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

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Then from behind him Raithe heard Moya. “Close enough.”

  * * *

  —

  The shot would be uphill, not at all ideal. There was also a wind, but not a whirlwind. If the Fhrey had had any idea what was coming, they might have raised a hurricane. Of course, if the Fhrey knew what was coming, Moya and her archers would have been charred in some magical fire. Instead, it was just the normal spring blow coming across the plateau, and Moya knew how to compensate.

  “Aim just to the right of the hill!” she shouted over the cry of metal and men. “Don’t watch the fly. As soon as you loose, fit the next shaft and draw!”

  She clapped an arrow against the carved wood of Audrey’s face, fitting the notch into the string. “Draw deep, aim high!” she shouted.

  In five rows, fifty archers raised their bows and pulled. She heard the combined creak of wood, the angry growl of vengeful trees.

  “Loose!” she yelled, and in one chorus, half a century of iron-tipped shafts flew.

  “Load!” Moya shouted instantly. She already had her next arrow fitted. “Draw! Loose!”

  The second volley was in the air before the first landed. From a distance and under the cloud-covered sky, the flights of arrows appeared like dark sheets of rain falling on Wolf’s Head where a ring of Fhrey writhed and chanted. Too far to hear them over the closer chaos, Moya watched robes crumple. Those not hit looked up, confused, only to spot another shower of arrows.

  Wolf’s Head became a barren rock.

  Freed up from her required assignment, Moya looked around. Two giants charged Raithe’s line. They came on like bull moose, but many times larger. One on the left held two stone hammers. One on the right wore what looked to be a great metal pot on his head.

  “Giants!” Moya cried, and pivoted her aim. Fifty archers mimicked her. “Draw! Loose!”

  The burst of shafts didn’t have far to travel this time. Nearly every arrow found its target, and the left giant dropped, as if he’d slammed into a wall.

  The remaining giant reached the line and smashed through, wading into the formation and bashing men aside with a massive hammer. Moya watched as Wedon and Raithe were both struck and swept aside. They flew into Malcolm, and all of them went down.

  Next up were the Killian boys, Wedon, and Tope’s younger sons, who tried to stab at his legs but failed. The giant charged the archers, breaking through the lines of men as if they were waves on a beach.

  “Draw!” Moya shouted, and heard the reassuring yawn of wood. She had no need to give the target; everyone saw the charging hulk looming overhead. “Loose!”

  Fifty arrows leapt from strings with a stuttered thwack!

  Moya’s shot entered the giant’s right eye. Others pierced his throat, mouth, and chest. Dead before the fall, the giant collapsed a few feet in front of Moya. The huge pot-helmet—the size of a bathtub—skipped and rolled, stopping at her feet.

  Moya put a foot on its rim and prepared for another flight against the Spider Corps, but Wolf’s Head remained empty of targets.

  Lines of battle were a memory. The fight slipped into the chaos of a haphazard brawl where men paired off with elves, and the two sides mixed. In these one-on-one contests, the elves held the advantage, and Moya watched as more and more human bodies covered the grass.

  Looking back at the walls of Alon Rhist, Moya spotted red banners.

  “Fall back!” she shouted. “Grab the wounded and fall back to the fortress!”

  Bergin lifted his head at the sound of her shout, then yelled, “Third rank, form up and bear the retreat!”

  They tried to re-form. Bergin, the onetime brewer of bad beer, valiantly called to those around him to square shoulders, but the battle had moved beyond tactics. With the lines broken and spread out, death was certain. All that remained was for the elves to press their advantage.

  They didn’t.

  In stunned wonder, Moya watched as the Fhrey let them go. Just as eager to disengage, the Fhrey fell back. A horn was blowing from the tents on the plateau. How long has that been sounding? Moya had no idea, but elves were falling back, and no more giants came their way. Grabbing their own wounded and dead, the forces of Alon Rhist withdrew from the field. Only then did Moya notice how it had changed. The whole plain that had once been a dull dirty yellow of sunbaked grass and bare dirt was scarlet red. Blood shimmered under the full face of a midday sun shining in a clear sky.

  Midday? But it’s just morning? It still has to be. I’m soaked with dew.

  Moya looked and discovered it wasn’t dew. Only then did the full force of the battle arrive. She’d seen the men dying, seen the blood, but until the clash of metal quieted and the screams became moans, until she had the chance to recognize the smell in her nose as blood, none of it had seemed real. With the warmth of the overhead sun, while standing in a field thick with bodies, Moya felt sick. Her hands shook, her legs weakened, but she managed to keep walking. She focused on the bridge, on the ford, and the great bronze gates of Alon Rhist.

  The first day of the Battle of Grandford was over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Casualties

  We called it a victory the way in late winter we would call a bowl of thin soup a feast.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Mawyndulë had watched the battle at his father’s side. The two had stood in front of the fane’s tent where tables and chairs had been set up, spread with bowls of fresh berries, cheese, wine, and bread. Everyone had expected a party with a show—a display to entertain the fane. By midday, the tables had been knocked over, the berries scattered on the ground.

  “What happened?” Lothian asked in a voice so calm it was eerie.

  Before him stood a member of the Spider Corps, a middle-aged Miralyith holding a stick. Mawyndulë didn’t know his name. His white asica had been sprayed red on one side, as if a huge bag of red wine had burst beside him. But the color wasn’t right—less purple, more scarlet.

  “We don’t—” He faltered, reached up, and wiped his face, leaving a smear of blood across his brow. “Aren’t sure. Everything…everything was…it was fine—working as planned, I mean. Then nothing worked. Same as when that rider came through. The lightning didn’t kill and the fire didn’t…nothing worked at all—” He gasped for breath and ran the same hand through his hair leaving another streak of red.

  Just stop touching your face! Mawyndulë thought, grimacing. I have to look at you.

  “We couldn’t understand it,” the blood-covered Spider continued. “Then everyone just fell dead. I remember hearing a…a whistle, this wisp of air, and then everyone collapsed. No, not everyone, I guess. Some tried to run, only we didn’t know where. We didn’t know what was happening. It wasn’t the Art. We sensed nothing—absolutely nothing. And a second later I saw them, these tiny spears falling out of the sky. I saw one go through Kasimer’s skull.” He held out a stick that was thin and straight, with feathers on one end and a metal tip on the other. “This is what killed us.”

  Mawyndulë’s father didn’t touch it. He just stared in disgust. “How many? How many Spiders are still alive?”

  “Five, but Lym might not survive. He has one of these through his chest.”

  “They knew just how to hit us,” Taraneh said. The Lion commander scowled, looking out at the field where bodies were being dragged.

  “Of course they did,” the fane snapped. “They had Arion and that Instarya rebel directing their assault. What about her? Did you kill her?”

  The Spider shook his head. “We searched, cast nets, but found nothing. She didn’t appear to take part in the battle.”

  Probably too terrified, Mawyndulë thought. She hid in that fortress, quivering now that the fane had come. That was the way with teachers, so smart when bullying a student, but in the real world that didn’t work. Arion only knew how to juggle, make string patte
rns, and berate students for not paying attention. She was in trouble, and she knew it. Swim out too deep, and I’m going to help pull you down.

  Mawyndulë stared at the stick in the Spider’s hand. Not the one that killed Kasimer. The wood was clean; the point had a bit of dirt on it—so small and thin, just a tiny javelin. He could snap it in half, and yet these had decimated the Spider Corps in seconds. Mawyndulë couldn’t help feeling shocked. Death was still a new concept for him, and the death of Miralyith was particularly disturbing.

  How would it feel to have one of these sticks penetrate my skull?

  And yet, Mawyndulë hadn’t known any of the dead. He’d seen their faces, heard them speak to each other, but just as at home in the Talwara, Mawyndulë didn’t socialize much. He actually juggled better than he made friends. Several years before, after a failed attempt to interest one of the younger guards in a game of Snakes and Hawks, he came to the sound conclusion that he shouldn’t have friends. As heir to the Forest Throne, it was better that he didn’t, less chance of favoritism that way. Mawyndulë saw it as his sacrifice for his people. Isolation was his gift. His experience with Makareta had chiseled that notion in stone. And once Jerydd started yakking in his head, he actively avoided others so he could talk back and not be viewed as insane. Outside of his father, the only one he spoke to was Treya. After his first trip abroad with Gryndal, he insisted that his servant join him. Mawyndulë was tired of fetching his own meals.

  Arion was involved. There’s no other way they could have managed it. Jerydd’s voice startled Mawyndulë once again, although the only outward sign was a slight wince.

  “Something wrong?” his father asked.

  “No—just, well, it’s disturbing.”

  His father nodded, looking at the tiny spear in the Spider’s hand.

  You don’t have to keep me a secret. Your father might actually like to know you wield the might of Avempartha, especially now that most of his Spiders are dead.

  “They took down the giants with these as well,” Taraneh said. “I would think they could kill our soldiers even easier, and from such a distance, our troops could do nothing but act as targets. I imagine when we try to attack those walls, they will line the parapets and rain death on everyone who approaches. I would.”

  “How did they block the Art?” the fane asked. “Why didn’t the lightning and fire affect them?”

  I understand. You like the secret. You enjoy being special.

  “Fetch a Rhune helm for the fane!” Taraneh shouted.

  One of the Bear Legion soldiers trotted over carrying a bloody helm.

  “Show him the inside.”

  The Bear spun the helmet around. Mawyndulë expected a gory mess, but the interior was clean. A strap and buckle hung from it and the inside netting was riveted, but underneath the netting were markings.

  “Notice the runes?”

  “Dherg markings,” Lothian said. “The Dherg were rumored to have discovered a way to block the Art, something they called the Orinfar. We never knew what it was, only that their little underground warrens resisted us.”

  “These could be it.”

  “Dhergs, Instarya, tutors—is everyone helping these Rhunes? How massive is this confederacy?”

  “Clearly, they are not as simpleminded as previously believed. This war appears well planned. I think there may be a real danger here, my fane.”

  Lothian took the stick from the Spider. “Obviously there is a danger.”

  “No, my fane, I meant…” He hesitated. “I think there is a chance we could lose.”

  Lose. That one word hung in a field of following silence. Those few who weren’t looking—the servants cleaning up the mess of berries, the Spider Corps representative who had been trying to clean himself with his asica, even Synne and Sile, who continued to flank his father—all stopped and stared first at Taraneh, then at Lothian.

  The fane huffed in disregard. “This is only the first day. Battles in my mother’s time lasted weeks; some dragged into months.”

  “I don’t mean to say that I think we will—or even that it is anything but an extremely remote possibility—but given what we saw today, I feel it is no longer the impossibility it had been. And I would like to advise caution where previously I saw no need.”

  “We were taken by surprise today,” his father said. “We’ll do better tomorrow. There are ways around the Orinfar.”

  We’ll do better tomorrow, too, Jerydd told him. Once Arion is dead, everything will be easier. Tomorrow, we go hunting.

  * * *

  —

  Raithe’s left arm was broken, his shield a crumpled mess. Malcolm, who survived the battle without a scratch, had helped him back inside, and the two collapsed near the steps in the lower courtyard. Dying of thirst, battered and bruised, Raithe was surprised to hear cheering. All around them in the courtyard, up on the parapet on the surrounding battlements, and from the windows, people were shouting, hooting, hugging each other, and praising the return of the bloody mess of men.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “I thought we lost.”

  “Maybe not,” Malcolm said. “We are alive, after all.”

  “Looked like that hurt,” said Tesh as he rushed up with a bucket of water and a cup.

  Raithe regretted every bad thing he’d ever said to the boy. The kid knew exactly what was needed. Splashing his face with his good arm, he relished the cool water. It made him sigh and wonder if he ought to just dump the whole thing over his head. He might have if both arms had worked. Instead, he took the cup and drank. “Saw it, did you?”

  “Was with the rest up on the parapet.”

  “I suppose you would have dodged or done some fantastic back flip, or blocked the blow somehow.”

  Tesh thought a moment. “I’m not sure there is a way to block a sledgehammer the size of a house.”

  The kid was smiling, a big wide grin. Raithe took a moment to understand. He’s proud of me—proud and relieved. Raithe hadn’t seen that before, certainly not in his father’s eyes. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of what he meant to Tesh. The kid he’d allowed to share his fire under the wool, the wild animal he’d tamed with discarded bones, had latched onto him more deeply than he’d believed possible.

  “Now you went and did it, didn’t you?” Padera hobbled over with a bag slung on one shoulder. “Broke that arm good.” She set the bag down and pulled out boards and cloth straps. As she did, a smile formed.

  “Why is everyone so happy?” Raithe asked. “Have the elves left?”

  The old woman shook her head. “You didn’t die.”

  Malcolm and Raithe exchanged looks.

  “Doesn’t seem cheer-worthy,” Raithe replied as he struggled to put his back to the stone wall near the steps.

  Tesh laughed. The kid was giddy enough to be drunk. The moment the thought appeared, Raithe wanted beer. Dear Mari, a foaming cup would be marvelous.

  Padera pointed toward the front gate where worn, weary, and blood-covered men were still dragging themselves in. “This is the first clash. The first time men have ever fought Fhrey. No one knew what would happen.”

  Tesh was nodding emphatically. “Nyphron himself—he was standing next to me on the parapet—he said, ‘This will decide it all.’ Even he didn’t know.”

  “You did great,” Padera said as she felt his arm, squeezing here and there. “Walloped them good.” Padera pressed on the broken bone. “Ah, there we are. Not bad, not too bad at all.” She stretched his arm out and slipped a board underneath.

  “You got the Miralyith like you were supposed to and proved men could fight. Nyphron says they’re scared now…or ought to be. You’re heroes.”

  “All their Miralyith are dead, then?”

  Tesh shook his head. “Not all—a lot, though. Crippled them, we think.”

  “S
till have giants,” Raithe said, and he grunted as Padera used the boards to set his bone.

  “You killed three!” Tesh was bouncing on his haunches. Then he frowned.

  Raithe’s eyes were watering, and he jerked a bit with the pain the old woman was inflicting, but still saw the kid’s expression change. “What?”

  “Gilroy and Bergin were talking about how many you killed—how elves aren’t used to death. They were saying that this might be it. That they will leave now. That the war will end.”

  “And you’re disappointed because you didn’t get to fight?”

  Tesh shrugged. “I just—I just worked so damn hard.”

  Padera wrapped the planks with a cord, tying it tight. And made a harrumph in Tesh’s direction. “A man who builds a roof shouldn’t complain when it doesn’t rain; the gods might send a flood.”

  Around the courtyard other men were being tended to. They lay exhausted on the grass or sat, looking dazed. Some cried, some stared. A few laughed, but not in a good way. A handful continued to wander the yard, clutching their weapons and moving quickly as if they had someplace to be. But they only walked in circles with confused looks.

  “Where’s Wedon?” Raithe asked.

  Tesh refused to look at him.

  “The glancing blow that broke this arm,” Padera said, “the farmer took square.”

  Raithe looked around again but couldn’t find the farmer.

  “They’re leaving the dead down by the front gate,” Tesh explained.

  In addition to three sons, Wedon had a daughter named Thea. Raithe had spoken to her only once in Dahl Rhen. He remembered that she wore her hair braided, and she was rail thin and tall for her age. She had died in the giants’ attack on Dahl Rhen a year ago. That’s when Wedon stopped being a farmer and became a soldier. I was just talking to him. How can the world change so fast?

  Padera created a sling to hook around his neck. As she tied it up, Raithe spotted Roan standing nearby. She had her heavy smithing apron on, the leather stained and scorched. Her face hadn’t fared much better; her cheeks were smeared with soot. Arms across her stomach, she clutched her elbows and stared with worried eyes.