Age of War: Book Three of The Legends of the First Empire

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “How dare you!” Petragar nearly screamed, his voice a perfectly discrediting screech. “You are a—”

  “For too long, we have suffered the indignities and humiliation of a fane who does not respect us, who does not appreciate us, who does not love us.” Nyphron had no trouble drowning out Petragar’s squeals. The Galantian leader had a good voice for speaking: loud, deep, confident.

  “You’re a traitor!” Petragar shouted. “And the son of a traitor!”

  Without looking at him, Nyphron chose to respond to the accusation, mostly because it dovetailed neatly with his speech. He hadn’t expected help, certainly not from Petragar, but Nyphron wasn’t above accepting it when offered. “My father gave his life for his tribe, in service to his people, to free them from exile, from the mud and the blood that only we are forced to suffer. We fight and die while the Miralyith, Umalyn, Nilyndd, Eilywin, and Gwydry all enjoy the benefits of our sacrifice. Even the Asendwayr are allowed to return across the Nidwalden. Only the Instarya are banned from our ancestral home. Why is that?”

  “Because it is the fane’s decision, not yours,” Petragar shouted. His voice sounded thin and reedy.

  “Indeed!” Nyphron was really starting to appreciate Petragar’s assistance. The weeping willow of a Fhrey possessed the unexpected virtue of making him look good, a gift Nyphron loved more than all others. “Because the fane has decreed that we—we who shoulder the greatest burden—should receive scorn and humiliation as our reward. Those of you who were in Estramnadon, those who witnessed my father’s challenge, can attest to this. Were those the acts of an honorable fane who respects his people? Or did he act the tyrant, imposing his rule through terror?”

  “Sikar!” Petragar yelled. “Arrest him! Get him off that box!”

  Sikar hesitated.

  They really hate him. This might be easier than I expected.

  “Let me explain why I came.” Nyphron softened his tone and said, “I am here to rescue you, all of you. Alon Rhist is the only home I’ve ever known, the Instarya, my family. I’ve come to save you.”

  “You’re the one who needs saving,” Petragar growled, pushing forward through unresponsive ranks.

  “For many years, I have warned that the Rhunes are capable of combat equal to the skill of the Fhrey. Few believed.” He focused on Sikar. “I was proven correct when Shegon was killed while on patrol at The Forks.”

  “Shegon was murdered while he lay unconscious,” Sikar said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I personally witnessed a Rhune warrior kill Gryndal. Slaughtered him with a perfect blow to the neck, severing his head from his shoulders. You remember Gryndal, don’t you?”

  This drew a reaction from every face, including Sikar’s. He turned, and like many others, looked at Petragar.

  “Is that true?” Sikar asked.

  “I—I was told that something—”

  “A Rhune killed Gryndal, and you didn’t tell us?”

  “And Gryndal wasn’t unconscious at the time,” Nyphron said. “If that’s not enough, then know that I myself have fought the Rhunes, and in Rhen I was nearly killed in a one-on-one battle. Only the timely intervention of Sebek saved me.” He paused and looked at Sebek, who nodded.

  This brought even greater expressions of shock to those gathered.

  “Then you have lost your skill,” Petragar said as he shoved past the remaining shields to join Sikar. The lord of the Rhist shouted in frustration. “Draw your weapon and take them into the duryngon, or kill them where they stand. But do it now or you’ll be accused of defying the fane and will be prosecuted as one of them.”

  Sikar recoiled from Petragar’s rant. He made a miserable face, then sighed and reached for his weapon.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Tekchin said.

  “Shut up.” Sikar pulled his sword as if it weighed more than Grygor. “For once, can’t you just shut up?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Nyphron told Sikar. “But this time Tekchin’s right. Put the sword away.”

  “I can’t.” Sikar shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

  Sikar was a good soldier, which meant he was no free thinker. He was a strong pair of arms for whoever pulled the strings, and at that moment the puppet master was Petragar.

  Time to snip those cords.

  “Before you order my friends to kill us…” He spoke slowly, clearly, and loudly as he unrolled the ruddy-red face of the flag. “Let me show you one more thing that you might not have noticed.”

  “There is no need for your theatrics. We’ve already seen the ragged band of Rhunes you traveled with,” Sikar said.

  “You saw only the ones I wanted you to know about,” Nyphron spoke to Sikar. “Let me introduce the ones I didn’t.”

  Nyphron waved the flag over his head.

  In the distance, horns replied.

  Nyphron didn’t turn, didn’t need to. Everything that happened behind him was reflected in the wide-eyed faces of those before him. Even Sikar’s mouth opened. Petragar appeared as if he might faint.

  “Seal the gate! Seal the gate!” Petragar cried.

  “Wouldn’t do that, either.” Tekchin grinned.

  “Once more, Tekchin defies the odds by being correct.” Nyphron stopped waving and lowered the flag. “What you are looking at are five thousand battle-hardened, Dherg-armed, Gula-Rhune warriors. And before you start thinking the walls of Alon Rhist will save you, consider this—we also have a Miralyith.”

  “Miralyith?” Sikar and Petragar said together, and like an echo in a cavern, the word was repeated throughout the crowd.

  “You know her as Arion, the tutor of the prince.”

  “She was sent to arrest you,” Petragar said.

  “Changed her mind. Even she recognizes that the fane has gone mad.”

  “And the fane sent giants to punish her for that error in judgment.”

  “A giant mistake.” Tekchin chuckled.

  Nyphron smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, that didn’t work out so well for the giants. They’re dead now, and she’s working with us. So closing those gates won’t help. She’ll blow them open or simply tear down your walls.”

  “You’re lying,” Petragar said.

  Nyphron turned to the Galantians. “On your honor, speak the truth before your brethren and our Lord Ferrol. Is the Miralyith Arion, former tutor of the prince, in our company by her choice and assisting us in our endeavors?”

  Together in one voice the Galantians replied, “Yes, by our honor.”

  “You’re lying!” Petragar howled. “They’re all lying.”

  Irritated beyond the ability to keep quiet, Elysan turned and faced him. “These are Galantians.”

  “And they’re liars!” His voice was a shrill rattle.

  “Don’t say that again,” Sikar said, setting his jaw so that his words were forced through his teeth.

  “You don’t tell Lord Petragar what to do,” Vertumus spoke up. “Petragar is in command here.”

  “That’s right,” Petragar said. “I am in charge. These…these Galantians are wanted heretics and traitors and are to be returned to Estramnadon, or, if they resist, they will be executed. This is the will of the fane.” He faced Sikar. “Do your duty.”

  “The war is going to begin here,” Nyphron told Sikar. “I can’t allow this fortress to stand if it stands against me.”

  “You can’t ask us to kill our own. Even if the fane is a poor choice to rule, Ferrol’s Law still stands.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything.” Nyphron began rolling the flag up again. “In fact, I want you to do absolutely nothing.”

  This was the key to the lock that Nyphron inserted and prepared to turn. He could see the surprise and, more importantly, the eager interest in Sikar’s eyes. The soldier was trapped between duty and
honor, desperate for a way out.

  “Nothing? I don’t under—”

  “I said arrest or kill him!” Petragar barked, causing Elysan to roll his eyes.

  “I’m the leader of the Instarya,” Nyphron responded to Sikar, ignoring Petragar. “I don’t ask my people to do anything I am not willing to do myself. And I am not willing to break Ferrol’s Law. If I were, do you honestly think he’d still be alive?” Nyphron used the rolled flag to point at Petragar. “All I am asking is that you don’t get in the way. Just stay out of it. If you need to, simply report to the fane that you were overwhelmed, that you had no choice but to surrender to a vastly superior force certain to slaughter every last Fhrey in Alon Rhist, which I’m afraid is the truth of the matter. That’s why I brought them, why they’re here. The Rhunes are here to absolve you, to expunge any concerns about tarnishing your honor.”

  Sikar narrowed his eyes. “What is your plan?”

  “Stop listening to him!” Petragar gave Sikar a shove from behind, which anyone who knew Sikar even a little would recognize as a mistake. The captain of the guard brought his elbow around and slammed it into Petragar’s jaw. The Fhrey screamed, staggered, and fell. Without looking back, Sikar addressed Nyphron again. “How do you see this working?”

  “The Rhunes are in total revolt. The Gula and the Rhulyn. They’ve united and appointed a keenig.”

  “Yes, we know,” Elysan said, looking past the Galantians toward the hills.

  “The Rhunes will be the arms we shall use to make the fane understand reason,” Nyphron explained. “Or the swords by which we will replace him.”

  “But this is…” Sikar looked pained. “I hate to say it, but Petragar is right. What you’re doing is treason.”

  “And what the Miralyith have done to the Instarya is what? Right? My father tried to follow the rules. He obeyed the laws, and you saw what happened. Do you think Ferrol, who gave us the horn, intended that one tribe should be forever dominant? What’s the point of the horn, then? The Miralyith will never give up power, and who can hope to succeed in single combat against one?”

  Sikar and Elysan shared a look, and while it was slight, Nyphron was certain he saw Elysan nod.

  “So, what do you say?” Nyphron asked. “Will you turn your back on Ferrol and learn to worship the Miralyith as your new gods? Or will you trust me, a fellow Instarya who was raised to lead this tribe by a father who gave his life to save us from these so-called gods?”

  “Bas-ward! My jaw bwoke again,” Petragar slurred. He had only managed to make it back up to his knees and crouched on the ground holding his face, tears in his eyes.

  Sikar turned fully around but didn’t even look at Petragar. He faced the gathered Instarya and said, “The fane has ordered us to apprehend or kill these Fhrey. Nyphron asks us to stay our hands. The fane is our ruler, the Galantians our family. In this, I am inclined to side with family, and I’m willing to recognize Nyphron, son of Zephyron, as the rightful lord of the Rhist.”

  “I concur,” Elysan said. “But, as it is against the will of the fane, no one can be ordered to do likewise.”

  Sikar nodded and backed up, clearing the path to the bridge and the Galantians. “Any Fhrey who doesn’t wish to defy the fane’s orders, you are free to draw your weapon and do what you believe is your duty.”

  Sikar took a few more steps away from the bridge and made a show of looking and waiting for those loyal to the fane.

  Petragar, still clutching his face, shifted his head, looking around. “Ooh it!” he shouted when no one moved. “Obey your fane!”

  Still, no one moved.

  After several minutes of stillness and a silence that was broken only by the desperate outbursts of Petragar, Sikar nodded. “So be it.” Then he turned back to Nyphron. “Welcome back, my lord.”

  * * *

  —

  “What do you think that means?” Krugen asked when most of the Galantians and the defending Fhrey disappeared inside the gates of the fortress. Only Tekchin and Grygor walked back across the bridge.

  “They didn’t kill them,” Lipit said. “That’s got to be a good sign, yes?”

  Persephone was already descending the narrow dusty trail, wondering how fast she could safely move. She wanted to be at the bottom, wanted to learn what transpired, and was wondering why she’d climbed up in the first place.

  “What happened?” Moya was the first to greet her. Her big eyes loomed larger than usual. “Did they fight? Did Suri do something?”

  The mystic looked at her, surprised.

  “No to both questions, but we don’t know exactly what happened.” Persephone slipped on a loose stone two feet from the bottom, stumbled, but landed safely on the hardscrabble plain. She touched down within the gathering of the chieftains’ Shields. They had all remained there after Raithe explained there wasn’t room for everyone at the top. “Tekchin and Grygor are on their way back, I hope with good news.”

  “Tekchin?”

  “Yes, Moya.” Persephone rolled her eyes. “Your boyfriend is fine.”

  “Just asking, Madam Keenig,” she said crisply.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Everyone else does.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Persephone pushed past Oz and Edger, grabbed the hem of her skirt, and trotted down the slope to the road. From there, she saw the two Galantians striding toward her. The gathered clansmen, a mixture of Rhen, Tirre, and Warric men, flowed in behind, all curious for news.

  “Madam Keenig,” Tekchin greeted her with a modest bow.

  Persephone scowled. “What happened?”

  “We’re in.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Tekchin made a lavish wave of his arm in the direction of Alon Rhist. “Welcome to your new fortress. I think you’ll find it more suitable than East Puddle.”

  “My fortress?”

  Tekchin laughed. “Madam Keenig, weren’t you watching? You just conquered Alon Rhist.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Rhist

  We traded dirt and rough-hewn logs for marble and glass.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The other times Persephone had been to Alon Rhist she’d stuck close to Reglan, and neither was prone to wander. No one wandered inside Fhrey territory, much less in the heart of their principal stronghold, whose largest tower had come to symbolize a monolithic sentinel. During those early visits, the procession of chieftains marched across the Grandford gorge under guard. When the men were led to a meeting hall, the women—those allowed to come—waited in nearby rooms. Persephone had marveled at the lamps, windows, curtains, and furniture. She didn’t dare set foot out of the little apartment; none of the women did. They weren’t offered a midday meal, and all the Rhunes ate the evening meal together.

  On her second visit, Persephone and Gela—who she’d assumed was Lipit’s wife only to later discover that she was his mistress—dared to climb the stairs to the window level where they peered out at an unprecedented view of the great dome, the beautiful city below, and the massive tower that rose higher than she thought possible.

  No one had stopped them, no one so much as looked their way, but she’d been scared to death. They only had the courage to approach the one window, but that view had stayed with her. She’d had dreams where she walked the city’s paved streets, visiting the pillared shops. She was never frightened in her dreams. No one could see her, and somehow she knew this. Persephone had never once believed those dreams would come true in waking life.

  The day Nyphron became lord of Alon Rhist, he spent the afternoon providing Persephone with a personal tour of the fortress that would be her new home. The outpost wasn’t as large as she had thought. The majestic fortification crowned the pinnacle of the crag, appearing as the inevitable conclusion to the natural rock. The city, formed of lighte
r stone and some wood, spilled out below. These smaller buildings trickled down the hillside in tiers, curling around the base of the butte like the tail of a dragon around a hoard of gold.

  “And that is Mirtrelyn.” Nyphron pointed to a nondescript open door in a cluster of three-story buildings.

  “Land of Mirth?”

  Nyphron smiled in surprise. “Your Fhrey is very good.” He nodded. “Mirtrelyn is…” He stopped walking and stood in the middle of the street, thinking. “I don’t know if you have such things in Rhulyn. It’s a place where people go to drink, sing songs, and tell tales.”

  “We do that in our lodges.”

  “This is less formal, a place common people can come and relax. Most enjoyable. The Galantians and I spent many a long night in there.”

  “Seems small. Why come down here when you have that grand dome that I imagine could accommodate the whole town?”

  “The Verenthenon is our tribal chamber, our general assembly hall—a smaller version of the Airenthenon—where the leading officers of the various Spears discuss issues and advise the Rhist Commander.”

  Persephone smiled politely. “I see.”

  “You don’t have a clue what I just said, do you?”

  “You said that dome building is your lodge, only you don’t drink there.”

  Nyphron laughed. “Okay, yes. I suppose that’s about right.”

  “Wouldn’t work in Rhulyn,” she told him as the two began walking again. “Can’t call a meeting if there isn’t food and drink. No one would come.”

  He laughed again. A nice laugh, she thought, and generous. Persephone often saw humor and laughter—the good sort—as a gift that both the giver and receiver enjoyed equally. The humorless she viewed as misers. Most of the men she knew were far too serious, which made Nyphron a ray of sunshine through a grim canopy.

  The city wasn’t at all like her dreams. The real thing was far less perfect, and much more amazing. The complexity of twisting streets paved in flat stones, the pretty arched bridges, the brightly painted multistoried homes with their tall windows and dark wood trim were all things beyond her imagination. But she had been surprised to find piles of manure, broken pots, unconscious drunks sleeping on stoops, lewd graffiti, and the smell of urine, which was unmistakable on the narrower streets. But the biggest difference between dream and reality was that all the inhabitants could see her. Everyone stared. Those gathering water from the fountain forgot what they were doing. They stood frozen, watching as Nyphron and Persephone passed. Conversations halted; doors closed, and laughter died. In every face she saw fear mingled with revulsion and disbelief. One Fhrey openly cried.