Malcolm paused and scanned the room, and seeing he had everyone’s attention, he continued. “So casual, so callous, was Shegon’s attack that Raithe dodged it with a skillful leap. Shegon, who was so certain of an easy victory, stood in shock when Raithe slipped through his grasp. How dare he! I saw that thought painted on his face. How dare Raithe not die! In that moment of disbelief, Raithe acted brilliantly. For what Shegon couldn’t know was that this was no ordinary Rhune before him. Raithe is a master of combat the likes of which this world has yet to see. The metal of his blade had broken, but the mettle of the man rang true. Using only the broken hilt of his sword, Raithe slashed at the villain’s exposed wrist. So unaccustomed to pain, so shocked and dismayed, Shegon dropped his sword. Before it hit the ground, Raithe, son of Herkimer, caught it and stabbed upward, driving the blade home—right through the monster’s throat!”
Every mouth in the hall hung agape, and each man leaned forward to hear better.
“Shegon—vile lord of the Fhrey—fell dead before Raithe. So shocked were the dozen other Fhrey—murderers and oppressors of men—that they ran in fear. As they took flight, he shouted after them that mankind would no longer bow to false gods!”
Malcolm straightened the folds of his stained and torn robes. “It was then that the great Raithe of Clan Dureya took the time to cleave my bonds of servitude. Come with me! he said. Come with me and breathe the air of freedom. We journeyed together through the terrible Crescent Forest, but I traveled unafraid, for Raithe the God Killer was by my side. Not even when leshies confounded our path, leaving us lost for days and nearing starvation, did I despair. You see, the spirits of the forest delighted in having so great a champion as the God Killer within its eaves. They confused us to keep him within their realm. After many days, he knew he wouldn’t escape unless he could outwit the forest. Raithe cleverly posed a riddle. Four brothers visit this wood, he said. The first is greeted with great joy; the second is beloved; the third always brings sad tidings; and the last is feared. They visit each year, but never together. What are their names? While the forest was trying to solve the riddle, Raithe and I made our escape and only now emerged, starved and exhausted. And that is how we came to sit with you this night in this honored hall.”
Malcolm returned to their blanket and gestured in Raithe’s direction. “Before you—before all of you—sits a hero of the clans, a man who refused to die when a bloodthirsty Fhrey demanded a Rhune’s life on a whim. Here is a hero who for one brief, wondrous moment struck a blow for the dignity and freedom of us all. Raithe, son of Herkimer, of Clan Dureya!”
He took his seat while the men in the hall clapped their bowls against the tables, drumming their approval. Justen raised a hand to stop them. “Hold on. Hold on. Wouldn’t a man who killed a god and broke his blade take the god’s sword as his own?”
Before Raithe could think, Malcolm threw back the blanket and revealed Shegon’s golden-hilted sword, its blade and jewels gleaming in the firelight. “Indeed he would!”
The hall erupted in drumming once more.
“Are you crazy?” Raithe whispered.
“They liked the story.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Really? I remember it exactly that way.”
“But—”
A big man with a shaved head and a curly black beard stood up. He was taller than Raithe, and there were few people who fit that description. He wasn’t merely tall. He looked as solid as an ox.
“Bollocks,” he said, thrusting his chin out and pointing a finger at both of them. “So you have a pretty sword. So what? What does that prove? You don’t look like a god killer to me. I’m Donny of Nadak, and you look like a pair of liars hoping for a free meal.”
His words silenced the room, an uneasy void interrupted only by the pop and hiss of the fire.
Raithe looked over at Malcolm and whispered, “See. This is the problem with your plan. There’s always going to be a Donny.”
“ ’Course, you could prove it,” Donny said. “The way I figure, a man capable of killing a god ought to be able to best little old me. What do you say, Raithe of Dureya? Think you could manage that?”
“Can you beat him?” Malcolm whispered.
Raithe looked at Donny and shrugged. “Looks a lot like my older brother Hegel.”
“Can you do it without killing him?”
“Well, that makes it a lot harder,” Raithe replied.
“Killing him won’t get us more food.”
“What did they do to you in Alon Rhist, feed you every day?”
“One of the many bad habits I’ve picked up.”
“Well, little man?” Donny taunted. “I’m calling you a liar.”
“You also called me little. I’m still trying to figure out which offends me the most.”
Donny walked to the back of the roundhouse, where the remains of the lamb lay. He picked up a butcher knife.
“He’s got a knife now,” Raithe told Malcolm.
The ex-slave patted his belly and smiled.
Raithe removed the broken sword and gave it to Malcolm to go along with Shegon’s blade. “Better hang on to these or I might be tempted.”
The big man stepped away from the lamb and laughed when he saw Raithe disarming. “I’m still using this knife.”
“Figured you would,” Raithe said.
“And I’m going to gut you.”
“Maybe.”
Raithe took off his leigh mor, leaving him in his buckskin. Growing up with three older, sadistic brothers, all of whom had been trained by a father who’d learned fighting from the Fhrey, had taught Raithe a few things. The first was that he could take a beating. The second was how much opponents underestimated a smaller man, especially when he was unarmed. His brothers often made that mistake.
Donny raised the knife, and Raithe saw the smile he had hoped would appear. His oldest brother, Heim, had made that same face—once.
Raithe expected Donny to move in slowly with his blade held high, perhaps holding his free hand outstretched to block anything Raithe might try. That was how Heim had fought, but Herkimer had trained his sons, and the old man didn’t care how much damage they inflicted on one another. Didan had lost a finger once because Herkimer wanted to prove a point about losing concentration. Fact was, they all had learned to fight the Dureyan way—for survival.
Donny wasn’t Dureyan.
The big man charged like a bull, flailing the knife above his head and screaming. Raithe could hardly believe it. This was the type of move an old woman with a broom might use to scare rabbits from the vegetable garden.
Raithe waited until the last moment, then stepped aside, leaving a knee behind. Donny didn’t even try to swing. Maybe he’d planned to stab Raithe after knocking him down. Unfortunately for Donny, Raithe’s knee landed squarely in the man’s stomach. A whoosh of air came out, and Donny collapsed in a ball. Raithe stomped on the hand holding the knife, breaking at least one finger and persuading Donny to let go. A kick to the face left the big man whimpering.
“Are we done?” Raithe asked.
Donny had both hands over his face, sobbing.
“I asked, are we done?”
Donny howled but managed to nod.