The man looked at the riverbank’s rounded stones and sighed. “Do we have to use such big ones?”
“Big ones for the bottom, smaller ones on top.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“People die often where I come from, and we have a lot of rocks.” Raithe wiped his brow with his forearm, pushing back a mat of dark hair. He’d rolled the woolen sleeves of his undertunic up. The spring days were still chilly, but the work made him sweat. He considered taking off his leigh mor and leather but decided against it. Burying his father should be an unpleasant task, and a good son should feel something at such a time. If uncomfortable was the best he could manage, Raithe would settle for that.
Malcolm carried over a pair of rocks and set them down, letting Raithe place them. He paused to rub his hands clean.
“Okay, Malcolm,” Raithe said, “you need to pick bigger ones or we’ll be here forever.”
Malcolm scowled but returned to the bank, gathered two good-sized stones, and carried them under his arms like melons. He walked unsteadily in sandals. Thin, with a simple strap, they were ill suited to the landscape. Raithe’s clothes were shoddy—sewn scraps of wool with leather accents that he’d cured himself—but at least they were durable.
Raithe searched for and found a small smooth stone.
“I thought you wanted bigger rocks?” Malcolm asked.
“This isn’t for the pile.” Raithe opened his father’s right hand and exchanged the rock for the skinning knife. “He’ll need it to get to Rel or Alysin if he’s worthy—Nifrel if he’s not.”
“Oh, right.”
After outlining the body, Raithe piled the stones from the feet upward. Then he retrieved his father’s leigh mor, which still lay next to the deer’s carcass, and laid it over Herkimer’s face. A quick search in the little patch of pines produced the other end of the copper sword. Raithe considered leaving the weapon but worried about grave robbers. His father had died for the shattered blade; it deserved to be cared for.
Raithe glanced at the Fhrey once more. “You’re certain he won’t get up?”
Malcolm looked over from where he was lifting a rock. “Positive. Shegon is dead.”
Together they hoisted a dozen more rocks onto the growing pile before Raithe asked, “Why were you with him?”
Malcolm pointed to the torc around his neck as if it explained everything. Raithe was puzzled until he noticed the necklace was a complete circle. The ring of metal wasn’t a torc, not jewelry at all—it was a collar.
Not a servant—a slave.
The sun was low in the sky when they dropped the last rocks to complete the mound. Malcolm washed in the river while Raithe sang his mourning song. Then he slung his father’s broken blade over his shoulder, adjusted the Fhrey’s sword in his belt, and gathered his things and those of his father. They didn’t have much: a wooden shield, a bag containing a good hammer stone, a rabbit pelt Raithe planned to make into a pouch as soon as it cured, the last of the cheese, the single blanket they had shared, a stone hand ax, his father’s knife, and Raithe’s spear.
“Where to?” Malcolm asked. His face and hair were covered in sweat, and the man had nothing, not even a sharpened stick to defend himself.
“Here, sling this blanket over your shoulder. Tie it tight, and take my spear.”
“I don’t know how to use a spear.”
“It’s not complicated. Just point and stick.”
Raithe looked around. Going home didn’t make sense. That was back east, closer to Alon Rhist. Besides, his family was gone. The clan would still welcome him, but it was impossible to build a life in Dureya. Another option would be to push farther west into the untamed wilderness of Avrlyn. To do so they’d need to get past a series of Fhrey outposts along the western rivers. Like Alon Rhist, the strongholds were built to keep men out. Herkimer had warned Raithe about the fortifications of Merredydd and Seon Hall, but his father never explained exactly where those were. By himself, Raithe could likely avoid walking into one, but he wouldn’t have much of a life alone in the wilderness. Taking Malcolm wouldn’t help. By the look and sound of the ex-slave, he wouldn’t survive a year in the wild.
“We’ll cross back into Rhulyn but go south.” He pointed over the river at the dramatic rising hillside covered with evergreens. “That’s the Crescent Forest, runs for miles in all directions. Not the safest place, but it’ll provide cover—help hide us.” He glanced up at the sky. “Still early in the season, but there should be some food to forage and game to hunt.”
“What do you mean by not the safest place?”
“Well, I’ve not been there myself, but I’ve heard things.”
“What sorts of things?”
Raithe tightened his belt and the strap holding the copper to his back before offering a shrug. “Oh, you know, tabors, raow, leshies. Stuff like that.”
Malcolm continued to stare. “Vicious animals?”
“Oh, yeah—those, too, I suppose.”
“Those…too?”
“Sure, bound to be in a forest that size.”
“Oh,” Malcolm said, looking apprehensive as his eyes followed a branch floating past them at a quick pace. “How will we get across?”
“You can swim, right?”
Malcolm looked stunned. “That’s a thousand feet from bank to bank.”
“It has a nice current, too. Depending on how well you swim, we’ll probably reach the far side several miles south of here. But that’s good. It’ll make us harder to track.”
“Impossible, I’d imagine,” Malcolm said, grimacing, his sight chained to the river.
The ex-slave of the Fhrey looked terrified, and Raithe understood why. He’d felt the same way when Herkimer had forced him across.
“Ready?” Raithe asked.
Malcolm pursed his lips; the skin of his hands was white as he clutched the spear. “You realize this water is cold—comes down as snowmelt from Mount Mador.”
“Not only that,” Raithe added, “but since we’re going to be hunted, we won’t be able to make a fire when we get out.”
The slender man with the pointed nose and narrow eyes forced a tight smile. “Lovely. Thanks for the reminder.”
“You up for this?” Raithe asked as he led the way into the icy water.
“I’ll admit it’s not my typical day.” The sound of his words rose in octaves as he waded into the river.
“What was your typical day like?” Raithe gritted his teeth as the water reached knee depth. The current churned around his legs and pushed, forcing him to dig his feet into the riverbed.
“Mostly I poured wine.”
Raithe chuckled. “Yeah—this will be different.”
A moment later, the river pulled both of them off their feet.
CHAPTER TWO
The Mystic
Dahl Rhen was a grassy hill nestled alongside the Crescent Forest where a log lodge and several hundred mud-and-thatch roundhouses were protected by a wood-and-earthwork wall. Looking back, I realize it was a crude, tiny place where chickens and pigs roamed free, but it was also where the chieftain of Clan Rhen lived and ruled. And it was my home.