Age of Death

by Michael

  Fenelyus laughed. “I think you will find that in Nifrel we are all gods. At least we see ourselves that way. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t belong here.” The Fhrey glanced at Brin in a way that bothered Tesh.

  “What’s the other advantage?” Moya asked.

  Fenelyus looked up at the flurry of flakes and shrugged. “The snow.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s never done this before.”

  Moya lifted her hands palms up and looked at the others “So?”

  “Ferrol knows more than we do. She always has. Aesiras appear to share that particular trait. So I have to ask—as you already have—why the snow? If I know there’s only a slim chance of reaching the Bulwark, Ferrol certainly should, too, yet she felt it necessary to send snow to slow us down. Why?” She eyed Moya as if she knew the answer. Then she glanced at the others. “Any of you have any special abilities I’m not seeing?”

  Moya bobbed her head at Tesh. “He’s pretty good with those swords.”

  “How good?”

  Moya frowned, and in an embarrassed whisper, she said, “Maybe the best ever.”

  Fenelyus studied Tesh for a long moment then shook her head. “When he was alive, perhaps, but he’s dead now.”

  “What’s that mean?” Tesh asked.

  “You can’t fight. You’re weighted.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Everyone in here is burdened with something. I am, Mideon is, even Ferrol.” She nodded toward Tressa. “Her load is crippling.” She took a step toward the woman and offered a sympathetic frown. “You’re carrying some serious issues, dear lady, and Ferrol isn’t making it easy on you.”

  Tressa looked up with a strained face and nodded.

  Fenelyus turned back to Tesh. “You’ve got a heavy burden, too. So much so that you’ll be slow and unable to fight.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Brin said. “What causes the weight?”

  “Guilt, regret, fear.” She ticked these off on her fingers. “If you spend a life doing rather than not doing, you’ll make mistakes along the way. Those errors don’t die with the body. Just like love, they’re rooted in the spirit, and so they go with you.”

  Pointing at Moya, Tesh declared, “She’s good with that bow.”

  “The what?” Fenelyus asked. She turned her head and studied the stick with the string attached to it. “What? You’re good at starting fires?”

  Moya laughed.

  “It throws little spears called arrows,” Gifford explained. “They travel really fast and very far.”

  “Yeah, except . . .” Moya frowned. “I’m out of little spears.”

  “Out?” Fenelyus looked puzzled as she eyed the bow. “What do you mean, out?”

  Moya held up the shoulder bag. “Only six left.”

  The Fhrey narrowed her eyes further and shook her head. “So?”

  Moya spread her hands apart in a show of exasperation. “Sooo . . . what do you want me to shoot at the enemy? My dazzling smile?”

  “Create more.”

  “That would take days even if I had decent wood, which I don’t. How do you expect me—”

  “What are you talking about?” Fenelyus’s voice rose in irritation. Then in a scolding tone she said, “Make what you need. You made the bow, now create more of the little spears. How hard is that?”

  “For one thing, I didn’t make this bow. People keep saying that, but Roan created it years ago out of the heartwood of Magda.”

  “No,” Fenelyus countered. “That contraption is still up in Elan. This one is all you, dear.”

  “But I . . .” Moya huffed in frustration. “If I did, I certainly don’t remember doing so. And if that’s true, how am I supposed to make arrows?”

  “Do you remember growing a new leg?” Fenelyus asked.

  “I didn’t—you did that.”

  “I did nothing of the sort. I merely cast my cloak and made it appear as if a bulge in the shape of a leg was beneath. Your sense of self did the rest. You spent the majority of your existence with two legs. You wanted to believe that I had the power to restore you, and that desire was so great that you accepted that I had done so, but it was you who imagined that you had a leg again.”

  Moya narrowed her eyes. “That’s not possible.”

  “You’re in Nifrel now. Few are the things we count impossible. When I drew back my cloak, you had two legs because you believed you did. Your faith is what made it real. Confidence, conviction, certainty, these are the tools and weapons of this place. You made that bow out of reflex, without thinking about it, the same way you conjured your body and clothes. All you need to do is see that container full of tiny spears, and it will be.”

  Moya looked at the bag and the bow thoughtfully.

  “Do you have an idea what we’ll be fighting?” Tesh asked. He hadn’t liked how the Fhrey had spoken of his combat abilities, but he also couldn’t deny that ever since entering Nifrel, he had felt strangely heavy. That sensation had doubled once they descended from the plain. Moya was a slim woman, and normally he could have carried her, might have even jogged while doing so to catch up. But he hadn’t even tried. He hadn’t drawn either of his swords since entering Nifrel, and now he wondered if he would be able to lift and swing them.

  “Bankors,” Fenelyus replied.

  “Ah . . . okay,” Tesh floundered. “What are they and how many will there be?”

  “Probably a swarm.” Fenelyus made a fleeting wave with her hand.

  “A swarm? So, these are little things?” Gifford asked.

  “Little? No, I wouldn’t say that. Picture a bobcat with a twelve-foot wingspan, bigger fangs, and longer claws.” The Fhrey noticed the unanimous looks of shock. “The claws and fangs aren’t a problem—well, not really. They can be painful for certain and take you out of the fight if they ravage you, but the real danger is that they will pick you up then drop you into the Abyss.”

  “The what?” Moya asked.

  Fenelyus pointed at one of the many crevices around them. She stomped her foot. “This isn’t real. Most of it was put here by the queen. It’s like the flooring in a house. You can break it, change it, and do whatever you want because it is only an idea. Beneath it, however, is a hole, a very deep one that forms the bottom of Phyre. We call it the Abyss, and once you fall, you don’t come back—not ever.”

  “What’s down there?” Brin asked.

  The ex-fane shrugged, but the look on her face was grave. “No one knows. Rumor says that’s where Eton imprisoned the Typhons, and it’s where Trilos fell. But no one has any proof. Like I said, no one comes back.” She allowed herself a long sigh. Straightening up, she pointed ahead. “I suppose there’s no sense in granting Ferrol any more time.”

  The snow had neither let up nor grown heavier. The icy grains continued to hurtle down, slamming to the ground, where they bounced and built up. Drifts formed, which Tesh couldn’t understand, since there was no wind. Then he noticed that they were forming in front of crevasses, hiding traps. Tesh didn’t need any more fears of falling, and he realized Fenelyus was right. There was no way he could fight. He would be as helpless as Sebek had been when Tesh butchered the Galantian in his sickbed.

  Fenelyus instructed, “Everyone stay close and be ready to run. And, Moya, don’t shoot your spears until the blue light fades.”

  “What blue light?”

  Fenelyus didn’t answer. Instead, she took three steps forward and extended her arms.

  A moment later, noise emanated from overhead. It started as a buzzing, became a beating, and finally a growl. Looking up, Tesh saw that the sky, which had never been bright, had darkened further.

  “Oh, great Grand Mother!” Brin gasped.

  “Mother of Tet!” Moya shouted.

  A moving cloud—discernible only by the gaps, of which there were few—circled above them. Within that veil, there were so many flying beasts that they blocked the fall of snow.

  Thousands.

  A ho
st of two-hundred-pound locusts with fangs dove. Locked in disbelief and horror, the party watched as the multitude descended. Tesh had expected feathered wings, but the bankors’ consisted of thin leathery skin stretched over bone. Their faces weren’t at all catlike. They looked more like bats with flattened noses and saber-sharp teeth. Most of all, Tesh was disturbed by the tiny red dots that were their eyes, which glowed ominously.

  Down they poured.

  Moya raised her bow, and Tesh saw that she had an arrow nocked, but she held it, waiting. Gifford drew his blade, and Tesh pulled out his swords that, just as he feared, felt heavier than ever before.

  We can’t survive this.

  Darkness grew as the swarm continued to speed downward.

  “Where are these lights?” Moya hissed in frustration and fear.

  Brin and Roan thrust arms upward to fend off the impact. Tressa fell to her knees. Tesh aimed both sword points up.

  Then with a grunt, Fenelyus spread her hands.

  A sound like thunder rolled as the bankors impacted a dome of shimmering blue light. As they hit, the beasts burst into pebbles, dust, and stone. So many of the bankors hit the shield that the sound turned from a rapid drumroll to a horrific roar, a constant drone with no break.

  Fenelyus shook, her arms wavering and jerking. Sweat glistened on her brow. Her teeth locked as she groaned. Gasping in false breaths, she pressed her lips so tightly that they went white, and her face turned red. “Get ready,” she growled.

  Brin pressed herself against Tesh. She was so close that she’d be in his way, but he didn’t care. It felt good and lightened the weight.

  What difference can it possibly make?

  The downpour lessened to an intermittent staccato, then Fenelyus collapsed to her knees. The bankors that had pulled up or held back now swerved and came in. The ones already on the ground hopped awkwardly on two feet, their big wings hindering their movement. With a flutter like a tent flap in a high wind, they attacked. Clearly not their preferred method of assault, because they, too, were slow. Tesh stabbed and slashed, happy to discover that a single solid hit caused the creatures to burst into dirt clouds.

  “There!” Brin shouted, pointing at a leaping beast.

  He crossed swords, turning a bat-faced monster into rubble.

  Tesh’s pride was short-lived, as to his left Gifford cleaved through three at a time.

  “By all the gods—Moya!” Brin gasped.

  Thinking she was in trouble, Tesh gave a glance and witnessed a stunning sight. With the shimmering blue dome gone, Moya was shooting her bow. The famous archer was hitting her targets as always but with one incredible difference. She wasn’t pulling arrows or nocking them. She merely plucked the string. Each time she did, a new arrow flew. Her speed, already famously quick, became impossible to believe. Moya panned from left to right feverishly strumming Audrey like a stringed instrument. Then as they watched, she began firing two and three arrows at once.

  A pile of loose rubble, the residue of Fenelyus’s dome and Moya’s attack, built up around them. The storm of bankors faltered, slowed, then stopped. Those remaining on the ground flew away.

  “We won?” Gifford asked, shocked but elated. He was grinning and hugging Roan with one arm as the other still held his blade triumphantly.

  Fenelyus struggled to her feet, shook her head, and pointed at the sky. “Two swarms?” She shook her head.

  Far above, another, identical set of bankors started their downward trek.

  “There’s no call for that, Ferrol!” the Fhrey shouted at the sky. “You’re just making me angry, now. Mideon did that once; now there is a new mountain in Elan and a hundred thousand fewer Belgriclungreians!”

  Fenelyus let forth a scream that made Tesh and everyone else flinch. In that instant, her whole body burst into a brilliant white light that was too bright to look at. Through squinting eyes, he saw Fenelyus was a white-hot fireball, and from her blazing form, lightning arced. Countless tiny threads stretched out as pulsating tentacles of blinding light. Where they touched bankors, the beasts’ bodies were blown apart, making it rain. Their smoldering residue melted the snow around them.

  Moya went back to shooting, dropping to one knee for better support, as she, too, sprayed the falling sky.

  In less time than the first, the second wave was dispersed, and once more, snow fell.

  Fenelyus was panting hard and looking as weary as Tressa. “Move!”

  She led them through the snow, a haphazard, undisciplined group. Fenelyus, who was visibly weakened, walked slowly. Even so, Tesh continued to fall farther behind.

  Worse than that, Tressa was hardly moving. She staggered as if she might fall.

  “Gifford!” Roan shouted. “Help Tressa!”

  What limitations the crippled man had had in life were reversed in Phyre. Tesh was seeing the real Gifford, the invisible man who had been trapped inside the impaired body. Tesh never would have imagined it, but knew he should have. The potter had been a phenomenal artist and a bona fide hero, managing all of it as a cripple, and as such, he had to have an abundance of willpower. With grace and strength, he caught hold of Tressa, lifted her gently, and carried her forward with ease.

  This left Tesh at the back of their line, and with each step, he faltered.

  Who is the cripple now?

  Ghostly outlines the size of mountains became visible through the curtain of falling snow. Easily the biggest thing Tesh had ever seen, the citadel of King Mideon was a monster of a fortress with a multitude of overlapping towers the shape of overturned drinking steins and topped with shallow domes. Two massive pillars, which were still no more than hazy shadows, indicated a gate—a tall gray one. Between their party and the entrance lay a wide fissure, a zigzagging rift torn through the ground. Spanning the gap, the final bridge provided access to the castle.

  Those in front were running hard, dodging and leaping cracks, getting close. The castle and its open gate gave Tesh hope that at least Brin would make it through. Tesh knew he wouldn’t. Cursing his weakness and clenching his fists, he dug deep for strength. He’d found it before. In fights he was sure he’d lost, he pushed beyond his boundaries and realized new strength. He was reaching again, struggling to find that hidden granule of reserve.

  Nothing.

  “Tesh!” Brin stopped and called.

  “Don’t! Keep running. I’ll make it,” he lied.

  She turned toward him.

  “We had a deal, remember? You run!”

  “But—”

  A moment later, it didn’t matter, as all of them were knocked off their feet. Fenelyus was hit the hardest and was blown into the air by the force of an explosion of snow and rock. Directly in front of her, a mammoth creature burst out of the ground. The size of Suri’s dragon, it looked similar, except this thing was longer—more snake-like, if a snake were a hundred feet long. And while it had no legs, it did have arms. Horns and spikes ran the length of its back. It wailed a hideous screech that ripped at the world with a voice to match the torn landscape around them.

  Everyone found their feet, except Fenelyus, who lay unmoving before the monster.

  “What is that?” Gifford asked.

  “A digger,” Rain said, but not in reply. The little guy had said the words out of fascination.

  “Fen?” Moya shouted at the Fhrey as she aimed her bow at the beast. Their guide lay unmoving on the snow.

  The creature rose up the way a snake does before it strikes, but it didn’t attack. Instead, it screeched again and again.

  “What’s it doing?” Gifford asked. He was still holding Tressa, his eyes shifting repeatedly toward the bridge. Perhaps he was wondering if he could make a run around the snake.

  “Not doing anything,” Moya replied. She kept her bow up but hadn’t shot yet. “Just making an awful racket.”

  “How come?”

  “That’s why,” Tesh shouted, pointing behind them.

  The snow had stopped. The hazy curtain was gone. A d
eep rhythmic booming sounded as three converging armies marched across the vast plain. Men, Fhrey, Dherg, giants, goblins, and a handful of other things he had no names for marched in perfect rows perhaps a hundred wide. He didn’t know how many deep. They carried spears and shields and wore helms with a variety of symbols and plumes. Standards hung lifeless from poles along with jangling bells. Huge drums mounted on massive beasts beat a relentless cadence.

  “For the love of Elan!” Moya raised Audrey, took aim at the giant serpent blocking their way, and let a barrage of dark arrows fly. They followed one upon the other so quickly that she had loosed twenty before the first one landed. She aimed for the eyes and hit her target with six. Four punctured its snout. The thing brushed them away with a swipe of a hand and roared its screech again.

  “Son of a Tetlin whore!” Moya cursed.

  “Rain! Stop!” Gifford shouted as the dwarf ran forward toward the great worm.

  He didn’t halt. With the serpent screeching in front and the pounding of the drums from behind, Tesh didn’t think he had heard.

  The serpent’s eyes focused on the dwarf with greedy interest. When only a few yards away, Rain finally stopped. He pulled out his pick, and Tesh thought the dwarf planned to fight. The great worm looked to be of similar mind as it tensed, but they were both wrong. Instead, Rain drove his pick into the stone of the shelf. He struck the ground several times. His swings were mind-bogglingly fast, and each stroke sent up a burst of broken stone and dust. Then he stopped. When he did, the serpent stopped screeching, the muscles that had stood out so prominently relaxed, and the great worm lowered its head, studying the dwarf.

  Moya looked back and forth between the armies and the serpent, who miraculously wasn’t eating Rain. She lowered her bow and ran to Fenelyus. Shaking her, she shouted, “Wake up! Wake up!”

  The Fhrey’s head lifted.

  “We’ve got armies behind us and a giant snake-thing in front. Could really use that lightning again because my arrows aren’t doing Tet.”

  Fenelyus shook her head weakly. “Bankors are figments, not souls.” She pointed at the serpent in front of them. “That ariface is real, as are the soldiers behind us. They won’t vanish any more than I just did.”