Age of Death

by Michael

  She fitted one of her eight remaining arrows to her bow, then her lips found Tekchin’s in the dark. His were moist and firm. No hesitation there—never had been. He wasn’t a god, but close enough.

  “I just want to say it was an honor dying with all of you.” Moya stepped away, taking position directly in the light. She took a moment to look at Rain, Roan, Brin, Gifford, and lastly Tressa. “And I do mean all of you.”

  “We’re going to survive this,” Tekchin said.

  “He’s right,” Tressa agreed. “We have Malcolm on our side.”

  “Of course,” Moya said. “Absolutely. Why in Rel not?”

  “You’re starting to scare me now,” Tekchin told her, though he didn’t sound frightened.

  The person who looked the least confident was the Keeper. The little bit of her face that Moya could see suggested the woman was about to be sick. “You all right, Brin?”

  She hesitated. “Not really, but I don’t see how it matters at the moment.”

  “Okay then.” Moya nodded toward Tressa. “Whenever you’re ready.” She tested the tension on her bow, drawing it slightly, feeling the resistance. “Unlock this thing.”

  Tressa stepped forward into the dark. Moya heard the faint jingle of a thin chain.

  “Here goes,” Tressa warned.

  They all waited, seeing nothing and hearing only the soft scrape of metal on stone. There was more scraping, and with each passing second, Moya knew it wasn’t working. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Moya had hoped, but she was used to disappointments, and what they were attempting was a long shot at best.

  “Tetlin’s Tit!” Tressa said.

  “It’s not your fault, Tressa,” Moya told her, thinking how odd it was—how far they had come—that she was consoling Tressa for failure.

  Then Tressa let out a hysterical laugh.

  “Tressa?” Moya asked, concerned. I hope she hasn’t gone nutty.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  Moya considered making Tressa the butt of an obvious joke, but the giddiness in the woman’s voice, the borderline crazy glee of her bubbly tone, made Moya hesitate.

  “I’m holding it backward. Hang on.”

  An instant later, they were all blinded.

  The walls of their prison dissolved, and light from the pure-white room hit them from every direction. After hours—or was it days—in the dark, the illumination was overwhelming. Moya was forced to squint so narrowly that for several seconds sight was impossible. This was most unfortunate because the first step in the plan was for her to blind Goll with an arrow. While she did that, the rest were supposed to rush down the stairs. The hope was that the men who had escorted them into the castle wouldn’t be waiting in the vestibule. It was a slim hope, but not too thin to embrace.

  With all of us encased in stone, why would they be stationed for an interception?

  Moya wasn’t optimistic enough to think the exit would be completely unguarded, and with her bow, she was going to take down anyone who got in their way. Meanwhile, the others would use the element of surprise to run out the exit. Tressa would hold open the door to Nifrel, allowing each of them to jump through. Then she would close the door and they would all hope that Goll and Drome had no way to pass between the two realms. While the gamble was plagued by too many hopeful assumptions, it had the benefit of simplicity. Over the years, Moya had learned that uncomplicated was good. Still, as straightforward as it was, she knew the plan would fail. All strategies did, to one degree or another—even the simple ones. The unexpected, the stupid, or a random piece of bad luck conspired at the junction of Planning and Preparation to bring down any strategy. That was why straightforward schemes were better than complex ones—fewer moving parts meant a decrease in the chances for something to break. But oftentimes, even simple plans went astray. Blinding the beast and running for the door to Nifrel sounded good in theory. But as it turned out, it was Moya’s party that was blinded, and Goll was the one running—toward them.

  Moya couldn’t get a look. In those first few moments, she couldn’t see anything clearly. The frustrating part was that her failure had been born from her own stupidity. The good news was that she could hear just fine, and she even felt the giant pounding across the marble floor. The jolting shook her whole body. In the event things didn’t go smoothly, Tekchin had suggested an alternative approach where he distracted Goll while the others got away. He had sold her on the idea with the deceptive logic that they wouldn’t need to do it unless she failed to blind the beast or the rest neglected to run. Both seemed more than unlikely to her. Tekchin, however, had witnessed more battles, and having adventured with the Galantians, he had more experience with overconfidence.

  As Goll charged, Moya heard Tekchin strike his sword against something. By then, the room was visible, though little more than a whitewash of blurry images. Even so, she spotted what had to be Tekchin, trotting away and slapping his blade against the pillars.

  Dinner bell!

  Moya didn’t know if Goll ate people, but giants did. Of course, no one in Rel appeared to eat at all, but Moya guessed that wouldn’t keep Goll from trying. He didn’t look like the finicky sort, or the kind to give up easily—or at all. It was because of his single eye. There was no way anything could look intelligent with just one.

  Goll was halfway to Tekchin by the time Moya got her first clear view of the brute. He was huge, as large as or bigger than the dragon on the hill and taller than some trees. His arms and legs were like massive stone formations. Naked to the waist, Goll displayed a pale chest that was so white it matched the marble. The tent-sized cloth that wrapped his waist was fastened by a brooch that was the size of a spear. He bore no weapons. Moya was confident he didn’t need any. The one big eye was his dominant feature. Like the yolk of an egg, it stood out on an otherwise plain face. Goll didn’t have eyelashes, but he did have a singular furry brow that bowed in the center. With so little to work with, Moya could only guess at the giant’s intended expression: irritation, rage, glee, maybe even hunger.

  Goll heard Tekchin’s dinner bell and charged his way.

  Moya set her feet and pulled an arrow. By letting it fly, she announced to her lover that she could see again.

  No one had ever mastered the kind of precision Moya commanded with a bow, and no one but she had a bow like Audrey. It had been named after her mother—both were tightly strung. Technically, Moya didn’t have the weapon, either, but she had the memory of it, and the big bow sent Moya’s arrow across the room faster than sight, piercing the exact center of Goll’s eye. The force buried the arrow up to its feathers.

  Goll shrieked. Maybe in pain, although up until then, Moya didn’t think that existed in Rel. Perhaps it was just rage, fury, or fear. Moya didn’t care. It was time to leave.

  “Go!” Moya yelled, and her troop bolted like beetles from under a raised rock.

  Tekchin went wide on the opposite side of the chamber as Moya directed everyone else toward the stairs.

  Goll staggered but didn’t fall, clutching at his eye.

  Brin, who was way out front, reached the steps first, taking them three and four at a time. Gifford ranked second in the race, dragging Roan by the arm. Moya purposely lingered at the top of the stairs with another arrow nocked.

  Goll stomped.

  One foot was all it took. His massive boot slammed on the floor, and the entire chamber jumped. Pillars and marble slabs that formed the walls collapsed. Two of the statues holding up the ceiling tilted, and everyone fell as if the world had hiccuped. Through a snow of marble dust, Moya turned to see Goll wrench her arrow from his eye as if it were a splinter.

  “Up!” Moya shouted. “Get up!” She grabbed Tressa and pushed her toward the steps.

  Tekchin rolled to his feet and ran—not to the stairs, but at Goll.

  “Tek!” Moya shouted. “This way.”

  The Galantian had only managed to take a few strides before Goll stomped another time.

  The floor leapt onc
e more, and everyone fell again. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. The huge creature’s acrobatics had created massive cracks in the floor, and they were growing, spreading out.

  “Son of the Tetlin whore!” Moya cursed. “Everyone out! Now!”

  The sound of her voice drew Goll’s attention, and he took a long stride toward the stairs. This was bad news for the plan, but an invitation for Moya, who sent another arrow, closing Goll’s eye once more. He stumbled, wavered, and fell. Goll might not have been a Typhon, but he was still massive. When his big body hit the marble, the floor gave way.

  Accompanied by the cry of rock and scream of stone, Moya fell along with everything else, just one more bit of hail in a rocky storm. She landed well, and the lack of pain gave her the false impression that she was all right.

  In her race down the steps and out of Drome’s palace, Brin hadn’t encountered any guards. She was the first out of the castle and halfway across the road to where the deserted gate stood. When she realized she was alone, she doubled back.

  Gifford, Roan, Tressa, and Rain came out, and then everything collapsed. A massive cloud of dust and stone blew out of the front entrance as the interior of Drome’s castle caved in.

  “Moya! Tekchin!” Brin struggled to enter, but huge slabs of stone blocked the way.

  “Brin?” Roan called. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know—I—follow the plan, I guess. Get to the gate. Go! Tressa, unlock the door and hold it open. I’ll get Moya and Tekchin.”

  Brin fanned her arms in an attempt to blow away the lingering dust cloud. Huge blocks of marble had fallen such that she was forced to crawl through the rubble.

  “Moya! Tekchin! Where are you?”

  “Brin!” Moya called out.

  Scrambling over broken slabs and under toppled pillars, Brin found her lying on the ground. “Moya, get up. We need to—”

  “I can’t!”

  Only then did Brin see that Moya’s left leg was pinned from the knee down beneath a huge block of marble.

  “And Tekchin . . .” With teary eyes, Moya looked toward a massive pile of stone where Goll and the bulk of the second story had come down. “He’s under there.”

  Dust was suspended in clouds, and from overhead, heavier pebbles continued to fall, pattering like hail.

  “Tek!” Moya screamed, her eyes frantic and wild, her cheeks smeared with tears and dirt.

  Brin pushed on the stone that trapped Moya, but the block was twice her size.

  “Stand back!” Rain appeared out of the dust-filled fog. He had his pickax in hand and struck at the stone.

  “Tekchin!” Moya cried again in agony.

  Something larger than hail struck nearby, and Brin noticed a spear. Then another whistled past, barely missing Rain.

  “Tetlin’s ass!” Moya shouted, slapping the floor where she lay. “He’s coming. Brin, can you feel it? The weight is back. Brin, Rain, you’ve got to go. Leave us. Do it. Now!”

  “No.” Brin shook her head violently. “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  Out of the dusty mist, Brin saw Drome’s forces massing. They came from another section of the palace, struggling to find a route through the rubble.

  “Leave!” Moya shouted.

  “Moya, I can’t leave you.” Brin looked over at Rain, whose efforts had only managed to chip a small depression in the block.

  The digger shook his head, a miserable expression on his face.

  “Go, damn it,” Moya growled through clenched teeth. “That’s an order!”

  Brin lingered as spears hit the wall and floor.

  “Brin, please . . .” Moya cried. “Please. I’m begging you. Leave us. Go and save Suri. Please!”

  Brin could hardly remember what had occurred after that. Later, it felt as if the events had happened to someone else while she watched from above. She knew she had grabbed hold of Rain, and together they abandoned Moya, leaving her trapped and helpless on the once black-and-white floor that in its ruin had turned a somber, indistinct gray.

  “Go through!” Brin shouted to everyone waiting at the gate.

  No one listened.

  “What happened to Moya?” Gifford asked. “Where’s Tekchin?”

  Brin shook her head. “Not coming. Everyone go through now!”

  Another boom sounded from the castle, and Brin felt heavier.

  The master of the house is coming.

  “We can’t leave them, Brin!” Gifford declared.

  Before he could think about it, the Keeper wrapped an arm around his elbow and pulled. “We have to! He’s coming!”

  “It’s open!” Tressa announced.

  Looking through the doorway to Nifrel, all Brin saw was darkness, but it hardly mattered; her eyes were too filled with tears to see.

  She pulled on Gifford.

  “Stop!” Drome shouted from somewhere—maybe everywhere.

  With a leap, Brin hauled harder on Gifford and together they passed through the portal into the darkness beyond.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Hero

  I can only imagine the fear that must have existed in the land of the Fhrey during those years when we besieged Avempartha. In Rhulyn, we were used to facing the possibility of dying every day, but to the Fhrey, Death was an unwanted stranger who had only recently moved in. — The Book of Brin

  Mawyndulë never used to tire of the corridors and halls of the Talwara. He’d spent years inside, entertaining himself: He’d see how far he could slide across the polished floor or down the grand stairs’ banister. He never got tired of trying to spit into the river from the map room’s balcony or swinging from the curtains in the great room. Lately, however, none of those things interested him.

  Maybe they never did. It’s just all I had.

  Serving in the Aquila, meeting Makareta, and going to war all managed to widen his world and tarnish the little pleasures of his youth. This last trip to Avempartha had utterly broken them. Those three days out and three back had been his first time on his own away from home. Treya had been with him, but if he counted her, he might as well include his blanket and the horse. That trip was his first taste of true independence, of freedom. He’d found it scary, but exciting. While not as exciting as Makareta, his travels were better than sliding down hallways. And he’d also discovered something else—a sense of accomplishment. With this came a new restlessness, a sense that the Talwara, which had always felt so huge, was now stifling.

  “You have truly solidified your status as a hero of the people,” Imaly said as she came down the steps of the Airenthenon after the conclusion of that week’s Aquila session.

  Mawyndulë didn’t go to the council meetings anymore. Too many bad memories in there. Instead, he had waited outside. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to Imaly since coming back, and he was curious about what she thought of his excursion and prize. “Have I?”

  “First, you protected the Aquila and the Airenthenon, and now this.” Imaly descended the steps awkwardly—but then everything she did physically was ungraceful. “Come. Walk me home.” She led the way down the steps.

  “What do you mean—this?”

  “News has gotten out that the Rhune you brought here holds the secret to our victory. Is it true?”

  “That has yet to be seen,” Mawyndulë said. “Vasek was put in charge of getting the knowledge of dragons out of her. It’s been days, and so far, he has nothing. As a result, my father has taken to throwing things. If Vasek doesn’t succeed soon, the Master of Secrets might become one more shattered wineglass.”

  “Why is Vasek interrogating her? Why isn’t Synne, or you, forcing the truth out of this Rhune? Surely the Art is more adept at extracting information from unwilling subjects.”

  Mawyndulë nodded. “Normally it is, but this Rhune has a special collar on her that prevents the use of the Art.”

  Imaly looked confused. “Why not remove it? If an enemy warrior were taken prisoner, we wouldn’t allow him t
o wear armor.”

  “Oh, it’s not by choice that she wears it. Jerydd forced it on her. The collar also prevents her from using the Art.”

  “So, she really is a Rhune Miralyith?”

  Mawyndulë shrugged. “There is some speculation to that effect. Jerydd certainly thinks so, but I never actually saw her do anything.”

  “Still, she could be dangerous, couldn’t she? I mean, if the collar were removed.” Imaly appeared outraged as she shook her head. “Your father ordered you to bring this monster into our city? What if someone unlocked that collar? How many would die before—”

  Mawyndulë shook his head. “Don’t worry. The collar can’t be removed.”

  “Your father has many enemies. Some misguided fool might steal the key and—”

  Again, Mawyndulë stopped her. “There is no key. The lock is sealed with the Art.”

  “It could still be cut off. A simple saw or chisel could do the trick.”

  “The whole collar and lock are protected.”

  Imaly frowned. “I thought this collar nullified magic.”

  “It does. The Orinfar markings are on the inside. This allows a weave to be placed on the outside. Sort of like varnishing the exterior of wood to protect it from harm. And it’s pretty tight.”

  “So it can never be removed?”

  “Only by a Miralyith, and all of them serve my father. It will never be taken off, not while she’s alive. That’s why Vasek is doing the dirty work. It all has to be done by hand.”

  Imaly considered this and nodded. “I see. Well, at least she poses no threat. Thank you for setting my mind at ease. I don’t know what we would do without you.”