The Age of War, page 3
part #2 of Warsworn Series
Dropping from a rise, he strode to the head of his army and took his place beside Kythira. She flashed him a curious look and he smiled to defuse her concern. Then he turned away before she could perceive his worry.
The miles slipped by as they worked their way west. With wind magic to help them leap the canyons, they only stopped when it became too dark to travel. Several days after leaving the unclaimed lands, they topped an escarpment and Astaroth came into view.
Rising over the landscape, the natural tower stood atop a hill. Room and hall, corridor and balcony, all had been carved from the caves that had once lined the tower. Battlements topped the summit while a courtyard and main gates stood on the western side. Circling the area in full view of the citadel, Tryton led his force to the main gates.
"Stand ready," he murmured to Solus, who passed on the order.
Whether by command or of their own volition, the trolls on watch did not hesitate to open the barrier. The grinding of stone echoed as the massive doors swung apart, allowing Tryton to enter. Looking neither left nor right, Tryton crossed to the stairs that ascended to the main gates. As he did he heard the trolls whisper.
"He returned, just as he said . . ."
"How could they have survived?"
"Look at his Sundering, he must have fifty on his face alone . . ."
"And nary a mark on his left arm. I can scarcely believe it."
Signaling his army to remain in the courtyard, Tryton strode into Astaroth with Solus, Geranaut, Ryphon, and Kythira. Warsworn stopped in the halls, their expressions rigid with shock as he strode by. Ignoring the whispers at his back, Tryton climbed through the tower until he reached the Hall of Kings.
Evidently prepared for their arrival, Sybrik sat on his throne with a conspicuous number of veteran warsworn in the room. The walls were lined with the weapons of past kings. All had slain thousands, and all had died in battle. Tryton's gaze flicked to Utoric's war axe, a twinge of regret tightening in his chest.
At Tryton's entrance Sybrik stepped down from the chair and approached with his thundering maul in hand. The trolls that flanked the room tensed, their hands tightening on their soulblades. Tryton did not recognize all of them, but saw their lust for battle tattooed across their skin.
In Tryton's absence Sybrik's Sundering had grown. Now the pattern of tattoos on his torso was so thick it appeared as a tunic, but the dragons on his face remained prominent. One dragon perched above his left eyebrow, his spiked tail curling below his eye socket. The other lined his opposite jawbone, breathing fire across his chin.
"I have completed my right of redemption," Tryton said quietly. "And I seek to rejoin the clan."
Taken aback by his steady voice, Sybrik came to a halt in front of him. Although Tryton too had grown, he remained a few inches shorter than his older brother. Looking up into his gaze, Tryton did not flinch.
"Do you expect to step into our halls as if you never left?"
Sybrik's question was calm, but carried a trace of intensity that implied violence. Tryton gave a respectful nod.
"It is my right, as is my former rank. However, I returned for another purpose."
Sybrik scowled. "And what is your desire, brother?" His grip tightened on his hammer and his posture shifted, preparing for combat . . .
"To be joined to Kythira."
Whatever Sybrik had expected, he had not been prepared for that. Confusion swept across his features until he managed to contain it. Then his gaze hardened anew.
"Only the high cleric can grant your request."
"For this purpose I have returned. With my right of redemption completed, will you allow me and my exiled and to rejoin the clan?"
Sybrik grimaced as if he'd just eaten something distasteful, but Tryton's request regarding Kythira seemed to have defused his anger. After a moment's pause, he reluctantly bobbed his head.
"Our traditions must be upheld . . . High Captain Tryton. I look forward to having you join me in the coming engagements."
Tryton heard the note of uncertainty in Sybrik's tone, and knew that his brother would be watching him for any mistake. If Tryton betrayed even a hint of suspicious activity, Sybrik would not exile him again.
Sybrik would execute him.
"You have my gratitude," Tryton replied, and strode from the chamber.
Once in the hall, he dismissed Solus to have the others return to their former chambers unless they were already occupied. Again he stressed the importance of obedience. Then he turned to Kythira.
"I am uncertain how much I will get to see you in the coming days," he murmured.
"I'll find my mother and learn what I can," she replied, and leaned up to kiss him.
He smiled. "Be safe."
"I will be."
With a final nod she turned and left. Releasing a held breath, Tryton descended several levels until he reached the chamber that had once been his. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and activated the lightglow on the wall. Once he'd ensured he was alone, he rose to his full stature.
He rolled his shoulders back, straightened his spine, and lifted his head. He breathed deep as he uncoiled his frame, grateful for the relief from the perpetual strain. As if he'd grown six inches, he erased years of meticulous effort to hide his true size. From the day he'd left he'd wondered if it would matter. Now that he'd stood before Sybrik he knew.
He'd outgrown his brother.
Chapter 3: Divided
As Tryton stretched his cramped muscles, his thoughts turned to Sybrik and his devastating hammer. At nearly ten feet in height Sybrik towered over anyone in the clan. From the moment that Sybrik had exiled him, Tryton had recognized a simple truth. To defeat Sybrik would require more than just skill, strength, or bravery. It would require cunning.
In a race bred and forged for war, stature meant a great deal. When Tryton had left Astaroth, he'd still been a youth. If he'd returned larger and stronger, Sybrik would have seen him as an immediate threat. If they fought before Tryton had a chance to prove himself to the rest of the clan . . .
He shuddered at the idea of a civil war. Before his birth a pair of dragons had issued a bounty upon trollkind, nearly bringing about their extinction by the time he turned fourteen. Barely four thousand rock trolls had survived, and a civil war would be their end.
His jaw tightened. From the day of his exile he'd adjusted his posture until even Kythira believed him to be smaller than he was. The difference was no more than a few inches, but it could prove the difference between victory and defeat. As much as he wished to avoid a duel with his brother, he knew Sybrik would not leave the throne without a fight.
But first Tryton had to learn what had occurred in his absence, and it didn't take long for the answers to arrive. When they did, they came in the form of Alkon and Arkon. The soft rapping on the door caused Tryton to return to his hunched stance. Then he swung it open and ushered them inside. They clasped him on the shoulder, and a wealth of emotion was exchanged in a glance.
"It is good to see you alive," Tryton said.
The twins smirked in unison. "We weren't about to miss your triumphant return," Arkon said.
Alkon's eyes gleamed. "Or miss Sybrik's defeat."
"You assume we can stop him," Tryton replied.
Alkon issued a quiet laugh. "Staying behind has allowed us to watch your brother. If anyone can stop him, it is you."
Tryton nodded in gratitude and motioned to them. "Tell me what has occurred in our absence."
Tryton had grown up with the twins as age whelps. As naifblades Tryton had led them, Solus, Ryphon, and Salina to covertly infiltrate Griffin to discover the benefactor of the bounty. The harrowing journey had resulted in the loss of one of their own. Salina's death had impacted them all, and cemented them as close as any family.
As Tryton listened to their tale, anger and regret rippled through him. While he'd been in exile, Sybrik had taken the rock troll clan into increasingly frequent battles. His thirst for blood had led hundreds of trolls to their final rites, and stoked the rage of the orcs into an inferno. Thousands clamored for war, intent on finishing what the dragon bounty had started. Beyond them lay a dwarven nation on the brink of uniting with the orcs to destroy trollkind.
Tryton fought to keep his anger under control. He had not learned he had a brother until he was seven, and he still recalled the desire to know him. It bothered him that the hope had faded into such disappointment. Then he noticed the twins had finished speaking.
"Does he suspect you?" Tryton asked.
Alkon shook his head. "At first he did. How could he not? Everyone knew that you trained us differently than the other captains."
"Did you rise in rank?"
"I'm high captain under Warshard Kaber," Arkon said.
"And I'm first captain under him," Alkon said, and motioned to his brother.
"You have done well," Tryton replied quietly, and turned the conversation to what he needed most. "How many follow Sybrik?"
Arkon winced. "More than we can overcome. Most of the high captains now follow Sybrik's heavy-handed example, but we dared not press them for allegiance. If we had . . ."
"You would have been exiled as well," Tryton finished for him. "You acted with wisdom."
"The clerics follow you," Alkon said. "That much we do know."
Tryton's lips twitched into a smile. As Kythira's mother and high cleric among the clan, Drenuh had shown an unwavering support for Tryton's plan from the beginning. Gifted with wind and healing magics, she had guided the mages within the clan since before Tryton was born. To know that she remained on his side filled him with gratitude.
"You have my thanks for what you have done," Tryton said. "Do your best to ease the reunion of my exiled with the clan."
"Sybrik may be your brother," Arkon said, "but we are your family. We will stand with you."
Tryton dipped his head. "As I you. Tell no one that we met. We will speak more once the tension has eased."
The twins rose to their feet and slipped out the door. When they were gone, Tryton reclined into his bed and stared at the ceiling. He'd accomplished his design to return without bloodshed, but a nagging thought refused to quiet. What if Sybrik had allowed him to return for an ulterior motive?
His expression hardened at that idea. He'd stopped numerous enemies from entering troll lands—effectively depriving Sybrik of foes to fight. If Sybrik had attempted to keep Tryton in exile, it could have permanently ended any hope of battling the eastern races. Not prone to malice, Tryton nevertheless smiled at the thought of frustrating his brother, and depriving him of foes to kill.
The next morning he rose and dressed early. Placing his sword on the lodestone strapped to his back, he returned to his shortened stature before departing his room. Then he descended through Astaroth until he came to a familiar arch. Stepping into the hall of warsworn, he paused as a hush engulfed the room.
Hundreds of warsworn sat around the hall's tables for their morning meal, craning their necks to get a better look at Tryton. Curiosity and hope reflected in the gaze of some—anger and hatred in the gaze of others. Meeting their eyes without flinching, he strode through the main chamber toward the raised platform at the end.
Vaulted and open, the hall of warsworn was shaped like a giant axe. Rows of tables extended into the “blade” parts of the chamber allowing for a veritable army to eat, while the end of the hall was reserved for higher ranked officers. A table curved in an arch that allowed for the Warshards, high captains, and senior clerics to sit.
Nodding to the others, Tryton took his seat and began to eat the food that was provided by a porgrin slave. The human female's hand trembled as she set the plate in front of him. His gut tightened at the sight, and he threw her a reassuring glance. It did not have the desired effect, and the woman scurried away.
"She was captured last month," the cleric beside him said.
Tryton heard a trace of regret from the speaker and turned to face her, and a smile split his features.
"Drea?"
She smiled. "It's good to see you, Tryton. I was not certain you would return."
"Nor I," Tryton said wryly. "Where's Orlana?" He cast about looking for the last troll he'd grown up with, but did not see her.
Drea looked away. "She died three years ago protecting the dragon's hoard."
"Sybrik found the hoard from the bounty?" Tryton asked, surprised.
She nodded. "A group of humans found out and sought to steal it. Sybrik ordered us to kill them but they'd come prepared. A stray crossbow bolt pierced her eye."
"I'm sorry," Tryton said.
She flashed a sad smile. "We train for life . . ."
To fight to the death.
Tryton did not voice the second half their ancestral war cry, causing Drea to cock her head to the side. Before she could ask a question he could not answer, Tryton motioned to the hall of warsworn.
"Are there normally this many at the morning meal?"
Drea shook her head. "No . . . but this is a strange time."
Her gaze pointedly shifted to him. Avoiding the implication, he motioned to Drenuh. As high cleric she took the traditional seat beside the throne. The king's chair lay empty next to hers.
"I am glad to see that Drenuh remains high cleric."
"Why?"
"Because I returned to request a joining with Kythira."
Drea blinked in surprise, and Tryton kept his expression bland. The reason for his return had likely already spread, but any chance to reinforce it would help prevent a conflict.
"Is that all?"
A trace of disappointment seeped into her tone, causing him to nod. "That is my current desire."
His carefully worded answer seemed to satisfy her. "Then I wish you good fortune in your current—and future desires."
The trace of disappointment had shifted to hope. Tryton flashed an easy smile and mentally put her on the list of those he might be able to trust. Until he could speak to the twins regarding her, he could not risk voicing his true intentions. Before they could continue, Sybrik stepped into the hall, and his appearance sparked an instant tension.
"Warsworn," he said as he stalked between the tables. "As you have learned, my brother Tryton has returned from his exile. We should be glad to see him alive." His hand hardened into a fist, but his voice remained light. "In honor of his return, it is my will that tomorrow be a day of challenges. I look forward to bearing witness to the victors."
His gaze shifted to Tryton as a small smile spread on his features. It was the expression of a predator having just cornered his prey. Feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes, Tryton kept his features rigidly under control. Inwardly he calculated the possibilities of how this would affect his plans.
A day of challenges would give anyone the chance to challenge an immediate superior. Felshards could become captains, captains could become high captains, high captains could become Warshards, and Warshards could even become king. The defeated would take the place of the victor in the lower rank, losing prestige and respect.
Among the captain's tables Tryton caught many looks of appraisal, and realized that his brother meant to test him. If he failed a duel, he could lose the respect of the clan he'd come to save. More importantly, if he revealed his true strength and skill, Sybrik would know he was a threat.
And move to eliminate him.
Chapter 4: The Challenges
The next day the challenges began in the courtyard abutting Astaroth. Trolls were quick to fill the stairs leading up to Astaroth and the battlements on the outer wall, the preferred places for viewing challenges.
Worn by eons of troll boots, the outer courtyard served as the training grounds for large groups of warsworn and naifblades. Tryton had lost blood and sweat on the grounds during the harsh conditioning and training of his youth. The memories were laced with fatigue and triumph, contrasting sharply with his memories of challenges.
In the year before his banishment, Tryton had challenged three officers in order to become high captain. He'd been victorious each time, but he loathed the events. The duels were brutal and bloody. Once a challenge had been issued it could not be rescinded. Trolls that refused to quit even when faced with defeat were lauded for their resilience, but occasionally paid for their pride with their lives. As in true battle the rules were simple.
There were none.
Tryton took his place among the crowd. He'd orders his followers to avoid congregating, but several of those most loyal to him took a place at his side. As was customary, the challenges began with unranked warsworn challenging Felshards, and gradually passed into the upper ranks. It quickly became apparent that the only ones being challenged were members of Tryton's exiled.
Suppressing his distaste for the display, Tryton nevertheless felt a surge of pride after each duel ended. He and the Blademaster had trained them personally, and all had been taught to fight for more than just pride. Each proved victorious, and as each of the challengers withdrew, Sybrik's demeanor darkened.
"Do any Felshards wish to challenge another captain?" he asked after Ryphon defeated three Felshards in quick succession.
Several shifted their feet but none stepped forward. Tryton resisted the urge to smile. Tryton's second captain was Geranaut, who had trained most of them as whelps. Even with youth on their side none wished to duel the Blademaster. Sybrik scowled at the silence and moved on.
"Do any Felshards wish to challenge a first captain?"
"I challenge First Captain Solus," one said, and seven others followed suit.
"To the victor goes the rank," Solus replied.
Solus drew his sword and strode into the ring to greet the first, a stocky warsworn wielding a spiked warhammer. At Sybrik's motion they engaged, and the warsworn leapt toward Solus with a snarl.
Solus leaned to the side, allowing the hammer to glide passed his skull. Then he darted in. As the troll struggled to return his hammer to action, Solus struck his knee. A muted cry escaped his lips as his leg buckled, and he went down. Solus returned his weapon to his back and folded his arms as the wounded challenger was removed.
