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

He stood beside Roan, the weight of the crowd pressing them together. It was the closest he’d ever been to her. Gifford could feel her warmth, and smell the scents of charcoal, oil, and smoke—the smells he’d come to associate with Roan and all things good. If the roof collapsed and killed everyone, Gifford would have thanked Mari for that final kindness.

The granary was little more than a hole in the ground, but given that it protected the dahl’s food supply, the pit was solidly built to withstand just about anything. The best wood and rock went into its construction. The walls were dirt and stone, the ceiling braced by logs driven into the ground. This was the place where most of Gifford’s work ended up. Harvests of barley, wheat, and rye were poured into huge clay urns he had made. Their tops were sealed with wax to keep out the mice and moisture. The granary also shielded wine, honey, oil, vegetables, and a cache of smoked meats. After the long winter most of the stores were gone, and the pit was little more than a hole, but it was a sturdy one. Still, the ceiling shook, and the door rattled.

The only bit of light that continued to enter the bin was through the narrow slit where the door didn’t precisely meet its frame. This sliver of white flickered violently.

“It’ll be okay,” Gifford told Roan. He said it in a whisper as if it were a secret he’d chosen to share with her alone.

Brin, Viv Baker, and her daughter Hest were crying loudly. And it wasn’t just the women. Cobb, Heath Coswall, Habet, and Filson wept openly as well. But Roan wasn’t like them. She wasn’t like anyone, and that was why he liked her. When she turned to look at him, the light from the door highlighted the contour of her face. She wasn’t crying and didn’t look scared. There was just an intensity in her eyes. If there weren’t a dozen people between Roan and the door, if she were alone in the dark, he had no doubt she would have gone outside. She wanted to see. Roan wanted to see everything.

The clatter of hail stopped, but rain fell in bands, hard at times then lighter, only to pound once more. The howl of the wind faded. Even the cracks of lightning fell silent. Finally, the light from the door became bright and unwavering.

Nyphron shoved the door open and crept out. A moment later, he waved for them to follow.

Everyone squinted against the brightness of the sun, struggling to see. Thatch and logs were scattered everywhere. Branches, leaves, and broken planks of wood littered the yard. One of the lodge’s banners lay on the ground, its ends frayed. Not a single roundhouse had survived. The breadth of the dahl was a vacant field of mangled dirt and debris surrounded by the still-intact wall. All that remained were bare spots where grass hadn’t grown and a score of fire pits that continued to smolder. Overhead, clouds were breaking up, and Gifford already spotted patches of blue.

“Is it over?” Heath Coswall asked from the back.

As if in answer, a loud boom sounded and the dahl’s front gate trembled.

“What is that?” Moya asked, speaking for everyone.

Another bang hit and the gate began to buckle.