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

Malcolm shrugged and looked out over the wall to the north. “Too bad. Looks like we could use one.”

In the dark, the Gula-Rhunes’ campfires covered the hills, making the countryside look as though it were plagued with a swarm of fireflies. And the northerners had a fondness for drums. Raithe’s father and brothers began all their stories with them. We were woken by the beat of the Gula’s drums; the night before the battle we slept to the rhythm of the drums; we charged into battle to the pounding of their war drums. Raithe had never fought the Gula-Rhunes. Despite what Udgar thought, Raithe was just too young. He would have gone to the High Spear the next time the Fhrey called for troops, but that time never came. The sum total of Raithe’s combat experience came from fighting his brothers and fellow Dureyans, which—in a land where food was scarce and spears plentiful—provided him a sound education. War would be different. He wasn’t certain how, just a gut feeling—and the stories.

“Do you think it’s the same guys?” Malcolm asked. “I mean, do the drummers take turns? They have to switch, right? The same set of people can’t keep beating them like that all night.”

“Seriously, there are times I’m amazed by how your mind works.”

“What? I think it’s a perfectly reasonable question. I mean the drumming never stops.”

Raithe sighed. “At least Persephone isn’t here.”

“She’ll be back.” The statement was said with so much confidence that it made Raithe wonder if Malcolm had heard some news about the negotiations with the Dherg.

“If she’s smart, she’ll stay away.”

Malcolm was shaking his head in that same self-assured manner, his Fhrey-look. “Persephone lives for her people. I would have thought you understood that by now. They mean more to her than anything. She’ll never abandon them. Not out of fear of war, nor the love of a man. Kind of tragic, actually. You two are like a pair of ill-fated lovers in the tales of old.”

Raithe gave him a sour look. “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t pretend you do. You lived a pampered life in Alon Rhist, like a prized pig. I lived—”

“In Dureya, I know,” Malcolm said. “An arid, windblown plateau of rock, dirt, and thin grass where there was little food and even less compassion. You hated your father, while somehow still managing to maintain an unwavering respect for the man. You also hated your three older brothers and didn’t particularly care for your clansmen, either, I suspect. The only ones you ever really loved were your mother and sister, and now Persephone. I think the reason you fell for her, fell so quickly and so completely, is because she reminds you of your sister or mother…maybe both.” Malcolm held his spear, Narsirabad, with two hands, tip up as if he planned to churn butter. Neither man looked at the other, both simply staring out at the multitude of campfires. “You never told me how they died, your mother and sister.”

“And I don’t plan to.”

“You were with them, weren’t you? They died, but you lived. Traumatic, I would think. And so fitting with the corollary of the stories of old. I’m guessing you suffer feelings of guilt.”

The ex-slave had a terrible way of irritating Raithe with conversation. He’d never met anyone who liked to babble as much as Malcolm. “Talk about something else.”

“I’m just making the point that, for you, Persephone is some sort of second chance. That’s why you keep asking her to come away. To save her because you couldn’t save your mother and sister.”

“Looks like that won’t be an option.”

“I told you, she’s coming back,” Malcolm assured.

“Well, if she does, I hope it’s after this is over. They’re going to kill us, you know.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything for a while, then shifted the grip on his spear and sighed. “They haven’t attacked yet.”

“They will.”

“The chieftains’ messengers got out. Help will be coming.”

“They won’t arrive in time.”

Malcolm clapped the butt of his spear on the stone walkway. “Quit being such a damned optimist.”

Raithe looked over. They exchanged a smile that was one-part smirk and two-parts truce.

“What if something’s happened to her?” Raithe asked.

“Oh, well, you mean like being besieged by thousands of angry warriors? Something awful like that?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Wherever she is, I can’t imagine it could be worse than being here.”

Raithe nodded. “There is that.”

“And does it help? Knowing that you drove her away in time to miss all this fun?” Malcolm had an impish look on his face, as if he’d just performed some magician’s trick.

“Actually it does.”

“Then can you answer my question about what we should do now?”

Raithe nodded. “We wait.”

—

In the dark, Gifford inched his way along the wall, his right hand feeling the stacked stones. He wondered how the people of Tirre got so many and how long it took to place them. He held his other hand against his chest, fingers splayed as if he were taking an oath. Oddly, his ribs hurt less when pressing on them. Just breathing caused stabs of pain, little jolts that caused him to suck in more air, which in turn caused another pang. Gifford was usually a believer in the adage: If doing that hurts, don’t do it anymore, but if ever there were an exception to a rule, this had to be it.

“Where are you off to?” Padera asked, her voice coming out of the dark like some ghostly spirit. The old farmer’s widow had returned to camp faster than he’d expected. Gifford could never determine if it was a testament to her youthful vigor or his crooked back that made Padera his rival in the slowest hundred-yard sprint. “Hurts to breathe don’t it? You shouldn’t be on your feet for a week at least.”

“I’m looking fo’ my cwutch,” Gifford said.

Padera waddled out of the gloom to the path that hugged the wall. In recent weeks, it had become the main thoroughfare for all things Clan Rhen. Much of the trail lay under the wool, but this section was between East and West Puddle—no-man’s-land.

The ancient woman carried a bundle of wool on her back. Both she and Gifford were hunched over—a pair of ugly trolls meeting in the dark. “Crutch? You’re looking for the wooden stick? Or the one who made it? The latter is gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“They went across the sea to the land of the Dherg.”

“Woan’s gone?” He had to ask because the old woman had stopped making sense. The trip to senility was one race he didn’t mind losing to her. “Woan went on the sea?”

Padera nodded. “So there’s no reason to be out dancing the way you are.”

Dancing? Maybe Padera had won that particular race already. “What makes you think Woan went anyplace?”