Herkimer glanced at their gear piled near a stump and in a resigned voice told Raithe, “Get your spear and do as they say.”
“And the sword off your back,” the tall servant said.
Herkimer looked shocked and glanced over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten the weapon was there. Then he faced the god and spoke directly to him in the Fhrey language. “This is my family blade. I cannot throw it away.”
The god sneered, showing teeth.
“It’s a sword,” the servant insisted.
Herkimer hesitated only a moment. “Okay, okay, fine. We’ll go back across the river, right now. C’mon, Raithe.”
The god made an unhappy sound.
“After you give up the sword,” the servant said.
Herkimer glared. “This copper has been in my family for generations.”
“It’s a weapon. Toss it down.”
Herkimer looked at his son, a sidelong glance.
Although he might not have been a good father—wasn’t as far as Raithe was concerned—Herkimer had instilled one thing in all his sons: pride. Self-respect came from the ability to defend oneself. Such things gave a man dignity. In all of Dureya, in their entire clan, his father was the only man to wield a sword—a metal blade. Wrought from beaten copper, its marred, dull sheen was the color of a summer sunset, and legend held that the short-bladed heirloom had been mined and fashioned by a genuine Dherg smith. In comparison with the god’s sword, whose hilt was intricately etched and encrusted with gems, the copper blade was pathetic. Still, Herkimer’s weapon defined him; enemy clans knew him as Coppersword—a feared and respected title. His father could never give up that blade.
The roar of the river was cut by the cry of a hawk soaring above. Birds were known to be the embodiment of omens, and Raithe didn’t take the soaring wail as a positive sign. In its eerie echo, his father faced the god. “I can’t give you this sword.”
Raithe couldn’t help but smile. Herkimer, son of Hiemdal, of Clan Dureya wouldn’t bend so far, not even for a god.
The smaller servant took the horse’s lead as the god dismounted.
Raithe watched—impossible not to. The way the god moved was mesmerizing, so graceful, fluid, and poised. Despite the impressive movement, the god wasn’t physically imposing. He wasn’t tall, broad, or muscled. Raithe and his father had built strong shoulders and arms by wielding spear and shield throughout their lives. The god, on the other hand, appeared delicate, as if he had lived bedridden and spoon-fed. If the Fhrey were a man, Raithe wouldn’t have been afraid. Given the disparity between them in weight and height, he’d avoid a fight, even if challenged. To engage in such an unfair match would be cruel, and he wasn’t cruel. His brothers had received Raithe’s share of that particular trait.
“You don’t understand.” Herkimer tried once more to explain. “This sword has been handed down from father to son—”
The god rushed forward and punched Raithe’s father in the stomach, doubling him over. Then the Fhrey stole the copper sword, a dull scrape sounding as the weapon came free of its sheath. While Herkimer was catching his breath, the god examined the weapon with revulsion. Shaking his head, the god turned his back on Herkimer to show the tall servant the pitiable blade. Instead of joining the god’s ridicule of the weapon, the servant cringed. Raithe saw the future through the weasel man’s expression, for he was the first to notice Herkimer’s reaction.
Raithe’s father drew the skinning knife from his belt and lunged.
This time the god didn’t disappoint. With astounding speed, he whirled and drove the copper blade into Raithe’s father’s chest. Herkimer’s forward momentum did the work of running the sword deep. The fight ended the moment it began. His father gasped and fell, the sword still in his chest.
Raithe didn’t think. If he had paused even for an instant, he might have reconsidered, but there was more of his father in him than he wanted to believe. The sword being the only weapon within reach, he pulled the copper from his father’s body. With all his might, Raithe swung at the god’s neck. He fully expected the blade to cut clean through, but the copper sliced only air as the divine being dodged. The god drew his own weapon as Raithe swung again. The two swords met. A dull ping sounded, and the weight in Raithe’s hands vanished along with most of the blade. When he finished his swing, only the hilt of his family’s heritage remained; the rest flew through the air and landed in a tuft of young pines.
The god stared at him with a disgusted smirk, then spoke in the divine language. “Not worth dying for, was it?”
Then the god raised his blade once more as Raithe shuffled backward.
Too slow! Too slow!
His retreat was futile. Raithe was dead. Years of combat training told him so. In that instant before understanding became reality, he had the chance to regret his entire life.
I’ve done nothing, he thought as his muscles tightened for the expected burst of pain.
It never came.
Raithe had lost track of the servants—so had the god. Neither of the combatants expected, nor saw, the tall weasel-faced man slam his master in the back of the head with a river rock the size and shape of a round loaf of bread. Raithe realized what had happened only after the god collapsed, revealing the servant and his stone.
“Run,” the rock bearer said. “With any luck, his head will hurt too much for him to chase us when he wakes.”
“What have you done!” the other servant shouted, his eyes wide as he backed up, pulling the god’s horse away.
“Calm down,” the one holding the rock told the other servant.
Raithe looked at his father, lying on his back. Herkimer’s eyes were still open, as if watching clouds. Raithe had cursed his father many times over the years. The man neglected his family, pitted his sons against one another, and had been away when Raithe’s mother and sister died. In some ways—many ways—Raithe hated his father, but at that moment what he saw was a man who had taught his sons to fight and not give in. Herkimer had done the best with what he had, and what he had was a life trapped on barren soil because the gods made capricious demands. Raithe’s father never stole, cheated, or held his tongue when something needed to be said. He was a hard man, a cold man, but one who had the courage to stand up for himself and what was right. What Raithe saw on the ground at his feet was the last of his dead family.
He felt the broken sword in his hands.
“No!” the servant holding the horse cried out as Raithe drove the remainder of the jagged copper blade through the god’s throat.
—
Both servants had fled, the smaller one on the horse and the other chasing on foot. Now the one who had wielded the rock returned. Covered in sweat and shaking his head, he trotted back to the meadow. “Meryl’s gone,” he said. “He isn’t the best rider, but he doesn’t have to be. The horse knows the way back to Alon Rhist.” He stopped after noticing Raithe. “What are you doing?”
Raithe was standing over the body of the god. He’d picked up the Fhrey’s sword and was pressing the tip against the god’s throat. “Waiting. How long does it usually take?”
“How long does what take?”
“For him to get up.”