Age of Swords

The gods have been proven mortal and new heroes will arise as the battle continues in the sequel to Age of Myth-- from the author of the Riyria Revelations and Riyria Chronicles series. In Age of Myth, fantasy master Michael J. Sullivan launched readers on an epic journey of magic and adventure, heroism and betrayal, love and loss. Now the thrilling saga continues as the human uprising is threatened by powerful enemies from without--and bitter rivalries from within. Raithe, the God Killer, may have started the rebellion by killing a Fhrey, but long-standing enmities dividing the Rhunes make it all but impossible to unite against the common foe. And even if the clans can join forces, how will they defeat an enemy whose magical prowess renders them indistinguishable from gods? The answer lies across the sea in a faraway land populated by a reclusive and dour race who feel nothing but disdain for both Fhrey and mankind. With time running out, Persephone leads the gifted young seer Suri, the Fhrey sorceress Arion, and a small band of misfits in a desperate search for aid--a quest that will take them into the darkest depths of Elan. There, an ancient adversary waits, as fearsome as it is deadly. Magic, fantasy, and mythology collide in Michael J. Sullivan’s Legends of the First Empire series: AGE OF MYTH • AGE OF SWORDS • AGE OF WAR

Praise for Michael J. Sullivan
 
“If you enjoy epic fantasy, and are perhaps hungering for something with timeless appeal, then I highly recommend picking up Age of Myth.”—The BiblioSanctum, on Age of Myth
 
“Hair-raising escapes, flashy sword fights, and faithful friendship complete the formula for good old-fashioned escapist fun.”—Publishers Weekly**, on Theft of Swords
 
“Filled with adventure and clever dialogue and featuring a pair of not-quite-heroes whose loyalties to each other provide them with their greatest strength, this epic fantasy showcases the arrival of a master storyteller.”—Library Journal**, on Theft of Swords
 
“With less gore and a smaller cast of characters than George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire but equally satisfying, Sullivan’s epic fantasy will be gaining fans at exponential rates.”—Library Journal**, on The Rose and the Thorn

Autorentext

Michael J. Sullivan opened the first door to his imagination with typewriter keys found in a friend’s basement when he was just eight years old. Today he uses computer keys, writing classic fantasy with unlikely heroes, including the bestselling Riyria novels and his latest epic, The Legends of the First Empire.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

The Storm

Most people believe the first battle of the Great War occurred at Grandford in the early spring, but the first attack actually took place on a summer’s day in Dahl Rhen.

—­The Book of Brin

“Are we safe?” Per­seph­one shouted up at the oak.

Magda was the oldest tree in the forest, massive and majestic. Standing before her was like staring at an ocean or mountain; each made Per­seph­one feel small. Realizing her three-­word question might be too simple, too vague, she added, “Is there more that needs to be done to protect my people from the Fhrey?”

Per­seph­one waited for an answer.

Wind blew; the tree shook, and a massive branch fell.

She jumped when it hit the ground. Falling from such a height, the limb would have killed her if it had landed a few inches closer. Broken branches suspended in the forest canopy were called widow-­makers. Since Per­seph­one had already lost her husband, the dead wood lying beside her must have been an overachiever.

“What’s that about?” Per­seph­one asked Suri.

The young mystic with the white wolf glanced at the fallen branch and shrugged. “Just the wind, I think. Feels like a storm is coming.”

Once before, when Per­seph­one had sought the great tree’s counsel, Magda’s advice had saved her people. Now she was back, seeking answers again. Months had passed since her last visit, and life at Dahl Rhen had returned to a comfortable routine. The destruction created by the battle between two Miralyith had been cleaned up, but Per­seph­one knew that hadn’t ended the conflict. Questions remained—­questions no human or Fhrey could answer. And yet . . . ​

Per­seph­one looked at the fallen tree limb. It’s not a good sign when Magda starts a conversation by trying to crush me.

“Something wrong?” Arion asked. The Fhrey was still learning their language and stood beside Suri and Minna watching the proceedings with great interest. She wore the green hat Padera had crocheted for her; its whimsical quality made the Miralyith appear more approachable, less divine, more—­human. Arion had come along to witness the oracle in action, although Per­seph­one had expected more talk and less action.

Suri looked up at the tree. “Don’t know.”

“What’s Magda saying?” Per­seph­one shouted to Suri over the rising howl of wind.

That was how it was supposed to work. Per­seph­one posed questions to the tree and the mystic revealed the answer after listening to the rustling of leaves and branches. But Arion was right about something being wrong. Suri had a perplexed look on her face—­more than merely puzzled; she looked concerned.

“Not sure,” the girl replied.

Per­seph­one clawed a lock of hair away from her mouth. “Why not? Is she talking in riddles or just ignoring you?”

Suri’s face twisted in frustration. “Oh, she’s talking, all right, but so fast I can’t tell what she’s saying. Just babbling, really. Never seen her like this. She keeps repeating ‘Run . . . ​run fast . . . ​run far. They’re after you.’ ”

“They? Who? Is she talking to us? Is that the answer to my questions?”

Suri shook her head, short hair whipping across the tattoos on her forehead. “Nope. She was yelling before you said anything. I don’t think she heard you. I’m not even sure how Magda knows the word run. I mean, seriously, how does a tree know what that is?”

“Are you saying the tree is hysterical?”

Suri nodded. “Scared to death. I know mice who have made more sense. She’s not even using words now, just making noises.” Suri’s brows jumped up, her face tensing, eyes squinting, mouth pulling tight.

“What?” Per­seph­one asked.

“It’s never good when a tree screams.”

Tall grass slapped Per­seph­one’s legs, her dress whipping and snapping. Ripped from their branches, the oak’s leaves flew thick as snow in a blizzard. Under the dense canopy, Per­seph­one couldn’t see the sky, but the wind was stronger than ever. Stepping out, she discovered that what had been clear blue just moments before had turned a tumultuous gray. Dark clouds bubbled one upon another, turning midday into twilight. A strange green light cast everything in an eerie, unnatural hue.

“What’s happening?” Arion asked.

“Tree is panicking,” Suri answered.

“Maybe we should return to the dahl,” Arion said, her head tilted up. “Yes?”

Minna whined and drew closer to Suri, nearly knocking the girl down. The mystic knelt to comfort her wolf. “Not right, is it, Minna?”

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