Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “But how do I know which ones to touch?”

  “How did you learn to hold your breath underwater? Did you need to be taught that?”

  Suri didn’t have an answer. She’d never thought about it before.

  “Mastery comes with time and practice,” Arion said.

  “I don’t have either of those.”

  “It’ll be all right. You’re just afraid. That’s your biggest problem. You’ve touched the chords, know what they feel like. You understand the immense power residing there, and you’ve seen what that power can do. You’re afraid that by using the Art you’ll hurt someone you love. It’s that fear that’s holding you back, and it’s that fear you must face and overcome to gain your wings. Then you won’t simply fly, you’ll soar.”

  Arion held out her hands to calm Suri. “I can help you. While the others rest, we’ll explore the chords together. I suspect you know more about each than you realize. In Estramnadon, Fhrey come to be tested for Artistic aptitude. Then they enter a college of study where they learn to wake and develop their previously inert connection to the powers of the world.” Arion took Suri’s hands in hers. “I’ve watched you. Suri, you’re a natural Artist. With no effort, you’re better than I was after years of training. You made fire without thinking. You were born more in tune with the natural world than I could hope to achieve if I lived another two thousand years. You’re a natural conduit. You merely need to take charge of that part of yourself. Suri, you really are a caterpillar trapped in a chrysalis on the verge of becoming a butterfly. Fear is your only true obstacle, and there’s one other thing I want to teach you before Rain starts digging.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How to tap the life force of those around you. Here, you had the flowing water to use as a source, but that’s not always the case. At our first resting spot, there wasn’t any, except for each of us. You were afraid then. Frightened that you would pull too much and hurt someone. We’ll practice that now as well. Just in case it’s needed. Once you find that you can do so without hurting others, you’ll lose that fear.”

  Arion turned and started back to the camp. “Come, it’s cold, and there’s no reason you can’t practice where it’s warm.”

  The others had eaten, although not much by the look of what was still left. Suri wasn’t hungry and didn’t think she could eat. While the others bedded down to sleep, or try to, Arion helped Suri practice.

  Tura had always taught her that stones had spirits, that they were living things, but when she searched the rock around her, Suri felt nothing but an empty void. The waterfall was a source of power, but the stone—this old, deep stone—was dead. She needed the power to pluck the chords, to instigate change, but the stone was useless. Carefully, oh so delicately, she reached out to the others, her companions and friends.

  With their life force she found the needed access and reached through the veil to the chords. She instantly sensed the deep ones, huge, thick, and shimmering. Arion had warned about them. Those were the struts and pillars of existence, the instruments of gods. Their music was deafening, their power drawn from the bowels of the world and on through the heavens. They radiated heat and light and begged to be played, to have their music released, but they also required great power to pluck.

  Suri turned away and focused on the smallest of chords, the little strings. Arion was right: They were all familiar. She knew the sounds each would make, the song two or more joined together would sing, and how that could change the world. The number of possibilities was infinite. There were hundreds of ways to start a fire, though only a few made much sense and the way she had done it was the most efficient. Still, she noticed other patterns that she thought would be more…more…elegant, maybe?

  An entire bank of strings represented the stone around her. She could fold it, shatter, and shear it. She found what she looked for, and went through the practice of a weave that—had she followed through—would have opened the ground the same way Arion had done under Rapnagar. Having found it, she felt better. She stowed away the knowledge and was gladdened at knowing what to do and how to do it.

  She opened her eyes. Most were asleep, but Brin and Persephone were staring at her with curious expressions.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You were singing,” Brin said.

  —

  With a nod from Persephone, Rain pulled his great pickax from the sheath on his back. The tool looked incredibly heavy, but the dwarf handled it with ease. The way he treated it was like the care mothers took with babies. Seeing him prepare to dig, Persephone knew she was about to see the complete version of Rain.

  They gathered around him at the place where the rock in the cliff had cracked, where the stratum on the right didn’t line up with the layers on the left. Persephone never would have noticed it, but she imagined Rain had an eye for such things. She had no idea what was about to happen. The trick was in not showing fear. She caught Brin, Roan, and even Moya looking at her. Maybe they looked for signs of panic. No matter how she felt, Persephone had to remain calm and composed. Arion, she thought, was a master at this. The Fhrey appeared relaxed, but the serenity had to be an act. Even Minna was pacing and panting.

  Rain looked over his shoulder at her with a solemn expression of expectation.

  “Do it,” Persephone ordered.

  With a great round swing, the digger brought the pointed end of the huge pick down on the rock. Whether by some magic of the pick, or Rain’s skill in knowing exactly where to strike, the wall that appeared to be so solid broke apart. Huge chunks fell away as if the dwarf were digging through sunbaked clay. Hunks came off in large fragments that slapped the ground and, in some cases, had the force to bounce and roll into the pool. The entire process took so little time that when Rain stopped she was certain he was only taking a breather, but the dwarf flipped his pick around and stuffed the handle into its sheath.

  He stepped out of the way to let her see, and Persephone spied an opening in the rock, a jagged crevice that was big enough to pass through.

  Rain took out his glowstone and asked, “Would you like me to lead?”

  “Please,” Persephone told him.

  One by one, they all crawled into the black hole, each following the one in front by feel. The dwarfs did have it easier. Their compact frames appeared born to such travel. Even with his big pickax, Rain scrambled through the cramped crevasse with the nimbleness of a ferret. They went up slightly, then down. The passage grew narrower and narrower. Then with a deep inhale, Persephone squeezed out into a larger chamber. She expected to see a corridor of Dherg engineering—perhaps not the vaulted halls at the entrance, but a more compact version, something akin to the rols in the Crescent Forest. As it turned out, they were beyond the reach of Neith, deeper than the ancient city. And just as dense forest and brambles waited beyond the bounds of Dahl Rhen, here, too, was wilderness.

  Dripping stone spikes hanging from a toothy ceiling greeted Persephone. Wrinkled rock formed uneven, sloping walls. Another natural pool—this one larger, with irregular edges—played a lonesome music of plinks and ka-plunks as calcified fangs from overhead let stony saliva slip, making elegant ring patterns on an otherwise glassy surface. At the base of the cavern snaked what appeared to be a woodland deer path of packed dirt. Persephone surmised it was a dry underground stream. She could see all this by the light of luminous lichen whose bluish glow turned the chamber into a strange fairy wonderland. For all its grandeur, the Dherg halls of Neith could not surpass the raw magnificence of this natural cavern. Nor had Neith provoked such a sense of dreadful awe. The world they found themselves in was no longer one of measures and weights, no longer a tamed realm.

  They followed Rain’s lead, scooting down the steep slope to the trail. Looking both ways, Persephone saw a long zigzagging path disappearing into darkness.

  “Which direction?” Frost whispered softly. The place demanded a quiet reverence.

  Rain nodded to the left.

 
“How far?” Flood whispered even softer.

  “A hundred yards, maybe.”

  Eyebrows rose as the answer rocked the two dwarfs. They looked to each other, sharing excited expressions.

  “It’s like we’re at the bottom of the world.” Moya’s head was up, eyes large, examining the jagged ceiling.

  “No, not the bottom,” Rain replied, and Persephone believed him. At that moment, Persephone would have believed anything he told her.

  Brin was the last down to the path. The girl had sallow cheeks and shadowed eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Persephone asked her.

  Brin nodded.

  Persephone didn’t believe it. Brin, the once happy-go-lucky girl of Dahl Rhen, had lost her parents, her home, and nearly her life—face first—eaten by a creature from a nightmare. Brin wasn’t all right. None of them were. But like the rest the girl continued to move, still pushing forward. Not a single complaint had passed her lips.

  Thinking about it, Persephone realized that none of them had complained. They had suffered sickness on a ship filled with hostile Dherg; faced imprisonment in Caric; volunteered to fight a demon; and nearly drowned while falling through cracks into depths so deep it seemed doubtful they would ever get out. But, not a word of protest had been uttered. No one whined, and there were no grumblings, no tears.

  Although men were strong like rocks, any stone could crack. Women were more like water. They nurtured life and could shape the hardest granite through unrelenting determination. Persephone had always felt the women of Rhen were a tough lot, more durable, more resilient than its men. They were the ones who carried on, who picked up the pieces whether the battle had been won or lost. Watching Roan, Moya, Suri, and Brin march down the dry riverbed, Persephone felt an enormous sense of pride.

  Rain led them down the path, and when it forked, he stopped. At that point, Persephone saw evidence of Dherg activity. A narrow stair led down to a short path, which ended at a vast wall. In the rock face, a twisted crack ran from ceiling to floor. This great fissure disturbed Persephone in a manner she couldn’t sum up in rational thought. Just a crack and yet, it felt ominous. Some primordial instinct warned her away. The longer she looked at it, the more she noticed how unnatural it was. This gap in stone wasn’t a crack at all; it was a tear. Here, the world had ripped open.

  “That’s the Agave,” Rain said, pointing toward the crack.

  Frost and Flood stared at the dark entrance in awe. “It’s so close,” Frost said excitedly.

  “Rain, do you sense Balgargarath? Can you feel him coming?”

  The dwarf put an ear to the ground, and then rose and shook his head.

  “Please,” Frost begged. “I have to see what’s inside. To come so close only to turn aside…I’ll surely regret it for the rest of my life. You can start heading out if you want, but I can’t go, not yet.”

  Persephone’s curiosity was certainly piqued. And Roan, Moya, and especially Brin looked from the Agave to Persephone and then back to the crack. They were all thinking the same thing. They, too, wanted to know what was inside.

  She nodded, and Rain led them down the path to the left.

  When they reached the crack, Rain held up his glowing stone, offering it to any who wanted to enter. To Persephone’s surprise, neither Frost nor Flood took it. The two dwarfs hesitated, and in that moment of second thoughts, Moya stepped forward, took the stone, and walked in. The rest followed.

  Despite all the anticipation, the interior of the Agave was nothing but a small cave. An uneven stone floor was broken up in several places where minor digging had clearly taken place. What had been excavated was stacked near the center of the cave. Some of the stone was used to make furniture: a chair and a table. Thinner slabs were stacked in a neat towering pile several feet high.

  The cave appeared to go on into darkness, but Persephone couldn’t see where it went.

  “Place is empty,” Moya declared.

  Using Rain’s glowstone, the three Dherg started to explore the depths. Persephone watched their bobbing light as they walked as far as they could, which wasn’t far at all. “This can’t be all there is,” Frost said.

  Brin took Persephone’s light and began studying the stack of slabs. Reaching up, she took some off the top. Persephone hoped she wouldn’t topple them onto herself.

  In the distance, toward the back of the cave, she heard a clacking sound. The dwarfs were doing something. Rain was swinging his pick, grunting with effort and then grumbling in frustration.

  Moya gestured toward the opening. “You think it made that hole? Balgargarath, I mean?”

  Persephone looked back. The glow from the lichen just outside provided enough light to see the edges of the great crack—the rip.

  Persephone shrugged.

  “You’re just a wealth of knowledge, aren’t you?” The tone was playful, no sign of reproach. That Moya could find levity when trapped under the world while a six-thousand-year-old demon searched for them was comforting in a way Persephone couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “Want answers?” Persephone said. “Talk to Roan. I’m just here for the food.”

  The comment brought a smile to Moya’s lips, but then her brows furrowed. “Speaking of Roan.” She looked around, nervously.

  Persephone looked as well, and spotted the young woman creeping along in the dark near the wall opposite from the wandering dwarfs.

  “Roan!” Moya called and swung her arm in a big arch to coax her over.

  “You don’t have to nag after her like that,” Persephone said. “She’s a grown woman.”

  “You know how she is. I don’t want her getting lost down here.”

  “You don’t want her getting lost? Tell me exactly, where are we?”

  Moya frowned. “You know what I mean. What if there’s another one of”—she gestured at Brin—“those things out there? Or the same one still following us. Could you imagine Roan being grabbed?”

  Persephone hadn’t thought of that. As awful as it was to see it hugging Brin, it could have been worse. She mimicked Moya’s gesture with a bit more authority. “Roan, this way. Come over here and work on that spear thrower of yours. There’s enough light coming in from the crack.”

  Roan nodded and came back to the pair. She sat down and unrolled her bundle.

  Arion, Suri, and Minna joined them as well, while the three dwarfs, marked by the moving glowstone, continued their trek. Suri and Minna flopped down on the floor, but Arion remained standing. Suri ruffled the fur around the top of Minna’s head, then lay down, using the wolf as a pillow. Minna didn’t appear to mind. She curled her body around and rested her head on Suri’s shoulder, the two nuzzling each other. Arion’s serenity had faded. Persephone noted twin furrows between her eyes, all the more noticeable because of her bald head.

  “Something wrong?” Persephone asked.

  “We shouldn’t stay here,” Arion replied.

  “Why?”

  “The walls,” she said, looking around the interior.

  “What about them?” Moya asked.

  Suri looked over and nodded. “This place is a dead zone.”

  “Dead zone?”

  “Like the rols,” Suri explained. “Well…” She looked around, puzzled, and then focused on Arion with a question in her eyes. “Not exactly. Is it? It’s different but also the same somehow.”

  Arion nodded. Everyone else looked baffled.

  “The Art needs power,” Arion said, “The sun, trees, plants, animals, wind, rain, currents are ah…” She groped for the appropriate Rhunic words.

  “They give us the power to do magic,” Suri finished for her.

  “None of those things are here,” Arion said.

  “So you can’t do magic inside the Agave?” Moya asked.

  Both Arion and Suri nodded.

  “Bad place to face Balgargarath then,” Moya said.

  “Has there been a good place?” Persephone asked.

  “Out there”—Arion poin
ted past the tear—“by the pool, there are some sources to pull from. Not much, but droplets do fall and there is the lichen. It’s something at least.”

  “We’ll leave as soon as they come back.” Persephone gestured toward where the dwarfs had disappeared.

  Everyone except Brin and Roan turned to watch the slow progress of the glowstone. It stopped. They were probably speaking privately. Brin was still taking the carefully stacked column apart, and Roan was studying her little spears. Persephone found it strange how the two could be so single-minded even in that place. Like children, she thought.

  “I need something to catch the wind, something light,” Roan said. “Something to help it fly.” She had a habit of talking aloud to herself, which was why Persephone, Brin, and Moya usually ignored her. But Suri looked over.

  “Like a feather?” the mystic asked.

  Roan’s eyes brightened. “Feathers, yes. Feathers would work perfectly, I think.”

  Suri reached into her bag and pulled out the handful of hawk feathers. Roan grinned. “Wonderful.”

  Frost and Flood finally approached, with long faces and slow steps. Frost was tugging hard on his beard, and Flood watched his feet, looking as if he might cry.

  “There’s nothing here,” Frost said wearily. “The cave goes back some, but then…” The dwarf stopped with a perplexed look.

  “Then what?” Persephone asked.

  “Stops…sort of.” Flood said. “There’s an opening, but we can’t get through.”

  “Rain tried chipping it away, but nothing happened,” Frost said. “He’s still sitting there trying to figure it out. It’s like…it’s like the world ends here.”

  “So much effort, so much risked, and all for nothing,” Flood whimpered. “There isn’t any treasure.”

  “Yes, there is,” Brin declared. She had managed to disassemble nearly half the stack of tablets, carefully placing each on the ground, where she examined them with the glowstone. “This is it. This is the treasure.”