Age of Myth (44 page)

Age of Myth

Forthcoming:
Age of Swords • Age of War • Age of Legends • Age of Empire

Theft of Swords
(contains
The Crown Conspiracy
and
Avempartha
)

Rise of Empire
(contains
Nyphron Rising
and
The Emerald Storm
)

Heir of Novron
(contains
Wintertide
and
Percepliquis
)

The Crown Tower

The Rose and the Thorn

The Death of Dulgath

Hollow World

Unfettered: The Jester
(Fantasy: The Riyria Chronicles)

Blackguards: Professional Integrity
(Fantasy: The Riyria Chronicles)

Unbound:
The Game
(Fantasy: Contemporary)

Unfettered II: Little Wren and the Big Forest
(Fantasy: The Legends of the First Empire)

The End: Visions of the Apocalypse: Burning Alexandria
(Dystopian Science Fiction)

Triumph over Tragedy: Traditions
(Fantasy: Tales from Elan)

The Fantasy Faction Anthology: Autumn Mists
(Fantasy: Contemporary)

Help Fund My Robot Army: Be Careful What You Wish For
(Fantasy)

M
ICHAEL
J. S
ULLIVAN
is the bestselling author of the Riyria Revelations and Riyria Chronicles series. Like most authors, his road to publication has been both a lifelong dream and a difficult road to travel. Michael was just eight years old when he discovered a manual typewriter in the basement of a friend's house during a game of hide-and-seek. He inserted a blank piece of paper and channeled the only writer he knew at the time…Charles M. Schulz's Snoopy. Yes, he actually typed the iconic line:
It was a dark and stormy night.

That spark ignited a flame, and the desire to fill blank pages became an obsession. As an adult, Michael spent more than ten years developing his craft by studying authors such as Stephen King, Ernest Hemingway, and John Steinbeck. During that time, he wrote thirteen novels but found no traction in publishing. So he did the only sane thing he could think of (since insanity is repeating the same act but expecting a different result). He quit writing altogether and vowed never to write creatively again.

Michael stayed away from writing for over a decade and returned to the keyboard in his forties…but with one condition: He wouldn't seek publication. Instead, he wrote a series of books that had been forming in his head during his hiatus. Michael's first reading love had been fantasy, and his hope was to foster an appreciation for the genre in his then thirteen-year-old daughter, who struggled with the written word due to severe dyslexia.

After reading the third book of this series, his wife, Robin, insisted that the novels needed to
get out there.
When Michael refused to jump back onto the query-go-round, she took over the publication tasks and has run the business side of his writing career ever since.

In today's turbulent publishing environment, Michael and Robin embrace hybrid authorship and utilize self-publication, small presses, and Big Five publishers to ensure that Michael's works are available to the widest audience possible. They also actively help fellow authors (both aspiring and established) by sharing what they've learned through online posts, free in-person seminars, and courses for
Writer's Digest.
Michael can be reached at:

We hope you have enjoyed
Age of Myth,
the first book in the Legends of the First Empire series. We're pleased to present you with a sneak peek of the second book,
Age of Swords,
releasing in the summer of 2017. Enjoy!

Most people believe the first battle of the Great War occurred at Grandford in the autumn, but the truth is it started three months before on a beautiful summer's day in Dahl Rhen.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Gifford knew he would never win a footrace. He was late coming to this realization; everyone else knew it the day he was born. His left leg didn't have much feeling, couldn't support his weight, and dragged. His back wasn't much better: Badly twisted, it forced his hips one direction and his shoulders another. For years he held out hope he'd get better. He'd believed that if he tried hard enough, long enough, he could straighten up and stand on two feet. It never happened.

But his leg and back weren't the worst of it.

Gifford was cursed with only half a face. He had the other half, exactly where it ought to be, but like his leg, it, too, was useless. The left side didn't move at all, making it difficult to see and torturous to talk.

But his face wasn't the worst of it.

When he was eight, Gavin Killian had dubbed him the goblin, and Myrtis, the brewmaster's daughter, said he was broken. Of the two he preferred goblin—at the time he'd had a crush on Myrtis. When growing up it seemed everyone had called him something, none complimentary. Over the years the names faded. No one called him the goblin anymore, and although people probably still thought he was broken, no one said it—at least not to his face.

But the name-calling wasn't the worst of it.

He had trouble controlling his bladder. The accidents occurred mostly at night, and he frequently woke in a soaked bed. For most of his life his “morning baths” had been the worst of it. Yet as with all his other adversities, he'd found a way to cope, a way to persevere. He drank sparingly and never at night. Even on the coldest winter nights when the villagers of Dahl Rhen huddled together in the main lodge for warmth, he always slept alone, which was easier than he would have liked.

Although Gifford's roads appeared narrower, rockier, and strewn with more thorns than others, he always found a way to deal with life's setbacks. Nothing came easy, but Gifford refused to see himself as a victim. He was alive, generally happy, and people loved and praised the pottery he created. That was more than many people had, and more than enough to satisfy Gifford.

And yet whenever he looked at Roan, he knew the worst of it—the worst part of being him—was that the only thing he truly wanted was forever beyond the reach of his feeble body, and no amount of positive thinking would change that.

Roan lashed the wood-and-tin contraption to his left leg, tightening the leather straps. She knelt before him wearing her work apron, a smudge of charcoal on the side of her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, which was so high on her head that it looked like a rooster's crest.

Her clever little hands were marred by dozens of cuts from working with sharp metal. He wanted to hold them, kiss the wounds, and take the pain away. He'd tried once, and it hadn't gone well. She'd pulled away, her eyes wide with fear and a look of horror on her face. Roan had an aversion to being touched, and not just by him, thank Mari. Mountains of praise for his beautiful cups and amphorae wouldn't have been able to offset the anguish if her reaction had been limited to him.

Roan yanked hard on the ankle strap and nodded with a firm, determined expression. “That should do it.” She stood up and dusted her clean hands symbolically. Roan's voice was eager but serious. “Ready?”

Gifford answered by pulling himself up with the aid of his crafting table. The device on his leg, comprised of wooden planks and metal hinges, squeaked as he rose, making a sound like the opening of a tiny door.

“Do you have your weight on it?” she asked. “Put your weight on it. See if it holds.”

For Gifford, putting weight on his left leg was akin to leaning on water. But for Roan he'd willingly fall on his face. Perhaps he could manage a roll and make her smile. She rarely smiled and never laughed. If only he'd been born with two stout legs, strong and agile, he'd dance and twirl like a fool and make her smile, make her laugh. Gifford would show Roan what he saw when he looked at her, but broken as he was, the twisted potter made a poor mirror and could only cast back a shattered reflection.

Gifford tilted his hips and out of faith and love, shifted some weight to his left leg.

He didn't fall. A strain tugged on the straps wrapped around his thigh and calf, but his leg held. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened, and he saw Roan grin.

By Mari, what an amazing sight.

He couldn't help smiling back. He was standing straight—or as straight as his gnarled back allowed—he was winning an impossible battle using magic armor Roan had fashioned.

“Take a step,” she coaxed. Both hands were clenched in fists as if she were hanging on to something invisible in front of her.

Gifford shifted his weight back to his right side and lifted his left leg. Swinging forward, it squeaked again. He leaned and took a step the way normal people had done a million times. The moment he did, the brace collapsed.

“Oh, no!” Roan gasped as Gifford fell face-first, barely missing the set of newly glazed cups drying in the morning sun.

His cheek and ear slapped the dirt, jarring his head. His elbow, hand, and hip took most of the punishment. To Roan, it must have looked painful, but Gifford was used to falling. He'd been doing it all his life.

“I'm so, so, so sorry.” Roan was back on her knees bent over him as he rolled to his side. Her grin was gone, and the world less bright.

He couldn't help feeling it was his fault. “I'm okay, no pwoblem,” he said. “I missed the cups.”

“The hinge failed.” She struggled to hold back the tears as her injured hand ran over the brace.

How many cuts came from building that brace for me?

“The strut bent,” she said. “The copper just isn't strong enough. I'm so sorry.”

“It held fo' a while,” he said to cheer her up. “Keep at it. You'll make it wuk. I know you will.”

“There's an additional force when you walk. I need to account for the forward motion and the additional weight when your other leg is raised.” She slapped the side of her head several times, eyes flinching with each blow. “I should have realized that. I should have. How could I not?”

He instinctively grabbed her wrist to prevent additional blows. “Don't do—”

Roan screamed and jerked away, drawing back in terror. When she'd recovered, they exchanged embarrassed looks, mirroring each other. The moment dragged unpleasantly until Gifford forced a smile. He didn't feel like smiling. He wanted to crawl into a hole and weep. But he donned the expression the same way he forced himself to get up each morning and greet a world that wasn't meant for him.

The smile wasn't one of his best, but it was the best he could manage and, whether Roan knew it or not, he offered it out of love.

To ease past the uncomfortable pause, he picked up their conversation where it had left off. Pretending that nothing had happened. “How could you know something that's not been done befoe, Woan?”

She blinked at him twice, then shifted her focus. She wasn't looking at anything in particular; she was thinking. Sometimes Roan thought so intensely that he could almost hear it. She blinked again and emerged from the stupor. Roan walked over to Gifford's craft table and picked up one of his cups. The awkward moment had vanished as if it had never existed.

“This design is new, isn't it?” she asked. “Do you think it could hold its shape at a much larger size? If we could find a way to—”

Gifford's smile turned genuine. “Has anyone told you yew a genius, Woan?”

She nodded, her little rooster crest whipping. “You have.”

“Because it's twue,” he said.

She looked embarrassed again, the way she always did when he complimented her, the way she looked when anyone said something nice, but it was a familiar unease. Her eyes shifted back to the brace and she sighed. “I need something stronger. Can't make it out of stone; can't make it out of wood.”

“I wouldn't suggest clay,” he said, pushing his luck by trying to be funny. “Though I would have made you a beautiful hinge.”

“I know you would,” she said in complete seriousness.

Roan wasn't one for jokes. Much of humor arose from the unexpected or absurd—like making a hinge out of clay. But Roan's mind didn't work that way. To Roan nothing was too absurd, and no idea was too crazy.

“I'll just have to think of something,” she said, and started unbuckling the brace. “Some way to strengthen the metal. There's always a better way. That's what Padera said, and she's always right.”

The wind gusted and blew Gifford's cloths from the crafting table. Two cups fell over with a delicate clink. Thick voluminous clouds rolled in, blotting out the blue and blanketing the sun. Around the dahl people urgently trotted toward their homes.

“Get the wash in! Get the wash in!” Viv Baker yelled at her daughter.

The Killian boys raced after chickens, and Bergin rushed to shut down his new batch of beer, cursing as he did. “Perfect blessed day a minute ago,” he grumbled, peering up at the sky as if it could hear him.

Roan glanced at the cups and bowls scattered around the craft table. Gifford had been having a productive day before Roan stopped by, but he was grateful for the distraction.

“You need to get your work inside.” She redoubled her efforts to remove the brace, but was having trouble with one of the buckles. “Made this one too tight.”

The wind grew stronger. The banners on the lodge were cracking with sharp reports. The fire braziers near the well struggled to stay lit, but lost their battle. Both were snuffed out.

“That's not good,” Gifford said. “I've only seen them blown out once. That was when the top came off the lodge.”

Another gust made his whole set of cups ring together. Two more toppled, rolling on their sides and making half circles on the tabletop. The thatch on his little house rustled. Still on the ground, Gifford felt dirt and grass hitting his face and arms.

Roan, frustrated with the buckle, reached into one of her two new pockets. She pulled out her snips and cut the leather straps, freeing him. “There, now we can—”

Lightning struck the lodge.

Splinters, sparks, and a plume of white smoke were followed by a clap so loud that Gifford felt it pass through him. Thunder rolled like an angry growl. One section of the lodge's roof had sheered off, giant logs split, and the thatch had caught fire.

“Did you see—” Gifford started to say when another bolt of lightning struck the other side of the lodge. “Whoa!”

He and Roan stared in shock as a third and then a fourth bolt pelted the log building. Cobb and Bergin were the first to react, and the two ran for the well, picking up water gourds on their way. Then another clap of lightning hit the well's windlass, bursting the pole in a cloud of splinters. Both men hit the ground.

More bolts of lightning rained down, both inside and outside the dahl. With each blast came screams, fire, and smoke. All around them people ran to their homes. The Galantians, Fhrey warriors who had been welcomed to the dahl when exiled, came out of their tents and stared up at the sky. They looked just as scared as everyone else, which was as disturbing as the cataclysmic storm. Until recently, Rhunes had thought Fhrey were indestructible gods.

Gelston the shepherd ran past. While making his way between the new woodpile and the patch of near-ripe beans in the Killians' garden, he became struck. Gifford didn't see much, just a snaking, blinding brilliance. When his sight returned, Gelston was on the ground, his hair on fire.

Gifford shouted to Roan, “We need to get to the sto'age pits. Wight now!”

He pushed himself up with his crutch and started hopping toward the storehouses.

“Roan! Gifford!” Raithe and Malcolm ran up. Raithe still carried his two swords, the broken copper slung on his back and the Fhrey blade hanging naked from his belt. Malcolm held his spear with both hands. “Do you know where Persephone is?”

Gifford shook his head. “But we need to get to the pits!”

Raithe nodded. “I'll spread the word. Malcolm, help them.”

Malcolm moved to Gifford's side and put his shoulder under the potter's arm. He mostly carried Gifford to the big storage pit, while Roan followed close behind. With the first harvest still more than a month away, the pits were nearly empty. Lined in mud brick, the hole retained the smell of musty vegetables, grain, and straw. Other members of the dahl were already there. The Bakers and their two boys and one daughter huddled against the back wall, eyes wide. Engleton and Farmer Wedon peered out the open door at the violence of the storm. Brin, the dahl's newly appointed Keeper of Ways, was there as well, but she seemed to be on her way out.

“Have you seen my parents?” Brin shouted the moment she saw them.

“No,” Roan replied.

Outside the thunder cracked and rolled continually. Gifford could only imagine the lightning strikes that accompanied them. Being down in the pit, he couldn't see the yard, just a small square of sky.

Brin started to bolt from the pit. The young girl sprang like a fawn, but Gifford had anticipated her dash. Unlike the crippled potter, Brin
could
win a footrace and was easily the fastest person on the dahl. The fifteen-year-old girl regularly won all the sprints during the Summerule's festival, but Gifford caught her by the arm.

“Let me go!” She pulled and jerked. “I need to find my parents.”

“It's too dangewous.”

“I don't care!” Brin jerked hard, so hard she fell, but Gifford still hung on. “Let me go!”