Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The quiet figure of Roan inched over. She was coming out of the darkness to join them. No one wanted to be alone while the dragon and Balgargarath fought.

  “Does it have to be a sword?” Roan asked barely above a whisper.

  “Yes! It needs to enter Balgargarath’s body.”

  “But does it have to be a sword? Could it be something else with the name on it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The name is all that’s important. Just the name…it has to penetrate…it has to get inside.”

  “What are you thinking, Roan?” Moya asked.

  “My little spears are made of wood. It’d be easier to mark on them.”

  “Will they work?” Persephone asked, bending slightly to stare deep into Roan’s frightened eyes. “Did you fix them? Will they work now?”

  Roan nodded. “Yes. I think so. Maybe.”

  “Which is it, Roan?” Moya shouted, making the girl jump.

  “Calm down, Moya!” Persephone snapped.

  “They…they…they should,” Roan said. “I put feathers on two of them, but I haven’t tested either. Haven’t really had a chance.”

  “So you have no idea?” Moya stamped her foot.

  “Moya, be quiet,” Persephone told her through clenched teeth.

  Persephone stepped closer to Roan, being careful not to touch her, but close enough that she filled the girl’s vision. “Look at me, Roan. Look into my eyes. Do you think they will work? The way you have them now. The way they are right now. Do you believe they will work?”

  Roan thought a moment, then said, “Yes.”

  Persephone turned away. “Good enough for me.”

  “How do I do it?” Brin asked. “How do I mark on a spear?”

  “You could paint it with the blood Suri’s dripping,” Moya said.

  At first, Persephone thought Moya was making a horrible joke, but one look at Moya’s face showed she was quite serious.

  Still, Suri shook her head violently. “Can’t. It will smear. Has to stay perfect all the way in.”

  Another cry came from the front of the chamber. The boom that followed was close, and Persephone aimed the glowstone to reveal the dragon on its back not far from the center of the room. The dragon had lost ground and nearly landed on Arion, who still lay in the same place despite the giants’ continued battle.

  “Moya.” Persephone handed her the glowstone. “Take Frost, Flood, and Rain and get Arion out of there. Move her near the table. Roan, devise a way for Brin to make permanent marks on the shaft of one of your little spears. Carve or burn the name, whatever it takes. Brin, you have the other glowing shard, use it to find the tablet with the name.”

  Everyone raced to their tasks—all except Persephone and Suri.

  The mystic was down on her knees by then. She had her hands over her face, spreading more blood without care or notice. She rocked forward and back, sobbing.

  “Suri?” Persephone spoke softly as she took the mystic’s hands in hers. “Suri, what happened. Whose blood is that?”

  “I killed her,” Suri said. “I killed her. I killed her. I loved her and I killed her. Arion said it was the only way to reach the deep chords, and it was, and it did.”

  Persephone stole an awful glance at Arion just as Moya and the dwarfs knelt beside her body.

  Persephone put her arms around Suri and held her tight, rocking with her. The mystic reached out and squeezed back, burying her face in Persephone’s chest. She wept and wailed, her body jerking violently.

  Then she paused, took a breath. “I had to…” Her face still buried, her voice muffled. “It had to be a sacrifice. That’s what Arion told me. I…I…” She fell back into sobs.

  Moya came running back, searching for the two of them with the glow of the stone.

  “Over here,” Persephone called.

  Moya ran over breathing hard. “The dragon isn’t doing as well as before. Balgargarath tossed it a couple of times like a basket of leaves. I hope this name thing works.”

  “What about Arion?” Persephone asked, bracing for the news.

  “Not sure,” Moya said. “She’s weak, real weak. Unconscious, but I think she’ll live. She’s exhausted, you know? Blown out. The dwarfs are carrying her over.” Moya paused and looked down at Suri. “How is she?”

  “Bad.”

  “What happened to her? Where did all the blood come from?” Moya asked.

  Suri jerked at the sound of Moya’s words. “She loved me. She loved me, and I loved her. I loved her, and I killed her.”

  Moya’s eyes narrowed. Then she looked around, shocked. She focused on Persephone and mouthed the word, No.

  Persephone nodded.

  “She was my best friend,” Suri cried, “my sister, and now she’s gone.”

  —

  Suri started a fire, and everyone placed the tips of their metal weapons into it, heating the blades. Brin lay on the floor with the tablet to one side and the wooden spears to the other. With her hands wrapped in cloth, she burned symbols onto the shafts—delicate work, requiring care to prevent the wood from catching on fire.

  “Thank Mari, the name is just one row,” Brin said. Holding her tongue between her teeth, she finished the last symbol.

  Roan took the shaft and compared the markings with the ones on the tablet. Then she ran a finger over the four feathered flights mounted near the rear.

  Even before Roan nodded her approval, Brin busily worked on the next spear.

  With the brilliant light of the fire and the eerie gleam of the glowstones, the two behemoths were clearly visible. They battled at the doorway. Balgargarath had been shoved out, and the dragon guarded the entrance. The demon’s attacks were fierce, and on two occasions, the dragon had been driven back into the Agave, but each time she managed to push Balgargarath back out.

  Earlier, Persephone had thought the two creatures were mindless beasts, each obsessed with the destruction of the other. But there was no doubt the dragon was working to protect them. She found it impossible not to notice the familiar way the dragon dipped her head and hunched her shoulders. When she did, the great beast’s wings would rise slightly, like fur, then the dragon would roar and pounce. Once, when Balgargarath came too close, the dragon flew up and sank all four sets of claws into the goat-legged beast, biting at the back of the horned monster’s neck. When she had a good grip, she hauled the demon away with great gusts from her wings and then threw Balgargarath out through the crack once more. Yet for all the combat, for all the strikes and blows, Balgargarath displayed no wounds and didn’t appeared any weaker.

  The dragon was a different story.

  By the time Brin finished putting the symbols on the first spear, the dragon was favoring her right side, and one wing drooped lower than the other.

  The weave might be indestructible, but it could fray.

  “Is that all the spears we have?” Persephone asked.

  “Yes,” Roan replied.

  Including the little wooden javelins, Roan had everything she carried nested around her knees in neat piles for quick retrieval. Persephone noted a ball of twisted plant-fiber string, another ball of thread twisted from wool, and two tiny blades of sharpened knives held together with leather that Roan called clippers. Beside them were several strips of willow bark—the sort that fever tea was made from; a bone needle; three leaves—one oak, two maple; a handful of shriveled berries; a hat Roan never wore; three round stones; a bit of black charcoal; a short stick burned on one end and beaten on the other; and one stunningly beautiful glazed clay cup with delicate loop handles on either side. How it hadn’t been broken was a mystery to ponder on another day, assuming Persephone would see one again.

  Of the six little spears, four had feathers, and two of those had rows of finished markings. The other two lacked any improvements, being just small, wooden, stone-tipped spears. The dwarfs stood beside Persephone and Moya, fixated on the battle across the room, while the mystic and the Fhrey sat together oblivious.
Arion lay with her head resting on Suri’s lap. She was still breathing, but that was all.

  With a vicious punch, Balgargarath knocked the dragon aside and lunged once more into the chamber. Everyone flinched, and both Frost and Flood staggered backward and nearly fell. The demon managed only two massive steps before the dragon was on it again. Teeth bit into an ankle, and the dragon jerked the demon back toward the door the way a dog might play with a rag.

  “We need to hurry,” Persephone said. “Brin, how much longer?”

  “Almost done.”

  “Suri.” Persephone turned to the mystic. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to make a run for it. Do you think you can…is it possible to talk…can you tell Minna to draw Balgargarath away from the door?”

  At the sound of the name, new tears slipped free of Suri’s eyes, but she held herself together. Suri shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. I can try.”

  Persephone nodded, and picking up the two blank, nonfeathered shafts that lay beside Roan, she handed them to Moya, who already had the bow strung. “Here, looks like you’re only going to get four with feathers, so practice with these.”

  No one questioned that Moya would do the shooting. She was the most athletic, and the bow was too tall for the dwarfs’ height and the draw too long for their shorter arms. She was also the only one with experience.

  Moya nodded. Fitting the first spear, she drew it back across her chest. She made an unpleasant face, adjusted the position of the shaft on the string, and did it again—letting the tip of the spear rest on the thumb that held the bow. “Hand me Roan’s charcoal.”

  Moya took it and made a mark on the string where the shaft needed to be placed to keep it level when drawn. She tossed the charcoal away, refit the little spear, drew it back, and aimed at Balgargarath.

  “Don’t!” Persephone yelled. “Not yet. Shoot somewhere else. I don’t want it to know.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “We have no idea how smart it is. Let’s not give it any warning.”

  Moya nodded and drew the bow back again until her arm was quivering. She aimed at a trio of big stones toward the rear of the Agave and let go. As expected, the little spear flew erratically, turning sideways, losing speed, and falling before it even left their sight. Moya looked at the fingers that had pulled the string and licked them. She also adjusted the hand that held the bow, sliding her grip up a bit. Then she took the second featherless shaft and tried again. The little spear flew just as awkwardly, but Moya muttered, “Better.”

  Another loud crash shook the ground. Balgargarath had slammed the dragon down and was holding her pinned with one hand around her neck. The dragon shrieked as she tried to rake with her rear legs. The sound caused Suri to bury her face in her hands.

  “With the dragon down like that, Moya has a clear shot,” Frost said.

  “How long, Brin?” Persephone asked.

  “Almost done with this row.”

  “Seph?” Moya looked to her with questioning eyes.

  Persephone nodded. “Go. Do it. Take the shot.”

  Moya took a breath, looked at Roan, and said, “Give me a rowed shaft.”

  Roan handed up a spear with four flights of feathers and a row of burned-in marks. Moya took it with careful fingers and gingerly fit the notch into the string.

  “Does she need to get closer?” Persephone asked.

  “Not if it flies straight,” Roan said.

  All but Brin and Suri watched as Moya arched her back and bent the bow. With a whispered twang, the string flashed and the shaft flew. A cry of delight came from each of them as they saw the little spear travel fast, far, and true. So much so that it flew right past both the dragon and Balgargarath and right out through the crack.

  “Tetlin’s ass!” Moya yelled.

  Persephone didn’t know if it was their shouting in unison or the little spear that had just missed its mark that caught Balgargarath’s attention, but something did. The great monster lifted its ugly head from the pinned form of the dragon to look their way. No doubt about it: The beast focused on Moya.

  “Close,” Persephone said. Hope was back, and with it came fear. “Try again.”

  “That wasn’t my fault. That cul of a stick went off target,” Moya said, her voice more than a little shaky. “At the last second I felt a kick.”

  Balgargarath continued to stare, then took a step toward them.

  Moya held out her hand, rapidly opening and closing it. “Roan! Give me…the…ah…I need another one…another one with a row. Give me another row. Hurry up!”

  Roan handed it to her, and watched as with shaking hands Moya had trouble fitting it in the string. She aimed and let the shaft fly. Again the little feathered stick flew straight, but again it went wide to the left and out the door.

  “Mother-filling son of the Tetlin whore!” Moya yelled.

  “You’ve really nailed shooting through the crack,” Persephone said.

  “It’s not my fault,” Moya yelled back. “That should have been perfect. I was right on.”

  “Did it kick again?” Roan asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Persephone watched the demon. Balgargarath looked out the open door. When he turned back, he focused all his attention on Moya and roared. “Oh, Grand Mother!” she exclaimed as the demon let go of the dragon and charged.

  “Give me another row! Give me a row! A row, a row!” Moya screamed.

  Persephone passed her the last marked shaft.

  “No!” Roan snatched it away.

  The cavern shook as Balgargarath pounded his hooves into the floor, leaving chipped ruts and kicking up shards of rock. The monster closed on them, and was only a few strides away when the dragon downed it with a swipe of her tail.

  Bits of stone sprayed them as the wind from the collapse blew by.

  “Roan, what are you doing?” Moya shouted. “I need it. Now!”

  Roan ignored the demand and tore off one of the flights. “Fit it with the missing feather against the bow staff.”

  Looking desperate and exasperated, Persephone wondered if Moya had heard.

  Balgargarath kicked at the dragon and got to its feet.

  Moya drew back the bow and let the shaft fly. This time it didn’t waver, didn’t hitch. The spear flew with perfect precision and an ever-so-slight arc that Moya had managed to account for. The bolt punched into the center of Balgargarath’s chest. It couldn’t have been a better shot.

  “Yes!” Persephone cried out.

  The beast looked down at the shaft sticking out of its dead-corpse skin.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be dead?” Frost asked, almost pleaded.

  Suri looked up confused.

  Roan had the answer. “It didn’t go deep enough. Not all of the name is inside.”

  “I need another one,” Moya said. “I need another arrow.”

  “Almost done,” Brin said.

  “No,” Roan told her. “Start over on the other side. Make the markings closer to the point.”

  “We don’t have time,” Moya said.

  True enough. Balgargarath snapped the stick off its chest, and with a horrible growl, it began to charge.

  “I’ll just pull back farther. Give me the arrow!”

  Brin looked to Persephone. “Do it!”

  Moya took the arrow and started to fit the shaft. “Dammit!” She put the feathers to her mouth and tore off one of the four.

  Rain flung his pickax at the charging demon with both hands, causing it to flip end-over-end three times before the point glanced off Balgargarath’s leg. The dragon made another lunge, but missed.

  The giant horned monster with its beady eyes, sharpened teeth, and bulbous head shook the ground with its last few strides, cracking stone as it drove forward at an astounding speed. Nothing could stop it. The forward momentum would propel Balgargarath through them and past the wall beyond.

  Moya nocked the arrow and hauled back on the bow until the notched end of the shaft was at her e
ar.

  In the instant before the arrow flew, Persephone saw Moya standing alone in the path of the giant—a perfect sight. She wasn’t shaking, never flinched, didn’t cower even though a ghastly mountain was charging at her. Moya was a true hero. And as she let go of the string, Persephone overflowed with pride.

  That’s one damn fine Shield!

  The arrow’s trip was short by the time Moya loosed it. Given the size of Balgargarath, she couldn’t possibly have missed. Persephone never saw the shot land, as the moment Moya let go she and everyone else were blown flat on their backs. The massive gust of wind ripped Persephone’s torc off her neck and scattered the stack of stone tablets. The table was thrown over. The explosive blast slammed their swords, packs, glowstones, and all of Roan’s worldly possessions into the walls, and the fire that Suri had made was snuffed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Death by Steps

  How many tears must we weep? How loud must we cry? How many farewells must we say, for the dead to hear goodbye?

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  From out of the dark Frost asked, “Anyone else alive?”

  Persephone heard a cough that sounded like Brin.

  “You’re not rid of me yet,” Flood replied. “Rain?”

  “What?” the third of the trio asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Moya? Moya?” Persephone called.

  “Still here,” the woman said with a labored breath. “Got him that time, didn’t I?”

  “Roan? Brin? Suri?” Persephone called out, and in turn they all answered that they, too, survived whatever it was that had happened. Arion was the only one who failed to speak, but Suri declared her no worse than before.

  Persephone spotted the muffled light of one glowstone buried under debris, and crawled to it. Digging the stone out, she held it up. The room was still there although a scorched spot marred the floor where Balgargarath had been. Smeared marks of blackened stone flared out in all directions from that point. Everything else in the room was plastered against the outer walls, including each of them.