Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  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,” t
he 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.”

  Persephone shrugged. She wanted to disagree, but that was an argument for another time. “Okay, but there are female Fhrey in Alon Rhist, too. So if our women can’t fight, neither can theirs. Is it impossible to think a thousand men can kill a hundred Fhrey? And how many do the Gula have? If we all band together, we could overwhelm them with sheer numbers.”

  “Not likely to happen.” The man shook his hairy head. “The clans would never join together. They’re more likely to fight each other.”

  She let out more line to her fish. “I see your point. It would take a man like Gath. Someone renowned, someone everyone would agree was the bravest, strongest warrior among them. Someone who all the chieftains could kneel to and not lose the respect of their people. It would take a hero.”

  Time to set the hook.

  “It would take someone who’d already proved himself by killing a Fhrey,” she said.

  Persephone and Malcolm continued ahead but stopped a few steps later. The Dureyan had halted. “You want this Raithe person to be the keenig?” he said.

  Persephone nodded. “I think it might be our only hope to survive.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Doesn’t sound at all crazy to me,” Malcolm said.

  I love you, Malcolm! He was practically holding out the net for her fish.

  “You be quiet,” the man snapped.

  “You are Raithe, aren’t you?” Persephone asked. “Raithe of Dureya, the God Killer, wielder of the copper sword.”

  Raithe glanced over his shoulder at the pommel, sighed, and then glared at Malcolm. “I blame you for this,” he said, and walked on.

  —

  After drawing out Raithe’s identity, Persephone backed off, satisfied with her progress. The three walked on in relative silence. Ahead of them, Suri had stopped, Minna beside her. The girl seemed transfixed, staring off through an opening in the trees. When they reached her, Persephone realized they had climbed higher than she’d expected. Below them, the view was breathtaking, forest-covered hills stretched out for miles. The shadows across the landscape indicated the hour was later than she’d realized.

  “That’s the home of Grin,” Suri told them, pointing at a rocky face where the sun revealed a large cave.

  “We aren’t going up there, are we?” Persephone asked.

  “No, ma’am,” the girl replied. “Magda is just ahead.”

  “Magda?” Malcolm inquired.

  “The old oak,” Persephone said. “Suri says it’s the oldest tree in the forest.”

  “Who or what is Grin?” Raithe asked.

  “A bear or demon or maybe both. She killed my son, my husband, and several other men from Rhen.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to avoid, then,” Malcolm said.

  They continued on, and Suri led them off the ridge and into a shallow basin. As tranquil a place as anything Persephone could imagine, the valley held a flower-filled meadow. In the center stood a massive tree. Lower branches, each as thick as any regular oak’s trunk, rested their elbows on the ground as they extended out hundreds of feet. Her gnarled and ribbed trunk, partially covered in green moss, was mammoth. A pair of huge knots gave the tree the appearance of a gentle, wrinkled face that looked down on them with sad eyes.

  It was easy to see why Suri had described Magda as holding court. Nothing but flowers grew near her. That was Magda’s field, and her boughs extended the width of it like a fine gown.

  Suri stopped under the tree’s leaves and knelt. Minna lay beside her. The others hesitated, unsure what to do. Slowly, Suri lifted her head to the leaves. “Say hello to Magda, the oldest tree.”

  Malcolm walked to Magda as if in a trance and laid a hand on the oak. “She is indeed a very old tree.”

  “Magda told me once she has lived for three thousand years,” Suri declared.

  Malcolm continued to let his hands glide over the tree’s bark, which was thick and gnarled with deep lines of age. “She would have seen it all.”

  “What do I do?” Persephone asked Suri.

  “Just ask her what you want to know.”

  Persephone stepped forward and, looking into the knots as if they were eyes, she inquired, “Are the Fhrey coming? Will they attack Dahl Rhe
n?”

  She waited, listening, expecting to hear a booming voice.

  All was silent, and she looked at Suri.

  The mystic shrugged. “Try something else.”

  Persephone glanced at Raithe. “How can I save my people?”

  They looked up at the leaves, Raithe wearing a nervous expression. In turn, each of them, even Minna, looked at Suri, who scowled.

  “What?” Persephone said.

  Suri shook her head in irritation. “Magda’s being a beech.”

  “A what?” Raithe asked.

  “She’s being quiet.”

  “Maybe she’s thinking,” Malcolm said. “Or she doesn’t know the answers. Those are pretty weighty questions for a tree that doesn’t, you know, travel much.”

  “She talks to the other trees. They tell her all they’ve heard,” Suri explained. “That’s how she knows so much. She hears news from everywhere.”

  “But how can a tree know the minds of gods?” Raithe asked. “Or the lay of the future?”

  “The more you know about the past, the easier it is to divine the future.” Suri stood up. “Magda!” she shouted, causing Minna to start. “Wake up! You have visitors! This woman is an important lady. She needs to know what to do. She needs to know…” Suri looked at Persephone.

  “How to save our race from extinction at the hands of the Fhrey,” Persephone provided.

  Suri looked her way for a second, licked her lips, and then turned her attention back to the tree. “Yeah, that.”

  Again they waited. Suri’s face scrunched up into an elaborate frown. “I don’t understand. Normally—”

  A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and Suri’s head snapped upward. Her eyes grew wide, and a smile spread across her face.

  “Welcome the gods,” Suri said formally.

  “What?” Persephone asked, but Suri held up a hand to silence her.

  “Heal the injured,” the mystic went on.

  “I don’t under—”