Age of Swords Page 27

  “You can do it,” Arion encouraged. “I know you’re scared, but you have to try. Take your time. Do it gently, slowly. It will be all right.”

  Everyone was looking, making her feel self-conscious—under too much pressure. “I can’t…not now.” She saw Arion’s disapproval, and it was saddening, but killing her friend would be far worse.

  Arion sighed. “It’s not dangerous, but”—she held up her hands in patient resignation—“I won’t push you. We both know that’s not a good idea. You’ll come to it when you’re ready.”

  “So no fire?” Moya asked.

  Roan unloaded her bow and one of the sticks that she hadn’t put a stone point on yet, and within five minutes had the pile of tinder smoking enough so that when Frost blew on it, a flame caught.

  “Thank you, oh resident wizard,” Moya said.

  Roan said nothing and just set to putting her things in order.

  “Who is this?” Brin asked. She was still standing, still laden with gear and pointing at the picture behind them.

  “That’s Drome,” Frost replied. “He forges the sun each morning and then throws it west, where it flies until it cools, goes out, and falls. Then after a brief rest, he does it again.”

  “Ridiculous,” Roan said softly without taking her eyes off what she was doing. “Makes no sense. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “To make the days,” Frost said with a dash of irritation.

  Roan looked up and cringed. “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Frost, how far do we have to go?” Persephone asked.

  Frost and Flood looked at each other, asking questions with their eyes, to which they both shrugged and then turned to Rain.

  “Depends,” Rain said. “Balgargarath doesn’t stay in one place. He’s looking for a way out.”

  “We’ll go to where we first stumbled on him.” Frost spoke as if just then deciding.

  “Smart thinking,” Flood said with a sneer. “Almost died doing that last time. We definitely ought to try it again.”

  Frost glared at him. “You have a better idea?”

  “Than dying? Living springs to mind.”

  “Why are you always so obstinate? So against everything I say?”

  “Obstinate? I’m not obstinate. But if I were, it would be because of you. When you’re not around, I’m a prince of a fellow.” Flood’s voice grew loud. “You bring out the worst in everyone. Take Rain, for instance. He was a law-abiding, trustworthy, and honest fellow. Now look at him. The lad is a criminal with no future other than a rematch with a demon. And really, what are the odds of us defying fate a second time? You ruin everything you get near.”

  Somewhere in the shadows not governed by the gem’s glow, they heard a stone clack.

  All heads turned.

  “What’s that?” Moya asked in a whisper, her eyes peering into the dark.

  No one answered for a while.

  “Well?” Moya pressed, this time looking at the dwarfs.

  Frost scowled. “How should I know? Animal probably. Like I was telling the mystic, after so many centuries, all manner of things have crawled in here…rats or a squirrel most likely.”

  “Sounded bigger than a squirrel,” she accused, and picked up the shield she had laid down.

  “What are you doing, Moya?” Persephone asked.

  “I’m going to take a look.”

  “Moya, I don’t—”

  “How is anyone going to sleep? How can we get any rest without knowing what made that sound? I’m just going to go over there and look. If it’s rats, then great.”

  “If not?”

  Moya picked up her spear.

  “How are you even going to see. It’s dark over there.”

  Rain stepped over to the glowing gem, and with the slightest tap of his pick, he chipped off a shard. He presented it to Moya. The little disk was about the size and shape of a good skipping stone and glowed in his palm.

  “If you cup it,” Rain said, “it’ll intensify the glow.”

  Moya nodded, returned the shield to her back, and took the stone.

  Persephone sighed and got to her feet while drawing her own sword. “Give me the light, and put your shield back on,” she said, and together the two walked in the direction of the sound—into the dark.

  —

  “Whatever it is, it should be scared now,” Moya whispered. “A Fhrey-trained warrior and the killer of the famed brown bear are on its path.”

  Persephone didn’t respond, too frightened. She held no illusions about her prowess as a warrior. The tale of her battle with Grin the Brown was overblown. The exaggeration—a spark Raithe and Malcolm had ignited—had been retold by everyone until it eventually became a forest fire. They wanted to believe their chieftain was brave and capable. She wondered if Moya’s interest in learning martial arts had been born from Persephone’s own battle-warrior fame.

  Maybe if Moya had been there and seen how pathetically I beat the trapped and choking bear with a shield while crying in terror, my new Shield wouldn’t be so eager to play swordswoman. Just thinking of that moment, of the blood and the claws, invited Persephone’s stomach to crawl into her throat.

  She couldn’t remember what the shield had felt like, but the sword she carried now was heavy. Persephone wished it were smaller—and therefore lighter—while simultaneously wanting it longer and better able to hit things farther away.

  Am I holding it too high? Too low? Should I have it out at all? Yes, I should definitely have it out.

  She chastised herself for not watching Reglan closer when he drew a weapon, but what need was there for a woman to know the skills of a man?

  And yet, here I am. Why didn’t I just send a Dherg? The thought plowed into her. Because I’m the chieftain—and either I really am or I’m just pretending.

  The declaration sounded strong in her head, but another voice whispered: You’re being so-o-o-o stupid right now. It’s just pride. You’re going to get yourself, and maybe everyone else, killed because of your idiotic ego. You don’t have the fighting skills of a man, but you’re learning our faults fast enough.

  The voice was familiar, and it came as a shock that it took so long to recognize—it was Reglan’s. Not really him, her husband never said anything even remotely similar. But in her head, she heard the same gruff bark he used during arguments when he was finally fed up and angry, his this-is-over-now tone.

  Why am I hearing Reglan’s voice all of a sudden? Is it because we’re about to be reunited?

  The two walked slowly. Despite her bravado, Moya was in no great hurry, and Persephone wondered if her friend was regretting her actions now that they were alone in the dark. To her credit, Moya walked out in front—a perfect Shield for her chieftain. Persephone held up the glowing stone, panning it back and forth, trying to light Moya’s way.

  Tables and chairs came into view and appeared eerily normal. Something about everyday items of people long dead bothered her.

  Did anyone actually die right here? Will we find bodies—bones?

  Persephone was shifting the glow of the stone at the same instant that she heard Moya whisper, “There!”

  The light revealed a small animal. They both stared in fascination. The size and shape of a rather large rat, it looked like it was covered in banded plates protecting everything, including the tail.

  “Even their rats have armor,” Moya said. She let her shoulders relax and the butt of her spear rest on the ground. “So the dwarf was right. Just an animal.”

  “But Moya, it’s dead.” Persephone lowered the light to show the dark pool of blood that looked black in the green glow. The head was mangled, as if chewed on.

  “Lucky us, we don’t need to fight it. I’m not even sure where I would stab the thing.”

  “Moya, it’s dead…recently dead. What killed it?”

  “Probably fell, see?” Moya pointed up. “That was the sound we heard, this plated war-rat fell from up there. Most likely the only way to kill one
of them.”

  Apparently satisfied, Moya started walking back. Persephone wasn’t convinced.

  How often do rats fall to their deaths?

  She panned the light around, searching for would-be killers, but saw nothing. Looking up, she spotted the balcony Moya had indicated.

  Maybe Moya’s right.

  Then in that brief moment that felt oddly like a victory, she saw a shadow move. What had been nothing but darkness a moment before, shifted, and Persephone spied two glowing-red eyes. The thing was man-sized, but not a man—not human, not Fhrey, not Dherg, nor even a goblin. This was lithe and lanky, with limbs too long, a body oddly twisted, and those eyes!

  It’s looking down at me just the same as I’m looking up at it!

  “Moya!” Persephone bolted to her, grabbing the young woman by the elbow. “The rat’s death wasn’t an accident! It was pushed off that ledge.”

  Moya laughed. “You’re saying the rat was murdered? Careful, Seph, that’s a pretty serious accusa—”

  “I’m serious! I saw something above us.”

  Hearing the fear in her voice, Moya’s eyes narrowed. She gave a glance upward, and took a step back toward where the rat lay.

  “No!” Persephone said. She still had hold of Moya’s arm, and pulled her back toward camp. “Keep walking.”

  “Wait. What did you see?”

  “Something.”

  “Something?” Moya asked.

  “It’s dark.”

  “You have the light.”

  “Let’s just get back. I’ll explain when we get to the others.”

  Persephone didn’t think all the light in the world would’ve made the vision any clearer. She couldn’t explain how she knew this, only that she did. The thing made her feel empty and cold. Even coming face-to-face with the bear hadn’t done that. This was something else, something terrifying, and it was just a few floors above them.

  Did it throw the rat down to kill it? To break its shell like birds do with shellfish? Maybe it’s trying to lure us away, separating us into groups. Is it coming down right now? Or is it running off to alert others? How long do we have before they come?

  “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Moya asked Persephone as they re-entered the glow of the camp.

  “What?” Frost asked.

  Moya pulled her arm back. “Persephone saw something, and she won’t say what it was.”

  “You saw what made the noise?” Brin asked.

  “It was a rat,” Moya said. “An odd thing that wears armor, a war-rat.”

  “We call them armadillos,” Flood said.

  “Are there no short words in your language?” Moya asked. “Having even a simple conversation must take hours.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what Seph saw,” Brin said.

  Moya shook her head. “She saw something else. Something above us on one of the higher floors.”

  “What was it?” Brin asked.

  “I don’t know.” Persephone realized she still had her sword out, and struggled to slip the tip back into the scabbard. “It stood on a balcony looking down at me, right above the war-rat. I couldn’t even see it at first. All I saw was…I don’t know…this thin shadow leaning on the railing.”

  “A Belgriclungreian?” Frost asked.

  “No. And not human, either, and not an animal. It had bright-red eyes. Could it be the demon? This Balgargarath?”

  “No,” all three dwarfs said together.

  “Seem pretty sure of yourselves,” Moya said.

  “You don’t see Balgargarath and wonder if you’ve seen Balgargarath,” Frost explained.

  “Then what was it?” Moya asked.

  “I have no idea,” Persephone answered.

  “Was the rat’s face missing?” Suri asked. She was sitting cross-legged before the glowing stone as if trying to warm herself at a campfire.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  “You’re very odd, aren’t you?” Frost said.

  “No, she’s right,” Persephone said. “It looked like something had chewed on the war-rat.”

  “So you have raow here too,” the mystic said to the dwarfs.

  “A raow?” Frost asked, tugging on his beard.

  Suri looked up. “Evil spirit that can take over the body of a lost person. Didn’t know your kind could be turned into one, though.”

  “What do they do?” Frost asked.

  “Lots of things, I suppose. Don’t really know. But they eat faces first, always faces first. And they build nests out of bones and sleep on them as beds. They can’t sleep again without adding to the pile.”

  “So they’re bad, then?” Moya asked.

  Suri nodded. “We had a raow in the Crescent the year after the Great Famine. Tura took care of it.”

  “What did she do?” Moya hadn’t taken a seat and was looking in the direction she and Persephone had come from.

  “Trapped it inside a hollow oak.”

  “We don’t have any oaks here,” Brin said.

  “Can they be killed?” Frost asked.

  “I would think so. Although, come to think of it…”

  “What?” Moya asked.

  “I always wondered why Tura chose to trap the raow rather than killing it. She checked the tree every day—even years later. Once when she tapped on the trunk, I swore I heard a hiss.”

  “And they’re dangerous?” Moya still stood holding tight to her spear and shield.

  “What part of ‘they eat people’s faces’ didn’t you hear?” Brin asked. “Yes, raow are definitely to be feared. Maeve told stories of how they decimated entire regions. Raow eat anything with a face, but people are their favorite food. Whole villages had to be moved or just died out completely.”

  “Is that true, Suri? Are they really as dangerous as all that?” Moya asked.

  The mystic shrugged. “I never saw it myself. Tura made me stay home and wash the berries while she ran an errand, as she called it. She had funny names for things like that: running errands, waking up the sun, bringing the rain. None of them were remotely like the description. You never wanted to see her bring the rain.”

  “Still,” Moya said, “Tura was an old woman. Like Padera, right? I mean, how dangerous can a thing be if someone like Tura could handle it?”

  Suri smiled then. Her face lit up as if for a moment she were in another place, another time, sharing a secret with someone none of them could see. “I saw that old woman drive a hungry bear off a deer-kill with nothing but angry words. She could calm a hive of furious bees, and tell ants to bother someone else’s picnic. Can Padera do any of that? Can you? Tura spent almost her whole life alone in the forest. I never saw so much as a scratch on her before that day. She came back hours later, exhausted, with her cloak shredded and deep cuts on her arm and across her face. Took months for her to heal and even then there were always faint white scars.” Suri looked up at them. “I can’t say for certain, because I wasn’t there. But if I were to guess, I’d say raow are very dangerous.”

  “Do you think it will attack us?” Persephone asked.

  Suri shrugged. “Raow have to eat before going to sleep for the night. So I guess it depends on just how hungry it is, and how hard it is to find more war-rat thingies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Betrayal

  The Miralyith once thought themselves to be gods. I have often wondered what the gods thought about that.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Mawyndulë kept the gray cloak hidden. He didn’t know why. The thing was just a nondescript bit of cloth, but he kept it buried at the bottom of a chest. He thought of it often, and finally gave in. After blocking the door with a chair, he fished out the cloak and put it on. Inga and Flynn weren’t good tailors. The seams were uneven, and the loose stitching crossed over itself in places. The fabric was cheaper than anything Mawyndulë had ever worn. The cloak really was an awful garment, and he felt foolish the moment he had it on, and yet, he also felt something else. He put the hood up a
nd experienced an echo, a memory of the thrill he’d had that night when they all cheered for him, and Makareta took his hand.

  The door rattled, and Mawyndulë’s heart stopped. For several seconds he stood frozen. They’ve caught me! Vasek and his secret guard had come to haul him away.

  “Maw? What’s going on?” a voice demanded. Worse than Vasek, it was his father. “Maw, what’s in front of this door?”

  Mawyndulë tore the cloak from his back, catching the hood briefly on his head. He shoved it in the trunk and brought the top down just as his father pushed into the room. Lothian had a perturbed expression—more so than usual. “Why is this chair here?”

  “Ah…I…I just put it there. Getting it out of the way for a moment.”

  “Out of the way? It’s right in the way.” His father moved the chair aside, glaring at it, and then he closed the door behind him.

  As flustered as he was, Mawyndulë was coherent enough to find it strange that his father had come to his private chambers. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Not even the year before, when Mawyndulë had a wretched illness that left him bedridden for two whole weeks, had there been a visit. The white-haired physician had come each day, looking so worried that Mawyndulë believed he was dying. But his father never stopped in to see if his son still lived.

  And when Mawyndulë had failed his first attempt to pass the entrance exam to the Estramnadon Academy, there also hadn’t been a visit. Treya had gone to the added effort of putting flowers in his room, fluffing his pillows, and telling the other servants, “Hush, you fools! Think of the prince. What will become of him if he can’t pass the Sharhasa?” Even then, Mawyndulë’s father hadn’t come to him. In fact, until that moment, Mawyndulë wasn’t sure his father knew where Mawyndulë’s chambers were. Yes, his father’s visit was strange, but what really disturbed Mawyndulë was that Lothian had closed the door. Whatever this was about, it was private.