“I sent a lot of men—half of the Second Legion, in fact.”
“Won’t matter.”
“Well then, I will place my hope on Elysan. You see, my problem isn’t the river, but the water itself. Can’t put Dherg runes on water—this has become the mantra of all those I send to the Harwood. But what if I got rid of the water?”
Malcolm shook his head. “He won’t be able to recruit giants to dam the river in the north.”
“Dam it, divert it, drink it—I don’t care what they do just as long as it stops flowing long enough for me to get troops to the Estramnadon side. Furgenrok has some truly huge relatives. Not that he, himself, isn’t large, but some of his uncles—the ones who have been asleep for centuries—could cut off the water by cupping it with their hands. If Elysan can convince them, they could shut off the flow, the Nidwalden would run dry, at least for a time, and the Techylors could spearhead the attack by slaughtering the Miralyith in Avempartha. Then the army can pour across the empty riverbed and flood Erivan.”
“And you hope to do this before Lothian starts making dragons.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Odds of success?”
“Dismal. The giants of Hentlyn hate us. They have no reason to help. So, I told Elysan to promise them anything.”
“Anything?”
Nyphron shrugged. “What do we care? If they stop the water, I’ll wipe out the only force on Elan that can threaten me. And after the fane dies, the giants will be yoked into slavery, or if subjugation proves too troublesome, they will be erased.”
“And did Persephone agree to this plan?”
Despite aiding Nyphron’s cause with the idea of an opportunistic marriage with Persephone, Nyphron knew that Malcolm preferred her to him. He displayed a little smile. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“You don’t think she might want to weigh in on the erasure of a race, since that is what the Fhrey are trying to do to her people?”
“I don’t think her knowing will be necessary, since the war with the giants won’t start until well after she’s dead.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “You aren’t saying—”
Nyphron laughed, and it felt surprisingly good. Seeing Malcolm knocked off-balance was the most fun he’d had in months. “I’m not planning on killing the woman. She’s my wife, you know.”
“Men have killed their wives before and over lesser offenses than sending their only hope into the hands of the enemy.”
“I’m not a man.”
Malcolm said nothing. He continued to stare, unconvinced.
Nyphron rolled his eyes. “Truthfully, I like Persephone. She’s been a good wife and mother.”
“What about keenig?”
He nodded. “That too.”
“Because she leaves the military decisions to you?”
“As is sensible. While I hate to admit it, the pairing has been a good one. She has no ego to butt against, no desire for glory. If I had to ally myself with a man, or even an Instarya like Sikar or Tekchin, we would have come to blows by now. Persephone is wiser than I first imagined. No, what I meant is that the Grenmorian problem will likely not be addressed for another fifty or sixty years, and by then, I doubt Persephone will still be with us.”
To this, Malcolm merely nodded.
“But you don’t think Elysan will be successful,” Nyphron said.
“The Fhrey, and in particular the Instarya, don’t have a good reputation in the north.”
“And what about the army we sent south?” Nyphron asked. “We merely ordered them to establish a secure route across the lower river, then scout a way to scale the cliff on the far side. What makes you think that won’t succeed?”
Malcolm turned to face east, as if he could see something in the flurries that Nyphron could not. “The world to the southeast—the Broken Lands and isles—are the scarred and flooded remains of the ancient shattered lands. They belong to the Uber-Ran. They always have.”
“Uber-Ran?”
“Your people call them Moklins—the Blind Ones; humans named them goblins; the Belgriclungreians dubbed them ghazel. But they call themselves Uber-ran—Ones of Uber, the Faithful Children of Uberlin, the Great Ones. They are the loyal, the devout, the only followers who didn’t abandon the first ruler of Elan.”
“Who was that?”
“Rex Uberlin.”
Nyphron smirked. “Children of an evil god they may be, but they’re still just goblins, primitive and unruly.”
“Like everyone, they were different once. Loyal to their king, but he didn’t return their faith in kind. Abandoned and leaderless, they were twisted by the selfish and cruel example left to them. Given enough time, sediment settles to the bottom of any cup.” Malcolm continued to stare east for a moment, then he turned back with an apologetic smile. “Call them what you will, but the party you sent will be eaten. You can count on that.”
“We’ll see.”
The wind picked up and howled across the plain. Snow thickened and danced among the rocks. Nyphron looked once more toward the forest. “I can’t see the river. Waiting for a signal from the Techylors is maddening.”
“Why not go there yourself?”
Nyphron shook his head and frowned. “I don’t dare. Running a war from the rear is”—he sighed—“so very frustrating. Far more so than I ever would have believed. But if I were on the bank and the water did stop . . .” He laid a hand on his sword, and in doing so, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d drawn it.
“That Law of Ferrol’s is a problem, isn’t it?” Malcolm said with a smug smile. “But you shouldn’t worry too much. As I promised, you will be the ruler of the world. We have a deal, remember?”
“Are you ever going to tell me what you want?”
“I’ll let you know soon. Just remember that I was right then, and nothing has changed with regards to you becoming emperor.”
“I’ll be what?”
“You aren’t familiar with the term empyre? Probably not, it comes from the Eilywin tribe and has nothing to do with conquest. It means ‘to join together, to build, to unify.’ The Eilywin are all about living in balance. It’s their word for creating an environment in which people can live together in harmony with nature, the gods, and with one another. That’s what I want to create. You will help me build an empyre for everyone.”
“You want to create?” Nyphron said.
Malcolm ignored him. “Just consider what could be done if wars were a thing of the past and everyone worked together.”
“Sounds boring.” He stared at Malcolm, sizing him up once more. The tall, lanky not-a-man lacked fear, but displayed no attributes to explain why. Disturbing is what he was, like a fish that talked. Such things weren’t supposed to be possible, yet there he stood—the talking fish promising to fulfill Nyphron’s greatest dreams . . . for a price. “Why do I get the impression there’s something you aren’t telling me? You’re like one of those demons that grant wishes, but not the way one would expect. If you ask to never grow old—they kill you. Is that it?”