Age of Myth (41 page)

“We have to fight!” she told him.

“How? With what?” he asked, shocked.

She didn't have an answer. She didn't even have Math's spear anymore. All she held was Arion's old bandages. She averted her eyes, unable to face his pleading expression when she had no reasonable answer. All she had was stubbornness and an overwhelming sense of obligation. She couldn't abandon her family. She would rather die with them than—

As she unconsciously wrung the bandages, charcoal rubbed off in her hands. Realization struck and she shot a look to Raithe and the Dherg shield he carried. “Oh, blessed Mari!”

An instant later her head filled with an incredible pain as a ringing erupted in her ears. Everyone on the dahl with the exception of Arion, whose fingers were intensely working patterns in the air, threw hands to their heads. Several, including Gryndal, fell to their knees. Where he sprawled, the grass grew at an astounding rate, grasping his wrists and fingers. The vegetation where he'd been standing attacked the ringed god with a fury, wrapping his legs and climbing along his body to enclose his face. Stronger, longer roots reached out of the soil and looped around the thrashing god, pinning him with a hundred tiny straps.

The ringing faded.

Persephone took the moment to speak to Raithe, and Nyphron whispered something to Grygor. The giant drew his massive sword and charged the Miralyith's prone form.

“No!”
Arion shouted.

Taking her eyes off Gryndal, she cast a spell that knocked the giant off his feet and the sword from his hand. That was all it took. The grass appeared to have second thoughts about holding the ringed god any longer, and two fingers on Gryndal's left hand moved. Arion was thrown hard on her back, knocking the wind from her. The grass around Gryndal shriveled and died. He tore himself free just as Grygor retrieved his sword and started his swing. Then the giant simply stopped. He froze with the great blade partway through a horizontal swing aimed for Gryndal's neck.

Arion gasped for air but still managed to move her fingers. As she did, the giant was enclosed in what looked to be a soap bubble. Now it was her turn to suffer the imprisonment of grass as hundreds of blades began clutching at her fingers and ankles, wrapping around her head and across her mouth. Gryndal turned to face the giant, taking particular interest in the sword and how close it had come.
“You dare challenge me, Grenmorian?”

Gryndal made a quick motion with his fingers. A burst of light ignited in a flash all around Grygor, but the attack broke harmlessly against the bubble.

“Medak! No!” Nyphron shouted as another Galantian, the small one with the knives, threw one and then chased it with another.

Both blades disappeared with a hiss and a cloud of vapor. Gryndal squeezed a fist, and Medak screamed until his head caved in.

Gryndal frowned at the Fhrey with a furious glare. He glanced back at the giant, but he was still protected by the bubble. Blood dripped down Gryndal's chest where rings had been torn out, and his skin was red and blotchy from the fire. With Arion trapped, no one else moved, and the dahl grew frighteningly quiet.

“Blasphemers!”
Gryndal shouted in a voice so venomous that even his soldiers took a step back. “
How dare you challenge me!
Me!” Lightning flared once more overhead.
“And you,”
he said to the dead body of Medak.
“What a fool. The giant I can understand. He isn't a Fhrey. But you, you couldn't kill me without forfeiting your soul.”

“I can,”
Raithe said in Fhrey as he walked forward, making a point to step between Gryndal and Suri, who sat with Minna on the gravel path. His words were neither loud nor boastful. They were casual to the point of absurdity, as if he were challenging a drunk to an arm-wrestling match. He drew Shegon's sword and held it loosely in one hand, the little Dherg shield in the other, as he closed the distance between them.
“I am the God Killer.”

“So you're the one!”
Gryndal laughed.
“You aren't a killer of gods, little Rhune. You only murdered a Fhrey. The Fhrey aren't gods—but I am.”

“Good,”
Raithe replied.
“Then this time when I kill you there won't be any confusion.”

Gryndal smiled.
“Goodbye, would-be God Killer.”

Gryndal raised one finger to hail the lightning. At the same time, Raithe raised the little shield, and Persephone prayed she was right. A jagged bolt flashed down from the overhead clouds and struck the shield in Raithe's hand. The jagged finger of blue-white light bounced back at Gryndal. The rest was lost to the blinding flash and the thunderous crack that followed. When Persephone could see again, Raithe was still standing. Across from him, Gryndal was on his knees, smoking.

Without pause or hesitation, Raithe stepped forward, eliminating the remaining distance between the two. Gryndal didn't move. Maybe he was already dead, but the Dureyan didn't stop. He swung for the exposed neck. With a single stroke of the blade and a follow-through that carried to his other foot, Raithe severed the ringed god's head.

For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The pause might have lasted only an instant, but to Persephone it stretched out for minutes. The prince, whom everyone had forgotten about, was still on the porch, staring at Gryndal's severed head, which lay on its left cheek in the grass. Mawyndulë's mouth was open, lips quivering as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. He blinked, and his brows furrowed in disbelief.

Overhead, the storm once more dispersed and the sun shone through.

The first to regain her senses was Suri, who ran to where Arion lay and began ripping away handfuls of grass. Looking down, Persephone was surprised to see Math's spear in the dirt not too far away. Walking over, she picked it up and thumped the butt of the shaft on the ground. “Clan Rhen!” she shouted, then raised the spear above her head. “Defend your homes!”

They all stared at her, wide-eyed, confused.

“You heard her!” Moya shouted, shoving those closest to her, including Tressa, whom she heaved the hardest. Tope picked up the rake that had fallen and raised it over his shoulder. Bergin the Brewer found an ax. The rest of the men and women of the dahl scurried off. They disappeared into roundhouses, and just as Persephone thought they might stay inside, they returned with shovels, knives, and spears. Moya herself pulled a torch from the post near the well. Roan emerged with her little ax. Tressa had a stone knife, and even Gifford raised his crutch menacingly as the crowd reconvened with stern, angry faces.

Nyphron looked toward the prince, then over to the lion helms, who still had their weapons drawn.
“It might be best if you escorted His Highness out of here. If there's a fight, he might die, and Lothian wouldn't like that.”

“Do as he says.”
Arion was back on her feet, wiping mud and grass from the sleeves of her asica.

The prince stared with tear-filled eyes at the corpse of Gryndal. He shouted,
“You're a traitor!”

The words came out in a high-pitched rage, and with red-faced fury he began to gesture feverishly with his hands. His fingers moved as if he were manipulating some complicated and invisible thing. He spoke words Persephone didn't understand, singing them with an awful voice and a halting rhythm.

As he sang, a light formed before the young Fhrey. It whirled with a fiery streak and flew at Raithe, who raised the shield once more.

“No,”
Arion said. There wasn't any force to her words, no effort, but the fiery ball snuffed itself out before it got anywhere near Raithe.

Mawyndulë chanted once more and waved his hands, but nothing happened. Mawyndulë looked livid. He tried again and again, and each time Arion blocked him with no real effort.

Once more the prince began to conjure. This time Arion shoved out her palm and spoke a word. The prince was thrown off his feet.

Arion faced the lion-helmed soldiers with a granite glare.
“Take the prince out of here, now.”

“Don't listen to her!”
Mawyndulë ordered in a shrill voice from where he lay on his back.
“Kill them all!”

The Fhrey in lion helms hesitated.

“They can't,”
Nyphron said.
“Only your father can sanction the death of another Fhrey, and I'm guessing he didn't give anyone but Gryndal that lovely gift.”

Mawyndulë looked furious. He got to his feet and yelled,
“Kill all the Rhunes then!”

The lion helms retreated from the Galantians and moved toward the mob of Dahl Rhen.

Raithe, Malcolm, and the rest of the dahl villagers moved to meet them.

“Stop!”
Arion ordered, and the soldiers in the lion helms froze.
“You are Talwara Guards. You have one job. You must protect the prince. He's in danger here. Take him back to his father where he'll be safe. That's your only responsibility.”

“Fhrey can't kill Fhrey! I'm in no danger. And he killed Gryndal! He has to die!”

“Gryndal was going to kill me,”
Arion shouted back.
“He nearly did.”

“That doesn't change—”

A spear flew across the yard and pierced the wood frame of the lodge less than a hand's length from the prince's face. Mawyndulë gasped, staggered backward, and fell again. Malcolm stood in the courtyard without his spear.
“Fhrey can't kill Fhrey,”
Malcolm shouted.
“But if you stay—we'll kill you.”

The prince got back to his feet, his eyes filled with fear.

“Go home, Mawyndulë,”
Arion said.

“You're—you're defying the law. I'm your prince, and you must obey me.”

“I don't care! Go home. Leave—all of you.”

Mawyndulë looked fearfully at the mob gathered before him. He crossed the porch and descended the steps. As he did, the lion soldiers rushed to create a barrier around the prince. As a group they marched toward the horses.
“I'll tell my father how you defied him. I'll tell him how you protected Gryndal's killer. He'll declare war. He'll send an army. An army of Miralyith!”

“Out!”
Arion shouted.

The prince climbed atop a horse. Then all eyes watched as he and his guards filed out of the dahl.

When they were gone, Arion waved her hand, and both gate doors slammed shut. She turned toward the lodge and staggered, falling to her knees once more.

“Take her back to the lodge,” Nyphron said.

“Little help?”
Grygor shouted from inside his bubble.
“Getting hard to breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.”
Arion looked embarrassed and the bubble burst.

Moya and Brin began escorting Arion up the steps when she stopped and looked at Nyphron.
“Are we friends now?”

“I hate Miralyith,”
Nyphron replied.
“Today you've demonstrated precisely why. But…well…I also hate winter, mud, and biting flies, but I've learned to live with them.”

“Thank you for saving Minna,” Suri told Raithe. She had an arm around the wolf's neck.

He was still in the center of the yard and had put his sword away but continued to hold the shield. At the sound of her voice, Raithe lifted his gaze from Gryndal's corpse and smiled at the girl and her wolf. He reached out and stroked Minna's head. “Can't let anything happen to the world's wisest wolf, can we?”

Suri stared at him for a moment, tears in her eyes. Then without warning Suri threw her arms around Raithe and hugged him.

I still remember when Persephone stood on those steps, when she faced us and said everything would be all right. I believed her. I think everyone did. Persephone was not a magician or a mystic, but she performed magic that day. She gave us hope.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Maeve was buried along with Jason the digger and Neft the builder, both of whom had been struck by lightning. Lyn the bead-maker was laid with them as well; she had been crushed by half of the Killians' flaming home. The Galantians took care of Stryker, Medak, and Gryndal's remains, the sight of which forever shattered the notion that the Fhrey couldn't be killed. They bled and died like any mortal. The display of power when Arion and Gryndal fought, however, demonstrated that some Fhrey did indeed possess godlike power.

Suitable to a day when so many had died and it appeared the world had slipped further toward an abyss, almost everyone on Dahl Rhen acted with quiet reserve. In addition to those killed in the battle, the villagers mourned the passing of their chieftain and the others, like Hegner, who had vanished overnight.

Surprised to learn that Tressa had no idea where her husband had gone, Persephone told her of Konniger's death. The woman faced the news with teary eyes but a straight back. Persephone told her that Konniger and the others had formed a rescue party after hearing about Maeve's and Suri's mission regarding Grin the Brown. Sadly, the bear had killed him and the others. She didn't feel it was necessary to explain all the details about how Konniger and The Brown had faced each other. As disagreeable as Tressa was, Persephone wanted to preserve the new widow's memory of her husband. No one should experience what she had with Reglan.

Suri surprised Persephone by showing no hurry to leave. After all that had happened, she had expected the mystic to depart immediately after the battle. Instead, she found the girl sitting beside Minna against the south wall.

“I don't suppose this—what just happened—will be the end of it? The end of the warning you originally brought me?”

Suri shook her head. “Still not big enough. This is the start, just the turning of leaves. Winter is still on its way.”

Persephone frowned and nodded. “I suppose you'll be leaving us to return to the wood?”

Suri looked up as if roused from sleep.

“You know, this
could
be your home,” Persephone said.

Suri looked skeptically at the massive hole in the ground that was still bubbling goo, then toward the shattered gap in the western wall. Her eyes scanned across dozens of scorch marks on the grass and through the roofs of homes.

“Okay.” Persephone shrugged. “So Rhen has seen better days.”

“When?”

Persephone smiled. “So maybe
I
should come live with
you.
” She sat down beside the mystic and rested her back against the wall. “That was quite clever. What you did to Arion's bandages.”

“The markings in the little Dherg caves block the spirits. I've never been able to start a fire in there and can't read bones. Nothing of the spirit world works when surrounded by those marks.”

“You're very smart. You know that?”

Suri shrugged. Her gaze was focused beyond the opening in the wall. “Maeve—who was she?”

“Maeve? She was the Keeper of Ways for Rhen. The one who remembered all the old stories from our past. Luckily, she taught others, passing on what she knew. Brin, for example. She loves stories and has a great memory.”

“What was she like? Who was she married to?”

“Maeve never married.”

“She had a daughter.”

Persephone nodded. “She wasn't married to the father.”

“You know who he was?”

Persephone drew up her knees and straightened her filthy skirt over them. Her clothes were ruined, stained with blood. The blood was probably one of the reasons why Tressa hadn't questioned the explanation surrounding Konniger's death. That, and perhaps the widow already knew the truth. “I don't think it matters anymore. That's all over. All in the past.”

“Not all of it,” Suri said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think her daughter survived.”

“Maeve's daughter? No, that was a story Konniger made up. Maeve's daughter died in the forest where she was abandoned fourteen years…” Persephone stopped and stared at Suri in sudden revelation. “Fourteen…might be more…”

“Might be less,” Suri finished for her. “Is the father still alive?” she asked without turning. Her stare was still focused on the hole in the wall.

“No. He died a month ago. Konniger killed him and blamed it on The Brown.”

Suri finally looked at her then. The tattoos around her eyes were bound up in thought.

“Twenty years ago I married Reglan,” Persephone said. “Over the years, I bore my husband three sons. One died shortly after being born. Duncan barely made it to the age of three. Mahn grew to be a fine young man, but The Brown took him from me. I never had a daughter, but I always wished for one. My husband was blessed with a daughter, but he never had the chance to meet her. Nobody knew except Reglan, Konniger, and Maeve.”

Tears filled Suri's eyes and drops spilled down Persephone's own cheeks.

Minna's head came up, and she looked at both of them as if they were insane.

Raithe sat outside Roan's roundhouse, one of the few near the center of the dahl that had suffered no damage at all. He was holding the broken hilt of his father's sword. Compared with Shegon's blade, it looked like it had been forged by a child.

“There you are.” Malcolm walked toward him. The ex-slave had set down his bulky shield but continued to use the spear like a staff, walking in a most un-warrior-like fashion. He took a seat beside Raithe, his legs stretched out and sandaled feet crossed. Together the two stared at the breadth of the dahl and its people, who, having narrowly avoided a butchering or some magical cataclysm, were already back to their labors: fixing the hole in the wall and tending to gardens, sheep, and pots.

Just another day.

“What are you going to do with that?” Malcolm asked, pointing at the broken sword.

“I don't know. Seems stupid to carry it.” Raithe drove the fractured blade that had started everything into the dirt beside him. He let go, and the sword handle quivered slightly. “Probably should have left it with my father. No one would have stolen it. Who'd want it?”

Malcolm nodded in solidarity, and Raithe realized that was what he liked most about the man. Malcolm was inclined to understand or at least to agree. Another holdover from years in slavery, perhaps, but Raithe found it a virtue nevertheless.

Across the dahl, Minna lay down beside Suri and Persephone as they talked near the wall.

Everyone should have such a loyal friend.

“What will you do now?” Malcolm asked.

“I don't know about that, either.”

“Good to see you're on top of things.”

“Everything's changed, you know?” He looked at the planted sword. “I'd grown up in my father's shadow. Fighting to survive, fighting to prove my worth to him. That was the stick I measured myself by. Miserable as he was, my father was all I had left.”

Again Malcolm nodded. “We're both adrift without a rudder.”

Raithe returned the nod and for the first time realized that both he and Malcolm had been freed that day on the bank of the Bern River. And just like Malcolm, he didn't have a clue what to do with that independence. Raithe was completely on his own for the first time in his life. He had dreamed of such freedom as if it were a faraway place, a made-up land that didn't really exist. But landing in Dahl Rhen by accident, he was lost. He had a hundred potential directions, a multitude of choices, and the enormity of the options left him paralyzed. Freedom, he discovered, had built a greater prison than his family or clan had.

In his imaginings, he fantasized about such grand things as a warm home made of wood, a granary with enough wheat to last a whole winter, a loyal woman he could talk to, a well that served up water that didn't taste of metal, and not one, but two thick blankets. Crazy thoughts, but dreams always were. No one held him back anymore, and if he made a plan, who knew what was possible. And yet he couldn't deny recent events and how his life had been changed. Maybe there was a plan, just not his.

“If you leave, I'll go with you,” Malcolm said. “And if you stay, I'll stay.”

Raithe sat up and leaned in. “Why?”

“The way I see it, each of us is all the other one has at the moment. You don't have a clan or family, and neither do I. We're sort of our own clan, the two of us. And you've done well by me. I'm still alive after all, and I have this wonderful spear now.” He thumped the butt against the dirt. “Do you think they'll let me keep it?”

“After that throw? They have to. Quite impressive, by the way. You nearly killed him.”

Malcolm replied with an awkward smile. “Actually, I wasn't trying to hit him.”

“Seriously?” Raithe said, even more impressed. “You meant to just miss him like that?”

“Yeah, except I was aiming five feet to his right.”

“The spear hit inches to his left.”

Malcolm smiled and nodded again. “Still impressed?”

“More than ever.” Raithe grinned. “You know, once a man uses a weapon in battle, and if he survives, then the weapon bonds to him and becomes his.”

Malcolm looked up at the spear towering over them and smiled. “Then maybe I should name it. People do that, right?”

“Some do.”

“Okay, I'll call it Narsirabad.”

“Excellent name, very fierce sounding. Is it a Fhrey word?”

Malcolm nodded.

“What does it mean?”

Malcolm smiled. “Pointy.”

Raithe laughed, and Malcolm joined him. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to breathe the morning air and feel the heat of the sun on his face. And it felt good to sit beside Malcolm as if they didn't have a care in the world. Maybe they didn't. There wasn't any point in worrying about tomorrow. No one knew what it held—maybe nothing at all.

“What do you think I should do, Malcolm, my clansman? You probably understood everything they said, right? I only caught phrases here and there, but it sounded like this might not be over.”

“No,” Malcolm said. “Just beginning, I should think.” Cocking his head at Raithe and firming his mouth, he appeared to be giving the question his full thought and attention. He glanced at the sky, drew up his knees, and rubbed his chin. “When faced with certain death, running is sensible, but I think a man can make an unhealthy habit of it. Running can take on an importance of its own and become an excuse to avoid living a normal life.”

“What's a
normal
life?”

“I was a slave; how should I know? I just don't think a person should give up trying to find out.”

Raithe looked over at Persephone again. She was crying, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands. Their eyes met, and she sent him an embarrassed smile.

“We're going to stay, Malcolm.”

Malcolm followed his stare. “I had a feeling we might. You like her, don't you?”

“She's different.”

“Everyone is different.”

“Then let's say I like the ways in which she's different. A wise man once told me no man can escape death, but it's
how
we run that defines us. And if I have to run, I think I'd like to go where she's going.”

It began in the late afternoon.

The dead had been buried, and the worst parts of the mess cleaned up. Doing so had put the ground back under people's feet, and by early evening, as the sun dipped toward the tops of the Crescent Forest, it was clear to everyone that the world hadn't ended. As the news of Konniger's death circulated, it also became clear they were leaderless and in peril. Thoughts became whispers, which soon turned into questions.

Sarah, Brin, Delwin, and Moya approached Persephone as she stood looking at the murky crater in the middle of the dahl, wondering what could be done about it. They would need to fill it in if they were to reuse the land, but where would they haul the dirt from, and was filling it the best choice? Perhaps they could use the pit for additional storage.

“This is going to be a problem,” Persephone told them as they came up to her.

Sarah, who led the group, didn't say a thing. She simply walked over and hugged her. Behind them, Roan watched from a distance.

“Seph, what are we going to do now?” Sarah whispered in her ear. “We don't have a chieftain or a Shield and no Keeper of Ways.”

Delwin nodded. “We thought maybe you might have some idea. I mean, this hasn't happened before, has it? Reglan was chieftain for forty years, and his father ruled for nearly as long before him. We've always…I mean…we've usually just gone father to son, but Reglan's died and Konniger never had any—”

“Delwin!” Sarah snapped. “In the Grand Mother's name! Show a little compassion, would you?”

“I'm sorry, I—”

“It's fine,” Persephone said, offering a forgiving smile.

“It's just that,” Delwin said, lowering his voice as if the next part were a secret, “Brin tells us that in cases where there is no clear successor, like a son or a Shield, the Keeper of Ways is expected to administrate and oversee combat challenges for the First Chair. But Maeve is dead.”

“We're afraid of what might happen,” Sarah said. “Some of the younger men are already sizing each other up.”

“She's right.” Delwin nodded, agreeing with his wife. “Without a Keeper, fellas like Tope's sons and Wedon's sons are picking sides. We could have an intraclan war on our hands if something isn't done.”