Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  —

  “What do you think?” Brin asked as she and Persephone left the meeting. Brin was still carrying the slate clutched to her chest.

  “About what, exactly?”

  “If we…I mean…do you think Mari will help us?”

  Persephone paused in the center of the courtyard beside Raithe’s sword; its pommel was wet and dripping with the rain that had dwindled to a half-hearted sprinkle. “There’s always hope.”

  The other chieftains were spending the night in the lodge. Persephone didn’t feel comfortable sleeping with the men. Her place was with her people. And yet she had no doubt the other chieftains spent their nights drinking and talking. Alliances were being formed and trade agreements brokered in that dark and stuffy tomb. Rumor held that Harkon and Krugen had already agreed to trade wool for amber, and during the most recent meeting, they’d sat side by side. Persephone and Rhen were becoming isolated, growing even weaker than they already were. She was a poor leader and Rhen was suffering because of it. But what would trade agreements matter if they didn’t find a way to fight the Fhrey?

  Persephone’s feet felt heavy as she and Brin walked out the gates. Her neck and back hurt from sitting in those stiff chairs, and she was hungry. Lipit had served food at midday, but she couldn’t eat much. Stress killed her appetite. Hungry, stiff, and sore, the two made their way up the path that wound around the wall.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Brin and Persephone turned to see Frost and Flood jogging up the trail behind them.

  “They’re still here?” Brin whispered.

  Persephone shrugged.

  “A word, Your Majesty,” Frost begged in a breathless voice.

  The two Dherg were still in their metal suits, with broad belts and knee-high boots. The interlocked links of their armor jangled as they jogged to catch up.

  “Your Majesty?” Brin asked.

  Persephone shrugged again.

  “Now that you’ve had your clan meetings, I wonder if we could enlist some help in approaching Arion once again? Neith is just a short boat trip away. She’ll only be gone a few days. I can’t begin to express how important her help would be.”

  “I’m sorry,” Persephone told them. “We have our own problems to deal with. We’re on the verge of…”

  The sun poked out of the rain clouds and the last rays of the setting sun glinted off the Dherg’s metal shirts.

  Persephone’s eyes narrowed as she focused on the shimmering rings, then shifted her sight to their sheathed swords. She nudged Brin and pointed.

  The girl appeared confused for a moment. Then her eyes widened, and she began to nod. “Of course! There’s many stories about them making weapons. They make fine ones.”

  Frost raised his voice. “Belgriclungreians make the best weapons in Elan. We alone possess the secret of metal alloys and we wrought them into works of art for generations before your kind even came to Rhulyn.”

  “As good as Fhrey weapons?” Persephone asked.

  Both Dherg spat on the ground in unison.

  “Everything the elves know, our people taught them,” Frost said.

  “They stole, you mean,” Flood corrected.

  “Have you seen the sword Raithe carried?”

  “Which one?” Flood asked.

  “The Fhrey blade. Can you make better swords than that?”

  “Well, ah…” Frost looked at his companion. “Not me personally. Flood and I aren’t weaponsmiths. I told you, we’re builders. Walls, pillars, and bridges are our specialty. You want a fortification? We can do that. Rain is a digger. If you need a tunnel, he’s your Belgriclungreian. None of us knows much about metallurgy or swordcraft. Those are closely guarded secrets.”

  “But your people can make a decent sword, right?”

  Both of the Dherg looked at her, aghast.

  “Of course!” Flood declared.

  “And how many could be made?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If your people were so inclined. How many swords could they make?”

  “If you were so inclined, how many loaves of bread can your people produce?”

  Persephone smiled. “We can make thousands of loaves in a very short time. Are you saying yours could do the same with swords?”

  “If we wanted to, certainly. Once, we were very good at such things. Back in the days of King Mideon, the furnaces of Drumindor provided thousands of swords each day for the war against the elves. And all were better than the one Raithe carries.”

  Persephone grinned at Brin, who smiled back.

  “The giant you spoke of,” Persephone said. “How badly do you want him dealt with? If I could convince my friend Arion to help you, could you convince your weaponsmith friends to help us?”

  Frost and Flood exchanged looks of surprise. Then Frost said, “I can honestly say Gronbach would be most grateful to be rid of the, ah…the…giant we spoke of. While I can’t make any guarantees on his behalf, I think I can arrange a meeting for you to make your case. Would that suffice?”

  Suffice: The word sounded so weak and tenuous, especially when the fate of an entire race of people might rest upon it. “Yes,” she said. “I would be in your debt.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Crossing the Bridge

  Every life is a journey filled with crossroads. And then there are the bridges, those truly frightening choices that span what always was, from what will forever be. Finding the courage, or stupidity, to cross such bridges changes everything. For me, the life-altering choice was a literal bridge, the one I followed Persephone across on the dock in Vernes.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Arion asked. “What it felt like to touch the chords of creation.”

  The mystic and her wolf were sitting in the open field, out from under the wool. Suri had a string pattern in her hands. She’d been holding it for some time, just staring. She’d made the same design on countless occasions and knew hundreds of ways to manipulate the weave to construct any number of patterns, but she didn’t move her fingers.

  Suri ignored the question, and Arion sat down beside her, wet and smelling of the ocean.

  “Did you fall into the sea?” Suri asked.

  “I bathed. You should try it. But I’m not as clean as I would like. I still feel dirty.”

  “Of course you do. You’re odd that way.”

  “No, I think it’s the salt. The water was full of it. Dries the skin something terrible. Fun, though; you would like the waves. They pick you up and heave you along. Like flying.”

  Suri gave her a smirk. Arion had spewed nonstop butterfly metaphors for days. “Was raining, you know? Works even better than the ocean. No salt.”

  “And yet you look no cleaner for it. Don’t smell better, either.”

  Suri glanced down at herself, puzzled. After days of constant showers, during which she and Minna had explored the tide pools of the rocky coast and the windswept fields surrounding Tirre, she didn’t have a spot of dirt on her—except for her legs and feet, where there was no avoiding the mud. Finding no sense in the comment, Suri focused once more on the string between her fingers. She still hadn’t decided what to do next.

  Arion watched her, making Suri feel self-conscious.

  “What?” Suri snapped in Rhunic.

  “That’s the problem with that game,” Arion replied. “And why only beginners play it. Once you’ve touched a real chord, a string is just a string. You realize there are only so many patterns to make. Worse, you see that it’s only a toy in comparison with the chords of nature. With the Art there are an infinite number of possibilities. Everything in the world is woven into the same fabric, all linked, and each moment lived creates a new connection, alterations to this unimaginably complex web of life. Some strands can’t be moved; others can. Some that don’t appear movable at first can be altered if the right conditions are met. Once the strands are aligned, you can strum the chords and play their music.
The various tones are a language, the language of creation and the building blocks of all things. At times, it feels as if anything is possible if only you can work out the complexities.”

  Arion reached out and stroked Minna’s coat. The wolf opened her eyes but didn’t bother to lift her head. “You have the gift of being able to see behind the veil, to view the mechanics of how the world was made and how it works, and the talent to adjust all that to your purpose. Of course, you yourself are part of that weave. You exist in the web. You create the web.”

  “I am a spider?”

  Arion shook her head. “No, you don’t spin the string. Just as you’re doing now, you always start with a loop. Artists can’t create anything new; they merely make connections from what exists. But we are also part of what exists, so we are the web itself, individual strands in our own string pattern. As you alter the patterns in that string, you are also altering the world around you, and because you are part of this world, you are altering yourself. If you can see this, then you can see the truth. The string you weave is really yourself, and the pattern you make is your own life.”

  “Every time I hear you talk about the Art it seems less appealing.”

  Arion smiled. “Tell me the truth. Just before I sat down, you were thinking that your beloved string game isn’t anywhere near as much fun as it used to be, weren’t you?”

  “We don’t like her anymore, do we, Minna?”

  The wolf lay on her side, a long tongue lying on the dirt as she panted.

  Suri scowled. “You ruined my game, and now look what you’ve done to Minna. Must be someone else you can—”

  Persephone came out of the dark, trailed by Brin and the little people, who jingled wherever they went. “Sorry,” Persephone said to them both. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Please interrupt,” Suri said.

  Persephone looked puzzled for a moment. Then she said, “I need to speak with Arion.”

  “About what?” Arion asked.

  Persephone looked at the Miralyith, surprised. “You’re learning our language so quickly.”

  “No, she’s not,” Suri said. “If you’re going to talk about anything important, speak in Fhrey. She has a terrible habit of nodding as if she understands. You’ll jabber on for an hour, and she’ll nod and nod, smiling all along, but she won’t understand a thing. Look, she’s doing it right now. Do you have any idea what I just said?”

  Arion bit her lip. “You are speaking about me,” she said each word precisely, deliberately. “Something bad. Something…” Frustrated, she finished in Fhrey, “…insulting.”

  “Maybe you are getting better,” Suri retorted.

  “I’ll stick to Fhrey,” Persephone said. “Are you aware of the meetings in the lodge?”

  Arion nodded. “You and the other Rhune chieftains are selecting a leader. Planning for war.”

  Persephone nodded. “Not going well.”

  “Can’t decide on a leader?”

  “No, but that’s only one problem. We need supplies. Weapons. Without them, our people will be…how do you say…?” She made a cutting motion across her neck.

  “Killed,” Suri provided.

  “Slaughtered,” Arion said.

  Persephone nodded, pointing at Arion.

  “And they will supply you with weapons?” Arion asked, nodding toward the little people who’d followed silently behind Persephone. All three were there. The two long-bearded ones watched the conversation intently, while Rain, the one with the big pickax, knelt to pet Minna.

  “That’s the plan—in exchange for a favor.”

  “Nyphron’s idea?”

  “No. In a way, it was Raithe’s. He refuses to be keenig because without better weapons we don’t have a chance.”

  “He’s right. This war isn’t feasible. I have a better idea. A more reasonable way to mend the break between our peoples.”

  “Feasible? Reasonable? A break?” Persephone’s brows rose as her hands reached for her hips. “Thousands have been massacred. I think that counts as a bit more than a mere ‘break between our peoples.’ I don’t think it’s unreasonable to—”

  “To what? Kill thousands more? What good will that do? Why in Ferrol’s name would I…would anyone…want that? We need to find a way to co-exist. Waging war won’t bring that about.”

  “And exactly what will?” Persephone asked, throwing up her hands in frustration.

  “Her,” Arion said in Rhunic, and pointed at Suri.

  Suri had only been peripherally listening to the conversation. She was more interested in introducing the one named Rain to Minna. He bent down to join Brin and together they discovered what Suri had known for years, that Minna loved being scratched behind her ears. But there was no mistaking that last part. “Me?” she asked.

  Arion nodded. “My people think Rhunes are animals, mindless beasts. They feel no guilt about killing your kind. Just like you don’t consider it wrong to kill a deer. I know. I thought the same way before I met you. We need to prove to my fane…to all the Fhrey…that you are worthy of life and deserve respect, dignity, and sovereignty. If they can see we are more similar than they think, they’ll see their mistake.”

  She turned to Persephone. “You want to save your people, and so do I, but not at the expense of my own. Both our people can live together peacefully, and Suri is the key. She’s not Fhrey, but she can use the Art even without training. I’m not sure you can appreciate what an amazing discovery that is. Artists, true Artists, aren’t common even among the Fhrey. If my fane could see that the Rhunes can use the Art, it will prove that the things that divide us are fewer than the many things we have in common.”

  “So that’s why you have been pushing so hard,” Suri said.

  Arion frowned. “You’re special, Suri. I can feel it the same way I sense the seasons. It’s not merely that you can use the Art. It’s you, yourself. I’m certain you’re the key to everything. You need to prove to the fane that Rhunes are just as wonderful, as important, and as deserving of life as the Fhrey. If you can do that, they will see their mistake and change their minds. But this can only happen if you accept who you are. Only then can you change the world.”

  Persephone didn’t say anything for a long while. Her brow furrowed in thought. Finally, she said, “I wish it could be that easy, but the reality is that my people are vulnerable. As long as we can’t defend ourselves, we’re helpless. Obtaining weapons is crucial to our survival. Suri, what do you think?”

  “I think summers should last longer than winters. I think dandelion wine isn’t nearly as good as Tura said it was. I think Minna is the wisest of all wolves, and she sees several problems with Arion’s plan. Don’t you, Minna?”

  “Such as?” Arion asked.

  “First, I’m not an Artist. Yes, I can light a fire, but I don’t think that is very impressive, and your fane wouldn’t think so, either. The only other time I used magic it ended in disaster, remember? That giant paid for my mistake with his life.”

  “You killed the giant? The one from the rol?” Frost asked, his astonishment unmistakable.

  Suri was equally surprised—she didn’t know the Dherg knew the Fhrey language well enough to follow the conversation.

  “Yes, but I was trying to free him.” She turned her attention back to Arion and continued. “And second, I’m not likely to meet the fane. Am I? He sent giants and lightning to kill you, so you probably won’t be able to return home at all, let alone with me tagging along.”

  “It’s definitely more difficult than it once was. If Gryndal hadn’t been killed, it would’ve been easy, but now things are more complicated.”

  “Can I say something?” Frost asked Suri politely.

  She looked at him curiously. The tattoos around her eyes shifted with her furrowed brow. “You just did.”

  “Can I say something else?”

  Suri sighed and looked to her wolf. “If he’s going to keep this up, we could be here for a very long time, isn’t tha
t right, Minna?”

  “I was just thinking that if you can kill a giant, then maybe we don’t need her.” He nodded his head toward Arion.

  “Why would you want that?” Suri said.

  “We have one in the city of Neith, which keeps us from our homeland; your chieftain wants to trade Belgriclungreian weapons in exchange for getting rid of it.”

  “I just told you. The first time was an accident,” Suri said.

  “Another accident would be fine.” Frost smiled.

  “Nobody has to kill anyone,” Arion said, and then switched back to Fhrey. “Why must everyone turn to such drastic actions as death and war! There are dozens of ways to deal with a giant, and none of them would require its death.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t feel that way if you met him,” Frost said.

  “That’s because you’re not an Artist. We’re trained to think creatively.”

  “Suri,” Persephone said. “We really need help with this. It’s very important.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but caterpillars really aren’t much help.”

  “Huh?” Persephone was as confused as the others.

  Arion waved a hand dismissively. “It’s her way of saying she’s not qualified, but she could be. How about this. Suri and I will go to Neith and deal with the giant…deal with, not kill. Rapnagar’s demise was a mistake. One which we both need to atone for. I shouldn’t have asked her to attempt such a complicated weave with her current abilities. If properly trained, she’ll not only be able to rid Neith of the giant, but she’ll also prove to the fane that she truly is an Artist. Persephone will have her weapons, so the Rhunes won’t be defenseless. And as much as it saddens me, I understand a fight with my people is inevitable now. Respect must be earned. And if you can win a battle or two, the fane will be far more inclined to seek out a peaceful solution. That’s when Suri can be the solution everyone will welcome.”