Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It would appear so.”

  —

  “Arion wants you,” Brin told Suri, who had been going through the enchantment one last time. “I think…” Brin sat back down with the tablet pile. “I think I won’t have time to study all of these.”

  Her expression was one of the saddest things Suri had ever seen.

  Suri nodded and gave the girl a sympathetic smile. Then she and Minna walked across the stone chamber to where Arion sat.

  The Fhrey hadn’t moved in hours, and she wasn’t looking good. Her skin had become nearly gray, her breathing was labored, and the trickle of blood was dripping from both nostrils. “I’m almost done, Suri.”

  “Want me to take over?”

  “Won’t do any good. Have you memorized the weave from the table? If you had a source, do you think you could cast it?”

  “Maybe. But…” Suri felt horrible. Since leaving Tirre, she’d failed at everything. And she hated disappointing Arion. No one except Tura had ever pushed her to be more than she was. No one else ever had faith in her. Without realizing it, Arion had become Suri’s replacement for Tura—part teacher, part parent, part friend. And Suri discovered she wanted to please her, to make her proud, to prove she was worthy of Arion’s faith. But so far, all she’d been was a failure. “I can’t find a power source. One big enough to reach the deep chords.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Suri said. “Maybe there are some caterpillars that never get to be butterflies.”

  “No, not like that,” Arion told her. “You will fly, but not without payment. You were right about that.”

  “What payment? What do you mean?”

  Arion shifted to Fhrey, which she always did when there was something important to say. “I thought of a source, and I think it is a powerful one. You see, all life generates power. Power that can be tapped like I’m doing now. And emotion heightens that energy. Fear, hate, anguish—these feelings are like blowing on a fire or pumping a bellows. They make the blaze hotter, more intense. I’m thinking death might provide a similar effect. I sensed a release of energy when Zephyron died, and I felt it again when Gryndal was killed. Maybe when the spirit frees itself from the body, there’s an explosion of sorts. I suspect that if the death is also a sacrifice, especially of someone loved, then…well, the combined power would be enormous. While short-lived, it might be enough to move the deep chords.” Arion reached out and took Suri’s hand. “I can give you that power.”

  Suri was already shaking her head.

  “You need to kill me and—”

  “No.”

  “Suri, listen to me.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “I would kill myself, except it wouldn’t be as powerful…the emotion you would feel would only be one of loss. If you killed me, if my death was by your own hand, then—”

  “I won’t do that. I can’t.”

  “You have to or everyone dies.”

  “I might mess it up. I might…no wait!” Suri smiled with delight. “You can do it! You can kill me!”

  Arion pointed to her head. “I can barely hold the door. I could never survive using the deep chords. Besides, you’re the important one, remember? Not me. Your existence is the key to saving everyone. You can bring peace and understanding to our peoples. That’s why I came here. And if by my death you can blossom into an extraordinary Artist, then it’s an insignificant price.”

  “I can’t kill you.”

  “You must.”

  Suri shook her head harder. “You’re practically dead already, how much power could you possibly generate?”

  “A power equal to how much you care for me.” Arion looked into Suri’s tear-filled eyes. “Do you think that would be enough?”

  Suri began to shake. They were speaking in tones too low for the others to hear, but Minna noticed. She drew close, nuzzling Suri.

  “What are you asking? For me to slit your throat?” Her words were breaking up, her jaw shaking, lips trembling.

  “That would work.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. No, it would not.” Suri sucked in a sluggish breath. “You’re like…you’ve become…How can I…?”

  “I know.” Arion patted her hand. “And that’s why it has to be me, don’t you see? You’re the only one who can make the weave, so the sacrifice must be someone who you care deeply for, and we’ve grown close haven’t we? Killing me will be a sacrifice. Your own explosion of emotion will fuel the weave, and the sorrow that follows will give you the ability to play the deep chords. That’s how he must have done it. This Old One sacrificed something. Something very dear. That’s what you need to do, Suri. Kill me, harness the power, and weave your own Balgargarath. Send it to fight for you, and then run for the surface.”

  Suri clutched Minna with both hands. She was crying. She couldn’t help it.

  “Go on,” Arion told her. “Do it now. The longer you wait the worse it will be for you.”

  That was a lie—didn’t even make sense. If what Arion said were true, then drawing out the process would heighten the emotion, produce more power. Suri could see the real reason in Arion’s face, in those sky-blue eyes that were glassy with tears and the lips that trembled. The longer I take the harder it is for her. She’s terrified and doesn’t know if she has the courage to go through with it. She thinks if I kill her fast enough, she won’t have time to reconsider and won’t try to stop me. Arion didn’t understand death. For Fhrey it was an alien thing, and for a Miralyith it must be their single remaining horror.

  “Just get a dagger and kill me.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “Suri.” She sounded stern, shifting to Rhunic. “You have to.”

  “No! There has to be another way.”

  “Suri, listen. You aren’t starting a fire or making an earthquake. Doing this, creating a creature, is something I’ve never heard of. It’s not even something I thought was possible. The power required is massive. To create an independent being, you will need to do more than touch or pluck the deep chords. You’ll have to hit them hard, strum them loudly and with world-shattering force. Such a thing requires massive strength, and you just don’t get that from the movement of water. Think about it. Balgargarath is self-sustaining! Not even Avempartha can generate that kind of power. This must come from within and without. The pain you will suffer will make it possible. It has to be you, and it has to be now. Get a dagger, Suri, and become the butterfly you were meant to be.”

  Suri stared at her. She was shaking.

  “Do it!” Arion ordered. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

  Slowly Suri stood up and willed herself to walk. She moved toward Brin, staying away from the light so no one would see her face. Brin had taken her sword belt off. The blade the Dherg had given the girl lay on the ground near the table. Suri picked it up, clutching the weapon and holding it close as she moved back into the dark. She wasn’t just shaking; her whole body rattled, racked with anguish, fear, and dread. She felt cold. Suri wiped her eyes and sat down alone in the blackness to think. She laid the weapon beside her and covered her face with both hands.

  I can’t do it. I can’t! But how can I fail her again?

  All Suri wanted was to go back—back to the Hawthorn Glen, to her little home. She never should have come to Dahl Rhen, never should have spoken to Persephone, never set all those horrible stones rolling. She should have stayed silent, happy, and content. Happy and…

  She wept.

  There has to be another way. Oh, dear Grand Mother of All, there has to be another way.

  As she sat in darkness rocking slightly and trying to find the courage to pick up the sword, she once more felt Minna. The wolf placed her head in Suri’s lap, and the mystic hugged her, burying her face in Minna’s soft and comforting fur.

  —

  Persephone was falling asleep again.

  Whatever Arion was doing exhausted her. Just sitting felt as taxing as climbing stairs. She felt heavy. Dead-tired was how h
er father used to describe it, all strung out was what her mother used to say. Persephone was pretty sure she was both at once and then some. She couldn’t ever recall being this bone-weary weak. The dark stillness didn’t help. Everything demanded she surrender.

  Then suddenly the weariness was gone.

  Something snapped; something broke. The accompanying sound didn’t come from outside, so the barricade wasn’t breached. Persephone didn’t know what had happened, but she felt the weight fall away. All at once, she felt light, awake, and as energetic as if an adolescent again. The grogginess was gone; the stupor she had wallowed in—for how long she couldn’t tell—simply vanished.

  Just in time for the end. The thought brushed Persephone’s mind with ironic—just short of insane—laughter as she first heard, then saw, the formidable stack of stones blocking the doorway burst. Rocks skipped across the floor, clacking and breaking, and the blue light of the cavern lichen floated in with the dust and debris. Following the course of one hurtling stone, which came uncomfortably close, Persephone spotted Arion, whom the stone had barely missed. Seeing the Fhrey told the story. Arion lay sprawled across the stone floor of the cave.

  This is it, the end.

  Somehow, Persephone had expected more warning. She figured Arion might have made an announcement or alerted them in some way. Why she hadn’t, Persephone didn’t understand. The Miralyith could have given them time to say farewell or pray. Maybe it was just a matter of Arion’s inability to hang on any longer. Or maybe the creature had done something unexpected. Persephone found it strange that in those last minutes of her life she had the time, and empathy, to feel sorry for the Fhrey. Persephone felt even a little stab of guilt for dragging her—all of them—into that mess.

  Balgargarath broke into the cave, scraping through the crack on its goat’s knees, grunting as it did. The demon hadn’t changed. Twin horns twisted like knotted rope and the awful visage of its face was dominated by sharpened teeth and tiny, mad eyes.

  This is truly the face of death. Does everyone see what I’m seeing, or something like it, when they die?

  “Seph, get behind me.” Moya pulled Persephone back. Even then, Moya was holding firm to her role as the chieftain’s Shield.

  In the face of Balgargarath, Persephone didn’t think other Shields would have stood as courageously as Moya. The Stump certainly wouldn’t have stayed at Konniger’s side, and Konniger would have left Reglan’s in an instant. Yet here was Moya, making a living shield of herself. The woman, previously known only for her good looks, remained intent on protecting her chieftain from a twenty-foot goat-legged demon. Courageous hearts weren’t banned from the breast of women.

  By the Grand Mother, how I love you, Moya!

  The great beast drove forward through the opening. Balgargarath drew up to its full height and roared so loudly Persephone involuntarily covered her ears. Then she, too, drew her blade. Why, in the name of the Tetlin Witch, shouldn’t I?

  To their credit, Frost, Flood, and Rain lined up beside them. The first two held their swords, Rain his pickax. They all stood shoulder to shoulder, two diminutive women and three even smaller dwarfs. By accident or some act of providence, they all raised their weapons in perfect unison, as if they had trained together for years.

  I’m going to die. The thought rang through Persephone. With one well-placed hoof, at least two of them would perish. She ought to be terrified, but her mind was a volatile mix of emotions, and fear wasn’t one of them. I’m not frightened. Not even slightly. She found that strange, but fear had no place once all hope had fled. Looking up at the malevolent mountain that even a Miralyith magician couldn’t stop, Persephone hadn’t the slightest thread of hope. If anything, she was exhilarated. She felt alive as if for the first time. Freed from the mire of quasi-existence that Arion’s cloud had wrapped her in, she’d burst into a state of living beyond anything she’d ever known. Her heart thundered; her breath heaved. She felt the placement of each finger on the handle of the sword, registered how it lay in her palm. She smelled the cold, damp air and heard the remaining stones come finally to their rest.

  Balgargarath took a hooved step forward. Persephone and Moya both shifted their weight to their back heel, ready for the charge. Then from behind Persephone came a deafening roar.

  The only illumination emanated from the two stones, and the blue light of lichen entering from the other chamber. The roar had come from the deep dark of the cave’s interior. A large, inhuman sound. In the darkness, something huge was moving.

  Are there two now?

  Balgargarath took another step, and this was one too many as a giant shape from the shadows flew out of the darkness and slammed into the demon with a terrible force. The two hammered the wall near the door, putting a new crack in the surrounding stone, and then they broke free of each other.

  Persephone picked up the glowstone and cupped it to create a beam of light. Balgargarath faced off against another giant, this one on all fours with a long neck, tail, claws, and leathery wings.

  “A dragon?” Moya said. “Where’d the dragon come from?”

  Persephone looked to Arion. The Fhrey still lay on the ground; she looked dead.

  “I don’t know,” Persephone replied. “But…but…I think it’s on our side.”

  Moya responded with a wry smile.

  The two titans slammed together again. This time the dragon raked with fore and rear claws while at the same time biting with a rack of teeth lining a long snouted mouth. Balgargarath slammed the dragon with its hooves. The sound of their clashes hurt Persephone’s ears. Balgargarath got hold of the dragon around the neck and slammed it against the wall, creating more cracks in what was previously believed to be impenetrable stone.

  “Brin!” Suri screamed.

  Not a shout, not a yell, this was a true scream. Never before had Persephone heard such a sound from the mystic. Moya screamed all the time, so did Brin, but not Suri. Nothing usually bothered the mystic.

  Out of the darkness Suri walked toward them, covered in blood.

  “Oh, Mari!” Persephone gasped.

  Suri’s face was drawn and pale. She was crying, hitching, gasping for air. “I need Brin. I need Brin. I need her, right now!”

  Near the door, another terrible boom echoed, followed by unworldly howls.

  Brin arrived seconds later, materializing out of the dark into the halo of the ghostly green light emanating from Persephone’s hand. “What’s wrong? What—”

  “The name!” Suri shouted at her. “You have to mark down the name.”

  “What name?” Brin asked, her eyes growing in horror as she looked at the mystic. “Suri, what happened? Where…where did all that blood come from?”

  “Not mine. Not my blood,” Suri said in a shuddering voice, that barely sounded like her.

  The mystic was shaking all over, her head jerking, her breathing a staccato series of sucks.

  Boom!

  The chamber shook and everyone except Suri jumped. Tiny bits of stone fell to the ground, sounding like a sprinkling of rain.

  “Brin.” Suri crowded the young girl, until the mystic stood near enough to touch noses. Even so, her voice was loud, a borderline cry. “I need the name of Balgargarath on a sword.”

  “On a sword?” Brin asked, flustered and frightened. She glanced at Persephone in desperation. “I…I don’t know how to write Balgargarath.”

  “Not Balgargarath! The thing’s real name, the one on the tablet. Just copy it. Copy it!” Suri pointed toward the stack of tablets. “Repeat what you see on the tablet onto a sword. Just do it! Do it! Do it!”

  The mystic went on screaming do it, over and over, her blood-covered hands out in front of her, fingers fanned as she shook them.

  Brin looked scared to death.

  “Suri, stop!” Persephone ordered. She gave a quick glance at the two beasts battling near the front of the cave. They were still going at it. “Tell us why? What does it matter? And where did the dragon come from?” />
  Suri began making and unmaking fists in rapid succession. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Suri!” Persephone grabbed her by the shoulders. “Calm down! Calm down. Just tell us what happened.”

  “I made the dragon.” Suri spoke in very deliberate words, as if summoning each one was a great task. “I used the weave from the table. When I did, I found it had to have a name. All things have names. That’s the secret. It’s the seam, the point that binds and unbinds. Balgargarath has a name and Brin knows what it is. The Old One carved it into the tablet. It’s part of the binding.”

  Suri was a bundle of nervous energy. She couldn’t stand still. She was rising on her toes then dropping back to her heels. “If I had only known. If I’d realized the seam could be torn open. Then I wouldn’t have…I wouldn’t have…No, no, if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have learned the truth. I wouldn’t know the importance of the name, and what it can do.”

  “Suri, you’re not making any sense—”

  “It’s the seam. The seam! Don’t you see!” Suri shouted at all of them in frustration. “The…the…the knot in a weave. The point that keeps it together. That keeps it from unraveling. If you stab Balgargarath with its name, it’ll cease to exist!”

  “It will kill him?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Moya turned the handle of her sword in a remarkably sophisticated spin. She held the pommel to Brin. “Put it on my blade. I’ll do it.”

  From the door, they heard a screech and then another roar. Persephone looked over, but the behemoths had moved into shadow.

  “She’s not going to win.” Suri sobbed. The tracks of her tears made clean lines on her blood-splattered cheeks. “You have to hurry.”

  “How can I mark a sword?” Brin asked, frantically, looking to all of them for an answer.

  “Scratch into it,” Moya said.

  “With what?”

  “I don’t know.” Moya looked at the dwarfs. “You have tools, don’t you? Metal tools?”

  Frost was shaking his head. “The blades you were given are too hard. Scraping into it would take”—he looked over toward the sounds of fighting—“longer than we likely have. And that is if we had etching tools, which we don’t.” He looked around him. “Nothing in here is likely to mar those blades.”