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

Persephone sighed. Stubborn, too.

Suri took a few more steps toward the door, then paused and turned back once more. “I’m not Tura, but I know something awful is coming. Our only hope is to heed what counsel the trees can tell. Watch for the leaves, ma’am, watch for the leaves.”

Just then, Cobb’s horn sounded again.

—

By the time Persephone passed through the doorway, she knew something terrible had happened. Mattocks and hoes lay abandoned in the garden. The Killian brothers had come down off their roof, and people scurried to the gate or fell to their knees, weeping. Those with tear-filled eyes spread their pain to the bewildered around them. The whispered words were followed by shock and a shaking of heads. Then they, too, cried.

As if she were seeing rain cross a field, Persephone braced for the approaching tempest. She’d weathered many storms. For twenty years, she’d helped her husband guide their people. She’d faced the Long Winter and the Great Famine that followed. She’d lost her first son at birth, the second to sickness, and recently the only one who had grown to adulthood. Mahn had been a fine young man whom the gods inexplicably had failed to protect. Whatever came through the gate, she would endure it like all the other events. She had to. If not for her sake, then for her people.

At the gate, both wooden doors had been pushed open, but the view was obscured by people clustered on the pathway. Several had climbed the ladders and lined the ramparts, pointing over the wall. Persephone reached the lodge steps at the same instant the crowd finally parted to reveal the mystery.

The hunting party had returned.

Eight men had left. Six had come back. One on a shield.

They carried Reglan through the gate—two men on each side, Konniger walking in front. The sleeve of his shirt had been torn away and wrapped around his head, one side stained red. Adler, who always had keen eyes, returned with only one of the two he’d left with. Hegner had a bloody stump where his right hand had been.

Persephone didn’t move beyond the steps. The downpour had reached her, and there was no need to go farther.

What struck her the most acutely wasn’t the shock of her husband’s death but that the scene was so familiar. Persephone wondered if she were losing her mind, reliving the events of three days before when they had brought her son back. He, too, had been on a hunting trip and carried home. She remembered standing in the exact same spot at the exact same time of day.

But it’s not the same.

With Mahn, her husband had stood by her side. He’d held her hand, and his strength had kept her standing. Anger had radiated off him, his fingers squeezing too hard. Reglan had left the next day to seek vengeance.

The bearers approached the steps. Grim faces looked to their feet. Only one dared look at her. The crowd folded behind the procession.

“We return to you your husband,” Konniger said. “Reglan of the House of Mont, chieftain of Dahl Rhen, has fallen in battle this day.”

With his words, the crowd quieted. Above Persephone, the lodge banners snapped in the wind. She was supposed to acknowledge this the way her husband had accepted the death of Mahn—of their boy. Reglan had done so with dignity and understanding while silently crushing her hand in his. Persephone didn’t have a hand to squeeze and lacked all understanding. Instead, she asked, “And what of the bear?”

Taken by surprise, Konniger didn’t answer right away. He took a moment and dragged a bloodstained hand down the wounded side of his face. “It’s not a bear. The thing we hunted is a demon. Men cannot kill such a thing.”





CHAPTER THREE


The God Killer




He was called the God Killer, and we first heard about him from the traders traveling the northern routes. His legend grew, but no one believed, not in the beginning. Except me.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





Raithe enjoyed a good campfire. Something comforting about the dancing light, the smell of smoke, and the way his face and chest were hot but his backside cold. He sensed a profound meaning in this duality as well as in the enigma of flickering flames. The fire spirit spoke in spitting sparks and shifts of choking smoke, but the meaning of each remained a mystery. Everything in nature was that way. All of it spoke to him—to everyone—in a language few could understand. What secrets, what wisdom, and what horrors might he learn if only he knew what it all meant.

“One of the few spirits I get along with,” Raithe said, tossing another branch on the flames.

“What is?” Malcolm asked. The ex-slave turned fugitive compatriot was seated beside Raithe, both windward to avoid the smoke. He was busy removing the blanket from around his neck. The material was thin enough to tie in a knot, and when they traveled, he wore it like a sash.

“The fire,” Raithe said, grabbing another branch from the pile they had gathered. He snapped it in half and tossed the pieces into the flames.

“You think fires are spirits?”

Raithe raised a brow. “What? You think it’s a demon?” He’d heard it before, most notably from a neighbor who’d left his cook fire unattended while taking a piss in the river. When the man returned, his dung house was burning. “Could be,” Raithe considered. “It has a nasty temper when loose, but I honestly don’t think a demon would come so easily when summoned. Certainly not by the likes of me.”

Malcolm stared at him, something he did often. The light of the fire cast his eyes in shadow. Raithe wasn’t one for conversation, and Malcolm’s blank stares after such comments didn’t provide much incentive. The Fhrey slave must have lived a sheltered life. Everything Raithe told him came as a surprise.

“My father always said fires were only dangerous if they got bored,” Raithe pressed on. “Left alone, they get frustrated and resort to evil. Best way to keep a fire happy is by letting it lick food and hear stories.”

Malcolm continued to watch him, blinking this time, his mouth partially open.

He’s tired, Raithe decided. Cold, miserable, and, most of all, scared. All understandable given their situation; even Raithe struggled to keep a positive outlook. I would have never guessed a forest could be stingier than the rocky plains of Dureya.

This was their eighth night in the Crescent Forest, and the world of giant trees still hadn’t welcomed them. The wood offered few paths, forced them through thorny brambles, and denied them all but the most meager subsistence. That day they had feasted on six black beetles the size of his thumbnail, seven larvae they found under peeling bark, sap leaking out of a broad-leaf tree, and a bunch of pinecones, which they’d had to roast to get at the nuts. At a clear stream, Raithe had tried to spear fish while Malcolm attempted to grab them, but after several frustrating hours, they gave up. This would be another hungry night.

In the dark of the canopy-induced premature night, the two sat side by side in a tiny clearing carpeted in brown needles. They watched the fire and listened to the wind and creaking trees. The massive evergreens swayed, their tops sweeping the sky and denying any glimpse of stars. Raithe could have oriented himself if he could have seen them. Trapped under the canopy, he was blind and convinced they’d been walking in circles.

“The evening meal is being served in Alon Rhist,” Malcolm said in a wistful tone as he shook out the blanket and wrapped it around himself. “Venison probably—slow-roasted so it’s tender. There’d be cheese, too, and some poultry like partridge or quail, certainly fresh bread, pudding—oh, and wine, of course. Bet they’re eating right now. Evening meals were wonderful.” He looked like a man recalling a lost love. “Are you familiar with the concept? That’s when you eat something in the evening.” He sighed in remembrance. “I used to partake of that particular ritual all the time when I was a slave, but thank the gods I’m free now.”

It was Raithe’s turn to stare at Malcolm.

“Sorry. I’m just hungry.”

Raithe continued to glare.