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

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Nyphron nodded.

  “Still planning on killing the kid?”

  “I…I don’t know.” Nyphron narrowed his eyes at Malcolm as he finally understood that the ex-slave hadn’t brought the topic up on a whim. The realization dawned that Malcolm probably never brought anything up without a reason. “What do you think I should do?”

  Malcolm smiled back at him. This was a different sort of smile. Not sad, not a pitiful look, and not a snide or sinister grin. This was a genuinely pleased expression. “Now you’re getting this.”

  * * *

  —

  The men of the First Spear stood in the courtyard before the front gate: five hundred men, shoulder to shoulder, the faint light of the morning’s new sun revealing grim, apprehensive faces. Raithe walked up and down the rows, checking gear. They’d done this drill once a week for four months, and yet still many had failed to fasten shoulder straps or helms properly. They were nervous, scared, and distracted, and Raithe couldn’t blame them. Farmers, shepherds, woodsmen—they were all becoming warriors that day, gambling their lives. Dureyans had it easier; their lives were never worth much. But these men had left wives, children, homes, and land. They all trusted him. He was the God Killer. Looking from face to face, Raithe guessed that more than half wouldn’t live to see the sun set—maybe none of them would.

  Raithe had ordered the men of the First Spear to suit up and assemble at the front gate just before dawn. Malcolm had awakened him in the dark, relaying the order. But when Nyphron finally came down to the courtyard, he appeared surprised to find them waiting, and for reasons that eluded Raithe, Nyphron gave Malcolm a look that might have been suspicion. A moment later, Moya and her archers appeared, filing into the back of the yard among the practice dummies. For so many people in one place, the yard was disturbingly quiet. A few songbirds sang happy tunes, sounding out of place on this particular spring morning.

  “I know you’re nervous.” Nyphron stood on the Speech Rock, what everyone called the conspicuous thumb of stone that jutted up near the north end of the lower courtyard. He spoke in a loud, confident voice. “A few of you—quite a few—are outright terrified. Don’t worry. It’s natural. Everyone goes through this, but trust me, you’ll get past it. Just remember your training, and you’ll be fine.”

  Says the one person in the yard who won’t fight.

  Raithe didn’t care if Nyphron’s god forbade Fhrey from killing Fhrey; he found it impossible to follow someone who wasn’t willing to march out in front.

  “Spear leaders?” Nyphron waved them over.

  Although the Spears were filled with a mix of clansmen, each was commanded by a chieftain. Over the course of months, the men who served changed out as several went home to deal with farms and family. The same applied to the chieftains. Tegan of Warric and Harkon of Melen were the lucky ones on duty that month along with Raithe and Alward, who had no homes and were always there.

  “Third Spear.” Nyphron looked at Tegan of Warric as he drew a crude map in the dirt with a stick. “You’ll wheel left after you cross the bridge. Try to form up here and hold that line as best you can. Second Spear”—he turned to Harkon of Melen—“in the same way, you’ll wheel right and form up here.” He drew a line in the dirt. “Remember to keep the men tight and in formation, three deep. Raithe, you’ll take First Spear right up the center.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Moya, I want you to follow First Spear. There’s a rise on the plain, a natural hill that—”

  “Wolf’s Head,” Raithe said.

  “Right—Wolf’s Head. That’s where they’ll position the Spider Corps.” Nyphron pointed at Raithe. “Your goal is to push close enough to Wolf’s Head so that Moya and her archers can rain death.” He turned to Moya. “I can’t emphasize enough how crucial you are in this. All the Miralyith will be bunched together, making your job easier, but if you fail to kill them—well, the war might end right here.” Nyphron pointed to the parapet. “I’ll fly flags on the wall. Black means to form up. Green is the order to attack. Blue indicates we have the advantage and you should press the attack. Red is the signal to retreat—but remember to retreat in an orderly manner. Don’t let the men just run. You’ll need to march back together in the same order as you marched out or more will die. Any questions?”

  “Where is Persephone?” Raithe asked. “Why isn’t she down here seeing us off? She is the keenig. It’s her place, not yours.”

  Nyphron looked down at the dirt map for a moment and took a deep breath. “Keenig Persephone was attacked last night.”

  Several erupted in surprise, but none were louder than Raithe. He shoved his way past Alward and Tegan to confront the lord of the Rhist. “By who?”

  “A raow. It slipped into her room and might have killed her if it hadn’t been for Sebek and Tesh.”

  Raithe turned around to glare at Tesh, who stood in the crowd of soldiers, looking guilty. “You didn’t tell me?”

  “You were asleep,” the kid said. “And it was over, and there was this big battle today, and—”

  “Persephone was hurt, but she’ll be fine,” Nyphron assured everyone.

  Raithe fumed. He whirled back at Nyphron. “So, a raow is allowed in the Kype, but I’m not?”

  “It wasn’t allowed in, and this proves the necessity for tight security, doesn’t it?”

  That smug look, that lie told right to his face. Raithe wanted to kill Nyphron at that moment more than he’d ever wanted to kill anyone. Security had nothing to do with it. The other chieftains petitioned for audiences and received them, but Raithe was always refused. Not refused—no, nothing so definitive—he was merely delayed, delayed indefinitely. For months, he’d believed Persephone didn’t want to see him. That’s what he’d been told, and foolishly he believed it. Looking at Nyphron, he was now certain Persephone had become a prisoner in the Kype. Nyphron was keeping them apart, turning her into a puppet.

  Maybe not even a puppet. Maybe there was no raow. What is to stop him from killing her and saying he’s taking orders from her? She might already be dead.

  Raithe took a step forward and glared at Nyphron. “After this battle, I’m seeing her whether you like it or not. Bar the door to the Kype, and I’ll get Suri to melt that Tetlin bronze to a puddle. Do you understand?”

  “We’re all on the same side here,” Nyphron said. “We’re all allies in this fight.”

  “I doubt that. I’m not even sure you know what the word allies means.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Raithe,” he said this with a steady, reassuring calm. “The elves are outside the walls.”

  Raithe narrowed his eyes. One battle at a time.

  * * *

  —

  Tekchin found Moya near the front gate.

  “I’m going with you,” he said.

  Moya jumped. He had a knack for sneaking up on her. “No, you’re not. You’re lousy with a bow.”

  Moya was filling her sack from the pile of arrows stacked under the parapet ledge. In only a few months, Roan had worked wonders. There were thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of the feathered shafts, each with a metal tip provided by Roan and her army of smiths. As with the bows, armor, and swords, Roan had taught others her methods, and they in turn worked each day adding to the pile. Moya’s own bow—which she had named Audrey after her late mother because they were both so tightly strung—had been made by Roan from the heartwood of Magda. The weapon was special, believed by many to be magical. How else could Moya—a woman—be so proficient with a weapon?

  “I don’t need a bow. I’ll be your Shield,” he told her.

  “Shields don’t have Shields. You want to be a Shield, sub for me with Persephone. She needs protecting, and I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “But Persephone isn’t you.”

  Moya paused with a fist full of arrows and turned. “
What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  She dropped the arrows in the sack and slung the strap over her shoulder. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

  He frowned. “I’d be very upset if something happened to you.”

  Moya smirked. “Of course you would. But don’t worry, spring is here, so you won’t need me to keep you warm at night anymore. I’m sure there are plenty of Fhrey girls you can—”

  “I don’t want them. I want you.”

  “Why?” she asked, and looked Tekchin in the eye, daring him.

  “Because I have feelings for you. I care about you.”

  “Not good enough.” She hooked a skin of water around her neck and turned to her bowmen. “Filson,” she shouted. “Make sure everyone has water.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Tekchin asked, frustrated.

  She didn’t mean to be cruel. She knew how he felt; Moya just wasn’t certain if he did. “I don’t want you to say anything. I just want to know if there’s anything you want to say?”

  “If I say it now, it’ll be coerced.”

  She nodded. “I can see that.”

  “Then just let me say this instead.” Tekchin circled an arm around her waist and pulled her tight. Holding her head, he kissed her hard. When he finally let up, she was desperate for air.

  Taking a breath, Moya felt dazed. She nodded. “Very well put.”

  * * *

  —

  Tesh joined Raithe at the gate with the rest of the men, wearing a water skin and his dual swords. He was as tall as any of them, taller than some. Being sixteen made him a man in almost everyone’s eyes, but to Raithe, he was still a kid.

  “You aren’t going,” Raithe told him as he adjusted the placement of his knife on his waist belt.

  “What do you mean?” The kid was a ball of energy, bouncing on his feet.

  “I mean you aren’t going. You’re staying here.”

  “I’m a soldier in the First Spear, and I’m your Shield.”

  “And you aren’t going.”

  Tesh’s mouth hung open as his brows crashed down in disbelief. “Why?”

  Raithe knocked on his own helm and then his breastplate. “You don’t have any armor.”

  Tesh looked at the men in line—at his fellow spearmen—as if expecting them to speak up, to come to his defense. None said a word. They weren’t even looking in his direction. “But Roan wouldn’t make any for me. Said I had to wait until I stopped growing.”

  “No one without armor can go.”

  Again, Tesh sought help from his brothers-in-arms. Finding none, he turned to the walls of the fortress for understanding. “But that’s stupid.”

  “It’s not, and you can’t go.”

  “Moya’s archers don’t have armor.”

  “Arion and Suri will be hiding them from the Miralyith.”

  Raithe picked out a spear from the rack. He didn’t have a favorite. Spears weren’t personal friends the way swords were. Weapons were different the way cats were different from dogs. People had a preference for one or the other. Raithe was a dog, sword, beer, loner sort. Spear people were strange. Malcolm was a spear person, and Raithe never could figure him out.

  “How can you say that?” Tesh exploded. He threw his arms out and pointed to the men he moments before had turned to for help. “I’ve practiced harder than anyone. I’m better than all of them.” Tesh took a step toward Raithe and glared. “I’m a better warrior than you are!”

  Raithe nodded. “Maybe.”

  “You can’t do this to me.”

  “Already done.”

  “I have a right to fight.”

  Raithe planted the butt of his newly chosen spear on the ground and looked at Tesh. “I’m your chieftain and your commander. You’ll do as I say.”

  Tesh gritted his teeth, his eyes bulging, and he growled until he shouted as if in agony. “Why?” he yelled, his voice going too high. “I don’t need armor. You’ve seen me fight. They won’t touch me.”

  “They don’t have to. You think we only have to worry about swords and spears? The battle would be a lot easier if that were the case.” Raithe took his helm off and showed Tesh the runes etched inside. “This armor doesn’t just protect against blades. You weren’t at Dahl Rhen. You didn’t see what they can do with a snap of their fingers. If you go out there unprotected, you’ll be helpless—and dead long before we reach those blades you’re so certain can’t touch you.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Congratulations on identifying today’s lesson.” Raithe put his helm back on. “Life isn’t fair. And don’t worry if you don’t learn it this time around. That lesson will come up again and again.”

  The beautiful blue sky began to darken. The courtyard fell into shadow as unnatural clouds stretched overhead. Raithe had seen this act before. So had the other survivors of Dahl Rhen.

  “Find cover!” Raithe shouted at Tesh. “First Spear! March!” He ran forward. “Open the gate!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Battle of Grandford

  The Battle of Grandford is remembered in song and story; a legend of mythic heroes and villains, an allegory of truth and courage; a rallying cry for a people. It is important to know that the Battle of Grandford got its name and reputation months after the fighting ended, bestowed by people who were not there. I am not saying there were not heroes, or that it was not a time of courage, only that the names of the heroes are wrong and the truths forgotten—and that the lessons of that day have yet to be learned.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The two forward towers that guarded the front gate of Alon Rhist were each far smaller than the Spyrok. The southern tower was known affectionately as the Downriver Tower. The northern one went by a less amiable nickname: the Frozen Tower, since it caught the brunt of the north winds and had no fireplace to warm it. At the base were a few tables, places for soldiers to gamble and drink, but in the small room at the top, there wasn’t anything to sit on. Suri and Arion were forced to stand along the crenelated balcony, exposed to the wind and what, according to the clouds, was soon to be rain.

  “Spider Corps?” Suri asked, pointing up at the sky.

  Arion nodded. “Warming up for the show that’s about to start.”

  “We don’t do anything about that?”

  Arion shook her head. “According to Nyphron, we don’t do anything except hide the archers.”

  “But…” Suri looked up. She could sense the power draw, feel it like a breeze rushing past her face. “They’re going to demolish this place.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Suri turned and looked toward the back of the fortress. She tilted her head up to view the severed remains of the Spyrok, the broken finger with a jagged pinnacle. Only one person had died in that attack. Most of the debris had been blown off the back of the fortress and rained down the barren hillside.

  “No runes up there,” Arion pointed out.

  “None here, either.” Suri gestured in a circle at their room, nothing but an observation deck with a wooden floor and a trap door in its center. An empty cask lay on its side in the far corner, surrounded by discarded cups, one of which had shattered. Someone had carved symbols into the wooden floor and even in the merlons, but the marks were profanities instead of runes.

  “If there were, we couldn’t do our job, now could we?”

  “And we just have to hide the archers?”

  “Actually, I’m going to do that,” Arion said. “You’re just going to watch.”

  Suri narrowed her eyes, puzzled. “If the Spiders can join their power, why can’t we?”

  “Oh, we could. I just don’t want to.”

  Suri felt a sting of rejection.

  “Don’t look so hurt,” Arion said with a frown. She to
ok Suri’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “I just don’t want them to know about you.”

  Suri liked the warmth of her fingers and was reminded of how long it had been since she had enjoyed the comfort of hugging Minna. Few things in the world were as good as plowing her face into white fur and feeling the beating heart within. Touch—physical contact—was more important than it seemed, but such things were never evident until they were lost.

  Suri looked again at the sky and, remembering the lightning bolts in the forest, asked, “Should we go down a floor? Feels a little exposed here.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Hiding the archers is a very small thing. With all the siphoning they’re doing, they won’t notice.”

  “You weren’t doing anything when you stood next to Magda.”

  “True, but I also wasn’t paying attention. That’s where you come in.” Arion smiled and gave her hairless brows a mischievous quiver.

  Strange that Arion was in such a good mood considering what was about to happen. Suri sensed a dullness between them, a wall of separation. Arion was visible to her eyes, but not to the Art. She was shielding herself against the forces of the fane, a prudent measure, but she was also blocking Suri. Maybe it was all one and the same, yet Suri suspected those cheery eyes and the whimsical smile were another veil hiding Arion’s true feelings.

  “Where I come in?” Suri asked.

  “You’ll be able to tell if they pinpoint me. You’ll feel it. When they focus, it will be like the hairs on your neck will stand. Hard to miss, really. If you feel that, shield us. Just throw up a block like I taught you. Keep it tight and it ought to be able to resist them long enough for me to help. And if we must, we can run down the stairs to the safe room at the bottom.” She was referring to the base of the tower that had Orinfar runes ringing it. Suri didn’t like passing through that area, which felt like she was underwater. She couldn’t feel the world the way she normally did until she climbed up above the safe room. “And if you feel your shield weaken, jump down, you understand? Don’t wait for me.”