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

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak just as another clap rent the air. This time it creaked first, a yawning wrench and then the slap. More than that, Raithe heard faint laughter and distant singing.

The two men stared at each other, shocked.

“I smell food,” Malcolm said.

Raithe was nodding. He did, too, something savory. The breeze had shifted, sending smoke in their direction but also the smell of cooked meat. “You might be right about it not being leshies. Could be crimbals instead. They’re known to have great feasts and parties.”

“Parties?” Malcolm got to his feet. “Maybe we should—”

“No, don’t!” Raithe grabbed Malcolm’s arm.

“But…food. You remember food, right? I mean real food?”

“That’s how they lure you. Doorways in the trees lead to their homeland, a magical place called Nog. Once there, they’ll lay you down in feather beds and play music while treating you to roasted boar, deer, beef, and lamb covered in cream and sweetened with honey—all you can eat.”

Malcolm was licking his lips.

“Then they fill you with ale, wine, mead, and pies.”

“Really? Pies? What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter what kind, because you can’t get out. Once you go in, once you eat their food, you’re trapped forever in Nog.”

Malcolm blinked. “So?”

“What do you mean so?”

“Is the food good?”

“I’ve heard it’s supposed to be incredible.”

“And the beds are soft and warm?”

Raithe nodded.

“So what you’re saying is that we can stay here”—Malcolm gestured around them— “and starve in this horrific forest, or we could live the rest of our lives in a wonderland of abundance, music, and mirth. Sounds awful; let’s go.”

Raithe tried to think of a rebuttal. Framed that way, he was hard-pressed.

“Also”—Malcolm held up a finger—“what are the odds of the Fhrey finding us in this magical land of Nog?”

Raithe found it was his turn to stare blankly. Then he looked into the dark of the trees in the direction of the laughter and song. “Help me put the fire out.”

They scattered the sticks and stomped the flames to glowing coals, and then Raithe led the way into the trees beyond. With each step, the sounds grew louder. Voices, and at times a dog’s bark, drifted on the night air. The world grew lighter as stars emerged from the thinning canopy. Raithe realized they had been on the edge of the forest. Together, the two climbed out into a field where a well-trodden road snaked beneath a half-moon. In the distance, firelight shone out of a wooden building’s windows.

“Is that the land of Nog?” Malcolm asked.

“No,” Raithe replied. “It’s a roadhouse, a way station for travelers.”

“We’re travelers,” Malcolm said with bubbling, hope-filled glee. “Do you think they’ll give us food?”

Raithe shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

—

Raithe hated being stared at; all too often it marked the prelude to a fight. He also didn’t care much for strangers; they set him on edge. Little wonder, then, that he wasn’t pleased as he and Malcolm sat in a room surrounded by a dozen unfamiliar faces staring at them as they ate. Nothing had been said, at least nothing loud enough to hear. The whispers had started near a large wooden bowl where a pair of women dished out lamb stew, speaking softly to each man. After receiving a portion, the one getting his meal looked over. Sometimes they glanced at Malcolm, but mostly they stared at Raithe—as if he wore a pig for a hat. When the men returned to their places, they continued to stare, whispering among themselves.

“What do you think they’re saying?” Raithe asked, nudging Malcolm in the ribs.

The former slave didn’t raise his face from his bowl. “That you’re a fine-looking man, followed by a debate as to which of their sisters should be given in marriage.” He shrugged. “How should I know?”

“I think they’re planning to cut our throats.”

“I like my guess better.” Malcolm finished the statement by wiping the bottom of the bowl with his finger and sucking it. “Maybe after my story we can get seconds.”

“I didn’t think you were hungry. You’ve taken forever to finish the little taste they gave us.”

“I wanted to make it last in case it’s all we get,” Malcolm said, licking his bowl. “In general Rhune society, is it bad manners to suck on a bowl?”

“In general Rhune society, there’s no such thing as manners, but I wouldn’t refer to anyone as a Rhune. That’s a Fhrey word, and we don’t like it much, at least not in Dureya. Down here it might be different. They’re more accustomed to doing what they’re told. And as for the story you promised—you don’t plan on telling them the truth, do you?”

“Of course not. I’m hungry, not a fool, and that story won’t feed us. We’ll get tossed out by those still awake.”

“Well, just don’t say anything that anyone would take offense at.”

“Have a little faith.”

Malcolm began sucking on the rim of the bowl.

Such an odd man, Raithe thought. Not because of Malcolm’s affection for the bowl—that was the most normal thing he’d done. He was strange because of everything else. The former slave didn’t have a beard and wore his hair short and combed. He sat too straight, cleaned his hands and face each morning and before every meal, complained about the stains on his clothes, spoke with a weird kind of elegance, and used a host of words that Raithe didn’t recognize.

“Are you a good storyteller?”

“Ell ee,” Malcolm replied with the bowl still in his mouth.

“What?”

Malcolm stopped sucking. “We’ll see.”

The roundhouse occupied most of the area within the palisade. There were pens to house animals and a shed for supplies, but the bulk of the road station was taken up by the hall they sat in. In Dureya, the hut’s walls would have been made of clay and the cone-shaped roof fashioned from bundles of grass. This one was nicer, built of solid wood with a sturdy shake roof that probably wouldn’t blow off with every strong wind. The space was large and there was plenty of room around an open fire pit—a pit that burned wood instead of dried dung.

“What’s your names?” a man inquired, one of the older ones who’d finished his meal and was stretching his legs.

Maybe he was pushed into addressing them. More likely he was a leader or wanted to be seen as such. When he spoke, the whispers stopped, and everyone looked their way.

“What’s yours?” Raithe asked, a sharpness in his voice.

“No need to be that way—just curious is all. A man can be curious, can’t he?” He looked over his shoulder for support. Soft and squat, he was the sort who needed reassurance. “We know everyone else here. Seen each other on the road for years. That’s Kane over there”—he pointed—“son of Hale, who passed on his route five years ago. He’s done well with it, too. Over there is Hemp of Clan Menahan, a respected wool trader. I’m Justen of Dahl Rhen. Everyone knows me, but none of us have seen either of you before. So who are you?”

“But you already know our names,” Raithe said. “The man at the gate asked and spread the word about us. I see you whispering, but I’m not hiding anything. Just trying to get by. We got lost in the forest. Seeing smoke and smelling food, we hoped to find some hospitality; that’s all. Not here to make any trouble or push anyone around. Go ahead. Ask what you want. I’ll answer.”

“No reason to be so touchy. We’re only traders.” The man looked around again, and many heads in the hall bobbed over their bowls. A few grumbled affirmative replies. All stared hard at Raithe, as if they expected him to perform magic. “See, we’re trying to survive, same as you. My oxen drag logs up and down the trail between Dahl Rhen and Nadak, sometimes over to Menahan—they need wood out that way. I’m not the sort to look for trouble, either.” Justen held up his hands and turned around. “You can see I don’t have nothing. We leave our spears outside the hall—makes it friendlier, you know? An unspoken rule. But you’re sitting here with copper on your back. Ain’t no call for weapons.”

“It’s broken.”