Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Gifford turned. “What’s yew name?”

  “Plymerath, but my friends call me Plym.” The soldier looked out at the elven camp and then back up at Gifford. “Are you really going to attempt to ride through that and bring back help for us?”

  “I weel-ly am.”

  The soldier nodded. He switched the spear he held to his left and reached up with his right hand, holding his open palm out. “Then you can call me Plym.”

  Gifford reached down and shook his hand. “Thanks, Plym.”

  Gifford urged Naraspur forward.

  “Good luck,” Plym said. “I hope you make it. You know what? Even if you don’t, I’m going to tell the story of the shining, mounted warrior who rode out the gates of Alon Rhist on a white horse to meet his destiny wearing a smile. How could I not? And while the story might die with us, for a short time you’ll be a hero.”

  Gifford looked back, waiting for it, for the snide comment, or the parting kick. The you’re all right…for a cripple, or even the you’re brave…for a Rhune. Instead, he watched as Plym silently closed the gate.

  Gifford was alone. He was heading for the bridge that spanned the Bern River gorge dressed in magic armor, with a magic sword, on the back of a magic horse. Not at all what I expected to be doing today.

  Naraspur walked across the bridge, her hooves making a lonely clip-clop on the stone. Wasn’t hard to stay on her when she walked. Gifford sat up. No wind—everything was eerily calm. The faint growl of the cascades far below in the Bern River sounded like a cat purring. Some of the spray carried up. He could feel the damp on his face. Little beads of moisture formed on Naraspur’s mane. Overhead, stars sparkled, and a near full moon guided him, bathing the world in a pale light.

  Your mother was special, Padera had told him, and you’re supposed to be special, too. I’ve taught you to fight. To fight when every single person around you would walk away. I’ve taught you to strive for the impossible because that’s what you’ll have to do. One day, you’ll have to do the impossible, Gifford. One day you’ll have to run faster and farther than anyone has because that is the only thing that will save our people. That’s why your mother died, and I won’t let her death be in vain.

  He never knew his mother. Wished he had. From the stories he had heard, Aria seemed like a good person, a brave person, the sort of person he wanted to be.

  “We need to go vey-we fast,” he whispered to Naraspur. “Do you un-da-stand? I’m gonna be holding on fo’ my life, so you’ll have to handle most of the stee-wing. But we gonna want to go that way.” He pointed up the river where, just as Malcolm had said, an early morning mist grew. “You paying attention, wight? I’m just saying this because any way that isn’t up that bank will get us both killed. You don’t want that, do you? Do you even un-da-stand Whunic?”

  He saw no movement in the camp. The fires were down to embers with no one near them. Most everyone was asleep, lying under blankets in the open or in tents. Gifford’s bare feet hugged the horse’s body as best they could, and as he reached the far side of the bridge, he lay down low and once more hugged Naraspur’s neck. Now that he was to it, now that he faced the end, he felt a sickness in his stomach. He was scared.

  I really don’t want to die.

  He thought once more of Roan, of her in the smithy as some monstrous Fhrey broke in. He might not kill her. Why would he? She wouldn’t fight. She’d cower. No. He’d take her and make her his…slave.

  Gifford’s teeth clenched. “Wun,” he told Naraspur, and gave her a kick with his feet.

  He was glad for the strength in his arms as the animal lunged forward. Another kick sent the horse from that already familiar but agonizing trot to a gallop. He held tight, squeezing with arms and legs. The gallop was better than the trot, smoother, but the speed was terrifying.

  Naraspur cleared the bridge but was still heading due east—she hadn’t been listening at all! He had to turn her. Risking a horrible fall, he drew his left hand up and, grasping the rein on that side, pulled her head toward the riverbank, aiming north.

  Turn!

  With reluctance, the horse finally got the hint and left the road. A moment later, he was in the elven camp, dashing between tents and smoldering fires. Gifford didn’t look. No point in it. He stayed low, hugging tight to Naraspur’s neck. He heard shouts and a horn. Something hit them. Something hot. He saw a burst of light. Smothering warmth enveloped them both. No pain, just a sound like a flock of birds taking to the sky. While Gifford thought Naraspur had been running at top speed, at that moment he discovered he was sorely mistaken. Leaping over a sleeping Fhrey, she bolted forward, faster than he ever thought possible. The rhythmic thrump, thrump of her hooves became peals of thunder as she advanced to a full, eye-watering sprint.

  After the initial jolt, Gifford found it easy to stay on her back. They were moving at an impossible speed, and yet there wasn’t any bouncing nor jerking—just a steady back and the rushing wind. Nevertheless, Gifford clung to Naraspur in life-loving terror. They were going too fast for him to see grass, or rocks, or dirt; everything was a smear of lights and darks. Gifford was moving so fast he could have been flying.

  One day you’ll have to run faster than any man ever has.

  Two more bursts of fiery light exploded around him, which only served to drive Naraspur faster. He could hear her snorting, breathing hard, driven by fire and fear. With the river gorge on her left, she couldn’t go that way, and the attacks coming from the right drove her north.

  More shouts erupted, and everything became incredibly cold. Ice tried to form around them but faded as quickly as it appeared. Then wind swirled, kicking up dust and tearing down nearby tents. Elven soldiers raced toward them, but they were too late to catch the panicked Naraspur, who understood quite well the idea of running for her life.

  Spears were thrown. At that speed, the odds of hitting him were impossible—he thought—only these weren’t men. The Fhrey were maddeningly accurate. Strangely, this saved them both. A miss might have killed Naraspur, but of the five who tried, all aimed for Gifford, and all hit him square. Four struck Gifford’s back, and one exceedingly well aimed javelin hit his head. The blow rang off his helm, but Gifford continued to hug tight to Naraspur, both arms around her neck as she flew.

  The shouting grew fainter, their course less erratic. And gradually, little by little, Naraspur slowed down. Soon she was back to a trot and finally a walk.

  Gifford opened his eyes and looked up.

  He was in a field illuminated by the rising sun. He was also alone.

  Looking back over the rump of the horse, he didn’t see the elven camp. He’d made it through.

  Ha! I survived!

  Then he cursed his idiocy.

  “We need to keep wunning!” he shouted at Naraspur, who was puffing for air. “Maybe not quite so fast, but mo’ than this.”

  He gave her a few minutes to rest, and then turned her toward the rising sun and kicked her once more. Off they raced across the high plain toward the High Spear Valley and Perdif—riding as the first rays of morning light filled the sky.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Drawing Swords

  So often I have heard that war is a noble and necessary thing, the answer to many problems. But I have found that when war becomes a reality, peace becomes the noble and necessary thing because there is no problem greater than war.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Malcolm walked into Nyphron’s bedchamber as the lord of the Rhist was using the chamber pot.

  “We need to talk,” the slave said as if he had such a right. Nyphron even noticed a dash of demand in his voice.

  Malcolm had been more useful than Nyphron had expected, but the Rhune was taking too many liberties with their relationship, which had started out cobweb thin and over the last few months had begun to fray. Malcolm had already served his purpose, but apparent
ly he didn’t know that.

  “Indeed, we do,” he replied. He got off the pot and entered the sitting room where he found Malcolm on the cushioned chair near the fireplace. His legs were stretched out, his arms folded across his chest, a stern look in his eye. I’ve let this go on way too long. Give a slave a pair of shoes and they will walk all over you. “Let’s begin with how you’re not allowed to enter my chambers unannounced. For that matter, let’s go over the fact that you’re not even allowed in the Kype anymore. You’re a—”

  “I want you to tell Arion and Suri to hide the archers,” Malcolm instructed.

  “What?”

  “Tell them to hide the existence of Moya and her archers from the fane’s army. Then tell Moya to concentrate her attacks on the Spider Corps.”

  Nyphron was too stunned to reply right away, and he just stood staring in disbelief. The little Rhune was giving him orders—military orders. “You don’t make demands of me, slave.”

  Malcolm had the gall to roll his eyes. He actually looked annoyed.

  I’ve ruined this one. I let him think too much of himself. Letting him breathe free air for so long has overinflated his little Rhune lungs and poisoned him with a taste for things he can’t have. Why didn’t I see it before? I might have done something, but now—

  “We’ve been over this.” Malcolm pointed to the missing collar that wasn’t on his neck. “I’m not your slave. And if you recall, not even your father, who had the right to do so, treated me as one.”

  The callous disregard, the lack of respect, was too much. “We aren’t in Rhulyn anymore. This is Alon Rhist, and here you are my property.” Nyphron was shocked to see Malcolm smile, as if the man found the comment amusing. Nyphron sneered back. “Did I say something funny?”

  “You might be forgetting that Alon Rhist is no longer under Fhrey control. In this place, my people already conquered yours, so I wouldn’t be so quick to throw around terms like slavery, property, or who owns who or what. You might find yourself on the wrong end of that discussion.”

  Surprise, which had shifted to sympathy and then irritation, gave way to anger. “And you shall find yourself on the wrong end of my sword.”

  Malcolm replied with a humiliating look of pity.

  Nyphron, not ever having been the object of such an expression—from a Rhune, no less—paused for a moment. Intuition told him he couldn’t be so far off in his assessment. Something was wrong. Very wrong. When a strong defending force retreated too easily, he knew to expect a trap. When a warrior was overconfident, he knew to look for a secret, a hidden dagger or an associate hiding in wait. Malcolm was too relaxed, too sure of himself.

  “I’m not joking, Nyphron,” Malcolm said in an oddly stern tone. “You need to do it, and do so now before anything is given away.”

  Nyphron took a threatening step toward him. Most men, most Fhrey, would have cowered. Malcolm didn’t even flinch.

  What am I missing?

  Malcolm’s expression turned from pity to annoyance. “I understand that you think of me as a common slave. Understandable, given that you grew up in a household where I played such a role. I also realize you have an ego the size of Mount Mador, but you need to set that aside and do as I say. If you want to be fane, then listen. I didn’t work this hard, for these many long years, to have you ruin everything because you see me as being beneath you.”

  “You are beneath me. Very, very far beneath me.”

  “Yes, fine. I’m beneath you. Now please go tell Arion to cloud the archers.”

  Nyphron felt the blood throbbing in his temple. He was rarely ever this angry when not swinging a sword. Still, he held back. Every fiber of his being was telling him not all was as it seemed. There was something here, something unexplained. Discovering a surprise of this magnitude hiding beneath his feet was shocking to the point of being frightening. Nyphron hadn’t been scared in centuries. He had been a little worried when Gryndal exploded Stryker, and he admitted to himself—and only himself—that he’d been quite concerned in Arwal when they had been surrounded and Tekchin had nearly died, but he hadn’t been frightened. Only the unknown had the power to scare him, and Malcolm was creeping into the Realm of the Scary. For one thing, Malcolm was right; Nyphron’s father had never treated Malcolm like a slave. The only work Malcolm had ever done was serve wine at parties and meetings—a perfect way to listen to conversations, Nyphron just realized. For as far back as he could remember, Zephyron always treated Malcolm as—

  As far back as I can remember?

  Nyphron thought hard and was surprised to discover he couldn’t recall exactly when Malcolm had come to Alon Rhist. The bulk of Nyphron’s life had been spent afield. He had no idea when he first noticed his father had a new slave. As far as Nyphron was concerned, Malcolm came into existence only when Nyphron first devised his plan to have a Rhune kill Shegon. Nyphron needed a disposable person, and he’d just inherited his father’s household, his servants, horses, and slaves. He picked one whose name happened to be Malcolm.

  But he’d been around long before that. He must have been…but for how long? Was it before the bad winter? Yes, definitely before then. Was it before Tekchin got his scar? Nyphron thought it was. Further and further back he remembered seeing him.

  I must be mistaken. It had to have been a different slave, wasn’t it? It had to be. Rhunes don’t live that long.

  Watching him, Malcolm offered a gentle, sympathetic frown, the sort a mother might show a son who had skinned a knee. “Nyphron, I want you to succeed. I want you to be not merely the fane but the ruler of the world.You can usher in a new age and build a civilization where the divisions of the past are healed. I can help you do that, but you have to listen to my counsel.”

  “How old are you?” Nyphron asked.

  Malcolm smiled. “Just putting that together now, are you? Doesn’t bode well for your chances of being an intelligent ruler, does it? Your father noticed right away—but then your father would have been a better leader.”

  Malcolm slapped his thighs with his palms and sighed. “But he didn’t listen to me, either. Of course, the very reason he didn’t listen is the same reason he would have been a better ruler. I can’t explain how frustrating that is. You, on the other hand, are nicely spoiled. You just want—and you don’t care who has to suffer so you can have. It’s just not in your character to notice those you consider beneath you—like me.” Malcolm paused as if something on the ceiling caught his attention. He looked up long enough for Nyphron to glance up as well. There was nothing there. Then Malcolm said, “That’s how you’ll die, by the way. This underlying blindness will be your doom, and even my telling you won’t change anything because you’ll forget. You’re far too set in your ways and far too full of yourself. But that’s the way of things. The ultimate irony is that good people can’t always do what is needed because what’s often required is bad, and they wouldn’t be good people if they did bad things, now would they?”

  Nyphron was truly worried and wondered if he should get his sword. Malcolm wasn’t a Rhune; nor was he Fhrey. The problem was he had no idea what Malcolm was. Somehow, this person had deceived everyone, maybe for centuries. No, not everyone. His father had known—must have—that was why he had treated Malcolm differently, but he never told anyone, never told his son. Why?

  “Why didn’t my father tell me about you?”

  “Tell you what?” Malcolm pressed the tips of his fingers together. A decidedly sinister action, the sort of finger expression he’d expect from a Miralyith. Is that it? Is Malcolm Miralyith? Is he just making himself look like he’s Rhunic? He’d heard of such things. Malcolm could be a spy sent by the fane—only—no. He had been in the Rhist too long. Fenelyus would have had to send him, and she was dead. And why would a spy help kill Shegon and raise the Rhunes in revolt against the Forest Throne?

  “Why didn’t my father warn me that you w
eren’t really a Rhune, that you weren’t his slave?”

  “So, we are finally past that—good.” Malcolm nodded in approval. “I honestly don’t know why your father kept you in the dark. I actually thought he had told you, and maybe he did, and you just never heard. You do that, you know?”

  “Who are you, and how did you come to serve my father?”

  Malcolm sighed. “This list of questions will have to wait. I’ve already wasted too much time here. Sun is coming up and you have a battle to wage, the first real battle of a very long war. The first step of which is to order Arion to cloud the archers. Tell her and Suri not to interfere at all with the Spider Corps. They will pinpoint her if she does. But the Miralyith can’t protect themselves from what they aren’t expecting, and the Spider Corps have never seen arrows before. Send out the first legion—Raithe’s command and—”

  “We have a fortress; it doesn’t make sense to send soldiers out beyond the protection of the walls.”

  “Have you seen the top of the Spyrok recently?” Malcolm asked. “These walls are no protection against the Spider Corps. Now, as I was saying, send Raithe out with his spearmen and have Moya bring her archers up behind. Have them push until she’s in range, and then direct all fire on the Miralyith. Do that and you’ll actually stand a chance of surviving to see another sunrise.”

  Malcolm got up, causing Nyphron to take another step back. The never-really-a-slave started for the door, then paused as he laid a hand to the latch. “I heard that Tesh saved your life.”

  Nyphron nodded.

  “Still planning on killing the kid?”

  “I…I don’t know.” Nyphron narrowed his eyes at Malcolm as he finally understood that the ex-slave hadn’t brought the topic up on a whim. The realization dawned that Malcolm probably never brought anything up without a reason. “What do you think I should do?”

  Malcolm smiled back at him. This was a different sort of smile. Not sad, not a pitiful look, and not a snide or sinister grin. This was a genuinely pleased expression. “Now you’re getting this.”