Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)

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.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





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.