Age of Empyre, page 40
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
Mawyndulë stared in horror. The Instarya’s body was covered in tattoos. The Orinfar blanketed every bit of his skin—even the scalp of his head where his hair no longer remained.
In an instant, Nyphron closed the distance between them. He had no sword, dagger, or weapon of any kind. He didn’t need any. His fists were more than enough. The first blow dropped Mawyndulë on his back. Then the Instarya hit Mawyndulë again. Then again. The jarring pain brought bright lights and jolts of agony. Somewhere around the fifth or sixth blow to his head, Mawyndulë began to lose consciousness.
“Something seems to have gone wrong there, didn’t it?” He was in the Talwara again, and Arion had just . . .
“Yeah, you threw a glass at me!”
“Imagine if it had been a knife, a javelin, or a ball of fire. And instead of stones, what if those rocks were people’s lives? Perhaps if you had learned how to concentrate on more than one thing at a time, they wouldn’t all be dead right now.”
“Arion, they aren’t people; they’re stones.”
“Lucky for you, or should I say lucky for them? Now pick up those poor dead bodies and try again.”
But there would be no second try, and no paradise for Mawyndulë.
Nyphron was killing the prince, beating the scrawny brat to a bloody mass of soft, sloppy flesh. It’s what he had wanted to do for so long. What he had wanted to do to all of them. He’d waited years for this. Even so, his arm slowed. His fists stopped.
If he’d had his sword, Pontifex, the culling little Miralyith would have been dead six times over, regardless of the promise Nyphron had made. Being forced to use his hands had saved the kid’s life. Somewhere between shattering the prince’s nose and cracking his jaw, Nyphron decided not to kill him. He attributed part of his change of heart to having already worked out much of his anger and that he had the satisfaction of beating the boy to the point of blacking out. He guessed some of his hesitation had to do with distaste for killing a thirty-three-year-old kid. Plus, Mawyndulë was unconscious. Instarya didn’t kill helpless fellow Fhrey, and a Galantian certainly shouldn’t. This was just one of the many differences between his tribe and the Miralyith.
The final decision came after his fever broke, and Malcolm’s words landed in fertile soil.
“Demonstrate mercy in full view of all. Show everyone that the days of the cruel Miralyith rule are over and that a fair and just fane sits on the Forest Throne again. Do that and you will be more than respected—you will be loved.”
He lingered over the boy, his hands planted in the mud to either side of his head. His own sweat dripped off his nose onto the prince’s blood-splattered face. The kid was breathing a gurgling breath—still alive. That was good, he thought, because no one was cheering. Maybe if they had, that would have made a difference. But the world beyond the ring was silent. He even heard a few gasps. That’s what sealed it. Looking up, he saw disgust and horror on the faces around him. He’d seen those faces before. He’d worn that grimace—the day he watched Lothian kill his father.
Miralyith were in the audience. They were watching him.
Nyphron didn’t need to be loved, but the idea of a revolt of the Miralyith—the same Miralyith who controlled a fleet of nearby dragons—was sobering.
Nyphron stood up and found Volhoric. “What are the rules? Can I let him live?”
At his words, the crowd whispered in surprise.
The high priest was caught off guard and stammered. “I—I—ah—yes. But—ah, he has to concede.”
Nyphron grabbed the kid by the neck and pulled him up. He spat in Mawyndulë’s face and used his thumbs to wipe the blood out of his eyes. He slapped one cheek and then the other. “Wake up! Do you want to live or not?”
“You should kill him,” Jerydd said. The kel was nearby. With hands lost in his long sleeves, he spoke softly so none of the others could hear. “Letting him live isn’t wise.”
Looking around, Nyphron studied the expression on the faces of those who had likely seen him as some sort of barbarian a minute ago—the ones who probably wondered if a vicious Instarya from the frontier would be a better ruler than Lothian’s son. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but they appeared a little confused and a lot hopeful.
The kid slowly opened his eyes.
“Say you concede. Give up, and I won’t kill you.”
The little prince blinked. He spat blood and teeth.
“Can you talk?”
He didn’t say anything, just blew bubbles.
“Can he nod in response?” Nyphron asked in the direction of where Imaly and Volhoric stood.
“Ah . . .” the high priest looked lost. “I don’t know.”
Nyphron noticed the burning blue torches. “Listen carefully, kid. Your life may depend on this. I’m going to ask you a question. If you say yes, this might be over, and you’ll live. I won’t imprison you or anything like that. You just need to leave and not cause any trouble, okay? If you say no, I’ll respect that, but then I’ll have to kill you. I’ll have no choice. I’ve got no weapon so it could take a while. You ready?”
Mawyndulë managed to nod.
“Okay, here goes. Do you concede this contest to me and relinquish your claim to the Forest Throne?”
There was a pause. For a moment, Nyphron thought Mawyndulë might refuse, and for a brief instant he felt a small amount of respect for him. Then the kid opened his mouth.
“Ye-sss,” came out as a hiss.
Instantly the blue torches flared brilliant white, then went out with a loud snap.
Volhoric stood up and turned to the gathered crowd. “It is done,” the high priest of Ferrol announced. “Congratulations, Nyphron. You are fane.”
“That may be,” he said while standing up and accepting the clothes thrown at him, garments pulled off his people’s own backs. “But I am also emperor.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Book of Brin
I can see the arena below me where The Challenge will take place in just a few minutes. Some Fhrey are walking in a circle conducting a ritual. The day is beautiful. The sky is clear. The sun is — The Book of Brin
Mawyndulë couldn’t see very well. His face had swollen up so that one eye was entirely closed and the other remained little more than a narrow slit. With his jaw broken in two places, he couldn’t actually talk. He was missing several teeth, the absence of which left frightening gaps that his tongue refused to leave alone. And his right hand was broken. He only found that out when he tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, and his fingers ignored him. He hadn’t noticed his hand because that pain was being eclipsed by the throbbing in his head, which was so intense that Nyphron might still be hitting him. Oddly, when Nyphron was beating his face flat, Mawyndulë hadn’t felt much at all. He couldn’t hear very well, either. Everything was dull and muffled, as if his battered head had also been jammed into the mud. After the fight, he had managed to crawl off to the side of the arena. He pushed himself into the snow. The cold felt good, and that was all he wanted. But as he lay listening to the shouts and cheers, his mind began to ponder.
I should have let Nyphron kill me.
Mawyndulë wanted to be dead. No sense in living anymore, he had no future, and the present hurt worse than anything he’d ever known. Death was terrifying for anyone, and so much more for a young Fhrey deprived of centuries of life. For Mawyndulë it was worse. Most had the reassurance that everyone made the same journey when they died, but his trip would be different. Mawyndulë wouldn’t go to Phyre.
So where will I go?
The idea that he would be alone in some horrible place scared him. Not that he had a choice. He was going to die right there in the snow thickets on the bank of the Nidwalden. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, even had a hard time breathing. No one would help him.
How long does it take to die from cold? Maybe I should throw myself off the falls.
Mawyndulë couldn’t see his way there, but only needed to walk toward the roar. At some point, he’d fall in the river and things would take care of themselves. The reason he hadn’t thrown himself in already was that it required getting up. Committing suicide demanded too much effort.
“That didn’t work, did it?” someone said.
Mawyndulë had heard a lot of people talking. Most as they walked past.
“He outwitted you. An unforgivable error for a Miralyith to make when facing an Instarya.”
He’s speaking to me. Whoever it was sounded close. Someone lingering to gloat?
Mawyndulë heard a rustle as the person crouched, getting closer still. “Don’t let him see you coming next time. Give him no warning. Just kill him.”
Next time?
Mawyndulë managed to open his one narrow eye. Everything was fuzzy. Someone was there, but he couldn’t tell who. Only that he was in a dingy cloak and carried a knapsack over his shoulder.
“He got some of what he wanted, but not all. The world is back in balance—so to speak—but not exactly the way he had hoped. I gave it a good hard wobble, and I didn’t walk away this time. I have his prize, and more than anything else, that will gnaw at him.” He indicated the sack, which was filled with parchments, some peeking out the top. “The thing he really wanted is here—his happy little future where he gets to be the hero. I have his key and I suspect he has mine. Not a bad trade. This is far from over.”
The snow crunched as the person bent down. “And you, he forgot about you. Looks like everyone did, but I haven’t. That makes you another blind spot in his vision. We can use that to our advantage. He wants a religion, fine, we’ll give him one, and together we will tear down everything he builds. Then I’ll get the key and the real war will begin. He won this round, but he won’t win again.”
“Who?” Mawyndulë managed to hoot out of his mangled mouth.
“The invisible hand, of course. Rex Uberlin.”
After The Challenge, Nyphron had lingered to speak with the Aquila. The discussion was in Fhrey, and they spoke fast and used unusual words. Persephone had problems keeping up. She felt awkward, and after witnessing the contest, she felt drained. The war was over. She wasn’t keenig anymore. As strange as it sounded, she was something Nyphron called empress. Second Chair, chieftain, keenig, empress—so many titles for one person. Strangely, the Fhrey were celebrating their defeat. Persephone’s people celebrated as well, the sort of unbridled revelry that only came from utter ignorance of the future. Tomorrow was a day away, but for now—joy. Persephone walked alone back through the first floor of Avempartha. The two big doors were open at both ends, making it easy to navigate the trip across the river. The main floor was a grand anteroom decorated by shimmering banners forming a nexus for dozens of stairs, corridors, and a great many closed doors. Perhaps later, the celebrants would find their way inside, but at that moment Persephone was the only one crossing through.
“Seph!”
She stopped. No one calls me that—no one since . . .
Her eyes searched the shadows until she spotted five figures coming down a stair, five familiar faces she never thought she’d see again.
“By Mari’s hand!” she exclaimed.
The day after the fight, they held the coronation inside the tower of Avempartha. Light permeated the walls of the tower, seeping through the stone as if it were smoked glass, making the interior of the citadel an illuminated world of wondrous color and beauty. Ceilings stretched in tall, airy arches, meeting hundreds of feet above the floor. Tamed by the walls of the tower, the roar of the nearby cataracts was a soft, muffled, undeniably soothing hum. Shimmering banners hung from the lofty heights, each displaying the symbols of the seven tribes of the Fhrey. Despite the two armies lined up outside, and the growing sense of celebration, the world inside those curved walls felt peaceful, still, and silent.
The coronation was conducted on a balcony about midway up the tower. Volhoric spoke a good deal in Fhrey. So did some of the others, but the high priest was clearly leading the ceremony. Persephone stood beside her husband as the high priest placed a golden circlet on Nyphron’s head, and that ended it. The war, however, still needed to be wrapped up.
Nyphron, who was still fearful of some future Miralyith rebellion, ordered all the gilarabrywns to be destroyed. This was met with widespread grief for those who had given their lives to make them. At Persephone’s gentle urging, a memorial was built at the top of Avempartha. Swords that had the names of the Fhrey who had given their lives were placed in racks, and over them was an inscription that told how their sacrifices had saved thousands of Fhrey lives by creating a peaceful end to the war.
Despite this, fights broke out. Hiddle, son of Berston, was killed, and a Fhrey badly beaten. Nyphron resigned himself to dividing the races. He declared the banks of the Nidwalden to be ryin contita or off limits to both human and Fhrey. The Fhrey were ordered to remain in Erivan, forbidden from crossing the river. Men were likewise prohibited and would remain in Rhulyn and Avrlyn. This declaration would be self-enforced, meaning that the Fhrey had Nyphron’s permission to execute any man found on their side and the Rhunes had the same privilege.
Lost in between, Avempartha would remain vacant, an obvious slap to the Miralyith and punishment for Jerydd’s capture of Suri. Still, it was far better than the Artists expected from their new fane.
The question of where Nyphron would live was quickly answered. Two days after his crowning, he decreed that for the next three thousand years the Fhrey would be separated from their fane. He wanted nothing to do with the Forest Throne, Estramnadon, or Erivan. Nyphron would, in effect, banish the Erivan Fhrey just as they had banished the Instarya. The Aquila would be led by Imaly, but no Erivan Fhrey—no elves—would be allowed to cross the Nidwalden until Nyphron’s Uli Vermar ended. Then, and only then, would they be allowed to cross the river, where Nyphron’s heir would present the horn for The Challenge.
All of this was met with stoic calm and silence from the Fhrey leaders. Nyphron’s announcement that he would not directly rule them, and that no Rhune would be allowed to cross the Nidwalden, eliminated much of the tension. The fact that Nyphron was keeping the Horn of Gylindora didn’t go unnoticed by Imaly. She fiercely argued that the fane should never have possession of the horn, as it circumvented the right to challenge. Nyphron wasn’t moved by Imaly’s arguments, and the final meeting between Rhunes and Fhrey ended on a less-than-cordial note. Nyphron ordered stakes pulled up, and both groups left the banks of the Nidwalden.
Gifford and Roan rocked together in the back of the wagon as the imperial host rolled west. Neither knew where they were headed, and Gifford honestly didn’t care. Even after several days’ rest, he remained exhausted. Where they had found the strength to hike from the Swamp of Ith to Avempartha, he couldn’t fathom. Rain was with them, but Moya and Tekchin were in a different wagon. The one Gifford, Roan, and Rain rocked in was filled with bushels of grain and barrels of wine.
They bounced and shimmied along the Bridge Road that cut a straight line through the Harwood. Sitting down on the bed of the wagon, with its high wooden sides, all Gifford could see were the snowy tops of huge trees. Rain was being his normal quiet self and spent much of his time looking at the sword he now carried. But in truth, all of them were quiet. The loss of Brin had killed any sense of pride or feeling of victory.
“Who do you think did it?” Gifford asked his wife. “Who killed Bwin? If I could find him, if I could do that much . . .”
Roan shook her head.
“What?” he asked.
“Whoever was up there didn’t kill her.”
Gifford narrowed his eyes at his wife, confused. Sitting opposite them among bags of grain, Rain’s head came up off his chest.
“He didn’t push her. She jumped.”
Gifford considered this for the first time. “The key is still inside Wel.” He sat up, excited. “Maybe she can—”
Again, Roan shook her head. “Her body is gone. Even if she can find it, it’ll be too late. She won’t return to us, but I think she went back for a reason.”
“Tesh and Twessa?”
Roan smiled.
“Do you think she can help them?”
“I think there are few things beyond Brin’s ability to conquer.”
“Then I think the Typhons should look out.”
They bounced along in silence for a time. Rain shifted position. He had made an awkward but comfortable seat out of the grain sacks and sat back down. “Any idea where we’re going?”
“Southwest,” Roan said.
“Yes, but to where?”
Gifford tried to shrug and failed. It was taking some effort to adjust to his old body. “Oh—that’s wight. You have a destiny to fulfill!”
“How are you going to manage that?” Roan asked. “You, Frost, and Flood were banished from Belgreig.”
Rain nodded, then shrugged. “Don’t know.” He picked up a feather that was lying in the bed of the wagon, having fallen to the floor when he moved the bags of grain. He spun it absently between his fingers. “Persephone and Nyphron were talking about building a new city, and I was thinking for now that Frost, Flood, and I could help. Belgriclungreians are good at that.”
“What about your future wife?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be heading in that direction, eventually. I’m sure I’ll know when the time is right.”
Gifford was nodding, but Roan was staring at the feather Rain twirled. “That’s not a feather.”
Gifford and Rain looked at each other then back at her.
“Sure it is. I think it’s from a duck,” Rain said.
Roan was shaking her head adamantly. “No—it’s not.”
She reached over and plucked it from the dwarf’s hand. “Look.” She pointed to the tip where the hollow shaft had been cut to a point. “This is a quill. One of Brin’s.” Roan got to her hands and knees and crawled over the bags and around the wine barrels. “She was in here. And—”
