Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

Wind blew; the tree shook, and a massive branch fell.

She jumped when it hit the ground. Falling from such a height, the limb would have killed her if it had landed a few inches closer. Broken branches suspended in the forest canopy were called widow-makers. Since Persephone had already lost her husband, the dead wood lying beside her must have been an overachiever.

“What’s that about?” Persephone asked Suri.

The young mystic with the white wolf glanced at the fallen branch and shrugged. “Just the wind, I think. Feels like a storm is coming.”

Once before, when Persephone had sought the great tree’s counsel, Magda’s advice had saved her people. Now she was back, seeking answers again. Months had passed since her last visit, and life at Dahl Rhen had returned to a comfortable routine. The destruction created by the battle between two Miralyith had been cleaned up, but Persephone knew that hadn’t ended the conflict. Questions remained—questions no human or Fhrey could answer. And yet…

Persephone looked at the fallen tree limb. It’s not a good sign when Magda starts a conversation by trying to crush me.

“Something wrong?” Arion asked. The Fhrey was still learning their language and stood beside Suri and Minna watching the proceedings with great interest. She wore the green hat Padera had crocheted for her; its whimsical quality made the Miralyith appear more approachable, less divine, more—human. Arion had come along to witness the oracle in action, although Persephone had expected more talk and less action.

Suri looked up at the tree. “Don’t know.”

“What’s Magda saying?” Persephone shouted to Suri over the rising howl of wind.

That was how it was supposed to work. Persephone posed questions to the tree and the mystic revealed the answer after listening to the rustling of leaves and branches. But Arion was right about something being wrong. Suri had a perplexed look on her face—more than merely puzzled; she looked concerned.

“Not sure,” the girl replied.

Persephone clawed a lock of hair away from her mouth. “Why not? Is she talking in riddles or just ignoring you?”

Suri’s face twisted in frustration. “Oh, she’s talking, all right, but so fast I can’t tell what she’s saying. Just babbling, really. Never seen her like this. She keeps repeating ‘Run…run fast…run far. They’re after you.’?”

“They? Who? Is she talking to us? Is that the answer to my questions?”

Suri shook her head, short hair whipping across the tattoos on her forehead. “Nope. She was yelling before you said anything. I don’t think she heard you. I’m not even sure how Magda knows the word run. I mean, seriously, how does a tree know what that is?”

“Are you saying the tree is hysterical?”

Suri nodded. “Scared to death. I know mice who have made more sense. She’s not even using words now, just making noises.” Suri’s brows jumped up, her face tensing, eyes squinting, mouth pulling tight.

“What?” Persephone asked.

“It’s never good when a tree screams.”

Tall grass slapped Persephone’s legs, her dress whipping and snapping. Ripped from their branches, the oak’s leaves flew thick as snow in a blizzard. Under the dense canopy, Persephone couldn’t see the sky, but the wind was stronger than ever. Stepping out, she discovered that what had been clear blue just moments before had turned a tumultuous gray. Dark clouds bubbled one upon another, turning midday into twilight. A strange green light cast everything in an eerie, unnatural hue.

“What’s happening?” Arion asked.

“Tree is panicking,” Suri answered.

“Maybe we should return to the dahl,” Arion said, her head tilted up. “Yes?”

Minna whined and drew closer to Suri, nearly knocking the girl down. The mystic knelt to comfort her wolf. “Not right, is it, Minna?”

Looking more serious, Arion gave up speaking Rhunic and returned to her native tongue. “We need to—” She was cut off by a blinding flash and horrific crack.

Minna yelped and bolted down the slope.

Persephone staggered. Blinded by the afterimage that left a bright, splotchy band across her vision, she vainly tried to blink it away. Her nostrils filled with wood smoke, and she felt the heat of a blaze.

Magda is on fire!

Arion lay on the ground at the base of the tree, both hands raised, shielding herself. The Miralyith shouted a single word—nothing Persephone recognized—but it sounded like a command. The fire engulfing the old oak vanished with a pop. In its place was a terrible hiss and smoke swirling in a malevolent wind. Magda was split down the center, cleaved in two. A horrible blackened gash with bright-red edges flared with each gust of wind. The ancient and wondrous mother of trees had taken a mortal blow from the gods.

Persephone helped Arion to her feet.

“We need to run,” the Fhrey told them.

“What? Why?”

Arion grabbed her by the wrist and pulled. “Now!”

Persephone’s scalp tingled as Arion dragged her down the hill and out of the glade toward the thick shadow of the Crescent Forest. Suri and Minna were already ahead of them, sprinting.

Crack!

Lightning struck the ground somewhere behind them.

Crack! Crack!

Two more bolts rent the air close enough for her to feel their heat. Running together, Persephone and Arion followed Suri and Minna as they plunged headlong into the forest through thickets, brambles, and thorns. Gasping for air, Persephone glanced back. A series of scorch marks smoldered in a direct line between the oak and where they stood.

Crack!

They all jumped as the sound exploded directly overhead. Like the old oak, the trees above caught fire. One huge branch fell like a giant torch—another widow-maker wannabe.

“Need shelter,” Arion said, and pulled again.

“Rol nearby,” Suri shouted. “This way.” The girl dashed deeper into the wood, Minna bounding at her side.

Persephone might not understand the language of trees, but she understood anguish. The wood shrieked. Branches snapped, trunks groaned, and the forest cried out as the wind stripped away summer gowns of green. Then a new sound rose, a loud, all-encompassing roar from everywhere at once. At first, Persephone thought it might be sheets of rain, but the noise was much too loud, far too violent. Balls of ice tore through leaves and branches. Fist-sized missiles assailed the canopy, ricocheting off limbs and trunks. With arms raised over her head, Persephone screamed as two huge chunks of ice struck her back, glancing blows, but they carried the sting of a switch and the force of a punch.

Ahead, Suri stopped at the foot of a sheer, rocky cliff and slapped the face of it with her palm. To Persephone’s immense relief, a section of the stone’s face opened, revealing a little room neatly carved out of rock. The mystic leapt inside, followed closely by the wolf. From the doorway, Suri swung her arms in huge circles, waving the other women to safety. The chieftain of Dahl Rhen and the Miralyith crossed the threshold together, crouching to avoid hitting their heads. Once in, Persephone turned to witness the destruction.