Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arion was breathing hard, perhaps hoping Gryndal might yield. He didn’t. With a shout and a full-body spin that flared his golden mantle, he raised his palms to the sky, and with them rose the Killians’ roundhouse. The whole building ascended: logs, daub, and thatch roof. A number of people scattered as the Killians’ home hurtled skyward. Then, just as expected, it fell. Aimed at Arion, the house plummeted, and as it did, Gryndal clapped his hands and set the whole thing on fire.

  With a punch to the air, Arion split the house in half. The divided dwelling crashed to the ground on either side of her. Both halves burst on impact, sending sparks and flaming debris in all directions.

  Few things were more dangerous to a dahl than fire, and despite the obvious perils, Persephone finally found a purpose. “Bring gourds to the well!” she shouted, and ran forward as an unnatural wind blew, spreading the fire to Sarah and Delwin’s home as well as Autumn and Fig’s.

  Tope Highland was ahead of her. Grabbing a jug already filled with water, he ran toward Sarah’s roundhouse.

  “No!” Arion shouted in Rhunic, but it was too late. Tope threw the jug’s contents on the nearest flames, but the water never reached them. Instead, the spray of droplets froze into a hundred shards as sharp as daggers and flew toward Arion.

  The flames Persephone had hoped to extinguish were snuffed out as Arion stole the heat and used it in a single bright burst that turned the ice into steam, leaving a hazy mist in its wake.

  With growing anger, Gryndal darkened the sky. A swirling storm churned overhead, the likes of which Persephone had never seen. Morning turned to twilight as black sooty clouds boiled and spun. Arion moved her fingers feverishly but to no avail; instead, she staggered and cursed.

  Soon lightning flashed behind the blanket of clouds. Pops of blue-white fingers flickered. Persephone felt her scalp tingle as one twisted bolt crashed to the ground right before her. Blinded, she staggered backward and fell with an undignified scream that went unheard amid the chorus of cries that erupted as bolt after bolt of lightning rained down.

  Persephone cowered on the grass in terror as the world around her ripped apart in a nightmare of blinding flashes and sizzling cracks. She clutched at the grass and felt cloth strips beneath her fingers—Arion’s bandages.

  Piercing the roar of thunder, Arion sang a calming song. The lightning lessened and the thunder ceased. The clouds broke, letting sunlight beam through. In the aftermath, more fires burned and scorch marks blackened the area directly around Arion, who remained standing within a smoking circle.

  “Gryndal, you—” Arion started to say, but the ring-adorned god stomped the ground and threw out his arms.

  Persephone saw a worrisome puzzled look on Arion’s face. A moment later, the ground beneath her began to bubble. Dirt turned to mud, and mud to tar, into which Arion sank. She started to speak and raised her hands, but Gryndal struck her with a stunning blow of wind that slammed her to the ground, where the bubbling tar gripped and dragged her down.

  “No!” Suri cried.

  Persephone watched as the young mystic focused on Gryndal and rubbed her hands together. Then she clapped. To Persephone’s, and certainly the god’s, amazement, Gryndal burst into flame.

  Being close enough to feel the heat, Persephone retreated from the burning god. She’d taken only three strides when Gryndal put out the fire, but Suri had caught him off guard. When the flames were snuffed out, his cape and skirt were both blackened and his skin reddened.

  With a horrific cry, Gryndal searched for Suri and spotted her where she had always been, just inside the wall between the gate and the storage pit. He raised his hands and began intoning a savage incantation. A blur of white streaked past Persephone as Minna launched herself at the god. Claws ripped at rings, and teeth at chains. Gryndal screamed in pain as several piercings were torn out.

  He uttered a desperate syllable, and the wolf flew through the air. Minna yelped when she hit the grass.

  “Halgavri!” Gryndal shouted, and shoved a palm toward the animal.

  “Minna!” Suri cried as an unseen force tore up the sod, creating a deep furrow as it raced toward the stunned animal.

  Raithe dove, catching Minna in his arms as he did. Together they rolled aside as the tearing force carried past, blowing open a hole through the dahl’s wall that was large enough to put a road through. Logs, dirt, and grass exploded outward and down the side of the hill, leaving a cloud of dust and a new view of the forest.

  “Kill them all!” Gryndal ordered his soldiers as he winced in pain and gingerly touched the wounds on his face and chest.

  The Fhrey in the lion helms drew their weapons and climbed down from the porch.

  “To arms!” Nyphron ordered, and the Galantians drew their weapons and fanned out to block the approaching lion-helmed soldiers.

  Metal clashed as the opposing Fhrey turned the center of the dahl into a battlefield.

  Still near the well, Nyphron blocked swings but didn’t return blows. Sebek, the one with the twin swords, was less considerate. He gleefully disarmed his opponent, threw him to the grass, and then stepped on his knee, popping it. Grygor just picked up one of the Fhrey warriors and tossed him across the yard.

  “Move!” Raithe ordered, grabbing Persephone’s arm and pulling her back toward the gate where Suri had reunited with Minna. As they ran, the ground began to shake.

  Persephone looked at Gryndal, expecting some new horror, but the god of considerably fewer chains was still focused on his wounds and appeared to be working at healing himself.

  One of the braziers near the well toppled, all across the dahl thatch shook free of roofs, and the entire woodpile beside the lodge collapsed. Everyone staggered, several fell, and the fight between the opposing Fhrey paused. Both sides drew back in confusion. Everyone looked at Gryndal, but he appeared to be just as puzzled. The mystery was short-lived as the bubbling pool of tar erupted in a geyser of water. The force was enough to knock them all off their feet and spray the dahl with a fine mist of scalding water and hot mud.

  When the mist cleared, Persephone saw Arion rising out of the hole, pushing to her feet. She was coughing, mud-covered, and slow to stand, but she managed it. Panting for air, she faced Gryndal once again.

  Raithe had dragged Persephone to the gate and wasn’t stopping. She realized he intended to get her out of there, and as wise as that was, she couldn’t leave. Persephone hauled back on her arm and broke free of his grip.

  “We have to fight!” she told him.

  “How? With what?” he asked, shocked.

  She didn’t have an answer. She didn’t even have Math’s spear anymore. All she held was Arion’s old bandages. She averted her eyes, unable to face his pleading expression when she had no reasonable answer. All she had was stubbornness and an overwhelming sense of obligation. She couldn’t abandon her family. She would rather die with them than—

  As she unconsciously wrung the bandages, charcoal rubbed off in her hands. Realization struck and she shot a look to Raithe and the Dherg shield he carried. “Oh, blessed Mari!”

  An instant later her head filled with an incredible pain as a ringing erupted in her ears. Everyone on the dahl with the exception of Arion, whose fingers were intensely working patterns in the air, threw hands to their heads. Several, including Gryndal, fell to their knees. Where he sprawled, the grass grew at an astounding rate, grasping his wrists and fingers. The vegetation where he’d been standing attacked the ringed god with a fury, wrapping his legs and climbing along his body to enclose his face. Stronger, longer roots reached out of the soil and looped around the thrashing god, pinning him with a hundred tiny straps.

  The ringing faded.

  Persephone took the moment to speak to Raithe, and Nyphron whispered something to Grygor. The giant drew his massive sword and charged the Miralyith’s prone form.

  “No!” Arion shouted.

  Taking her eyes off Gryndal, she cast a spell that knocked the giant off his feet and the sword
from his hand. That was all it took. The grass appeared to have second thoughts about holding the ringed god any longer, and two fingers on Gryndal’s left hand moved. Arion was thrown hard on her back, knocking the wind from her. The grass around Gryndal shriveled and died. He tore himself free just as Grygor retrieved his sword and started his swing. Then the giant simply stopped. He froze with the great blade partway through a horizontal swing aimed for Gryndal’s neck.

  Arion gasped for air but still managed to move her fingers. As she did, the giant was enclosed in what looked to be a soap bubble. Now it was her turn to suffer the imprisonment of grass as hundreds of blades began clutching at her fingers and ankles, wrapping around her head and across her mouth. Gryndal turned to face the giant, taking particular interest in the sword and how close it had come. “You dare challenge me, Grenmorian?”

  Gryndal made a quick motion with his fingers. A burst of light ignited in a flash all around Grygor, but the attack broke harmlessly against the bubble.

  “Medak! No!” Nyphron shouted as another Galantian, the small one with the knives, threw one and then chased it with another.

  Both blades disappeared with a hiss and a cloud of vapor. Gryndal squeezed a fist, and Medak screamed until his head caved in.

  Gryndal frowned at the Fhrey with a furious glare. He glanced back at the giant, but he was still protected by the bubble. Blood dripped down Gryndal’s chest where rings had been torn out, and his skin was red and blotchy from the fire. With Arion trapped, no one else moved, and the dahl grew frighteningly quiet.

  “Blasphemers!” Gryndal shouted in a voice so venomous that even his soldiers took a step back. “How dare you challenge me! Me!” Lightning flared once more overhead. “And you,” he said to the dead body of Medak. “What a fool. The giant I can understand. He isn’t a Fhrey. But you, you couldn’t kill me without forfeiting your soul.”

  “I can,” Raithe said in Fhrey as he walked forward, making a point to step between Gryndal and Suri, who sat with Minna on the gravel path. His words were neither loud nor boastful. They were casual to the point of absurdity, as if he were challenging a drunk to an arm-wrestling match. He drew Shegon’s sword and held it loosely in one hand, the little Dherg shield in the other, as he closed the distance between them. “I am the God Killer.”

  “So you’re the one!” Gryndal laughed. “You aren’t a killer of gods, little Rhune. You only murdered a Fhrey. The Fhrey aren’t gods—but I am.”

  “Good,” Raithe replied. “Then this time when I kill you there won’t be any confusion.”

  Gryndal smiled. “Goodbye, would-be God Killer.”

  Gryndal raised one finger to hail the lightning. At the same time, Raithe raised the little shield, and Persephone prayed she was right. A jagged bolt flashed down from the overhead clouds and struck the shield in Raithe’s hand. The jagged finger of blue-white light bounced back at Gryndal. The rest was lost to the blinding flash and the thunderous crack that followed. When Persephone could see again, Raithe was still standing. Across from him, Gryndal was on his knees, smoking.

  Without pause or hesitation, Raithe stepped forward, eliminating the remaining distance between the two. Gryndal didn’t move. Maybe he was already dead, but the Dureyan didn’t stop. He swung for the exposed neck. With a single stroke of the blade and a follow-through that carried to his other foot, Raithe severed the ringed god’s head.

  For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The pause might have lasted only an instant, but to Persephone it stretched out for minutes. The prince, whom everyone had forgotten about, was still on the porch, staring at Gryndal’s severed head, which lay on its left cheek in the grass. Mawyndulë’s mouth was open, lips quivering as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. He blinked, and his brows furrowed in disbelief.

  Overhead, the storm once more dispersed and the sun shone through.

  The first to regain her senses was Suri, who ran to where Arion lay and began ripping away handfuls of grass. Looking down, Persephone was surprised to see Math’s spear in the dirt not too far away. Walking over, she picked it up and thumped the butt of the shaft on the ground. “Clan Rhen!” she shouted, then raised the spear above her head. “Defend your homes!”

  They all stared at her, wide-eyed, confused.

  “You heard her!” Moya shouted, shoving those closest to her, including Tressa, whom she heaved the hardest. Tope picked up the rake that had fallen and raised it over his shoulder. Bergin the Brewer found an ax. The rest of the men and women of the dahl scurried off. They disappeared into roundhouses, and just as Persephone thought they might stay inside, they returned with shovels, knives, and spears. Moya herself pulled a torch from the post near the well. Roan emerged with her little ax. Tressa had a stone knife, and even Gifford raised his crutch menacingly as the crowd reconvened with stern, angry faces.

  Nyphron looked toward the prince, then over to the lion helms, who still had their weapons drawn. “It might be best if you escorted His Highness out of here. If there’s a fight, he might die, and Lothian wouldn’t like that.”

  “Do as he says.” Arion was back on her feet, wiping mud and grass from the sleeves of her asica.

  The prince stared with tear-filled eyes at the corpse of Gryndal. He shouted, “You’re a traitor!”

  The words came out in a high-pitched rage, and with red-faced fury he began to gesture feverishly with his hands. His fingers moved as if he were manipulating some complicated and invisible thing. He spoke words Persephone didn’t understand, singing them with an awful voice and a halting rhythm.

  As he sang, a light formed before the young Fhrey. It whirled with a fiery streak and flew at Raithe, who raised the shield once more.

  “No,” Arion said. There wasn’t any force to her words, no effort, but the fiery ball snuffed itself out before it got anywhere near Raithe.

  Mawyndulë chanted once more and waved his hands, but nothing happened. Mawyndulë looked livid. He tried again and again, and each time Arion blocked him with no real effort.

  Once more the prince began to conjure. This time Arion shoved out her palm and spoke a word. The prince was thrown off his feet.

  Arion faced the lion-helmed soldiers with a granite glare. “Take the prince out of here, now.”

  “Don’t listen to her!” Mawyndulë ordered in a shrill voice from where he lay on his back. “Kill them all!”

  The Fhrey in lion helms hesitated.

  “They can’t,” Nyphron said. “Only your father can sanction the death of another Fhrey, and I’m guessing he didn’t give anyone but Gryndal that lovely gift.”

  Mawyndulë looked furious. He got to his feet and yelled, “Kill all the Rhunes then!”

  The lion helms retreated from the Galantians and moved toward the mob of Dahl Rhen.

  Raithe, Malcolm, and the rest of the dahl villagers moved to meet them.

  “Stop!” Arion ordered, and the soldiers in the lion helms froze. “You are Talwara Guards. You have one job. You must protect the prince. He’s in danger here. Take him back to his father where he’ll be safe. That’s your only responsibility.”

  “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey! I’m in no danger. And he killed Gryndal! He has to die!”

  “Gryndal was going to kill me,” Arion shouted back. “He nearly did.”

  “That doesn’t change—”

  A spear flew across the yard and pierced the wood frame of the lodge less than a hand’s length from the prince’s face. Mawyndulë gasped, staggered backward, and fell again. Malcolm stood in the courtyard without his spear. “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey,” Malcolm shouted. “But if you stay—we’ll kill you.”

  The prince got back to his feet, his eyes filled with fear.

  “Go home, Mawyndulë,” Arion said.

  “You’re—you’re defying the law. I’m your prince, and you must obey me.”

  “I don’t care! Go home. Leave—all of you.”

  Mawyndulë looked fearfully at the mob gathered before him. He crossed the porch a
nd descended the steps. As he did, the lion soldiers rushed to create a barrier around the prince. As a group they marched toward the horses. “I’ll tell my father how you defied him. I’ll tell him how you protected Gryndal’s killer. He’ll declare war. He’ll send an army. An army of Miralyith!”

  “Out!” Arion shouted.

  The prince climbed atop a horse. Then all eyes watched as he and his guards filed out of the dahl.

  When they were gone, Arion waved her hand, and both gate doors slammed shut. She turned toward the lodge and staggered, falling to her knees once more.

  “Take her back to the lodge,” Nyphron said.

  “Little help?” Grygor shouted from inside his bubble. “Getting hard to breathe.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Arion looked embarrassed and the bubble burst.

  Moya and Brin began escorting Arion up the steps when she stopped and looked at Nyphron. “Are we friends now?”

  “I hate Miralyith,” Nyphron replied. “Today you’ve demonstrated precisely why. But…well…I also hate winter, mud, and biting flies, but I’ve learned to live with them.”

  “Thank you for saving Minna,” Suri told Raithe. She had an arm around the wolf’s neck.

  He was still in the center of the yard and had put his sword away but continued to hold the shield. At the sound of her voice, Raithe lifted his gaze from Gryndal’s corpse and smiled at the girl and her wolf. He reached out and stroked Minna’s head. “Can’t let anything happen to the world’s wisest wolf, can we?”

  Suri stared at him for a moment, tears in her eyes. Then without warning Suri threw her arms around Raithe and hugged him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The First Chair

  I still remember when Persephone stood on those steps, when she faced us and said everything would be all right. I believed her. I think everyone did. Persephone was not a magician or a mystic, but she performed magic that day. She gave us hope.