With the destruction of the gate, Dahl Rhen was just a hill, an exposed mound surrounded by wilderness. Neither the lodge nor any of the roundhouses had survived the storm. In one cursed day, generations of labor had been lost. They were back to how it must have been when the clan first paused in that spot and built a similar fire from the wood of the forest.
And yet despite the losses, there was cause for appreciation. Gone was the idea of Fhrey gods, but there was plenty of room for heroes in the Rhen pantheon. Any reservations or suspicions the dahl’s inhabitants had held about the Fhrey warriors were erased by the feet of giants. Around the fire, the men of Dahl Rhen sat shoulder to shoulder with the Galantians, sharing beer and mead and toasting the dead.
“There you are,” Malcolm said as he headed toward Raithe with a wooden cup in each hand. “Here. Bergin opened his best jugs of beer to honor the dead. Thought you could use a drink.”
“Thanks, but do you know where—”
Malcolm tilted his head, and Raithe turned to see Persephone, Nyphron, and Arion approaching them from behind. He offered her a smile as she passed but didn’t receive one in return. She looked tired, her eyes sore and red. He’d seen the same expression on many faces throughout the day. Not for the first time, Raithe questioned his own callousness. The deaths meant little to him. He rationalized that he didn’t know the people of Rhen well, or maybe the impact of the devastation was somehow delayed. But Raithe was still waiting for the arrival of grief over his father’s passing, and he suspected it might never come. He was Dureyan, and the simple truth was that his people had little use for mourning or sympathy. Sudden, inexplicable death wasn’t a surprise to them. The only constant was suffering. Those of Clan Dureya learned this lesson well, and they learned it young. They also knew anything could be endured—even life.
Raithe and Malcolm found seats around the fire not far from where the three Dherg clustered just inside the ring of light. Raithe looked at Malcolm and indicated the visitors, to which Malcolm merely shrugged. The conversation around the fire quieted when Nyphron and Arion sat. Persephone remained standing. She clasped her hands and took a deep breath.
“This has been a dark and grievous day,” she said. “A sad and bewildering one that saw the loss of many beloved friends and family.” Her eyes strayed toward Brin, who sat between Moya and Roan, her cheeks still streaked. “Tonight we say goodbye, tonight we grieve, tonight we remember the past.” She paused and looked up at the stars overhead. “But tomorrow will bring a new day, and the question before us is: What shall we do with it?”
“Why did this happen?” Hanson Killian asked. The woodworker sat cross-legged next to his wife, who clutched their remaining three children. Earlier that day, Raithe had been in the burial pit when Farmer Wedon handed down the other four Killians.
Raithe didn’t think Hanson expected an answer. The question was at the forefront of everyone’s minds, but the same question arrived with every tragedy. Why my son? Why today of all days? Why us again? The clans suffered loss with such regularity that the questions often felt as pointless as prayers. At least that was the case in Dureya, and there was never an answer, at least not one mortals could understand.
“Because the Fhrey seek to kill us,” Persephone said.
Some of the gathered were drinking, some shifting their seats because smoke was blowing toward them, most were just staring out into the dark or into the flames with the same vacant expressions they’d worn all evening. But at that moment, everyone focused on their new chieftain. For a full minute, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
No one had explained the full details of what had happened when Arion and Gryndal waged a battle of magic outside the lodge, the day Raithe killed his second Fhrey. All the residents of the dahl had witnessed the fight, but the verbal exchanges had been in the Fhrey language. Only Persephone, Suri, and Malcolm understood it well, and none of them, nor any of the Fhrey, had volunteered explanations. Raithe knew more than most. He wasn’t fluent, but his father had taught him enough to understand part of what had been said, and it was clear that Gryndal’s death wouldn’t be the end of the conflict.
“The rumors we heard during Chieftain Konniger’s first clan meeting are true,” Persephone said. “The Fhrey have destroyed the dahls of Dureya and Nadak and have added Dahl Rhen to the tally. But we now know the Fhrey aren’t gods, and their actions weren’t revenge for the death of Shegon, the first Fhrey killed by Raithe. The fane, leader of the Fhrey, has had plans to rid the world of us for years. They fear us because of our growing numbers and because we are a people capable of challenging them, able to defeat them.”
Again, Persephone paused to look around at their faces, to give those gathered the chance to comment. No one did. The fire crackled, a burst of sparks floated skyward, and Persephone went on. “Some of you already know, or have guessed, that Nyphron and his Galantians are hiding here because they refused orders to slaughter us. Likewise, Arion risked her life defending this dahl against Fane Lothian’s sorcerer. You saw what happened for yourselves. Now the Fhrey ruler has sent giants and storms. But we’re still alive. We endure. I’m sure this most recent attack will not be the end of his aggression. Yes, they will be back, and next time they’ll likely send an army.”
Raithe watched fear creep back into the faces of those who thought they had faced the worst life could muster, and the combination was a current dragging everyone toward hopelessness.
“But,” Persephone began again, this time with a louder voice, “we aren’t helpless. We who were never a threat before will become what they fear the most. When news of the other dahls’ destructions first reached us, I stood in the lodge and told everyone of a plan to save ourselves. No one listened to me then, but you must listen to me now.” She took a step forward so that the fire’s light shimmered on her face. “I’ve already sent runners to Menahan, Melen, Tirre, Warric, and the Gula clans, asking their chieftains to convene a summit at Tirre. We will unite all our leaders, form a war council, and appoint a single keenig to lead us.”
“But how can we fight against giants and storms?” Cobb asked.
Nyphron stood up. “I will teach you. Many of you saw our battle with the giants. Twelve against seven, but we won without a single wound.”
“But that’s because you’re Fhrey,” Filson the Lamp said.
“And was it a Fhrey who killed Gryndal?” Nyphron pointed at Raithe. “He’s already killed two of my kind, and he isn’t particularly special. He has, however, been trained. My father taught his father how to fight, and he passed those skills on to his son. I can do the same with you. The only differences between Fhrey and Rhunes are training, tools, and experience. I can give you all of these. My Galantians are the best warriors in the world, and they will teach you all they know.”
“But even you were powerless when Gryndal came,” Engleton said. “What chance have we against magic?”
Nyphron pointed to Raithe. “Have you seen the markings on the shield Raithe carries? Did you see what happened when the fane’s sorcerer turned his magic against the Dureyan? The answer is nothing. Nothing at all. Raithe was unharmed, protected by markings discovered ages ago by the Dherg people. We will use these markings to negate the power of those who would wield the Art against us. You have superior numbers. You have the protection of the Dherg runes. And you will be trained by the most capable warriors Elan has ever known. If I thought you wouldn’t be victorious, I wouldn’t be here. I and my Galantians would have left long ago.”