Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It has her name on it,” Suri repeated, oblivious to the earthquake that had nearly brought the ancient city of Neith down around them.

  Gronbach looked from the great edifice of the Dherg’s ancestral home to Suri. He stared deep into the mystic’s eyes, then shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  He reached out again.

  “Gronbach, don’t!” Persephone shouted. She tried to stop him, but couldn’t break free of the hands holding her.

  He was more forceful the second time, and wrenched the weapon free of Suri’s little hands, giving her a shove backward in the process.

  Overhead, thunder cracked, and dark clouds covered the sun.

  Suri glared at the dwarf. She was muttering, her fingers flexing. To anyone who didn’t know better, they might think she was merely angry, that she cursed him under her breath.

  “Gronbach, give her back the sword! Now! Hurry!”

  He ignored Persephone as he studied the weapon.

  The wind rose. Dust and dirt swirled.

  “Suri, don’t—” Persephone started to say.

  The jolt was so abrupt that Persephone had to lean on the dwarf holding her just to keep standing. “Oh, blessed Grand Mother!” she exclaimed as snaps, cracks, and loud booms escaped from the open gate of Neith, deep painful groans issuing from that ancient mouth.

  What had survived thousands of years of warfare, erosion, and the presence of a demon named Balgargarath didn’t survive the retribution of a teenage girl. In minutes, the legendary Belgriclungreian city of Neith fell. Weakened pillars, unequal to the task of supporting so grand a roof, broke, and the weight of the mountain came crashing down. They felt the shudder and jolt through the ground, the collapse of hollow places beneath their feet. To either side, the great towers of Esbol Berg listed, staggered, then fell. One dropped toward the sea, where the top destroyed one of the docks and raised an enormous wave that lurched ships, slamming some so hard they shattered against the docks. The other great tower imploded, collapsing in a huge plume of dust and bursting stone. The cloud of debris blew out over them. The gust of wind and shower of pebbles shoved Persephone to the ground, and the dwarf behind her let go.

  The world disappeared into darkness, a hazy cloud of fragments. Persephone couldn’t see Suri, Brin, or Roan, all of whom had been right beside her. She pulled up the sleeve of her dress to breathe through and covered her eyes. “Suri! Stop it! Suri! Suri!”

  The ground settled. The shaking stopped, and for a long moment, there was silence. Not a voice, not a bird, not a bee broke the hush. The only sound was the soft pattering rain of tiny stones. By the time the wind drove the dust to the sea, the sun was shining again. A coating of powdered rock covered them. Brin coughed, struggling to wipe her eyes clear.

  The soldiers who had escorted them were gone. Persephone saw the sunlight glinting off their armor as they ran down the slope. Gronbach himself remained exactly where he had been. He still held the sword, his face a display of disbelief.

  “It has her name on it,” Suri said for the fourth time. “You can’t have it.”

  The mystic held out her hand.

  “For all the gods’ and everyone else’s sake, give…it…back,” Persephone said.

  Gronbach continued to stare in shock. Maybe he was too frightened to move. Persephone could understand that. She was a bit on the terrified side herself. But she knew Gronbach by now. He doesn’t want to lose.

  “Give it back, and we’ll get on a ship and leave. And Mari help you if any harm has come to Moya or Arion; Suri’s even more fond of them than she is of that blade.”

  Gronbach looked to Persephone and nodded. He handed the sword to Suri who clutched it to her chest.

  “Unlike you, I’m a woman of my word. It’s time we left,” Persephone said as she walked past Gronbach down the road toward Caric.

  —

  A strangely silent crowd came out of their homes and lined the docks as Persephone’s party climbed on board the Calder Noll. They gathered in the streets and squares weeping and wailing. A few whispered to one another in their own language, and for once Persephone was happy she couldn’t understand.

  The captain said nothing to them, neither did the crew. Persephone took charge and directed everyone to the cargo space toward the front of the ship. Standing there as the lines were cast off and the little ship was rowed away from the docks, Persephone looked back at Neith. The full face of the sun shone on what was left of the mountain. The great gate was gone, the towers missing. The majesty that was Neith had vanished, and the road up the slope led only to a battered memory and a broken dream.

  On this trip, the crew of the Calder Noll avoided them much as the first ship’s crew had. Arion was wrapped in blankets, her face pale, but she was still breathing. Persephone took that as a good sign. She thought that if the Miralyith were going to die, she would have done so by now.

  They all gathered around the prone Fhrey, blocking the harsh sea winds and taking turns cradling her head as the deck pitched.

  “Don’t suppose you managed to bring the tablets?” Brin asked Moya.

  She shook her head. “They stopped treating us well the moment you left. I thought we were off to our deaths when a group of Dherg came and led us down to the dock.

  This brought nods from Frost and Flood as well.

  “You’re alive,” Persephone told Brin. “And going home. That’s enough; be grateful.”

  “I know, and I am. It’s just…well…I didn’t get a chance to decipher hardly any of them. I was going to study them last night, but I…I…”

  “She fell asleep,” Roan said.

  Brin cocked her head at Roan. “Didn’t you?”

  “No, I never sleep when there is something to work on, and last night I had a lot to do.” Roan smiled. “It’s okay, really it is.”

  Brin nodded. “I know. I just wish I had time to study them.”

  “No, I mean it’s okay. I fixed it.”

  “Fixed what?”

  Roan opened her bag and drew out a thin, rolled tube. Brin inched toward her as Roan untied a string and unrolled what had been inside. “The little men call this vellum; it’s made from sheepskin. It’s the same thing they use to make maps and diagrams. Very thin and light. It’s great at holding something they call ink. Of course, I didn’t have any of that.”

  On the interior of the vellum were markings. Markings that looked exactly like the ones on the tablet.

  Brin stared in amazement. “How did you do that?”

  “I laid the vellum on the tablets and rubbed the charcoal from the furnace over them. It made this image.”

  Brin reached out.

  “Careful,” Roan said. “It will smear.”

  “You’re a genius,” Brin said, and eagerly took a seat beside Roan.

  Watching the two studying the scroll, Persephone felt her lips rise into a smile that lingered until she noticed Suri. The mystic still held on to the weapon, a faraway look in her eyes.

  “It’s a beautiful sword,” Persephone said. “Roan, do you think you could make others now that you’ve seen how it’s done?”

  Roan nodded.

  “And is this one strong?”

  Again, Roan nodded. “I think I’ll be able to make the next one even better. If I could—”

  “But is this one strong? Is it as good as bronze?”

  “Stronger.”

  “You sure?”

  Roan nodded again.

  “That’s good enough for me.” Persephone squinted at the markings on the sword’s blade. They were different from those she remembered on the shafts.

  “What does it say?” she asked Suri. “What was her real name?”

  The mystic didn’t reply.

  Brin glanced at Suri cautiously. “It’s…it’s hard to pronounce.”

  Persephone nodded her understanding as Suri watched them. Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed and blotchy.

  They rode the waves that rose and fell, and Persepho
ne was glad Arion wouldn’t suffer the sickness that had plagued her on the first trip. Hours passed in silence. When Suri finally spoke for the first time since leaving Belgreig, she said, “Her real name was Gilarabrywn.”

  Persephone offered her a little smile. “I like Minna better.”

  “So do I,” Brin said.

  “Me, too,” Suri agreed. She looked down at the sword and raised it over her head.

  “Don’t!” Persephone shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “I feel like it should be put to rest, too,” Suri said.

  “If you’re just going to throw it away, could I use it first?”

  “For what?”

  “To change the world.”

  Suri looked down at the blade, puzzled.

  “It’s a magic sword, Suri. Minna made it so.”

  “You know it doesn’t have any real power.” Suri held the sword out to Persephone.

  “Trust me, Suri,” Persephone said, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hands, “this sword will change everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Keenig

  Some things you never see coming. I remember this whenever I think of Udgar.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The other chieftains were trying to be kind, but their actions only helped to remind Raithe that he had only hours to live. He’d spent the night in the lodge on Lipit’s bed. The evening meal found him feasting on a succulent pig—a prized animal Harkon had brought for a celebration feast. Krugen offered his best wine, but Raithe didn’t drink. His father had taught him to keep a clear head before a fight. Drinking came after.

  Lipit also offered him women. Raithe turned them down as well. Herkimer had said women drained men of their vitality. Of course, Raithe knew a lot of his father’s “sage advice” was crap, like how best to raise a family, and how a sword and a reputation meant more than anything. But there was another reason even more substantial. He wasn’t interested. It wouldn’t mean anything, and that night, of all nights, he needed it to mean something.

  Raithe had no doubts that Udgar would kill him.

  One of the pillars of combat was confidence. To win, a fighter had to believe he would. Raithe knew—absolutely knew—he wouldn’t. While he was a good fighter by Dureyan standards, Udgar was great by Gula reckoning, and even his father had admitted that the Gula-Rhunes were better in battle. Desperation did that to a people, hardened them, and the only people on the face of Elan who had it tougher than the Dureyan were the Gula. For centuries, the Fhrey had ordered attacks against them, and warfare was an integral part of their way of life. They had to become battle masters just to exist.

  “You’re going to kill him, right?” Tesh asked, as he opened the windows to let the morning light in. The boy had slept on a mat at the foot of the bed, stunned by the luxury of the room.

  “Sure,” Raithe replied. “I’m the God Killer, right? A Gula-Rhune has to be easier than a Fhrey.”

  “Then you’ll be keenig.”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

  “Your word will be law over all the clans, over thousands and thousands of people.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  The boy crossed to the seaward side of the bedroom and continued opening shutters. The kid was still skinny as a bag of bones, but he did have better color. And for the first time, Raithe noticed a fine haze of hair sprouting on his chin and upper lip. A pang of disappointment stabbed him as he realized he’d never see the man this kid would become. Despite his earlier reservations, Tesh had grown on him, as had the idea of shaping his future. Tesh wanted Raithe to teach him to fight, but Raithe wanted to teach the kid so much more—all the things Herkimer had failed at. “I suppose you’ll choose a new Shield, then. As keenig, you’ll need a real Shield.”

  “You are a real Shield.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Raithe was going to die in a few hours, what difference did it make? “Listen, you’re the only Dureyan besides me. Sure, you might be a bit on the small side now, but you’re good stock. You’ll grow, fatten up, build muscle, train hard…harder than any of them, and one day you’ll be the best warrior in the world, mostly because you’re Dureyan.” He picked up a boot and pulled it on. “But…” He hesitated, stomping his foot into place.

  “But what?”

  “I can’t teach you what you want to know. No human can.”

  “You’re the God Killer. Of course you can. You—”

  “And I told you I was lucky. I survived by sheer accident, and because Malcolm has a fixation with rocks and people’s heads. The point is, there isn’t a human alive that can teach you how to fight as well as they do.” He shook his head. “The way you learn how to kill someone is to have them teach you. You learn how they fight. Discover their strengths and weaknesses. Uncover their secrets, and never let them see yours. You want to learn how to kill Fhrey? You learn from them. And yes, they may hide their weaknesses, but you have to see through their deceptions.”

  Tesh opened his mouth to object, but Raithe cut the boy off. “And don’t tell me you don’t like them,” he said when Tesh started to frown. “Did you like your village? Did you like the rocks and snakes? Did you like freezing in winter because there wasn’t enough dung to burn? Did you like going days without food? Did you like drinking that muddy water that tasted of metal? I know I didn’t. And no one I knew who was Dureyan ever has. But we still got up every day, still drank that water, dug those rocks, and burned that dung, because Dureyans are survivors, and we don’t complain. So, if you want to learn how to kill elves, you learn from them. Do what you’re told. Listen to what they say. That’s how you beat them.”

  “What are elves?” Tesh asked.

  “They’re what you want to kill.”

  The boy looked puzzled.

  “Do you think they deserve to be called gods?”

  Tesh smiled. “I have been watching them, going to the practices, seeing what they do. They have different fighting styles. Did you know that? Each of them is a master in a different skill. Sebek uses two small swords and a very aggressive attack. Tekchin relies on a long, light blade and uses a lot of footwork, very complicated. Eres is all about throwing things, spears and javelins mostly. Anwir uses a sling, a net, and a cleve that he spins. Grygor uses a gigantic sword, big even for him. In close quarters, he grabs it partway up the blade, where he dulled the edges for a handgrip. That means he can use the blade as a sword and spear. And Nyphron uses a sword-and-shield combination, sort of like you.” The kid thought a moment. “If I join the practice sessions, let them teach me, I could learn each of the different techniques.”

  “Good plan.”

  The boy watched Raithe pull his other boot on. “You are going to kill him?”

  “We just went over this.”

  “It’s just…he’s really big.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “But he carries it easy. He’s got great balance, and he’s naffing light on his feet.”

  “Naffing?”

  The boy shrugged. “My father used to say it a lot.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s what he used to do to my mother first thing after coming home from the High Spear, but I guess it means different things at different times because he used to say our sheep were lousy naffs, and Haden Woolman was a crazy naffer.” The boy paused, thought a moment. “Then again, maybe not.”

  Raithe laughed; it felt good. Probably the last time. The kid continued to impress him. Not with his mastery of language, but the fact that he was dead-on about Udgar. How can a kid his age see so much? He has a real gift. Maybe he really could be a great warrior, assuming he lived long enough.

  Raithe stood up, slamming his heels into place. He grabbed up his leigh mor and looked for the piss pot. “Where’s…” he started, when he saw Tesh leaning out the window so far that his feet were coming up off the floor. “What are you looking at?”

  “You can see the
docks from here. One of those Dherg ships is coming in.”

  —

  The Gula keenig had already arrived. Raithe spotted Udgar and his lieutenants in the courtyard. That’s where the fight would be held, a good enclosed space where spectators could sit up on the walls and watch. They weren’t scheduled to begin blows until midday, but already the parapets were filling. The big event had arrived.

  This was the inevitable fate of all Dureyans, try as they might to avoid it. The Mynogan couldn’t be denied their blood. Unlike his father, who offered sacrifices before each fight, Raithe had little use for the Dureyan gods of war. Yet it seemed they had a use for him.

  His death would have a grand audience, at least. How many could say that, unless they were the guest of honor at a hanging, beheading, or burning. A lot of people died in unremarkable ways, choking while eating, frozen on a hillside, or drowned in a river. When he and his father had crossed to the west, Raithe was certain he’d exit life because of a stupid accident. He would break his leg somewhere in the wilderness, and being alone, he’d slowly starve. Death by Udgar was better. Udgar was a professional. He’d make it quick.

  Once again, Raithe recalled the words of his father, the worst that can happen is you’ll die. Might even be a step up. Everyone died. Raithe had already outlived his whole clan.

  He hadn’t made a career out of killing like his father and brothers, but he wondered if this one battle would grant him entrance to Alysin. It sounded nice, but if that meant he’d spend eternity with the likes of his brothers, then Rel would be good enough. That’s where his mother and sister would be anyway. What kind of mess is the afterlife when vicious killers are rewarded through eternity for being cruel? His mother and sister were just as brave, just as courageous, and never vicious. They didn’t kill anyone, and for that, the pair were relegated to a lesser reward. Doesn’t make sense.

  Since there didn’t seem any point in waiting until midday, Raithe walked out of the lodge. He intended to challenge Udgar right then, just to get it over with, but that was before the three women entered the gate.