A giant—maybe the same one who’d tossed the bull—was throwing rocks the size of roundhouses into the most congested areas, igniting screams. Gifford couldn’t tell whose side the giant was on because the races were all mixed up. He couldn’t see a dividing line and soon realized there wasn’t one. The giant hurling rocks certainly didn’t care. That’s when Gifford took Roan’s hand with his left and drew his sword with his right.
Even with his perfect feet and straight back, Gifford knew little about combat. He’d never had a lesson in wielding a sword.
Why waste time teaching a cripple?
All he knew was what he’d seen others do—swing the sharp edge at people. He’d done that while trying to save Roan in the Battle of Grandford and failed. As it turned out, swinging a sword was harder than it looked.
Gifford had long envied normal people, the ones who could walk without leaving a drag mark, or talk without spraying faces. They could do most things so effortlessly that they took it all for granted. He knew that if he were like them, there would be nothing he would fear, nothing he couldn’t accomplish. Standing on two perfect feet on that field of battle made up of flying bulls and screaming men, he understood he’d been wrong. He was still Gifford the Cripple, and it didn’t matter if his feet worked or not. He could finally say Roan’s name, but he still couldn’t protect her—not from men, dwarfs, Fhrey with swords, and certainly not from giants heaving bulls.
“Galantians attacking on the right!” shouted Melen, who could see over most of their heads.
“Techylors, counter!” King Mideon ordered, and sixteen men in green cloaks, all who wielded dual swords, rushed toward the opening breach.
Gath did nothing except display his palm to the six of them, commanding everyone to stay where they were. He wasn’t huge. That was the thing that surprised Gifford. Gath of Odeon was reputed to be the greatest hero of their culture. He was the first keenig, who united the tribes and convinced them to cross the sea to the unknown world that lay beyond. Many were the tales of how he and his fellow heroes fought sea monsters, dragons, and goblins before finally settling in Rhulyn. Hearing the tales over and over, Gifford imagined he must be a giant, rugged and handsome. This Gath of Odeon reminded him of a shaggy dog. Wearing only a skirt of leather, Gath had wild, dark hair growing from his head, shoulders, arms, and legs. The mane was so thick, snarled, and matted that he appeared more beast than man. When agitated, he bared his teeth, and when angry, he growled.
Gath was snarling just then as he surveyed the chaos of the battle. All around them rushed a churning crash of violence held back by a wall of men and dwarfs. A handful got through, only to be crushed by one of Melen’s hammers or laid out by Bran’s ax. These three legends protected them from the very few that breached Mideon’s defenses. Fenelyus stood by as well, her eyes looking beyond the nuisance runners. What they watched for, Gifford had no idea, and he was certain he didn’t want to know.
Only Beatrice, who stood with them in the center, in that quiet core, appeared unconcerned. Gifford checked her several times, feeling better with each glance.
She knows it will be okay. She’s already seen it.
“Okay, everyone forward, but don’t pass me!” Gath ordered.
Like dutiful children, they all shuffled behind the first keenig, keeping their heads down as ordered. Before long, they were too far away to see the steps. Retreat was no longer an option. They swam in deep waters, the banks no longer visible, their futures cast among perils vast and veiled.
“Can’t die when you’re already dead,” Moya told them. “Remember that.”
It should have helped but didn’t. Gifford felt the need to breathe and to take steps to move, but he was also afraid to be hit, scared to have his head chopped off or see the same happen to Roan. Maybe they would just get up and dust themselves off afterward, but the idea of dying terrified him nonetheless. The concern wasn’t unlike how some people were afraid of bees. A sting might hurt, but it wasn’t the end of the world, yet many folks panicked whenever they heard a buzz.
And how exactly does a body go about putting a head back on?
Gath stopped them again, and a moment later, King Mideon appeared with a solemn expression. He faced Fenelyus. “She’s got the Breakwaters guarding the approach.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“All?” the fane asked, stunned. “Has she left the rest of her realm open? Why would she do such a thing? Why take such an insane gamble?”
“A shame we didn’t know,” Gath said. “We could be ransacking the White Tower right now.”
“Can you do something about the giants?” Mideon asked.
Fenelyus nodded. “Draw your forces back.”
The king gave the order, trumpets sounded, banners waved, and troops retreated. As they did, Gifford saw that the way ahead was blocked by a dozen giants with locked arms. These were not normal Grenmorians, but something more rudimentary. Just as roundhouses were simpler versions of Fhrey homes, these giants were primitive even among a race not known for sophistication. They seemed to be unfinished—blunt faces, mouths that hung agape, and dull eyes that constantly looked to one another for reassurance. They were also big and solid and scary, standing with shoulders lined up, making a wall twenty feet high.
Fenelyus moved forward. As she did, a section of the floor rose, giving her height. At the same time, she grew in size and brilliance. Her cloak became a vast cape of shadows and her hands as bright as torches. They left streaks in the darkness as she moved them in a rotating pattern. Between them, a great ball of purple light took shape and expanded. Then without fanfare, she rolled it forward. As it moved toward the Breakwaters, the ball swelled. Gifford watched in anticipation for a great impact, eager to see what would happen when the line of giants was struck, but well before it reached them, the great purple sphere of light winked out as if it had never existed.
Then from the right, a jolting blast of lightning streaked across the plain. The blast struck Fenelyus—or nearly so.
This was not the first time Gifford had witnessed a magic duel. He’d stood with the other residents of Dahl Rhen when Arion and Gryndal had fought. But in the realm of Nifrel, that which had been invisible in the real world was exposed. Just before the lightning reached Fenelyus, he saw a glowing blue shield block it. The shield was simpler and brighter than the armor Alberich had made, but it was every bit as effective.
Watching the two Miralyith was the key to understanding the true nature of the realm of Nifrel and perhaps all of Phyre. Power came from a spirit’s strength of will, from desire, whether that was to obtain something or merely to exist. But the ability to wield power in meaningful ways was limited by familiarity. None of them needed to walk, to move, or swing a sword to fight. Alberich didn’t need to hammer fictitious metal to make armor, and armor wasn’t necessary. But these were the ways people understood how to achieve what they desired. Fenelyus worked closer to the raw power than the dwarf. She made her armor from sheer resolve. The Art of the living world and the force of will of Phyre had to be nearly the same in principle, except that in Phyre, using the Art would be like painting without the paint. All that was brought to the canvas was the idea.
A second bolt of lightning struck the shield Fenelyus held. Tracking it back, Gifford saw a familiar ring-pierced face. Gryndal stood on his own raised pedestal of stone and shot his white-hot streaks over the heads of the army. A shout went up and troops charged the former fane’s position. Held fast, locked down in defense, she would be unable to defend herself.