in the shadows, urging her to step forward to the white-hot column of light that entered at an angle and lit the stage.

  Pressing quivering hands against her sides, she took those five remaining steps. The moment she entered the light, the dome erupted in applause. The sound scared her nearly to death. She almost backed off but forced herself to take deep breaths and straighten up. This is no time to be seen as a troll. She waited for the turmoil to calm, then opened her mouth. “I am Persephone, the Keenig of the Ten Clans.” She stopped, stunned. The sound of her voice boomed with godly volume and silenced any remaining applause. She hadn’t even spoken that loudly. She looked around bewildered.

  “The dome,” said someone in the second row. It was Malcolm, who pointed up.

  Stupidly, she looked above her, then smiled and nodded, and this time she mouthed the words, thank you. Hardly a sound was made as the audience awaited her next syllable. A few people coughed, but the sound was muted, as if they were in another room.

  She swallowed and began again. “I am Persephone, the Keenig of the Ten Clans, and I’ve called this meeting to explain a few things and to hear any problems or concerns you might have.” Her voice wavered slightly, and she took another breath. “The Instarya of Alon Rhist have graciously agreed to act as our hosts in our efforts to stand against the aggression of the fane. Fhrey law, bestowed by their god Ferrol, prohibits them from taking another Fhrey’s life. As a result, they will not join our cause as active warriors, but they will also not seek to jeopardize or undermine it.” She stared at the seven Fhrey in the front row, all of whom nodded.

  She smiled and nodded back. Step one complete.

  “Now, a number of men have spoken to me about going home. They have fields that need attention, animals that need tending, and trust me, we need you to do those things. An army is only as good as its supply of food.” Nyphron had given her that line during their two-day preparation. Seeing the very serious nods of approval from both the Fhrey as well as the Gula, she understood why. Credibility. She was still earning it.

  “We need you to keep farming. As much as I would like this victory to be the end of our troubles, it isn’t. The first battle of this war has yet to be fought. Now that we’ve moved into his command fortress, the fane must act. He will send a force to dislodge us. And make no mistake, that force will be powerful and determined. It will take every last man, every sword, every ounce of will we have to weather it. But…” She paused, letting the thunder of her booming voice fade. “We don’t know when that day will come. It could be next week, or next year, and we can’t afford to let fields lie fallow. So, here is my plan. I am told that Alon Rhist already has a system of signal fires built between here and Ervanon, their outpost in the far north. I am ordering that we extend this system, building additional woodpiles in the High Spear Valley in the east and south to Tirre. In this way, many of you will be able to return home, but if scouts learn of an impending attack, I will order the signals to be lit, and this will be the sign for all able-bodied warriors to return.”

  There were fewer nods, but no one complained.

  “Now, not everyone can go, and not everyone can stay when they get home. We need to train. Nyphron, his Galantians, and many of their fellow Instarya have volunteered to teach us how to fight.”

  “We already know how to fight!” one of the Gula shouted, but his voice was a mouse squeak compared to hers.

  “They can make us better,” she said. “And you’ll become familiar with new weapons. My good friend Roan, and a network of smiths trained by her, will be working night and day to forge swords made of iron, a magical metal that is stronger than copper and bronze. She will also oversee the making of armor, shields, and helms.”

  “What about the bow?” someone farther back shouted. “Will we get to learn that?”

  Persephone looked at Moya and smiled. “Indeed. But it will require making hundreds of bows and thousands of arrows—another reason why we need men to stay. We will work in shifts. I will send home groups of men for a month at a time; then they will return and others will leave. We’ll make sure to stagger the groups so every village will always have some men able to work communal fields. And I will establish supply routes using wagons to haul food, salt, wood, and wool.”

  More nods, fewer folded arms.

  “We need to work together to prepare. We must remain committed to the path we’ve started down. It’s e
ssential that we trust one another, and if we can do that, together we will survive.”

  That was the end of her speech, but only Nyphron knew it, so there was an awkward pause. Persephone wasn’t certain what to do. In the past, she just sat back in her chair, drank from a cup, or began eating. How does one get off this stage?

  Nyphron came to her rescue by clapping. This ignited applause in the audience. Sadly, Persephone noticed, it, too, was muted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Giant and the Hobgoblin

  Even to this day, we do not know much about Mawyndulë, which is unfortunate since I still cannot decide whether, in the grand scheme of things, he was a hero or a villain.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  His name was Sile, and he went everywhere Fane Lothian did. Mawyndulë couldn’t remember the other one’s name, the female. Not that he needed to. Both of his father’s new bodyguards were silent watchers who weren’t inclined to conversation. Sile was unusually large. Mawyndulë would go so far as to call him grotesque, and he harbored doubts that the hulking guard was Fhrey at all. Sile had a large head, broad and endowed with a protruding brow that cast shadows on his eyes. His jaw was a hinged shovel, and his ears lacked the traditional teardrop shape. Mawyndulë secretly suspected Sile was a diminutive member of the Grenmorian race. He even carried a battle-ax. Sile certainly wasn’t Miralyith.

  “Nanagal completed his survey of the damage this morning,” Imaly told the fane as all five of them stood on the steps of the Airenthenon.

  “How long until you resume meetings?” Lothian asked.

  “He’s confident his people will have it back in order in a month.”

  “A month? Are you certain it wouldn’t be better to have the Miralyith…” The fane’s comment lost confidence when facing Imaly’s growing frown. The curator, still sporting a cast on her leg and a sling on her arm, had a way of cowing everyone with her disapproval, even Lothian.

  “I know you mean well,” she told him. “But given the circumstances, I think it would be wise to follow traditional roles and allow the Eilywin to handle the restoration. I think the Airenthenon has seen enough of the Miralyith’s Art for a while.”

  “A month,” he repeated.

  The stairs and the plaza continued to bear the scars of battle. Scorch marks blackened the nearby walls, and the eastern steps were still missing. The paint in the market that had looked so much like blood had been cleaned up. An ancient tree was gone from the plaza, but the remaining stump still smelled of sawdust. To one side of the gathered group, the deer in the fountain had yet to be repaired; its severed stone legs were all that remained.

  Weeks had passed since the revolt. The days had flown, blurred in a smear of anxiety. Mawyndulë had lost weight. A lot of people had. Imaly looked thinner, too, and paler.

  “We are Fhrey,” Imaly said. “We do things slowly.”

  “It’s just frustrating.” The fane frowned. “I want it cleaned up. I want this whole episode erased and forgotten so we can move on.”

  The Curator of the Aquila gave him a strained smile. “I believe that is exactly what the surviving members of the Aquila, and the tribes they serve, are afraid of, my fane. These scars serve to remind the Miralyith of the need for restraint, so they don’t want this particular corpse buried too soon.”

  Mawyndulë’s father scowled but nodded just the same. “How bad is it inside?”

  The fane began to climb the steps, and everyone followed, including the giant Sile and the other one—the girl whose name he still couldn’t remember. She was short and ugly. Not claw-your-own-eyes-out ugly, not even Rhune-ugly, but revolting enough that Mawyndulë didn’t bother remembering her name. She was supposed to be a gifted Artist. The word he kept hearing was fast. Apparently, Miss What’s-her-name had been in the plaza the day of the attack and done something right.

  “Not as bad as it could have been.” Imaly allowed her sight to focus on Mawyndulë.

  The fane saw it, too, and acted as if he had forgotten his son was there. “Oh, right.”

  Mawyndulë waited until his father looked away before frowning and shaking his head ever so slightly. Miss What’s-her-name was the talk of Estramnadon, but he, Mawyndulë, who had saved the most important landmark in the city and the lives of most of the Aquila, was lauded with such lofty praise as oh, right.

  Mawyndulë turned to discover that the girl had seen his reaction.

  Tiny little hobgoblin sees everything.

  “Any news from Rhulyn?” Imaly asked.

  “Not yet,” the fane replied, taking care to avoid a shattered step. “I’m told such things require preparation, and that the Instarya have yet to begin culling the Rhune horde.” He gestured around them. “Apparently that tribe shares the same lightning-fast response to my decrees as the Eilywin.”

  Imaly nodded with that same stoic calm she always used when speaking to his father. Mawyndulë imagined she was making an assortment of lewd mental gestures.

  “I hear there are something close to a million Rhunes,” she said. “Mindless but dangerous animals, it seems. Perhaps you should have addressed their numbers centuries ago, before they took root. Now it will take years to exterminate them.”

  “My fane!” a voice called from behind.

  Everyone turned to see Vasek frozen in mid-step at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth was open, his eyes locked. He held one hand up, a finger pointing toward the sky. Dressed all in gray, he could have been a new statue.

  “Really, Synne?” Lothian said. “He’s a trusted adviser.”

  “Which is why he’s not dead, your greatness,” the hobgoblin explained.

  Synne! That is her name.

  “Release him.”

  “As you wish.”

  Vasek stumbled, sighed, and adjusted his asica before resuming his climb up the stairs. “My fane.” He gave a tentative glance at Synne. “I have news.”

  “What is it?”

  Vasek looked at the others and hesitated. “It’s not good, my fane.”

  Mawyndulë’s father frowned. He turned to face Imaly and sighed. “See they clean this up.”

  With that, the fane and Vasek marched back down the stairs, followed by Sile and Synne—the giant and the hobgoblin.

  Imaly turned to Mawyndulë. “What do you think it is?”

  He shrugged. “Probably nothing. Vasek jumps at shadows all the time, even more often as of late.”

  “With good reason, don’t you think?” Imaly adjusted the sling on her shoulder.

  Mawyndulë couldn’t be certain if this was meant to illustrate her point or if she was merely uncomfortable. Mawyndulë always had to be wary of her. Imaly often used insinuations that he didn’t always understand. This was partly why he found speaking to her so interesting. Their conversations were little puzzles to work out. There were times after concluding a talk that he went home, thought about it, and realized he’d gotten the discussion all wrong.

  “I don’t know—maybe.” Mawyndulë didn’t like being too definitive. He loathed revealing a position, fearing it would be the wrong one. Somehow, he had managed to impress the Curator of the Aquila, who so often impressed everyone else, and he very much enjoyed having someone respect him. Mawyndulë feared opening his mouth and ruining everything.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Imaly tilted her head toward the fane, who was crossing the square, heading back toward the Talwara with Vasek whispering into his ear.

  “Not really.”

  “Still angry at him?”

  Mawyndulë didn’t answer.

  She continued to stare. Imaly wasn’t going to let this go.

  “He sided with Vidar,” Mawyndulë said—not because he felt he couldn’t avoid answering, but because he wanted to. He was angry and wanted to voice his outrage even if it might mean appearing petty or childish.

&nb
sp; “Don’t you think Vidar deserved some compensation? The Fhrey was nearly executed for something he didn’t do.”

  “It’s still embarrassing. I saved the whole building and everyone in it, and my reward is expulsion.”

  “You weren’t expelled.”

  “Replaced—it’s the same thing.”

  “No, it’s not, and you know it. Besides, would you have wanted Vidar as your senior again? To go back to being the junior councilor?”

  Mawyndulë shook his head. He hadn’t thought of that. The idea sickened him.

  “There you are. It wasn’t a career for you, just a learning experience, and I’d say you learned a great deal. More than your father ever intended. What’s more, you endeared yourself to the Aquila. They won’t forget your heroism. Most owe you their lives, and when you become fane, you’ll discover that goodwill to be invaluable.” Imaly sat down on the steps, taking care not to bang her arm.

  Sitting there wasn’t unusual. Many Fhrey sat on the stairs that led to the Airenthenon, enjoying the view it afforded of the plaza and the river. Some even picnicked or taught classes there, taking advantage of the natural amphitheater it created. Mawyndulë just found it odd that she would sit there. The difficulty Imaly had in getting up and down more than validated his sense that such an act wasn’t natural for her.

  “When you think of it,” Imaly said, “leaving the Aquila is the best thing that could have happened. You made friends that day, and now you won’t have the opportunity to lose them.”

  Mawyndulë looked at her, stunned on multiple levels. First, he wasn’t aware of having any friends, except perhaps Imaly herself, and he felt presumptuous for even having that thought. The day after the rebellion, Mawyndulë had hidden himself away, terrified of seeing anyone who had been in the Airenthenon that day. He was certain they hated him. After all, he had been the one who invited Makareta. Second, if he did have these phantom friends, why would he risk losing them by staying?