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

The tent still leaked.

Raithe watched water fall from sagging cloth where overhead pools had formed, three of them, and each one dripped. He wasn’t complaining—quite the opposite. He was amazed that pieces of stretched cloth could keep the area mostly dry after four solid days of rain.

Clan Rhen had settled along the northern wall of Dahl Tirre. The stacked-stone barrier ringing the village had provided shelter from the wind, which blew in endlessly from the sea. The open field afforded plenty of room to spread out, and after the villagers unloaded the carts, they dug a series of fire pits and stored the supplies. Water had been pulled from Tirre’s well, originally a source of tension with the locals who insisted the newcomers needed to wait each day until all the Tirreans were finished. Despite this, everything had worked out fairly well until the rain.

The downpour made the days difficult and sleeping a misery. Under such deplorable conditions, frustration led to anger and dissent spread. Complaints grew frequent, including regrets about accepting Persephone as chieftain and the decision to leave Dahl Rhen. After hearing them, Raithe stayed close to her and walked with one hand on his sword.

This is how it’ll end. How everything will fall apart, he had thought with irony. Not with war or the might of the Fhrey’s magic but with rain.

Then Roan had started unrolling the wool.

For centuries, hunters had built shelters from animal skins, but there hadn’t been many of those in the dahl. What they did have plenty of was wool. Roan adapted the concept, and soon Persephone had assigned a small army to follow Roan’s directions. Using spears as poles, a series of taut awnings were fashioned that butted against the wall. When supports ran out, Roan dismantled the carts. The trick was in the angle that caused the water to run off. Soon a narrow porch was erected, providing enough shelter to sleep and cook beneath if everyone took turns. A few hours out of the rain to eat a warm meal or take a nap eased rebellious thoughts—at least for a while. Raithe worried what winter would bring, even though he had no intention of being there when the snows fell.

“Mind if I have a look?” Flood asked, pointing at Raithe’s sword.

Raithe had ducked under the wool near Padera’s cooking pit for his midday meal. He’d picked a bad time, as the three Dherg were there, too. Why they were still around he couldn’t understand. They were always underfoot, and more than a little annoying. “Why?”

Flood shrugged. “Strange seeing someone like you with a bronze sword. I thought your kind still used stone-tipped spears.”

Raithe didn’t like the tone. “And your kind are just plain strange.”

Flood harrumphed, folded his little arms, and scowled.

Raithe pulled the sword from his belt.

The Dherg flinched.

“Relax. You said you wanted to see it.”

“See it not feel it.”

Raithe flipped the weapon around, presenting the pommel. Flood hesitated, then reached out and took the blade. He held it up to the light and studied the edge.

“Took this from that elf you killed?” Flood asked.

“Elf?”

“Elf, Fhrey, same thing. Only they hate elf more.” He gestured once more toward the weapon. “So is that where you got this blade?”

Raithe nodded. “Elf-made bronze.” The Dherg scowled and shook his head as if the sword had insulted him.

“Best weapon I’ve ever had. What’s wrong with it?”

The Dherg handed the weapon back. “Feel how light it is.”

“Yeah, that’s what makes it good.”

Flood rolled his eyes. “This is the product of laziness. Look at the blade. See the color? It’s almost white.”

“So, why is that a problem?” Raithe asked, certain Flood was trying to find fault where there wasn’t any.

“Bronze is made from combining copper and tin. Tin has a lower melting point, so it’s easier to liquefy than copper. This sword is tin-heavy. That’s why it’s so light in color and weight. If it had more copper, it’d have a golden hue and would be stronger. Copper…good copper…is scarce. Can’t really make a good bronze sword without it, and there are better uses for copper if you come across it. For instance, black bronze is used to make our most revered statues. It’s made by mixing gold and silver with copper.” He pointed at the sword as Raithe put it back in his belt. “That’s not a sword. Not a real one. It’s cheap cosmetic jewelry.”

“Well, it cut right through this.” Raithe hauled out the broken end of his father’s blade, which was sheathed on his back.

Flood looked it over. “Where’d you get this?”

“Handed down by members of my family. Supposedly a Dherg made it.”

Flood frowned. “Belgriclungreian, if you please.”

Raithe smirked. “Is that a word or did you belch?”

“Point is we didn’t make this. We haven’t made copper swords since before the War of Elven Aggression. And no one would make a sword this long out of copper, too weak. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

It didn’t surprise Raithe that his family heirloom, the thing his father loved more than his wife, daughter, and sons put together, was worthless. He expected Flood to toss the half-a-sword back at him, but he kept it, turning the hilt over and over in his little hands. The Dherg licked the metal, and amazement washed over his face.

“What?”

“It’s copper.”

“You had to lick it to tell that? Of course it’s copper.”

“I mean it’s pure copper. I’d say”—he licked again—“ninety-five, ninety-eight percent.” Flood looked up at him as if this should mean something. “I told you copper is scarce. Most of it was mined out during the war. Pure copper is more valuable than gold these days. I’m not a swordsmith, but in the hands of a good one, this sword could be melted down and turned into quite a few excellent weapons. Much better than that elven ornament you’re carrying.”

Flood handed the broken end back, and by then the line for food had moved up. The Dherg went on ahead, leaving Raithe to consider that his father’s belief in the value of that blade might not have been so misplaced.

—

A short time after Raithe finished his meal, the rain was either stopping or taking another of its momentary pauses. Persephone ventured out from under the wool, and he watched her take a few tentative steps, navigating the brown puddles. She paused, looking up with a squint, and then she winced, as the rain hadn’t given up entirely. She wiped her face, held out her palms for a few seconds, and then set out into the open, walking down the length of the encampment.

Raithe, who had been scraping a rabbit skin, stuffed the pelt into the folds of his leigh mor and jogged after her. She hadn’t gone far, following the wall to the main gate, which wasn’t completely repaired—the work having been delayed by the rain.

“And where might you be going?” he asked.