Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “This is a terrible sword,” Sebek said. “Gaudy, heavy, and too long. But I suppose you like long blades. They are the weapons of cowards who fear getting close to their enemies.”

  He tossed the weapon to Raithe. But before he had time to catch it, Sebek had both of his blades drawn. “These are Nagon and Tibor,” the Fhrey said, holding the twin cleves up. “Lightning and Thunder. Each forged from the same batch of metal by preeminent Dherg smiths.”

  “Dherg smiths? Is that why the blades are so short?”

  Sebek grinned, and in that toothy smile, Raithe saw danger. He doesn’t just like fighting—he loves it. And he probably has more than a passing affection for those swords.

  “Short swords are fast, and I’m not afraid to get close.” Like a big cat, Sebek began to pace. As he did, he continued to take practice swipes in the air. “You made a number of mistakes when fighting Nyphron.”

  “And yet I won, or would have.”

  “Would you?”

  “No way to know for sure, now, is there?”

  Sebek gave a little laugh. “I know.”

  “Good for you.”

  That grin again. “You don’t believe me? Don’t think I can tell the outcome of a fight before it starts?”

  Raithe didn’t have to believe, he knew. But showing weakness in front of Sebek wasn’t a good idea. Raithe moved to slip the sword into his belt.

  “Not yet,” Sebek said. “I want to show you where you failed.”

  “Not interested, chopping wood. You’re interrupting.”

  “You can chop wood later, if you survive.”

  Raithe was waiting for the attack. He’d expected it since Sebek appeared. He just couldn’t anticipate what an attack from Sebek would be like. He was faster than Nyphron; Raithe didn’t see the blade. Once more, Raithe acted on instinct and was right—he met Sebek’s sword. The moment they collided, the impact jarred the weapon from his hand, just as in their first encounter. An instant later the point of Thunder—or was it Lightning—was pressed against his throat.

  Raithe didn’t move.

  Sebek nodded as if they were having a conversation, then pulled back and walked five strides away. “Pick it up.”

  Raithe was already in the process, wiping the sweat from his palms on his leigh mor.

  “It’s not your fault, I suppose,” Sebek said. “You’re so young. You show promise, but you lack experience. You can trust me on that. I’m senior captain of the guard and master of arms at Alon Rhist. I’m also Shield to Nyphron. I’ve trained and tested thousands. Now, let’s see if you can get Shegon’s sword anywhere near me.”

  The bad news was that Raithe saw no hope of avoiding a fight he had no chance of winning. The good news was that Sebek didn’t appear to want to kill him, at least not right away.

  Sebek dodged his first stroke with no effort. On his next swing, the Galantian displayed his speed, slamming Raithe in the face with the butt of Lightning—or was it Thunder this time? Raithe staggered. His eyesight blurred, and he tasted the blood running down from his nose.

  “Get serious or I’ll beat you unconscious. Here, I’ll make it easier.” Sebek sheathed one of his swords. “Now try again.”

  Raithe shook his head and spat. Shifting his feet the way Herkimer had taught, he drew in his elbows and then leaned to the right until Sebek shifted his weight. At that moment he spun left, swinging the blade horizontally, and attacked Sebek’s undefended side. He expected to slice Sebek across the chest. Amazingly, Sebek deflected the blade with his hand—his empty hand. The Fhrey slapped the flat of the blade, driving it down and away.

  Raithe pivoted once more and swept high. Again, Sebek slapped the blade aside. Frustrated by the ease with which the Fhrey deflected his attacks with a bare hand, Raithe swung harder and faster. Following one stroke with another, he closed the distance between them. Sebek became pressed enough to use both his hand and a sword to deflect the attacks. But then, when Raithe thrust the sword at his chest, the Fhrey caught his blade with his hand, twisted it, and once again disarmed him.

  “Your father wasn’t a good teacher,” Sebek said, handing the sword back. “You’re slow, predictable, as graceful as an ox trapped in mud, and have no strategy for attack. I’m surprised Nyphron had so much trouble with you. But I think he wanted you to win. Still…” Sebek nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You’re much better than I expected. Much better than I would have thought a Rhune could be.”

  “Are we done, then?” Raithe asked, picking up Roan’s ax.

  “Yes. I got what I wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “The truth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Prince

  We were foolish to think the Fhrey were gods, but it was insanity for the Fhrey to believe it, too. I’d rather be foolish than insane.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  As he rode alongside Gryndal at the head of a small column of soldiers, Mawyndulë worked hard to hold a stoic expression. Locking his teeth together, he stiffened his lips, which were constantly trying to betray him. His eyes were wide, but there was no helping that. He had no idea how to be casually in awe. Mawyndulë desperately wanted to appear as the unflappable prince of the realm instead of a sheltered youth seeing the magnificence of the world for the first time. The flaw in the plan was that he wasn’t and he was.

  Since leaving Estramnadon, Mawyndulë had gazed dewy-eyed at the great Parthaloren Falls, the marvelous tower of Avempartha, the snowcapped peaks of Mount Mador, the fjords of the Green Sea, and finally the broad, sweeping vista of Rhulyn. The sheer size of everything was incredible.

  And the colors!

  The sun playing on the barren hills and stony mountains produced a strange beauty. The harsh landscape sang of adventure and secrets. He saw himself traveling the wasteland alone, climbing the jagged ridges, and peering into lost caves. He imagined discovering Dherg treasure guarded by sleeping dragons, which he would slay. Or perhaps the guardians would be a troop of Dherg, the little monsters with their shining metal weapons lashing out from underground hiding places. In every fantasy, he was victorious—although he allowed himself to almost be beaten in a few of his daydreams before making his enemy pay dearly.

  When Alon Rhist appeared on the horizon, the sight was beyond boyhood imaginings. Mawyndulë couldn’t have dreamed that big. This was the stuff of legends. The great tower looked like an upthrust spear, punching out of the ground, stabbing the sky. The dome might have been the helmet of a giant, hidden just below the surface of the great hill. Such scale wasn’t possible beneath the trees of Erivan. This was a place open and free, a land of heroes, a home for adventure. Even seeing it from afar, Mawyndulë fell for the romance, the grandeur, and the excitement he imagined as daily realities.

  No one is forced to learn how to make string patterns in a place like this. No one needs to practice juggling inside a thrusting spearhead.

  Mawyndulë wondered how often Alon Rhist was attacked. Regrettably, the war with the Dherg had ended long before Mawyndulë’s birth. But the little cretins still existed, cowering in their dark places under the earth, seeking revenge and a return to the world of light.

  Once a month maybe? Once a month would be good.

  Mawyndulë knew Gryndal wouldn’t linger at the outpost long, only a week or two, but he hoped they might be around for at least one assault. As the son of the fane, he would, of course, command a battalion of soldiers. And as one of only three Miralyith on the frontier, he would also command their awe.

  Mawyndulë imagined hordes of Dherg scaling the cliffs and walls, emerging like droves of armored crabs or hairy spiders from every cleft and crevasse. Mawyndulë’s troops would be shrieking in fear, but their young prince would boldly step forward and refuse his counselor’s pleas to don armor. Fearless, he would look down at the enemy from the balcony of the—

  “Miserable desolation,” Gryndal muttered as they began the final climb toward the outpost. Mawyndulë’s new teacher was s
cowling—no, it was more of a sneer. “Look at this.” He gestured at the fortress of Alon Rhist. “They practically live in a cave. Little wonder they’ve become animals. This whole land is worthless, the armpit of the world, an empty, forgotten basin of rock. Even trees shun it.” A black scorch mark off to their left caught his eye. “At least some of the vermin have been exterminated.”

  “Vermin?” the prince asked.

  “Rhunes,” Gryndal replied.

  Mawyndulë had seen Rhunes only in paintings. Renowned artists who spent time in Avrlyn had filled the Talwara and the Airenthenon with frescoes. Most were dramatic, sweeping landscapes of the frontier at sunset or sunrise. Others featured impossibly tall mountains and unimaginably fierce rivers. In several, there were images of Rhunes, docile figures wrapped in blankets beside dwindling fires. But some depictions cast them as ferocious savages. While not nearly as frightening as the Dherg, ghazel, Grenmorians, or dragons, they were still scary with their wild eyes and crude weapons.

  Mawyndulë was excited by the prospect of seeing an actual Rhune. Since learning about the trip to Avrlyn, he had compiled a mental checklist of things he wanted to see: bears, mountain lions, ghazel, Mount Mador, giants, the sea, the tower of Avempartha, Rhunes, the Great Urum River, Dherg, and dragons. The last two were actually at the top of the list, ghazel at the bottom. The sinister creatures had always scared Mawyndulë as a child, and the prospect of meeting a real one revealed that the fear hadn’t completely disappeared. So far he’d crossed only the mountain and the tower off his list.

  Gryndal was nodding. “Yes, Rhunes. One of their villages, I imagine. Petragar was able to accomplish something at least.”

  All Mawyndulë saw was a mound of dirt on top of which lay blackened timbers.

  “I do apologize for dragging you out here to this rat-infested cellar, my prince,” Gryndal said. “But your father feels you need to suffer indignities to build character. I don’t agree. Such things are remnants of a bygone era—a time before the Art. The Miralyith have no need for such foolishness. We don’t require an understanding of those below us any more than we need to experience life as a snail or ant. It’s this notion that we are still related to them that hinders us from achieving our full potential. The only reason we are not yet recognized as a pantheon of gods is because we can’t manage to allow ourselves to accept the reality that we already are. The absurdity is obvious when you consider how insane it would be to think of ourselves as equal to animals. Can you imagine believing yourself to be merely the most successful tribe of goats or cows?”

  Mawyndulë chuckled at the thought of a cow telling him to juggle.

  Gryndal nodded. “You see what I mean? It makes no sense. The Miralyith simply cannot be compared to lesser forms of life. We command the four winds to do our bidding. Does a Rhune do that?” He paused a moment and then, fixing Mawyndulë with one of his hard stares to indicate he was about to provide the point of a lesson, added, “Does an Instarya, Asendwayr, or Umalyn do that? Come with me, my prince.” Gryndal urged his horse off the road toward the scorched rubble. Turning, he said, “You guards wait here.”

  Mawyndulë’s father had sent twenty Fhrey from his personal staff to provide protection. None were Miralyith, which meant his father had sent cows to guard a god. That thought made Mawyndulë smile as he looked at Hyvin. The captain of the guard smiled back, mistaking Mawyndulë’s expression as approval, appreciation, or perhaps even friendship. In truth, he was imagining Hyvin as a cow with drooping udders.

  Mawyndulë followed Gryndal, the two trotting until they were amid the burnt ruins, which smelled unpleasantly of smoke.

  “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Gryndal asked in a serious tone.

  Mawyndulë nodded despite his uncertainty. He thought Gryndal was saying that Miralyith were better than everyone else, something he already knew. But he also suspected he was missing a larger point that his new tutor was making. Mawyndulë often felt that way. What he couldn’t determine was whether he was ignorant or if people pretended they were smarter just to make him feel stupid. Arion often made him feel inadequate. Juggling rocks and playing with strings were things she claimed had benefits he couldn’t yet understand.

  Was this her way of pointing out I’m dumb?

  But it could be that these things had no greater point, and she was just making a fool out of the fane’s son. Arion probably had gone home each night and laughed with friends, telling them what idiocies she’d forced the prince to do. When Gryndal had explained that Arion might be dead, Mawyndulë hadn’t felt the least bit sad.

  “See, I knew you would understand what I’m talking about,” Gryndal said. “You’re smarter than your father. You can see what he can’t. The fane is hopelessly mired in a fraudulent past. He can’t possibly envision a future different from what he’s used to because he lacks imagination. Do you know the single most important attribute for greatness in the Art?”

  Mawyndulë shook his head even though he remembered Arion saying it was control. Something told him Gryndal was looking for a different answer.

  “Imagination,” Gryndal said. “The ability to think creatively. We call it the Art for that exact reason. Imagination is power. And I can see great power in you, Mawyndulë. Great power. You won’t be limited by traditions and foolish laws invented thousands of years ago by Fhrey who couldn’t conceive of the power we wield today. Do you think Gylindora Fane would have agreed to the restrictions she placed on herself and all subsequent Fhrey if she had the power we do? She was a product of her time, and back then the laws were necessary. Intertribal warfare was rampant and threatened to destroy us as a people. But can you honestly imagine any other tribe, or even all the tribes combined, successfully mounting an attack against the Miralyith?”

  Mawyndulë shook his head. After seeing what his father had done to the leader of the Instarya and having seen Mount Mador with his own eyes, he knew the power of his clan was indisputable.

  “That’s why the laws must change or, more precisely, why others must learn that such rules no longer—and never actually did—apply to the Miralyith. Gods have no such boundaries. You see that, don’t you?”

  Mawyndulë nodded again.

  Gryndal smiled, and then a sad look stole over the tutor’s face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Gryndal shook his head. “It’s just so tragic.”

  “What is?”

  “That your father rules instead of you,” he said, and then gave a wistful sigh. “If you were fane…”

  “I will be fane one day.”

  Gryndal looked at him with a sympathetic smile. “Your father isn’t that old. He’s just over twenty-one hundred. He could rule another thousand years. In the meantime, you might have an accident. You could die on this very trip. Such a sad ending when we need your wisdom so badly.”

  “Together we might change his mind,” Mawyndulë said. “Show him Ferrol has ordained the Miralyith as superior to all other Fhrey.”

  “I’ve tried, believe me. My efforts were counterproductive. I convinced him to make an example of Zephyron, but afterward he regretted what happened in the arena, and if anything it has moderated his feelings toward ordinary Fhrey. The fane…well…it’s like trying to persuade a rock to fly. He simply doesn’t know how,” Gryndal said.

  Mawyndulë laughed, and Gryndal laughed with him.

  They rode in silence through the blackened ruins. Even after days on the trail, Mawyndulë still wasn’t comfortable in the saddle. He didn’t know why they had to ride—the soldiers didn’t. They walked behind them in double rows. Gryndal had insisted on the horses, but they were merely trading sore feet for a sore seat. Sitting on the animal scared him. There wasn’t anything to hold on to except some flimsy hair on the thing’s neck. Nothing would keep him on its back if the animal bolted. Three times the horse had stumbled or jerked unexpectedly. Each time he’d nearly screamed. The only good thing about being on the horse was the added height. He could
see farther and was well above the soldiers, which he liked. Most of them were taller than he was, but they had to look up at him when he was mounted.

  “Your father simply doesn’t have the imagination that you do. It’s so unfortunate. You’re already more capable of ruling than he is, yet you’re impotent and treated like a child.”

  Mawyndulë was nodding. He honestly couldn’t agree more. Those same thoughts had come to him on many occasions. “You really think so?”

  “Of course. The thing is, it’s not hurting us.” Gryndal wagged a finger between them. “It’s hurting everyone else. Our people could be so much more if we only freed ourselves from the restrictions of the past.” Gryndal sidled closer and in a whispered voice added, “I know it’s wrong for me to say this, but sometimes I honestly wish some tragedy would befall your father. Not anything fatal, of course, just something rendering him unable to rule so that you could take over. I know that sounds terrible, but I fear your father isn’t suited to guide us into the future. His rule will lead to disaster. Trust me, Mawyndulë, your father’s reign will threaten our whole way of life.” Then he leaned closer still. “It’s even possible that someone might take it upon themselves to kill the fane to prevent that.”

  “Kill? A Fhrey? That would break Ferrol’s Law. They would no longer be Fhrey.”

  Gryndal pursed his lips as if to say something, then stopped himself, looking unsure. Mawyndulë had never seen that expression on his new tutor.

  “What?”

  Gryndal shook his head, his lips pinched together.

  “Are you saying this isn’t true?”

  “I’m saying…It’s possible, I think, to gain Ferrol’s forgiveness.”

  Mawyndulë stared at him, confused.

  “If, after killing the fane, the murderer were to blow the Horn of Gylindora—you see, only a single drop of Fhrey blood flowing in their veins is required—and if this ostracized person were to win the challenge…well, how can the fane of the Fhrey not be a Fhrey?”