Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “You could teach me,” the boy said. “Train me to kill Fhrey like you have.”

  Raithe shook his head. “I’m leaving, and you seem to want to stick around for the war.”

  “You have to train me.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, not anymore.”

  “The clan chieftain is responsible for teaching young men to fight. That’s Dureyan law.”

  “I’m not the chieftain.” Raithe paused to think. “I never said I was the chieftain, did I?” He looked at Malcolm, who shrugged.

  “Who is then?” the boy asked. “In the meeting tomorrow, who will speak for Dureya?”

  “There is no Dureya.”

  The look on the kid’s face was a potent mix of shock and disappointment. He pointed at Malcolm. “He told me you were the God Killer and that you could teach me.” He shook his head in disgust. “Only things I’ve learned are you run from a fight, ignore the cries of your clan, and break our laws.” The kid frowned. “Who knows. Maybe God Killer is an undeserved title, but I’m certain of one thing. You aren’t Dureyan.”

  Raithe hated his people. They were vicious, crude, and cruel. Elan would be a finer place without Dureyans. Despite this, the kid’s words hurt. Raithe didn’t know why. It made as much sense as his father sacrificing his life for a copper sword.

  Pride. The idea spilled in as he looked at the kid. How many boys his age could have lost their family—their whole village—and still challenge the God Killer. That took guts, stupidity too, but guts nonetheless. Where did that strength come from? Raithe was proud of the kid, and couldn’t help but feel pride in the clan who bore and raised someone like him. Dignity was the one gift his father—his people—had bestowed, and this boy was stripping it away. As foolish as it was, Raithe couldn’t deny such things still mattered. What good is surviving, if I have to give up everything I am to live?

  The irony was so complete it stung.

  Raithe picked up the broken copper sword. The moment he did, the kid shuffled back and lowered his crouch. Raithe shook his head. “Relax. I already lost this fight, and it wasn’t with you.” He looked at the copper, sighed, and then returned the blade to its place on his back.

  “Where’d you find him?” Raithe asked Malcolm.

  “Out in the field. He was watching a Galantian training session. He’s so thin that I was afraid he wouldn’t last the night. And seeing as how you and I are kinda misfits, I thought he’d feel right at home.”

  “When was the last time you ate, kid?” Raithe asked.

  The boy didn’t answer.

  Raithe laughed. “You can remember everything I say, but you can’t remember the last time you ate. Either you’re being stubborn, or it’s been quite a while. I’m guessing both.”

  “I have some leftover seed cake,” Malcolm said, and dug through the pile of supplies near the wall.

  “Leftover?” Raithe asked.

  “Meaning I didn’t finish it all.”

  Raithe stared at the man, confounded. “Since when has that ever happened?”

  “I lived a long time in a place without want, but being with you has made me pick up bad habits. I now save food for lean times.” Malcolm pulled out a thin cloth which was wrapped around torn chunks of the caraway-flavored cake. He held them out to the boy.

  The kid didn’t move. He hardly breathed as he stared at Malcolm’s outstretched hand.

  “Go on, take it,” Malcolm said.

  “What for?” the boy asked.

  Malcolm raised his brows. “To eat. Honestly, you Dureyans aren’t terribly smart, are you?”

  “That’s not what he means,” Raithe said. “He’s expecting a trade. Listen, kid, we are part of the same clan, which means we’re family. So, I’m responsible for you. That’s how it works.”

  “Never worked that way before,” the boy said. He was still looking at the seed cake. His tongue licked his lips, but his hands never moved. “No one gives food for nothing. I don’t have anything to trade, so what do I have to do?”

  Raithe thought a moment. “Well, if I’m going to be taking on the enormous obligation that is Clan Dureya chieftain, I’ll need a Shield.”

  The boy’s sight slipped from the food to look at him. Those dark, hollow eyes tightened in confusion. “I thought you were leaving? I won’t go if that’s what you’re up to. I’m staying to fight, and if you won’t train me, then I—”

  “If you’d shut up, I’ll stay. Apparently, I have traditions to uphold and a very dirty, very hungry, but surprisingly brave clan to lead.” Raithe focused on the kid. “I’m not going to say you’re the best man for the position. You aren’t. Honestly, you’d be more effective if I used you as an actual shield, but it’s not like I have any better options.”

  “What about him?” The boy nodded his head toward Malcolm. “Why isn’t he your Shield?”

  “He’s not Dureyan, but I suppose you already knew that. Just look at him.”

  “I assume you’re referring to my unusually good looks,” Malcolm said.

  Raithe ignored him and addressed the boy. “You’re all I have. And I suppose with some food you might eventually amount to something. The one thing you have going for you is that you were born Dureyan, and Dureyans are like flint. If anyone beats us or tries to break our will, they’ll chip away an edge sharp enough to cut. So I’m offering food and shelter in return for being my Shield.”

  “Does that mean you’ll train me? What good is a Shield if he doesn’t know how to fight?”

  Raithe sighed. “Yes, I’ll train you. Don’t want to be breaking any laws I’d have to punish myself for.”

  The boy looked at the seed cake again. Then, after stuffing his knife into his belt, he reached out his hand—not to Malcolm, but to Raithe. They shook. The boy squeezed hard. “Agreed,” he said.

  The boy took the cake and devoured every bit of it in seconds, allowing no crumb to escape.

  “That’s how you treat food,” Raithe told Malcolm. Then, looking back at the boy, he asked. “What’s your name?”

  The kid was still licking his fingers and getting more dirt than crumbs. “Do I have to use my old one, or can I pick something new?”

  “I don’t care,” Raithe said. “I’d just like to know what to yell when I want you.”

  “Then call me Fhreyhyndia.”

  “I’m not calling you that.”

  “It’s a Fhrey word,” the boy said.

  “I know.” Raithe wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but he’d heard Nyphron use it several times, usually while pointing his way, so it probably meant ugly or clumsy. “I thought you hated the Fhrey?”

  “Do you know what it means?” Malcolm asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s too hard to pronounce.”

  “It means ‘the killer of Fhrey,’ ” Malcolm supplied.

  The boy nodded. “That’s what I want to be called because that’s what I am going to be. I’ll be the greatest warrior who has ever lived, and I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

  Raithe smiled. I really do like this kid. The boy hadn’t sprouted a single hair on his chin, and yet he was eager to take up arms against an entire race. “You can’t go around with that as a name.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would insult the Galantians, and I need a Shield, not a target. Pick something else. Something simple that won’t tie my tongue in knots.”

  The boy frowned but relented. “I suppose you could call me Tesh.”

  “Tesh?” Raithe said. “I like Tesh. That’s a good Dureyan name.”

  “I like Fhreyhyndia,” the boy grumbled.

  “Too bad. It’s settled. I’m calling you Tesh,” Raithe declared in his best chieftain voice, which he felt lacked all authority.

  “Why did you pick Tesh, anyway?” Raithe asked.

  The boy shrugged. “That’s what my mother named me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Under the Wool

  As a person who loves words, I take great jo
y in knowing that I was there when the saying “under the wool” came into being, even if no one these days has any clue about where that phrase originated.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The rain finally stopped, and the people of Rhen made an exodus from the wool awnings to bask in the muddy but sunlit field. In a matter of hours, the world returned to a form of normalcy as folks resumed daily tasks. Moya went back to spinning wool, Bruce to carving, and Riggles to his leatherwork. The sheep and pigs were driven out to graze. The only difference was that they were driven by farmers deprived of their fields, who took care of livestock deprived of their shepherds.

  “That’s much too big,” Gifford told Roan as he hobbled over on his crutch.

  She looked up and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun that had finally reemerged after days in hiding. Gifford stood over her, a shadowed silhouette in his draped leigh mor, drawn up in summer-style so his knees showed.

  “You’ll not make a flame with that,” he said.

  Roan looked at the stick bowed by the taut string secured to the ends.

  “Has to be small.” Gifford chuckled. “That’s as big as you.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s supposed to be this size. Might need to be thinner though. I’m still working it out.”

  She plucked the string with a finger and listened to the twang, a deep throaty sound.

  “That’s not fo’ making flames, is it?” Gifford asked.

  “No,” Roan replied. Setting the bow down, she glanced at Gifford. He didn’t ask where she got the wood, and she wondered if he knew. Gifford was smart and a good guesser.

  Limited room in the carts meant she could only bring a few things from Rhen, but this was special. She’d heard about the lightning strike that split open the old oak, and something that unusual needed to be seen. Just as described, Magda had been divided in half. Her trunk had been splintered and Roan found one great sliver standing straight up. Blackened only at the tip, the rest was perfect. She took the staff from the exposed heart of the tree with no more intent than bringing a part of Magda home. Now, it was the only wood she possessed suitable to the task.

  “What’s it fo’ then?”

  “Throwing things.”

  Gifford squinted at her and at the stick but didn’t ask anything more.

  “What have you been up to? Are you making cups again?” she asked, knowing that almost all of Gifford’s work had been destroyed. “Yesterday Moya and Brin went down to the village near the sea. Said a bunch of people were trading stuff in a place called the market. According to them, the pottery here is terrible…thick and uneven. Everyone uses the coil method. Don’t think they know how to spin clay.”

  “That’s because they don’t have a Woan to make them a spinning table.” He grinned broadly—the good smile.

  “They also don’t use glazes. They just fill the insides with pitch. Makes everything taste like tar, I’ll bet. They would love your stuff. You could trade your pieces.”

  “And get what?”

  “Food, wine, metal, salt. They have a lot of salt here…oh, and cloth. They have something called linen! It’s really light and would be great for the hot weather. They dye it in different colors. Moya’s got her eye on a purple dress she found. You could have your own stand, a kind of table where things are sold. Brin said the market is filled with crowds of people who wander through and make deals. You’d be huge.”

  “Maybe we could both use the same stand.” Gifford pointed toward the wall. “Those big wooden pots you make is fantastic.”

  Roan narrowed her eyes. Usually, she understood what he was trying to say. His inability to make the rrr sound, and the embarrassment from trying, made him avoid certain words. Sometimes he got a bit too creative with his substitutions. She knew how much stress talking caused, so whenever possible, she worked out his “Gifford-speak” on her own, but sometimes she just had to ask.

  “Barrels?” she posed.

  “You named them that?” Gifford sounded hurt, his eyes lowering, his sight falling off her.

  “No. I made that mistake once before.” She looked at his crutch and frowned. “Barrels is what Rain called them. The little men have names for all kinds of things.”

  “What would you have called them? Not wooden pots, I suppose.”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I would probably call them casks.”

  “Why?”

  Roan shrugged. “It’s short. And there’s no ‘r’ sound in it.”

  Gifford smiled. He looked out over the field for a moment then said, “Will we be staying long enough to build an oven? Do you know?”

  Roan shrugged. “But it doesn’t take long to build one. I’ll help.”

  He nodded. “Also need stuff to make glazes.”

  “There’s a sandy beach and a salt sea here. I saw some cliffs, too. With any luck, I might even find some metal. Let’s go explore after lunch.” Roan looked at the bow. “I wonder if some tin might help strengthen this.”

  “How is it supposed to wuk?”

  “Oh, let me show you. She picked up the javelin from a pile of sticks.

  Gifford’s eyes nearly fell out. “That’s one of the Galantians’ javelins.”

  She nodded. “I borrowed it.”

  “Does he know? Did he give it to you?”

  Roan paused in thought. She hadn’t asked, but the one called Eres was there when she borrowed it. He hadn’t objected, so he must not have minded. Thinking back, though, she wondered if he had seen her.

  She shrugged. “No. Might not have noticed. Now feel this.” She held it out. “See how it’s weighted?”

  He didn’t take it, but he did step closer. With an intense look he whispered, “Woan, you…you…took the Fhwey’s weapon?”

  Gifford never used the word Fhrey unless it was important. She didn’t understand why he was using it now, but it concerned her.

  “Yes, I needed to study it.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  Another shrug. “Couple of days.”

  “Days!”

  “What?”

  Gifford took the javelin from her. “I’ll deal with it.”

  “With what?”

  “It’s not a pwoblem.”

  Problem? He’s nervous about something.

  Gifford let bees land on him without flinching, swam in the deep parts of the lake, and even challenged chieftains at meetings. He was the bravest man she knew, so it worried her that he seemed frightened.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I said it’s fine, Woan. I’m just going to give it back.” He smiled then, but it wasn’t his good one. Gifford had many kinds of smiles, and she’d seen them all. When she scolded herself, he wore the sad one—she never understood why. The cheerful grin was often used like a mask for him to hide behind. Then there was the stiff, toothy-faced expression that usually meant he didn’t understand—and it was usually accompanied by a slow nod or two. She rarely saw the good smile. She liked that one.

  “Oh. I almost fo’got. Bwin wants to see you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Still un-da the wool.”

  Roan nodded. “She’s been under the wool since the giants attacked.”

  Gifford looked at her puzzled for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. Yes, I think so. A lot of us have been un-da the wool a long time.”

  —

  Gifford hobbled toward the Galantians’ camp, Eres’s stolen javelin in one hand, his crutch under the other arm. The warriors respected strength and beauty; he had neither. For years, Gifford had clung to the hope that things could change. He’d believed that if he tried hard enough for long enough, he could will himself to straighten and stand on two feet. It never happened.

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

  Gifford was also cursed with half a face. Everything was where it ought to be, but like his bad leg, one side was useless. The left sagged and coul
dn’t move, making it difficult to see and torturous to talk.

  But his face wasn’t the worst of it.

  When he was eight, Gavin Killian dubbed Gifford “the goblin,” and Myrtis, the brewmaster’s daughter, had called him broken. Of the two, Gifford preferred goblin—at the time, he’d had a crush on Myrtis. While growing up, it seemed everyone had called him something. Over the years, the names faded, and although people probably still considered him broken, no one said it to his face.

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

  For most of his life, Gifford’s “morning baths” had been the worst of it. He had trouble controlling his bladder; and thankfully the accidents usually occurred at night. He frequently woke in a soaked bed, humiliated and embarrassed. As with his other adversities, he’d found a way to cope, a way to persevere. He drank little, never at night, and made a point to sleep alone, which was easier than he would have liked. He wasn’t that broken.

  Although Gifford’s roads appeared narrower, rockier, and strewn with more thorns, he always found a way to cope. Nothing came easy, but he refused to see himself as a victim. It was only when he looked at Roan that 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 could change that.

  Gifford would have preferred to stand tall, admit the mistake, and defend Roan like a hero. Instead, he would do what he could, what he was good at, perhaps what he did better than anything else.

  —

  Roan found Brin sitting with her back to the wall, wedged between two bushels of grain. On her lap was a flat gray stone, a shard of slate or perhaps shale.

  “Roan”—Brin looked up—“you need to help me.”

  “Okay.” Roan expected Brin would want more paint. That was what she usually asked for. Maybe she was planning to start a mural on the dahl’s wall.

  “Look at this and tell me what it says.” Brin held up the stone with several chalk markings. “Ignore the ones I crossed out. Those are mistakes.”

  “What it says?”

  “Yes. What is the message? I think I finally got it right. Took a lot of tries.”