Sikar kept his eyes on Nyphron. “You know, it’s customary to wave that before approaching. Not that it would do any good. The fane has declared you exiles—no longer protected by Ferrol’s Law.” There was a terrible gravity in his tone and enough remorse in his eyes for Nyphron to make a mental note.
Tekchin chuckled as he folded his arms across his chest. Nyphron had given orders that no one was to touch weapons, and Tekchin was likely going through withdrawal. “So this is your big chance to rid yourself of those gambling debts you owe me, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t a joke!” Sikar shouted. “They’re going to—”
Overhead, horns blared and the gates opened.
“Quiet,” Tekchin said. “Your boss is coming. Don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything.”
Sikar didn’t look irritated; he looked sad. He slowly shook his head as he sighed.
“Relax, Sikar,” Nyphron told him. “I’m back now. I’ll make everything right again.”
“They’re going to execute you—you understand that, right?”
Nyphron only smiled.
Out of the gate poured a cohort of Instarya warriors. Nyphron didn’t need to look behind him to know that more would be blocking their retreat. He guessed Petragar had turned out the entire First Spear to welcome them. The show of force was more than a compliment, more even than evidence of Petragar’s cowardice; it was exactly what Nyphron needed.
The warriors fanned out in precision to either side of the bridge, filling the landing before the gates and denying them entrance. Nyphron didn’t have any intention of taking another step. He had planned this meeting down to the block of stone he stood on and, more importantly, the landing where the Instarya had gathered. After centuries, Nyphron knew every blind spot and vantage point.
Petragar was the last one out. A brave one, he is.
At his side waddled Vertumus, legate to the fane. A portly Gwydry, he’d somehow managed to rise in station—or fall out of favor—in order to earn his post in the wilderness of Avrlyn. Vertumus had accompanied Petragar when the latter arrived to replace Nyphron’s dead father as lord of the Rhist. All Nyphron knew about the man was his complicity in the plan to send Rapnagar and the other giants to destroy Dahl Rhen and kill Nyphron, Arion, and Raithe. The boy and his weasel make quite the pair.
“Nyphron, son of Zephyron,” Vertumus began, “you have been—”
“Shut up,” Nyphron ordered. “I didn’t come all this way to speak to you.”
Petragar’s eyes widened. “You have no—”
“Didn’t come to talk to you, either, you son of the Tetlin Witch.”
Petragar looked confused by the Rhunic insult, the tone of Nyphron’s voice, and…well, everything. That was just the sort of Fhrey he was. While he looked to the others for understanding, Nyphron took in the gathered faces of his family. He knew them all.
Nyphron’s father was a tyrant when it came to his son. Zephyron, lord of Alon Rhist and supreme commander of all the western outposts, granted Nyphron no privileges or special treatment. His son was forced to sleep in the barracks with the other Instarya. Nyphron was also made to take his meals in the communal dining hall. Zephyron’s son marched in the same mud and fought and bled alongside the lowliest soldier. At the time, Nyphron had protested, but now, while standing on the Grandford Bridge, he mentally thanked his father. This was just the second time he’d done that; the first was when Zephyron had gotten himself killed during the Uli Vermar.
“I’ve come home to speak to my brothers.” The moment he said this, Grygor set the box down and Nyphron stepped up. “Instarya!” he shouted from his elevated position, wielding the still-rolled flag as a baton conducting a symphony of eyes. “The lord of Alon Rhist has returned. I come as a liberator to free you from the tyranny of morons and cowards.”
“How dare you!” Petragar nearly screamed, his voice a perfectly discrediting screech. “You are a—”
“For too long, we have suffered the indignities and humiliation of a fane who does not respect us, who does not appreciate us, who does not love us.” Nyphron had no trouble drowning out Petragar’s squeals. The Galantian leader had a good voice for speaking: loud, deep, confident.
“You’re a traitor!” Petragar shouted. “And the son of a traitor!”
Without looking at him, Nyphron chose to respond to the accusation, mostly because it dovetailed neatly with his speech. He hadn’t expected help, certainly not from Petragar, but Nyphron wasn’t above accepting it when offered. “My father gave his life for his tribe, in service to his people, to free them from exile, from the mud and the blood that only we are forced to suffer. We fight and die while the Miralyith, Umalyn, Nilyndd, Eilywin, and Gwydry all enjoy the benefits of our sacrifice. Even the Asendwayr are allowed to return across the Nidwalden. Only the Instarya are banned from our ancestral home. Why is that?”
“Because it is the fane’s decision, not yours,” Petragar shouted. His voice sounded thin and reedy.
“Indeed!” Nyphron was really starting to appreciate Petragar’s assistance. The weeping willow of a Fhrey possessed the unexpected virtue of making him look good, a gift Nyphron loved more than all others. “Because the fane has decreed that we—we who shoulder the greatest burden—should receive scorn and humiliation as our reward. Those of you who were in Estramnadon, those who witnessed my father’s challenge, can attest to this. Were those the acts of an honorable fane who respects his people? Or did he act the tyrant, imposing his rule through terror?”
“Sikar!” Petragar yelled. “Arrest him! Get him off that box!”
Sikar hesitated.
They really hate him. This might be easier than I expected.
“Let me explain why I came.” Nyphron softened his tone and said, “I am here to rescue you, all of you. Alon Rhist is the only home I’ve ever known, the Instarya, my family. I’ve come to save you.”
“You’re the one who needs saving,” Petragar growled, pushing forward through unresponsive ranks.
“For many years, I have warned that the Rhunes are capable of combat equal to the skill of the Fhrey. Few believed.” He focused on Sikar. “I was proven correct when Shegon was killed while on patrol at The Forks.”
“Shegon was murdered while he lay unconscious,” Sikar said.
“Doesn’t matter. I personally witnessed a Rhune warrior kill Gryndal. Slaughtered him with a perfect blow to the neck, severing his head from his shoulders. You remember Gryndal, don’t you?”
This drew a reaction from every face, including Sikar’s. He turned, and like many others, looked at Petragar.