Time stopped after that. The smithy was gone—most of it—and Roan was looking out at the courtyard where dozens of Fhrey stood. The elves—blood-covered and carrying swords, spears, and shields—had stopped, too, frozen in shock at what they saw. Yet as the Gilarabrywn flew away, time started again.
Beyond the world of the broken smithy, Roan saw a battlefield where a quiet courtyard had been. Fhrey warriors in gold and blue fought men in shining silver. Swords clanged. Shields rang. Blood and fire filled the cracks between. Malcolm valiantly stepped forward, holding his spear. The little men grabbed their hammers from the rack, and even Tressa found a weapon—the iron poker from the forge.
Roan didn’t move. Instead, she counted the enemy that came at them: five, three from the left and two from the right. One more looked their way but couldn’t make up his mind. She estimated their chance of surviving the next five minutes—those in the smithy at least—to be nonexistent. When Malcolm unexpectedly skewered the first Fhrey with his spear, she revised her estimate to almost nonexistent.
Dragging the sword she had laid on Raithe a moment before, Suri began to crawl. She started in the direction of the ruined barracks, but wavered, turning toward the woodpile. Roan was certain the mystic had no idea where she was going. Remembering her state after killing Minna, Roan guessed Suri was dazed and drained and merely moving for the sake of moving.
Then Roan heard a noise to her left and realized one of the Fhrey was looking at her—at the poor girl in the leather apron sitting between the anvil and the worktable. He was strangely barehanded and bareheaded, with a gash across his nose and cheek. Part of his face was also burned, the hair on the left side of his head singed away. And he was covered in blood, not just his clothes, but every part of him as though he’d bathed in a tub. He had a gleeful grin—an insane smile. The same sort Iver had worn. She knew what was coming. She’d watched Iver do it to her mother.
The bloody Fhrey came at her, dodging around Malcolm and the little men, who had their own problems. Tressa took a swipe, but the poker only rang off his armor. Another Fhrey appeared, and Tressa had her own adversary to deal with.
It was just the two of them then: the bloody Iver look-alike and Roan.
Slick hands clutched Roan’s throat, and the Fhrey said something she didn’t understand. She didn’t need to. She’d heard the words before. She’d felt those fingers, too. All of it came back. Roan wasn’t in a shattered smithy in an elven fortress; she was in a small roundhouse in Dahl Rhen. But this Iver was wearing armor: a dented, blood-soaked bronze breastplate.
Roan had invented the pocket because she hated not having things within easy reach when she needed them. The panic bag was the next evolutionary step, but upon becoming chief smith of Alon Rhist, neither had been good enough. Out of necessity, Roan had created a tool belt that she wore under her apron. Hanging from it were a small pair of tongs, tin-snips, her gloves, her hammer, and three metal punches. Each had a different purpose. The one she used for detail work was the size of her longest finger. The second was about the size of her hand. The last, which she used to punch holes in iron sheets, was a foot long and sharp as a needle. She’d used these tools every day for almost a year. Each had become an extension of her body, and as with any job that needed doing, Roan’s hands found the appropriate tools without having to be told. As darkness began to close in from the edges of her sight, she placed the point of the metal punch on the neat little dent in the Fhrey’s breastplate. One strike from Banger the Heavy sent the spike through the armor.
After the first swing, the pressure on her throat eased.
After the second strike, it disappeared altogether.
* * *
—
Suri saw a Fhrey grab Roan and throttle her like a doll, only to collapse, unmoving, a second later. All around, people fought in a blur of movement and muffled sounds. Frost landed a blow with a hammer, shattering a Fhrey leg. Flood was hit and fell beside the forge. Rain put the point of his pick through the back of the Fhrey that had attacked Tressa. Bodies, both human and Fhrey, filled the courtyard, soft twisted lumps of cloth and flesh amidst the broken stone and splintered wood. Farther out, the city burned. Smoke, black and sooty, swirled in gusts, rising toward a pale sky. Morning was creeping in unannounced behind dark clouds.
The big dome had collapsed. The corbel bridge was still there, but the top of the Kype was gone. The Gilarabrywn was digging into it like a bear into a beehive. As she watched, people were tossed out, but these bees didn’t have wings, and the bodies plummeted. Suri was too far away to see if the Gilarabrywn was being careful. She had no idea if that rain was human, friendly Fhrey, or enemy elf.
She hadn’t given specific orders to it other than to fight in defense of the fortress. She trusted that, like the one born of Minna, this new Gilarabrywn possessed understanding and a good degree of self-determination. The fact that it flew straight to the Kype and Persephone suggested it had that and maybe something more.
A flood of Fhrey spilled out the door at the bottom of the Kype. They retreated across the damaged corbel bridge. The Gilarabrywn dove from its perch on a corner of the Kype’s ruined roof and a blast of fire shot from its mouth. The spray of flames created animated torches, some of whom jumped off the bridge, leaving bright streaks of light in their wake.
Like fireflies, she thought.
Suri was still staring in shock when Tressa seized her by the arm and jerked her up. “Get off the damn floor and do something!”
Suri didn’t have to do anything. As the Fhrey closed in, she instinctively tugged on the leash. She hadn’t realized there was one—a static connection between her and the Gilarabrywn—until that moment. She realized then that she’d performed a similar tug in Neith when the raow had grabbed her. She and her creations were linked, and her need became its concern.
The Gilarabrywn fanned out its great wings and took flight. One thrump and it dove.
As it did, Suri closed her eyes and repeated in her head, Don’t kill us all!
* * *
—
“What in Ferrol’s name is that?” the fane asked.
He sat in the big chair they had brought from Estramnadon. Made of gold and velvet, his portable throne was mounted on a wooden base that had been anchored into the ground with spikes to ensure the several-hundred-pound seat didn’t tilt.
“Is that…is that a dragon?” The fane directed his question to the Spiders. The three Fhrey had returned to working in tandem, humming softly and rocking in a synchronized motion. At the question, they stopped just in time to see it breathe fire.
“That’s not possible,” Onya said. At least Mawyndulë thought that was her name. She’d been just one of the many Miralyith faces seen on the trip, but after the first day’s disaster, she had risen in stature.
Up to that point, everything had been going well. The bridges had been completed without incident, and the fane had sent one of the remaining four Spiders across them with Rigarus, Haderas, and half of the remaining Shahdi. This left father and son on the hill in front of the big tent with Sile and Synne, three Spiders, and Taraneh with his twelve ornately dressed members of the Lion Corps. Mawyndulë was certain most positions in the corps were filled according to political favor rather than martial prowess, and he doubted the Lions could be relied on for anything more than staking tents.
After the calamity of the day before, everyone had held their breaths as they watched the invasion. Mawyndulë’s father hadn’t even looked. He’d stood up and paced. Sile and Synne walked with him. The fane had walked off into the darkness behind the tent twice, only to return and sit back down.
The bridges had held.
The Shahdi had crossed, and the moment they did, the remaining three Spiders, who were freed of their responsibilities to guard the spans, began a barrage of attacks intended to soften the army’s path. Progress had been slower tha
n his father had hoped, as evidenced by his constant complaints during the passing hours.
When the servants had dished out a late-night meal of cold meat and day-old bread, he and his father had listened to Taraneh explain that Alon Rhist was designed to make it difficult for an assault. Narrow pathways and plenty of bridges and stairs created choke points and gave defenders the advantage. From their vantage point, Mawyndulë had watched as the Shahdi began by clearing most of the city before scaling the stairs to the fortress. Despite the Spider his father had sent with them, the advancement had taken hours just to reach the upper courtyard.
Mawyndulë had been allowed one small part in the battle. With Jerydd’s siphoned power and his father’s guidance, he used Avempartha and shook the ground on the far side of the chasm. His part in the weave had been minor. Lothian just used him as a conduit; nevertheless, father and son had shared a rare moment of joy when the dome finally caved in.
“That’s more like it,” the fane had said while sitting back in his chair.
As morning approached and lightened the sky, his father called for wine. “I think this problem is finally solved.”
Then the dragon had appeared.
At first, it was only a dark shadow against the bright fires, and Mawyndulë wasn’t certain what he was seeing. All that changed when it breathed its own fire.
“What is it, then?” the fane asked.
Several heartbeats of silence went by. This wasn’t unusual for the Spiders. There was always a delay when talking to them.
“We don’t know,” Onya finally replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re holding hands and chanting. You’re supposed to be monitoring your web. You should be able to tell me everything.”
“It’s not a creature of blood and bone. It’s a light.”
“A light?”
“It appears as a terribly bright light. Something none of us has ever seen before.”
“What’s this light doing?”
“It’s killing our soldiers.”
The fane scowled. “Then destroy it.”
“Yes, my fane,” Onya said, and the tiny circle of Spiders began to chant. In general, most Miralyith at a certain level preferred storm Art. Mawyndulë, on the other hand, was partial to fire, even though nearly all of his tribe considered it mundane or even childish. He just enjoyed the sense of power, the ease of the draw and release. Storms were more complicated and took far longer to prepare, and he never thought the results were all that impressive.
“My fane.” Taraneh pointed to the north at a rider racing across the plain.
The rider was one of the Wolf scouts. He wore no armor, just his wolf helm and blue cape. Lothian set his wine down and stood up. Reaching the encampment, the rider thundered to a stop, dismounted, and ran forward to kneel at the fane’s feet.
“What is it?” Lothian asked.
“My fane, a large army approaches from the southeast.”
“An…an army?” the fane said with a baffled expression, as he looked to those around him for answers.
“The Gula-Rhunes, my fane.”
“How many?” Taraneh asked.
“Many thousands, my lord.”
“There!” Synne said, pointing with her quick hands.
Revealed by the first light of the brightening dawn, a large host of Rhunes appeared, cresting the distant hill. As the Fhrey watched, the Rhune army split into two groups, half making for Alon Rhist, the others wheeling in their direction. Even divided, the number of Rhunes facing them was overwhelming. There weren’t just thousands, but tens of thousands, and they did not walk in rows but in a mass, a jumble like a herd of deer. Even at that distance, Mawyndulë heard their shouts, an awful constant roar as they gleefully charged down the slope.
“You didn’t see them?” Lothian asked the Spiders.
“We were concentrating on the battle in the fortress, my fane.”
“Blind fools!”
“Do you still wish us to—”
“Forget the dragon, destroy the army!”
* * *
—
Everyone who could run did, including Roan. The Gilarabrywn was supposed to be on their side, but trust wasn’t one of Roan’s virtues. She’d spent a lifetime learning better ways to hide. Since the beast was three stories tall, had a wingspan of about ninety feet, teeth in excess of a foot long, and the newly revealed ability to breathe fire, Roan didn’t need any further incentive. When the Gilarabrywn landed in the courtyard, everyone scattered. She hadn’t seen Suri leave, but after all it was her creation.
The foolish had advanced to attack it.
Not foolish, Roan decided. They’re brave. They just don’t know what they’re doing.
After getting far enough away for comfort, Roan turned. She’d never seen a Gilarabrywn in daylight. Scales she had remembered as black were more a dark green. They glistened like metal—acted like it, too. Swords and spears did nothing, and Fhrey soldiers died, crushed or devoured. Oblivious and terrified, some of the men attacked as well. The beast ignored them the way a big dog might act with a bratty toddler. There was still danger. The Gilarabrywn was huge and powerful. Every movement brought havoc. A swish of its tail demolished walls, crushing those nearby. The flip of its wings raised a dust storm that blinded and choked.
There were only two exits out of the courtyard—one down a stair through the rubble to the city, and the other up a stair toward the big domed building that led toward the Kype. Roan ran for the safety of the Kype. She had hoped to join Persephone, Brin, and Moya, but the big dome had collapsed, making passage through the rotunda impossible. Now, the only way up was the narrow stairs that led around. Going that way was slow and jammed with people. Those trapped at the base were being slaughtered.
There has to be a better way.
I could hide.
As she looked around for a crevice to crawl into, another Fhrey soldier spotted her alone and in the open. She caught the glint of a smile on his face—that same Iver-smile she’d seen so many times in the past. This one—who still had a helm that was made to look like the head of a bear—was drenched in blood, a lavish splatter that added crimson to the copper-hued armor as it beaded on the surface, running down in tears.
He walked toward her.
She walked away, hoping he wasn’t really interested in her.
He started jogging.
She ran.
The stair leading up was a deathtrap, and hiding was no longer possible, so Roan started toward the beast, hoping it would know who she was. But at that moment, the Gilarabrywn flew off. This left only one option—the stairs down to the city. That way was disturbingly empty.
This is not a good idea. This is not a good idea. This is not a good idea.
“Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate!” she yelled at herself. “Can’t you see I’m running down steps?”
Reaching the bottom, she found the streets to the city blocked by rubble. Roan had no choice but to follow the path to the lower courtyard, which, like the upper, had been pummeled to pebbles. She had a good start on the Fhrey. He was halfway across the yard when they began the race, and he was slowed by armor, a sword, and shield.
Maybe he’s given up and gone after easier prey?
She didn’t bother to look, though, didn’t need to; Roan heard the clap of shoulder plates behind her.
When she hit the lower courtyard, Roan took advantage of the open field and sprinted hard. Her only hope was distance. Rabbits survived by becoming too much effort to chase, and Roan planned to be one bothersome bunny. For the first time, she regretted her tool belt. The many utensils slowed her down as they flapped and swung.
Bodies were everywhere, human and Fhrey lying side by side. She tried not to look at the faces, didn’t want to see some
one she knew.
Roan ran past the Speech Rock, heading toward the only open route available—the front gate, or what was left of it. Somewhere in the depths of her desperate mind she saw it as salvation, a finish line, a point of escape, even though there was no door to close, no brace to throw, no wall to hide behind, and the enemy army had its camp on the far side of the gorge. In reality, there were just two big bronze gates lying on the ground beside the residue of a stone wall, but a goal was a goal.
Leaving the fortress is a really, really, really bad idea.
“Shut up!”
Behind her, the Fhrey let out a grunt. He was still after her and closer than ever.
Roan felt her legs growing tired. Worse, she was having trouble breathing. She just couldn’t pull in enough air.
I’m going to die.
Roan passed the fallen bronze doors and the collapsed ramparts that had become massive stones of broken architecture. Ahead of her, all that was left was the ford where seven magically made stone bridges stitched the two sides of the chasm together. She was running for the center one, but running was an optimistic term for what she was doing. She’d been steadily slowing down, her flight reduced to little more than a jog by the time she could see into the chasm. Despite the dark clouds overhead, there was a gap at the horizon, and the brilliant yellow face of the sun shone through that opening. As she ran due east, the piercing light blinded her to nearly everything that lay ahead. What she did see was an army and the silhouette of a warrior on horseback riding across the center bridge.
I’m trapped.
The race was over. As if to punctuate this, lightning began flashing out of the sky, striking on the far side of the chasm. The turmoil in the heavens, the shouts and cries of men, the cracks and booms all told the same story.
No point in running anymore.
Age of War Page 39
