Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arion nodded as she brushed the dirt and leaves from the hat. Then she stopped, looked up puzzled, and glared at the giant again. “What do you mean—we?”

  —

  The thick-beamed brace snapped in half, and the front gate of Dahl Rhen burst open. Over the last few months, Gifford had seen many strange things enter through them—the dead body of a chieftain and before that his son; three groups of Fhrey, two of which had held a magical battle before the lodge’s steps; and Raithe, the famed God Killer. Gifford imagined he’d seen it all, but standing outside the storage pit in the wreckage left by the storm, he realized he was wrong. What entered that afternoon was a sight beyond his imagination; or more accurately, it was a sight that should only exist there.

  Giants. A lot of them.

  Everyone knew they existed, just as everyone knew gods, witches, goblins, and crimbals did. Dahl Rhen had even played host to one, but Grygor, who had accompanied the first set of Fhrey, turned out to be a pleasant sort. He enjoyed cooking and kept mostly to himself. These were different: angry and ferocious. They were also bigger, much bigger, wearing kilts and vests poorly stitched from the hides of numerous beasts of different species.

  Taller than the gate, they had to duck to pass under the parapet. Their feet were the size of Gifford’s bed, and they carried wooden mallets that looked to have been fashioned by shoving a thick branch through a hole in a tree trunk. In total, there were twelve, and they broke through the gate with bared teeth and wild eyes. Rushing in, the giants swung their mallets, smashing the already ruined piles of thatch and fractured logs. They hammered the wind-strewn rubble and crushed a goat that had survived the storm but had made the mistake of not running. A few took the time to lift the thatch and peer underneath, then one looked Gifford’s way.

  Much of the surviving citizenry of Dahl Rhen was still in the pit. Those outside, like Gifford and Roan, watched as one of the giants howled with excitement, pointing directly at them. The other eleven turned, and the ground shook as the group hurried forward. Having seen what had happened to the goat, nearly everyone cried out and retreated in terror.

  Roan didn’t. She stood her ground, watching in awe.

  From behind, the Fhrey warriors charged out of the pit, weapons drawn, too impatient to wait the few seconds for the giants to close the distance. The first to land a blow was the one called Eres, who threw two javelins. One pierced the throat of the nearest giant, which Gifford believed to be a female Grenmorian, as she had breasts and a shorter beard.

  The other javelin caught one of the larger attackers in the eye, driving itself so deep that only the rear portion poked out of the socket. The giant staggered, then collapsed face-first into the remains of the lodge, flipping a log into the air and shaking the ground so violently that Gifford had to take a step to keep his balance.

  Sebek, the Fhrey with short blond hair and a pair of swords, ran directly into the pack of invaders. He sprinted past the first two, and Gifford couldn’t understand why until he realized that the Galantian had picked out the biggest for his target. Sebek reached his prey, ran between the giant’s legs, and drove a sword into the middle of each foot. The giant howled a long deep note of rage and pain, which grew louder as he tilted forward and struggled to free his feet from the ground. The blades dislodged but not before the giant lost his balance. Once more Gifford staggered and nearly fell when the giant crashed to the dirt. Fast as a rabbit, Sebek retrieved his weapons and sprinted up the giant’s stomach. He leapt across the invader’s chest and stabbed both blades into his neck.

  Anwir was the next Galantian to land a strike. Pulling forth a loaded sling, he swung it in circles over his head and unleashed the stone. The rock staggered a medium-sized giant just as Tekchin reached him with his long, narrow blade. After severing three fingers of the giant’s mallet-like hand, Tekchin stabbed the giant’s chest, cutting a semicircle before withdrawing the sword.

  Roan took a step forward. She had that familiar single-minded curiosity in her eyes, a sort of blind fascination that was impossible for Gifford to understand. Once, she’d broken an ankle after falling into Crescent Creek while preoccupied by a butterfly. Gifford didn’t know what had caught her eye this time, but in a battle between Fhrey and giants, it hardly mattered. If she wandered too far, if she tried to get ahead of Nyphron, who’d taken up a position between the giants and the people of Dhal Rhen to act as a final bulwark, Gifford would take hold of her wrist as he’d done with Brin. Yes, she would panic and lash out, but he’d gladly endure the pain inflicted by her reaction if it was the only way to keep her safe.

  He reached out but stopped when, to his relief, she didn’t move any farther. Roan wasn’t interested in the giants; she was shifting her gaze between Anwir and Eres, staring with intensity as Anwir wound up another stone and Eres launched another javelin. She muttered softly, “There’s always a better way.”

  To Gifford’s surprise, Grygor joined the other Galantians in the fight against his brethren. Grygor didn’t appear to care about their kinship as he raised his huge sword and hewed down a slightly larger giant with a single stroke.

  Vorath, the only Fhrey who had a beard—which he’d grown in the style of the Rhunes—advanced with a three-spiked ball on a chain in one hand and a star-shaped mace in the other. He waded into the fray, a whirling cyclone of whipping metal. The giants appeared confused by his weapons until Vorath solved the riddle by crushing knees and then skulls.

  With a shout, which may have been a command that Gifford didn’t understand, the giants retreated, dragging their fallen with them. The Fhrey didn’t pursue or interfere, even when one giant strode toward the well to reclaim the body of his comrade, which was just a few yards from where Sebek stood.

  As the giants fled, Gifford noticed other dahl residents who hadn’t reached the storage pit but had survived the storm. Old man Mathias Hagger stood near the waste holes behind what used to be the lodge, sodden with muck. Arlina and Gilroy, their three boys, and daughter, Maureen, were clustered around the grindstone where the millhouse once stood. Arlina’s face was covered in blood, but otherwise she looked fine. Many more weren’t as lucky. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Feet and arms protruded from under wreckage. The battle was over, but the toll had yet to be tallied.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Circle of Fire

  I will never forget the day my parents died. I was a child of fifteen, and my world had been destroyed. Then Persephone led us away from what had been our home, and I was not a child anymore.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Arion lay on her back, eyes closed, in a small area cleared of debris inside the walls of Dahl Rhen. When a shadow covered her face, she was reluctant to open her lids. Her head was still throbbing, the pain unbearable.

  “Try this,” Suri said.

  If it had been anyone else, Arion would’ve pretended to be asleep, but Suri could always tell.

  Arion opened one eye. The Rhune mystic stood over her with a steaming cup. Just behind the girl was the old woman Padera. The two had become something of a team lately, joining forces to concoct primitive recipes to ease Arion’s pain. None worked. Knowing the two would continue to pester her until she drank, rubbed, or gargled whatever they brought her, Arion sat up and took the cup. Miraculously, the delicate vessel, called a Gifford Cup by the dahl’s residents, had survived the attack. The exquisite chalice was as out of place as Arion in that world of mud and logs.

  Suri made a gesture indicating that the brew should be drunk. Arion sniffed the cup’s contents, then recoiled at the stench.

  “You sure?” Arion inquired.

  “Pretty sure,” Suri answered with an encouraging smile.

  The hot tea was bitter but not nearly as repugnant as its smell. The liquid had a woody aftertaste. “What’s this one?”

  “White willow bark.”

  “Good for headaches?”

  Suri nodded. “The best.”

  Arion knew the young mystic was stretching
the truth. If the concoction was the best, it would have been the first the pair tried, and they had gone through nearly half a dozen attempts. She took a second sip, which also made no improvement, but at least the steam was pleasant. The old woman didn’t speak Fhrey, so Arion forced a smile and nodded in her direction. Padera said something unintelligible and her sour face turned even more acidic. Suri had been teaching Arion Rhunic, just as Arion worked at improving Suri’s mastery of Fhrey. But Arion’s vocabulary was still limited to a few hundred words, and Padera hadn’t used many of those.

  “What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t understand why you aren’t getting better.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Looking around, Arion saw that not much had changed since she’d lain down, except that now neat rows of wrapped bodies were carefully laid out in a mass grave. Each building was still destroyed. Logs, thatch, and rock foundations were scattered everywhere. She considered repairing the damage—not that she knew exactly how it all went back together—but she didn’t dare take the risk.

  Earlier that morning before she’d gone to the forest, Arion had thought she’d finally mended. Her head hadn’t hurt for days, but now the throbbing announced most emphatically that her hopes of being healed were, at best, premature.

  Months ago, after arriving at the dahl to bring Nyphron to justice, Arion had been hit in the head with a rock by one of the villagers. She’d yet to discover the culprit’s identity, but it didn’t matter. What had mattered was being completely cut off from the Art. After the injury, she couldn’t manage even a simple weave. It wasn’t until after the bandages wrapping her head were removed that the Art returned. Apparently, Suri had been afraid Arion would retaliate against the dahl because of the attack, so the young mystic had painted Dherg runes on the bandages, and they had inhibited Arion’s use of magic.

  With the restoration of the Art, Arion had fought Gryndal, but by the end of the battle the pain had blinded her. She couldn’t walk and had to be carried back to bed. She hadn’t fallen asleep after the fight; she’d passed out. When she awoke a full day later, Arion was physically sick and emotionally devastated, but at least she had the Art once more, or so she’d thought.

  Using the Art to extinguish Magda’s flames, then later to trap the giant, had brought the pain back. So while she was no longer blocked from accessing the power of the Art, using it was another matter.

  “You’re awake. Good.” Nyphron waded toward her through a pile of thatch that had been someone’s roof. The Galantian leader was wearing his armor for the first time in weeks, the bronze shining brilliantly in the late-afternoon sun. He towered over her. “Do you still think a diplomatic solution can be found?” he asked, his tone forceful, aggressive. He wanted to fight—verbally at least. No surprise there, the Instarya tribe were the warriors of their people.

  Suri and Padera rushed off, but Arion couldn’t avoid Nyphron so easily.

  The pain was coming in hammering waves that blurred her vision as if from the pummeling of blows. She rubbed her forehead while making a pained expression, hoping he would get the hint and leave her alone.

  He didn’t.

  Nyphron gestured at the destruction around them. “Do you think this was a random accident? A rogue band of Grenmorians wandering some three hundred miles away from home? A weirdly large group who managed to avoid Instarya patrols, who walked right by Alon Rhist to smash this dahl for the sheer joy of it? And the storm? Was that just a freak occurrence?”

  “No, I don’t think any of that.” Her words were slow, tired, and dribbled out of her mouth. He must grasp that she was miserable. Common decency should cause him to—

  “So what are you thinking?”

  She wasn’t. That was the point. Thinking hurt. Of course the attack was deliberate, but who exactly was being targeted? The Rhune village for Gryndal’s death? Nyphron for his defiance? And it was impossible to discount the accuracy of the lightning strikes. Had Prince Mawyndulë convinced his father that she was a threat for the part she had played?

  “I think this isn’t the time to have this conversation. I’m tired, my head hurts, and I just want to rest.”

  “Your hesitation has already cost us valuable time. Months have passed while we’ve lingered and done nothing.” He gestured at the devastation around them. “This is the result. We need to take this war to Fane Lothian himself.”

  “War?” Now it was her turn to use an incredulous tone. “What war? Yes, Dahl Rhen has been attacked, but I really can’t blame Lothian for that. This dahl has harbored you and your Galantians, and one of its residents killed First Minister Gryndal. This was retaliation, plain and simple. But a war? What I need to do is defuse the situation, not fan the flames.”

  “Are you really so naïve? This isn’t about a single dahl. Did they even tell you why you were sent to retrieve me? What my transgression had been?”

  “Yes. You attacked Petragar, the new leader of Alon Rhist.”

  “I chose to avoid arrest for disobeying an order, a directive to destroy the Rhune villages—all of them. Lothian wants the Rhunes gone. The fane has declared war.”

  Arion did remember passing through a burnt set of ruins, but it wasn’t until then that she realized how it had been destroyed and why.

  “But you can’t fight a war against Estramnadon. Will you kill your own kind? Break Ferrol’s Law? You can’t possibly be willing to be barred from Phyre. Living the rest of your life as an outlaw is one thing, but being banned from the afterlife is unthinkable.”

  “I don’t have to do any killing myself. I’ll teach the Rhunes to fight. They can do the slaying. Raithe has proved that. They just need training.”

  “And you think with a few lessons they can stand against the full might of the fane?”

  Nyphron smirked, shifting his eyes as if she’d said something both amusing and distasteful. “The fane? What does Lothian know about war? What do any of those across the Nidwalden know of battle? We Instarya have protected them for centuries. If my host of Rhunes can present a credible threat, then the rest of the Instarya will join our cause.”

  “As simple as that, is it?”

  “At the very least my brothers-in-arms will stay out of the conflict. And without them, the fane will have no strategists, no skilled commanders, no warriors, no army, and no clue how to fight.”

  “And the Miralyith? Fenelyus single-handedly defeated the entire Dherg army at the Battle of Mador. Your mighty Instarya were merely spectators.”

  “We’ll use the Dherg runes. Put them on every shield, every helm.”

  Arion was surprised. He’d thought this through more than she’d expected. Clever, but filled with holes overlooked out of ignorance or stupidity. She remembered the words of Fenelyus: It’s easier to believe the most outlandish lie that confirms what you suspect than the most obvious truth that denies it. Apparently, lying to oneself wasn’t restricted to Artists.

  “The Dherg’s runes won’t win a war for you,” she said, blinking against the pain that was making her eyes water. “Your thinking is limited, skewed toward what you want, what you need to believe. The runes will only prevent the Art from affecting the wearer. If I wanted to kill you right now, my first thought might be to incinerate you. Fire is easy and doesn’t take much effort. It is one of the first things aspiring Miralyith learn, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t work, would it? The flames would be conjured and you’ve already lined the interior of that armor with protective markings.”

  Nyphron’s brows lifted, confirming that Arion was right, and that he was surprised she had guessed.

  “But what if I opened the ground beneath your feet? Or caused a tree to fall on you. What if I rerouted a river through your army’s camp…a big, powerful river? The Miralyith are a creative lot. We call it the Art for a reason. So how will you and your Rhune army stand against a team of Miralyith who are able to turn Elan herself against you?”

  The pounding in Arion’s head was lessening
. Maybe the tea was helping. She was finding it easier to think.

  “I’ll overwhelm them with numbers. Do you know how many Rhunes there are?” he asked.

  “Thousands.”

  Nyphron smiled with equal parts pleasure and mischief. “One of the tasks of the Instarya is to keep a census of the Rhunes, the same way we track animal populations and the status of the Grenmorians and goblins. Every ten years we take a count. When the numbers get too large, we promote warfare between the Gula-Rhunes and the Rhulyn-Rhunes to cull the herds.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  Nyphron shook his head. “What would be terrible is to let them breed uncontrolled. In a few generations, the Rhunes would be a flood upon the world, and the Fhrey and Dherg could be pushed aside and eventually erased. And it’s not like they don’t enjoy killing one another. They would fight more if we didn’t stand between them. But we should have been more vigilant. Once they settled in villages, even primitive ones like this, their population exploded. When they were nomadic, their numbers were kept small by predators like the goblins and Grenmorians, and by a lack of food. But then they learned farming.”

  “Did we teach them?”

  “No, they started using copper and tin around that same time, so we think it was the Dherg.” He shot a glare in the direction of the three, who huddled near the outer wall. They weren’t close enough to hear the conversation, but there was no mistaking the disgust in Nyphron’s venomous expression. All three got up and moved farther away.

  “The Dherg taught the barbarians all sorts of things, and soon the Rhunes were erecting granaries and buildings, settling down, and spreading out. Suddenly there were thousands, then tens of thousands, and now…” He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “Arion, there are more than a million Rhunes.”

  “Million?” she asked, certain that she heard incorrectly, or that her sluggish, wounded brain wasn’t recognizing a jest.

  There were only about fifty thousand Fhrey, and the idea that Rhunes could outnumber them twenty to one was disturbing.