Outside, a roar grew like the angry growl of a colossal beast. Everyone stared out the doorway as the sky turned darker still, and the wind blew with even more force. Without warning, the Bakers’ roundhouse ripped apart. First the thatch blew away; then the wood beams tore free; finally, the log walls succumbed and disappeared, sucked into the air. Even the foundation of mud bricks was sheared and scattered. After that, a whirlwind cloud of dirt and debris consumed everything outside the storage pit.
“Close the door,” Nyphron ordered. Grygor, the giant, started to haul it shut just as Raithe arrived.
“Has anyone seen Persephone?” Raithe asked while scanning the crowd.
“She’s not here. Went to the forest,” Moya replied.
Raithe drew close to her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Suri, Arion, and Seph went to talk to Magda.”
“That old oak is on top of a hill in an open glade,” he said to no one in particular. Raithe looked like he might throw up. There had been rumors that the Dureyan was in love with Dahl Rhen’s chieftain, but a lot of recent gossip had turned out to be untrue. Seeing Raithe’s face removed any uncertainty. If Roan were still outside, Gifford would have looked the same way.
Everyone sat or knelt in tearful silence as the roaring grew louder. With the door closed and guarded by the giant, Gifford let go of Brin, who collapsed and sobbed. All around, people quivered, whimpered, and stared at the ceiling, no doubt wondering if it, too, would be ripped away or cave in.
Gifford stood beside Roan, the crowd pressing them together. He’d never been this close to her for so long. He felt her warmth and smelled charcoal, oil, and smoke—the scents he’d come to associate with Roan and all things good. If the roof collapsed and killed him, Gifford would have thanked Mari for her final kindness.
The shelter was little more than a hole in the ground, but because it protected the dahl’s food supply, the pit was solidly built. The best materials went into its construction. The walls were dirt and stone, the ceiling braced by logs driven into the ground. Most of Gifford’s work ended up in that pit. Huge clay urns held harvests of barley, wheat, and rye. Their tops were sealed with wax to keep out the mice and moisture. The enclosure also safeguarded wine, honey, oil, vegetables, and a cache of smoked meats. At this time of year, most of the urns were empty, and the pit was little more than a hole, albeit a sturdy one. Still, the ceiling shook, and the door rattled.
The only bit of light entered through the narrow cracks where the door didn’t precisely meet its frame. This sliver of white flickered violently.
“It’ll be okay,” Gifford told Roan. He said it in a whisper, as if a secret chosen to share with her alone.
Around them, people wailed, and not just women and children. Gifford heard Cobb, Heath Coswall, Habet, and Filson the lamp maker weeping openly as well. But Roan didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t like them; she wasn’t like anyone. The light from the door highlighted the contour of her face, and she didn’t look scared. Instead, intensity shone in her eyes. If not for the dozens of people between Roan and the exit, he had no doubt she would have opened the door. She wanted to see. Roan wanted to see everything.
After what felt like hours, the clatter of hail stopped, but the rain continued to fall, hard at times then lighter, only to pound once more. The howl of the wind faded. Even the cracks of lightning fell silent. Finally, the light from around the door became bright and unwavering.
Nyphron shoved the door open and crept out. A moment later he waved for the others to follow.
Everyone squinted against the brightness of the sun, struggling to see. One of the lodge’s banners lay on the ground, its ends frayed. Thatch and logs were scattered everywhere. Not a single roundhouse had survived. Branches, leaves, and broken bodies littered the yard, none of them moving. Overhead, clouds were breaking up, and patches of blue emerged.
“Is it over?” Heath Coswall asked from the back of the crowd.
As if in answer, a loud boom sounded, and the dahl’s front gate trembled.
“What is that?” Moya asked, speaking for everyone.
Another bang hit, and the gate began to buckle.
—
The rol where they sheltered was like the one under the waterfall that Suri had shown Persephone months ago, which had provided refuge from a pack of wolves and a deadly bear named Grin. Carved from natural stone, the room was about the size of a roundhouse and had strange markings near the ceiling. While the waterfall rol was slightly larger and square, this one was perfectly round and contained six stout pillars surrounding a gemstone the size of a storage urn. Embedded in the floor, the standing crystal gave off a green, unnatural light. Six heavy benches encircled the stone, as if it were a campfire and the room used for telling ghost stories. In front of the bench farthest from the door stood what Persephone first thought were three small men. Each was less than four feet in height, their faces illuminated by the eerie emerald light. She might have screamed, and certainly would have recoiled, if their expressions hadn’t been so clearly marked by shock and fear.
“He…hello,” Persephone stammered, a bit embarrassed and out of breath. “Sorry for barging in. A bit scary outside.”
None of the three replied.
Stocky to the point of appearing square, with large hands, broad noses, deep-set eyes, and bushy brows, they stood as motionless as statues. They wore shirts of metal rings, and a row of metal hats lay on the nearby bench. The reflection of the green light from their armor made them appear to glow in the dark.
Dherg.
Persephone had met their kind before. She’d traveled with several caravans to Dahl Tirre and the nearby port town of Vernes where the Dherg had shops. She and her husband, Reglan, had traded with the Dherg on behalf of Dahl Rhen, swapping antlers, hides, and pottery for bits of tin. The Dherg were far less intimidating than the Fhrey but even less trusting.
The Dherg on the left had a long white beard and a sword. The one on the right also had a sword, but his beard was gray. The fellow in the middle had no sword at all and almost no beard. A massive pickax was strapped to his back, and around his neck he wore a golden torc.
“Is this your rol?” Persephone asked.
The Dherg didn’t answer. They didn’t even look at her. Instead, the three focused on Arion with a mixture of hatred and terror.
“Do you mind if we share it until the storm passes?” she continued, undaunted.
Still no answer.
Persephone wondered if they even understood Rhunic. Not all Dherg did. There were orthodox factions that shunned outsiders and foreign ways, including language.
“I need to sit,” Arion said, and staggered toward the benches.
At her approach, two of the Dherg—the ones with the beards—bolted for the door. One slapped the keystone, and it started to slide open. The moment it did, the noise outside grew deafening.
Neither the voice of hail nor the roar of fire, this rumble was louder, deeper. The growl of whirling wind. Persephone had seen it before. As a girl, her father had held her high on the dahl’s wall to witness a god’s wandering finger scratch the back of Elan. Across the distance of more than a mile, the whirling black funnel ripped up trees. Persephone had wondered what it would be like to be a rabbit or mole caught in that cataclysm. Now she knew. Outside, leaves, grass, dirt, stones, hail, branches, and whole tree trunks flew sideways, smashing into one another. A loud shattering crack issued from somewhere in the storm—another tree snapping in half. Persephone felt a pull like the current of a powerful river dragging on her as air was sucked out through the opening.