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

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The next morning Raithe went to work on the eaves of the forest. His shirt was off and his swords hung from a nearby tree branch. He was still carrying his father’s broken blade for reasons he couldn’t put into thoughts. The sky was clear blue after the rain, and the light of the climbing sun pierced the leaves in shafts. Out where the forest met the field, out in the stillness of a dewy dawn, it was possible to forget the world was ending.

Or is it?

The question itself appeared up for debate. The doomsayers—and Raithe acknowledged he had been one—believed the Fhrey were coming to kill them all and him in particular. But the Fhrey had come three times, stayed twice, gone once, and everyone was still alive. The whole affair was almost enough to inspire hope…almost.

What fun is there in crushing the hopeless? Like with pigs or cows, there is a period of fattening before the slaughter. The gods are just waiting for the right time, and my time is running out. Why am I still here?

The answer was obvious; he just wasn’t happy about it.

He wiped his face and remembered the land across the rivers where his father had dragged him. Herkimer had been wrong about many things, but not about that place. While exploring, he and his father had crossed both the Bern and the Great Urum rivers, where Raithe had beheld paradise. On the far side, he’d climbed a hill and seen a new future for himself. A land the Fhrey called Avrlyn was filled with lush fields and rich forests. That was where he wanted to go, where he hoped to live. Afterward, Herkimer had picked the meadow at the convergence of the two rivers, but Raithe couldn’t get the other hill out of his mind.

He couldn’t go there alone. Even his father had understood that and brought Raithe along. Probably would have sent Raithe back to get a wife once they were established. Maybe given a year or two, Persephone might change her mind, and if she came, others would, too. He fantasized about her, Malcolm, Suri, and a few of the others joining them. They could do it. Together, they could build something…something beautiful.

He picked up the ax again.

Since the death of Krier, there had been a notable lack of volunteers to cut wood and an abundance of talk regarding the community’s dwindling supply. When the morning arrived without rain, Raithe borrowed an ax from Roan. She apologized when handing it to him, saying she’d made it the previous fall after the season’s wood supply had been cut, so no one had tried it yet. She continued to apologize three more times in the event it didn’t work well. Apparently, she had beaten the blade from a chunk of metal she and Gifford had found when searching for glaze materials.

Raithe hadn’t used many axes in his life. Trees were rare at Dahl Dureya, but he had gone with his father and some others during their pilgrimage to a forest far to the south. The few axes he had used were straight poles with a wedge of flint jammed into a split on one end and lashed tight with leather strips. Usually a strong man needed an entire day to drop and reduce a tree to usable pieces. Doing so would leave him with aching arms, and the ax heads broke so often that dozens of replacement flints were brought along.

The tool Roan had given him was nothing like the ones he’d used before. It had a long, curved handle that went through a hole in the metal head. When he swung, Raithe cut through small limbs in a single stroke, bark and all. Working alone, he’d already taken down a respectable maple and limbed it in less than two hours. The ax had to be magic.

He dragged the leafy branches out of his way and then rested, catching his breath, leaning with one foot up on the body of the naked trunk. He marveled at the bright nibs of wood the ax had clipped away so cleanly.

“If I were a bear, you’d be dead.”

Raithe whirled, lifting the ax in defense. Behind him stood a Fhrey, the one who had disarmed him during the fight with Nyphron.

Sebek stood casually, weight on his heels, back straight, chin high, arms relaxed. He wore only a leather skirt and sword belt; his bare chest appeared just as bronzed, just as indelible, as armor. Sculpted by the morning sun, his body was a series of sharply hewn muscles, a landscape of lean strength. Angled planes formed his face: high cheeks, a broad jaw, and precise lips. Cold and blue, the Fhrey’s eyes smiled with a hungry delight.

Raithe didn’t say a word. He looked toward his swords still hanging on the tree branch. The Fhrey was between him and his weapons. Sebek saw the glance. He stepped back, picked up Shegon’s blade, and swung it menacingly.

“This is a terrible sword,” Sebek said. “Gaudy, heavy, and too long. But I suppose you like long blades. They are the weapons of cowards who fear getting close to their enemies.”

He tossed the weapon to Raithe. But before he had time to catch it, Sebek had both of his blades drawn. “These are Nagon and Tibor,” the Fhrey said, holding the twin cleves up. “Lightning and Thunder. Each forged from the same batch of metal by preeminent Dherg smiths.”

“Dherg smiths? Is that why the blades are so short?”

Sebek grinned, and in that toothy smile, Raithe saw danger. He doesn’t just like fighting—he loves it. And he probably has more than a passing affection for those swords.

“Short swords are fast, and I’m not afraid to get close.” Like a big cat, Sebek began to pace. As he did, he continued to take practice swipes in the air. “You made a number of mistakes when fighting Nyphron.”

“And yet I won, or would have.”

“Would you?”

“No way to know for sure, now, is there?”

Sebek gave a little laugh. “I know.”

“Good for you.”

That grin again. “You don’t believe me? Don’t think I can tell the outcome of a fight before it starts?”

Raithe didn’t have to believe, he knew. But showing weakness in front of Sebek wasn’t a good idea. Raithe moved to slip the sword into his belt.

“Not yet,” Sebek said. “I want to show you where you failed.”

“Not interested, chopping wood. You’re interrupting.”

“You can chop wood later, if you survive.”

Raithe was waiting for the attack. He’d expected it since Sebek appeared. He just couldn’t anticipate what an attack from Sebek would be like. He was faster than Nyphron; Raithe didn’t see the blade. Once more, Raithe acted on instinct and was right—he met Sebek’s sword. The moment they collided, the impact jarred the weapon from his hand, just as in their first encounter. An instant later the point of Thunder—or was it Lightning—was pressed against his throat.

Raithe didn’t move.

Sebek nodded as if they were having a conversation, then pulled back and walked five strides away. “Pick it up.”

Raithe was already in the process, wiping the sweat from his palms on his leigh mor.

“It’s not your fault, I suppose,” Sebek said. “You’re so young. You show promise, but you lack experience. You can trust me on that. I’m senior captain of the guard and master of arms at Alon Rhist. I’m also Shield to Nyphron. I’ve trained and tested thousands. Now, let’s see if you can get Shegon’s sword anywhere near me.”

The bad news was that Raithe saw no hope of avoiding a fight he had no chance of winning. The good news was that Sebek didn’t appear to want to kill him, at least not right away.

Sebek dodged his first stroke with no effort. On his next swing, the Galantian displayed his speed, slamming Raithe in the face with the butt of Lightning—or was it Thunder this time? Raithe staggered. His eyesight blurred, and he tasted the blood running down from his nose.