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

“I’m getting water. You need water, right?”

“Brin…” Sarah spoke the name dressed in a heavy coat of disappointment.

“But I—”

More grunts could be heard and the sound of shuffling feet, then a crack was followed by a scream. Another collective gasp was heard, but this time there wasn’t a cheer.

—

The fight for chieftain had ended, and another battle began—this one waged by a team of women trying to save a man’s life.

“Move!” Padera shouted.

The little woman was the first to react. With a round head, full bosom, and ample hips, she looked much like a skirted snowman as she bustled forward, shoving aside men twice her size. Ancient when Persephone was born, Padera was the oldest living member of Clan Rhen. She’d been a farmer’s wife and had successfully raised six children and countless cows, pigs, chickens, and goats. Padera also regularly won the fall harvest contest for biggest vegetables and best pies. There wasn’t anyone more respected on the dahl.

The ring of onlookers broke on Padera’s approach, giving Persephone a clear view of the common where the two men had fought. The sight made her gasp. From the knee down, Holliman’s leg was covered in blood. Glistening with sweat, Konniger backed away, his ax dangling from loose fingers, the sharpened stone edge dark and dripping. He stared at Holliman with an expression Persephone struggled to place. If anything, Konniger looked guilty.

Holliman rose up on elbows that he jabbed into the grass. Arching his back and wailing in pain, he dragged his body to…well, to nowhere Persephone could discern. She didn’t think Holliman knew, either. He probably didn’t realize that he was moving or that he was pumping a stream of blood, which soaked a wide swath of spring grass in a thick coat of brilliant red.

“Hold him down!” Padera called out. “And get me a rope!”

At her command, several people grabbed Holliman’s arms, pinning him, while others ran off in search of twine.

Roan, who had been in the ring of spectators, rushed to Padera’s side and stripped off Holliman’s thin rawhide belt. She held it out to Padera.

“Around the thigh, girl.” The old woman held up the bleeding leg. “Loop it above the knee.”

Roan executed the instructions as if she’d been asked to tie closed a bag of apples. Padera’s indifference in the face of so much carnage was understandable. The old woman regularly set bones, even those that had broken through skin. She also sewed up deep wounds and delivered breech babies from both women and livestock. But Roan taking the initiative, and with such stoicism, was surprising. The young woman, who until recently had been the slave of Iver the Carver, was normally timid as a field mouse. She rarely spoke and was seldom seen outside the carver’s home, which she had inherited upon his death. But there she was, acting with precision and clarity, undaunted by Holliman’s screams, and either unconcerned or unaware that her dress was soaking up blood.

Each woman took an end of the rawhide strap and then pulled it tight. The fountain of blood slowed to a stream.

“Get a stick!” Padera growled.

Straining with both hands on the leather, Roan focused on Sarah’s daughter. “Brin! Get the hammer from my bag.”

Brin squeezed through the crowd, rushed to Roan’s side, and pulled open the satchel. Out of it the girl drew a small hammer.

“Here, child. Lay the handle where the straps cross,” Padera ordered.

Brin hesitated, looking at the blood and cringing with Holliman’s screams.

“Do it!” Padera shouted.

Persephone pushed forward and took the hammer. She placed it where indicated. Padera and Roan crossed the straps, wrapping it.

“Twist,” Padera ordered.

With weak, shaking hands, Persephone managed to find the strength to tighten the belt. The stream of blood subsided to a trickle, then a drip.

“Hold it there,” Padera commanded, then pointed in the direction of Mari’s statue. “Fetch down a brazier.”

The closest man removed his shirt and wrapped his hands. He placed the pan on the ground near the women. Padera snuffed out the fire, leaving the smoldering wood.

Holliman’s struggles were subsiding even before the hot poker used to stir coals was pressed to his leg. He let out a violent scream, then went limp. The smell was horrific, and Persephone held one hand under her nose while the other remained clamped tightly to Roan’s hammer.

Around them, faces clustered, peering over shoulders. Those who spoke did so in worried whispers.

Holliman was one of the dahl’s best hunters. The deer he killed in winter were often the difference between life and death. He had no children, and his wife had been lost to a fever three winters back. He hadn’t taken another. Too heartbroken it was said. Although not someone Persephone would pick as chieftain, he was a good man.

Konniger leaned against the well, waiting and still holding his bloody ax. Persephone wouldn’t have chosen him, either. He didn’t impress her as being wise or the sort to inspire others. He was a warrior, a shield, an ax.

Padera, who was wrapping the blackened flesh of Holliman’s knee, paused. She stared at his face as if the unconscious man had asked a question. Putting aside the wounded leg, she reached over and laid a hand to the side of the man’s neck. As she did, the furrows on her craggy face deepened. The urgency the old woman had radiated died along with Holliman. She untied the leg and returned Roan’s hammer. Then the old woman walked to the well to clean up.

“Congratulations,” Padera told Konniger. “You’re the new chieftain.”





CHAPTER FIVE


Before the Door




Delicate, radiant, beautiful, in our eyes she was every inch a god, and she scared us to death.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





While every other Fhrey in Erivan celebrated, Arion stood alone in a darkened tomb. She put a hand on the marble urn that held Fane Fenelyus’s ashes. The vessel was eight feet tall, wider at the top, tapered near the bottom, and polished to a smooth luster.

Just outside, crowds filled Florella Plaza, all the avenues, and even the palace. A thousand bonfires blazed, commemorating the start of Fane Lothian’s reign.

Less than a month and they’ve already forgotten you.

Arion rested her head against the urn. The stone was cold, so very cold. “I worry about what’s to come and could use your counsel.” She paused, straining to hear any faint sound.

Fenelyus had been the first to wield the Art and founded the Miralyith tribe. In her time, she’d single-handedly defeated entire armies, built the great tower of Avempartha, and become the fifth fane, leader of all Fhrey.

Is it so unreasonable to hope she can speak to me from the other side? Why not? The old lady did everything else.

But if Fenelyus had replied, Arion couldn’t have heard over the whoops, cheers, and laughter of the city’s celebration.

The tomb of the old fane was dark; Arion hadn’t bothered to light the braziers. Instead, she left the door open to admit the moonlight, and along with it came the noise. Somewhere a group was singing “Awake the Spring Dawn,” but their rendition was so bad that winter was certain to return. The clamor ruined her mood. The very idea that anyone could be happy after Fenelyus’s passing made her angry. Death wasn’t something Arion was used to. None of them were.

Why am I the only one here? The only one who seems to care?

Arion tried to block out the shouts and the singing and focused on the urn. She wasn’t going to hear any messages that night, but that wasn’t really why she was there. Arion just wanted to say goodbye, again. “I’m going to teach Mawyndul? as you asked. Lothian has decided to allow it. But will that be enough? After all you did, after all you gave me, taught me, will anything ever be enough? I just wanted to—”