“And it’s only going to get worse. Next year, Estramnadon will welcome, what, ten or twenty births? That same year the Rhunes will see twenty-five thousand.”
“But…but they die so quickly. I’ve heard they don’t even reach a full century.”
“True. About fifteen thousand die each year, but that still means ten thousand are added to their population. Two hundred thousand could be born to this coming generation. When they were thought to be as docile as rabbits, they didn’t represent a threat. But now…well, Raithe killed Gryndal, didn’t he? The Rhunes once considered us immortal gods, but now that they know we bleed and die, will they sit idly by when Lothian attacks or will they rise?”
He looked past her at the inhabitants of the dahl, “War is inevitable, and we can be trampled or we can learn to harness and ride. I’ve made my choice, and I suggest you do the same.”
—
The bonfire roared as it consumed a hundred years of civilization in a single night. From the moment Raithe had arrived in Dahl Rhen, he’d considered this place to be the high point of mankind’s achievements. He’d never seen a place so rich and luxurious. Every family had a home—a roundhouse constructed from wood. The storage pit was deep enough to last a whole winter and beyond. The fields were lush and fertile, growing multiple varieties of seed grass. The residents of Dahl Rhen had excesses of beer, mead, bread, meat and fish, herbs and spices. And all their riches had been protected by a high wall and a massive gate, but the gate hadn’t been strong enough.
The bodies had been buried by nightfall. Otherwise, the scent would’ve lured animals out of the wood. Without a secured perimeter, everyone felt it best to put their loved ones safely underground. Raithe had worked hard all day. Covered in sweat and dirt, he was pleased to see that the well was working again. The Dherg, three small-statured people who had returned with Persephone’s group, had created a vessel made from beaten metal. They called it a bucket, and it worked better than the gourds the villagers had used in the past. Raithe poured water over his head and let it drain down his hair and soak his chest and thick black beard.
Those who’d survived were gathering around the bonfire built on the ruined foundation of the lodge. They fed it splintered logs, thatch, and the other broken pieces of their lives. Not including the Galantians, fewer than three hundred had survived, and when he’d first arrived there had been almost a thousand people in Dahl Rhen. Given the destruction, Raithe would have expected the toll to be higher.
Somehow the oldest resident, Padera, had weathered the attack. She claimed her dead husband had something to do with her survival, but Raithe hadn’t listened to the reasons why. He’d been busy burying Brin’s parents while the girl sobbed into Persephone’s chest. There had been a lot of crying that day. Gelston, whom Raithe had only just discovered was Delwin’s brother and Brin’s uncle, was still alive, having survived the lightning strike. Still, he was in no shape to care for his niece. The man had barely spoken and hardly moved all day.
Some villagers hadn’t been in the dahl during the attack. A number of folks benefited that afternoon from tending their fields or being in the forest cutting wood or hunting. If the giants had attacked at night, the death toll would have been higher. And without the Galantians, there might have been no survivors at all. The Fhrey had saved them, but after seeing what was left of the dahl, maybe saved wasn’t the right word.
With the destruction of the gate, Dahl Rhen was just a hill, an exposed mound surrounded by wilderness. Neither the lodge nor any of the roundhouses had survived the storm. In one cursed day, generations of labor had been lost. They were back to how it must have been when the clan first paused in that spot and built a similar fire from the wood of the forest.
And yet despite the losses, there was cause for appreciation. Gone was the idea of Fhrey gods, but there was plenty of room for heroes in the Rhen pantheon. Any reservations or suspicions the dahl’s inhabitants had held about the Fhrey warriors were erased by the feet of giants. Around the fire, the men of Dahl Rhen sat shoulder to shoulder with the Galantians, sharing beer and mead and toasting the dead.
“There you are,” Malcolm said as he headed toward Raithe with a wooden cup in each hand. “Here. Bergin opened his best jugs of beer to honor the dead. Thought you could use a drink.”
“Thanks, but do you know where—”
Malcolm tilted his head, and Raithe turned to see Persephone, Nyphron, and Arion approaching them from behind. He offered her a smile as she passed but didn’t receive one in return. She looked tired, her eyes sore and red. He’d seen the same expression on many faces throughout the day. Not for the first time, Raithe questioned his own callousness. The deaths meant little to him. He rationalized that he didn’t know the people of Rhen well, or maybe the impact of the devastation was somehow delayed. But Raithe was still waiting for the arrival of grief over his father’s passing, and he suspected it might never come. He was Dureyan, and the simple truth was that his people had little use for mourning or sympathy. Sudden, inexplicable death wasn’t a surprise to them. The only constant was suffering. Those of Clan Dureya learned this lesson well, and they learned it young. They also knew anything could be endured—even life.
Raithe and Malcolm found seats around the fire not far from where the three Dherg clustered just inside the ring of light. Raithe looked at Malcolm and indicated the visitors, to which Malcolm merely shrugged. The conversation around the fire quieted when Nyphron and Arion sat. Persephone remained standing. She clasped her hands and took a deep breath.
“This has been a dark and grievous day,” she said. “A sad and bewildering one that saw the loss of many beloved friends and family.” Her eyes strayed toward Brin, who sat between Moya and Roan, her cheeks still streaked. “Tonight we say goodbye, tonight we grieve, tonight we remember the past.” She paused and looked up at the stars overhead. “But tomorrow will bring a new day, and the question before us is: What shall we do with it?”
“Why did this happen?” Hanson Killian asked. The woodworker sat cross-legged next to his wife, who clutched their remaining three children. Earlier that day, Raithe had been in the burial pit when Farmer Wedon handed down the other four Killians.
Raithe didn’t think Hanson expected an answer. The question was at the forefront of everyone’s minds, but the same question arrived with every tragedy. Why my son? Why today of all days? Why us again? The clans suffered loss with such regularity that the questions often felt as pointless as prayers. At least that was the case in Dureya, and there was never an answer, at least not one mortals could understand.
“Because the Fhrey seek to kill us,” Persephone said.
Some of the gathered were drinking, some shifting their seats because smoke was blowing toward them, most were just staring out into the dark or into the flames with the same vacant expressions they’d worn all evening. But at that moment, everyone focused on their new chieftain. For a full minute, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
No one had explained the full details of what had happened when Arion and Gryndal waged a battle of magic outside the lodge, the day Raithe killed his second Fhrey. All the residents of the dahl had witnessed the fight, but the verbal exchanges had been in the Fhrey language. Only Persephone, Suri, and Malcolm understood it well, and none of them, nor any of the Fhrey, had volunteered explanations. Raithe knew more than most. He wasn’t fluent, but his father had taught him enough to understand part of what had been said, and it was clear that Gryndal’s death wouldn’t be the end of the conflict.
“The rumors we heard during Chieftain Konniger’s first clan meeting are true,” Persephone said. “The Fhrey have destroyed the dahls of Dureya and Nadak and have added Dahl Rhen to the tally. But we now know the Fhrey aren’t gods, and their actions weren’t revenge for the death of Shegon, the first Fhrey killed by Raithe. The fane, leader of the Fhrey, has had plans to rid the world of us for years. They fear us because of our growing numbers and because we are a people capable
of challenging them, able to defeat them.”
Again, Persephone paused to look around at their faces, to give those gathered the chance to comment. No one did. The fire crackled, a burst of sparks floated skyward, and Persephone went on. “Some of you already know, or have guessed, that Nyphron and his Galantians are hiding here because they refused orders to slaughter us. Likewise, Arion risked her life defending this dahl against Fane Lothian’s sorcerer. You saw what happened for yourselves. Now the Fhrey ruler has sent giants and storms. But we’re still alive. We endure. I’m sure this most recent attack will not be the end of his aggression. Yes, they will be back, and next time they’ll likely send an army.”
Raithe watched fear creep back into the faces of those who thought they had faced the worst life could muster, and the combination was a current dragging everyone toward hopelessness.
“But,” Persephone began again, this time with a louder voice, “we aren’t helpless. We who were never a threat before will become what they fear the most. When news of the other dahls’ destructions first reached us, I stood in the lodge and told everyone of a plan to save ourselves. No one listened to me then, but you must listen to me now.” She took a step forward so that the fire’s light shimmered on her face. “I’ve already sent runners to Menahan, Melen, Tirre, Warric, and the Gula clans, asking their chieftains to convene a summit at Tirre. We will unite all our leaders, form a war council, and appoint a single keenig to lead us.”
“But how can we fight against giants and storms?” Cobb asked.
Nyphron stood up. “I will teach you. Many of you saw our battle with the giants. Twelve against seven, but we won without a single wound.”
“But that’s because you’re Fhrey,” Filson the Lamp said.
“And was it a Fhrey who killed Gryndal?” Nyphron pointed at Raithe. “He’s already killed two of my kind, and he isn’t particularly special. He has, however, been trained. My father taught his father how to fight, and he passed those skills on to his son. I can do the same with you. The only differences between Fhrey and Rhunes are training, tools, and experience. I can give you all of these. My Galantians are the best warriors in the world, and they will teach you all they know.”
“But even you were powerless when Gryndal came,” Engleton said. “What chance have we against magic?”
Nyphron pointed to Raithe. “Have you seen the markings on the shield Raithe carries? Did you see what happened when the fane’s sorcerer turned his magic against the Dureyan? The answer is nothing. Nothing at all. Raithe was unharmed, protected by markings discovered ages ago by the Dherg people. We will use these markings to negate the power of those who would wield the Art against us. You have superior numbers. You have the protection of the Dherg runes. And you will be trained by the most capable warriors Elan has ever known. If I thought you wouldn’t be victorious, I wouldn’t be here. I and my Galantians would have left long ago.”
Nyphron pointed to Persephone. “Your chieftain is wise. The fane will not stop until your kind is exterminated. This war is winnable, if you’re willing to fight.” He took his seat once more, and all eyes went back to Persephone.
“In the morning we will begin preparations to leave our home and travel to Tirre. There’s nothing left for us here, and the farther we can get from Alon Rhist the safer we will be,” Persephone told them all. “Within the week Clan Rhen marches south.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Rapnagar
As far as I know, Suri was the first of our kind to use the Art. It must have been wonderful to do magic, except when it was not.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Bodies were broken in half, collapsed on one another or lying side by side. Hundreds were dead, maybe thousands. Many were strangers; some mere acquaintances; others friends, but a few Suri considered family. The horror was almost too much to bear as she moved through the forest of fallen trees ravaged by the storm. She’d seen storms before, windstorms, ice storms, floods, and fires, but those had always been the will of Wogan—this wasn’t.
And then there was Magda.
Suri and Minna led the way through the decimated forest; they traveled quickly, but Arion managed to keep up, so her headache must have improved. She moved with a nimble, youthful grace that contradicted Arion’s past comments about being old. She seemed anything but elderly. Even without hair, and perhaps because of its absence, Suri thought Arion was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen—on par with the big swans from the high lake or the snowy owl that used to winter near the mountain’s western face. Arion had that same smooth elegance and otherworldly serenity. And her skin was perfect: no pimples, blotches, wrinkles, or marks. Most of the time, she didn’t seem real at all.
Also with them was Nyphron, the leader of the Galantians. He wasn’t nearly so beautiful, but he was silent. Not that he didn’t talk—though none of them said much as they hiked the ridge—it was more that he made no noise at all. Dressed in layers of metal and adorned with sword and shield, he trotted up the forest slope with a ghostly quiet. Suri prided herself on moving noiselessly through the wood, and Minna was no slouch herself, but Suri had to stop occasionally to make sure Nyphron was still there. He always was, and closer than she expected.
Nearing the top of the rise, Suri found herself looking upon that holy glade where all other trees refrained from growing out of deference to the Grand Lady of the Wood. She stopped at the sight of Magda. The ancient tree, sheared in half, was naked, her leaves gone. One side of her trunk was blackened; on the other, bark-stripped wood splintered from the trunk. On the ground lay a severed limb. Suri stood staring, unable to move. Minna brushed her side and nuzzled her hand, but Suri couldn’t take her eyes off the horror that had been the oldest tree of the forest.
The wind blew, then blew again.
Silence.
A tear slipped down Suri’s cheek, and then another. Minna once more prodded her, whimpering slightly as she nudged. The wisest of all wolves knew it was best not to dwell on such horror. The two moved on, following Arion and Nyphron, who hadn’t bothered to stop and pay their respects.
“Who’s there?” The voice came from down the slope and through the thicket, where an enormous head poked out of the ground. Shifting into the Fhrey language, he added, “Come to finish me, have you?” The giant, still sealed in dirt, must have smelled them; he was facing away from their approach and unable to turn his head fully. Suri wasn’t an expert on giants and their ability to detect scents, but the four of them had made no more noise moving through the woods than a gentle summer breeze.
Nyphron took the lead then and marched down the length of the devastated hillside and right up to the colossal nose.
“Rapnagar, what a surprise…and by surprise I mean it’s not, and by Rapnagar I mean you son of the Tetlin whore.”
Arion followed the Fhrey warrior. “You know this Grenmorian?”
Nyphron nodded and put a booted foot on the bridge of the giant’s nose, leaning in toward his left eye. “Shouldn’t have left Hentlyn.”
“No food in our mountains.”
Nyphron frowned and put more weight on the giant’s nose. “Yeah, right. So, who sent you?”
“Go fill a pig,” Rapnagar growled back.
Nyphron drew his sword and pierced the giant’s left nostril, pinning it to the ground. The Grenmorian cried out.
Arion took a surprised step backward. “What are you doing?”
“I came here for answers.” Nyphron spoke just as much to the giant as to Arion.
“You won’t get any from me,” Rapnagar said through gritted teeth. “But why don’t you enlighten me? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see my brothers’ destruction. How many did we kill? Was Grygor among them? How is it that you survived? Were you hiding like a coward?”
“Your brothers died before they even reached the dahl’s gate. They trampled some flowers and frightened a goat, but that’s all.”
“Liar!”
Nyphron twisted his sword and the giant
cried out again.
“Stop doing that!” Arion shouted, stepping forward. “Listen,” she said, addressing the giant, “your attack did fail. That should be obvious by the fact that we are standing before you. When I told Nyphron of your predicament, he insisted on an audience. The only thing you have to bargain with is knowledge. I think it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”
Rapnagar didn’t answer right away. His big eyes blinked twice and his lips shifted once to the left and then to the right. At last he asked, “What’s in it for me?”
“How about an easy death and proper burial?” Nyphron asked. “I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear. Be real quick about it, and then the Miralyith will bury you so the animals won’t feed on your body…only the worms.”
“Not good enough. I’ll talk, but in return you have to let me go.”
Nyphron was shaking his head even before Rapnagar finished. “We don’t need to know that badly. I can already guess most of it. The storm was a pretty big clue.”
“I can tell you their next move.”
“No, you can’t. They thought this attack would succeed. Any plans already in existence have changed.”
“I can tell you who we were after. Who specifically.”
Nyphron paused and took a moment to think. “Was I singled out?”
“I’d nod but I have a sword in my nose.”
With a quick jerk Nyphron pulled his weapon free, causing the giant to grunt, his eyes to wince. “Who else? Did they mention any other names?”
The giant shook his head. “No, no. I won’t say anything else until you promise to let me go.”
“Okay, you tell us what you know and you can go free,” Nyphron said.
Rapnagar shifted his eyes and focused on Arion. “She agree?”
“Yes,” Arion replied.
“Okay. Okay. Arion of the Miralyith, Nyphron of the Instarya, and all the Rhunes in the wooden fort, especially the one called Raithe, the one known as the God Killer.”
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