Age of Myth (5 page)

“Is the food good?”

“I've heard it's supposed to be incredible.”

“And the beds are soft and warm?”

Raithe nodded.

“So what you're saying is that we can stay here”—Malcolm gestured around them— “and starve in this horrific forest, or we could live the rest of our lives in a wonderland of abundance, music, and mirth. Sounds awful; let's go.”

Raithe tried to think of a rebuttal. Framed that way, he was hard-pressed.

“Also”—Malcolm held up a finger—“what are the odds of the Fhrey finding us in this magical land of Nog?”

Raithe found it was his turn to stare blankly. Then he looked into the dark of the trees in the direction of the laughter and song. “Help me put the fire out.”

They scattered the sticks and stomped the flames to glowing coals, and then Raithe led the way into the trees beyond. With each step, the sounds grew louder. Voices, and at times a dog's bark, drifted on the night air. The world grew lighter as stars emerged from the thinning canopy. Raithe realized they had been on the edge of the forest. Together, the two climbed out into a field where a well-trodden road snaked beneath a half-moon. In the distance, firelight shone out of a wooden building's windows.

“Is
that
the land of Nog?” Malcolm asked.

“No,” Raithe replied. “It's a roadhouse, a way station for travelers.”

“We're travelers,” Malcolm said with bubbling, hope-filled glee. “Do you think they'll give us food?”

Raithe shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

Raithe hated being stared at; all too often it marked the prelude to a fight. He also didn't care much for strangers; they set him on edge. Little wonder, then, that he wasn't pleased as he and Malcolm sat in a room surrounded by a dozen unfamiliar faces staring at them as they ate. Nothing had been said, at least nothing loud enough to hear. The whispers had started near a large wooden bowl where a pair of women dished out lamb stew, speaking softly to each man. After receiving a portion, the one getting his meal looked over. Sometimes they glanced at Malcolm, but mostly they stared at Raithe—as if he wore a pig for a hat. When the men returned to their places, they continued to stare, whispering among themselves.

“What do you think they're saying?” Raithe asked, nudging Malcolm in the ribs.

The former slave didn't raise his face from his bowl. “That you're a fine-looking man, followed by a debate as to which of their sisters should be given in marriage.” He shrugged. “How should I know?”

“I think they're planning to cut our throats.”

“I like my guess better.” Malcolm finished the statement by wiping the bottom of the bowl with his finger and sucking it. “Maybe after my story we can get seconds.”

“I didn't think you were hungry. You've taken forever to finish the little taste they gave us.”

“I wanted to make it last in case it's all we get,” Malcolm said, licking his bowl. “In general Rhune society, is it bad manners to suck on a bowl?”

“In general Rhune society, there's no such thing as manners, but I wouldn't refer to anyone as a
Rhune.
That's a Fhrey word, and we don't like it much, at least not in Dureya. Down here it might be different. They're more accustomed to doing what they're told. And as for the story you promised—you don't plan on telling them the truth, do you?”

“Of course not. I'm hungry, not a fool, and
that
story won't feed us. We'll get tossed out by those still awake.”

“Well, just don't say anything that anyone would take offense at.”

“Have a little faith.”

Malcolm began sucking on the rim of the bowl.

Such an odd man,
Raithe thought. Not because of Malcolm's affection for the bowl—that was the most normal thing he'd done. He was strange because of everything else. The former slave didn't have a beard and wore his hair short and combed. He sat too straight, cleaned his hands and face each morning and before every meal, complained about the stains on his clothes, spoke with a weird kind of elegance, and used a host of words that Raithe didn't recognize.

“Are you a good storyteller?”

“Ell ee,” Malcolm replied with the bowl still in his mouth.

“What?”

Malcolm stopped sucking. “We'll see.”

The roundhouse occupied most of the area within the palisade. There were pens to house animals and a shed for supplies, but the bulk of the road station was taken up by the hall they sat in. In Dureya, the hut's walls would have been made of clay and the cone-shaped roof fashioned from bundles of grass. This one was nicer, built of solid wood with a sturdy shake roof that probably wouldn't blow off with every strong wind. The space was large and there was plenty of room around an open fire pit—a pit that burned wood instead of dried dung.

“What's your names?” a man inquired, one of the older ones who'd finished his meal and was stretching his legs.

Maybe he was pushed into addressing them. More likely he was a leader or wanted to be seen as such. When he spoke, the whispers stopped, and everyone looked their way.

“What's yours?” Raithe asked, a sharpness in his voice.

“No need to be that way—just curious is all. A man can be curious, can't he?” He looked over his shoulder for support. Soft and squat, he was the sort who needed reassurance. “We know everyone else here. Seen each other on the road for years. That's Kane over there”—he pointed—“son of Hale, who passed on his route five years ago. He's done well with it, too. Over there is Hemp of Clan Menahan, a respected wool trader. I'm Justen of Dahl Rhen. Everyone knows me, but none of us have seen either of you before. So who are you?”

“But you already know our names,” Raithe said. “The man at the gate asked and spread the word about us. I see you whispering, but I'm not hiding anything. Just trying to get by. We got lost in the forest. Seeing smoke and smelling food, we hoped to find some hospitality; that's all. Not here to make any trouble or push anyone around. Go ahead. Ask what you want. I'll answer.”

“No reason to be so touchy. We're only traders.” The man looked around again, and many heads in the hall bobbed over their bowls. A few grumbled affirmative replies. All stared hard at Raithe, as if they expected him to perform magic. “See, we're trying to survive, same as you. My oxen drag logs up and down the trail between Dahl Rhen and Nadak, sometimes over to Menahan—they need wood out that way. I'm not the sort to look for trouble, either.” Justen held up his hands and turned around. “You can see I don't have nothing. We leave our spears outside the hall—makes it friendlier, you know? An unspoken rule. But you're sitting here with copper on your back. Ain't no call for weapons.”

“It's broken.”

“Is that so?” He looked around at the other men, most of whom were putting down their bowls or turning in their seats. Eyes shifted and necks strained.

“The pattern of your leigh mor and the bedding you're sitting on…is that the design of Clan Dureya?”

“That's right. What of it?” Raithe had expected this. “Go ahead, say it. You got something stuck in your teeth, some plague you want to blame on me? Go on and ask what you
really
want to know.”

The man's face tightened. “All right. There's a rumor that a god was slain.”

Of all things, Raithe hadn't expected
that.

“Gods are immortal,” he replied, pleased with how clever his response was. He picked up his empty bowl and pretended he was still eating.

“We thought so, too.”

Raithe ran his finger around the inside of the empty bowl the way Malcolm had. “A rumor, then, some guy boasting.”

Faces in the hall looked at one another.

“Weren't no man who said it. Word is the Fhrey themselves came down from Alon Rhist. They're looking for a Rhune who killed one of their own. They say it was a man from Dureya who used a copper sword. Not many of those around. Funny you have one. Also said the weapon broke in the fight. Apparently, it happened a week ago on the other side of the Bern.” The man looked hard at Raithe. “Where
exactly
are you coming from?”

“Of course, of course. Makes sense, doesn't it?” Raithe was nodding. “Menahan is known for wool and pretty daughters. Everyone knows the best poets and musicians come from Melen. Nadak provides the finest furs, but what is Dureya known for? Causing trouble, right? That's what you're thinking. If a loaf of bread goes missing, a brawl starts, or an unwed daughter ends up with child, Dureyans are to blame. And when the gods come looking for a troublemaker, who's it gonna be?”

“Then how did your blade break? And come to think of it, that's a pretty specific detail, isn't it? Kinda strange that was mentioned and now you're here. You know what I think? I reckon a god was killed, and it was you who done it,” Justen said.

He was standing as firmly as he could, making a fine show, but Raithe could knock him down easily enough. Justen should have known that, too. Fighting was the other thing the men of Dureya were known for. Living on rocks and stone made hard men, and Dureyan boys learned to swing early. That was the way of it—the only way for them at least.

“You're right!” Malcolm shouted as he stood up. All eyes shifted, including Raithe's. “He was the one who killed Shegon of the Asendwayr.”

Raithe wanted to throttle the skinny, weasel-faced man, but it was out there now. The question was what to do about it. Raithe was never one for lying. That was what others did, not Dureyans. “Yeah, I did it.”

“Why?” Justen asked.

“He killed my father. Right in front of me, with my father's blade. This one here.” Raithe patted the scabbard still strapped to his back.

“But how is that possible?” a younger man asked. He sat bundled on a blanket, part of it over his shoulders like a woman's shawl. He might have been Kane, son of Hale, but Raithe didn't have a head for faces and names. “They can't die.”

Now you say that? Where was your tongue a minute ago, Kane?
Raithe thought, but all he said was, “Apparently, they can.”

“But
how
did you do it?” This time it was Justen again.

“I took the sword from my father's body and swung as hard as I could. The Fhrey had a weapon that sliced right through it. Cut it clean in half. I was dead. I knew it, and the Fhrey knew it. That's when—”

“That's when Raithe, son of Herkimer, the hero of Dureya, did something amazing,” Malcolm interrupted. The thin man moved to the center of the roundhouse. He crouched slightly, fanning his fingers. He spoke in a loud, clear voice that carried across the hall and demanded attention. “You see, Shegon was a master of the hunt. All members of the Asendwayr are. I should know. I lived with him in Alon Rhist.” He pointed to the metal collar around his neck. “His slave and personal valet. He was the worst possible sort of Fhrey, a cul if ever there was one. I've seen him and his kind raid Rhu—ah,
our
—villages and capture women. They don't rape them. Oh, no! Fhrey won't defile themselves with our women. Do you know what they do with them?”

“What?” several men in the hall asked together.

“They feed them to their hounds, because their beasts like soft meat.”

Gasps and grumbles escaped lips.

“But as I said, Shegon was the worst of all. He and his band of butchers traveled the lands beyond the Bern, a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. I once saw him test a blade's sharpness by cutting off a child's hand. Severed it with two hacks. Unsatisfied, he commanded his smith to sharpen the blade further, then tried it once more. The child's other hand came free with a single slice. Shegon was a fiend—a vile monster—and a Fhrey, which meant he was arrogant. His overconfidence proved to be his undoing. Shegon saw no threat in Raithe or any man. A Rhune—that's what they call us, and that's all they see—couldn't possibly inflict any harm. But never before had a Rhune fought back. No one had the courage, and none possessed the skill. The Fhrey have ruled the world for eons. They vanquished the Dherg, routed the giants, and chased the goblins into the sea. They have no equal, no fear of any living thing—until now.”

Malcolm paused and scanned the room, and seeing he had everyone's attention, he continued. “So casual, so callous, was Shegon's attack that Raithe dodged it with a skillful leap. Shegon, who was so certain of an easy victory, stood in shock when Raithe slipped through his grasp.
How dare he!
I saw that thought painted on his face.
How dare Raithe not die!
In that moment of disbelief, Raithe acted brilliantly. For what Shegon couldn't know was that this was no ordinary Rhune before him. Raithe is a master of combat the likes of which this world has yet to see. The metal of his blade had broken, but the mettle of the man rang true. Using only the broken hilt of his sword, Raithe slashed at the villain's exposed wrist. So unaccustomed to pain, so shocked and dismayed, Shegon dropped his sword. Before it hit the ground, Raithe, son of Herkimer, caught it and stabbed upward, driving the blade home—right through the monster's throat!”

Every mouth in the hall hung agape, and each man leaned forward to hear better.

“Shegon—vile lord of the Fhrey—fell dead before Raithe. So shocked were the dozen other Fhrey—murderers and oppressors of men—that they ran in fear. As they took flight, he shouted after them that mankind would no longer bow to false gods!”

Malcolm straightened the folds of his stained and torn robes. “It was then that the great Raithe of Clan Dureya took the time to cleave my bonds of servitude.
Come with me!
he said.
Come with me and breathe the air of freedom.
We journeyed together through the terrible Crescent Forest, but I traveled unafraid, for Raithe the God Killer was by my side. Not even when leshies confounded our path, leaving us lost for days and nearing starvation, did I despair. You see, the spirits of the forest delighted in having so great a champion as the God Killer within its eaves. They confused us to keep him within their realm. After many days, he knew he wouldn't escape unless he could outwit the forest. Raithe cleverly posed a riddle.
Four brothers visit this wood,
he said.
The first is greeted with great joy; the second is beloved; the third always brings sad tidings; and the last is feared. They visit each year, but never together. What are their names?
While the forest was trying to solve the riddle, Raithe and I made our escape and only now emerged, starved and exhausted. And that is how we came to sit with you this night in this honored hall.”