Age of War: Book Three of The Legends of the First Empire

by Michael J. Sullivan

  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.

  She knows. No one told her, but she knows what happened.

  Persephone had spent the winter watching Suri blossom. The most noticeable change came with the first snows when beyond all expectations Arion persuaded Suri to abandon her old filthy dress and ruddy wool cape for an asica. The transformation was remarkable. The onetime feral mystic, who had all the fashion sense of a hedgehog, had become a swan. She hadn’t conceded completely. Arion had wanted to shave Suri’s head, but the girl had refused. They compromised on her taking regular baths, which had done wonders. Only the tattoos remained of the mystic’s former self, but even they looked different. With Suri dressed in the formal robe, what had once appeared as just another bizarre ornament now lent an aura of mystery and worldly wisdom.

  “The fane blew out our signal,” Nyphron told her.

  Arion moved to the window and peered out. “Of course he did. Are you saying you didn’t expect that?”

  Nyphron frowned.

  “The signal was my idea,” Persephone said.

  “But you aren’t an experienced military commander. Nyphron should have known better and warned you.”

  “My experience is against normal adversaries. I’m not accustomed to magical warfare. Besides, the thing only needed to burn for a little while.”

  Persephone had never seen Nyphron offer excuses before. They rattled him. Now he’s wondering what else he missed.

  “Welcome to your first lesson.” She faced Persephone. “You want me to make a new one,” Arion said, not a question, but an understanding, an acknowledgment. Arion and Suri were both a little eerie that way.

  Persephone had asked Suri once if she was learning to read people’s minds. The mystic shook her head and replied, I’m learning to read the mind of the world.

  “What do you think, Suri?” Arion asked.

  Arion did that a lot, too. In every instance where they called Arion in for advice, she always made Suri answer first. The mystic paused and thought a moment. She moved to the window and looked out, then turned back and shook her head.

  “Why?” Arion asked.

  “Pointless and dangerous.”

  Arion smiled at her apprentice, then turned to Nyphron and Persephone. “Jerydd, or whoever they have leading the Spiders, is watching. They’re looking for two things. A new fire—that they will blow out—and me. Can’t see me now. Might not even know I’m here. But if I use the Art, they will.” She glanced at Nyphron. “You’ll lose your precious advantage of surprise as they alter their battle plans to include me, or they’ll just launch another attack and try to do to me what they did to that tower. Honestly, I believe they’re hoping I’ll try.”

  Nyphron was nodding, his face tense and thoughtful.

  “And the same applies to Suri?” Persephone asked.

  “More so. She’s your real secret weapon.”

  “So, no signal,” Persephone said.

  “Can’t we just send someone to Perdif?” Padera asked.

  “Perdif is forty miles away,” Nyphron replied. “Take a person two days just to get there. Two more days for the army to get back. I’m optimistic, but even I don’t think the fane will delay his attack that long.”

  “Naraspur,” Arion said.

  Persephone assumed this was a Fhrey word she wasn’t familiar with, but she saw just as much puzzlement in Nyphron’s eyes.

  “Naraspur is the horse I rode here. I left Naraspur with Petragar. If she’s still here, someone could ride—”

  “Alon Rhist has a dozen horses,” Nyphron said, then began shaking his head. “But being a fortress, the Rhist is designed to be hard to invade. A natural cliff protects the citadel and the city below, and we have only the one, well-fortified gate. To escape, a rider would need to cross the Grandford Bridge. There’s just no other way for a horse to leave, and the fane’s army is camped on the far side. Our messenger would be required to ride through a thousand Fhrey.”

  Arion frowned. “And the Spiders will kill anyone leaving the fortress. Especially on a horse, and for the same reason they destroyed the tower.”

  “I can’t ask my people to commit suicide, not when…” Nyphron looked at Persephone. “So far, the rest of the Instarya are innocent of my crimes. If we fail, there’s a chance at least that the fane will punish me and pardon them.”

  “What about a human?” Padera asked. She had dropped the towel back in the basin, throwing her full attention to the conversation. “What about a Rhune?”

  Nyphron replied to Persephone rather than Padera. “A Rhune would stand far less of a chance. Members of the fane’s army might hesitate to kill another Fhrey, but they would have no such qualms with a Rhune. And there isn’t a Rhune alive that can ride a horse.” He looked as if he were going to say more, then stopped.

  “What?” Persephone asked.

  Nyphron looked pained. “I am embarrassed to say we Fhrey are not above petty amusements. Rhunes have been forced onto the backs of horses as entertainment. It never ended well. No Rhune has ever managed to sit on a horse, much less ride one.”

  “Never?” Padera asked, but the tone of her voice was odd, as if this was a good thing.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just that humans don’t have the required agility.”

  Arion nodded. “He’s right. Riding a horse isn’t easy. It is, in point of fact, dangerous.”

  “Racing through a camp of a thousand Fhrey, some of them Miralyith, would be impossible for anyone,” Nyphron explained.

  “It would be a race, wouldn’t it?” Padera said. “A race for the fate of all our people.”

  Nyphron sighed and leaned against the wall. “Suicide is what it would be.”

  “But if someone could do it—if someone could cross that bridge and get past the army…” Padera looked in Persephone’s direction but not at her. That one visible eye seemed out of focus, searching for something else entirely.

  “It would be a miracle,” Nyphron told her.

  “Yes, but if they did, could they make a difference?”

  “If they did, and if they rode hard, they might reach Perdif in less than a day—half a day maybe, though it might kill the horse, and honestly, wishful thinking would be more likely to work. But if you’d like to find candidates to try it…”

  “No,” Persephone replied. “I won’t ask anyone to throw their life away.”

  “Of course,” Padera said, “trying to ride a horse through that camp is something only a fool with nothing to lose would even think of.”

  “And we aren’t that desperate,” Persephone said. “We still have walls, near equal numbers, and our secret weapons.” She looked at Arion and Suri.

  Moya came back in. “Good news,” she said and pulled Brin in behind her.

  Seeing the girl safe and unharmed, Persephone smiled. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be doing much of that anymore.

  * * *

  —

  “That should wake them up.” The fane sat on the ornate chair, which had been placed in the dusty field. A dozen Fhrey had stomped down the yellow grass around him so that blowing tassels wouldn’t bother the ruler of the Fhrey. He wore a smug smile as he stretched out his feet and folded his arms. “It’ll make it hard for them to sleep toni
ght, too. In the morning, we’ll finish the task.”

  The Spiders continued to hum and chant, and Kasimer wove his fingers at the tower across the chasm.

  “No sign of her?” the fane asked.

  “Arion is not foolish,” was all Kasimer replied.

  “She turned against her fane in favor of a bunch of barbarians,” Mawyndulë said. “She prevented me from rendering justice on Gryndal’s murderer. How exactly would you classify that? Wise?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Lothian’s mouth, and in his father’s eyes, Mawyndulë thought he saw, for just a brief moment, a glimmer of…something. Pride?

  Well said, Jerydd spoke in his head, and Mawyndulë nearly jumped. Always in the past, Mawyndulë had initiated their conversations. He opened the link. As a result, Mawyndulë had come to believe that only he could establish their connection. Mawyndulë found it disconcerting to discover the kel could be listening to all his conversations. Kasimer means well. What he should have said is that Arion is not to be underestimated. That she’s dangerous and cunning—which she most certainly is. You made points with your father, but it is better to have Kasimer on your side than against you. Let him off the hook and build a bridge.

  Mawyndulë considered this for a moment, then said, “I think you meant to say she’s not to be underestimated, which I agree is very good counsel.”

  This brought a new look from the fane, one of surprise and accompanied by a smile.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” Kasimer said. Then he, too, looked at Mawyndulë and nodded at him. Mawyndulë had never seen the gesture before. A solemn look had accompanied the bowed head, and the prince realized it was an expression of respect, perhaps even a thank-you, like the little bow that fencers made at the end of a session.

  See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? As fane, you’ll need people like Kasimer.

  Mawyndulë fought the urge to nod.

  Now you really should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day, and it’ll start early.

  Normally, Mawyndulë would chafe at being told to go to bed, but it was different when a voice inside his head said so. He knew it was Jerydd, who was sitting in his study in Avempartha, probably sipping wine with his feet up much the same as his father. But coming from his head, it felt like his own thoughts. Jerydd was also a secret, and what good was a secret if he didn’t take advantage of it?

  Get some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll kill Arion.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Race Begins

  If there is one thing I have learned, it is that people will astound you. But the moment they do, or shortly after, you will realize you should not have been surprised. Ultimately, the problem was you, not them.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The first thought that entered Gifford’s head as Padera shook him awake was that the Tetlin Witch was real—real and trying to kill him.

  “Wake up, you lazy fool!” she whispered in the darkness of Hopeless House.

  “I’m not lazy. It’s the middle of the night!” Gifford replied in a hushed voice as he tried to avoid waking Habet, Mathias, and Gelston. Unlike Brin’s new home, which had separate rooms, Hopeless House consisted of just one. “Why is you—”

  “It’s time,” she said, letting go.

  Gifford lay on his bed, looking up at her in the darkened room of snores. “Time fo’ what?”

  “Your race.”

  Gifford sat up, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. The old hag was nuts. This time she actually looked crazy. In moonlight that entered one window and slashed the side of her face, Padera was pale, her hair and eyes wild. He’d never seen the old woman so animated, so intense. It scared him.

  “Time for you to fulfill your destiny, boy—to run faster than any man ever has.”

  “Yew insane, old woman.”

  “And you’re going to win this race because I’m going to give you magic legs.”

  Magic legs? She really is the Tetlin Witch!

  Far stronger than he imagined, Padera grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him up.

  “Have you been dwinking?”

  “It all makes sense now,” Padera yammered, more to herself than to him as she continued to pull him along toward the door. She had hold of his wrist, but if he had resisted, Gifford suspected she would have grabbed his ear. “You had to be crippled; you had to suffer; you had to have nothing worth living for. I was such a fool to doubt. Tura was right. She was right all along.”

  “Where you going, Giff?” Habet asked in a groggy voice.

  “He’s going to save mankind,” Padera replied.

  “Okay.” Habet turned over and went back to sleep.

  “Can I get my shoes?”

  “You won’t need them.” The old woman cackled. She was so much like a witch he shivered.

  The Tetlin Witch has come for me at last.

  “We need to hurry; we need to see Roan.”

  “See Woan? Why didn’t you say that to begin with?”

  The two made a fearful sight hobbling together through the dark streets of the city, a pair of goblins out for a stroll. The avenues were cold, the night biting, and he cursed first Padera and then himself for not taking time to grab a wrap and his shoes. After they left the Rhune District, Gifford spotted a few Fhrey watching them from a distance. The old and the twisted must be quite the novelty to their perfect eyes.

  Monsters on parade. They invaded their homes, took their city, and wandered their streets. See, honey, that’s why mommy told you never to go out alone. See them there? See how horrible they are?

  In reality, he never heard them say a word as they passed. Those were just the sorts of things Gifford always imagined people saying about him. Usually, he was right.

  Is that part of the magic, too? Can I actually hear their thoughts somehow?

  He still wasn’t sure if he could swallow all of what Arion had told him about his being a magician, his ability to wield cosmic power. Gifford, who had been the butt of jokes and tormented since birth, wasn’t easily duped, but a few things didn’t make sense. Why would Arion, a high-ranking Fhrey whom he’d never spoken to before, seek him out just to lie? What little he knew of her, and of Suri, suggested they weren’t the sort to mislead or make fun of others. Persephone trusted them, and Gifford had always respected the keenig’s opinion.

  So, why did she do it?

  After they left, he’d tried boiling water, catching twigs on fire. Nothing even got warm. He was positive she’d lied to him—just couldn’t understand why. This unanswerable question, this strange doubt left the door of possibility open just a crack, just enough so that whenever anything unusual did happen, he wondered.

  To a man with so little, hope is a barrel of ale. It alleviates pain for a time, becomes a crutch, but it also ruins what little good a person might otherwise squeeze out of life. Gifford wanted to think he was special. He wanted to believe that somehow the gods had a plan, and all his suffering was for a reason. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it was true. Those were dreams that ended in nightmares.

  The pair was stopped at the lower gate by two Fhrey guards who had never been there before.

  “I’m personal healer to Keenig Persephone, and this is my grandson who helps me,” Padera told the soldiers.

  “Helps you with what?” one asked, looking Gifford over skeptically.

  Gifford smiled at him. He’d heard the same from hundreds of others. What good could he possibly be?

  “It’s true,” the other guard said. “She’s the Rhune healer. Padera, right? She was at the Kype earlier, after the keenig was attacked.”

  Persephone was attacked? Gifford stared at the guards, neither of whom was looking at them anymore.

  “What happened?” the first guard asked.

  “Raow gutted her,” said the second.
>
  “What!” Gifford shouted, surprising everyone.

  “She’ll be fine.” Padera grabbed his arm again. “But I need to see Roan at the smithy, get some more needles from her. Are we free to go?” she asked the Fhrey.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Padera jerked him forward. “Keep walking. You’re slow enough as it is, and you don’t have much time. There’s so much we still have to do.”

  “What is we doing?” Gifford asked as he hobbled after her up the slope.

  “Roan and I are going to make you a hero.”

  And I thought I’m supposed to be the magician!

  They entered the smithy, and even at that late hour, it was no surprise to see Roan hammering on the anvil. What shocked Gifford was that Frost, Flood, and Rain were there as well. Each of them rushed with a terrible urgency.

  As Gifford entered, they all paused to stare at him. Each showed the same horrible expression of sympathy. Roan looked as if she might burst into tears.

  “Okay, will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “The elven army has arrived,” Padera said as Frost trotted over with a length of string and began measuring the width of Gifford’s shoulders. “Hundreds of them have fanned out in front of the Grandford Bridge, maybe more. Hard to tell in the dark. They’ll likely attack at dawn.”

  “Oh, holy Ma-we, you sewious?”

  “Thirty-three,” Frost shouted.

  “Thirty-three,” Flood repeated.

  “What’s more,” the old woman went on, “the signal fire that was supposed to let our army know it’s time to come to our aid was blown away by elven magic.”

  Frost lifted Gifford’s arm and stretched the string down his side. “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen,” Flood echoed.

  “We’re all trapped here and will certainly be slaughtered to the last man, woman, and child unless the signal fire at Perdif is set alight.”

  Frost drew the string around Gifford’s waist. “Twenty-nine.”