Age of Death

by Michael

  “No, it’s not,” she agreed. “In fact, that’s not even stone. Not really. It’s just an idea, right?”

  “Aye,” the dwarf said. “Just an idea.”

  “Maybe it’s like the Art,” Gifford said. “Arion taught me about the importance of confidence, that believing you can do something is most of the battle.”

  “Same applies when fighting, too,” Tekchin declared. “It saved my ass many times during centuries campaigning with Nyphron.”

  Rain nodded. “Well, I dunno about either of those things, but there’s nothing I’m more confident about than digging rock.” He slipped the pickax off his back and hefted it. “Sure looks like rock to me.” With his elegant compact swing, Rain brought the point of the pick down.

  Struggling to concentrate, Brin was startled by the loud crack, made all the more ear-piercing by the enclosed walls. The sound wasn’t metal on stone, but rather the impact of two competing ideas: the will of a god and the desire for freedom from one of his faithful. The result was a chip of stone and a divot in the marble floor.

  “That’s not much,” Moya said.

  “Aye, but it’s something,” Rain assured her and brought the pick around again. The divine marble grudgingly gave way. Flakes shot across their tiny prison and pinged off the walls. Stroke after stroke widened the hole until Rain at last had one foot free and then the other.

  He grinned at himself. “Being able to move will make this a lot easier to do the rest of ya.”

  He approached Moya, who winced as he shattered the floor near her ankles. “Careful,” she said. “I might need those toes.”

  Brin once more struggled to block them out, to focus. She had work to do, important work. If she ever returned to the world of the living, the knowledge she carried would be more valuable than any buried treasure. But there was so much, and so little of it was comprehensible. She sensed an idea trapped in the recesses of her mind—a frightening and elusive thought hovering just beyond consciousness. It wasn’t unlike the irritation of knowing she left something undone but having no inkling what that might be.

  “Tetlin’s ass!” Moya cursed.

  Brin thought Rain had nicked Moya, but she was already free of the stone. Moya had crossed to the little window and peered out.

  “What?” Tekchin asked while Rain went to work on the stone around the Galantian’s feet.

  “The wall is about five feet thick.”

  “Great. And time isn’t on our side,” Tekchin said.

  Moya pressed her face against the little window, blocking the light and leaving the rest of them in darkness.

  “What do you see out there?” Tekchin asked.

  “Well . . . Drome is gone. Don’t see him anywhere, but—oh, hello!” Moya jerked her head back just as something hammered into the wall with a clang.

  Brin felt a tremor through the stone. Moya fell back, allowing the light to stream in once more, but the opening was quickly blocked as something outside moved closer. There was just enough illumination for Brin to catch sight of a massive eye peering in. It blinked twice and then moved away.

  “What in Ferrol’s name was that?” Tekchin asked.

  “I think it was Goll,” Moya replied.

  “Cut me loose, Rain,” Tekchin said. “I want to see this.”

  Rain doubled his effort on the Fhrey’s feet. The dwarf had a good rhythm going, and he worked with speed and precision.

  Ping, Ping, Ping.

  The pounding was aggravating as Brin continued to struggle with her Keeper duties.

  Erebus was a city, the birthplace of everyone.

  But Brin knew that wasn’t right, not exactly. There was something that came before, Drome had mentioned . . .

  Ping, Ping, Ping.

  Brin squeezed her fists in frustration, as she focused on trying to remember Drome’s words.

  So, who wasn’t there?

  When Tekchin’s second foot finally broke free, he inched forward, tentatively looking out the window from a distance. “So, we have a guard now? Looks big.”

  “It is,” Moya said and made no attempt to return to the window. “Has claws, too, and sharp teeth. No nose, big ears, and only one eye, a very big one.”

  “I don’t think I like Goll,” Gifford said.

  “He certainly doesn’t sound”—Tressa winced as Rain went to work on her feet—“like the friendly sort.”

  “Grenmorian?” Rain asked in between swings.

  Tekchin shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Grenmorians have two eyes, no claws, and a terrible smell. I know; I used to room with one.”

  “A Typhon?” Rain inquired.

  That’s it! Brin grinned in relief. That’s who wasn’t in Erebus.

  “What are they?” Brin asked.

  “Typhons? You don’t know?” Tekchin looked at her, surprised. “But you’re the . . .”

  Brin shook her head, feeling a bit embarrassed. “My mentor died unexpectedly. Either she didn’t know, or she hadn’t gotten to that part of our lessons.”

  Tekchin shrugged. “Grygor told me some. He said there are three of them, Erl, Toth, and Gar, and they made the Grenmorians. The Typhons are the giants’ gods—older than ours, he said. But I wouldn’t count on that being true. With Grygor, all things Grenmorian were bigger and better than anything Fhrey.” Tekchin shook his head. “But no, Goll can’t be a Typhon. He just looks like an unusually large giant with strange features. The way Grygor described Typhons, they weren’t so much giants as forces of nature—and they certainly wouldn’t serve the likes of Drome.”

  “Well, that’s good—right?” Moya was nodding.

  With that jog of memory, Brin recollected more. Would you like to know how Eton and Elan gave birth to Light, Water, Time, the Four Winds, the three Typhons, and the most beloved of all, Alurya? Brin grinned in the dark at her triumph of recall, but the hammering of the pick was echoing in her head, as if something else was struggling to break free.

  Or should I tell you why Eton created the underworld and buried Erl, Toth, and Gar? No, I think you’d rather I start with why Elan stole five of Eton’s teeth and what became of them. That’s where the tale really begins. That one explains how a family went to war against one another, leaving a mother bereft, barren, and estranged from her husband.

  Brin didn’t know how, but she felt all these things were linked in some way. Drome wasn’t randomly teasing her with tidbits of treasure; he had been telling her something—just the sort of something that a Keeper of Ways ought to be able to understand. She had no idea why he bothered to hint rather than being direct, unless he thought she wouldn’t believe. Few can accept the value of something given, but something earned is cherished.

  “Okay, so assuming Rain can cut through this wall,” Moya began, “how are we going to get past good old Goll?”

  “Only one eye, and big, you could close it easily with an arrow,” Tekchin suggested. “Just get him to peek in again. Shoot through the little window, then we can run out and down the stairs.”

  “What about those soldiers who escorted us in? Won’t they be downstairs?” Tressa asked. “How are we going to get past them?”

  Moya twisted her mouth into a frown, and in a spiteful tone, she said, “Geez, Tressa, give me a break, will ya. It’s my first trip to the afterlife, so excuse me if I don’t have all the answers.”

  “Honestly, I really thought you did.”

  “Oh,” Moya said as if she’d accidentally walked into a wall. “Ah . . . sorry . . . I’m not used to the post-bitch version of you.”

  Once more, Brin tried to ignore her surroundings—disruptive as it was. That nagging question, that elusive thought refused to be found, and with each passing moment, she felt added urgency to grasp it.

  Rain brought his pick down at Gifford’s feet, and in that moment, Brin recalled Drome hitting the arm of his—

  Uberlin was the first to make a throne. Did you know that? He invented it.

  Brin paused, confused. Why did Drome m
ention that? Why is it important?

  Rex Uberlin—King Great One. I fought in the First War . . . You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll tell you what you need.

  What I need? Why would I need to know about thrones, the first city, and an evil god named Uberlin?

  Rain had finished freeing Gifford and was working on Roan, which left only Brin. She hoped Rain had been perfecting his technique. Like Moya, she wanted to keep her toes—even if they were only ten little ideas.

  Rain set his pick down for a breather, which confused Brin. The heaviness that they had felt in Drome’s presence was gone, and Rain shouldn’t need a rest. The dwarf stretched his back, then picked up his pick again. “Probably doing this for nothing. Being a god, won’t Drome just summon us to his side?”

  “It has been my experience that gods—that anyone, for that matter—are never as all-powerful as people think.” Then, looking at Tekchin, Moya added, “I once thought he was a god. Talk about disappointment.”

  Tekchin raised his brows and opened his mouth in mock surprise.

  Rain began chipping away near Brin’s feet, making her flinch with each impact of the pick. Swing after swing the dwarf created the smallest of chips. He paused, looked at the end of his pick, and huffed. The point was noticeably flattened.

  “What’s wrong?” Brin asked.

  The dwarf sighed and shook his head.

  “Can’t you free her?” Moya came closer to see.

  “I suspect I can get ’er out, but”—he looked at the walls—“did you say these are five feet thick? I’m not sure me pick will last.”

  Moya frowned and bit her lip. “Keep going. Just do the best you can.”

  Rain hefted the pickax once more and resumed swinging, pelting Brin’s calves with sharp shards.

  Brin couldn’t watch. The sight of him and that big pick hammering near her ankles—even though they weren’t really her feet—was too much to bear. Each impact caused her to jerk uncontrollably. Watching him wasn’t something she could bring herself to do. Instead, she focused on the one person she could clearly see—Moya.

  Holding tightly to her bow with both hands, Moya stared at the window of their prison, where it seemed they would be trapped forever. The light fell on her face, making it bright and disembodied in the dark.

  So brave.

  Her jaw was clenched, eyes clear and fixed. Bravery was fortitude and determination in the face of terror. To be unafraid was to be stupid. If they couldn’t get free, if they couldn’t get to Nifrel, Suri would die, they would lose the war, and humanity would be wiped out. They had each jumped into the pool believing they could do something to change all that and maybe come back out again. Now, not only did that look unlikely, it appeared that they had ruined what meager afterlife they might have enjoyed. Instead of dwelling with their family and friends in an eternal village that mimicked life, they would remain forever sealed in a marble tomb. Moya knew all of this, but none of it was on her face. That was bravery.

  Brin wasn’t brave, and she was pleased that the light was nowhere near her. She wasn’t crying, nothing so childish as that, but she was certain her expression was a miserable one. If Brin had been adrift in an ocean storm, Moya would have been the rock she swam for.

  “I wonder how far we’ve come,” Gifford said, and he looked up at the darkness. “Up there, I mean, in Elan. Do you think we’ve crossed the Nidwalden already? Or maybe it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Gifford!” Moya spun and pointed at the man as if he were guilty of some crime. “Can you do anything? Use magic to increase the size of the hole or something?”

  Gifford shook his head. “There’s no power here, nothing to draw from.”

  Moya nodded. “It was like that in the Agave, but Arion was able to—”

  “She drew power from us,” Roan clarified. “From our life force, but none of us are alive anymore.”

  “So . . . wait.” Moya looked down at her hands, her brows furrowing. “How did Drome put up these walls? How did he lock our feet in stone? That seems like magic.”

  “He’s Drome,” Rain said, as if that should end the discussion. “He’s a god. This is his realm.”

  Brin looked down and saw that her left foot was close to coming loose.

  “Then that’s it.” Tekchin threw up his hands in defeat. “We either give it up, or we’ll stay here forever.”

  “We can’t give it up,” Tressa said.

  “We don’t have a choice. It makes no sense to keep it now.”

  Moya glanced his way. “We can’t succeed without it.”

  “We can’t succeed at all.”

  “We also won’t be able to get out of Phyre,” Brin reminded them. “Handing it over would mean a death sentence for all of us.”

  “You’re being foolish.” Tressa spoke with absolute confidence. “Malcolm wouldn’t have sent us unless—”

  “Drome is as much a god as Malcolm!” Moya countered, and then shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  Malcolm is a god. The words rang in Brin’s head as loud as the hammering at her feet, where one foot was coming free.

  I’m not familiar with a god named Malcolm. Is he new? Brin recalled Muriel’s words.

  “What is Malcolm the god of?” Brin asked.

  Moya looked at her as if Brin had morphed into Roan.

  “It’s what Muriel asked us, remember? All the gods rule over something. Ferrol is the god of the Fhrey, Drome the god of the . . . Belgr . . . Belgric . . . ah, Rain’s people. Mari is our god. The Typhons are the gods of the giants, Eton is the god of the sky. Elan is the god of the world. So, if Malcolm is a god, what is he the god of? What did he create?”

  “Interesting question, Brin, but I don’t see how it helps us”—Moya focused a disapproving gaze on Tressa—“although it does suggest that maybe Malcolm isn’t a god after all.”

  “He is,” Tressa insisted, “And he would have foreseen our imprisonment.”

  Moya slapped the wall. “Then he should have told us how to get out of here!”

  “He did,” Roan said, once more using her private-dialogue voice.

  “You’re twisting and chewing your hair, Roan,” Moya said with a growing smile. “Tell me something is going on in that famous head of yours.”

  Roan shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Not much from you has been known to turn the tides of war. We’re sort of desperate, so forgive me if I seem a little excited.”

  “It’s just that . . .” Roan focused on Tressa, as if speaking to her alone. “Well, didn’t you say the key could open any lock in Phyre? Not just doors, right? And we are locked in.”

  “Only in a manner of speaking,” Rain said. “And you can’t insert a key into a manner of speaking.”

  Tressa’s hand fluttered to her chest as her eyes widened. “Has to be.”

  She quickly stepped forward into the light, her hand reaching into her shirt.

  Moya stopped her. “Hold on. What are you planning on doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Tressa said. “Just gonna touch the key to the wall and pray, I guess.”

  Moya licked her lips. “Not yet.” She peeked out the little window, then began to string her bow. “In the unlikely event this works, we still have Goll to deal with.”

  “It will work,” Tressa said.

  Moya frowned. “I’m actually starting to believe you, but it’s so frustrating. Why didn’t Malcolm just come with us?”

  “He can’t,” Tressa said. “He told me so. He’s immortal. It’s the same with Muriel. Only the dead are allowed.”

  He cursed me with immortality, Brin remembered Muriel saying. I hate him.

  That was the final tiny crack that launched the landslide. With it, all the pieces came together in one perfect and terrible pile, each stacking up in proper order.

  Muriel had said, I hate him with every particle of my being.

  Her mother had mentioned, Our existence and the world wasn’t supposed to be l
ike this. It’s broken, and we’ll continue this way until it’s fixed.

  Drome told them, Then Uberlin’s greed and arrogance ruined everything.

  And most damning of all was Malcolm’s admission that he was the one who broke the world.

  Brin gasped as the thought materialized. Oh Blessed Mari! Malcolm is Uberlin!

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Moya said.

  Brin looked up in shock but quickly realized Moya was replying to Tressa. That didn’t matter; she finally figured out what Drome felt she needed.

  Malcolm is the god of evil.

  Rain stopped chiseling and looked up at her. “Yer free.”

  Moya waited, peering out through the narrow slit until she could see Goll. The mountainous being didn’t stand in one place. He wandered around with no perceptible pattern, pausing in places for no reason, then moving on to another spot. The one-eyed creature busied himself by occasionally slapping his own head, coughing, or swiping through the air at nothing. Watching him, Moya estimated his intelligence at just above a particularly dull lump of coal.

  Having just one eye didn’t help. Truth be told, the eye bothered Moya. Not only did it lack a partner, but it was far too large. The problem wasn’t that the eye was bigger than Moya’s entire head, but that it was out of proportion for Goll’s. It took up too much space, dominating his forehead and extending way past where a nose ought to be. That prominent feature was complemented by a ruthlessly fanged mouth, and both barely fit onto Goll’s egg-shaped noggin.

  Roan was the one who called what they were about to try a plan because that was the way her mind worked. Moya considered it a desperate gamble because that was how she considered things. Most of her life—the best parts—had been one reckless risk after another. Gambling became a compulsive habit for those who had enjoyed even minor success, and Moya’s chance-taking had promoted her from village hussy to Keenig’s Shield, a position so revered that men often referred to her as sir. She had no idea if they forgot themselves or felt a feminine honorific beneath the station, but the sentiment was genuine. They respected her. No one could take that away; not a dead mother, not a chieftain or husband, not even a one-eyed brute. The chance-taking was intensified by the fact that she was involved with another obsessive-compulsive gambler. They fed off each other. Yawns, laughter, tears, jumping off cliffs—all were contagious. Most people wouldn’t understand that last one, but Tekchin and Moya did—and they were about to do it again.