“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.”
“Is that so?” He looked around at the other men, most of whom were putting down their bowls or turning in their seats. Eyes shifted and necks strained.
“The pattern of your leigh mor and the bedding you’re sitting on…is that the design of Clan Dureya?”
“That’s right. What of it?” Raithe had expected this. “Go ahead, say it. You got something stuck in your teeth, some plague you want to blame on me? Go on and ask what you really want to know.”
The man’s face tightened. “All right. There’s a rumor that a god was slain.”
Of all things, Raithe hadn’t expected that.
“Gods are immortal,” he replied, pleased with how clever his response was. He picked up his empty bowl and pretended he was still eating.
“We thought so, too.”
Raithe ran his finger around the inside of the empty bowl the way Malcolm had. “A rumor, then, some guy boasting.”
Faces in the hall looked at one another.
“Weren’t no man who said it. Word is the Fhrey themselves came down from Alon Rhist. They’re looking for a Rhune who killed one of their own. They say it was a man from Dureya who used a copper sword. Not many of those around. Funny you have one. Also said the weapon broke in the fight. Apparently, it happened a week ago on the other side of the Bern.” The man looked hard at Raithe. “Where exactly are you coming from?”
“Of course, of course. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Raithe was nodding. “Menahan is known for wool and pretty daughters. Everyone knows the best poets and musicians come from Melen. Nadak provides the finest furs, but what is Dureya known for? Causing trouble, right? That’s what you’re thinking. If a loaf of bread goes missing, a brawl starts, or an unwed daughter ends up with child, Dureyans are to blame. And when the gods come looking for a troublemaker, who’s it gonna be?”
“Then how did your blade break? And come to think of it, that’s a pretty specific detail, isn’t it? Kinda strange that was mentioned and now you’re here. You know what I think? I reckon a god was killed, and it was you who done it,” Justen said.
He was standing as firmly as he could, making a fine show, but Raithe could knock him down easily enough. Justen should have known that, too. Fighting was the other thing the men of Dureya were known for. Living on rocks and stone made hard men, and Dureyan boys learned to swing early. That was the way of it—the only way for them at least.
“You’re right!” Malcolm shouted as he stood up. All eyes shifted, including Raithe’s. “He was the one who killed Shegon of the Asendwayr.”
Raithe wanted to throttle the skinny, weasel-faced man, but it was out there now. The question was what to do about it. Raithe was never one for lying. That was what others did, not Dureyans. “Yeah, I did it.”
“Why?” Justen asked.
“He killed my father. Right in front of me, with my father’s blade. This one here.” Raithe patted the scabbard still strapped to his back.
“But how is that possible?” a younger man asked. He sat bundled on a blanket, part of it over his shoulders like a woman’s shawl. He might have been Kane, son of Hale, but Raithe didn’t have a head for faces and names. “They can’t die.”
Now you say that? Where was your tongue a minute ago, Kane? Raithe thought, but all he said was, “Apparently, they can.”
“But how did you do it?” This time it was Justen again.
“I took the sword from my father’s body and swung as hard as I could. The Fhrey had a weapon that sliced right through it. Cut it clean in half. I was dead. I knew it, and the Fhrey knew it. That’s when—”
“That’s when Raithe, son of Herkimer, the hero of Dureya, did something amazing,” Malcolm interrupted. The thin man moved to the center of the roundhouse. He crouched slightly, fanning his fingers. He spoke in a loud, clear voice that carried across the hall and demanded attention. “You see, Shegon was a master of the hunt. All members of the Asendwayr are. I should know. I lived with him in Alon Rhist.” He pointed to the metal collar around his neck. “His slave and personal valet. He was the worst possible sort of Fhrey, a cul if ever there was one. I’ve seen him and his kind raid Rhu—ah, our—villages and capture women. They don’t rape them. Oh, no! Fhrey won’t defile themselves with our women. Do you know what they do with them?”
“What?” several men in the hall asked together.
“They feed them to their hounds, because their beasts like soft meat.”
Gasps and grumbles escaped lips.
“But as I said, Shegon was the worst of all. He and his band of butchers traveled the lands beyond the Bern, a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. I once saw him test a blade’s sharpness by cutting off a child’s hand. Severed it with two hacks. Unsatisfied, he commanded his smith to sharpen the blade further, then tried it once more. The child’s other hand came free with a single slice. Shegon was a fiend—a vile monster—and a Fhrey, which meant he was arrogant. His overconfidence proved to be his undoing. Shegon saw no threat in Raithe or any man. A Rhune—that’s what they call us, and that’s all they see—couldn’t possibly inflict any harm. But never before had a Rhune fought back. No one had the courage, and none possessed the skill. The Fhrey have ruled the world for eons. They vanquished the Dherg, routed the giants, and chased the goblins into the sea. They have no equal, no fear of any living thing—until now.”