“As simple as that, is it?”
“At the very least my brothers-in-arms will stay out of the conflict. And without them, the fane will have no strategists, no skilled commanders, no warriors, no army, and no clue how to fight.”
“And the Miralyith? Fenelyus single-handedly defeated the entire Dherg army at the Battle of Mador. Your mighty Instarya were merely spectators.”
“We’ll use the Dherg runes. Put them on every shield, every helm.”
Arion was surprised. He’d thought this through more than she’d expected. Clever, but filled with holes overlooked out of ignorance or stupidity. She remembered the words of Fenelyus: It’s easier to believe the most outlandish lie that confirms what you suspect than the most obvious truth that denies it. Apparently, lying to oneself wasn’t restricted to Artists.
“The Dherg’s runes won’t win a war for you,” she said, blinking against the pain that was making her eyes water. “Your thinking is limited, skewed toward what you want, what you need to believe. The runes will only prevent the Art from affecting the wearer. If I wanted to kill you right now, my first thought might be to incinerate you. Fire is easy and doesn’t take much effort. It is one of the first things aspiring Miralyith learn, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t work, would it? The flames would be conjured and you’ve already lined the interior of that armor with protective markings.”
Nyphron’s brows lifted, confirming that Arion was right, and that he was surprised she had guessed.
“But what if I opened the ground beneath your feet? Or caused a tree to fall on you. What if I rerouted a river through your army’s camp…a big, powerful river? The Miralyith are a creative lot. We call it the Art for a reason. So how will you and your Rhune army stand against a team of Miralyith who are able to turn Elan herself against you?”
The pounding in Arion’s head was lessening. Maybe the tea was helping. She was finding it easier to think.
“I’ll overwhelm them with numbers. Do you know how many Rhunes there are?” he asked.
“Thousands.”
Nyphron smiled with equal parts pleasure and mischief. “One of the tasks of the Instarya is to keep a census of the Rhunes, the same way we track animal populations and the status of the Grenmorians and goblins. Every ten years we take a count. When the numbers get too large, we promote warfare between the Gula-Rhunes and the Rhulyn-Rhunes to cull the herds.”
“That’s terrible.”
Nyphron shook his head. “What would be terrible is to let them breed uncontrolled. In a few generations, the Rhunes would be a flood upon the world, and the Fhrey and Dherg could be pushed aside and eventually erased. And it’s not like they don’t enjoy killing one another. They would fight more if we didn’t stand between them. But we should have been more vigilant. Once they settled in villages, even primitive ones like this, their population exploded. When they were nomadic, their numbers were kept small by predators like the goblins and Grenmorians, and by a lack of food. But then they learned farming.”
“Did we teach them?”
“No, they started using copper and tin around that same time, so we think it was the Dherg.” He shot a glare in the direction of the three, who huddled near the outer wall. They weren’t close enough to hear the conversation, but there was no mistaking the disgust in Nyphron’s venomous expression. All three got up and moved farther away.
“The Dherg taught the barbarians all sorts of things, and soon the Rhunes were erecting granaries and buildings, settling down, and spreading out. Suddenly there were thousands, then tens of thousands, and now…” He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “Arion, there are more than a million Rhunes.”
“Million?” she asked, certain that she heard incorrectly, or that her sluggish, wounded brain wasn’t recognizing a jest.
There were only about fifty thousand Fhrey, and the idea that Rhunes could outnumber them twenty to one was disturbing.
“And it’s only going to get worse. Next year, Estramnadon will welcome, what, ten or twenty births? That same year the Rhunes will see twenty-five thousand.”
“But…but they die so quickly. I’ve heard they don’t even reach a full century.”
“True. About fifteen thousand die each year, but that still means ten thousand are added to their population. Two hundred thousand could be born to this coming generation. When they were thought to be as docile as rabbits, they didn’t represent a threat. But now…well, Raithe killed Gryndal, didn’t he? The Rhunes once considered us immortal gods, but now that they know we bleed and die, will they sit idly by when Lothian attacks or will they rise?”
He looked past her at the inhabitants of the dahl, “War is inevitable, and we can be trampled or we can learn to harness and ride. I’ve made my choice, and I suggest you do the same.”
—
The bonfire roared as it consumed a hundred years of civilization in a single night. From the moment Raithe had arrived in Dahl Rhen, he’d considered this place to be the high point of mankind’s achievements. He’d never seen a place so rich and luxurious. Every family had a home—a roundhouse constructed from wood. The storage pit was deep enough to last a whole winter and beyond. The fields were lush and fertile, growing multiple varieties of seed grass. The residents of Dahl Rhen had excesses of beer, mead, bread, meat and fish, herbs and spices. And all their riches had been protected by a high wall and a massive gate, but the gate hadn’t been strong enough.
The bodies had been buried by nightfall. Otherwise, the scent would’ve lured animals out of the wood. Without a secured perimeter, everyone felt it best to put their loved ones safely underground. Raithe had worked hard all day. Covered in sweat and dirt, he was pleased to see that the well was working again. The Dherg, three small-statured people who had returned with Persephone’s group, had created a vessel made from beaten metal. They called it a bucket, and it worked better than the gourds the villagers had used in the past. Raithe poured water over his head and let it drain down his hair and soak his chest and thick black beard.
Those who’d survived were gathering around the bonfire built on the ruined foundation of the lodge. They fed it splintered logs, thatch, and the other broken pieces of their lives. Not including the Galantians, fewer than three hundred had survived, and when he’d first arrived there had been almost a thousand people in Dahl Rhen. Given the destruction, Raithe would have expected the toll to be higher.
Somehow the oldest resident, Padera, had weathered the attack. She claimed her dead husband had something to do with her survival, but Raithe hadn’t listened to the reasons why. He’d been busy burying Brin’s parents while the girl sobbed into Persephone’s chest. There had been a lot of crying that day. Gelston, whom Raithe had only just discovered was Delwin’s brother and Brin’s uncle, was still alive, having survived the lightning strike. Still, he was in no shape to care for his niece. The man had barely spoken and hardly moved all day.
Some villagers hadn’t been in the dahl during the attack. A number of folks benefited that afternoon from tending their fields or being in the forest cutting wood or hunting. If the giants had attacked at night, the death toll would have been higher. And without the Galantians, there might have been no survivors at all. The Fhrey had saved them, but after seeing what was left of the dahl, maybe saved wasn’t the right word.