Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

She paused, then looked directly at Suri. “But…you must agree to let me teach you. No more resistance. No more fighting. Your mastery of the Art goes beyond your desire to stay as you are. You must spread your wings, for the sake of both Rhunes and the Fhrey.”

  “And I’m coming, too.” Persephone said. “To negotiate for the weapons. If no agreement can be reached, then no one is doing anything. Understood?”

  “Agreed,” Frost said. “But I think when you see the giant, you’ll realize death is the best way to deal with it.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Arion told him. “As I said, Miralyith are trained to be creative. He’s likely as unhappy about being locked up in your mountain as you are having him there. I could shrink him to the size of a mouse, put him in a bag, and return him to his homeland.”

  “Uh-huh, but—”

  “Quit while you’re ahead. She’s coming, and that’s the important thing,” Persephone said.

  Frost nodded.

  Suri looked down at Minna, and the wolf looked back. “Will you still love me if I become a butterfly, Minna?”

  The wolf brought up her head and licked Suri’s hand.

  “It’s settled then,” Persephone said.

  “What’s settled?” Brin asked. “What’s going on? How am I supposed to act as Keeper if you talk in a language I don’t understand?”

  “Maybe you should learn Fhrey,” Persephone told the girl. “Come, I’ll fill you in while I pack.”

  “Pack? You’re going?”

  —

  The rain had disrupted life under the wool.

  Even after it stopped, the ground remained soft. The beaten grass became a muddy mess, then a serious problem as poles refused to stay rooted. Moving anything heavy turned into a monumental chore. Old paths were abandoned for firmer footing, and elevation became the new standard for prosperity. A large, shallow pool had formed in the low basin midway along the wall. The Great Puddle, as it came to be known, displaced several squatters and divided the camp into East and West Puddle. Being on the incline, West Puddle was more desirable, and it was there that Habet built private quarters for Persephone. Apparently, it pained him to see his chieftain sitting on the ground with everyone else. He’d persuaded Farmer Wedon and Bruce Baker to help erect a two-chambered enclosure where they placed the First Chair, the only thing Habet had been able to salvage from the ruined lodge.

  Persephone never used it.

  She remained in East Puddle among the stacked baskets, bundled tools, and the people fearing more rain. There wasn’t any thought in her selection, no political statement being made. Persephone had settled in East Puddle because that was where Brin, Moya, Padera, and Roan were. She had no intention of leaving them. At least not until that night.

  “You’re going where?” Moya shouted at Persephone while the chieftain packed.

  “Across the strait to Belgreig,” Persephone said while stuffing a blanket into a sack. “If Arion and Suri take care of a giant for the Dherg, then I’ll get weapons for the war.” She turned to Padera. “Do you think it will be cold? Should I bring my breckon mor?” She’d never been to Belgreig. For all she knew, it might be snowing there.

  “Better to have than regret,” Padera said, sitting in her pillows of wool and sewing together what looked to be a sack.

  “Who else is going?” Moya asked.

  “No one. Oh, well, except for the dwarfs, of course.”

  “Just you three and the shrimps?” Moya asked in a tone that suggested Persephone was insane. “What about Raithe?” she said to Malcolm, who was in the process of filling a waterskin from the large barrel.

  “Hasn’t said anything to me,” Malcolm replied. “Does he know? This is the first I’ve heard.” He turned to Persephone. “Do you want me to—”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  Everyone stared.

  “But he’s your Shield. He has to go,” Moya said.

  “Not my Shield anymore.”

  “What? When did that happen?” Moya had planted her hands on her hips in an excellent imitation of Persephone’s mother. The likeness would have been perfect except Moya wore a short sword slung low on one hip. She’d gotten it as a gift from Tekchin. “How did—”

  “He can’t be my Shield and sit as a chieftain, so I released him before the council met. And I forbid each of you from saying anything. He might insist on coming or try to chase after me. I need him to stay here and become keenig. To do that, he has to attend the meetings so the other chieftains can convince him.”

  “Don’t you need to be there? You called for the clan assembly. You can’t run off in the middle of it.”

  “Any decisions will be made by Tegan, Harkon, Lipit, and Krugen—the chieftains who still have clans. Raithe’s people are all but extinct, and yet he has more say than me. He’s the God Killer; I’m only the widow of a chieftain. My words have about as much impact as raindrops. But if I can bring back weapons—good ones—maybe Raithe will change his mind about being the keenig. If he does, I think the others will pledge their allegiance.”

  “What about Brin?” Malcolm asked. “You’re taking her, aren’t you?”

  “No, I—”

  “But this sounds like an incredible opportunity,” Malcolm said. “I don’t think anyone…well, any human…has ever set foot on Belgreig. You’ll want her there to remember it.”

  Brin’s expression lit up at the suggestion.

  “She needs to stay.” Persephone pointed at Brin. “To witness the choosing of the keenig. That’s of far greater importance.”

  “But there are other Keepers for that,” the girl said. “I can get the story from them when I get back.”

  Persephone looked at Brin, whose eyes were filled with eagerness. Persephone sighed in resignation. “Okay, fine.”

  Brin jumped up, grabbed a sack of her own, and started stuffing items inside. She gathered a stack of the slates as well.

  “You aren’t taking those, are you?”

  Brin looked down at the three stone tablets as if they were a beloved puppy. “I mark on them.”

  “You what?”

  “I draw memories on them. It helps me keep an accurate account. Roan understands them. Others could, too. When it comes time for me to train a new Keeper, she can just look at these tablets and know everything. I started using chalk, but it smears too easily. Now I’m making deep scratches.”

  “The tablets look heavy.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Persephone had finished packing and Moya gave her a scornful look. “And what about your Shield? If you dismissed Raithe, who’s the replacement?”

  “Nobody. Don’t need one,” Persephone said.

  “Seph, you’re going to a foreign land to face a giant…you need protection. For the love of Mari, you should be taking a war party!”

  Persephone scowled. Moya really was sounding like Persephone’s mother, which irritated and amazed Persephone, and made her miss her parents all at the same time. “We’re going with Arion. She’s better than fifty strong men.”

  “She’s a Fhrey.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t trust her to protect you.”

  “Moya, we’re going on a ship as the guests of the Dherg, to a city where Brin and I will likely spend our time in a room doing nothing while Arion and Suri dispatch this giant.

  “I’m sure Brin will have a lot to take in,” Persephone went on. “But I’ll likely be bored to tears.”

  Moya didn’t look appeased.

  “What?” Persephone asked. “What do you want from me, Moya?”

  Moya clapped her hands against her sides. “There’s no other choice. I’m going with you.”

  “You are?” Roan spoke for the first time, sounding concerned.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Moya,” Persephone said.

  “You don’t think I can protect you?” Moya drew the blade at her side and held it up. “Tekchin has been training me. He says I’m learning fast. And I’ve impressed e
veryone.”

  “Are you sure it’s your fighting skills he was talking about, my dear?” Padera asked.

  Moya whirled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  No one dared answer, but both Brin and Persephone struggled to suppress a laugh.

  Moya glared, and then swept the blade across her body. She spun and executed an impressive downstroke, followed by a fast somersault. Back on her feet, she swept again and halted the blade just inches from Persephone’s throat, positioned in a threatening manner.

  Persephone jumped back and nearly fell.

  No one had laughter to suppress after that.

  Moya slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Okay,” Persephone said.

  “And so is Roan,” Moya added.

  The ex-slave, who was on the ground fiddling with a stick and a rope, looked up, shocked.

  “What? No,” Persephone said. “This is getting out of hand now.”

  “We can’t leave her here, alone.”

  “Moya,” Persephone said sternly. Moya was well meaning, but she sometimes treated Roan like a child. “Roan will be fine. She’s not alone. She’ll have Padera, Gifford, and—”

  Roan let out a small sound, not unlike a whimper.

  “What?” Persephone asked. “What is it, Roan?”

  “I took one of the little spears from one of the Fhrey,” Roan said in a voice just a breath above a whisper. “I just wanted to look at it, study it, feel how it was balanced. I didn’t realize that—” She started to cry.

  “Roan?”

  Moya answered for her. “Gifford found out, and he took it back. Told them that he was the one who borrowed it. He was beaten bloody.”

  Persephone’s hand leapt to her face, and she started to leave, going in the direction where Gifford usually slept.

  “He’s not there,” Padera said, catching her by the wrist.

  “Where is he? How is he? Will he be okay?”

  The old lady pushed slowly to her feet, groaning with the effort, and waved at Persephone as if the question wasn’t worthy of an answer. “Gifford is like a turtle. He don’t run so fast, but there’s no breaking that hard shell. Got him resting up at West Puddle in that throne room Habet built for you. Gifford is lying in the lap of luxury, he is.”

  Persephone looked from Moya to Roan, then to Malcolm. “Isn’t anyone with him?”

  “He don’t need much at the moment,” Padera said. “Other than rest. Which is why I don’t want you going up there and bothering him.”

  Persephone nodded and turned back to look at Roan, who sat on the ground, rocking back and forth.

  Moya sat down next to Roan. “I can’t help worrying about what might have happened if Gifford hadn’t been there. If she had returned the javelin instead.”

  “They wouldn’t hurt a woman, would they?” Persephone asked.

  Moya looked back, with too many questions in her eyes. “I want to think not, but look at what they did to a cripple. Maybe to them we’re only a bit above animals—almost-people. And you don’t have to treat almost-people the same way as real people, do you?”

  Persephone looked at Roan, who was already back to work, tying her rope to the end of the long stick that lay across her lap. Is that how Iver had viewed Roan? As an almost-person? How else could he have been so cruel? She imagined Roan being beaten by the Fhrey—once more beaten for being an almost-person.

  “Pack light, Roan. We’re not going to be gone long.”

  —

  The village of Vernes was built in tiers that descended the stony hillside from the dahl to the docks in a way that reminded Persephone of the dessert Padera had made for Reglan’s fiftieth birthday. Instead of wild berries and nuts, the decorations on these layers were shops and homes. Most were built of mud bricks, and several were a surprising two stories tall. The tight tiers made for narrow streets and even narrower alleys, which had the party trudging along in single file. Frost, Flood, and Rain were out front like hounds.

  They left at dawn, partly because Persephone feared that the council would break up if they couldn’t agree on a leader, so time was of the essence. Also, she worried about losing her courage if given a chance to think about the decision for too long. But mostly, the hour of departure was determined by the schedule of a Dherg trade ship. Frost and Flood had managed to arrange passage for them on the vessel, which would sail once its supplies were loaded. That had turned out to take most of the night.

  All told, there were ten of them, counting Minna and the three Dherg. Persephone continued addressing them as dwarfs, having given up any hope of pronouncing the longer version. They didn’t mind it nearly as much as being called Dherg, and her term had the benefit of beginning with the same sound. She slipped and saved herself on numerous occasions by saying, “Dher—warfs.” She could see them wince at each slip, but she also thought they appreciated that she was trying. The others avoided the problem by not talking at all.

  Frost led the way with Flood right behind, shouting course corrections and insults in equal measure. At that hour, the streets were deserted, and they made good time as they slipped through tight lanes and down steep, narrow stairs.

  Passing a series of large buildings stained white with salt, they came upon a wooden pier and just beyond it, a row of three ships. Persephone had only ridden in boats like those used to fish on Dreary Lake, the kind two men could carry over their heads. The ships in Vernes were longer than three roundhouses, and their fronts were fashioned to look like the faces of beasts. In the center was a tall pole, and across it’s middle another pole, half as long, was wrapped in cloth.

  Doubt crept in. Persephone had been so fixated on getting swords that she never considered the perils of where the path might lead, or what she’d need to suffer to travel it. She looked out at the endless horizon, which appeared more infinite now.

  What’s out there?

  She couldn’t even separate sky from water.

  What if we come upon the place where Eraphus swims? What if we get lost in the dark and miss Belgreig? Could we sail off the edge of the world like Brin warned about?

  Rhunes never went across the sea—not anymore. She was taking them into the unknown, and she wasn’t anything like Gath. She wasn’t even Reglan.

  They stopped on the dock while Frost and Flood spoke to another Dherg, who sported a short beard and a silver ring in his nose that matched the ones in his ears. He wore an unpleasant sneer on his lips. They spoke in the Dherg language, and none of it sounded friendly or polite.

  Looking back out at the endless water, Persephone thought she should have asked Raithe after all—or Malcolm, the Killians, Tope Highland and his sons, and…and…well, everyone, really. She obviously hadn’t thought this through.

  She took a deep breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Brin asked.

  “Nothing,” Persephone assured her, even if she couldn’t convince herself.

  Moya gave her an I-told-you-so look, or maybe she, too, was scared. Persephone preferred to think she was angry. If Moya was frightened, they were truly in trouble.

  They stood alongside one of the ships, which bustled with activity. Every person on board was a Dherg, but unlike Frost, Flood, and Rain, they didn’t wear metal. Most were shirtless or wore only simple vests or sleeveless tunics. A wooden bridge connected the ship to the dock, and it knocked and rattled with the swells.

  “It’s not too late,” Moya whispered. “We can go back.”

  “And then what?” Persephone asked.

  Moya didn’t reply, thank Mari. If she had given any answer, no matter how absurd, Persephone might have given up. She didn’t want to get on the ship and go out into the endless void. The idea of depending on the Dherg to take them there and back was nearly inconceivable. But the most frightening thing of all was relying on Suri to defeat the giant. Arion was right: The young mystic hadn’t been ready when dealing with Rapnagar. Would Arion be able to teach her in time?
And if not, would the Fhrey step in? Yes, she opposed the idea of harming the giant, but she’d defend herself and the party if necessary, wouldn’t she? Suddenly, none of Persephone’s plan sounded sensible or safe.

  After more negotiation than Persephone had expected, Frost and Flood waved them across the gangway onto the heaving vessel. Everyone, even Arion, paused.

  “It’s all right. Dent cleared us,” Frost told them.

  “Lipit said Rhunes aren’t welcomed in Caric. That your kind might see our presence as an act of war. Are you sure this won’t be a problem?” Persephone asked.

  “It could have been, if there were more of you, maybe. But how could a handful of women and a couple of girls be perceived as a threat?”

  “Then why did it take so long to convince that Dent fellow? He seemed quite put out by something. What was it?”

  “The cargo,” Flood said.

  “Minna or me?” Arion asked neatly, though a bit haltingly, in Rhunic.

  “Was a long war,” Flood said.

  “And long ago.” Despite the heavy accent that clipped her syllables, Arion’s dismissive tone was clear.

  Flood frowned at her. “Losing leaves a bitter taste that lingers long after the sweetness of victory has been forgotten.”

  Arion nodded. “Well said.”

  “Let’s go.” Frost hurried across the bobbing bridge. Rain, who rarely spoke, followed him across, with Flood close behind.

  No one else followed. They all watched Persephone.

  She stared across the bridge, missing Reglan more than she had in weeks. If he had been there, he would’ve told her how foolish she was being. He’d tell her the whole idea was too risky, too strange. She’d insist, and he would take her hand, letting her squeeze it until the fear went away. Looking at the ship, her hands felt cold and empty.

  Everyone waited for her.

  She was only the widow of a man who had led a small clan of woodsmen, shepherds, and huntsmen, but if she didn’t cross that bridge, none of her companions would—not even the Miralyith.

  We’ll do it together, she heard her friend Aria say once more.

  She took the nearest hand she could find, Brin’s, and held it tight, waiting for the fear to pass. It didn’t, but she crossed the bridge anyway.