They walked to the top of a small rise halfway between the walls of Tirre and the vast horde that was the Gula encampment. The four waited on the windswept knoll.
The Gula-Rhunes had spread out on the high ground, taking each major hill in a half circle around Dahl Tirre. Raithe could hear the clang of metal, the thump of wood, the shouts of orders in their odd dialect, and laughter. The Gula laughed well—deep hearty howls and hoots, the sort only men who’d faced death on a regular basis managed without sounding insane. And yet, a few of the laughs went on too long, were too high, and Raithe suspected some of the Gula—maybe a lot of them—were just like his eldest brother.
Heim had grown to love the killing. Hegel and Didan reported that he had taken to bathing in the blood of his adversaries. Heim said it made him stronger, but his father insisted his oldest son just liked wallowing in death and relished the killing. For Heim the carnage was always over too soon. Maybe that wasn’t considered crazy in a band of men who repeatedly charged into walls of spears. His father certainly never forbade the practice, never even chided Heim as far as Raithe knew. Herkimer considered it unusual, but what passed for normal in the lives of soldiers would horrify the likes of Farmer Wedon or Heath Coswall. Once more, Raithe wondered if they had a clue what Persephone and her talk of war was getting them into.
The Gula-Rhunes made them wait.
The sun passed the midpoint and slipped down toward the west, crafting shadows that elongated the dahl as if it were melting. Seabirds’ shadows skimmed in circles on the grass. Bees droned; wind blew; gulls cried.
“Maybe they don’t know we’re here,” Malcolm suggested.
“They know,” Raithe said.
“What makes you so sure?” Tegan asked.
While not tall, Tegan was a big man, and he had the look of a stone that was heavier than mere size suggested. He was also dark: dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, his black curly beard just making the turn toward gray. Another foot shorter and Tegan could have passed as a Dherg.
“They’ve taken position on every hill but this one,” Raithe answered.
“It’s not much of a hill,” Malcolm pointed out.
“It’s closest to the dahl.” Raithe stared at the Gula horde. “They haven’t taken it because they left it for just this purpose.”
“They’re like locusts, aren’t they?” Malcolm said.
Tesh raised his arm and pointed.
They followed his gesture and saw that a band of three had separated from the crowd and was walking their way. Each wore only a leigh mor, swept up and pinned over one shoulder, each garment a different color and pattern. Raithe was more interested in what they weren’t wearing—no paint, no shields. None of the three held a spear or an ax. Raithe’s father had been right; the old man was far wiser in death than he’d ever seemed in life.
If Raithe hadn’t already met Grygor, and his less cordial relatives, he would have described the one out in front as a giant. It wasn’t just that the man was tall—he had to be a full foot taller than Raithe—but he also looked Grenmorian. His red hair was a wilderness of ratted curls that joined seamlessly with an even wilder beard. Bushy brows shaded fierce eyes. Thick hair, more akin to fur, covered his shoulders, his arms, and the backs of his hands. Across his face lay an ugly scar that ran at an angle from his left cheek to the right of his chin. The wound had taken off the lower part of his nose, giving him a ghoulish appearance. Another injury left a long gash across his chest from shoulder to nipple, lined by holes where the wound had once been stitched.
Each of his companions was smaller, but equally scarred. The one on the right was missing an eye, the one on the left lacked a hand. In its place was a beaten copper spike.
Raithe had never considered himself civilized. He’d lived most of his life in a dirt hut, breathing the smoke of a dung fire, but he felt conspicuously cultured in comparison to the Gula.
“I am Udgar, son of Holt, chieftain of Clan Erling,” the redhead declared with all the musical eloquence of chopping wood. “We received an invitation to a council to be held here.”
“I am Siegel, son of Siegmar, chieftain of Clan Dunn,” said the pale one with the gaping eye socket. Now that they were closer, Raithe noted that a serpent tattoo curled up the man’s right forearm. The serpent was well done, despite the burn mark across its middle. “It is said that this council will pick a keenig for all the tribes.”
“I am Wortman, son of Rothwell, chieftain of Clan Strom,” said the one with the spike for a hand, who spoke with an odd softness. “This keenig…it is said…will bring war upon the Fhrey.”
They all respectfully nodded.
“That is the plan. I am Raithe, son of Herkimer, chieftain of Clan Dureya.” Raithe hadn’t actually witnessed a truce meeting and had no idea if there was protocol involved, like clasping forearms or spitting, but since they hadn’t done anything, he didn’t, either.
At first, Raithe thought he’d messed up; perhaps he ought to have made some sort of gesture, praised the gods, or done something more obscure. All three glowered at him and stepped back, anger on their faces.
Siegel felt at his side for something not there. Wortman cringed. Even the redheaded giant Udgar flinched.
Tegan hesitated, then said, “I am Te—”
“Son of Herkimer?” Udgar burst out, pointing a big finger at Raithe. “That’s not possible! All the sons of the Coppersword are dead. I slew Didan myself on the Plain of Klem!”
“You killed my brother?” Raithe asked.
Beside him, Tegan tensed, his eyes growing wider.
Udgar pointed to the scar on his face. “Didan gave me this before I hacked his head from his shoulders.”
“The Coppersword took my hand.” Wortman growled out the words from behind clenched teeth.
Such a beautiful set of heirlooms my family has left me! Raithe thought. He looked to Siegel. “And did my father, or maybe Hegel, or Heim, take your eye?”
“No.” His upper lip curled into what might have been called a smile. “My wife did that with a hay rake while I was sleeping. But I did help kill Heim at Eckford, in the High Spear, me and thirty-eight others.”
“So the Coppersword had another son,” Udgar said, his eyes studying Raithe. “Kept you hidden. You must be his favorite.”
Raithe let slip a smile as he suppressed a laugh. Oh, yeah. Dad adored me, he did.
Udgar took the grin as confirmation and nodded. “Why’d he send you to meet with us?”
“He didn’t. My father’s dead.”
The three shared grins of their own.
“Who killed him?”
“A Fhrey named Shegon.”
Eyes widened, then narrowed.
“You’re the God Killer,” Udgar said, and then looked to Siegel.
Siegel nodded. “The God Killer is the Coppersword’s favorite son. His secret treasure.”
That’s right. Herkimer left me to die from starvation with his wife and daughter, because he treasured all of us so much.
“So you’re the keenig who wants to lead us in a war against the gods?” Wortman said. “The son of the cur that stole my hand?”
“I’m not the keenig.” Raithe turned to his right. “This is Tegan, chieftain of Clan Warric. He can—”
“Where are your warriors?” Udgar asked, and all three looked around.
“Hidden in the buildings?” Siegel asked.
“On ships?” Wortman suggested, pointing toward the beach.
“Behind us somehow.” Udgar stared back toward the hills. “Yes. That would be the plan, to trap us against the sea. We should have known!” He glared at Raithe. “Your father isn’t dead. He’s behind us preparing the attack.”
Udgar spit at Raithe, then howled like a wild thing. He squeezed his great fists and raised one at the Dureyan. “We won’t die easily. We’ll take you with us, so help me Mynogan!”
“It’s not like that at all. You are invited to take part in the council.”
“Ah-hah! Hear that!” Siegel shouted. “That’s their vile plan. They’ll take us into the dahl and slit our throats.”
The three were backing away.
“No. No, that’s not it. I’m telling you the truth,” Raithe assured them.
“I will kill you when we meet again, son of Coppersword. And we will!” Udgar declared.
Raithe and Tegan watched the Gula chieftains retreat into the swarm of bodies, and soon they heard the sound of horns.
Tegan turned to Raithe. “You were right. Lipit would have been a better choice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Balgargarath
Some things are simply unimaginable right up until you are looking at them, and even then, you might not believe. Love is that way; so is death. Balgargarath was, without a doubt, in that limited assortment of the impossible, but then the name should have been a clue. When something sounds like a giant vomiting up a dwarf, you should not expect sunshine and daisies.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Something is coming.
Persephone couldn’t hear anything, but she knew what was happening. A force of nature was on its way, and she sensed it like a rising storm.
Arion took Suri’s hand, and said, “We have to go out near the pool. Everyone needs to come. She might need your strength as well.” The Fhrey looked calm, not at all frightened. This made Persephone feel better. The Fhrey was Persephone’s standard of measure, and so long as she showed no concern, Persephone felt hopeful.
They followed Arion without question, without a word. Everyone understood somehow that the final moment had arrived, and it deserved respectful silence. By the time they returned to the cavern, Persephone could hear it. A sound came at them from far in the distance. The noise was faint but attention grabbing, a harsh shrieking like the desperate wail of a child or the tearing of stone.
They crossed through the glowing blue chamber until Arion and Suri stood beside the pool. No longer still as glass, it quivered. Rings rippled out to the edges, then rebounded, running to the center again.
“Everyone stay back,” Arion shouted over the noise, her voice small in that vast place. “Give us room.”
“Why are we here?” Flood asked. “What do you expect us to do?”
“Just stand there.”
The sound was getting so loud Persephone could feel it, the shriek of shearing stone. Overhead, stalactites shook, ringing like wind chimes. One fell and shattered on the path ahead. Two more broke free and crashed with such violence that Persephone and all the others jumped.
Then the rear wall of the cavern exploded.
Rocks burst out at them. The force blew Persephone’s hair back and pelted her with pebbles. Out of the ominous cloud of billowing dust, a giant hoof like that of a great goat struck the ground hard enough to stagger those watching.
Dust fell away, and in that eerie blue glow Persephone finally saw Balgargarath. The demon’s lower body was that of a giant goat, with hooved feet and shaggy legs. Its upper body was that of a powerful man, but its head was too grotesque to be believed. Withered, leathery skin wrapped muscle and bone the way a sheet stretched over a corpse. Twin horns, twisted and curled, jutted out from either side of its barren skull where a piggish nose with flaring nostrils divided two tiny yellow eyes. A huge mouth hung open, displaying rows of pointed teeth behind glistening lips.
The behemoth paused, its little yellow eyes focusing on them. Then, drawing up to its full height, so that its horns scraped the ceiling, Balgargarath let forth a deafening roar. Two more stalactites fell, but if their shattering made noise, Persephone never heard it over the magnitude of its roar.
Persephone froze, not by conscious thought, nor by a magical spell; she simply couldn’t move. Fear seized every muscle in her body. She’d even stopped breathing. How could I have ever imagined the Fhrey were gods when something like this was in the world? Of course, who could have dreamed such things existed at all. Demon didn’t do it justice. Perhaps there was no word that could. This was the nightmare that made nightmares wake up screaming.
“Use the movement, use the dust, use the vibration of the sound,” Arion shouted at Suri, who stood beside her. Both of them were well ahead of the rest—two tiny bugs at the hooved feet of a horned mountain.
Suri was singing—singing to Balgargarath! Persephone knew how it was supposed to work, she’d caught on that magic was somehow wrought by vocalizing melodic sounds, but she didn’t understand how anyone could stand before such a thing and sing. Even Minna had retreated several feet, her hair up and teeth bared.
Still, Suri sang. The tune was similar to the one she’d performed before, only louder this time, shifting in rhythm and melody like someone tuning an instrument. The tiny eyes of the beast focused with some effort on the two ants before it, and it took a step forward. The ground shook with its motion. Persephone felt the tremor, and saw bigger ripples in the pool. The massive hooves dragged, slowed. The beast roared again and Persephone saw it then. Balgargarath was sinking.
The stone appeared to melt at the demon’s feet, turning into tar in much the same way as the dirt had when Arion trapped Rapnagar. This was more dramatic, a suspenseful bubbling up of viscous rock, and the sluggish descent of the hapless victim. The behemoth roared with anger and frustration as it struggled to claw forward.
“Now!” Arion ordered.
Suri’s arms went out to either side then she brought them together in a clap of her hands. As she did, the walls at the far end of the cavern mimicked her. Persephone couldn’t believe what she saw. Solid stone walls, the size of cliffs, hurtled at each other. Then an instant later—whether as an additional act of magic, or the mere result of moving the walls—the ceiling came down, teeth and all. Everyone rushed back, retreating up the path toward the Agave.
A cloud of dust and a rain of tiny rocks showered them as they ran.
“You did it!” Arion praised Suri in Rhunic. “I knew you could. It is—” She stopped and then spun around. She shook her head slowly from side to side as disbelief painted her face.
Persephone never understood the phrase to feel as if someone is walking over your grave. It didn’t make sense that someone alive could have a grave. But at that moment, as fear rose on Arion’s face, Persephone’s heart sank, gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she understood.
“Impossible,” Arion said in Fhrey.
“What’s happening?” Persephone asked.
Arion continued to look back into the collapse of the cavern in shock. “It’s still alive…only…it isn’t. It’s not alive at all. It never was. I think. I think it’s…” The Miralyith’s face blanched. “Oh, holy Ferrol, that’s not possible!”
“What isn’t?” Persephone asked, though she didn’t need the answer. Everything was made clear by Arion’s words. They were buried a mile or more beneath the roots of a mountain, across a foreign sea, and their one lifeline had slipped back into speaking in Fhrey because she was terrified.
Brin, Roan, and Moya stood oblivious to what was being said. They looked at Persephone for answers. She had none.
The dwarfs had heard, and they understood.
“But you’re Miralyith,” Frost said, bewildered.
“Miralyith are only good at killing Belgriclungreians,” Flood snapped. “Now she’s killed three more.”
“What?” Moya asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s not dead,” Persephone said.
“What do you mean it’s not dead?” Moya stood with a hand on one hip, the other pointing at the rubble with conviction. “Suri crushed it three different ways and buried it. What makes you think it isn’t dead?” She sounded angry. Like everyone else, she wanted it to be true.
Then they felt the tremor.
Moya rolled her eyes. “Oh, by the rotten heart of the Tetlin Witch. You—are—kidding—me!”
Moya shouted at Roan to run just as Persephone found Brin’s hand and the four began their retreat, chasing the three dwarfs back up the path.
Persephone expected some complicated magical jargon, something about gathering, and focusing, and summoning, and harmonizing. Instead, Arion shouted, “Run!”
Brin pulled—nearly dragged—Persephone along. Together they plunged back into the Agave. Once inside, they stopped and caught their breath.
Will it follow? Can it squeeze in the doorway? Of course it can! This is where it came from!
“What are we going to do?” Brin asked, her voice shaking as if she were freezing to death.
Struggling to catch her breath, Persephone managed to get out, “I don’t know there’s anything we can do.”
Moya followed Roan in and, turning back to face the opening, drew her sword. As pointless as it seemed, Persephone loved her for it. Taking another round of deep breaths, Persephone drew her own weapon and joined Moya. With tears slipping down her cheeks, Brin swallowed, and she, too, drew her blade. Roan glanced at her own side, appearing surprised to find that she also had a sword. She pulled it free of its scabbard.
“Keep the tip up but hold it back like this.” Moya demonstrated, raising the weapon level with her face. She held her arm cocked and close to her body, the point aimed forward.
“Do you honestly think it matters?” Persephone asked even as she imitated Moya.
“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.”
Persephone nodded. “Sure…okay…good point.” She was babbling out of nervous fear but what did it matter? What was there to care about anymore?
“Keep your left foot in front,” Moya shouted. “And when that thing comes at us, step forward with your right as you swing or thrust.”
“Which is it? Should I swing or thrust?” Roan asked.
Moya swallowed. “Ah…I don’t know. Whatever feels good at the time, I guess. Just try to hit it.”
“This metal is amazing.” Roan marveled at the weapon in her hands.
“Not now, Roan! Focus!”
Suri, Minna, and Arion flew through the opening, nearly running into them. Persephone couldn’t help noticing Arion was rubbing her head again.
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