Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What happened?” She looked at each of them, then found Brin. “That was your raow, wasn’t it?”

  The girl nodded.

  “How did it get up here?”

  “We think it climbed.”

  “Did it—did it get away? I don’t remember that part very well.”

  “Tesh, Nyphron, and Sebek killed it. Meryl is still missing.”

  Meryl? Persephone didn’t know what that meant, but let it go.

  “Some good news,” Brin said with a bright if not entirely sincere smile and held up her hand. “I found Reglan’s ring. It was on the floor here.”

  “Sorry I didn’t believe you, Brin,” Persephone said.

  Brin offered a pained smile.

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Ah, well, yeah. Sebek,” Moya replied. “Looks like he’ll live, too. Not nearly as bad as you are. We’re going to be moving you upstairs to the Shrine just in case.”

  “In case of what? It’s dead—you said it was dead. Are there more?” Again, Persephone looked at Brin, expecting the girl to say, Sure, there are hundreds and hundreds.

  “Anything is possible now,” Moya replied. “I want you in a secure room. One without a damn window. The Shrine is the safest. I got some pushback from the Fhrey.” Moya glanced at the healer, who was washing his hands in a basin. He didn’t even look up. “But Nyphron supported me. We’ll move you up in a few hours.”

  “What do you mean anything is possible now?” Persephone looked from one face to another. “Why now?”

  “Seph…” Moya began and looked very serious, even a little frightened. “The fane’s army is here.”

  “What? When?” She tried to sit up and again suffered for it.

  She gritted her teeth, sucking in a quick breath. She really couldn’t move. Her head and arms were fine, but even moving her legs tugged at her abdominal muscles—not that she wanted to do much moving. She was incredibly weak. Simply holding her eyes open was a struggle.

  Moya took her hand. “Easy, easy. They aren’t attacking yet. They only just got here, maybe an hour or two ago.”

  “Did someone light the signal? Did they—” She turned to look, and heated daggers sliced into her again. Dammit! I’m just turning my head! Which wasn’t true and she knew it, but the frustration was nearly as agonizing as the pain. “Brin, is there a light on the top of the Spyrok?”

  “The signal.” Moya’s eyes widened.

  Brin looked out the window and shook her head. “Hem’s on watch. Why didn’t he light it?”

  “He needs the order.” Moya was shaking her head. “Hem only sees torches and campfires; he doesn’t know who they are. For all he knows, it could be our troops on a training exercise. Nyphron was busy with Sebek, and I was—”

  “Send a runner to the top of the Spyrok,” Persephone ordered. “Tell Hem I authorize lighting the signal fire. We have to get the tribes back. We need to get everyone back.”

  “No one runs faster than me.” Brin jumped up. “I’ll do it.”

  The girl dodged around the bed and sprinted out the door.

  “How many are there?” Persephone asked.

  “I don’t know, but not a lot. Not as many as the Gula.” Moya glanced at the door. “Others want to see you, if you feel up to it. Do you?”

  She didn’t. Persephone didn’t feel up to breathing. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep forever and then some. Almost did by the sound of it. “Send them in.”

  * * *

  —

  Brin had always been fast. She could outrun anyone in Dahl Rhen, even Hory Killian, and he was two years older. He wasn’t anymore. Hory was dead. The same giants that killed Brin’s parents had killed him, too. As she pounded up the steps of the Spyrok, she wondered if the Fhrey had brought more giants with them. She’d only gone up the Spyrok one time before; once was enough for anyone. Until reaching the top, it was just an endless spiral of steps with a disappointing lack of windows. This time she managed to reach the fourth level before slowing to a walk. By the time she reached the seventh floor, the burst of enthusiasm that she began her race with was gone. The pounding had become a plod.

  Persephone looked like she was going to be all right. That’s what both the Fhrey healer and Padera said. Brin hadn’t been convinced until Seph’s eyes opened. Since Brin’s parents’ death, she’d grown skeptical of such things as hope. Padera said she was growing up. Brin had always thought that meant a handsome husband, a home of her own, no bedtimes, and a greater voice in clan meetings. But she had come to realize growing up meant sadness, pain, and regret. Not until she hit the eighth floor did she realize that she and Tesh had saved Persephone’s life. A smile climbed onto her face, and she carried it up the next two floors.

  At the tenth level, there was a tiny window. Here Brin paused to catch her breath and peered out eastward. Lights were arrayed on the plain on the far side of the Grandford Bridge, a grid of evenly set squares. She couldn’t see giants, but it was too dark to see anything but the lights.

  It had taken so long, Brin had actually allowed herself to believe that they might never come, that the war had already ended. Optimism had disappointed her again—a childhood friend who made many promises it couldn’t keep. Death, fear, blood—the only shining light in all of it was Tesh. He was the one good thing of her blossoming adulthood. While not exactly how she’d thought, how she’d dreamed of a sweetheart, she found she liked the real Tesh even more. And he seemed to like her; but she wasn’t convinced. He was certainly eager to kiss her, but she wasn’t so naive as to think a kiss meant love.

  Maybe it does, optimism told her, but pessimism was quick to point out, Maybe he’s just yearning for any girl. Not a lot to choose from here.

  She remembered the feel of his hand on the back of her neck. Just thinking about it raised hairs, in a good way.

  Where is he now?

  She imagined he’d be back with Raithe, preparing to fight. There would be a battle in the morning, or the one after. Tesh would go out with the rest. He might be a fantastic warrior, but even optimism had a hard time selling her on the idea that such a thing actually mattered on a battlefield. If he died, Brin didn’t know what she’d do. While only having really known him for a few days, she realized he was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. She had a glimpse into how Persephone must have felt when Reglan died. And while she had hated Tressa along with everyone else, she’d lost her husband, and that sort of pain deserved sympathy no matter how awful the man had been.

  The top of the Spyrok was a stone parapet open to the sky and filled with a two-story building’s worth of stacked logs that sat in a basin ready to be filled with oil. Hem, a member of Clan Melen, was a short, balding fellow with pudgy fingers and sad eyes. His watch would have only just started, but already he had a blanket around his shoulders and pulled tight at the neck. Hem was at the railing, looking east. He jumped when he heard her.

  “Is it…” He pointed at the field of lights far below as the high wind blew what little hair he had. “Is it the Fhrey?”

  Exhausted from the mammoth climb, Brin took a breath and said, “Light it!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Signal

  I still feel as if it was my fault, which I understand is stupid. But like I said, I only had the one job.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  A fire ignited at the top of the Spyrok.

  Mawyndulë was just outside his father’s tent, which was still being raised by a team of Eilywin busily pounding stakes with mallets. Ever since his first visit, Mawyndulë had thought of the great tower of Alon Rhist as an upthrust spear punching out of the ground, stabbing at the sky. Now the tip of the spear burst into flame.

  “Does that mean they’ve seen us?” Mawyndulë asked his father.

  Fane Lothian was observing the construction
of his battlefield home, which, when completed, would be a circular purple monstrosity held up by twelve-foot poles. He turned and squinted at the fortress; then, without a word, he marched across the camp.

  Mawyndulë followed his father, who was already shadowed by the ever-present Sile and Synne. The silent twins who looked nothing alike—the giant and the hobgoblin—went everywhere his father did. What has the world come to when the fane needs constant protection?

  The four of them weaved between tents and cook fires. Why the evening meal was taking so long, he couldn’t imagine. Remembering Jerydd’s trick of making strawberries, Mawyndulë made a silent vow to master it.

  The only thing worse than his hunger was the soreness and exhaustion from riding. They’d traveled far that day, his father pushing them, anxious to end the ordeal. All the Miralyith rode horses, and Mawyndulë was certain his animal was the worst of the lot. The beast wouldn’t obey, and Mawyndulë spent most of the trip pulling its reins and kicking its sides. By midday, he’d found himself thinking that walking would have been a better choice.

  The fane arrived at Kasimer’s tent, which inexplicably was up before the fane’s own. Lothian shouted for him to come out.

  “My fane?” Kasimer asked. He was in dark robes and still wore the Spider helm.

  Mawyndulë’s father pointed at the spire, which, now that it was burning, reminded Mawyndulë of a candle. His father apparently thought the same, saying, “Blow it out.”

  “My fane?”

  “It’s a signal. Put it out now!”

  “Yes, my fane.”

  Kasimer shouted to his troops. The Spider Corps had trained to work as a group. This wasn’t easy. Miralyith were by nature a pack of individualists. Artists enjoyed meeting and talking, but collaborating on a project was the behavior of the Nilyndd or Eilywin—two tribes that needed to team up to accomplish anything worthwhile. The Art was personal, and Artists rarely needed help manifesting their dreams. Execution was also always part self-expression, and suppressing the instinct to act freely was difficult. To follow another’s lead was counterintuitive and took months of practice, but the benefits were obvious. Like a dozen oarsmen on one ship, a handful of spiders could weave bigger, stronger webs. In this case, a team of Miralyith could snuff out a massive bonfire at a distance no individual could manage alone.

  Mawyndulë watched as they rapidly assembled, forming in a circle around Kasimer, who acted as lead Spider. Everyone else would feed him power.

  I could blow that candle out all by myself, Mawyndulë thought.

  Not really by himself, but without the aid of the Spiders or anyone else at the camp. In the same way the Spiders fed Kasimer, Mawyndulë had a direct line of power to Avempartha. Jerydd waited on call. Anytime Mawyndulë wished, he could contact the kel and summon up the awesome power of Fenelyus’s tower. Jerydd had taught him the technique before he left Avempartha, and they had practiced every day. By the time the troops reached Grandford, Mawyndulë was able to listen and monitor everything Jerydd said all day long. The kel knew he was listening and rambled on about the origins of the Torsonic Chant and the usefulness of the Plesieantic Phrase—two topics Arion had bored him with. He had always tuned her out, but it was more fun with Jerydd. Mawyndulë took great pleasure in having the kel’s voice in his head, a voice that no one else could hear. He was positive that none of the Spiders—not even Kasimer—knew how to eavesdrop at unlimited distances.

  After establishing the connection, all it took was a little concentration, and unless his horse stumbled, he managed just fine. He also had to pay attention; he couldn’t let his mind wander. In the few days it took to ride from the Nidwalden through the Harwood and across the plains to Alon Rhist, Mawyndulë had learned more than in the three years with Arion.

  “You just want us to put it out?” Kasimer asked.

  “Blow it out so it can’t be relit,” the fane ordered.

  Kasimer turned and faced the tower. Around him the other Spiders hummed in harmony, their hands and arms moving in perfect synchronization, performing the same motions in concert. Watching them, Mawyndulë thought the group looked creepy, like a real spider—a really big spider. Then Kasimer made a cutting motion with his arms and a slicing with his hands. A mile away, the light at the top of the tower grew brighter, then went completely out.

  * * *

  —

  The top of the Spyrok exploded.

  Brin had already started back down. Exhausted after her race up the stairs, she was taking her time, and she was only five levels below the observation deck when the top of the tower sheared away. Screaming as rubble and dust rained down, Brin cowered on the steps in a ball, covering her head and crying. She would have died, but most of the stone, glass, and timber blew west.

  She stayed huddled, clutching herself and shivering. Terrified and bewildered, she didn’t know what to do. Then in a burst of decision, she ran. Down the steps she flew, leaping as far and as fast as she could without killing herself, although a few times she came close. Brin kept her arms up for fear something might fall, or another explosion would rip through the tower. In minutes, she was down and running for the Kype.

  “What happened?” several people asked as she flew by. Brin didn’t stop. Then Tekchin caught up. He grabbed her with both arms and pulled her to him.

  “Let me go!” she screamed, jerking hard. She didn’t know why. By then, she wasn’t even sure where she was heading.

  The Fhrey held on. “Calm down. Relax. You’re safe.”

  She stopped struggling, her strength gone. Her legs gave out and she collapsed.

  * * *

  —

  Persephone felt, as much as heard, the explosion. It shook the fortress, rocking her bed, swaying the curtains. The men and Fhrey in her bedroom steadied themselves against walls and dressers whose drawers rattled. Tegan and his Shield, Oz, both drew swords, looking around for the enemy. Nyphron was at the window—the raow window as Persephone now thought of it—and looked up.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Miralyith blew the top off the Spyrok,” he told them so matter-of-factly that Persephone wondered if he was kidding. “Don’t want us sending signals.”

  “Oh, dear Mari, Brin!” Persephone said. She glared at Moya and again tried to get up, and again she suffered for it, this time gasping audibly with the pain ripping through her.

  “You can’t be trying that,” Padera scolded. The old woman frowned with irritation, as if Persephone’s wounds mattered.

  Moya bolted out the door. Everyone else except Padera and Nyphron followed her. Padera busied herself, checking what damage Persephone might have done, while Nyphron, dressed in a comfortable robe, continued to stare out the window.

  Persephone lay prone, eyes on the ceiling. She despised being helpless. She wanted to run, to check on Brin, to see the damage. But even if she managed to stand up, she’d collapse immediately. The dizziness plagued her. Even her fingers felt heavy. How can I be an effective keenig lying on my back?

  “Did they see the signal? Did the message get through?” Persephone asked. “Is the bonfire at Perdif burning?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. The bonfire burned for only a few minutes. I can’t imagine anyone at Perdif is watching every second. Even if they were, they’d likely believe it was a mistake, a test, or a mirage. Why else would it vanish so quickly? But I’ll go check.”

  With that wonderful assessment, he walked out, leaving Persephone alone with Padera. The old woman rinsed a towel in the basin, then wiped Persephone’s face. Despite an inability to move, the keenig continued to work up a sweat.

  “What is Perdif?” Padera asked.

  “A small village of shepherds—a raised place in the High Spear Valley. There’s a bonfire built on a hill there that can be seen by the Gula and the Nadak. They’re supposed to light their fire when t
hey see ours. The alert is then supposed to be relayed across Gula and Rhulyn, fire after fire, as the signal for all warriors to hurry back.”

  “And if they didn’t see it?”

  “We’ll be on our own here with too few men to fight.”

  Nyphron returned. He was shaking his head. “There’s no fire at Perdif.”

  “Build another,” Persephone ordered. “Tell—”

  “Can’t. They didn’t just blow the fire out. They blasted the top off the Spyrok. Even if we could, they’d just blow that one out, too. You’d be giving them targets.”

  Blew the top off the Spyrok? How could anyone blow the top off that huge tower? And if they can do that, how can we hope to survive?

  Persephone felt herself sink farther into the mattress. They needed to signal Perdif. They had to signal. She’d sent everyone home based on the idea that she could call them back if the Fhrey attacked. The whole idea seemed so simple—too simple not to work. Persephone recalled patting herself on the back for her ingenuity.

  “How did the fane’s army get here without any warning? Our scouts—”

  “Our scouts were Rhunes,” Nyphron said. “All dead, I suspect, killed by Fhrey scouts.”

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. This isn’t fair. She had a plan, a good one. And I can’t even get out of bed because of some stupid raow!

  “Wait!” Persephone said. “What about Arion? Couldn’t she make a signal?”

  “Already sent for—” Nyphron smiled as Arion and Suri knocked on the doorframe.

  “The fane is here, I take it?” Arion asked.

  The Miralyith was rubbing her eyes, looking sleepy. Suri was alert, but then Suri had always been a night owl. The mystic stared at Persephone, puzzled. She glanced at the window, and her expression darkened.