Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

“But…but they die so quickly. I’ve heard they don’t even reach a full century.”

“True. About fifteen thousand die each year, but that still means ten thousand are added to their population. Two hundred thousand could be born to this coming generation. When they were thought to be as docile as rabbits, they didn’t represent a threat. But now…well, Raithe killed Gryndal, didn’t he? The Rhunes once considered us immortal gods, but now that they know we bleed and die, will they sit idly by when Lothian attacks or will they rise?”

He looked past her at the inhabitants of the dahl, “War is inevitable, and we can be trampled or we can learn to harness and ride. I’ve made my choice, and I suggest you do the same.”

—

The bonfire roared as it consumed a hundred years of civilization in a single night. From the moment Raithe had arrived in Dahl Rhen, he’d considered this place to be the high point of mankind’s achievements. He’d never seen a place so rich and luxurious. Every family had a home—a roundhouse constructed from wood. The storage pit was deep enough to last a whole winter and beyond. The fields were lush and fertile, growing multiple varieties of seed grass. The residents of Dahl Rhen had excesses of beer, mead, bread, meat and fish, herbs and spices. And all their riches had been protected by a high wall and a massive gate, but the gate hadn’t been strong enough.

The bodies had been buried by nightfall. Otherwise, the scent would’ve lured animals out of the wood. Without a secured perimeter, everyone felt it best to put their loved ones safely underground. Raithe had worked hard all day. Covered in sweat and dirt, he was pleased to see that the well was working again. The Dherg, three small-statured people who had returned with Persephone’s group, had created a vessel made from beaten metal. They called it a bucket, and it worked better than the gourds the villagers had used in the past. Raithe poured water over his head and let it drain down his hair and soak his chest and thick black beard.

Those who’d survived were gathering around the bonfire built on the ruined foundation of the lodge. They fed it splintered logs, thatch, and the other broken pieces of their lives. Not including the Galantians, fewer than three hundred had survived, and when he’d first arrived there had been almost a thousand people in Dahl Rhen. Given the destruction, Raithe would have expected the toll to be higher.

Somehow the oldest resident, Padera, had weathered the attack. She claimed her dead husband had something to do with her survival, but Raithe hadn’t listened to the reasons why. He’d been busy burying Brin’s parents while the girl sobbed into Persephone’s chest. There had been a lot of crying that day. Gelston, whom Raithe had only just discovered was Delwin’s brother and Brin’s uncle, was still alive, having survived the lightning strike. Still, he was in no shape to care for his niece. The man had barely spoken and hardly moved all day.

Some villagers hadn’t been in the dahl during the attack. A number of folks benefited that afternoon from tending their fields or being in the forest cutting wood or hunting. If the giants had attacked at night, the death toll would have been higher. And without the Galantians, there might have been no survivors at all. The Fhrey had saved them, but after seeing what was left of the dahl, maybe saved wasn’t the right word.

With the destruction of the gate, Dahl Rhen was just a hill, an exposed mound surrounded by wilderness. Neither the lodge nor any of the roundhouses had survived the storm. In one cursed day, generations of labor had been lost. They were back to how it must have been when the clan first paused in that spot and built a similar fire from the wood of the forest.

And yet despite the losses, there was cause for appreciation. Gone was the idea of Fhrey gods, but there was plenty of room for heroes in the Rhen pantheon. Any reservations or suspicions the dahl’s inhabitants had held about the Fhrey warriors were erased by the feet of giants. Around the fire, the men of Dahl Rhen sat shoulder to shoulder with the Galantians, sharing beer and mead and toasting the dead.

“There you are,” Malcolm said as he headed toward Raithe with a wooden cup in each hand. “Here. Bergin opened his best jugs of beer to honor the dead. Thought you could use a drink.”

“Thanks, but do you know where—”

Malcolm tilted his head, and Raithe turned to see Persephone, Nyphron, and Arion approaching them from behind. He offered her a smile as she passed but didn’t receive one in return. She looked tired, her eyes sore and red. He’d seen the same expression on many faces throughout the day. Not for the first time, Raithe questioned his own callousness. The deaths meant little to him. He rationalized that he didn’t know the people of Rhen well, or maybe the impact of the devastation was somehow delayed. But Raithe was still waiting for the arrival of grief over his father’s passing, and he suspected it might never come. He was Dureyan, and the simple truth was that his people had little use for mourning or sympathy. Sudden, inexplicable death wasn’t a surprise to them. The only constant was suffering. Those of Clan Dureya learned this lesson well, and they learned it young. They also knew anything could be endured—even life.

Raithe and Malcolm found seats around the fire not far from where the three Dherg clustered just inside the ring of light. Raithe looked at Malcolm and indicated the visitors, to which Malcolm merely shrugged. The conversation around the fire quieted when Nyphron and Arion sat. Persephone remained standing. She clasped her hands and took a deep breath.

“This has been a dark and grievous day,” she said. “A sad and bewildering one that saw the loss of many beloved friends and family.” Her eyes strayed toward Brin, who sat between Moya and Roan, her cheeks still streaked. “Tonight we say goodbye, tonight we grieve, tonight we remember the past.” She paused and looked up at the stars overhead. “But tomorrow will bring a new day, and the question before us is: What shall we do with it?”

“Why did this happen?” Hanson Killian asked. The woodworker sat cross-legged next to his wife, who clutched their remaining three children. Earlier that day, Raithe had been in the burial pit when Farmer Wedon handed down the other four Killians.

Raithe didn’t think Hanson expected an answer. The question was at the forefront of everyone’s minds, but the same question arrived with every tragedy. Why my son? Why today of all days? Why us again? The clans suffered loss with such regularity that the questions often felt as pointless as prayers. At least that was the case in Dureya, and there was never an answer, at least not one mortals could understand.