Age of Empyre Read online

  Reaching the camp’s boundary, Nolyn pointed at the running men. “Who are they?”

  “Techylors,” she replied.

  While she puzzled over what could drive a troop of Techylors to take flight, she saw they were not alone. More men emerged from the curtain of falling snow. In a broad dark line, they appeared as phantoms, a moving shadow wall along the plain.

  “It’s a full retreat,” Nyphron said, coming up from behind. He said it softly, the words slipping out. He wasn’t speaking to them. He wasn’t speaking to anyone.

  “Hi, Dada!” Nolyn grinned up at him, waving with his free hand.

  “What do you think is going on?” Persephone asked.

  “I suspect we’ll know shortly,” Nyphron replied. “But I wouldn’t expect good news.”

  “Hi Dada!” the boy repeated, louder this time.

  Nyphron looked at his son and frowned. “Why aren’t you bigger?”

  “I am big,” the boy corrected.

  “For a mouse perhaps, but if you’re going to be my son, you need to grow, and faster.”

  “How?”

  “Think bigger thoughts.”

  “Okay,” Nolyn said as if the advice made perfect sense. Maybe to him it did, but somewhere in that idea Persephone felt a lurking dread.

  A panting Edgar ran toward them. His face was red, nose a bluish beet. Snow gathered on his beard, and ice crystals had formed around his mouth.

  “Report,” Nyphron ordered while the Techylor commander was still several strides away.

  Edgar stopped and puffed a fog for several seconds, giving Atkins the chance to catch up. The two men were still in their layered green-and-brown tatters that made them look like shambling mounds of leaves, the shoulders of which were frosted white.

  “They’ve got one, sir,” Edgar managed to say between gulps of breath.

  Persephone took a faltering step. Concerned about discussing military matters in front of her son, she turned. “Sikar, escort Nolyn back to my tent. Wake Justine and tell her to take him to breakfast.”

  The Fhrey commander glared and made no sign of moving. Persephone wasn’t in the habit of giving any of the Fhrey orders, much less the senior camp commander. He wasn’t pleased, but Persephone had greater concerns than Sikar’s pride.

  “Have you forgotten the way to the keenig’s tent, Sikar?” Nyphron asked.

  “I’m not a nursemaid,” the Instarya replied, keeping his tone even but cold. “This is—”

  “You’re Shield to the keenig and the keenig’s son. Do your job.”

  Sikar frowned but took the boy’s hand and led him back down the trail.

  “Are you sure there’s only one?” Nyphron asked Edgar.

  “That’s all we saw, sir. One was enough. We were on our way back to our station when it attacked the forward encampment. I don’t expect there’ll be any additional survivors.”

  Edgar looked back toward the wood. “The dragon set the camp and forest ablaze. You can’t see the smoke because of the falling snow, but the trees are burning. I thought it was better to report than engage.”

  Persephone watched the snow, which at that moment made it seem as if the sky was falling, flake by tiny flake.

  After dismissing the rest of the Techylors and the remaining men from the woods who had followed them, Persephone, Nyphron, and Edgar moved to the comfort and privacy of the keenig’s tent. She ordered food to be brought, but her stomach was so braided in knots she couldn’t consider eating. Nyphron also declined, but she suspected his reasons were different from hers. After years of deadlocked inaction, he had something to do. Something he was especially good at.

  “The gilarabrywn has a limited range,” Persephone said. “If it was created at Avempartha, it can’t travel past the Harwood. Lothian’s troops won’t be able to use it this far out.”

  Nyphron rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know the exact range of the dragon?”

  Persephone shook her head. “No, not precisely.”

  “Maybe Lothian doesn’t know, either. He may not even be aware there is a limitation. If that’s so, we remain at a stalemate—for now. They can’t attack our position because of our dragon, and we can no longer approach Avempartha because of theirs.”

  “But won’t they just make more and continue to advance?” Edgar asked after swallowing a mouthful of day-old bread and salted meat.

  Persephone wished she could have offered better.

  These men deserve so much more.

  “That’s what I would have done if I had a means to cross and Suri hadn’t refused to make more,” Nyphron answered. “But first I would have established a foothold on the other side of the river and used a dragon as protection while I massed my troops. Lothian has no military prowess, and if he is expecting his dragon to overrun and destroy us, he probably didn’t plan for that essential middle step.”

  Persephone ignored the comment about Suri and appreciated that Nyphron didn’t say more on the subject. He could have. He had every right. Maybe her husband saw no point in going down that rabbit hole. They both knew it was Persephone’s fault. She had been the one who delivered the mystic to the fane.

  Nyphron, who had been sitting in one of the soft chairs, stood up and looked to the north. “At this moment, there’s nothing preventing the fane from advancing to the edge of this camp and making a dragon right on our doorstep. If he did that”—he let his arms fall in resignation—“it would be over.”

  “So what do we do?” Edgar asked.

  He turned to face the soldier. “Is anyone left back there? Any defenders at all?”

  “Don’t know for sure. We left right away. Some at the river may have escaped, or were out of the camp at the time. If so, I suspect they’ll be coming here.”

  “You will need to return to the forest.”

  Edgar looked shocked. “The Harwood is on fire, sir.”

  “That’s not my concern.”

  Persephone interjected, “They can’t fight a gilarabrywn.”

  Nyphron turned his attention to her. “Edgar and his Techylors are alive because Lothian’s dragon has a limited range, just like ours. I need to know what that distance is, and I need to prevent the fane from gathering troops on our side of the Nidwalden. That army will not be limited. Most important, I need to ensure that no Miralyith escapes that wood. We cannot afford to let them anywhere near us.”

  “We’ll need more men. I’ll send for reinforcements. How many do you require?” she asked.

  “All of them,” Nyphron replied.

  “Is it really so dire?”

  “Our overwhelming numbers are the only advantage we still possess. And yes, it’s precisely that ruinous. In fact, we should break camp as soon as possible.” He hesitated, as if the words were poisonous. “We’ll need to retreat. The reinforcements will have to be sent to our new rally point.”

  “Are you sure?” Persephone said.

  “This position is no longer tenable. We should fall back to the farthest reaches of our dragon. The distance between Alon Rhist and Merredydd is about the same as between Alon Rhist and here, so the dragon ought to be able to come with us. Will it?”

  “I’m not sure. Suri controlled it on the way here, but . . .” She hesitated.

  “Even now.” The words were seared into her heart.

  “Yes. I think it will come,” Persephone finished.

  “Good.” Nyphron nodded, his eyes shifting in thought.

  “But what good will retreating do, sir?” Edgar asked. “Aren’t we just putting off the inevitable?”

  “No,” Persephone answered. “Making a dragon comes at a terrible cost. Each one they are forced to make may weaken the resolve of the fane’s forces.” She looked at Nyphron. “With such bitter alternatives before them, it’s possible they might seek peace.”

  “I think that option is forever off the table,” Nyphron said. “Edgar, eat the rest of your meal walking. Get your men, gather those from the other encampments, and take half our
reserves. Send a runner with daily reports about the number of Fhrey on our side of the river. Don’t let them out of those trees unless they make another dragon.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Fall back and join with the reinforcements.”

  “Yes, sir.” Edgar saluted, grabbed another handful of food, and exited the tent.

  With his departure, a long silence fell between them. Persephone was reticent about raising the subject again, but she needed to ask. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Suri?” Nyphron asked. “Yes, I believe so. No reason to keep her breathing now that she’s given up the only value she had.”

  It wasn’t what he said but rather the matter-of-fact way in which he said it that Persephone found most upsetting.

  “Would you have preferred that I lie?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Nyphron wasn’t the worst husband, but he wasn’t the best, either. Reglan had had many faults, but he would have held Persephone’s head to his chest and wrapped her in the security of his arms while she cried. He understood her need for such things. The Fhrey she married didn’t have a clue. This failure wasn’t Nyphron’s fault; such behavior simply wasn’t in his nature.

  Without meaning to, she found herself staring at the black-bronze sword mounted on the center pole of her tent.

  Birds fly, fish swim, she thought. Then, after considering further, she realized ducks did both.

  “I see you’re thinking the same thing I am,” Nyphron said.

  Persephone doubted that very much. “What are you thinking?” she asked, turning toward him.

  He pointed at the blade she had been looking at. “We shouldn’t have that sword here. It’s a liability.”

  “How so?”

  “The fane’s forces are no longer contained, and it’s the only thing that can kill Suri’s dragon, isn’t that right?”

  Persephone was surprised he knew about that. They hadn’t discussed it before. “Yes. The symbols on the blade are its name. It’s the knot that binds the weave. If it penetrates the gilarabrywn’s body, the enchantment breaks and the creature vanishes.”

  “Right, so what’s to stop one of the fane’s forces from stealing it and destroying our best defense?”

  “Well, first he’d have to know that such a thing exists. Second, he’d have to learn that I have it. Third, he’d have to get close enough to use it, and I don’t think the gilarabrywn will allow that. Malcolm gave it to me so that Suri wouldn’t have to be the one to put it to rest, but now that I think about it . . .”

  “What?”

  “Maybe he knew Suri wouldn’t be around, and that’s why he gave it to me. He said to keep it safe. It never occurred to me to ask why. Lately, I’ve been suspecting Malcolm is a seer, able to foretell the future like Tura or Suri. He seems to know things he shouldn’t.”

  Nyphron sighed. “Don’t waste your time trying to figure Malcolm out. He’s an enigma, but I’ll grant you there is more to him than meets the eye. Still, at the very least, you should hide that blade. The tide has turned, Persephone. We need to be cautious and use every advantage we have, or we’ll lose this war.”

  She nodded and glanced at the sword once more. It glimmered in the early-morning light. “I’ll ask Malcolm about it.”

  “Wonderful,” he said sarcastically. “While you’re at it, ask him what the weather will be like in Merredydd.”

  Chapter Three

  Saving Moya

  If there is anything I learned from dying, it is the simple truth that no matter how bleak, terrible, or impossible things might seem, they can always get worse—and all too often they do. — The Book of Brin

  Moya saw the bridge break and fall.

  She’d been carried to the queen by a bankor and was now being restrained by a big man or perhaps a small giant. He gripped her from behind, so all she knew for certain was that he smelled of sweat and blood. His hands clutched her arms so hard it hurt. They prevented her from escaping, but as Moya watched the bridge shatter, they also kept her from collapsing. A moment before, the queen had asked her who had the key. Moya had tried to resist answering, but it was like holding her breath. No matter how much she wanted not to, eventually she had to inhale. The disappointment was how little time it took to break her—less than a minute. But it had been the fall of the bridge that took the strength from her legs.

  She’d seen them go down. First Roan, then Brin, Gifford, and finally Tesh and Tressa. The route to the Alysin Door was destroyed and the key forever out of reach. Moya had failed Persephone and humanity as a whole, and she had lost her friends. Somehow, she still existed, but they did not. It made no sense. She had been in charge.

  All of it is my fault. I’m responsible. How is it that I’m here, and they’re gone? That’s not how it should be.

  For the first time, Moya felt truly dead.

  The hands that held her let go, and she dropped, crumpling to the stone at the edge of the broken tongue of the bridge. She sat dazed, gaping at the missing piece near the center.

  They’re not dead. They can’t be dead. You can’t die when you’re already in Phyre.

  Waking from the depths of a nightmare, she looked around. The queen was gone, as were her hideous bankors and Orr. All around Moya, the armies were breaking up. Men, Fhrey, dwarfs, giants, and goblins were walking away, a quiet dispersal. The hosts neither cheered nor laughed. Melen and some others carried the brutalized bodies of Gath and Bran. Most remained where they had fallen. Hundreds of bodies littered the landscape. Fenelyus helped Mideon, who was slow to move, limping as he went.

  “What’s going on?” Moya called to them.

  Fenelyus looked back at her. “We lost.”

  “And it’s over? Everyone just goes home?”

  “Yes. That’s how it is here.”

  “But . . . no, it can’t be over. We have to get them out. My friends who fell. We have to do something.”

  Fenelyus shook her head. “Not possible. And yes, it’s over, and yes, it’s pointless—it always is. That’s why I stopped participating in these futile antics. I only returned because of you. This time was supposed to be different. Beatrice said you and your friends were special.” Fenelyus sighed and shook her head again. “You weren’t.”

  The Fhrey resumed helping Mideon walk away.

  “It’s not over!” Moya shouted after her. “There must be some way to help them.”

  “There isn’t.” Fenelyus’s tone was as absolute as a slammed door.

  “Come back with us, Moya,” Mideon said, his voice weak and small. “We will drink and rest, and tomorrow will be better. It always is.”

  Moya looked back out at the void, at the yawning mouth of the Abyss.

  No. I can’t leave them like this.

  She stood up.

  I refuse to walk away and abandon them.

  She took a step toward the brink.

  “Moya?” Rain said. He was behind her somewhere.

  “Leave me alone, Rain.”

  “But, Moya—over there. Look.”

  She was aware that the digger knew what she was planning. He’d tackled Gifford to prevent him from jumping off the bridge, and now he was trying to stop her, too. She wouldn’t let that happen, yet something in his tone made her look.

  The dwarf was pointing at a mass of bodies just before the bridge. These were the ones who had walked into Mideon’s great ax and Melen’s hammers. More than a dozen were left, abandoned by the queen. One face stood out.

  “Tekchin!” Rushing over, Moya dropped to her knees. “Rain, help me!”

  Together, they rolled bodies off the Instarya, revealing a grisly sight. Tekchin had fought valiantly. No mere stab wound had taken him down. Moya had seen butchered pigs that were more intact. An arm was missing, his head was nearly severed, and deep slices across his chest and thighs had gone through his armor as if it was cloth. Freeing him from the pile wasn’t easy. They couldn’t pull or drag for fear he would separate furthe
r.

  “Tekchin! Tekchin!” Moya was nearly blinded as she sobbed. “Rain, help me!”

  The dwarf was there. He’d found a cloth, a banner of some sort. Spreading it out, they gingerly laid Tekchin on it.

  “We can drag him now,” Rain said. “He’ll be all right. It will take time, but he’ll recover.”

  Moya continued to cry but managed to nod.

  “He’ll recover faster, and with less pain, if you’re with him,” Beatrice said.

  The little white-haired seer was sitting on a shelf of stone a few yards away. She’d likely been there all along but became visible as the crowd thinned.

  Moya spat on the ground. “You knew this was going to happen. This is what you refused to tell us.”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said.

  “You asked us to trust you.”

  “I didn’t lie. I told you things would be bad—very bad—and then they would get worse. That’s the truth, wouldn’t you say?”

  “But you withheld information. Why?”

  The little dwarf stood up and looked out at the broken bridge. “Because you wouldn’t have come if you’d known the cost, especially that it would be them paying the price rather than you. You would have taken the key and ordered the rest to remain safely in the castle.

  “They would have protested with plenty of tears and shouts, but in the end, you would have gotten your way. As a result, the queen would have taken the key, the gates of Phyre would be thrown wide, and your little war centered on the Nidwalden River would be forgotten, replaced with a new conflict, one too massive and terrible to imagine. I know. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. The Golrok is the center of a maze that all paths go through. There is no way to avoid it. Not yet, at least.”

  “If there is no avoiding it, then why not choose an alternative where they didn’t have to fall?”