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

Across the gap, the raow shifted the pillar another inch.

With an angry glare, Moya backed up a few feet to give herself room. For a moment, Persephone thought she was about to hurl herself across the gap like the raow had. She wouldn’t make it. No human could clear that jump. Even the raow had barely succeeded. But Moya wasn’t planning on jumping. She ran to the edge and when she reached it, she let her spear fly. A beautiful throw, the spear sailed straight and far but fell short, landing near the base of the pillar. The movement and noise caught the raow’s attention. It grinned and heaved once more, causing the pillar to rock.

“We need to leave,” Frost said.

“For once, I agree with Frost.” Flood nodded while rapidly backing away.

“We aren’t leaving her!” Persephone said. Then she shouted down into the abyss, “Hold on, Brin!”

Moya stood near the edge with clenched fists glaring at the raow. “You son of the Tetlin whore. You slimy—” Moya pivoted. “Roan! Roan, make your bow work.”

With a nod, Roan dropped her gear and pulled out the sticks. She and Arion had been the only ones who’d picked things up before joining the chase. Even the dwarfs had forgotten their packs, although Rain had his pick secured on his back. He likely slept with it, the same way Persephone had fallen asleep with her sword.

“Suri.” Arion moved forward to where the mystic knelt. “You can stop it.”

Suri continued to hug Minna, looking up at the Fhrey, terrified.

“You must try.” She resorted to Fhrey, but kept her words steady and calm.

Suri only hugged Minna closer.

Roan had the bow strung in seconds.

Moya took it from her. “What do I do? I put the little javelin in the string and pull back, right?”

Roan nodded.

Moya nocked the little stick. She pulled, aimed at the raow, and let go. The miniature spear flew, but it didn’t travel as far as the spear Moya had just thrown.

“You need to draw it back farther, near your cheek and then let go,” Roan explained, holding out another of her stone-tipped sticks. “Don’t worry, the bow won’t break. It’s very strong.”

Moya did as instructed, and the big bow creaked with the strain. This time the shaft shot out of the bow faster than the eye could see. It soared well over the chasm and came close to where the raow was heaving on the pillar—so close the creature looked over, frightened—but the stick drifted into a flat spin and fell away, bouncing off the far wall.

“It doesn’t fly straight!” Moya shouted.

“I thought it would now,” Roan said.

“Well, it doesn’t!”

“Suri,” Arion said more firmly. “You need to do something.”

“This was all a mistake,” Suri said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m not an Artist. I can’t do anything. I…I…I don’t even know what you want me to do. That’s not a giant over there. It’s a pillar and a raow, and there’s no dirt to swallow it.”

“You can hold the pillar in place,” Arion said, her voice surprisingly calm, so sedate that it managed to irritate Persephone—as if the Miralyith denied everyone’s peril. “You can also paralyze the creature, or kill it. Use the chant, center yourself. You can—”

Suri stood up, closed her eyes, and furrowed her brow. She tilted her head from side to side. “I’m not sure what to do. There are so many choices, and so few sources to draw from!”

“It needs a drag on the back,” Roan was saying, holding the next stick up in front of her. “Something to catch the air and keep the stone tip pointed forward.”

“Like what, Roan? Like what?” Moya was flashing her hands open and closed, begging for an answer. “Think, damn you. Think!”

Persephone couldn’t do anything but watch. Suri remained standing, frustrated and confused. Roan dug through her bag in a panic, spurred on by Moya, who was still holding on to the bow. Arion stood next to Suri, whispering encouragement. The dwarfs were inching backward toward the stairs.

Persephone shouted down to Brin again, and there still wasn’t any reply. How could she have survived that fall?

Persephone had thought that coming to Belgreig would be a simple thing, just a boat trip and an afternoon walk to a room where a giant was trapped. Suri or Arion would do something miraculous, and then they would be heading back with swords and maybe some shields. She’d even entertained the idea of convincing the Dherg to join them in the war. If that had happened, she would have contributed to the cause, made a difference.

On the far side, the raow finally managed to rock the pillar to its tipping point. The creature dropped deftly to the ground as the mammoth column breached the edge of its base and, just like a cut tree, began its inevitable fall. The angle was off. The tower of stone wouldn’t hit them. The column would land to the left, closer to the stair, just missing the dwarfs.

Persephone realized in that late instant as the pillar fell that she never should have allowed the others to come. She should have been the chieftain and ordered Moya, Roan, and Brin to stay behind. This was all her fault, her mistake, but the gods wouldn’t limit their punishment to only the one responsible. At least they were just an insignificant band of misfits: an inexperienced chieftain, a teenage Keeper, an insecure ex-slave, a troublesome beauty, a crazy mystic, and an outcast Fhrey. She wondered if anyone would even notice they were gone. Thank Mari, I didn’t bring Raithe.

The column crashed, severing the floor just in front of the stairs. Persephone felt the ground give way beneath her, and she was falling along with everyone else, tumbling into darkness.

—

I’m still alive. This was the first thought that flashed through Persephone’s head.

The second was that she was drowning.

She still held Rain’s stone shard, and while it gave her something to focus on, it provided no answers. Its glow revealed nothing, just a light in a void of blackness. She was underwater, that much was obvious. She felt her body rise, helped by kicks and strokes until her head broke the surface. The moment she did, she felt pain as her forehead struck stone. The glowing gem revealed she was trapped under a low ceiling. The distance between the surface of the water and the overhead stone was little more than an inch, just enough to push her lips and nose up to breathe.

I just fell. How can I be trapped under a ceiling?

The answer soon became obvious. Gasping for air, she felt the surface of the stone scraping past her fingertips. She was in the grip of a strong current, moving fast, swept along a low ceiling of solid rock.

Morton Whipple!

Persephone hadn’t thought of him in decades, but now she couldn’t think of anything else. In the cold dark, she saw Morton’s face again—just as clearly as she had at the lake.