Age of Empyre, page 27
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
She hadn’t been hungry or thirsty. That was the clue that led Brin to suspect the stew. When it came to the Tetlin Witch, everyone knew that her food and drink were enchanted. In the stories, eating or drinking anything she offered invited disaster. Muriel was a different story, and that tiny breakfast continued to fill her stomach with warmth and strength for longer than it should have.
But by the time Brin cleared the swamp, her stamina was fading. Then thirst rolled in with a vengeance. She took to stuffing handfuls of snow into her mouth as she trudged on. The snow took some of the pain away, but it couldn’t satisfy her need for water. She began to grow hungry, too.
She gave up trotting altogether, sticking only to a fast walk. By staying close to a line of bushes that made a snow shadow, she was rewarded with a path of bare ground. Brin was still making good time, but she was rapidly running out of strength. And as the sun, unwilling to wait for her, ran ahead, Brin noticed the cold. She’d been hot and sweating most of the day, but as the shadows lengthened and she stopped running, her wet clothes chilled her.
Then the wonderful line of bushes ended, and with it, the clear path.
Brin stopped at the end of that hedgerow, panting.
This is where we had our last meal together before entering the swamp. I ate an apple. The core might still be around, somewhere under the snow.
Her breath created clouds.
Has that been happening all along, but I’ve been moving too fast to notice? Or is it getting colder?
She shivered.
It’s getting colder.
She felt the clammy grip of her tunic, which was soaked through with sweat. Her legs were tight and tired, her feet sore—where she could feel them. Her toes were going numb. Brin looked ahead, trying to pick a good route. There wasn’t one. The world before her was a sea of white. Everywhere, snow was ankle-deep or higher.
Going to slow me down.
She noticed how much taller her shadow was; the sun was setting. Brin clutched the horn to her chest.
“Elan, give me strength. I can’t do this alone, and you said you’d be with me.”
She waited a moment, hoping for something, a word, a sign. Nothing materialized. Not a single bird chirped.
Brin clamped her jaw tight and pushed forward into the snow. Her speed was instantly reduced. She went from a fast walk to a labored trudge. Soon she was marking the passage of each footfall, concentrating on forcing her legs to move, her feet to land.
Up. Down. Up. Down, she said in her head, mentally ordering her feet to move, matching her footfalls to the beats of the words.
Up. Down. Up. Down. This is how we cover ground.
The second part fell into place with a singsong rhythm. Brin didn’t know how she thought of it, didn’t know she was thinking at all, but once it was there, she chanted it with gusto.
Up! Down. Up! Down. This is how we cover ground!
She bent her head, watching her own progress. Like a spectator, she observed how snow collected in the tops of her shoes. She could see it packing against the skin of her ankles, and how red her flesh became.
That’s not good. That’s going to be a real problem. Might lose that foot altogether if this keeps up.
The thought was a disconnected observation, as if this was happening to someone else—someone she felt sorry for, someone she knew was doomed.
Up! Down. Up! Down. This is how we cover ground!
She entered a ravine where a cluster of large, snow-covered rocks created mounds. A few juniper and thyme bushes grew up one slope.
Up! Down. Up! Down.
Brin grabbed more snow and sucked it into her parched mouth.
This is how we cover ground!
The sun was turning red. The day was ending.
She had failed. That poor young woman with the snow-filled shoes was going to die in the snow just miles from her goal. Brin couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
Then she heard the snort of a horse, followed by a whinny.
I’ve gone mad, she realized as she looked up and saw none other than Naraspur, fully tacked and tethered before her. Looped over the saddle was a skin of water and a bag of bread and cheese.
“This isn’t where you were,” she told the horse.
Behind Naraspur was a clear trench of packed snow, as if someone had walked while dragging their feet.
Brin lifted her face to the sky. “Thank you, Elan.”
Nyphron slipped into the tent. He never spent much time there. This was Persephone’s place—hers, the kid’s, and the nurse’s. It smelled like them. He stood for a moment just inside the tent flap, listening. All three were gone. He didn’t know where. The sun was setting, the light soaking through the canvas with a gold color. He moved quickly, lifting the sword off the tent post. The naked blade caught the sun’s light and shimmered. Black bronze. There was a brilliant gleam, and in the metal, he saw symbols, finely etched markings lining both sides of the blade. For nearly a decade, Nyphron had allowed others to fight for him. Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey, but this was an enemy he was allowed to slay.
Since having been thrown on his back, Nyphron had spent time considering his future. All of it distilled down to one of two bad choices.
He could walk out and abandon Persephone and her people. Sikar and the other Fhrey would follow him. They could retreat to Merredydd, hole up there, and watch as the human army was wiped out. But what then? The Miralyith huntsmen would track him down. The rest of his life would be spent fleeing that spineless brat until at last he died in some muddy hole or, worse, was dragged back to be displayed and humiliated like his father had been.
His other option was to force the army to retreat, which would require the new fane to order more dragons. Though the chance of success was slim, this option offered at least the possibility that the new fane might face enough anger back home to give up. As much as he hated the idea, Nyphron might be forced to acquiesce to peace.
Better than dying in a muddy hole.
Nyphron searched for Malcolm but failed to find the infuriating man. This left him but one option. As long as the dragon remained, Persephone would not retreat, and with it as her guardian, he couldn’t force her. So Nyphron climbed the hill with the sword in his hand.
The dragon lay where it had been, but in a different stance. In two years, the creature hadn’t moved until Persephone screamed, so Nyphron fully expected the beast to remain statue-like now. He didn’t attempt to hide his approach or his intent. He held the sword confidently, swinging it with his strides as he climbed the last few feet. He was nearing the top when the dragon’s head came up.
Nyphron froze. The beast was bigger than a house, but it jerked up with the speed of a cat. The thing’s eyes flashed open and narrowed on him. Its lips rippled up, revealing stalactite fangs.
“You’ve come to kill me.” The Rhunic words rumbled out of the giant mouth.
Nyphron hadn’t expected it to talk, not to him. “Your services are no longer needed.”
“How rude,” the dragon said, surprising him. “Even for a Fhrey, that’s ill mannered. So you’re a great warrior, then? I’m a little disappointed. I expected you’d be taller—the tales certainly are. Do you think you could kill me?”
The words were familiar. They came from the past. Nyphron had said them himself. A conversation outside Dahl Rhen’s wooden gate.
“Do you know who I am?” The beast rose up. Its wings flashed out, and its neck arched up and back.
Nyphron narrowed his eyes. Not possible—is it?
“It requires a sacrifice,” Suri had said. “I have to destroy the life of someone dear to me.”
“God Killer?”
The great dragon’s lips tightened, showing more pointed teeth. “How’s your back? Hitting the snow like that looked really painful.”
Nyphron advanced.
“She loves me, not you,” the beast declared.
That stopped Nyphron, who paused to laugh. “Persephone?” he said. “I don’t care about her. Did you think I wooed her away from you because I loved her?”
“You care about losing.”
“I didn’t lose. You’re dead. And will be more so in a moment.”
“I’m in Alysin, and in a few years, she will be, too. But you won’t. This battle doesn’t end here. This is only the beginning. So tell me, Fhrey, do you think you can kill me?”
Even Nolyn couldn’t sleep through what had happened. Justine, with the boy in tow, eventually found Persephone not far from an enormous claw print where the keenig was busy reordering the camp. The look on the nursemaid’s face—which sported a very strained and extremely brave smile—made Persephone wonder if Justine was rethinking her decision to care for the keenig’s son. She held out Persephone’s cloak, and they traded.
“I grabbed yours by mistake,” Persephone said. “Sorry—got a little wet.”
Justine nodded blankly as Nolyn hung from her grip like a wet sack. His drooping eyes and long face told the tale of a boy who’d just gotten up, wasn’t awake yet, and wasn’t happy about it.
“What happened?” Justine asked.
“Nothing, nothing important.” The big thing, Persephone knew, was still coming. What that thing was she didn’t know, but as the sun was close to setting, she was tired of waiting. “Have you seen Malcolm?”
“Over there,” Justine said, pointing north. “Passed him on the way here.”
“Show me.”
The young woman hoisted a disagreeable Nolyn up on one hip so that the boy’s feet bobbed as she walked, his head toppled over on her shoulder. She led the way down between rows of tents until Persephone could see Malcolm for herself. He was standing with his back to her near the edge of the camp, where the mass of regimented tents stopped and the field began.
Persephone stopped Justine. “I see him, and I can take it from here.” Conversations with Malcolm weren’t meant to be shared, and that was never more true than now. She looked at Nolyn, his head resting against Justine’s neck, thumb in mouth, eyes open but only a crack. She had an incredible urge to grab her son and hug him tight against whatever storm was coming. She wanted to shield him, save him, the way she hadn’t saved the others. Persephone had had three children with Reglan, but only Mahn had lived to maturity, an adulthood cut horribly short. Now she had Nolyn, beautiful, perfect, and her last chance. Persephone knew she couldn’t save him with a hug.
“Take him,” she told Justine, trying to sound as calm as possible. “Get him something to eat. It’ll be dark soon.”
The nursemaid cupped the back of Nolyn’s head with her hand as she nodded. Persephone saw a hesitancy there, a lingering apprehensive look. “All right,” Justine said with an odd sort of finality, as if accepting a grim and dangerous mission. Then, unexpectedly, she reached out and hugged Persephone. The three of them shared a squeeze that was hard to break from.
Persephone pushed back. “Take him. Keep Nolyn safe.”
“I will.”
Persephone didn’t watch them go. She pushed forward, swallowing the remaining distance between her and Malcolm. He must have known she was there.
He knows everything, but refuses to share.
As she approached, he remained with his back to her, his cloak wrapped tightly against the growing cold.
“Sun’s setting,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, but he wasn’t looking that way. He stared east into the growing darkness at Mount Mador, whose lower half was in shadow, the upper still dazzling with the final rays of the day’s light.
“What’s going to happen, Malcolm?”
He had his arms folded across his chest, his face red with windburn, his eyes straining to see. What he looked for she couldn’t begin to guess. “It’s too cold, and there’s too much snow.”
“Too much for what? Malcolm, you—”
The ground shook, and a terrible roar came from Dragon Hill.
“I tried my best,” Malcolm told her sadly. “You must understand that. Some knots are too tight to untie. Some must be cut.”
Persephone rushed past him into the snowy field, clearing the camp to see north. The dragon had moved again. The beast was in the air, its great wings holding it aloft with regular beats that shuddered the nearby tents, threatening to blow them down. It wasn’t alone. Nyphron stood on the hill’s crest, holding the black-bronze blade with both hands and aiming at the beast.
The two combatants were caught in the same brilliance of the setting sun. Evening light illuminated the shimmering scales on the gilarabrywn’s body, revealing their iridescence. That same radiance transformed Nyphron’s armor into a golden mirror. For a moment, Persephone could do nothing except stare. The vision was more than striking—it inspired awe. Compared with the dragon, Nyphron was tiny, but oh so bright, and oh so brave. His little sword gleamed both red and gold, like fire. If she didn’t know who the real hero and villain were in that play, Persephone would have been enraptured by the glory, gallantry, and grand heroics of Nyphron.
The population of the camp burst out of the line of tents with shouts and cries. They migrated into the open to better see the spectacle on Dragon Hill. Hundreds pushed forward for the chance to witness, then became strangely silent.
“Persephone,” Malcolm called to her.
She was walking forward, heading toward the hill, picking up speed.
The dragon snapped at Nyphron with its massive jaws. Nyphron swung the sword. Neither landed a blow.
Persephone had hold of her cloak and gown, clutching the skirts in her fists, hiking them as she ran up the slope. A firm hand caught her at the elbow and spun her around.
“Wait!” Malcolm ordered.
“I have to stop it!”
“You can’t!”
“It’s Raithe! The dragon is Raithe!”
“It’s not! He’s dead.”
She jerked and pulled, but Malcolm refused to release her.
On the hill, the dragon reared and sucked in air. It happened so quickly she didn’t have time to think, feel, or choose sides. Fire blasted from the beast’s mouth and struck Nyphron, engulfing him in a torrent of flame. Persephone held her breath as she watched with wide eyes, unable to look away. She fully expected to see Nyphron collapse in a pile of ash, but her husband didn’t fall, didn’t waver.
All around the top of that hill, snow turned to steam, creating a hissing fog. Through it all, Nyphron held the black-bronze weapon high. When the fire stopped, the hilltop was scorched black. Rivers born of melted snow ran. In the following silence, the rushing water was loud. Fog lingered. A heavy mist engulfed the top of the hill. The wind blew, the haze cleared, and the sun continued to glint off shining armor. Nyphron remained on his feet, undaunted and unscathed.
“He’s alive,” Persephone said.
“Nyphron’s armor is etched in Orinfar, and that isn’t a real dragon; it’s a magical representation of one.” Malcolm let go of her arm. “Future generations will know of this moment. Nyphron will always be seen as he is now, a gleaming hero on a hilltop. The story of this battle will be told and retold, and with the passing generations, exaggerated beyond all reason.”
“Exaggerated? How could this be exaggerated?” Free of Malcolm’s arm, Persephone charged up the hill.
The ground was slick with snow, ice, and rivulets of water, and Persephone slid back one step for every two forward. She was halfway to the top when the dragon beat its wings hard. She paused in her climb to look. The dragon appeared to be flying away. Up it went in a spiral, corkscrewing higher and higher. She stood, head back, watching it rise.
Go, she thought, fly away. You can’t beat him. Save yourself.
The dragon dived.
“Even now,” she cried, watching it streak down. They were no longer his words—they were hers.
Plummeting with extended claws aimed at Nyphron and backed with enough force to turn stone to powder, the dragon descended. Persephone wanted to look away but couldn’t. She had to see.
Looking brave and valiant, Nyphron aimed his sword at the sky, at the screeching death from above. The moment they collided, the instant the sword blade impaled the dragon, the hilltop exploded. Snapping the bonds that created the beast, the world reclaimed the energy in a sudden violent outburst. The eruption of force threw Nyphron to the ground. The shock wave continued down the hill, radiating out in all directions. Snow burst into the air. Tents flattened all across the camp. And Persephone, like everyone, was knocked off her feet, blown down by a violent gust of air.
When Persephone opened her eyes, Nyphron was standing over her. The sun was still illuminating him so that he appeared a light unto himself, a beacon in the growing darkness, but one that cast a long shadow.
“We are leaving,” he told her. No anger, rage, hint of gloating, or insult filled his voice. He merely stated a fact. “Without the dragon, there is—” Nyphron stopped and looked past her.
From behind, Persephone heard the crush of snow as someone approached. Pushing off the burnt, wet grass, she climbed to her feet. Turning, she found Malcolm standing there. In his hands, he held a ram’s horn.
“Is that . . . ?” Nyphron asked, his gaze shifting between the thing in Malcolm’s hand and the man’s face.
Malcolm nodded.
“But . . . how?”
Malcolm stepped aside, revealing a figure sitting in the snow just down the hillside: a woman in a tattered cloak that hung off one shoulder. The hair from her bowed head covered her face. Hunched over and almost prostrate, she appeared exhausted as she sat beside Gifford’s horse, Naraspur. Still, Persephone knew her.
