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

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “My fane,” Synne said, and Mawyndulë thought it might have been the first time he’d heard her. “The Shahdi are engulfed by Rhunes, and that beast can’t be stopped. You and your son must flee.”

  “This is my whole army!” his father shouted.

  “And they will die so that you can live.”

  Mawyndulë couldn’t help noticing that the dragon was coming back. Once more it had taken flight.

  “Mawyndulë,” Synne spoke directly to him. “Can you blow it to the ground?”

  Say yes.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, do that.” Synne faced the fane. “I have an idea that might buy us—might buy you—some time.”

  She meant for his father to escape. Mawyndulë couldn’t help but hope he was included in that you.

  The beast came at them faster this time, more determined than ever.

  “Do what she says,” his father told him.

  Synne looked at Mawyndulë, and in that instant, she spoke a thousand words with her eyes. All of it came down to one simple idea. Don’t miss.

  The surge filled him again. Mawyndulë felt buoyed, rich with strength. He was the Parthaloren Falls. He was a torrent, a great river running in free fall. He was power. On his second try, he tightened his wind weave, made it cleaner, less ugly, and brought the downdraft hard.

  The dragon slammed onto the field once more, unfortunately on a section where the fighting was thick. The impact killed a score of Fhrey and Rhunes, but again the beast was unfazed. The moment it hit, however, the grass came alive. Deep, long roots and a million stalks grabbed hold of wings, feet, and tail, looping, swirling, wrapping.

  “You’ve trapped the thing!” the fane cheered. “Synne! You’re a genius.”

  “It won’t hold,” Onya said. “Spiders, join in!”

  “It’s only grass,” Synne explained, sweat beading on her forehead. “The creature will break free. Open the ground!”

  A moment later the plain of rock and soil split apart and the beast fell. Onya clapped her hands and the ground closed, swallowing the beast.

  “She’s buried it!” Mawyndulë said.

  That won’t stop it, Jerydd said in his head. You need to get out of there.

  Down the slope, Mawyndulë saw far fewer Fhrey soldiers defending them than there had been only minutes before.

  “My fane,” Taraneh spoke loudly, and gestured to a pair of horses being brought over. “You must go.”

  Lothian looked down the slope at his dying Shahdi, then at the scar left where the dragon had been buried. Then they all felt the tremor under the ground. Something big was digging beneath them.

  Taraneh turned to his aide. “Inform the Lion Corps. We are leaving—we are leaving now!”

  “You go too, Synne,” Onya said. “Protect the fane.”

  “We can’t afford to lose this battle,” the fane said softly, already defeated.

  “This is but one encounter, my fane,” Taraneh said. “It’d be better to fight another day. As long as we have you, the campaign continues.”

  Mawyndulë saw the resignation in Lothian’s eyes. His father had lost so much in that battle. Not just the lives of so many Fhrey, but his belief that the Fhrey were invincible. Mawyndulë feared he would see that look over and over in nightmares and on the faces of many others.

  His father, his fane, was not invincible.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Saying Goodbye

  The Battle of Grandford was not only the turning point of the war; it was a watershed for all of mankind. Those three days were our first steps out of darkness and into the light of a new dawn. Beauty and grandeur, the arts and sciences, and peace and civility all grew from seeds watered by the blood spilled on that terrible soil. Alon Rhist remains but a ruin, a bluish stone rising out of a forgotten hill, but it was the beginning of everything else.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Victory.

  The word was spoken frequently after the Battle of Grandford, but never with the sort of enthusiasm or joy expected with such a term. For Persephone, it was a hollow word, made empty by the many holes cut through her heart. One hole for every life lost, the largest punched out by the death of the man in the grave at her feet.

  According to the most recent count, two thousand eight hundred and thirty-three people had died over the course of those three days. The death toll was expected to rise the deeper they dug. One thousand eight hundred and six were human, including Meryl, whom Persephone learned was a slave working in the Kype. The man had taken it upon himself to murder the leaders of what he deemed the enemy. Meryl had avoided capture by hiding in the labyrinth beneath the Verenthenon, only to be killed by the very Fhrey he had sought to aid when they collapsed the great dome.

  Two thirds of the defending force of Alon Rhist had perished. Persephone knew the number because she had Brin keep an exact count as the bodies were recovered. In all her dreams, Brin likely never anticipated this would be part of her responsibilities.

  By every account, the attacking Fhrey had suffered such a comparatively similar number of casualties that the battle could have been considered a draw. Expectations made all the difference. No one had thought they had a chance. So, by the fact she was still breathing, the world judged Persephone the victor.

  Breathing was about all Persephone was doing. Standing between the two graves, she was having a hard time even with that.

  Her wounds were still debilitating, so her stomach was wrapped tight, and she’d been carried down from the Kype. Here, she insisted on standing. They had come to say farewell to Raithe and Arion, and one did not sit in the presence of heroes.

  Each breath she took hurt. And the pain from her wounds didn’t help matters.

  She was disappointed by the smaller-than-expected crowd.

  Should be thousands, Persephone thought, given what they’ve done for us.

  But so many of those who knew of their contributions were also dead and buried on that terrible plain. Raithe had hated that place; Persephone now hated it, too. Someone, maybe Brin, had referred to it as the Field of Heroes. It sounded like her, like something she would put in her book. And while they were heroes, Persephone couldn’t help feeling they were also victims—her victims. More so than anyone, she was responsible. This was her victory.

  Tesh had dug Raithe’s grave and placed the Phyre stone, as was fitting for the next of kin. Persephone didn’t know who had dug Arion’s, but Suri had placed the Phyre stone. Suri stood apart from the others, staring down at the twin mounds of rocks, as if unable to understand what had happened.

  Suri had saved them all.

  She’d also killed Raithe.

  No one had told Persephone this; no one needed to. The moment the dragon spoke, she knew. She knew more than she wanted, and it made standing in that dry wind, trying to breathe, so very difficult.

  Gifford made an effort to comfort Suri, putting an arm around her shoulder. She pushed it away. “Don’t,” she told him. “Don’t be nice; bad things happen to people who love me.”

  As always, Brin stood beside Persephone. She needed to record the event, but she couldn’t have seen much through her continual tears. Moya, Tekchin, Padera, Malcolm, Frost, Flood, Rain, Roan, Gifford, Habet—they all showed up to pay respects. Tressa was the surprise. The widow of Konniger usually kept away from crowds.

  “I made it extra deep,” Tesh said to everyone—or no one. “Then used the biggest, heaviest rocks I could find. Don’t want animals digging him up.” Tesh wiped his nose and eyes.

  Brin moved to his side and, taking his hand, squeezed.

  “We should say something,” Moya suggested.

  To her surprise, Tressa, who held a rock in her hand, stepped forward to place it on the pile.

  “Not you,” Moya snapped.

  “Give it a rest,” T
ressa responded. “We just finished a battle. Haven’t you had enough?”

  “Of you, yes.”

  Tressa sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

  “Why are you here?”

  She pointed at Raithe’s grave. “I wanted to say something to him. Funerals are where people do that, or so I’ve heard. Do you mind?”

  “Yes,” Moya said. “Quite a bit actually.”

  “Good.” Tressa grinned.

  The Shield took a hurried step toward her.

  “Moya,” Persephone said, “let her talk.” The keenig’s voice was soft and weak, but the effect was powerful. Moya stopped abruptly but continued to glare.

  Tressa ignored her. “I didn’t know you very well,” she said to the grave. “You were Dureyan, a troublemaker. Knew it from the moment you first came to Rhen. Dureyans are nothing but liars, drunks, murderers, and thieves. Everyone knows that.”

  All of them glared at Tressa, and Moya began rocking on the balls of her feet, glancing over at Persephone, hoping for the leash to be removed.

  “Thing is,” Tressa went on, “most people don’t know Tet. Just think they do. People always think they know everything about a person.” She glared at Moya, then stared back down at the pile of rocks at their feet. “You were Dureyan, so you had to be trouble, and maybe you were, but I never seen it. You cut wood for us when everyone else was too scared. Faced the Fhrey when no one else would. Turned down the chance to be the keenig—to rule over everyone. Never saw a man turn down power like that. Konniger wouldn’t have. Konniger got himself killed trying to get one tenth of what folks were shoving in your face. Then you”—she wiped her eyes and sniffled—“then you go and do this. Damn lousy Dureyan. Rotten troublemaker. I just wish…I wish we had more like you, or that I would have had the chance to know you better. Because people…well, I guess people just don’t know Tet.” Tressa looked up then. She glanced at the rest of them. “That’s it. That’s all I have to say.” She placed her rock on Raithe’s pile and turned away.

  A long silence followed.

  Moya relaxed, her shoulders drooped, her arms unfolded. Finally, she asked, “Tesh? Do you want—?”

  He shook his head. “Already spoke the words I wanted while I was piling the rocks.”

  Moya looked at Persephone, who rapidly shook her head.

  “Suri?”

  She was looking at the Gilarabrywn. The behemoth was curled up on Wolf’s Head, watching the proceedings with casual indifference.

  Moya cleared her throat and called her name again. “Suri, do you have anything you want to say?”

  The mystic shook her head.

  Moya looked to the dwarfs, but they also declined.

  “Malcolm?”

  The tall, thin man, dressed in clothes Brin’s mother had made for him, stood before the pile of stones and raised his head. “This evening has caused me to pause and think.” Malcolm tilted his head back and looked up at the slowly darkening sky. “With the passing of Raithe and Arion, I think there will be at least two new stars in the sky tonight.” He looked at Arion’s grave. “And from now on, I think the name Arion should be another word for wise. For while she was compassionate, intelligent, and giving, more than anything, she displayed wisdom. One might suspect that comes with living so long, but I think not. She knew that from arrogance came apathy, from apathy came ignorance, from ignorance came hatred, and from hatred, well…nothing good ever came from hatred.” He paused to look across the bloody landscape. “She tried to stop this, but I think wisdom is rarely ever enough when fighting hatred. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made.”

  He focused on the other mound of rocks. “I think Tesh did a fine job with the stones. Big ones on the bottom, small ones on top. He also put a little one in your hand, Raithe, so you can enter Phyre. You would have approved. I’m sorry I had to mislead you, but then I’m sorry about a lot of things. Be sure to tell your sister and mother that you weren’t like your father or brothers. You did something good—something very good. And I think your life made a difference. No, that’s not true.” Malcolm looked up at the sky. “This night has made me think many things, but that is one thing I know. Sleep well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

  Then Malcolm lifted his head and sang in an unexpectedly beautiful voice:

  “My love, I give you;

  Into Elan, I send you;

  Forgive me, I beg you;

  Be at peace, I ask you;

  May whatever good is in this universe watch over your journey.”

  Then Malcolm produced Herkimer’s bronze medal, the one Raithe had worn ever since the two of them had met, and he placed it on the grave. He trapped it there with a rock and stepped back.

  Then everyone else stepped up, placing their rocks on both of the graves. Grimacing with pain, Persephone placed one on Arion’s and then stepped back. She didn’t go to Raithe’s. This didn’t go unnoticed by Moya, who announced that the ceremony was over and urged them to leave.

  Moya moved to Persephone’s side. “Let’s get you back to—”

  “No. I’m staying.”

  “You can barely stand.”

  “I need a moment alone.”

  Moya considered this, then nodded. “Fine, but I’ll be waiting over there with the litter. Wave if you need me.”

  Moya moved off, shooing Brin, who asked why Persephone wasn’t coming.

  “Suri?” Persephone stopped the mystic when she started back.

  The girl turned. Her face drawn, eyes tired.

  “I want to ask…”

  Why Raithe? Of all the people, why was it him you sacrificed? Was it because of me? The words caught in her throat, refusing to come out. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I know why, and I’d rather not hear it aloud. If you say it, I’ll have nothing to hide behind.

  “It didn’t hurt,” Suri said. “It didn’t hurt him.”

  Persephone nodded.

  “I’ll be right over here,” Moya reminded. She and Suri walked away, leaving Persephone alone in the light of the setting sun and at the mercy of the harsh wind.

  She moved forward only a step. That was all it took. She fell. Caught herself with her hands and knees. The pain ripped through her center, making her cry out. Moya started to come back, but Persephone waved her off.

  Then the Keenig of the Ten Clans started to cry. She was stunned that she’d lasted this long. Alone in that horrid place, before that lonely pair of rock mounds, the dam broke—she let it wash over her.

  When at last she stopped weeping, the sun had slipped behind the ruins of the Rhist and stars were beginning to appear in the east. From around her neck, Persephone removed the chain that held the chieftain’s ring, the one she had let fall the night she said goodbye to Reglan, the one Brin had found. She squeezed it in her hand, feeling the metal cut into her palm.

  “I had to do what was best for my people,” she told the pile of stones. “I had to…I had to…I still have to. And I know I hurt you, but dammit, Raithe, you hurt me, too, and this…this was just cruel.”

  She wiped her face with her wrist. “I wish to Mari that Suri had asked me before she asked you. If I had known she was looking for sacrifices, I would have stood in line all night to volunteer. Then I could be the hero and you could be the one drowning in guilt and self-loathing. Let me tell you, a painless death at the hands of Suri sounds like a pretty good deal right now. But I won’t get to die a hero like you. Women never do. We just get old, then we’re forgotten.”

  She sniffled and shook her head. “Raithe, I wish I could say I was sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t because…because this just hurts too much. You took away my chance, you stole my one hope to make everything right, and honestly, at this moment—I hate you. I hate you so very much…almost as much as I hate myse
lf. So take it.” She moved to the mound of rocks, lifted one, and set the ring on the pile. “Nyphron gets everything else, but not this. It’s yours. I think it always was.”

  “Seph?” Moya called. It was getting dark, and the Shield was having trouble seeing her keenig.

  “I have to go. I have to take care of my people. It’s what I do.” She waved, and Moya started toward her. “You sacrificed yourself to save us; good for you, but you only had to do it once.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Message

  In my mind’s eye, I see this little bird flying past arrows, Miralyith-conjured lightning, and a fire-breathing dragon. What an unlikely hero.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Imaly sat sideways in the golden chair in the center of the empty Airenthenon with her legs thrown up on the arm. Most undignified and disrespectful to the sanctity of the chamber, it was also wonderful. At her age, Imaly’s feet had a tendency to throb when she stood too long, and she’d just spent hours on them. The weekly meeting of the Aquila had ended, and the assembly had been vicious. Imaly didn’t blame them; she was anxious, too. The fane and the army had been gone for weeks without word. Everyone wanted answers. She didn’t have them, but that didn’t stop the questions.

  As Curator of the Aquila, she was acting fane in his absence. This position held no real authority. The martial powers bestowed on the fane by Ferrol did not transfer. She also had no authority to set policy. All she could do was oversee the appointment of a new fane should the old one die and, as was the case just then, fail miserably at answering questions about Lothian’s progress.

  Some of the questions, like the one posed by Minister Metis, were legitimate concerns for the fane’s well-being. More, like Volhoric’s inquiries, were politically motivated. Like many, he saw a rare opportunity. Fane and heir were both at war. War was dangerous. Should something happen to them both, the field of options would be wide. The Aquila, and most especially Imaly herself, would have the power to direct the future of Erivan. If they allowed only non-Miralyith to blow the Horn of Gylindora, the Fhrey would have a new ruling tribe, one with the power to castrate the growing supremacy of the magic class. The course of history might be forever changed should the fane and his son die. Volhoric was probing, seeing where her intent lay. He would, of course, want to endorse an Umalyn for fane. He said as much when he stated that the Fhrey were in need of strong religious leadership to help return to Ferrol’s Fold.