Age of Myth (4 page)

Persephone sighed. This wasn't like talking to Tura, who'd had her own eccentricities.

I can leave this for Reglan. Maybe he can make sense of her.

“Well, thank you.” Persephone stood and offered the girl a smile. “I'll see that you get the bread I mentioned, and you can take this up with my husband when he returns. If you'd like, you can wait in here.” Seeing the girl take another step backward, Persephone added, “Or out on the steps if you prefer.”

Suri nodded, pivoted, and walked away, the wolf following at her heels.

So thin.

Persephone was certain the prophecy was a ruse. Clever, but the girl had overdone it. She should have kept it simple, like predicting a poor harvest, approaching fevers, or a drought. She was just young and hadn't thought things through. With Tura dead, she didn't have a hope of surviving alone in the forest.

“Suri?” Persephone stopped her. “I wouldn't tell anyone else about what you told me. You know, about the deaths.”

The girl turned around, a hand resting against the nearest of the three winter pillars. “Why?”

“Because they won't understand. They'll think you're lying.”

“I'm not.”

Persephone sighed.
Stubborn, too.

Suri took a few more steps toward the door, then paused and turned back once more. “I'm not Tura, but I know something awful is coming. Our only hope is to heed what counsel the trees can tell. Watch for the leaves, ma'am, watch for the leaves.”

Just then, Cobb's horn sounded again.

By the time Persephone passed through the doorway, she knew something terrible had happened. Mattocks and hoes lay abandoned in the garden. The Killian brothers had come down off their roof, and people scurried to the gate or fell to their knees, weeping. Those with tear-filled eyes spread their pain to the bewildered around them. The whispered words were followed by shock and a shaking of heads. Then they, too, cried.

As if she were seeing rain cross a field, Persephone braced for the approaching tempest. She'd weathered many storms. For twenty years, she'd helped her husband guide their people. She'd faced the Long Winter and the Great Famine that followed. She'd lost her first son at birth, the second to sickness, and recently the only one who had grown to adulthood. Mahn had been a fine young man whom the gods inexplicably had failed to protect. Whatever came through the gate, she would endure it like all the other events. She had to. If not for her sake, then for her people.

At the gate, both wooden doors had been pushed open, but the view was obscured by people clustered on the pathway. Several had climbed the ladders and lined the ramparts, pointing over the wall. Persephone reached the lodge steps at the same instant the crowd finally parted to reveal the mystery.

The hunting party had returned.

Eight men had left. Six had come back. One on a shield.

They carried Reglan through the gate—two men on each side, Konniger walking in front. The sleeve of his shirt had been torn away and wrapped around his head, one side stained red. Adler, who always had keen eyes, returned with only one of the two he'd left with. Hegner had a bloody stump where his right hand had been.

Persephone didn't move beyond the steps. The downpour had reached her, and there was no need to go farther.

What struck her the most acutely wasn't the shock of her husband's death but that the scene was so familiar. Persephone wondered if she were losing her mind, reliving the events of three days before when they had brought her son back. He, too, had been on a hunting trip and carried home. She remembered standing in the exact same spot at the exact same time of day.

But it's not the same.

With Mahn, her husband had stood by her side. He'd held her hand, and his strength had kept her standing. Anger had radiated off him, his fingers squeezing too hard. Reglan had left the next day to seek vengeance.

The bearers approached the steps. Grim faces looked to their feet. Only one dared look at her. The crowd folded behind the procession.

“We return to you your husband,” Konniger said. “Reglan of the House of Mont, chieftain of Dahl Rhen, has fallen in battle this day.”

With his words, the crowd quieted. Above Persephone, the lodge banners snapped in the wind. She was supposed to acknowledge this the way her husband had accepted the death of Mahn—of their boy. Reglan had done so with dignity and understanding while silently crushing her hand in his. Persephone didn't have a hand to squeeze and lacked all understanding. Instead, she asked, “And what of the bear?”

Taken by surprise, Konniger didn't answer right away. He took a moment and dragged a bloodstained hand down the wounded side of his face. “It's not a bear. The thing we hunted is a demon. Men cannot kill such a thing.”

He was called the God Killer, and we first heard about him from the traders traveling the northern routes. His legend grew, but no one believed, not in the beginning. Except me.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Raithe enjoyed a good campfire. Something comforting about the dancing light, the smell of smoke, and the way his face and chest were hot but his backside cold. He sensed a profound meaning in this duality as well as in the enigma of flickering flames. The fire spirit spoke in spitting sparks and shifts of choking smoke, but the meaning of each remained a mystery. Everything in nature was that way. All of it spoke to him—to everyone—in a language few could understand. What secrets, what wisdom, and what horrors might he learn if only he knew what it all meant.

“One of the few spirits I get along with,” Raithe said, tossing another branch on the flames.

“What is?” Malcolm asked. The ex-slave turned fugitive compatriot was seated beside Raithe, both windward to avoid the smoke. He was busy removing the blanket from around his neck. The material was thin enough to tie in a knot, and when they traveled, he wore it like a sash.

“The fire,” Raithe said, grabbing another branch from the pile they had gathered. He snapped it in half and tossed the pieces into the flames.

“You think fires are spirits?”

Raithe raised a brow. “What? You think it's a demon?” He'd heard it before, most notably from a neighbor who'd left his cook fire unattended while taking a piss in the river. When the man returned, his dung house was burning. “Could be,” Raithe considered. “It has a nasty temper when loose, but I honestly don't think a demon would come so easily when summoned. Certainly not by the likes of me.”

Malcolm stared at him, something he did often. The light of the fire cast his eyes in shadow. Raithe wasn't one for conversation, and Malcolm's blank stares after such comments didn't provide much incentive. The Fhrey slave must have lived a sheltered life. Everything Raithe told him came as a surprise.

“My father always said fires were only dangerous if they got bored,” Raithe pressed on. “Left alone, they get frustrated and resort to evil. Best way to keep a fire happy is by letting it lick food and hear stories.”

Malcolm continued to watch him, blinking this time, his mouth partially open.

He's tired,
Raithe decided.
Cold, miserable, and, most of all, scared.
All understandable given their situation; even Raithe struggled to keep a positive outlook.
I would have never guessed a forest could be stingier than the rocky plains of Dureya.

This was their eighth night in the Crescent Forest, and the world of giant trees still hadn't welcomed them. The wood offered few paths, forced them through thorny brambles, and denied them all but the most meager subsistence. That day they had feasted on six black beetles the size of his thumbnail, seven larvae they found under peeling bark, sap leaking out of a broad-leaf tree, and a bunch of pinecones, which they'd had to roast to get at the nuts. At a clear stream, Raithe had tried to spear fish while Malcolm attempted to grab them, but after several frustrating hours, they gave up. This would be another hungry night.

In the dark of the canopy-induced premature night, the two sat side by side in a tiny clearing carpeted in brown needles. They watched the fire and listened to the wind and creaking trees. The massive evergreens swayed, their tops sweeping the sky and denying any glimpse of stars. Raithe could have oriented himself if he could have seen them. Trapped under the canopy, he was blind and convinced they'd been walking in circles.

“The evening meal is being served in Alon Rhist,” Malcolm said in a wistful tone as he shook out the blanket and wrapped it around himself. “Venison probably—slow-roasted so it's tender. There'd be cheese, too, and some poultry like partridge or quail, certainly fresh bread, pudding—oh, and wine, of course. Bet they're eating right now. Evening meals were wonderful.” He looked like a man recalling a lost love. “Are you familiar with the concept? That's when you eat something in the evening.” He sighed in remembrance. “I used to partake of that particular ritual all the time when I was a slave, but thank the gods I'm free now.”

It was Raithe's turn to stare at Malcolm.

“Sorry. I'm just hungry.”

Raithe continued to glare.

“What?”

“Did he beat you?” Raithe asked.

“Who? Shegon?”

Raithe nodded. “Because if he did, I could see why.”

Malcolm frowned. “No, he didn't beat me. The Fhrey treat their slaves well. Certainly better than you.”

“You're not my slave.”

“And I thank all that is sacred for that.” Malcolm waved at a pair of tiny black bugs that had gathered in front of his face. Insects were coming out with the warmer weather, which wasn't all that warm yet.

“If the Fhrey were so great, why'd you bash ole Shegon on the head?” Raithe asked, realizing he ought to have inquired sooner, but the death of his father, concern over being hunted, and their constant search for food had pushed out other thoughts.

Malcolm plucked up a brown pine needle, of which there were millions. Rubbing it between his fingers, he shrugged. “Even a well-treated slave prefers to control his own destiny. I saw a way out and took it. Everything would have been fine if you hadn't lost your mind. Shegon would have been angry, but not enough to bother chasing after us—he wasn't that ambitious—but now that he's dead, revenge will be a matter of honor.” He paused, looked over, and asked, “What about you? Why'd you do it?”

“Kill him?”

Malcolm nodded.

“I don't know. Shouldn't have. When he killed my father, I didn't think. I just acted. Just like Herkimer would have. Funny thing is, I never wanted to be like him. Didn't want to go off and fight in the wars. Had no desire to seek fame and glory. That was his ambition…his and my brothers'. I would be happy living a simple life with a wife and a few children. And yet all the years my father spent teaching me to fight just kinda kicked in. You know what I mean?” He looked at Malcolm and realized he didn't. Not the blank stare this time but no recognition. A Dureyan would have understood, but Malcolm had spent too much time with the Fhrey and barely seemed human.

“I have no excuse other than to say I did it for him. Sons are supposed to do that, aren't they? Avenge their fathers. That's how things are done in Dureya, at least.”

“Not a nice place, I gather, this Dureya.”

“Barren rock and dirt mostly. Lots of thin brittle grass, too. Wonderful if you're a goat.”

“And the people?”

“Mean.”

“You're not mean.”

Raithe raised a brow. “You don't know me or my people. Clan Dureya is famous for growing offensive bastards who'd rather drink than work, fight than talk, and are the source of all evil in the world.”

“If you were as nasty as you suggest, you probably would have killed Meryl and me, taken the horse, and not bothered to bury your father.”

Raithe threw up his hands. “I'm odd. A disappointment to my clan. The son of Coppersword who never went to war. In Dureya, everyone fights. The Fhrey call for warriors, and up go the hands. It's how we eat, because we aren't goats. And you know you're living the high life when you envy goats.” Raithe frowned, threw a stick into the fire, and sighed. “My father just wanted some decent land. Crossing the river was the first sensible thing he'd ever done.”

“Your father was being unreasonable. Dragged you to where you aren't allowed—the Rhune chieftains all signed treaties assuring you'd keep to your own lands.”

“Shegon was unreasonable, too. Telling us to leave is one thing, but you can't ask a man to throw away a sword. Swords might be common in Alon Rhist, but they're rare on this side of the rivers.”

“That wasn't unreasonable. A treaty violation is one thing, but doing so with weapons is an act of war. You and your father would have been killed on sight had an Instarya patrol found you. But Shegon was from the Asendwayr tribe, and he was giving you a way out. Still, leaving you with the sword would have been irresponsible. If you lingered or doubled back and the Instarya found you, they would view your armed presence as an invasion—a scouting party perhaps. The Instarya would have marched on Rhulyn. What Shegon did wasn't unreasonable; it was an act of kindness.”

Raithe hadn't known any of that. He wished he still didn't.

“It's not all your fault,” Malcolm added in a softer tone. “Shegon could have explained things better, but the Fhrey aren't in the habit of reasoning with those they consider only slightly above animals.”

“Wouldn't have mattered. The sword was my father's pride, his honor. It's who he was. Handing it over would have been the same as placing his head on a chopping block. Worse, he'd have been giving up his soul.”

“And now his great blade is yours.”

“Such as it is.” Raithe drew the broken copper out of the scabbard and looked at the severed edge. “Shegon's blade cut through it like I was holding a stick, and this was the best weapon in our clan. It's been handed down from father to son for generations. Legend holds it was crafted for my great-great-grandfather by a Dherg in return for saving his life.” Raithe slipped the shattered sword back into its sheath. Then he bit his lip and took a breath. “I haven't thanked you.”

“Don't bother. I did you no favor,” Malcolm assured.

“I would have died if you hadn't.”

Malcolm raised his head to peer curiously at Raithe. “You're still going to die. You're just going to spend some time beforehand with a hungry stomach and sore legs. But on the bright side, you'll be remembered. One doesn't kill a god and go unnoticed.”

Clap!

Out in the dark, beyond the ring of the firelight, a loud wood-on-wood strike ripped through the night. Not a snapping branch, although that would have been disturbing as well. They had heard those sounds before, animals of unknown size roaming in the night. The sounds of the forest made it hard to sleep. But this wasn't that. Not a crack, this was a slap, an odd hollow sound, and both of them got to their feet. Together they peered into the gloom as Raithe put more wood on the fire.

“What was that?” Malcolm whispered.

“Dunno,” Raithe whispered back. “Could be anything.”

“How about some examples?”

“I suppose the worst thing would be a raow.”

“Worst thing? Why did you have to start with the worst thing? Why not assume it was a dead tree falling on another?”

“Relax. I don't think it's a raow. We'd have seen human bones by now, and we'd also be dead.”

“Oh, well, thanks for the reassurance. So what else might it be?”

Raithe looked across at him and smiled. “A falling tree?”

Malcolm smirked. “Seriously, though…”

Raithe looked around at the moss-covered rocks and then at the trees. “Leshie?”

“And what is a leshie?”

“Woodland spirit. They're probably covering our path so we won't know which way to go in the morning. They're mischievous but not generally dangerous to grown men.”

Malcolm stepped back as the heat of the fire grew with the added wood. Part skeptical, part hopeful, the two locked eyes with each other.

Raithe nodded. “I've seen them before during a spring wood gathering. They're these little lights that float above the grass.”

“Those are fireflies.”

“Sure, some are, but the brightest lights are leshies, whose favorite sport is luring children away from home. Sometimes to a fast-flowing river or deep lake where they drown.”

“Don't you have any happy stories?” Malcolm grimaced. “You're depressing the fire spirit.”

Raithe shrugged and tossed another stick in the flames. “I'm from Dureya; it's what we have.”

Malcolm peered back over the top of the flames at the dark of the woods beyond, then shook his head. “I don't think it's leshies.”

For a person who had been certain of his own death without Raithe, Malcolm was decidedly resistant to his guide's wisdom. “I'm not so sure. I think they've been confounding us,” Raithe said, “hiding the obvious trails, keeping us lost in this blasted forest.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak just as another clap rent the air. This time it creaked first, a yawning wrench and then the slap. More than that, Raithe heard faint laughter and distant singing.

The two men stared at each other, shocked.

“I smell food,” Malcolm said.

Raithe was nodding. He did, too, something savory. The breeze had shifted, sending smoke in their direction but also the smell of cooked meat. “You might be right about it not being leshies. Could be crimbals instead. They're known to have great feasts and parties.”

“Parties?” Malcolm got to his feet. “Maybe we should—”

“No, don't!” Raithe grabbed Malcolm's arm.

“But…
food.
You remember
food,
right? I mean
real
food?”

“That's how they lure you. Doorways in the trees lead to their homeland, a magical place called Nog. Once there, they'll lay you down in feather beds and play music while treating you to roasted boar, deer, beef, and lamb covered in cream and sweetened with honey—all you can eat.”

Malcolm was licking his lips.

“Then they fill you with ale, wine, mead, and pies.”

“Really? Pies? What kind?”

“Doesn't matter what kind, because you can't get out. Once you go in, once you eat their food, you're trapped forever in Nog.”

Malcolm blinked. “So?”

“What do you mean
so
?”