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

“I can’t suggest Krun,” Harkon said. “He’s fine with wheat and helping the sick, but he’s no god of war.”

“I would have proclaimed the might of Eraphus,” Lipit told them, “but…” He looked at Persephone. “Her god is greater. We closed our gates to them, and Mari blew them off their hinges. Then she flew in, bearing gifts of food, drink, tools, and furs. Rhen’s goddess is a powerful and generous god.”

The chieftains looked to Persephone.

“Is that true?” Alward asked.

Persephone looked out through the open door at the stone figure still there, slick and dark with rain. “I’ve always felt she listened when we prayed to her.”

“Then perhaps we should do that,” Lipit said. “Pray to Mari for a way out of this. Pray for an answer.”

“I brought a prized pig with me,” Krugen said. “Tomorrow I’ll offer it in sacrifice.”

“We’ll all offer sacrifices,” Tegan said. “Offer her our best and pledge our loyalty in return for saving us. Maybe she can send someone who will draw that sword from the pillar. And then she’ll rain down thousands of swords. Tens of thousands. Enough to equip every able-bodied man. Then…with Nyphron’s training and Mari’s swords…we’ll have a chance.” To no one in particular he asked, “Do you think that would work?”

Lipit looked out the open door with a surprised, almost frightened, expression.

“What?” Tegan asked.

“She’s looking at it.” Lipit pointed at the statue of Mari. “She’s facing the sword in the post. It’s a sign. If we reject all other gods in favor of Mari, she will send us a worthy keenig and swords for our warriors.”

The sword belonged to Raithe. Everyone knew that. They also knew his reputation. He killed gods. That blade would remain in the post until Raithe himself retrieved it. Persephone suspected Lipit thought the same thing, but neither of them said anything.

—

“What do you think?” Brin asked as she and Persephone left the meeting. Brin was still carrying the slate clutched to her chest.

“About what, exactly?”

“If we…I mean…do you think Mari will help us?”

Persephone paused in the center of the courtyard beside Raithe’s sword; its pommel was wet and dripping with the rain that had dwindled to a half-hearted sprinkle. “There’s always hope.”

The other chieftains were spending the night in the lodge. Persephone didn’t feel comfortable sleeping with the men. Her place was with her people. And yet she had no doubt the other chieftains spent their nights drinking and talking. Alliances were being formed and trade agreements brokered in that dark and stuffy tomb. Rumor held that Harkon and Krugen had already agreed to trade wool for amber, and during the most recent meeting, they’d sat side by side. Persephone and Rhen were becoming isolated, growing even weaker than they already were. She was a poor leader and Rhen was suffering because of it. But what would trade agreements matter if they didn’t find a way to fight the Fhrey?

Persephone’s feet felt heavy as she and Brin walked out the gates. Her neck and back hurt from sitting in those stiff chairs, and she was hungry. Lipit had served food at midday, but she couldn’t eat much. Stress killed her appetite. Hungry, stiff, and sore, the two made their way up the path that wound around the wall.

“Your Majesty.”

Brin and Persephone turned to see Frost and Flood jogging up the trail behind them.

“They’re still here?” Brin whispered.

Persephone shrugged.

“A word, Your Majesty,” Frost begged in a breathless voice.

The two Dherg were still in their metal suits, with broad belts and knee-high boots. The interlocked links of their armor jangled as they jogged to catch up.

“Your Majesty?” Brin asked.

Persephone shrugged again.

“Now that you’ve had your clan meetings, I wonder if we could enlist some help in approaching Arion once again? Neith is just a short boat trip away. She’ll only be gone a few days. I can’t begin to express how important her help would be.”

“I’m sorry,” Persephone told them. “We have our own problems to deal with. We’re on the verge of…”

The sun poked out of the rain clouds and the last rays of the setting sun glinted off the Dherg’s metal shirts.

Persephone’s eyes narrowed as she focused on the shimmering rings, then shifted her sight to their sheathed swords. She nudged Brin and pointed.

The girl appeared confused for a moment. Then her eyes widened, and she began to nod. “Of course! There’s many stories about them making weapons. They make fine ones.”

Frost raised his voice. “Belgriclungreians make the best weapons in Elan. We alone possess the secret of metal alloys and we wrought them into works of art for generations before your kind even came to Rhulyn.”

“As good as Fhrey weapons?” Persephone asked.

Both Dherg spat on the ground in unison.

“Everything the elves know, our people taught them,” Frost said.

“They stole, you mean,” Flood corrected.

“Have you seen the sword Raithe carried?”

“Which one?” Flood asked.

“The Fhrey blade. Can you make better swords than that?”

“Well, ah…” Frost looked at his companion. “Not me personally. Flood and I aren’t weaponsmiths. I told you, we’re builders. Walls, pillars, and bridges are our specialty. You want a fortification? We can do that. Rain is a digger. If you need a tunnel, he’s your Belgriclungreian. None of us knows much about metallurgy or swordcraft. Those are closely guarded secrets.”

“But your people can make a decent sword, right?”

Both of the Dherg looked at her, aghast.

“Of course!” Flood declared.

“And how many could be made?”

“What do you mean?”

“If your people were so inclined. How many swords could they make?”

“If you were so inclined, how many loaves of bread can your people produce?”

Persephone smiled. “We can make thousands of loaves in a very short time. Are you saying yours could do the same with swords?”

“If we wanted to, certainly. Once, we were very good at such things. Back in the days of King Mideon, the furnaces of Drumindor provided thousands of swords each day for the war against the elves. And all were better than the one Raithe carries.”

Persephone grinned at Brin, who smiled back.

“The giant you spoke of,” Persephone said. “How badly do you want him dealt with? If I could convince my friend Arion to help you, could you convince your weaponsmith friends to help us?”

Frost and Flood exchanged looks of surprise. Then Frost said, “I can honestly say Gronbach would be most grateful to be rid of the, ah…the…giant we spoke of. While I can’t make any guarantees on his behalf, I think I can arrange a meeting for you to make your case. Would that suffice?”

Suffice: The word sounded so weak and tenuous, especially when the fate of an entire race of people might rest upon it. “Yes,” she said. “I would be in your debt.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Crossing the Bridge