Age of Myth (6 page)

Malcolm returned to their blanket and gestured in Raithe's direction. “Before you—before all of you—sits a hero of the clans, a man who refused to die when a bloodthirsty Fhrey demanded a Rhune's life on a whim. Here is a hero who for one brief, wondrous moment struck a blow for the dignity and freedom of us all. Raithe, son of Herkimer, of Clan Dureya!”

He took his seat while the men in the hall clapped their bowls against the tables, drumming their approval. Justen raised a hand to stop them. “Hold on. Hold on. Wouldn't a man who killed a god and broke his blade take the god's sword as his own?”

Before Raithe could think, Malcolm threw back the blanket and revealed Shegon's golden-hilted sword, its blade and jewels gleaming in the firelight. “Indeed he would!”

The hall erupted in drumming once more.

“Are you crazy?” Raithe whispered.

“They liked the story.”

“But it's not true.”

“Really? I remember it
exactly
that way.”

“But—”

A big man with a shaved head and a curly black beard stood up. He was taller than Raithe, and there were few people who fit that description. He wasn't merely tall. He looked as solid as an ox.

“Bollocks,” he said, thrusting his chin out and pointing a finger at both of them. “So you have a pretty sword. So what? What does that prove? You don't look like a god killer to me. I'm Donny of Nadak, and you look like a pair of liars hoping for a free meal.”

His words silenced the room, an uneasy void interrupted only by the pop and hiss of the fire.

Raithe looked over at Malcolm and whispered, “See.
This
is the problem with your plan. There's
always
going to be a Donny.”

“ 'Course, you could prove it,” Donny said. “The way I figure, a man capable of killing a god ought to be able to best little old me. What do you say, Raithe of Dureya? Think you could manage that?”

“Can you beat him?” Malcolm whispered.

Raithe looked at Donny and shrugged. “Looks a lot like my older brother Hegel.”

“Can you do it without killing him?”

“Well, that makes it a lot harder,” Raithe replied.

“Killing him won't get us more food.”

“What did they do to you in Alon Rhist, feed you every day?”

“One of the many bad habits I've picked up.”

“Well, little man?” Donny taunted. “I'm calling you a liar.”

“You also called me little. I'm still trying to figure out which offends me the most.”

Donny walked to the back of the roundhouse, where the remains of the lamb lay. He picked up a butcher knife.

“He's got a knife now,” Raithe told Malcolm.

The ex-slave patted his belly and smiled.

Raithe removed the broken sword and gave it to Malcolm to go along with Shegon's blade. “Better hang on to these or I might be tempted.”

The big man stepped away from the lamb and laughed when he saw Raithe disarming. “I'm still using this knife.”

“Figured you would,” Raithe said.

“And I'm going to gut you.”

“Maybe.”

Raithe took off his leigh mor, leaving him in his buckskin. Growing up with three older, sadistic brothers, all of whom had been trained by a father who'd learned fighting from the Fhrey, had taught Raithe a few things. The first was that he could take a beating. The second was how much opponents underestimated a smaller man, especially when he was unarmed. His brothers often made that mistake.

Donny raised the knife, and Raithe saw the smile he had hoped would appear. His oldest brother, Heim, had made that same face—once.

Raithe expected Donny to move in slowly with his blade held high, perhaps holding his free hand outstretched to block anything Raithe might try. That was how Heim had fought, but Herkimer had trained his sons, and the old man didn't care how much damage they inflicted on one another. Didan had lost a finger once because Herkimer wanted to prove a point about losing concentration. Fact was, they all had learned to fight the Dureyan way—for survival.

Donny wasn't Dureyan.

The big man charged like a bull, flailing the knife above his head and screaming. Raithe could hardly believe it. This was the type of move an old woman with a broom might use to scare rabbits from the vegetable garden.

Raithe waited until the last moment, then stepped aside, leaving a knee behind. Donny didn't even try to swing. Maybe he'd planned to stab Raithe after knocking him down. Unfortunately for Donny, Raithe's knee landed squarely in the man's stomach. A whoosh of air came out, and Donny collapsed in a ball. Raithe stomped on the hand holding the knife, breaking at least one finger and persuading Donny to let go. A kick to the face left the big man whimpering.

“Are we done?” Raithe asked.

Donny had both hands over his face, sobbing.

“I asked, are we done?”

Donny howled but managed to nod.

“Okay, then, here—let me see.” Raithe bent over the ox and pried the big man's hands away.

Blood ran from Donny's nose, which was skewed to one side.

“You're all right. You only broke your nose,” Raithe lied. The last two fingers on Donny's right hand were unnaturally twisted, but Raithe didn't see any point bringing that up. Donny probably wasn't feeling them…not yet. His whole hand was probably numb.

Raithe got on his knees next to Donny. “I can fix your nose, but you have to trust me.”

Donny looked nervous. “We're done fighting, right?”

Raithe nodded. “Didn't want to in the first place, remember? Now relax. I know how to do this. Done it to myself once—but don't try this yourself without lying down first or you might have to do it twice.”

Raithe gently placed his fingers on the fractured bridge. “I won't lie to you. This will—”

Raithe snapped Donny's nose back in place with a practiced wrench. His father had taught them the importance of distraction, and one of the best ways was to act in midsentence, assuming the opponent was willing to talk. But it was his sister, Kaylin, who had applied the technique for medical purposes when she pulled out one of Raithe's baby teeth.

Donny screamed, then cringed in the dirt. He lay panting, as his uninjured fingers gingerly explored what his eyes couldn't see.

“All better,” Raithe declared. “Well, it will be after you go through the black-eyed-raccoon stage, but you'll keep your handsome profile.”

Several of the men approached, led by Justen. “Hingus!” he shouted to the proprietor. “Bring as much food as these two can eat and take it from my balance. It's not every day a man gets to dine with a hero.”

“Bring mead,” a man in a red cap said. “I'll give you another bundle of wool.”

The young man with a blanket over his shoulders declared, “I'll give another pot of honey to have Raithe and his servant share the best spot near the fire with me.”

Malcolm offered Raithe a wide smile.

Raithe nodded and replied, “You
are
a good storyteller.”

Strict laws governed the succession of power within the clan, traditions passed down through the generations by the Keeper of Ways. Nearly all involved men fighting, and it was the strongest among us who ruled.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Persephone winced and pulled, but the ring refused to come off. Little wonder, given that Reglan had slipped it on her finger twenty years before, when she was seventeen and he forty-one. She hadn't removed it since.

Twenty years.

It didn't seem so long ago, yet Persephone felt as if they'd always been together. The day he'd put the ring on, it had been too large. She'd wrapped string around the little silver band to hold it snug. The ring was a sacred relic handed down since the time of Gath, and she was terrified she'd lose it. She never did. The need for the string had disappeared during her first pregnancy. Staring at her hand, she realized how much she had changed over the years.

We changed each other.

“I'll get some chicken fat.” Sarah moved toward the door.

“Hang on,” Persephone said, stopping her. She wet her finger in her mouth. Then, with a firm grasp and clenched teeth, she painfully wrenched the metal band over her knuckle.

“Ow,” Sarah said with a sympathetic grimace. “That looked painful.” Her wise, motherly tone spoke about more than the pain of a finger.

With a curious sort of mental hiccup, Persephone remembered that Sarah had been there when the ring was placed on her hand. Most marriages were informal and gradually built over time. The only public declaration came when a couple began sharing the same roof or a child was born. But Persephone had married a chieftain, which required a formal ceremony, and Sarah, her closest friend, had stood beside her. The ring and the torc were the badges of the Second Chair's office. But in Persephone's mind, the silver band had always been the symbol of Reglan's love.

Persephone nodded and tried not to cry. She'd done enough of that already, and her eyes and nose throbbed from rubbing.

After the death of her husband and with no son to inherit his father's position, Persephone was expected to leave the lodge to make way for the new chieftain and his family. More than a hundred years had passed since a chieftain's wife had failed in her most important responsibility: bearing a child who lived to assume the First Chair. Maeve, the Keeper of Ways, had been consulted, and she decreed that Konniger, Reglan's Shield, would assume the position. There might be challengers, so the matter wasn't
officially
settled. But no matter who prevailed, Persephone's fate would be the same; she had nowhere to go.

Sarah had been there for her twenty years before, and she once again stood by Persephone's side, offering a place to live. From the outside, all roundhouses were as identical as the materials and land allowed. On the inside, Sarah's was by far the most welcoming. Filled with animal-hide rugs, baskets, a spinning wheel, a sophisticated loom, and a huge bed covered in furs, it offered a comforting respite. An open-hearth fire in the center of the floor kept the space warm. Without a chimney, a thick layer of smoke hovered at the peak of the cone-shaped thatched roof. Its slow escape dried herbs and cured meat and fish hanging from the rafters.

Part of the coziness came from the piles of wool, thread, yarn, and the stacks of folded cloth that provided softness. But what made this roundhouse special were the walls—or wall—as roundhouses had only one. The interior was plastered in daub, and designs of great beauty had been painted by Sarah's daughter, Brin. Some were as simple as charcoal outlines of little hands; others were circles and swirls of yellow and orange paint. A few were complex illustrations of people and events. Even the logs framing the entryway, not to mention the door itself, displayed celestial swirls and stars. The circular wall of Sarah's home was a marvel of artistic wonder.

“I can't believe I forgot to take it off.” Persephone held out the ring. “Would you mind returning this to the lodge?”

Sarah took it and nodded, offering pitying eyes. Persephone didn't want to be pitied. She'd always seen her role as an example to her people and found herself ill suited to the role of woeful widow.

“No, wait.” Persephone stopped her. “I should be the one to give it to Tressa. It will look like I disapprove if I don't.”

“Might not be Tressa,” Sarah said. She walked to the door and peered out. “Holliman has challenged Konniger. They're getting ready to fight now.”

“Holliman?” Persephone said, confused. “Are you serious?”

Persephone joined her friend at the door. The front of Sarah's home faced the little grassy patch of open space before the lodge steps, which the dahl's residents used for outdoor gatherings. Between the burning braziers in front of the stone statue of Mari, the two men checked the straps on their wooden shields, each armed with an ax.

“It's not like he doesn't stand
any
chance.” Sarah held the door open as the two looked out.

“Holliman is only a huntsman,” Persephone said. “Konniger has been Reglan's Shield for years.”

“He's big.”

“Konniger is bigger.”

“Not by much. And there's more to combat than size. There's speed and—”

“Experience?” Persephone stared at Sarah as she let the door close. “I guess it's good that the matchup is so one-sided, Konniger won't have to kill Holliman. He'll yield quickly. We can't afford to lose such a talented hunter.”

The door jerked open, and Sarah's daughter entered. “Sorry I'm late.”

Brin was tall for her age, most of the height in her legs, and in many ways she was a ganglier version of her mother. Sarah possessed a tiny nose and an easy smile, and although not particularly beautiful, she'd always been remarkably cute. Both braided their hair, or more likely Sarah braided both, the obvious choice in style given that Sarah was the dahl's most talented weaver.

The girl flopped on the bed and sighed heavily.

“Something wrong?” Sarah asked.

“It's Maeve. She's crazy and being stupid.”

“Brin!” her mother scolded.

“I mean, I don't know how she expects me to learn everything down to the emphasis on words and the order of lists of names.”

“Maeve is an extremely talented and capable Keeper.”

“But she's old,” Brin said.

“So am I. So is Seph, and I can assure you we aren't crazy.”

“Okay, but if you're old,
she's ancient,
and definitely losing her mind.” Brin bounced up to a sitting position and crossed her legs. “It's insane to think a person can remember
that
much detail. Who cares if Hagen comes after Doden in the list of men slain at the Battle of Glenmoor?”

“I know it must be difficult keeping everything straight,” Sarah told her. “But you shouldn't blame your failures on others. You won't be Keeper that way. You need to pay better attention.”

“But…” Brin frowned and folded her arms.

“Your mother is right,” Persephone said. “Being a Keeper isn't only about remembering the stories; it's an important responsibility. It's crucial that you know the customs and laws. I realize you find details such as when to plant which crops boring, but those are the kinds of things that determine whether everyone lives or dies. That's why Keepers are so revered.”

“I know, but…” Brin looked hurt and turned away.

Persephone sighed. “Brin, I'm sorry. I'm just…listen, you'll make a fine Keeper, but you're still young. You're only fifteen and have plenty of time to learn. You need to listen to Maeve, do as she says, and don't argue. If she gets frustrated, she'll pick someone else.”

“Which wouldn't be so awful,” Sarah said. “You could get back to learning the loom.”

“Mother, please!” Brin rolled her eyes, then got up and reached for the empty water gourd.

“Well, you were the one pointing out how old I am. I'm going to need someone to take over when I'm too feeble.”

“I didn't say you are old. I said Maeve is old—then I clarified that she is ancient. You were the one who brought up your age.”

“Pretty good memory,” Persephone said.

Brin flashed her a mischievous grin.

“You're supposed to be on my side, Seph,” Sarah told her, then turned to her daughter. “Your grandmother, Brinhilda, taught me her secrets to making Rhen cloth, and—”

“And you hated it,” Brin said. “You despised how Dad's mother forced you to work at it for hours at a time.”

“Of course I did. I was a stubborn young lady like you, but I did it. I learned, and it's a good thing, too. Otherwise, you and half the dahl would be standing here naked, and what would we do with the wool your father shears?”

“Being a Keeper is important, as well. Persephone just said so, and she's the Second Cha—” Brin stopped herself and covered her mouth, looking as if she'd accidentally stepped on a newborn chick.

“It's okay,” Persephone told her. She rubbed the empty place where the ring used to be. “We all have changes to get used to.”

The clangs of battle erupted outside as the fight commenced. A curse was followed by a grunt. Then came the gasp of spectators followed by cheers, boos, and the thud of ax on shield. Brin rushed toward the door, but her mother caught her by the wrist. “You don't need to see.”

“I'm getting water. You need water, right?”

“Brin…” Sarah spoke the name dressed in a heavy coat of disappointment.

“But I—”

More grunts could be heard and the sound of shuffling feet, then a crack was followed by a scream. Another collective gasp was heard, but this time there wasn't a cheer.

The fight for chieftain had ended, and another battle began—this one waged by a team of women trying to save a man's life.

“Move!” Padera shouted.

The little woman was the first to react. With a round head, full bosom, and ample hips, she looked much like a skirted snowman as she bustled forward, shoving aside men twice her size. Ancient when Persephone was born, Padera was the oldest living member of Clan Rhen. She'd been a farmer's wife and had successfully raised six children and countless cows, pigs, chickens, and goats. Padera also regularly won the fall harvest contest for biggest vegetables and best pies. There wasn't anyone more respected on the dahl.

The ring of onlookers broke on Padera's approach, giving Persephone a clear view of the common where the two men had fought. The sight made her gasp. From the knee down, Holliman's leg was covered in blood. Glistening with sweat, Konniger backed away, his ax dangling from loose fingers, the sharpened stone edge dark and dripping. He stared at Holliman with an expression Persephone struggled to place. If anything, Konniger looked guilty.

Holliman rose up on elbows that he jabbed into the grass. Arching his back and wailing in pain, he dragged his body to…well, to nowhere Persephone could discern. She didn't think Holliman knew, either. He probably didn't realize that he was moving or that he was pumping a stream of blood, which soaked a wide swath of spring grass in a thick coat of brilliant red.

“Hold him down!” Padera called out. “And get me a rope!”

At her command, several people grabbed Holliman's arms, pinning him, while others ran off in search of twine.

Roan, who had been in the ring of spectators, rushed to Padera's side and stripped off Holliman's thin rawhide belt. She held it out to Padera.

“Around the thigh, girl.” The old woman held up the bleeding leg. “Loop it above the knee.”

Roan executed the instructions as if she'd been asked to tie closed a bag of apples. Padera's indifference in the face of so much carnage was understandable. The old woman regularly set bones, even those that had broken through skin. She also sewed up deep wounds and delivered breech babies from both women and livestock. But Roan taking the initiative, and with such stoicism, was surprising. The young woman, who until recently had been the slave of Iver the Carver, was normally timid as a field mouse. She rarely spoke and was seldom seen outside the carver's home, which she had inherited upon his death. But there she was, acting with precision and clarity, undaunted by Holliman's screams, and either unconcerned or unaware that her dress was soaking up blood.

Each woman took an end of the rawhide strap and then pulled it tight. The fountain of blood slowed to a stream.

“Get a stick!” Padera growled.

Straining with both hands on the leather, Roan focused on Sarah's daughter. “Brin! Get the hammer from my bag.”

Brin squeezed through the crowd, rushed to Roan's side, and pulled open the satchel. Out of it the girl drew a small hammer.

“Here, child. Lay the handle where the straps cross,” Padera ordered.

Brin hesitated, looking at the blood and cringing with Holliman's screams.

“Do it!” Padera shouted.

Persephone pushed forward and took the hammer. She placed it where indicated. Padera and Roan crossed the straps, wrapping it.

“Twist,” Padera ordered.

With weak, shaking hands, Persephone managed to find the strength to tighten the belt. The stream of blood subsided to a trickle, then a drip.

“Hold it there,” Padera commanded, then pointed in the direction of Mari's statue. “Fetch down a brazier.”

The closest man removed his shirt and wrapped his hands. He placed the pan on the ground near the women. Padera snuffed out the fire, leaving the smoldering wood.

Holliman's struggles were subsiding even before the hot poker used to stir coals was pressed to his leg. He let out a violent scream, then went limp. The smell was horrific, and Persephone held one hand under her nose while the other remained clamped tightly to Roan's hammer.