Age of Myth (12 page)

Persephone cringed even before he fell.

Sackett slipped and dropped more than five feet, hitting his back on one edge and then another. His body continued its way down the water-sprayed staircase, falling four times. He grunted with each slap against the rocks. The third ledge caught his right foot and spun him, making the last fall headfirst. His skull didn't crack like Adler's, but the blow bent his neck sharply.

Sackett lay in the froth of the stream, groaning and shaking his head in agony. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth pulled into a grimace, showing teeth. He didn't try to get up. Except for his head, he didn't move at all.

“Help!” he cried as the force of the water pushed his body, inching it toward another drop. “I can't move! I can't move!”

Persephone took a step down. Bent over, she used her hands as well as her feet. Where the water flowed over the rocks, they were slick as ice. She inched down knowing she'd be too late. In the back of her mind, she wondered how the death trap of a cascade had seemed so beautiful on the way up. She descended only three ledges before Sackett screamed. The ceaseless flow of water had pushed him down one more ledge. He didn't fall far, but he ended up in a good-sized pool.

Landing on his back, Sackett couldn't lift his face far enough above the water to breathe. Only his forehead and eyes breached the surface. Persephone moved faster, scrambling over the rocks. Then, like Sackett, she, too, slipped. Her foot came off a stone, and Persephone fell on her back. Her elbow and hip took the worst of it, sending jolts of pain through her side. Slipping farther and hurried along by the push of the stream, she cried out, desperately clawing at the slick stones for a nonexistent hold.

A hand grabbed her wrist. She felt fingers latch on. A moment later she was dangling by one arm. Persephone came off the rocks, pulled upward. Her feet continued to scramble for traction. It didn't matter. The arm lifting her wasn't letting go and had no trouble drawing her up. Another arm wrapped her waist. Pulled tight, Persephone was pressed against the soft kiss of white-and-black checkered wool.

Below them, Sackett peered back like a terrified pond frog. His head jerked once, then twice, and slowly his eyes closed and his head disappeared below the surface.

At the top of the slope, Persephone sat in the fingered roots of a huge tree. Wet from the fall, her black dress stuck to her skin. The big man had offered his checkered leigh mor, and she wrapped it around her shoulders. The wool was rough, nothing like the plush cloth Sarah wove. But it was warm, warmer than expected, and she held it close. She continued to look down the course of the cascade that sprayed below. Persephone thought she could still see Adler's body lying across the rocks, a dark form causing the water to froth. Adler was dead, probably had been from the moment his head hit the rock. Hegner was gone.

What just happened?
It was a thought repeated more than once while she sat there.

Persephone was still trying to puzzle it out, still trying to make sense of insanity. Sackett, Adler One-Eye, and Hegner—whom Persephone no longer had any trouble thinking of as The Stump—had tried to kill her. Although she wouldn't describe any of them as friends, they certainly weren't enemies. They were neighbors and clan members, which meant they were family. If it had been only one, she could have reasoned he'd gone crazy. But they had been working together.

Since the attack, no one had said much, except Suri, who had coaxed everyone to follow her up the ridge. Persephone hadn't needed much prompting. She wanted to move, to get off those deadly rocks. By the time they reached the top, she was shaking so badly she needed to sit down.

I almost died, was almost murdered!

The idea took a long time to root in her mind. Once it had, the realization stole the strength from her legs. Bruised, wet, confused, and frightened she hugged herself, shivering. The Dureyan must have thought she was cold, because that was when he had given her his cloth.

“You're all right, then?” the big man asked.

She nodded, clutching herself. “I don't know why they did that. They attacked for no reason. Do you think Hegner will come back?”

“No. He looked pretty scared. That's probably the last you'll see of him.”

Persephone let out a breath. “You're right. In all likelihood, he's on his way to Warric. He'd never show his face again in Rhen. Konniger would cut his head off.”

“Your husband?”

“No,” she told him. “Konniger is the chieftain of Dahl Rhen.”

“I thought his name was Reglan.”

“Reglan was the chieftain, and my husband, but he died and Konniger rules now.”

The big man nodded, then crouched on one knee to scratch behind Minna's ears. As he did, she noticed a circular bronze medal dangling from his neck. Bronze was the metal of the gods; she'd never seen a man with any, and this was finely engraved with the image of interwoven vines or branches. So far the Dureyan hadn't offered his name, but Persephone was convinced she knew who he was.

“Thank you. I…” She looked at the mystic. “We owe you our lives. I'm Persephone. This is Suri, and you are…?”

“Men who value our privacy,” the Dureyan said quickly, and shot a stern glance at his companion. “Just wayfarers on our way south.”

It has to be him.

“Traveling a bit light, aren't you?” she asked. Between them, they had only one blanket and a small sack that couldn't hold much food. What they lacked in supplies they made up for in weapons. Over the big man's shoulder was an
extra
sword—a copper sword.

It's definitely him!

“We live off the land,” he replied, looking away.

“Are we still going?” Suri asked. The girl was sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing a child's game with a loop of string, weaving patterns between her fingers.

Persephone again glanced down the slope at the cascade. She didn't know what to do. The thought of plunging deeper into the forest—

“Where are you going?” Malcolm interrupted Persephone's thought.

“Well, we
were
going to…ah…well…it's actually hard to explain.”

“Is it far?”

Persephone looked at the mystic. “Is it?”

Suri shook her head as she continued to weave patterns with the string looped between her fingers.

“Well, if it's not far, I suppose we could escort you,” Malcolm offered.

This brought a scowl from the big man, which his companion ignored.

“And if we did, do you think you could repay our kindness with some food?” Malcolm gave a hopeful smile.

“Yes, of course. When we get back to the dahl, I'll see that both of you get a good hot meal and a place to sleep for the night.”

“Then we'd love to help,” Malcolm said.

Persephone got to her feet while momentum was on her side. She continued to clutch the leigh mor to her neck. She wasn't cold but figured her rescuer wouldn't be inclined to run off as long as she kept it.

Maeve's words returned to her:
Heroes like him no longer walk among us.

Suri put her string away, picked up Tura's staff, and scampered back into the deep wood, running ahead but stopping frequently to look at flowers and birds. The wolf mimicked her, or perhaps it was the other way around. With Suri, it was difficult to tell.

Malcolm, his friend, and Persephone walked side by side when the forest allowed, which was often in an area of thick canopy and scarce brush. They continued to climb, the land always sloping upward. Before long, Persephone realized they were following a vague trail. In the open areas, it vanished, but Suri didn't hesitate or doubt. Soon they were on a ridge where beds of old leaves sloped down to either side.

“So where are we off to?” Malcolm asked Persephone.

“Well, Suri is a mystic and augur. She's taking me to an old oak somewhere up here.”

“Mystic?” the big man said. His voice betrayed both surprise and awe.

“Yes. I know she looks young, but she was raised by Tura, a well-respected augur. Tura was ancient. The last time I saw her, she didn't have a single hair that wasn't white. She knew everything—or could find the answers for you. She recently died, and Suri says the old oak can answer some of my questions.”

“May I ask what questions you have that would cause you to risk life and limb as you have?” Malcolm inquired.

The thin man had a formal way of speaking that she liked. Even when she was the wife of the chieftain no one had ever said,
May I ask.
The most surprising thing, though, was that he didn't find it strange that she was off to talk to a tree. Regardless of how he said it, Persephone was grateful for the door he'd opened. She'd been looking for a means to bring a subject up, and this was the perfect opportunity.

“We've recently learned the gods of Alon Rhist might have plans to attack us—all of us. All Rhunes.” She paused, trying to determine how best to present the next part. “I'm looking for an answer, for guidance, a way to save my people. I'm also hoping this tree can lead me to the man named…Raithe.”

This drew the Dureyan's stare. “What do you want with him?”

“Rumors say he has killed a Fhrey. People are calling him the God Killer.”

“And what? You want to turn him over to the Fhrey? You think that will prevent a slaughter?”

“No, no! Not at all,” she said more loudly than intended, and both Suri and Minna paused to look back. “Some call the Fhrey gods, but it'd be impossible to kill one if that were so. I've had some dealings with them, and I know the Fhrey don't respect us. We're ants to them, and if an ant bites you, do you seek out that one ant? Or do you set fire to the whole colony to make sure you're not bitten again? I want to discover if this Raithe really did slay a Fhrey, and if so, how it was done. If one man can kill a Fhrey, others can learn as well. Our only hope might be to fight.”

She caught a look between the two. “Such a hero would be welcomed in Dahl Rhen.”

“I've heard rumors about this Raithe person, too,” the big man said. “But I don't think they're true.”

“Of course they are.” Malcolm frowned at his associate. “We were at the roadhouse when Raithe told his story.”

“
Raithe
didn't tell a story. A rather unpleasant traveling companion of his did. And I'm sure most of that story was lies.”

“Really?” Malcolm replied. “See, personally, I found it to be a beautiful tale. It moved me.”

Another look, this one more irritated than the others.

“Let me tell you something that I know to be true,” the big man said to Persephone. “The Fhrey are deadly. They wear metal and have weapons that can cut through ours.”

“Like the way you cut through Sackett's spear?”

The Dureyan didn't respond and merely continued walking along the ridge, looking out at the trees. Talking to him was like fishing. Reglan had tried to teach Persephone. The goal was to get a hooked fish to a net, but if you pulled too hard, the fish would fight back, break the line, and get away. The process was one of give-and-take, letting the fish have time to realize the cause was lost before pulling it in. Persephone decided to skip the topic and let out more line.

“In ages past, during a great flood that threatened to kill our ancestors, a man named Gath united all the clans. He organized everyone in a common cause.”

“You're speaking of the keenig,” the man said. “The one who wore a crown. The chieftain of chieftains.”

“Yes, and I believe we are facing another similar crisis, but if the clans unite under the leadership of another keenig…well, there are more of us than Fhrey in Rhulyn.”

“How would you know?” the big man asked.

“I told you. I was married to Chieftain Reglan. We visited all the dahls together. I've also gone to Alon Rhist for the yearly meetings. Alon Rhist is…” She hesitated, trying to think how to explain.

“Impressive beyond words,” Malcolm helped her.

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, but I didn't see many Fhrey. I think there are only a few hundred.”

“She's right,” Malcolm said. “I'd estimate the population at the Rhist to be about three or four hundred.”

Persephone was growing quite fond of Malcolm.

“We have nearly a thousand people in Dahl Rhen alone,” Persephone said. “And there's twice that in the surrounding villages.”

“But how many
men
?” the Dureyan asked. “Not boys or the elderly.”

“Three fifty, maybe four hundred.”

“And how many are trained to use a spear and shield? And I'm not talking about hunting, either. Rarely do deer fight back, and bears don't plan and fortify. How many of your men have more experience fighting than farming? Fifty? A hundred? Any? To win against the Fhrey, in order to be any use at all, a man would have to train for years. And where are they going to get their weapons?” He grabbed the spear from Malcolm. “These are useless against them. What you are talking about is impossible.”

“Maybe,” she said as if a veteran of a thousand battles. Everything she was about to say made sense in theory, but she guessed the man before her didn't deal in theories. “Yet no one says it's impossible for men to hunt large game like bears and big cats. A bear is far more powerful than a man, faster too. We win because we hunt in groups. What if ten men fought one Fhrey?

“And yes, there may only be a few hundred good fighters in Dahl Rhen, but there are close to two hundred villages in Rhen alone. And who knows how many more in Menahan, Melen, Tirre, and Warric. We're talking thousands. And our women could fight, too. I know I could learn to hold a spear butted against a charge. We'd be fighting for our lives, and that's a pretty good incentive, don't you think?”

The big man frowned. “Women can't fight.”