“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.”
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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The New Chieftain
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.
Age of Myth Page 5
