Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Roan took out a thicker string, tied it on one end of the long staff, and then bent the shaft into a bow and looped the other end of the string around the opposite end. She gave the taut string a flick of her finger and listened to it ring with the vibration.

  They all watched as she stood up, fitted one of the small sticks that had a notch, and pulled back. She pointed the stick out toward the water and let go. The string twanged and the force threw the stick. It shot out at a blinding speed, then spun sideways and fell into the sea.

  Several of the sailors glared at them, and Dent, the dwarf with the nose ring, stomped across the deck to shout loudly at Frost and Flood.

  “Don’t do that again,” Flood said after Dent left. “They don’t like magic.”

  “It’s not magic,” Roan said.

  Frost and Flood looked at each other skeptically. “What do you call it when a little one like you can toss a stick so far?”

  Roan shrugged, and all she said in her defense was, “It will go farther once I weight the front with a stone or metal point, the way the javelin was weighted. A lot farther. Straighter, too.”

  Moya was looking out at the water in the direction the stick had flown. “If you put a point on that like a javelin, and made it fly straight…” She looked back at Roan abruptly and never finished her sentence, but there was an odd expression on her face, as if she was both excited and terrified.

  —

  They caught their first glimpse of Belgreig in the light of the setting sun, through a curtain of windblown rain. A gray jagged line crossed the horizon, growing higher and darker with each passing minute. Even at a distance of miles, the landscape appeared no friendlier than the sailors, and as the sun drowned in the sea, the land became a black silhouette of serrated teeth.

  Persephone stood on the rainy deck, holding on to one of the million ropes to keep from falling as the ship rocked harder than ever. Soggy and dripping, they clutched bags and blankets, each longing to be free of the ship, but they were all uncertain about trading that miserable spot near the bow for the craggy shore.

  How can nine of us bring back enough swords to supply an army of thousands? No, not nine, only six. Frost, Flood, and Rain won’t be coming. Why would they?

  Across the dark, rolling swells mixed with gray rain, the world ahead didn’t appear inviting. Lightning flashed, branching zigzags shone brightly, and for an instant, all the world was exposed. In that corpse-white pallor, Persephone saw a glimpse of the impossible. A rocky coast of soaring cliffs was actually a carved city. Stone towers, stone peaks, stone arches, all encased within a wall many stories high. But as monumental as the city appeared, even from that distance, she saw something hidden in the shadows behind. In that flash, Persephone spotted the hazy suggestion of monoliths too straight, too symmetrical to be mountains but too colossal to be anything else.

  This is a land of dwarfs?

  Thunder boomed overhead; below, waves burst white against breakwaters. A fence of blades topped the city’s walls. At the corners, stone gargoyles vomited rain into the sea. Not a friendly place. Not a welcoming town. That wall is a battlement, a fortress, a relic of an ancient age, a time before men when Dherg and Fhrey made war upon one another. Witnessing the enormity, the stark power and militant strength of the Dherg, Persephone was dumbfounded.

  These people lost the war?

  She felt her heart sink. If that’s so, what chance does Rhulyn have?

  Persephone turned to look at the dark, empty sea behind them. And how will we get home? The dwarfs traded metal shirts for passage. What do we have to trade? Persephone squeezed the rope harder than necessary.

  The sail was down and the Dherg rowed to the dock at the base of the city. Oars went up, and with hollow bumps, bangs, and curses the ship was drawn in and secured. The side of the vessel bumped against a row of barrels lashed to the dock, causing everyone to stagger. Thrown ropes were lashed to bollards securing the ship, and the wooden gangway was extended across the breach.

  “C’mon,” Frost told them, and led the way over the heaving plank bridge. Flood and Rain followed closely behind.

  Persephone gathered the rest and sent Moya across first. Persephone came last, counting heads to make certain they all got off safely. The long plank bounced with their passage.

  “Roan!” Persephone shouted.

  Captivated by the walls, the woman had been looking up and not watching where she was going. Luckily, she froze at the shout. One more step and she would have fallen into the harbor. Persephone glared, and Roan sheepishly bowed her head and centered herself on the plank.

  The whole line of women had stopped, each of them looking back.

  “Honestly!” was all Moya said before resuming their trek.

  Reaching solid ground, Persephone allowed herself a quick look up. The stone wall of the city rose so straight and high that she had to throw her head all the way back to see the top. This was higher than the walls of Alon Rhist, and the towers looked to be things of dreams. No, she thought, dreams aren’t built of dark stone crowned by toothy spires. This is a home for nightmares.

  They stood clustered on a dock of many moorings, hidden within a maze of a dozen ugly block buildings surrounded by crates and sacks.

  “So this is Neith?” Persephone said.

  “No,” Frost replied. “This is Caric, the port city. Neith is behind.”

  “Behind?” Brin asked. “That is a mountain, isn’t it?”

  Frost revealed a rare smile. “What you saw was only the entrance to the great city. Neith lies inside.” He said the last word as if it held special meaning. “Stay together now. Flood, watch the rear, and make sure they don’t wander. Threaten anyone who comes too close.”

  “Why would—” Persephone began to ask.

  “All right then, let’s get moving,” Frost shouted, marching them between the buildings. “Single file. Stay to the right! Stay to the right!”

  The reason for this last order became apparent as teams of dwarfs with empty carts rumbled by at an alarming speed.

  “Carts!” Roan exclaimed.

  The first cart pusher rushed past without looking at them. The second one glanced over, and Persephone heard a gasp. The third dwarf stopped and stared in shock.

  “Quickly now!” Frost ordered and began to run.

  They all trotted to keep pace and soon they came to a pair of lancet-arched doors. Frost pulled them open to reveal a long colonnade: a gallery of pillars and corbels running deep into the cliff. The shadowy interior was a treasure trove of brown sacks, bright pine crates, and two-wheeled carts. Everything was illuminated by the same sort of green glow Persephone remembered from the rols.

  Frost led them at a fast walk past sheaves of wheat, barley, and rye to a stone stair. Up they went without a word. Persephone and Flood continued bringing up the rear, keeping an eye on the rest. Everyone shivered in the chilled air, dripping from the wet.

  At least we’re out of the wind. I can thank Mari for that. Persephone felt a need to focus on the positive, lest she give in to panic. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t like how the dwarf with the cart had gawked, or how fast Frost was leading them. Running was never a good sign.

  Pausing on a landing just past another set of doors, Minna took the opportunity to shake water out of her fur. This gave Persephone the same idea and she gathered back her hair and twisted the wet out. Flood, whose beard was running a constant drip, rushed to close and bolt the doors behind them. Once he had, Frost began the climb once more.

  Moya glanced back at the bolted door and then at Persephone with a concerned look. All Persephone could do was shrug.

  Roan was back to her wide-eyed fascination, staring at—and at least on one occasion touching—the illuminating gemstones mounted to the walls. Arion staggered forward, one hand covering her mouth, her skin still the color of snow. Brin’s eyelids hung heavy with fatigue. Suri scowled at the walls, like she always did.

  Together they climbed up past a room
filled with large wooden crates, then one of barrels. When they reached a new landing, again they stopped to brace the adjoining door.

  “Why are you barring the doors?” Persephone asked.

  Flood looked at her with irritation. “No time to explain. We’re in a hurry.”

  “Why is that?”

  Flood looked to Frost, who smiled unconvincingly and added, “Like he said, no time to explain. Let’s go!”

  Climbing the stairs at such a brisk pace had burned away the chill. By the time they reached the top, no one was shivering, and Persephone felt downright hot. They passed through another set of doors, this time into a large hall with several adjoining corridors. Wooden benches and small tables formed gathering places in the corners. Long banners hung from the ceiling, looking just as large as the sail on their ship, but brightly colored in green and gold. Persephone had seen such colors of dyed cloth in Alon Rhist, but had no idea how they were created.

  Frost held out a hand, silently blocking them from entering the hall. A moment later Persephone heard the echo of hard heels on stone. They waited for them to pass.

  “Why are we hiding?” she whispered.

  Frost didn’t answer, and once the way was clear, he led them toward a corridor.

  Flood abandoned his place at the rear of their procession and rushed forward to confer with Frost.

  Moya once more looked back with raised eyebrows.

  With a shake of her head, Persephone marched forward to speak with the two dwarfs.

  Frost was shaking his head at his brother as she approached. They spoke in the Dherg language in hushed, hurried tones.

  “We’re not going any farther until you explain what’s going on,” Persephone insisted.

  “Need to find Gronbach,” Frost said in Rhunic.

  Flood said something in the Dherg language and pointed up another, much wider, much grander set of steps that ran off to their right.

  Frost bared his teeth and stomped one booted foot on the stone; the sound echoed off the hard walls. Then he responded to his brother, also in the Dherg language.

  “What’s going on?” Persephone demanded.

  Frost ignored her and continued speaking in the Dherg tongue.

  Persephone found Rain, who stood next to Moya with arms folded, waiting like the rest. “What are they saying?”

  Rain looked over at the arguing pair. “Looking for Gronbach, but he’s up in the Rostwell, eating. So now we’re trying to think of a place to hide you until Gronbach finishes his meal. He’ll be in a bad mood if he’s interrupted, but we don’t want to get caught before we have a chance to talk to him.”

  “Caught? Caught by who? Caught for what? Frost said a small group of women wouldn’t be seen as a problem. Was that the truth or merely what you were hoping?”

  A gasp came from behind, and Persephone turned just in time to see a plump Dherg drop a tray of stacked wooden bowls. The whole thing hit the stone with a horrible crash, sending the containers bouncing and spinning across the floor. The impact of the silver tray rang and echoed off the hard walls.

  Then the chubby dwarf screamed. He continued to shriek while running up the broad stairs. Persephone doubted that this was a promising development. Clearly, some things had been left out of Frost’s story.

  She looked back at Frost and Flood. Neither of them moved nor spoke. Frozen, they watched the terrified dwarf run up the steps.

  “What do you want us to do?” Persephone asked.

  Frost looked back at her, his face pale. “Don’t die. That would ruin everything.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Long Gone

  Her eyesight was failing, her hearing poor, and she did not have a single tooth left in her head, but that old woman knew everything.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  “Will we be going to the meeting tomorrow?” Malcolm asked. The one-time slave sat on the stack of Rhen-imported split logs to avoid the trickle of water that made its way through their corner of the camp.

  “No,” Raithe replied with all the willfulness of a stubborn child.

  “That’s three in a row. You’re letting your clan down, my chieftain.”

  He said this with a smile directed at Tesh, who sat carving a small bit of wood into something that vaguely resembled a turtle.

  The rain had returned, hindering Raithe from training the boy. The two had been spending most of their days on the beach, going over everything from proper footing to correct falling. They managed to find driftwood to approximate swords and spears. As it turned out, the kid wasn’t just a fast learner, he already knew a good deal. Tesh had managed to trip Raithe twice, and the young boy had thrown the bigger man to the sand a few times. Whenever Raithe got lazy or underestimated the kid, he received a bruise as punishment. With the rain, there was little sense in sparring—too hard to see, too difficult to think. A day of rest was in order.

  And so Raithe and Tesh had joined Malcolm under the wool. The three had an island of dry grass, but Raithe didn’t know for how long. A sag in the overhead wool created a looming threat. The center dripped—not fast, but constantly. Malcolm had put a wooden bowl beneath it to catch the water, but it had to be emptied often, which meant they either took turns sleeping or woke up wet. That wasn’t Raithe’s only concern. The slow leak wasn’t enough to offset the rain. The overhead pond grew wider and deeper at an ominous rate.

  Malcolm held a stemless cup in both hands and sipped from it. Raithe had no idea what was in the cup and no interest in finding out. He wasn’t thirsty, and while he hadn’t eaten since that morning, he wasn’t hungry, either. Tired was the only way to describe how he felt, but he’d done nothing that day to warrant the weariness. When he wasn’t teaching Tesh, he had no work nor any responsibilities except being a chieftain of one. Raithe had spent a short time breaking up what little wood they had to feed their fire and had sewn up a pulled seam in his shirt, but neither took more than a few minutes. Most of his time was spent staring out at the rain. The ceaseless patter, ping, and drip drained him of all strength and ambition. Idleness created a boredom all its own. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t, and he let out a sigh.

  “I understand.” Malcolm took another sip from his cup and began nodding. “It’s indeed exhausting to sit here all day, watching your fingers wrinkle.” He pulled one hand away from his cup to study it. “Captivating, not to mention gravely important.”

  “The rain might stop tomorrow. Then Tesh and I can do some more training.”

  “And if it doesn’t? Will you spend another day staring thoughtfully across the field? I mean if you don’t do it, who will? And it is a significantly better choice than ruling the clans.”

  “I don’t want to be keenig,” Raithe said.

  “Such sentiment, some might say, is all the more reason you should take the position.”

  Raithe glared.

  Malcolm smiled in mock innocence, then turned to Tesh. “Has he fed you today?”

  The kid shook his head, and Malcolm shot Raithe a shocked expression.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Raithe explained. “Don’t need to eat every day, you know. He’s fine. He’s Dureyan. We don’t coddle our children. You learn to survive on your own or you don’t. Simple as that.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Might explain why there’s only two of you left.”

  “What did you do today, Mister Enterprising Ball of Ambition?” Raithe asked.

  “I helped out with the sheep. The flocks were getting into the crops again. Got into a little scuffle with the local farmers.”

  “A scuffle?”

  “A shoving match.”

  “Who won?”

  He pointed to the spear leaning against the wall behind them. “Narsirabad.”

  “You stabbed someone?” Raithe asked, impressed.

  “No!” Malcolm said, appalled.

  “But you threatened to?”

  “Well, maybe…a little.” Malcolm stirred the embers. “I also checked on Gelston.”
/>   Despite having lived in Dahl Rhen for over a month, Raithe knew few faces and fewer names. Gelston’s stood out. He was Brin’s uncle who had survived being hit by lightning. While most of Dahl Rhen’s injured had been left at the first outer village they came to, Gelston had followed the train of people south. “How’s he doing?”

  “Walking around and talking but still in pain. Complains about his back and head, a ringing in his ears, and the fact that he can’t sleep.”

  “People are calling him blessed by the gods,” Raithe said.

  “Don’t think he would agree,” Malcolm replied. “Also don’t think he’s ready to watch his flocks yet.”

  Raithe shook his head and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs to their full length, which put his feet out in the rain. Being tall had its shortcomings. “See, there you go…coddling people again. A little back pain or headache shouldn’t keep a man from getting his work done. His sheep could start a war. He needs to get back to work.”

  Malcolm nodded again. “I’m sure he would agree…if he knew he had sheep.”

  “How’s that?”

  “In addition to the pain, and a really exotic lesion running up his back that looks like a red fern, he has trouble remembering things. I watched him fill a bowl with water, wash his face, dump the water, and then do the whole thing over again a few minutes later without having any idea he’d done it before. Sometimes he remembers the sheep, sometimes he forgets the names of his dogs. Other times he just blanks out entirely. I suppose being blessed has different meanings for some people.”

  —

  “You need to go to the council meeting today,” Nyphron said.

  The Fhrey was towering over him, freshly shaved, which always made him look less impressive—more boyish.

  Raithe had been washing the sleep from his face in one of the clear puddles left in the field just beyond Clan Dureya’s wool-roofed settlement. He’d managed a decent night’s sleep and awakened on dry sod to a still smoldering fire.

  Raithe wiped his eyes clear with a corner of his leigh mor. “I don’t need to do anything. I’m a chieftain.” He meant it as a joke, sort of. No one was more poorly suited to that role.