Home > Age of War

Age of War
Author: Michael J. Sullivan

CHAPTER ONE


   The Road to War

 


Life had been the same for hundreds of years. Then the war came, and nothing was ever the same again.

    —THE BOOK OF BRIN

 

 

Suri the mystic talked to trees, danced to the sound of wind chimes, hated bathing, howled at the moon, and had recently leveled a mountain, wiping out centuries of dwarven culture in an instant. She had done so mostly out of grief, but partly out of anger. A dwarf had been insensitive after the death of Suri’s best friend. He should have been more sympathetic, but during the days since it happened, Suri had come to realize she could have shown more restraint. Perhaps merely setting Gronbach on fire or having the earth swallow the vile wretch would have been a better choice. Neither option had occurred to her at the time, and an entire civilization had suffered. It had been a bad day for everyone.

   Nearly a week later, Suri woke in a field amidst salifan, ragwort, and meadow thistle, the sun peeking over distant hills. Golden shafts made diamonds of dewdrops and revealed the labor of a thousand spiders who had cast nets between blades of grass. Having spent the night outside, Suri, too, was soaked and a bit chilled, but the sun’s kiss promised to make everything better. She sat in the dew, the sun on her face, and stared at the fields surrounding the seaside dahl, listening to the faint hum of bumblebees as they began their morning’s work. Then a butterfly flew across her sight and ruined everything.

       Suri began to cry.

   She didn’t bow her head. Keeping her face to the sunlight, she let the tears roll down her cheeks, spilling onto the grass, adding to the dew. Her little body hitched and shuddered. Suri cried until she was out of tears, but the pain still tore at her heart. Eventually, she merely sat in the field, shoulders stooped, arms limp, fingers reaching out for the warm fur that wasn’t there.

   Since returning from across the sea, most days started this way. Mornings offered a tiny respite from the pain, but before long she remembered, and reality crashed in. Then the sky became less blue, the sun not nearly as bright, and not even the flowers could make her smile. And there was one more loss left to face. Arion was dying.

   “Suri!”

   She was slow to react, slow to realize it was her name being called. Somewhere behind her, the grass rustled and feet thumped. The rapid tempo of those footfalls indicated it could only be one person, and that meant just one thing.

   “Suri!” Brin called again.

   The mystic didn’t bother to turn. Didn’t want to see—didn’t want to face—

   “She’s awake!” Brin shouted this time.

   Suri spun.

   “Her eyes are open.” Brin was running, plunging through the tall grass, soaking her skirt.

   Every muscle in Suri’s body came alive. She sprang up like a startled deer and sprinted past Brin, racing toward the road. In no time she reached the tent Roan had built specifically for the Miralyith. When Suri burst in, Arion was still on the pallet, but her eyelids fluttered. Padera was helping her sit up to drink.

       “Tiny sips,” the old woman barked. “I know you want to guzzle like a drunk, but trust me, it’ll come right back up on you—and me. Even if you don’t care, I do.”

   Suri stood under the flap, staring. Part of her refused to believe what she was seeing. She was afraid it was merely a dream and worried that the moment she embraced the sight, the illusion would dissolve and the pain would rush back with twice the force. She didn’t know how many more blows she could survive.

   “Come in—go out—pick one!” Padera snapped. The old woman, her lips sunken over toothless gums, squinted with her one good eye against the blinding sunlight.

   Suri took a step forward and let the flap fall. The lamp was out, but sunlight burned brightly through the cloth walls. Arion was resting against Padera’s shoulder. The old woman helped the Fhrey hold a ceramic cup to her lips. Over its top, Arion peered back with weary eyes as she slurped loudly.

   “Okay, okay, that’s enough for now,” Padera said. “We’ll let that settle a minute. If it stays down, if you don’t erupt like a geyser, I’ll give you more.”

   The cup came away and Suri waited.

   Arion’s voice—Suri needed to hear it to be sure, to make it real.

   The Fhrey tried to say something but couldn’t. She pointed apologetically at her throat.

   Suri panicked. “What’s wrong with her?”

   “Nothing,” Padera grumbled. “Well, nothing beyond sleeping for almost a week without food or water, which made her dry as the dust she nearly became.” Padera looked at the Fhrey with a small shake of her head and a confounded expression. “With as little water as she’s had, she ought to be dead. Any man, woman, child, rabbit, or sheep would have passed three days ago. ’Course, she’s none of those, is she?”

   Once more, sunlight pierced the room, blinding everyone. Brin stood in the entryway, holding the flap. She didn’t say anything, just watched from the gap.

   “Come in—go out—pick one!” Suri and Padera barked in unison.

       “Sorry.” Brin stepped in, letting the flap fall.

   All of them watched Arion. The Fhrey lifted her head slowly, focused on Suri, and smiled. Arion reached out a shaky hand. That was enough. Suri fell to her knees and discovered she still had tears left. She buried her face in the side of Arion’s neck. “I tried, I tried, I tried…” Suri managed in between sobs. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I opened a door and found a dark river. I followed it toward a light, a wonderful and yet terrible light. I…I…I tried to pull you back, to fix you, but…but…”

   She felt Arion’s hand patting her head.

   Suri looked up.

   “Not…tried,” Arion managed to croak with a voice as coarse as gravel. She then mouthed the word succeeded.

   Suri wiped her eyes and squinted. “What?”

   With more effort, the Fhrey said, “You…saved…me.”

   Suri continued to stare. “You sure?”

   Arion smiled. “Pretty…sure.”

 

* * *

 

   —

   Raithe refused to sit. Something about being seated in the face of such lunacy felt too much like acceptance. The rest of the clan chieftains, who referred to themselves collectively as the Keenig’s Council, sat in the familiar circle inside Dahl Tirre’s courtyard. Four chairs had been added: three to accommodate the chieftains of the Gula clans and an elaborate seat with carved arms for Persephone. Gavin Killian, the prolific father of numerous sons and the new chieftan of Clan Rhen, sat in Persephone’s old chair.

Hot Books
» House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1)
» A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire
» From Blood and Ash (Blood And Ash #1)
» A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime
» Deviant King (Royal Elite #1)
» Den of Vipers
» House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2)
» The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #
» Sweet Temptation
» The Sweetest Oblivion (Made #1)
» Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels #6)
» Wreck & Ruin
» Steel Princess (Royal Elite #2)
» Twisted Hate (Twisted #3)
» The Play (Briar U Book 3)