Home > Age of Myth(92)

Age of Myth(92)
Author: Michael J. Sullivan

“Something is very wrong,” Persephone whispered.

“Sarah? Moya?” Persephone called out. “What’s going on? Why are you all out here?”

No one moved or spoke, and there wasn’t a smile among them. But in their eyes Persephone saw screams. Raithe pointed toward the storage pit at a remarkable sight: two tethered horses.

The Fhrey laid Maeve on the grass. Nyphron drew his sword from its scabbard, and it made a gentle hiss against the metal sheath. The giant pulled free his massive sword. Sebek pulled both of his blades, and Tekchin drew forth a thin, delicate blade. Malcolm held his spear at the ready. Beside Persephone, Raithe put a hand on his sword but didn’t draw it. Minna let out a low guttural growl, and Suri bent over to pat her neck.

They moved forward as a group but had taken only a few steps when a tall Fhrey, as hairless as Arion, emerged from the lodge and stopped them with his stare. Numerous rings pierced the skin of his ears, cheeks, and nose, and chains hung between them. On his hands, the fingernails were so long that they curled around themselves in yellowed swirls. His chest was bare, and he wore a skirt of gold. A mantle, also gold, draped across his shoulders and flowed to the ground. Beside him came a smaller, younger Fhrey wearing a shimmering robe of purple and white, the hood of the garment raised.

“Nyphron, son of Zephyron.” The god of chains spoke in Fhrey, and his voice boomed with unnatural volume. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Surely that is a god, Persephone thought. Not a kind or benevolent one but the embodiment of great and terrifying power. His face lacked even a single hint of compassion.

Beside the god the younger Fhrey shifted his weight and fidgeted with nervous excitement like a boy on his first hunt. Behind them, eight more Fhrey strode through the lodge doorway. They carried swords and wore armor similar to that of the Galantians, but they had helms shaped like the heads of lions. They took up positions on either side of the younger Fhrey and stood in stiff lines, not dissimilar to the way everyone else was standing.

The god of chains walked forward, descending the steps of the lodge and moving through the ranks of villagers, who shifted in perfect unison to allow his passage. The other Fhrey remained on the elevated porch, watching.

“Gryndal, you cuckold cur and craven whore’s son,” Nyphron replied in Rhunic.

Persephone held her breath, her eyes wide, but the god of chains merely stared at Nyphron with suspicion.

“It’s a common Rhune welcome,” Nyphron said, this time in Fhrey.

“I’m certain.” Gryndal advanced until he stood in the exact center of the dahl, with the villagers behind him and the Galantians in front. “You know why I’m here.”

“Of course. You’ve finally found wisdom and decided to join the Instarya. Unfortunately, we don’t—”

Nyphron collapsed to his knees, fell forward, and gasped for air.

“I’m not Petragar,” Gryndal said, baring his teeth. “And I’m not Arion. I won’t be toyed with. I have full authority to act as the fane in these forsaken lands. You know what that means. All of you stand guilty of rebellion, rebellion against your fane, against your god, and against nature.”

Gryndal walked around Nyphron, and as he did, Persephone felt a jolt, as if an invisible giant had grabbed hold of her neck and wrists and shoved her back a step. The unexpected lurch knocked Math’s spear from her hand. The weapon fell to the grass, and she was unable to retrieve it. The unseen giant hands held her so tightly that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak and could barely breathe.

“Fenelyus is dead. She, who ushered in the new order, was an anchor. It’s time for the Miralyith to assume their proper place as gods and for ordinary Fhrey to realize they’re just one more race that crawls upon the world.” Gryndal bent slightly to look at Nyphron, who remained on his hands and knees, his face clenched in pain.

Stryker made a noise—something no one else had managed. The goblin also succeeded in sluggishly raising his clawed hands. This caught the god’s attention.

“You have a ghazel, I see. An oberdaza—an abomination. The Art is not for the likes of them.”

Gryndal made a slight motion with his fingers, and the goblin flew backward. The sounds the goblin made weren’t the cry of a man but the high-pitched shriek of an animal, not unlike the noises Konniger had made. But the goblin’s screams didn’t last as long; after some snapping he became still and silent.

Gryndal looked toward the young Fhrey standing on the lodge’s porch. “Have you met the prince, Nyphron? This is Mawyndulë, son of Lothian, come to see how gods conduct themselves—to witness justice. I’m his teacher, and you are today’s lesson. The fane has granted me the power of execution to deal with the trouble you’ve caused. You have displeased us, and for that I’ll take your life just as I crushed it out of your ghazel. But let it not be said that I’m an ungenerous god. Your life is over, but I’ll allow the Galantians to live if they repent for their crimes—if they bow and worship as is proper.”

He pointed to the gathered villagers. “As your god, I demand a sacrifice. Demonstrate your remorse. The Rhunes are a plague upon the face of Elan, and you have wallowed with them for far too long. Destroy them. Cut them down as evidence that you are still worthy to be called Fhrey. In return, I’ll grant you permission to live. Sacrifice their lives to your new gods, to the Miralyith, and I’ll forgive your weaknesses. What is your answer?”

“We don’t take orders from a culina brideeth!” Sebek said.

Persephone didn’t understand either word, but Gryndal certainly did. His eyes widened, and his lips drew back, revealing white teeth. Just then, the prince stepped forward, a puzzled look on his face. “You care more for Rhune animals than your own people? Your own friends?”

Nyphron looked up at the prince, helpless.

“Gryndal, let him speak,” Mawyndulë requested.

“As you wish,” the god of chains said, and the strain on Nyphron’s face lessened.

“It is not that I care so much for the Rhunes,” Nyphron said. “But more that I hate you—you, your father, all the Miralyith, and, most of all, this miserable excuse for—” Nyphron grunted in pain, his words choked off.

“Hate?” the prince asked incredulously. He uncovered his head, revealing that he, too, was as bald as Arion and the god of chains. He took a step forward as if to present himself more clearly, as if it was possible that Nyphron didn’t recognize him. “How can you hate me? I’m your prince.”

Gryndal twitched a finger, and Nyphron could speak again, though his voice was strained. “You’re not my prince. You’re a worthless Miralyith.”

“Worthless?” The prince looked stunned. “The Miralyith are your betters. I should think at a moment such as this you’d be painfully aware of that fact. How can you deny it?”

“Because power doesn’t equal worth,” Arion said. She stepped through the lodge door, walking slowly and favoring her left side. “Wisdom, the sort that your grandmother Fenelyus employed, is a far greater virtue.” She turned to Gryndal. “I told you that I had agreed to take Nyphron’s proposal to Fane Lothian. This madness can end in a sensible conclusion that doesn’t require rivers of blood.”

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)