Screams were carried on the wind. Cries of pain and horror rose up from the village and the lower yards. They were faint enough to be the wails of ghosts.
“My relatives have arrived.” Grygor pointed down at the seven bridges as huge Grenmorians lumbered across, wielding great clubs that they used to bash chunks out of anything still standing.
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“Don’t get along with my family.” He looked down at her.
“No one gets along with their family,” Padera replied.
“They tried to kill me—twice. Sheer luck saved me the first time. Second time it was Nyphron. Didn’t look back after that.”
The world shook, and both Grygor and Padera staggered, reaching for the door frame for support.
“They’re doing that again,” she said. “Treating this fortress like a dog treats a rabbit caught in its teeth.”
Another shake and the dome of the Verenthenon cracked like an egg. Just a tiny spidery line, but the fissure, jagged and terrible, declared a prophecy. A moment later, a horde of people spilled out from under the dome. A sprinting line of evacuees raced across the corbel bridge toward Grygor and Padera. Most were soldiers, including the chieftains Tegan and Harkon, but leading the pack were Moya, Brin, Tekchin, and Tesh.
The prophecy fulfilled itself as the dome fell. Dust of broken stone belched from the belly of the Verenthenon, a cloud that obscured the length of the span. Padera lost sight of everyone for a long awful moment. Then Moya appeared, slick with sweat, pumping her arms, her bow held high in one hand.
Grygor and Padera moved clear as dust-covered soldiers poured in.
“Seal the door!” Tegan shouted when the last survivor dove inside.
Grygor looked more than pleased to slam the bronze door shut and lay the metal brace.
“Everything on the other side of that door is lost to us.” Harkon wiped the dust and grime from his face.
“They crushed us at the front gate.” Bergin panted for air. “There’s no stopping them.”
Tegan placed a hand against the closed door as if willing it to hold. “There’s too many.”
“And then the light show started,” Harkon grumbled.
“And now they have giants,” Moya said, glancing at Grygor. “I’m going up to Persephone. I’ll die with her.”
The others didn’t say anything, but many nodded.
“I’ll stay here and hold this door,” Tegan declared. “I hate stairs.”
“Me, too.” Harkon pulled his sword and weighed it in his hands. “Stairs are the gods’ curse to men.”
“I’m going to stay,” Tesh told Brin, who took a step back as if she’d been pushed. “It’s the best way to protect you.”
“Why are you down here?” Moya asked Padera.
“I was sent to find Raithe.”
Moya shook her head and pointed at the door with her bow. “There’s nothing on the other side of that door now except bodies.”
* * *
—
In the smithy, heads jerked at the sound of another explosion, but Malcolm seemed unconcerned. Tressa and the dwarfs stared wide-eyed at the door as screams came from directly outside. Raithe knew those sounds would come back to them in nightmares for the rest of their lives, if they survived the night. There were other sounds, too: deep booms, clangs, and the howl of whirlwinds.
Something banged against the little wood door, eight vertical maple boards held together by a Z brace with a simple brass latch.
Roan worked a foot pedal similar to a spinning wheel, but this one rotated an arm of soft cloth. Then she stopped and, pulling a rag from the waist of her leather apron, wiped the sword in her hands. Turning, she held the weapon to the light of the forge and nodded to herself. Then, still chasing down smudges with the rag, she carried the blade across the room and handed it to Raithe. Holding it out with both hands, she used the cloth so that no part of her skin left a print.
“I did my best,” Roan said.
Long, shimmering, and with a rich black color, the sword was perfection. Roan’s skill at a forge and anvil had grown beyond imagining. The object she placed in his hands wasn’t a sword, wasn’t a weapon at all; it was a work of art.
Everyone in the room stared at him as he looked at it.
This isn’t a sword for me to wield. I’m looking at—I’m holding—my own death.
“I…” Roan’s voice cracked, then just stopped. She bit her lip and started to cry.
“It’s beautiful,” Raithe told her. “The most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.”
She began to sob, to collapse; she ran back to the worktable but pushed the stool aside and sat on the floor, drawing her knees up. That’s when Raithe realized the obvious. The sword had been her support, and not just the one he held. All the swords, the shields, and armor that Roan had made were the pillars she had lashed herself to in order to remain standing. The work had been her distraction, her world within the world, her retreat, but this blade was the last, and the war was finally knocking.
Raithe weighed the sword in his hands: heavy, well-balanced, and magnificent. He turned it, and the glow of the forge shone across its face.