“No—no, it’s not like that. Not at all.”
The lines on his father’s face deepened, and his lips stretched tighter. He stopped walking forward, but his two fingers held the medal up like a magic talisman, his eyes hopeful. “This proves what I’m saying, that I earned a reward. See, I sort of figured we”—he gestured toward Raithe—“my son and I could live on this little point.” He waved at the meadow, which ran down the slope to the confluence of the Bern and Urum rivers. “We don’t need much. Hardly anything really. You see, on our side of the river—back in Dureya—the dirt’s no good. We can’t grow anything, and there’s nothing to hunt.”
The pleading in his father’s voice was something Raithe hadn’t heard before and didn’t like.
“You’re not allowed here.” This time it was the other servant, the balding one. Like the tall, weasel-faced fellow, he also lacked a proper beard, as if growing one was a thing that needed to be taught. The lack of hair exposed in fine detail a decidedly sour expression.
“But you don’t understand. I fought for your people. I bled for your people. I lost three sons fighting for your kind. And I was promised a reward.” He held out the medal again, but the god didn’t look at it. He stared past them, focusing on some distant, irrelevant point.
Herkimer let go of the medal. “If this spot is a problem, we’ll move. My son actually liked another place west of here. We’d be farther away from you. Would that be better?”
Though he still didn’t look at them, the god appeared even more annoyed and finally spoke, “You will obey.”
An average voice. Raithe was disappointed. He had expected thunder.
The god then addressed his servants in the divine language. Raithe’s father had taught him some of their tongue. He wasn’t fluent but knew enough to understand the god didn’t want them to have weapons on his side of the river. A moment later, the tall servant relayed the message in Rhunic, “Only Fhrey are permitted to possess weapons west of the Bern. Cast yours in the river.”
Herkimer glanced at their gear piled near a stump and in a resigned voice told Raithe, “Get your spear and do as they say.”
“And the sword off your back,” the tall servant said.
Herkimer looked shocked and glanced over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten the weapon was there. Then he faced the god and spoke directly to him in the Fhrey language, “This is my family blade. I cannot throw it away.”
The god sneered, showing teeth.
“It’s a sword,” the servant insisted.
Herkimer hesitated only a moment. “Okay, okay, fine. We’ll go back across the river, right now. C’mon, Raithe.”
The god made an unhappy sound.
“After you give up the sword,” the servant said.
Herkimer glared. “This copper has been in my family for generations.”
“It’s a weapon. Toss it down.”
Herkimer looked at his son, a sheepish, sidelong glance.
While he may not have been a good father—wasn’t as far as Raithe was concerned—he’d instilled one thing in all his sons: pride. Self-respect came from the ability to defend oneself. Such things gave a man dignity. In all of Dureya, in their entire clan, Herkimer was the only man to wield a sword—a metal blade. While pathetic in comparison to the god’s sword, whose hilt was intricately etched and encrusted with gems, his father’s blade was wrought from beaten copper. Its marred, dull sheen was the color of a summer sunset, and legend held that the short-bladed heirloom was mined and fashioned by a genuine Dherg smith. That weapon defined Herkimer, so much so that most enemy clans knew his father as Coppersword—a feared and respected title. His father could never give up that blade.
The rush of the river was cut by the cry of a hawk, soaring above. Birds were known to be the embodiment of omens, and Raithe didn’t take the heavenly wail as a positive sign. In its eerie echo, his father faced the god. “I can’t give you this sword.”
Raithe couldn’t help but smile. Herkimer, son of Hiemdal, of Clan Dureya wouldn’t bend so far, not even for a god.
The smaller servant took the horse’s lead as the god dismounted.
Raithe watched—impossible not to. The way he moved, so graceful, fluid, and poised, was mesmerizing. On the ground, he wasn’t tall, shorter than both Raithe and his father, who admittedly were both large men. The god also wasn’t as broad or as muscled. Raithe and his father had spent their lives building shoulders and arms by wielding spear and shield. The god, on the other hand, appeared delicate, as if he had lived bedridden and spoonfed. If the Fhrey were a man, Raithe wouldn’t have feared him. Given the disparity between them in weight and height, Raithe wouldn’t fight him, even if challenged. To engage in such an unfair match would be cruel, and Raithe wasn’t cruel. His brothers had gotten his share of that particular trait.
“You don’t understand. This sword has been handed down from father to son—”
The god rushed forward punching Herkimer in the stomach. As he bent over from the blow, the god stole the sword from off his back. The copper came free with a dull scrape, and while Herkimer was catching his breath, the god examined the weapon with revulsion. Then, shaking his head, the god turned his back on Herkimer to show his servant the pitiable blade. Instead of joining the god in mocking the weapon, the servant cringed. Raithe saw the future through the weasel man’s face, for he was the first to notice Herkimer’s reaction.
Raithe’s father drew the knife from his belt and lunged.
This time the god didn’t disappoint. With astounding speed, he whirled and drove the copper blade into Raithe’s father’s chest. Herkimer’s forward momentum did the work of running the sword deep. The fight ended the moment it began. His father gasped and fell, the sword still in his chest.
Raithe didn’t think. If he had paused, even for an instant, he might have reconsidered, but there was more of his father in him than he wanted to believe. The sword being the only weapon within reach, he pulled the copper from his father’s body. With all his might, Raithe swung at the god’s neck. He fully expected the blade to cut clean through, but the copper sliced only air as the divine being dodged. The god drew his weapon as Raithe swung again. The two swords met. A dull ping sounded, and the weight in Raithe’s hands vanished along with most of the blade. When he finished his swing, only the hilt of his family’s heritage remained—the rest flew through the air and landed in a tuft of young pines.
The god stared at him with a disgusted smirk. “Not worth dying for, was it?”
Then the god raised his blade once more as Raithe shuffled backward.
Too slow! Too slow!
His retreat was futile. Raithe was dead. Years of training and combat told him so. In that instant before understanding became reality, he had the chance to regret his entire life.
I’ve done nothing, he thought as his muscles tightened for the expected burst of pain.
It never came.
Raithe had lost track of the servants—so had the god. Neither expected, nor saw, the tall, weasel-faced man slam his master in the back of the head with a river rock the size and shape of a round loaf of bread. Raithe only realized it when the god collapsed, and behind him stood the servant holding the rock.
“Run,” the servant said. “With any luck, his head will hurt too much to chase us when he awakes.”
“What have you done!” the other servant shouted. His eyes were wide while he backed away, pulling the god’s horse with him.