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

The Gula-Rhunes had spread out on the high ground, taking each major hill in a half circle around Dahl Tirre. Raithe could hear the clang of metal, the thump of wood, the shouts of orders in their odd dialect, and laughter. The Gula laughed well—deep hearty howls and hoots, the sort only men who’d faced death on a regular basis managed without sounding insane. And yet, a few of the laughs went on too long, were too high, and Raithe suspected some of the Gula—maybe a lot of them—were just like his eldest brother.

Heim had grown to love the killing. Hegel and Didan reported that he had taken to bathing in the blood of his adversaries. Heim said it made him stronger, but his father insisted his oldest son just liked wallowing in death and relished the killing. For Heim the carnage was always over too soon. Maybe that wasn’t considered crazy in a band of men who repeatedly charged into walls of spears. His father certainly never forbade the practice, never even chided Heim as far as Raithe knew. Herkimer considered it unusual, but what passed for normal in the lives of soldiers would horrify the likes of Farmer Wedon or Heath Coswall. Once more, Raithe wondered if they had a clue what Persephone and her talk of war was getting them into.

The Gula-Rhunes made them wait.

The sun passed the midpoint and slipped down toward the west, crafting shadows that elongated the dahl as if it were melting. Seabirds’ shadows skimmed in circles on the grass. Bees droned; wind blew; gulls cried.

“Maybe they don’t know we’re here,” Malcolm suggested.

“They know,” Raithe said.

“What makes you so sure?” Tegan asked.

While not tall, Tegan was a big man, and he had the look of a stone that was heavier than mere size suggested. He was also dark: dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, his black curly beard just making the turn toward gray. Another foot shorter and Tegan could have passed as a Dherg.

“They’ve taken position on every hill but this one,” Raithe answered.

“It’s not much of a hill,” Malcolm pointed out.

“It’s closest to the dahl.” Raithe stared at the Gula horde. “They haven’t taken it because they left it for just this purpose.”

“They’re like locusts, aren’t they?” Malcolm said.

Tesh raised his arm and pointed.

They followed his gesture and saw that a band of three had separated from the crowd and was walking their way. Each wore only a leigh mor, swept up and pinned over one shoulder, each garment a different color and pattern. Raithe was more interested in what they weren’t wearing—no paint, no shields. None of the three held a spear or an ax. Raithe’s father had been right; the old man was far wiser in death than he’d ever seemed in life.

If Raithe hadn’t already met Grygor, and his less cordial relatives, he would have described the one out in front as a giant. It wasn’t just that the man was tall—he had to be a full foot taller than Raithe—but he also looked Grenmorian. His red hair was a wilderness of ratted curls that joined seamlessly with an even wilder beard. Bushy brows shaded fierce eyes. Thick hair, more akin to fur, covered his shoulders, his arms, and the backs of his hands. Across his face lay an ugly scar that ran at an angle from his left cheek to the right of his chin. The wound had taken off the lower part of his nose, giving him a ghoulish appearance. Another injury left a long gash across his chest from shoulder to nipple, lined by holes where the wound had once been stitched.

Each of his companions was smaller, but equally scarred. The one on the right was missing an eye, the one on the left lacked a hand. In its place was a beaten copper spike.

Raithe had never considered himself civilized. He’d lived most of his life in a dirt hut, breathing the smoke of a dung fire, but he felt conspicuously cultured in comparison to the Gula.

“I am Udgar, son of Holt, chieftain of Clan Erling,” the redhead declared with all the musical eloquence of chopping wood. “We received an invitation to a council to be held here.”

“I am Siegel, son of Siegmar, chieftain of Clan Dunn,” said the pale one with the gaping eye socket. Now that they were closer, Raithe noted that a serpent tattoo curled up the man’s right forearm. The serpent was well done, despite the burn mark across its middle. “It is said that this council will pick a keenig for all the tribes.”

“I am Wortman, son of Rothwell, chieftain of Clan Strom,” said the one with the spike for a hand, who spoke with an odd softness. “This keenig…it is said…will bring war upon the Fhrey.”

They all respectfully nodded.

“That is the plan. I am Raithe, son of Herkimer, chieftain of Clan Dureya.” Raithe hadn’t actually witnessed a truce meeting and had no idea if there was protocol involved, like clasping forearms or spitting, but since they hadn’t done anything, he didn’t, either.

At first, Raithe thought he’d messed up; perhaps he ought to have made some sort of gesture, praised the gods, or done something more obscure. All three glowered at him and stepped back, anger on their faces.

Siegel felt at his side for something not there. Wortman cringed. Even the redheaded giant Udgar flinched.

Tegan hesitated, then said, “I am Te—”

“Son of Herkimer?” Udgar burst out, pointing a big finger at Raithe. “That’s not possible! All the sons of the Coppersword are dead. I slew Didan myself on the Plain of Klem!”

“You killed my brother?” Raithe asked.

Beside him, Tegan tensed, his eyes growing wider.

Udgar pointed to the scar on his face. “Didan gave me this before I hacked his head from his shoulders.”

“The Coppersword took my hand.” Wortman growled out the words from behind clenched teeth.

Such a beautiful set of heirlooms my family has left me! Raithe thought. He looked to Siegel. “And did my father, or maybe Hegel, or Heim, take your eye?”

“No.” His upper lip curled into what might have been called a smile. “My wife did that with a hay rake while I was sleeping. But I did help kill Heim at Eckford, in the High Spear, me and thirty-eight others.”

“So the Coppersword had another son,” Udgar said, his eyes studying Raithe. “Kept you hidden. You must be his favorite.”

Raithe let slip a smile as he suppressed a laugh. Oh, yeah. Dad adored me, he did.

Udgar took the grin as confirmation and nodded. “Why’d he send you to meet with us?”

“He didn’t. My father’s dead.”

The three shared grins of their own.

“Who killed him?”

“A Fhrey named Shegon.”

Eyes widened, then narrowed.

“You’re the God Killer,” Udgar said, and then looked to Siegel.

Siegel nodded. “The God Killer is the Coppersword’s favorite son. His secret treasure.”

That’s right. Herkimer left me to die from starvation with his wife and daughter, because he treasured all of us so much.

“So you’re the keenig who wants to lead us in a war against the gods?” Wortman said. “The son of the cur that stole my hand?”

“I’m not the keenig.” Raithe turned to his right. “This is Tegan, chieftain of Clan Warric. He can—”

“Where are your warriors?” Udgar asked, and all three looked around.

“Hidden in the buildings?” Siegel asked.

“On ships?” Wortman suggested, pointing toward the beach.