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

“That’s why you went after the bear? Because you thought it was coming to attack the dahl?”


Suri nodded. “The bone told me Grin would attack this morning.”

“Looks like Magda was right. We did what she said, and Grin has been killed.”

Suri didn’t look convinced.

“What?”

“The signs I saw indicated something that—something bigger. Grin was a bear with a hunger for human flesh but still just a bear.”

“Maybe you just read them wrong. Saw more danger than there really was.”

“What do you think, Minna?” Suri asked the wolf.

The wolf panted alongside her with saliva dripping off her tongue.

“Minna is not so sure,” Suri said. “And Minna is a very smart wolf, maybe the wisest in the world.”

The light rising from behind the jagged teeth of the forest turned the sky purple and orange and shone on the walls of Dahl Rhen. Persephone made out the banners flapping above the lodge roof. She slowed, then stopped altogether. She glanced at Suri, and her eyes narrowed.

What if Suri didn’t read the signs wrong? What if the wolf is right?

“What’s wrong?” Raithe asked after noticing she was several steps behind the rest.

“No horn,” she replied.

“Is that unusual?” Malcolm asked. “It’s just us, after all, and it’s early.”

“No men on the ramparts, either.”

—

Circling, they found the gate open, both doors flung wide—too wide. Usually only Delwin and Gelston left early, and they had a habit of opening only the left side because the doors were heavy and the right one always stuck. Also, the gate doors had been thrown inward rather than pushed out. No one pulled the massive doors open from the inside; they were easier to push.

Nerves and exhaustion, that’s all it is, she assured herself. It would be strange if I didn’t have a sense of dread creeping with me after what I’ve been through.

Still, she couldn’t shake the fear. She imagined walking through the roundhouses and finding everyone slain, just as she had found Konniger’s men lying among the trees. What she actually saw when she stepped through the open gate was far less macabre, but far more disturbing.

Everyone on the dahl was awake and standing in perfect rows in front of the lodge, facing the gates. Persephone was startled at the size of the crowd. Even on meeting nights, when everyone was supposed to show up, not everyone did. The sick and injured didn’t come, and there were always sick and injured. Usually, those caring for them stayed home, too. A dahl the size of Rhen required a lot of food, and there was always a hunting party or two that would be out, sometimes for weeks. And then there were those who didn’t want to come. Padera had stopped bothering to show up years ago.

More disturbing than the number of people assembled was the way in which they were grouped. Sarah was nowhere near Delwin or Brin. Roan was in the front row even though Gifford was in the back, and Moya was shoulder-to-shoulder with Tressa.

“Something is very wrong,” Persephone whispered.

“Sarah? Moya?” Persephone called out. “What’s going on? Why are you all out here?”

No one moved or spoke, and there wasn’t a smile among them. But in their eyes Persephone saw screams. Raithe pointed toward the storage pit at a remarkable sight: two tethered horses.

The Fhrey laid Maeve on the grass. Nyphron drew his sword from its scabbard, and it made a gentle hiss against the metal sheath. The giant pulled free his massive sword. Sebek pulled both of his blades, and Tekchin drew forth a thin, delicate blade. Malcolm held his spear at the ready. Beside Persephone, Raithe put a hand on his sword but didn’t draw it. Minna let out a low guttural growl, and Suri bent over to pat her neck.

They moved forward as a group but had taken only a few steps when a tall Fhrey, as hairless as Arion, emerged from the lodge and stopped them with his stare. Numerous rings pierced the skin of his ears, cheeks, and nose, and chains hung between them. On his hands, the fingernails were so long that they curled around themselves in yellowed swirls. His chest was bare, and he wore a skirt of gold. A mantle, also gold, draped across his shoulders and flowed to the ground. Beside him came a smaller, younger Fhrey wearing a shimmering robe of purple and white, the hood of the garment raised.

“Nyphron, son of Zephyron.” The god of chains spoke in Fhrey, and his voice boomed with unnatural volume. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Surely that is a god, Persephone thought. Not a kind or benevolent one but the embodiment of great and terrifying power. His face lacked even a single hint of compassion.

Beside the god the younger Fhrey shifted his weight and fidgeted with nervous excitement like a boy on his first hunt. Behind them, eight more Fhrey strode through the lodge doorway. They carried swords and wore armor similar to that of the Galantians, but they had helms shaped like the heads of lions. They took up positions on either side of the younger Fhrey and stood in stiff lines, not dissimilar to the way everyone else was standing.

The god of chains walked forward, descending the steps of the lodge and moving through the ranks of villagers, who shifted in perfect unison to allow his passage. The other Fhrey remained on the elevated porch, watching.

“Gryndal, you cuckold cur and craven whore’s son,” Nyphron replied in Rhunic.

Persephone held her breath, her eyes wide, but the god of chains merely stared at Nyphron with suspicion.

“It’s a common Rhune welcome,” Nyphron said, this time in Fhrey.

“I’m certain.” Gryndal advanced until he stood in the exact center of the dahl, with the villagers behind him and the Galantians in front. “You know why I’m here.”

“Of course. You’ve finally found wisdom and decided to join the Instarya. Unfortunately, we don’t—”

Nyphron collapsed to his knees, fell forward, and gasped for air.

“I’m not Petragar,” Gryndal said, baring his teeth. “And I’m not Arion. I won’t be toyed with. I have full authority to act as the fane in these forsaken lands. You know what that means. All of you stand guilty of rebellion, rebellion against your fane, against your god, and against nature.”

Gryndal walked around Nyphron, and as he did, Persephone felt a jolt, as if an invisible giant had grabbed hold of her neck and wrists and shoved her back a step. The unexpected lurch knocked Math’s spear from her hand. The weapon fell to the grass, and she was unable to retrieve it. The unseen giant hands held her so tightly that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak and could barely breathe.

“Fenelyus is dead. She, who ushered in the new order, was an anchor. It’s time for the Miralyith to assume their proper place as gods and for ordinary Fhrey to realize they’re just one more race that crawls upon the world.” Gryndal bent slightly to look at Nyphron, who remained on his hands and knees, his face clenched in pain.

Stryker made a noise—something no one else had managed. The goblin also succeeded in sluggishly raising his clawed hands. This caught the god’s attention.

“You have a ghazel, I see. An oberdaza—an abomination. The Art is not for the likes of them.”

Gryndal made a slight motion with his fingers, and the goblin flew backward. The sounds the goblin made weren’t the cry of a man but the high-pitched shriek of an animal, not unlike the noises Konniger had made. But the goblin’s screams didn’t last as long; after some snapping he became still and silent.