Age of War (The Legends of the First Empire #3)

That was it. Raithe was dead.

Roan hadn’t realized it at first. The only hint was that Suri cried out as if someone had stabbed her. She began to sob, to wail, her body racked with grief, tears spilling down her face. Somehow in her horrific sorrow, Suri managed to sing. Not a nice song, not a song at all really. Nothing rhymed, and the melody was unpleasant. Then the rear wall of the smithy shattered, part of the roof caved in, and the beast appeared. The workshop was simply too small for the Gilarabrywn that was born of that sorrow. The Verenthenon wouldn’t have been big enough. Just as Arion had tapped from all of them when they had been in the Agave, Suri had drawn on their combined grief, and what was born from it was impossible to fully comprehend.



The next moment, the Gilarabrywn flew into the night sky. Scale-covered body, massive claws, horned back, barbed tail, and an overabundance of teeth were hoisted by a pair of featherless wings. Bigger, Roan thought, wiping tears away. Much bigger than last time. The Gilarabrywn gained height, took one circle over the Rhist, then dove on the Kype, claws extended the way Roan had seen birds do on the big lake or the White Oak River. They usually came up with a fish in their talons. The Gilarabrywn came up with the roof.

Definitely bigger.

Suri sat beside Raithe and Arion. She was still rocking and crying.

Malcolm, Tressa, the little men, even Rain—they all cried. Roan had been surprised at that. She didn’t know why. The little men just didn’t seem the type. They didn’t laugh or cry. They yelled quite often—at least Frost and Flood did, usually at each other and occasionally at a hammer.

Time stopped after that. The smithy was gone—most of it—and Roan was looking out at the courtyard where dozens of Fhrey stood. The elves—blood-covered and carrying swords, spears, and shields—had stopped, too, frozen in shock at what they saw. Yet as the Gilarabrywn flew away, time started again.

Beyond the world of the broken smithy, Roan saw a battlefield where a quiet courtyard had been. Fhrey warriors in gold and blue fought men in shining silver. Swords clanged. Shields rang. Blood and fire filled the cracks between. Malcolm valiantly stepped forward, holding his spear. The little men grabbed their hammers from the rack, and even Tressa found a weapon—the iron poker from the forge.

Roan didn’t move. Instead, she counted the enemy that came at them: five, three from the left and two from the right. One more looked their way but couldn’t make up his mind. She estimated their chance of surviving the next five minutes—those in the smithy at least—to be nonexistent. When Malcolm unexpectedly skewered the first Fhrey with his spear, she revised her estimate to almost nonexistent.



Dragging the sword she had laid on Raithe a moment before, Suri began to crawl. She started in the direction of the ruined barracks, but wavered, turning toward the woodpile. Roan was certain the mystic had no idea where she was going. Remembering her state after killing Minna, Roan guessed Suri was dazed and drained and merely moving for the sake of moving.

Then Roan heard a noise to her left and realized one of the Fhrey was looking at her—at the poor girl in the leather apron sitting between the anvil and the worktable. He was strangely barehanded and bareheaded, with a gash across his nose and cheek. Part of his face was also burned, the hair on the left side of his head singed away. And he was covered in blood, not just his clothes, but every part of him as though he’d bathed in a tub. He had a gleeful grin—an insane smile. The same sort Iver had worn. She knew what was coming. She’d watched Iver do it to her mother.

The bloody Fhrey came at her, dodging around Malcolm and the little men, who had their own problems. Tressa took a swipe, but the poker only rang off his armor. Another Fhrey appeared, and Tressa had her own adversary to deal with.

It was just the two of them then: the bloody Iver look-alike and Roan.

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