“He…hello,” Persephone stammered, a bit embarrassed and out of breath. “Sorry for barging in. A bit scary outside.”
None of the three replied.
Stocky to the point of appearing square, with large hands, broad noses, deep-set eyes, and bushy brows, they stood as motionless as statues. They wore shirts of metal rings, and a row of metal hats lay on the nearby bench. The reflection of the green light from their armor made them appear to glow in the dark.
Dherg.
Persephone had met their kind before. She’d traveled with several caravans to Dahl Tirre and the nearby port town of Vernes where the Dherg had shops. She and her husband, Reglan, had traded with the Dherg on behalf of Dahl Rhen, swapping antlers, hides, and pottery for bits of tin. The Dherg were far less intimidating than the Fhrey but even less trusting.
The Dherg on the left had a long white beard and a sword. The one on the right also had a sword, but his beard was gray. The fellow in the middle had no sword at all and almost no beard. A massive pickax was strapped to his back, and around his neck he wore a golden torc.
“Is this your rol?” Persephone asked.
The Dherg didn’t answer. They didn’t even look at her. Instead, the three focused on Arion with a mixture of hatred and terror.
“Do you mind if we share it until the storm passes?” she continued, undaunted.
Still no answer.
Persephone wondered if they even understood Rhunic. Not all Dherg did. There were orthodox factions that shunned outsiders and foreign ways, including language.
“I need to sit,” Arion said, and staggered toward the benches.
At her approach, two of the Dherg—the ones with the beards—bolted for the door. One slapped the keystone, and it started to slide open. The moment it did, the noise outside grew deafening.
Neither the voice of hail nor the roar of fire, this rumble was louder, deeper. The growl of whirling wind. Persephone had seen it before. As a girl, her father had held her high on the dahl’s wall to witness a god’s wandering finger scratch the back of Elan. Across the distance of more than a mile, the whirling black funnel ripped up trees. Persephone had wondered what it would be like to be a rabbit or mole caught in that cataclysm. Now she knew. Outside, leaves, grass, dirt, stones, hail, branches, and whole tree trunks flew sideways, smashing into one another. A loud shattering crack issued from somewhere in the storm—another tree snapping in half. Persephone felt a pull like the current of a powerful river dragging on her as air was sucked out through the opening.
The white-bearded Dherg felt it, too, and braced himself at the threshold. He looked at the raging storm then glanced back to Arion, trying to decide. With his beard whipping, he shouted, “Close it! Close it!”
The gray-bearded one clapped hand to stone. The door reversed direction, the stone rolling back into place until the roar was shut out once more.
“You’re doing that!” the white-bearded Dherg accused in Fhrey, pointing at the door while glaring at Arion.
She shook her head wearily while sitting on the stone bench. “Not of my making. Believe me.”
“I don’t believe you!”
Arion flexed her fingers. Shock and worry creased her brow. She reached up and put a hand to the back of her head.
“It’s okay. It’ll come back.” Suri pointed at the series of runes chiseled along the top of the walls. “The markings.” They were the same as the ones on the bandages that had prevented Arion from using magic.
Arion nodded slowly. She was frowning but looked relieved. Seeing that the Dherg were still glaring at her, she pointed to the runes and said, “Those are yours, so you know I’m not responsible for what is happening out there.”
Persephone had never seen Dherg quite like them. None of the others she’d met were dressed in metal. The traders in Vernes wore floppy wool hats of bright orange or red, and long tunics usually dyed yellow or blue. Metal in the southern regions wasn’t common, and the Dherg coveted it like sacred relics—their form of magic. They haggled stubbornly for even small bits of tin. But it was their other metals that were truly remarkable: wondrous bronze, which could be forged into invincible weapons, and gold and silver, which shone with divine light. She wondered if these three were rulers or otherwise-powerful members of Dherg society. Whoever they were, it’d be a mistake not to make a good impression. Or at least the best that could be made after barging in on them.
“I’m Persephone, chieftain of Dahl Rhen,” she said, thinking it was time someone did the polite thing. “This is Arion of the Fhrey. And this”—she gestured toward the mystic—“is Suri. Oh, and her wolf, Minna, who is very nice, and will do you no harm.”
Perhaps because they realized Arion wasn’t capable of performing magic, or because Persephone had been the first to address them, the three finally appeared to notice her existence. They looked at her with no less suspicion but far less fear.
“Now then,” she said, offering the friendliest smile she could conjure. “Who might you be?”
They all offered one more glare at Arion before the white-bearded one spoke. “I’m Frost of Nye. This is Flood,” he said, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the one beside him, making the gray-bearded Dherg wince. “And he”—Frost pointed at the one with the pickax who hadn’t run for the exit—“is called Rain. My companions obviously weren’t properly watching the door.”
“Us? And what were you doing?” Flood asked Frost. “Why was guarding the door our responsibility?”
“I was busy trying to remove a pebble from my boot.”
“Careful, it might be your brain. If you toss it away, then…well…now that I think of it, we likely wouldn’t notice any difference, so go ahead.”
Frost scowled.
“Honored to make your acquaintance.” Persephone bowed formally, which appeared to surprise them.
“Now, how did you know about our rol?” Frost asked no one in particular. “These are secret places, safe areas known only to our kind.”
“Suri is a mystic and has lived in the Crescent Forest all her life.” Persephone glanced at the girl. “She led us here.”
The Dherg smirked. “All her life? How long could that possibly be?”
“Suri is…well…special. She’s located many rols. Haven’t you?”
Suri was petting Minna’s neck, oblivious to the conversation.
“Suri?” Persephone nudged the mystic with an elbow.
“What?”
“I was telling them that you have a knack for finding rols. Could you explain how you do it?”
Suri shrugged. “Empty places feel different from the ones filled with dirt and stone. It’s fun to find the spot that opens the door. Although Minna sometimes gets bored if I take too long. Don’t you, Minna?”
“We just came here to get away from the storm,” Persephone said. “No idea it was occupied. I hope you don’t mind, but as you can see the storm is…the storm is…” A thought wriggled into her head—and then more than one. A whole set of puzzle pieces fell together: the suddenness of the storm, Arion telling them to run, and the trail of scorched divots left in their wake.
She turned her attention to the Miralyith and spoke in the Fhrey language, “Arion, how did you know?”
The bald woman sat on the bench, head resting in her hands. “Know what?”
“You told us to run. And that lightning, it…it wasn’t random. I don’t know how, but it was trying to hit us. Right?”
“Yes,” the Fhrey said, looking up. The relief that Suri’s explanation had provided earlier was gone, replaced by a painful expression as Arion rubbed the knit hat on her head.
“This was how it was in the war.” Frost seemed to be talking to his companions, but spoke in Fhrey. “When the Fhrey attacked, we’d shelter in rols.”
“You couldn’t know anything about the war,” Arion said. “I was young, but I remember. You don’t. You only know stories. Dherg don’t live that long.”
“Don’t call me a Dher
g…you…you…elf!” Frost’s hand went to his sword.
Arion’s brows rose at the term elf.
“Hold on, hold on,” Persephone said. “Maybe we should all calm down a little. I’m sure Arion meant no disrespect. The storm is too dangerous for any of us to leave, so let’s make the best of it. We don’t know how long we’ll all be stuck in here.”
Overhead, thunder boomed, and the wind’s howl continued.
Persephone moved to take a seat on the bench beside Arion and was unpleasantly reminded about the hail that had struck her back. She also had time to notice the many cuts along her hands and legs from the thornbushes. Her left ear hurt as well, though she didn’t know why.
“Might as well sit down,” Persephone told the three.
Frost and Flood looked at each other and then returned to the benches on the far side of the glowing green gem. Rain, who hadn’t stopped looking at the runes since they’d been pointed out, had wandered into the shadows. He stood near the back wall, head tilted up, studying the carvings.
“Pardon me for asking, but if Dher…er…what Arion said isn’t the correct way to refer to your kind, then what is? It’s the only term I’ve ever heard.”
“Dherg is a Fhrey word meaning ‘vile mole.’ How would you like it if we called you Rhunes?” Frost asked. “That’s also a Fhrey word. You know what that means, right? ‘Barbarian,’ ‘primitive,’ ‘crude’? Do you like being called that?”
Persephone hadn’t thought about it before. To her, to most everyone in the Ten Clans—few of whom spoke Fhrey—Rhune was just a common term, a name. Now that he mentioned it, she realized it had been an insult. “So what do you call yourselves, then?”
“Belgriclungreians,” Frost said.
Persephone took a breath. “Really? That’s…that is a mouthful, isn’t it? And what brings you to the Crescent Forest? I don’t remember your kind ever coming this far north.”
The three exchanged looks—uncomfortable expressions—and Frost growled, “That’s really none of your business, now, is it?”
Persephone was becoming exasperated by the effort of the conversation. Even idle chitchat seemed to provoke their ire.
Outside, the noise grew softer, only rain now; the storm was lessening. The patter became a pleasant, comforting, non-threatening sound. Does that mean it’s over? Persephone wondered, realizing she wasn’t at all certain what it was. Not exactly.
That morning had begun so agreeably. A clear sky and a leisurely walk through the forest made a refreshing change from the growing tension about a potential war. Prior to a few months ago, the Fhrey were thought to be gods—seemingly immortal. Then, Raithe of Dureya had killed one, throwing everything in doubt. A few weeks later, he slew Gryndal, the seemingly all-powerful Fhrey Miralyith, and all skepticism had vanished. The Fhrey were not gods, but they were powerful. Retaliation was only a matter of time. Still, Persephone had expected an army, not lightning bolts.
“Headache?” Suri asked after seeing the Fhrey rub her temples.
Arion replied with a shallow nod and got up. Her movement sent a jolt of fear through the two bearded Dherg, who briefly jumped to their feet. When Arion lay down on the floor and rested an arm over her eyes, they relaxed.
“What’s wrong with the elf?” Flood asked.
“Don’t talk to them,” Frost snapped.
“Why do you call her elf?” Persephone asked.
“That is what they are to us,” Frost said. “Nightmares.”
Persephone said, puzzled, “But elf is a Fhrey word.”
“Not much sense calling them names in our language. What good is insulting someone if they don’t know you’re doing it?”
“You aren’t pronouncing it right,” Arion said. “It’s ylfe, not elf.”
Persephone moved to where Arion lay and knelt beside her. The Fhrey used both hands to rub her eyes.
“The pain is bad?” Persephone asked.
“Yes.”
“Is there—” Persephone stopped when the ground shook.
Everyone exchanged glances with similar worried expressions.
The earth quaked again, accompanied by a muffled thud.
“What is that?” Persephone asked.
No one answered.
The Dherg were on their feet again, all three looking up.
Another thud, louder this time, sent a tremor through the rol, and dust, bits of rock, and pebbles rained down from the ceiling, glinting off the gemstone. Persephone got to her feet and approached Frost, who, along with Flood, was backing away, moving toward the door again.
“During the war, did the Fhrey ever manage to get into these rols?”
The two Dherg looked at each other with so much concern that Persephone didn’t need an answer.
“How?” she asked, as another shudder shook the room. The stone ceiling cracked, and a large piece of rock fell, followed by a shower of dirt. Through the gap, a massive eye peered in.
CHAPTER TWO
Giant Problems
The first giant I ever saw was friendly and liked to cook. The second one might have as well. I do not know; I never asked. It is hard to pose questions while screaming.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The huge eye drew back, and a fist punched through part of the rol’s remaining ceiling. The tawny-skinned hand was ten times the size of a normal man’s, its knuckles coarse and caked in dirt. Persephone and the others scattered as rock and dirt fell, bursting on the floor. Another blow and the great fist smashed through again, this time opening a hole large enough for an aurochs to pass through.
Frost and Flood were the first to the door.
“Arion!” Persephone cried.
The Fhrey was still on the floor. She’d sat up, but that was as far as she’d gotten.
Two massive hands slipped through the opening. They gripped the sides of the hole and tore back the roof. Brilliant sunlight entered as the unmistakable silhouette of a giant loomed. The mountainous man crouched on his knees, digging with bare hands, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. Tossing aside a fistful of heavily rooted forest floor, the giant thrust his craggy face into the opening, blotting out the light once more. He peered in, as if examining the contents of a sack. The green glow of the gemstone worsened an already terrifying visage. Narrow eyes set beneath a precipice-brow bulged with a maniacal leer. Shadowy canyons lay to either side of a promontory nose, beneath which gaped a cavernous mouth of uneven, intermittent, tombstone-shaped teeth.
“Hag-la!” the behemoth bellowed with hot breath smelling of rotted meat and strawberries.
The head drew back and a hand thrust in.
“Run!” Persephone yelled.
Frost and Flood had already escaped with Suri and Minna close behind, but Arion never had a chance. The giant grabbed at her as she struggled to her feet. As the massive hand closed, Rain swung and planted the spiked end of his pickax in the giant’s fist. The colossus let go and jerked his hand back. He clutched his blood-gushing wound while looking down with snarling fury. Persephone and Rain took that moment to help Arion, and together they dived out the open door just before the giant rose and slammed his foot down on the rol. The ground shuddered as dirt and dust blew through the door.
Outside, the trees were gone. Some had been uprooted, others snapped, leaving only splintered trunks. Mangled limbs, logs, branches, and leaves littered what was now a bald spot within the wood.
Frost and Flood leapt fallen trees on their way toward thicker cover. Suri and Minna paused atop a toppled hickory to look back as Persephone labored to get to her feet in the tangle of branches. Unlike the others, Arion wasn’t fleeing. She sat still, arms out, anger in her eyes.
The giant howled as he struggled to free his foot, which had become lodged in the hole where the rol had been. He became frustrated as it slipped deeper despite his attempts—sinking first to the ankle, then to the shin. Finally, the ground swallowed him up to the knee. The giant’s other leg was finding similar difficulty,
as if the mutilated forest floor had turned into a swamp of tar.
“Arg rog!” he shouted in what sounded like a mix of anger and fear. Two huge hands came down in an effort to push himself up, but there was no solid ground, and they, too, were sucked into the mire.
Slowly, steadily, and with an occasional snap of a branch or rustle of leaves, the floor of the forest pulled the giant down. He sank past his waist, then his shoulders, and as the rich, leafy soil inched up around his neck, Arion lowered her hands and the descent stopped.
Flood clapped Frost on the shoulder and pointed at the Fhrey, and for the first time Persephone saw them both smile.
“Did you see that?” Frost asked.
Flood nodded. “Maybe there is a way back, after all.”
The giant began screaming then. A number of words Persephone didn’t recognize were shouted before he cried out, “Help!” in Fhrey.
“You speak my language?” Arion asked from where she had taken a seat on the fallen trunk of a maple.
“Yes! Yes!” the giant cried.
“Lucky you.” Arion got up and carefully stepped through the carnage. Finding the hat Padera had made, she reached down and withdrew it, sighing at the dirt and leaves covering the garment.
“Let me live,” the giant begged. “I yield. You win. I’ll quit.”
“Quit what exactly?” Arion asked.
The giant hesitated.
Arion looked up from her hat with an irritated frown, and the giant began to slip deeper, the soil now up to his chin.
“Trying to kill you! Trying to kill you. We were sent to kill you!”
Age of Swords Page 3
