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

Frost and Flood leapt fallen trees on their way toward thicker cover. Suri and Minna paused atop a toppled hickory to look back as Persephone labored to get to her feet in the tangle of branches. Unlike the others, Arion wasn’t fleeing. She sat still, arms out, anger in her eyes.

The giant howled as he struggled to free his foot, which had become lodged in the hole where the rol had been. He became frustrated as it slipped deeper despite his attempts—sinking first to the ankle, then to the shin. Finally, the ground swallowed him up to the knee. The giant’s other leg was finding similar difficulty, as if the mutilated forest floor had turned into a swamp of tar.

“Arg rog!” he shouted in what sounded like a mix of anger and fear. Two huge hands came down in an effort to push himself up, but there was no solid ground, and they, too, were sucked into the mire.

Slowly, steadily, and with an occasional snap of a branch or rustle of leaves, the floor of the forest pulled the giant down. He sank past his waist, then his shoulders, and as the rich, leafy soil inched up around his neck, Arion lowered her hands and the descent stopped.

Flood clapped Frost on the shoulder and pointed at the Fhrey, and for the first time Persephone saw them both smile.

“Did you see that?” Frost asked.

Flood nodded. “Maybe there is a way back, after all.”

The giant began screaming then. A number of words Persephone didn’t recognize were shouted before he cried out, “Help!” in Fhrey.

“You speak my language?” Arion asked from where she had taken a seat on the fallen trunk of a maple.

“Yes! Yes!” the giant cried.

“Lucky you.” Arion got up and carefully stepped through the carnage. Finding the hat Padera had made, she reached down and withdrew it, sighing at the dirt and leaves covering the garment.

“Let me live,” the giant begged. “I yield. You win. I’ll quit.”

“Quit what exactly?” Arion asked.

The giant hesitated.

Arion looked up from her hat with an irritated frown, and the giant began to slip deeper, the soil now up to his chin.

“Trying to kill you! Trying to kill you. We were sent to kill you!”

Arion nodded as she brushed the dirt and leaves from the hat. Then she stopped, looked up puzzled, and glared at the giant again. “What do you mean—we?”

—

The thick-beamed brace snapped in half, and the front gate of Dahl Rhen burst open. Over the last few months, Gifford had seen many strange things enter through them—the dead body of a chieftain and before that his son; three groups of Fhrey, two of which had held a magical battle before the lodge’s steps; and Raithe, the famed God Killer. Gifford imagined he’d seen it all, but standing outside the storage pit in the wreckage left by the storm, he realized he was wrong. What entered that afternoon was a sight beyond his imagination; or more accurately, it was a sight that should only exist there.

Giants. A lot of them.

Everyone knew they existed, just as everyone knew gods, witches, goblins, and crimbals did. Dahl Rhen had even played host to one, but Grygor, who had accompanied the first set of Fhrey, turned out to be a pleasant sort. He enjoyed cooking and kept mostly to himself. These were different: angry and ferocious. They were also bigger, much bigger, wearing kilts and vests poorly stitched from the hides of numerous beasts of different species.

Taller than the gate, they had to duck to pass under the parapet. Their feet were the size of Gifford’s bed, and they carried wooden mallets that looked to have been fashioned by shoving a thick branch through a hole in a tree trunk. In total, there were twelve, and they broke through the gate with bared teeth and wild eyes. Rushing in, the giants swung their mallets, smashing the already ruined piles of thatch and fractured logs. They hammered the wind-strewn rubble and crushed a goat that had survived the storm but had made the mistake of not running. A few took the time to lift the thatch and peer underneath, then one looked Gifford’s way.

Much of the surviving citizenry of Dahl Rhen was still in the pit. Those outside, like Gifford and Roan, watched as one of the giants howled with excitement, pointing directly at them. The other eleven turned, and the ground shook as the group hurried forward. Having seen what had happened to the goat, nearly everyone cried out and retreated in terror.

Roan didn’t. She stood her ground, watching in awe.

From behind, the Fhrey warriors charged out of the pit, weapons drawn, too impatient to wait the few seconds for the giants to close the distance. The first to land a blow was the one called Eres, who threw two javelins. One pierced the throat of the nearest giant, which Gifford believed to be a female Grenmorian, as she had breasts and a shorter beard.

The other javelin caught one of the larger attackers in the eye, driving itself so deep that only the rear portion poked out of the socket. The giant staggered, then collapsed face-first into the remains of the lodge, flipping a log into the air and shaking the ground so violently that Gifford had to take a step to keep his balance.

Sebek, the Fhrey with short blond hair and a pair of swords, ran directly into the pack of invaders. He sprinted past the first two, and Gifford couldn’t understand why until he realized that the Galantian had picked out the biggest for his target. Sebek reached his prey, ran between the giant’s legs, and drove a sword into the middle of each foot. The giant howled a long deep note of rage and pain, which grew louder as he tilted forward and struggled to free his feet from the ground. The blades dislodged but not before the giant lost his balance. Once more Gifford staggered and nearly fell when the giant crashed to the dirt. Fast as a rabbit, Sebek retrieved his weapons and sprinted up the giant’s stomach. He leapt across the invader’s chest and stabbed both blades into his neck.

Anwir was the next Galantian to land a strike. Pulling forth a loaded sling, he swung it in circles over his head and unleashed the stone. The rock staggered a medium-sized giant just as Tekchin reached him with his long, narrow blade. After severing three fingers of the giant’s mallet-like hand, Tekchin stabbed the giant’s chest, cutting a semicircle before withdrawing the sword.

Roan took a step forward. She had that familiar single-minded curiosity in her eyes, a sort of blind fascination that was impossible for Gifford to understand. Once, she’d broken an ankle after falling into Crescent Creek while preoccupied by a butterfly. Gifford didn’t know what had caught her eye this time, but in a battle between Fhrey and giants, it hardly mattered. If she wandered too far, if she tried to get ahead of Nyphron, who’d taken up a position between the giants and the people of Dhal Rhen to act as a final bulwark, Gifford would take hold of her wrist as he’d done with Brin. Yes, she would panic and lash out, but he’d gladly endure the pain inflicted by her reaction if it was the only way to keep her safe.