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

Flanking the fireplace were shelves upon shelves and more shelves of little drawers with small, white, polished-marble handles. Tacked up on the wall to their left was a large sheet of tanned animal skin—very thin—on which was painted a strange image. Not pretty like those Brin had decorated her home with. This was very detailed and showed hundreds of lines all interconnected in rings like the pattern found in the slice of a very large tree. A window of nine square glass panes made up the wall to their right. Glass. Persephone had only seen it at Alon Rhist, and she knew none of the others, except Arion, had ever seen anything like it. With the darkness outside, the material magically reflected their own images.

“Please, do sit down.” The red-bearded Dherg gestured at the chairs, as the door to the room closed from the outside. Their escorts crossed the room and waited for them to comply before the one who spoke sat on a wobbly stool behind the desk.

“I am Gronbach Eyck Prigmoore, Master Crafter and mayor of Caric,” he said with a strong Dherg accent that formed most of the sounds in the back of his throat before rolling them out, giving the words a sharp, hard sound. “I understand that you were invited here by these three? Is that correct?”

They all looked to Persephone, even Arion. “Yes,” she replied. “We heard you were having a problem with a giant, and we’ve come to rid you of that menace in exchange for weapons.”

“What sort of weapons?”

Persephone realized she hadn’t considered what would be best. Her people had always used spears and axes, but perhaps swords and shields would be better. She looked at Frost, who sat across from them in front of the rows of little drawers looking just as nervous as she felt. “Swords.” She decided. “Ones that can stand up against the Fhrey’s.”

Gronbach noted the exchange of glances and frowned at Frost and Flood. “Why?”

“We are going to war against them.”

Gronbach’s eyes widened, and immediately he looked at Arion. “This is very strange…very, very strange.” He fumbled with a piece of shiny gray metal bent in an L-shape, flipping it over and back between his fingers. “We have treaties with the Fhrey. You must know this, severe, harshly limiting treaties.”

“Do they prevent you from trading weapons?” Persephone asked.

He looked up. “Well, no, not exactly, but I’m quite certain that’s because no one ever imagined…I simply can’t see that they would…this is very strange.” He looked at Arion again, suspiciously this time. “I think it would be best if we just sent you back home and pretended none of this ever happened.”

“You can’t do that,” Flood burst out, giving Persephone the impression that a great deal had been discussed while she was held in the other room.

“They are our only hope,” Frost told him, his tone quieter but no less dire.

“There’s no reason to believe they can do anything,” Gronbach responded.

“Do you think we would have risked execution if we didn’t know? If we weren’t sure?” Flood said. He pointed at Arion. “She is Miralyith, just like Fenelyus. We saw her open the ground, which swallowed a giant.” Then he pointed at Suri. “She is her apprentice, and killed that same giant. If anyone can do something, it’s them.”

“You have to let them try,” Frost said. He glanced awkwardly at all of them and added, “None of us have a choice anymore.”

“Because of you!” Gronbach shouted. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. More than six thousand years it was contained. Three hundred of our bravest warriors gave their lives to trap it, and you…” He began to say more, but then stopped himself, taking a moment to breathe deeply several times.

He looked back at Arion. “We don’t like each other, your kind and mine. An ocean of blood divides us. The law is clear. If I let you loose in the depths of our holy city of Neith, I will be thrown into the fires of Drumindor just as surely as these three.”

“But aren’t you the ruler of your kind?” Persephone asked.

Gronbach’s brows rose. “Of course not. I told you, I’m only the mayor of Caric.”

“Then shouldn’t we be speaking to the leader of your people?” She directed her question to Frost, who made a quick shake of his head.

“We no longer have a king,” Rain explained in the silence that followed. “Mideon was the last of the Belgriclungreian monarchs. When his daughter, Beatrice, died, so did the bloodline and the monarchy.”

“So who is in charge?” Persephone asked.

Gronbach appeared puzzled for a moment. “Well…no one.”

“Each city or village has a mayor or council,” Rain clarified.

“It’s one of the things we were hoping to fix,” Frost said, while stepping forward. “We need to reclaim the Stone Throne, crown a new king, and restore the monarchy and our people to greatness. The lack of a single ruler has doomed our people to divided bickering, too many petty disputes. Every village has its own way of doing things. We can’t even haul a cart from Linden Lott to Drumindor because the track of the road changes width. How can we possibly accomplish anything that way? We’re no different than Rhunes now; it’s impacting our crafts. We’re forgetting the old ways because the tools and recipes are buried under that mountain.”

Persephone addressed Gronbach, “So, if you are in charge…at least here…you can negotiate a trade, yes? If there is no one who’ll stop you, then—”

“Didn’t you listen?” Gronbach exclaimed. “Everyone would stop me. A mob would form and carry me to the fires of Drumindor, and they would have no trouble navigating the irregular road!”

Gronbach glared at Frost and then began stroking the length of his beard, his eyes shifting from side to side. He huffed, groaned, and finally sighed. “And yet…” he began. The dwarf had his jaw clenched, his mouth frowning deeply. “If we do nothing…”

Gronbach stood up and walked to the drawing on the wall. “Balgargarath reached the Great Anvil two days ago.” He tapped on the drawing. “Echo and Khem led teams down to seal the Great Gate at Rol Berg.” He tapped the drawing again, this time at a different spot. “Their efforts won’t hold. We don’t have long now. Khem estimates three weeks.”

“Two,” Rain said with conviction.

“Two?” Gronbach looked at him skeptically.

Frost and Flood both nodded.

“If Rain says two weeks,” Frost explained, “it’ll be two weeks.”

Gronbach’s shoulders slumped, his arms dangled limp at his sides, and his head hung. “We’re doomed.”

“Gronbach,” Frost said, “if this works, all of Neith will be open again. We can finally go home.”

“And if it doesn’t…”

“Then you’ll be dead even if you’re not dragged off to Drumindor. They”—Frost pointed to Persephone’s group—“are our best hope. Maybe our only hope. They have a Miralyith. Fenelyus created Mount Mador on the crushed bodies of the Tenth and Twelfth legions! Balgargarath will be vanquished.”

Gronbach seemed to soften.

“But we’ll do nothing without payment. Without weapons,” Persephone said.

The mayor of Caric looked over and expelled an unhappy laugh. “If you can do this thing for us, the Belgriclungreian Nation will…we’ll give you ten bronze swords.”

“You can’t be serious,” Moya burst out. “Ten! This giant sounds like a threat to your very way of life, and you offer just ten weapons? Forget it. Send us home like you wanted to in the first place. You can take care of this Balgargarath yourselves.”

“Moya, please.” Persephone shot her a let-me-take-care-of-this look, which Moya replied to with a roll of her eyes. Turning her attention back to Gronbach, Persephone said, “I want ten thousand bronze blades.”