Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Nyphron went on as if he’d never heard Raithe speak. “They’re holding the meeting inside the lodge today. I can’t get in without one of you there.” Nyphron seemed to recognize the absurdity of that statement, because he added, “Without causing a disturbance, that is. I don’t want to brush fur against the grain, not at this point. I can be part of your retinue, the same way I did with Persephone, but that means you have to be there.”

  “What’s wrong with tagging along with her?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. What is important is that I missed yesterday’s meeting because of her absence, and I don’t intend to miss another. This is too critical to—”

  Raithe didn’t wait; Nyphron didn’t have the answers he needed.

  He started walking up the length of the wall, picking up speed and was just short of a jog when he reached the Great Puddle. Without hesitation, Raithe splashed into it, wading up to his knees before slogging out the other side. When he looked back, Nyphron was following, but walking around the pool.

  Raithe dashed on and ducked under the wool where Persephone had been staying.

  “Where is she?” he demanded of Padera, who was awake and already busy working a spinning wheel, a pile of twisted thread beside her. The old woman was alone. Raithe didn’t know exactly how many people slept under that part of the wool, but he was certain about Persephone, Brin, and Moya. He thought Roan might stay there as well—there was certainly enough room for her—but except for the old woman, the space was vacant.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Where is Persephone?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Because you know everything.”

  The old woman smiled at this.

  “Well?” Raithe asked.

  “They left the day before yesterday. You’re a bit slow to inquire. Aren’t you in love with her?”

  Raithe stared, stunned.

  “Oh, please.” The old woman’s smile turned into a grin. “You just said how I know everything, so don’t be surprised when I do.”

  “But…oh, never mind.” Raithe refused to be diverted. “What do you mean they left? They who? And where did they go?”

  “Persephone made me promise not to say anything.”

  “Padera, you have to tell me.”

  “You really do love her, don’t you? I don’t think she fully appreciates that. Persephone sees you as a rash young man, but you’re Dureyan. Your kind grows up faster than what she’s used to. I doubt it’s ever crossed her mind to wonder why you find her attractive—why her instead of Moya. People can be blind like that, you know?”

  “Blind I can deal with; mute is a problem. Are you going to tell me?”

  Padera thought a moment, both lips sucked in, both eyes squeezed shut. She looked like a gourd left to shrivel after the harvest. “Well, I guess there’s no harm in it now. They’ve gone to Belgreig, the land of the Dherg. Moya, Suri, Brin, Roan, and that Fhrey lady, they all went. Persephone said you refused to fight because Rhune weapons are rubbish, so she’s getting better ones from the dwarfs.”

  “How’d she manage that?” Nyphron asked. He’d just arrived from his trip around the little lake, but acted as if he’d heard the whole conversation. “The Dherg don’t allow anyone but their own kind to set foot on the Belgreig shores. Quite touchy in fact. And Miralyith most of all. With Arion along, they’ll be killed on sight.”

  “Doubt it. The Dherg invited them,” Padera replied. “I’m not certain how the whole rigmarole shakes out, but Persephone is trying to get Dherg-made weapons for the war. In exchange, Arion and Suri are going to perform some service. Something to do with getting rid of a giant, I think.”

  “Interesting.” Nyphron nodded. “I was planning to retake Alon Rhist and use weapons from its armory, but if she manages it, this could be better.”

  “Does that mean she’ll be all right?” Raithe asked. “Because they invited her?”

  Nyphron shrugged. “The Dherg are notoriously untrustworthy. Deceit is their first language and selfishness their creed, so they expect the same from others. They launched a war with my people because they thought we concealed a fruit that granted eternal life. When we told them no such fruit existed, they thought we were lying because it’s what they would have done. They’ll do anything to get what they want. Personally, I’d never broker a deal with them, but this is a good gamble. If Persephone succeeds, the path ahead could be much easier.”

  “And if she fails?” Raithe asked.

  Nyphron shrugged again. “That’s what makes it such a good gamble. Even if she dies, we don’t lose anything of value.”

  For the first time, Raithe regretted leaving Shegon’s sword embedded in the courtyard’s pillar.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Gronbach

  It is funny how misleading first impressions can be. When I initially met Gronbach, I didn’t like him. It took a whole week to truly despise that festering pimple on the backside of deceit, that bearded lie, that dwarf.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Once, long ago, Suri had made the mistake of hitting a wasps’ nest with a stick. She had been about eight years old, and she didn’t know what it was. Dangling from the branch of the maple tree, it had looked like a strange kind of fruit, or a weird kind of giant onion the color of mud. This was before she met Minna, who Suri was certain would have advised against whacking the odd gray puffball with the willow branch. Minna had always been the wiser of the two.

  She remembered giving that nest a good sound bashing, hard enough to knock it free, and the whole ball came tumbling down at her feet—right where she’d hoped it would. Suri planned to cut it open to see what sort of treat might be inside. She loved apples and strawberries, and this was far bigger than either of those. And while the mysterious fruit hadn’t looked appetizing on the outside, that didn’t mean the inside wouldn’t be tasty; walnuts were perfect examples of that truth.

  The moment the thing bounced on the ground, she noticed an unusual number of buzzing insects swarming about, and disappointment set in. With that many bugs, the fruit was probably rotten. But still curious as to what might be inside, Suri gave the thing another good bashing. The contents poured out in a wave. A buzzing, an almost hissing sound of anger and hatred issued from the cloud of menace; even at the age of eight Suri understood the danger. Six years later, in the land of little men, Suri experienced the same sense of dread. Standing with the others at the bottom of the wide stairs, she heard the thundering of feet on stone as a horde of Dherg clamored down the steps. She hoped this encounter would be less painful.

  Unlike the wasps, the crowd slammed to a halt when they saw Suri and her friends. There were about fifty Dherg, most with beards. They wore brightly colored clothes of blues, oranges, reds, and yellows. One combined all those colors in a single outfit of vertical-striped leggings and a checkered tunic, reminding her of a bird that sometimes visited the Crescent Forest in spring. Minna had agreed with Suri about that particular bird trying just a bit too hard to stand out.

  The whole group stood still, staring at them. Their faces wore a mix of shock, fear, and anger. Then one stepped forward. He had the longest, whitest beard and dressed in a long yellow shirt with a dark blue vest.

  “Yons!” he exclaimed, focusing on Frost.

  Or was it Flood? She had difficulty telling one from the other.

  Frost started speaking quickly in the abrupt, halting language, which reminded Suri of barking dogs. Nothing Frost said changed the expressions of those on the stairs. One of the other little people, a fellow in a dark-red shirt with a short brown beard, made his way carefully down the remainder of the steps and then moved around the room, keeping his back to the walls as if he were inching around a high ledge. When he got to the far side, he bolted down a corridor.

  Frost’s words had sparked sharp retorts, and by then Frost and Flood were shout
ing at various people on the stairs. Suri didn’t understand any of the words except the occasional elf or Rhune, and once she heard Frost say Persephone.

  The chieftain was trying to follow the exchange, and she looked back at them with a series of bewildered but concerned expressions. These indicated both I have no idea and I hope we’re going to be okay. At least that was how Suri understood the silent language of her knitted brow. Minna often gave her that same look.

  Loud noises came from far away. More people—all little men with beards—poured in until Suri and the others were surrounded. These new arrivals held tall poles with huge ax heads or spikes of gray metal. The same material fashioned the armor they wore, and helmets hid their faces.

  “Don’t do anything,” Arion told Suri in Fhrey.

  Suri wondered what Arion thought she might do, and why she shouldn’t do whatever that might be.

  Those in metal helmets with the sharp poles began using them to prod everyone into one of the side hallways. Suri and Arion had been at the rear, so this about-face put them at the front. They led the procession into a long corridor, down a set of steps, around a corner, and down another flight. Finally, they stopped before a metal door. One of the little men squeezed forward, opened it and waved them in.

  Suri froze. The interior was dark. No window, no light of any kind revealed the nature of this place, and she didn’t like that she was being asked—ordered—to enter. Minna didn’t move, either, and the two of them pretended not to see the little man waving his arms, gesturing for them to go in. A threatening shout came from behind. Suri still refused to budge.

  Arion stepped around Minna, took Suri’s hand, and pulled her into the room.

  Others shuffled in from behind, and the door clanged shut. Suri heard it—felt it—close, and she shuddered. She didn’t like small places that she couldn’t escape. The rols were bearable because she knew how to open those doors, but the first time one had closed on her, she’d panicked and thrown herself at the stone. If Tura hadn’t been with her, hadn’t shown her how to open the door, Suri didn’t know what she would’ve done. Now, standing in the dark, she clung to Arion’s hand, clutching it as if those five fingers were all that kept her tethered to the world.

  A green glow from the corridor entered through the splinter-thin cracks around the frame, revealing close-by faces. Nothing else was visible, neither the floor nor the walls. Suri tried to imagine being in a massive space, a huge cavern. She also convinced herself the door wasn’t really barred, even though she’d heard the slide of metal. That sound could have been any number of things, she told herself. Still, she found it difficult to breathe.

  “What’s going on?” Moya asked.

  “I don’t know,” Persephone replied. “Are we all here? I can’t see a thing.”

  “Suri,” Arion’s voice came out of the darkness, “summon a light.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “You need to locate the strands that create light. I’m sure you saw them when trying to free the giant.”

  Suri knew what Arion was talking about, but at the same time she didn’t. She’d had similar experiences with Tura. The old mystic would say something like, “Go to the root cellar and fetch the basket of cattails.” Tura had spoken the words as if Suri made a habit of fetching cattails each day and knew all about the basket—which she didn’t. She knew where the root cellar was, what cattails were, and understood the term basket perfectly well, but there’d never been a basket of cattails in the cellar. Finding what Tura was actually after was never so easy. This was what Arion wanted her to do now—find something that should be easy but wasn’t. The last time she’d tried looking for what Arion wanted, she’d inadvertently killed Rapnagar, and that had been when she was outside—in the open. Besides, using the Art would mean letting go of Arion’s hand. “I can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Suri.” Persephone said. “Roan, are you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brin?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Frost?”

  No answer.

  “Flood? Rain?”

  Still no answer.

  Suri said, “Minna’s here.”

  “Well, thank the Grand Mother for that,” Moya said, and Suri heard Persephone sigh.

  “What’s going on?” Brin asked this time.

  “We are…” Arion began, speaking in Rhunic, then paused and switched to Fhrey. “How do you say being held in custody for a crime?”

  Persephone replied, “Under arrest? How do you know?”

  “Dherg language has similarities with archaic Fhrey. I didn’t understand everything, but enough.”

  “Why are we under arrest?” Brin again. “What have we done wrong?”

  Because she stood the closest to Suri, Arion’s face was the easiest to see, but in the faint glow, it appeared an eerie green. The Fhrey’s brows were in a bunch as she struggled to think of the right words. Suri knew Arion was the type of person who didn’t like making mistakes.

  After a long while, the Fhrey said, “Dherg not…do not…allow others to come to Belgreig. Big prob…err…it is a big problem.”

  Suri’s breathing grew shorter, and she squeezed Arion’s hand tighter. Big cavern. No sealed door. Big cavern. No door at all. Suri didn’t want to start screaming. Screaming never helped. She’d done that in the rol with Tura.

  Closed was okay. Closed could be dealt with. If the door behind her now was only closed, she could open it whenever she wanted.

  “So why did Frost ask us to come if foreigners are forbidden?” Persephone asked.

  “Don’t know,” Arion said, speaking slower, more deliberately. “I think the three are guilty of something bad. Something very bad.”

  “The giant, right?”

  “Think so.”

  “So are they going to let us deal with it?”

  “They be…they are…talking, I think. So we wait. But things be good for us.”

  Suri heard the door rattle against the frame.

  “We’re trapped in a room,” Moya said. “How is this good for us?”

  Not trapped! We’re not trapped. Even if the door is barred, Arion can rip it open. I am not trapped!

  “Penalty for coming to Dherg lands is death,” Arion explained. “Locked room better, yes?”

  A long pause stretched between them, and then Moya replied, “Definitely better.”

  Suri was having a problem getting air, despite the quickness of her breath. Inhalations were shorter, and she was puffing instead of breathing.

  “So what happens if they don’t agree?” Brin asked. “Will they kill us?”

  “Arion?” Persephone said. “If it comes to that, you’ll do something, right?”

  Arion hesitated. “Suri will.”

  Ghostly heads turned to face the mystic. Suri shook her head, and she didn’t care if anyone saw.

  “You can if you let yourself,” Arion told her in Fhrey. “You have the ability, and more raw talent than any student I’ve ever taught. You just need experience. If you tried, you could blow that door off its hinges or dissolve the walls around us.”

  Suri stared at the ghostly face of Arion. Does she know?

  “Suri, if you wanted you could put every Dherg in a mile radius to sleep. Then we could take any ship we liked and summon a friendly wind to blow us home, and in a fraction of the time it took to get here. You could do all that…and you will…you just have to spread your wings and decide it’s time to fly.” Arion paused then added in a softer, gentler tone, “Suri, when you want to, you’ll move mountains.”

  “I don’t want to move mountains,” Suri said, but inside her head the response was: But opening that stupid door would be nice.

  “I know.” Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light, but Arion looked very sad then, as if she might cry. “You remind me of Fenelyus in that way. She didn’t want the gift, either. She believed that was why it was given to her. She was immune to the Art’s seduction, to the addict
ion that touching the chords inflicts. It’s a rare gift, being able to shun power. Gylindora Fane had it, Fenelyus had it, and I think you do, too.”

  “I don’t know any of those people.”

  Arion shook her head. “Does not matter. When the time comes, you will be a most beautiful butterfly.”

  “I’d be happy if she could just open this door,” Moya said, and rattled it.

  Suri cringed at the sound.

  “But…but…if Suri can’t save us,” Persephone said, “you will, right, Arion?”

  Arion hesitated for a long time, and when she finally spoke, it was in a solemn tone, like an oath. “Yes. I will do that for you.”

  —

  They didn’t have to wait long, Persephone realized in retrospect; it just seemed that way.

  In the darkness of that little room—with their fate so tenuous—the seconds felt like days. Upon their release, Persephone estimated that they had been detained for only a few minutes—less than an hour, certainly. When the little people came for them, their attitude had changed. They didn’t yell or poke at them with spears. Instead, a particularly plump Dherg with a red beard, bald head, and floor-length tunic of bright mint green announced in a quavering voice, “Please be so kind as to follow me.”

  They were escorted from in front and behind, but gone were the faceless, gray-armored soldiers. In their place were well-dressed dwarfs. Still, all of them were outfitted with a sword attached to their belts.

  Persephone and the others were led through the corridors until she was quite lost; not that she had a good idea of how to return to the ship given their haphazard rush. She expected to be taken to some sort of throne room, like the big domed hall she had visited in Alon Rhist. Instead, they were escorted to a little study where Frost, Flood, and Rain waited.

  The room wasn’t big, but there were enough chairs for all. In front of the party, a beautiful fireplace, carved to look like the mouth of a beast, burned brightly, filling the room with a warm, comfortable light. A sturdy, practical desk stood to the right of the fireplace. On it was an assortment of tools, metal shavings, and old worn boxes of oiled wood, filled with a variety of metal odds and ends. The surface of the desk was marred, gouged with deep scratches. To one side was a pile of oil-stained cloths, and on the floor at the other end, was a metal bucket filled with a yellow liquid, perhaps the source of the harsh resin smell that permeated the chamber.