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

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Mawyndulë couldn’t care less about The Traitor, but…“He taught Gryndal?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Ah…I don’t recall—have I ever met Pyridian?”

  The fane shook his head. “He died before you were born. In fact, you could say your very existence is due to Pyridian’s death, which is why I find it so strange that you don’t know about him.”

  Mawyndulë glanced again at Synne, feeling certain his father was purposely humiliating him.

  The fane noticed and shook his head. “Trust me, this oversight is more embarrassing for me than for you. I should have mentioned him before.”

  “Why? Who was he?” Mawyndulë asked.

  “Your brother.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Second Best

  That winter, seeds were planted. The army learned to fight, smiths learned to forge, people learned what it felt like to live in a house rather than a dirt-floored shack, and I learned to write. Human civilization was born under a blanket of snow, sheltered by walls of stone.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The little window in the door at the base of the Kype slid aside, exposing just a pair of eyes and part of a nose. As always, the sentinel said, “State your business.” This was repeated in Fhrey; why, Raithe had no idea.

  “Back again to see Persephone.”

  “State your name and your business with Madam Keenig.”

  “You know my name.”

  “Refusal to answer will—”

  “Raithe, and because I want to speak with her.”

  “About what?”

  “None of your business.”

  The little window snapped shut, but Raithe didn’t leave. He waited.

  After living in Alon Rhist for eight months, Raithe felt isolated even though he resided in a city of more people than he ever thought existed. Lately, he’d been blaming it on the snow. Drifts blocked the narrow streets, sealing people inside, discouraging communal gatherings. By spring, he realized it wasn’t the snow.

  To make matters worse, he was always cold. For a man who grew up in a dirt house heated only by wafers of dung, the grand marbled halls of the Rhist were surprisingly chilly. Dirt is wholesome, life giving. Stone is just cold. It took only a single winter in the Rhist for Raithe to develop a nostalgia for his youth in Dureya. For the first time in recent memory, the weather had warmed and was downright hot. The snow was in full retreat, lingering only in deep shadows under bridges or tight alleyways. Birds were back, buds popped, flowers sprouted, and Raithe wasn’t pleased with how things had been going in the Rhist. Wasn’t his call; he was still just a chieftain of one—two, if he included Malcolm—which he didn’t. Now that Malcolm was back in the Rhist, Raithe was less confident about the ex-slave’s loyalties. There wasn’t anything Malcolm said or did, but Raithe felt things had changed between them—a feeling in his gut like a cold coming on.

  He started to lean against the bronze door that led to the inner sanctum of the fortress, but the sun had made it too hot to touch. He walked back across the bridge and peered over the edge. Long way down. He had no idea how far, but red roofs the size of cranberries spilled at his feet. Out to the east, he could see all the way to the rocky highlands beyond the High Spear Valley where his brothers had been slain. To the south, he could see The Forks where his father’s body lay. While his village was much closer, the great dome blocked the view, and he couldn’t see where his mother and sister had died. His village was right underfoot, but hidden from him. He was surrounded by death in every direction except one.

  Returning to the door, he beat on the bronze again.

  The window slid back once more. “Yes?” asked the eyes and nose.

  “Still waiting.”

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “A what? Just tell Persephone I’m here, will you?”

  “And why does that matter?”

  “Because she’s a friend of mine.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Raithe asked.

  “That’s what I’m asking. Madam Keenig is a very busy woman. If I can’t inform her of what this meeting is pertaining to, I don’t see how I can report it at all.”

  “It’s not a meeting. I would just like to talk to her.”

  “That’s what a meeting is, sir. Is the topic of your conversation a matter of Rhist security? Is that why you are refusing to divulge its nature? If so, I can assure you that I am quite trusted by the administration of the citadel, and you should have no concerns about revealing any information to me.”

  Raithe didn’t understand most of the words, even though he was certain they were in Rhunic.

  “Listen, I just…I just want to say hello.”

  “If that’s all, I can pass that information to her. You don’t need to bother the keenig.”

  “I also want to see how she’s doing, okay?”

  “So, this is a cordial call, a purely social visit?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Please wait.”

  The little window slid shut again.

  Raithe backed away from the heat-radiating door, wondering if the interior was roasting. That might account for the interaction. The guard’s brains were baked.

  Once again, he went out on the bridge, but this time he looked up. The Kype was a building of solid stone as high as the Verenthenon. It had but one entrance, and its only windows were narrow slits near the top. This made the Kype, and everything beyond it, the most secured portion of the fortress. Anyone attacking would need to cross the Grandford Bridge, break into the big gates, fight through the lower courtyard, climb the winding ramp, then battle through the narrow city streets. And that would just get them to the fortress proper, where another smaller wall and an additional set of bronze gates waited. Behind them was the upper courtyard, which housed the barracks, training fields, tannery, kitchens, smithies, and livestock pens. Above that and up a steep, narrow staircase was the domed Verenthenon. An invading force would need to climb up that deathtrap of a staircase, around the Verenthenon’s series of terraces and balconies just to reach the long corbel bridge where Raithe now stood. Given that the famed Spyrok—that sky-piercing watchtower of stone and glass—was on the far side of the Kype and accessed by another bridge, it was the most isolated place in the Rhist complex. So far, after more than eight months of trying, Raithe had never made it farther than where he now stood. He hadn’t been able to get inside the Kype, never made it past its bronze door.

  The little window opened once more.

  “Madam Keenig is not available at this time.”

  Before Raithe could say anything, the little window slammed shut, this time followed by a metal-on-metal snap.

  * * *

  —

  In a field of grass scarred by patches of worn dirt, four dozen men beat each other with sticks. A few others used metal swords—the more advanced ones, the quick learners—but most swung hickory imitations at each other’s heads. Raithe could tell the trainees were getting better, since wood-to-wood cracks outnumbered soft fleshy slaps. In addition, the curses and genuine screams were rare. That morning, rapid staccato clacks carried across the training field, punctuated by the occasional hoot of success.

  “See her?” Malcolm asked, even before Raithe was completely down the stairs.

  “I think she’s taking a bath.”

  Malcolm and Suri basked in the sun at the bottom of the stairs, reclining with their legs extended on the grass. The two looked like a pair of lizards lounging in the heat. Malcolm craned his head back to squint at Raithe. “Turned away again? Did you tell them you’re a chieftain?”

  “They know that.” Raithe sat in the light alongside Suri. It felt good to soak up the sun, to feel it on his face. Never know how much you appreciate something until it’s gone.

  “Are you su
re?”

  Raithe nodded while watching the practice field where the closest combatants were Farmer Wedon and one of the younger Gula. Pride prevented the older northern men from training with the Fhrey, but they sent their boys and young men, who likely repeated everything they learned when they returned home. Everyone wore nothing but breechclouts, their skin slick and shiny with sweat. He could tell the better fighters by the number of grass blades stuck to the backs of their opponents.

  “He’s doing it on purpose,” Raithe said.

  “He?”

  “Nyphron,” Suri offered. She had her eyes closed, hands folded on her chest as if she were dead.

  Malcolm glanced at the girl, then back at Raithe. “Nyphron was there?”

  “No—well, I can’t actually say. All I ever see are eyes and a nose, so maybe, but I’m sure it’s by his orders. He’s trying to keep me away from her, doesn’t like the competition.”

  “You think he’s—what? You think Nyphron is romantically interested in Persephone?”

  Raithe smirked. “You were the one who once told me Fhrey and humans weren’t so different, remember?”

  “I’m not saying it’s impossible, just wondering what makes you think he’s interested.”

  Suri answered for Raithe. “It’s because Nyphron raises his fur whenever Raithe gets too close.”

  “Raises his fur?” Malcolm chuckled.

  “Like a badger on a fresh kill. Gets all protective and tries to scare off anything that gets too close.” When Malcolm chuckled again, she added, “I wouldn’t go laughing at a badger. No sense of humor—none at all. Trust me on that.”

  “Every time I see Persephone, he’s there. I can’t get the woman alone. They sit together at every public meal and council meeting.”

  “He finishes her sentences now. Have you noticed?” Suri said, looking up at him while shielding her eyes from the sun.

  Raithe hadn’t, but he’d seen little of Persephone of late. Most people weren’t allowed inside the Kype. Persephone’s personal attendants, such as Moya, Padera, and Brin, were among the few that had access. Suri could get in because she and Arion shared a room behind the bronze door. As for Raithe, he only saw Persephone during the large, noisy, obligatory, and increasingly infrequent council meetings held in the Verenthenon. “He keeps her imprisoned in that tower like a dragon guarding its hoard.”

  “She’s just busy,” Malcolm said. “You forget, she’s the Keenig of the Ten Clans. If you add the Instarya to that number, it means she’s in control of the whole frontier. I’ve heard she has constant meetings, all day and late into the night.”

  “With who?”

  “All kinds of people: civic leaders from here, who are still fearful of Rhunes in their midst; messengers from all the Rhune villages; and Fhrey commanders keeping her posted on developments from as far away as Ervanon.”

  “What’s Ervanon?”

  “Another fortress like this, but north of here. All the Instarya outposts now fall under her control because they recognize Nyphron as head of the Instarya and rightful lord of the Rhist, and he acknowledges her rule as the keenig.”

  He pointed at the Fhrey instructors moving through the combatants, holding their own little sticks and shouting instructions, encouragements, and insults. “And then there are these fellows here. Persephone has them reporting on the training process. And there are the supply train organizers and the quartermasters giving reports on growth, field rotations, and forecasted yields, not to mention the Fhrey who keep the Rhist functioning. I’ve heard the wells are running low. And, of course, she has to listen to grievances in the high court of the Karol.”

  “I have grievances,” Raithe said.

  Malcolm plucked a long blade of grass from near the bottom step. “But not pertaining to official business. The things I’m talking about are complaints about new regulations or unfair treatment.”

  “I’m being treated unfairly! She’s my friend; I shouldn’t need official business. I used to be able to just walk over and see her.”

  Malcolm shrugged with an apologetic smile. “Times change.”

  Suri sat up and addressed Raithe. “I’ve told you before, I can get you in.”

  Raithe looked at her and she smiled. Her grin was more than an offer to escort him through the door. She was hinting at greater consequences.

  Suri had spoken of her trip to the land of the dwarfs. Not all of it, he could tell some parts were too raw to get near. Her reluctance was similar to Raithe’s silence about his family and life in Dureya. Certain moments were avoided, hinted at but not trod upon—not from a lack of trust but due to a desire to avoid walking over old graves. She’d told him enough to know that, if so inclined, Suri could reduce the Kype to rubble or melt the bronze door to an insignificant puddle. This was what her grin had meant, and that smile was accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that said it would be as much fun for her as it would be advantageous for him.

  He smiled but shook his head. “If I really needed to get in, I could. Frost or Flood would pop the hinges off that door, or I could just ask Brin or Moya to arrange an audience.”

  “My way would be more fun.” Suri wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Arion wouldn’t like it,” Raithe said. “You know she wouldn’t.”

  “I’d put it back,” the mystic said.

  Raithe had no idea what it was she planned to put back—the door maybe? Knowing her, and judging from the size of that grin, it might be the entire front-facing wall of the Kype.

  “So, why don’t you?” Malcolm asked Raithe. “Why not arrange for an audience?”

  “Because I don’t want an audience with the keenig. I want to see Seph, and…I don’t want to see her if she doesn’t want to see me.” He pulled his legs up and sighed. “I’ve been to that door a couple dozen times over the winter. Everyone knows. I’m sure she’s heard by now, but even if she hasn’t, why has she never come looking for me? And don’t tell me she’s busy. No one is that busy.”

  The sound of cracking sticks diminished as most of the pairs stopped fighting. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the center of the field where no grass grew, and two combatants faced off.

  “What’s going on?” Raithe asked.

  “Tesh and Sebek,” Malcolm replied.

  “Again?”

  “The kid’s determined.”

  Raithe backed up the steps to see over the heads of the sweaty men gathering in a ring around Sebek and Tesh. The two used actual swords, no shields, and were naked to the waist like everyone else. As always, Sebek held both his swords, Nagon and Tibor. Tesh had his own pair of Roan-made iron short swords.

  Over the course of eight months, Tesh had excelled at combat training. The boy, who had marked his sixteenth birthday just two months before, had thrown himself into learning everything he could about fighting. He was out before dawn and came back to his bed late each night, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress. At least twice he never made it to the bed, and Raithe found him asleep on the floor or table with a half-eaten meal beside him. All the exercise and ample food had turned the onetime cadaverous whelp into a lean, muscular lad. Still lanky, still not as tall as he would likely one day be, Tesh was already well on his way toward his goal of mastering the disciplines of the Galantians.

  “Up for another beating?” Sebek grinned, spinning Tibor in his grip.

  Tesh didn’t reply. He was crouched, blades up, concentrating, staring into Sebek’s eyes.

  No one fought Sebek except Tesh. The Fhrey didn’t teach, he humiliated. He also injured. Everyone knew Sebek was talented enough to avoid injuring his opponents, but he was easily irritated by weak competition and showed his disappointment by drawing blood. During one match, a terrified farmer from Menahan started crying, and Sebek responded by cutting off the man’s little finger. No one fought Sebek a
fter that—no one except Tesh. The lad desperately wanted to beat the master. The desire had turned into an obsession.

  The kid invited Sebek to come at him, and Sebek obliged. His two blades looked more like ten as they whirled in circles, crisscrossing their course in a weaving pattern that left only streaks. The blades themselves moved too fast to be seen. When Tesh’s swords collided with Sebek’s, the sound was the crash of metal waves upon a metal shore. There were sparks. Raithe never saw any other colliding blades spark. He had witnessed the Galantians sparring with each other. Vorath and Tekchin frequently held grudge matches, but their clashes didn’t kick sparks. When Tesh fought Sebek, it always produced a light show.

  The boy fell back. He always did. An onslaught from Sebek was a force of nature that couldn’t be resisted or contained. Raithe remembered the one time he’d battled Sebek, and it had been nothing like this. The Fhrey had calculatingly probed and then disarmed Raithe with his bare hand. Tesh was genuinely trying to win. He managed to catch strokes he couldn’t see, deflecting blind thrusts and ducking swipes even before they were made. Tesh looked like he was reading the Fhrey’s mind. And still Sebek was way out ahead, planning three strokes in advance, knowing not only that Tesh would manage to block, but how he would block—Sebek formulated attacks to counter Tesh’s moves before the lad even thought of them.

  All forty-eight men stood in the field intently watching what was sure to be the most amazing display of combat any of them had ever seen. The spectators winced, gasped, and cringed, always after the fact—after disaster almost happened. Reactions were too slow to keep pace.

  By Mari’s name, the kid is really good. Raithe wondered how such a thing was possible after only a year. No, not just a year. He’s Dureyan. That kid’s been fighting his whole life. He remembered how Tesh had brandished a dagger the day they first met, and how the boy had tripped him numerous times when the two sparred on the beaches of Dahl Tirre. Raithe had thought Tesh was entertaining. He’d had no idea what the kid was capable of.