The Death of Dulgath (48 page)

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 sheepish, sidelong glance.

While he may not have been a good father—wasn’t as far as Raithe was concerned—he’d 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, Herkimer was the only man to wield a sword—a
metal
blade. While pathetic in comparison to the god’s sword, whose hilt was intricately etched and encrusted with gems, his father’s blade was wrought from beaten copper. Its marred, dull sheen was the color of a summer sunset, and legend held that the short-bladed heirloom was mined and fashioned by a genuine Dherg smith. That weapon defined Herkimer, so much so that most enemy clans knew his father as Coppersword—a feared and respected title. His father could never give up that blade.

The rush 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 heavenly 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 he moved, so graceful, fluid, and poised, was mesmerizing. On the ground, he wasn’t tall, shorter than both Raithe and his father, who admittedly were both large men. The god also wasn’t as broad or as muscled. Raithe and his father had spent their lives building shoulders and arms by wielding spear and shield. The god, on the other hand, appeared delicate, as if he had lived bedridden and spoonfed. If the Fhrey were a man, Raithe wouldn’t have feared him. Given the disparity between them in weight and height, Raithe wouldn’t fight him, even if challenged. To engage in such an unfair match would be cruel, and Raithe wasn’t cruel. His brothers had gotten his share of that particular trait.

“You don’t understand. This sword has been handed down from father to son—”

The god rushed forward punching Herkimer in the stomach. As he bent over from the blow, the god stole the sword from off his back. The copper came free with a dull scrape, and while Herkimer was catching his breath, the god examined the weapon with revulsion. Then, shaking his head, the god turned his back on Herkimer to show his servant the pitiable blade. Instead of joining the god in mocking the weapon, the servant cringed. Raithe saw the future through the weasel man’s face, for he was the first to notice Herkimer’s reaction.

Raithe’s father drew the 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 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.
“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 training and combat 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 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 only realized it when the god collapsed, and behind him stood the servant holding the rock.

“Run,” the servant said. “With any luck, his head will hurt too much to chase us when he awakes.”

“What have you done!” the other servant shouted. His eyes were wide while he backed away, pulling the god’s horse with him.

“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 had neglected his family, allowed his brothers to beat him, and was away when his mother and sister died. In some ways—many ways—Raithe hated his father, but at that moment, what he saw on the ground was the man who had taught him 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.

“He’s gone,” the tall, weasel-faced servant said, trotting back to the riverbank covered in sweat and shaking his head.

Both servants had run off, one on the horse, the other chasing after. Raithe assumed they had fled, a sensible choice. Now the one who had wielded the rock returned.

“Meryl’s gone. He’s not the best rider, but he doesn’t have to be. The horse knows the way back to Alon Rhist.” He paused and stared at Raithe. “What are you doing?”

Raithe was standing over the body of the god. He’d picked up the Fhrey’s sword and was holding the tip pressed against the god’s throat. “How long does it usually take?”

“How long does what take?”

“For them to get up.”

“He’s dead. Dead people don’t generally
get up
,” the servant said.

Concerned about taking his eyes off the god, Raithe ventured only the briefest glance at the servant. He was bent over with hands on knees, struggling to catch his breath. “What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about?”

“I want to know how long we have before he gets up. If it’s minutes, I’ll wait.” Raithe looked over at the servant as an idea came to him. “If I cut off his head, will it take longer?”

The servant rolled his eyes. “He’s not getting up! You killed him.”

“My Tetlin ass! That’s a god—gods don’t die. They’re immortal.”

“Really not so much,” the servant said, and to Raithe’s shock he kicked the god’s body. It barely moved. He kicked it again, and the head rocked to one side, sand sticking to his cheek. “See? Dead. Get it? Not immortal. Not a god, just a Fhrey. They die. There’s a difference between long lived and immortal. Immortal means you can’t die…even if you want to. Fact is, we’re a lot more similar than we’d like to think.”

“We’re nothing alike. Look at him.” Raithe pointed at the fallen Fhrey.

“Oh yes,” the servant replied. “He’s so different. He has only one head, walks on two feet, and has two hands and ten fingers. You’re right—nothing like us at all.”

The servant looked down at the body and sighed. “His name was Shegon. An incredibly talented harp player, a cheat at cards, and a
brideeth eyn mer
—which is to say…” The servant paused. “No, there’s no other way to say that other than he wasn’t well liked. And now he’s dead.”

Raithe looked over suspiciously.

Is he lying? Trying to put me off guard?

“You’re wrong,” Raithe said with full conviction. “Have you ever seen a dead Fhrey? I haven’t. My father hasn’t. No one I’ve ever known has. And they don’t age.”

“They do, just very slowly.”

Raithe shook his head. “No, they don’t. My father said he saw one as a boy—met the same one thirty-five years later and he was exactly the same.”

“Of course he was. I just told you they age slowly. Fhrey can live for thousands of years. A bumblebee lives for only a few months. To a bumblebee, you appear immortal.”

Raithe wasn’t fully convinced, but it would explain the blood. He hadn’t expected any. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have attacked the Fhrey at all. Stupid is what it was. His father had taught him not to start a fight he couldn’t win, and fighting an immortal god fell squarely in that category, but then again it was his father who had started the whole thing.

Sure is a lot of blood.

An ugly pool had formed underneath the god, staining the grass and his glistening robes. His neck still had the gash, a nasty, jagged tear like a second mouth. Raithe had expected it to miraculously heal or maybe simply vanish. When the god rose, he wouldn’t have his sword, and Raithe would be prepared. He should easily lay him out again. Raithe was strong—he could best most men in Dureya, which meant he could best most men. Even his father would have thought twice about making him too angry, but this was a god.

Raithe stared down at the Fhrey, whose eyes were open and rolled up. The gash in his throat was wider now. A god—a real god—would never permit kicks from a servant. “Okay, maybe they aren’t immortal.” He relaxed and took a step back.

“My name is Malcolm,” the servant said. “Yours is Raithe?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, slipping the god’s naked blade into his belt. With one last glare at the god, Raithe lifted his father’s body and carried it up the slope.

“Now what are you doing?” Malcolm asked.

“Can’t bury him down here. These rivers are bound to flood this plain out.”

“
Bury
him? When word gets back to Alon Rhist, the Fhrey will…” He looked sick just thinking about it. “We need to leave.”

“Go ahead.”

Raithe laid his father on a small hill in the meadow. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Looking back at the god’s ex-servant, he found him staring in disbelief.

Malcolm started to laugh, then stopped, confused. “You don’t understand. Glyn is a fast horse—has the stamina of a wolf. Meryl will reach Alon Rhist by nightfall. He’ll tell them everything to save himself. They’ll send a hunting party to find us. We need to get moving.”

“Go on,” Raithe said, taking Herkimer’s medal—a keepsake to wear. They had so little. Then he closed his father’s eyes. He couldn’t remember having touched the old man’s face before.

“You need to go, too.”

“After I bury my father.”

“The Rhune is dead.”

Raithe cringed at the word. “He was a
man
.”

“Rhune—man—same thing.”

“Not to me—and not to him.” Raithe returned to the riverbank. The whole of the point where the Urum and Bern rivers converged was littered with thousands of stones similar in size to the one the servant had used to bludgeon the god. The problem wasn’t finding them but deciding from the vast number which to pick up.

The servant stood with his hands on hips, glaring with an expression somewhere between astonishment and anger. “It will take hours to cover him. You’re wasting time.”

Raithe crouched and picked up a rock. The top was baked warm by the sun, the bottom damp, cool, and covered in wet sand. “He deserves a proper burial and would have done the same for me.” Raithe found it ironic given his father had rarely shown him any kindness, but it was true. Herkimer would have faced death to see his son properly buried. “Besides, do you have any idea what can happen to the spirit of an unburied body?”

The man stared back, bewildered.

“They return as manes to haunt you for not showing the proper respect. And manes can be vicious.” Raithe hoisted another large sand-colored rock and walked them up the slope. “My father could be a real cul when he was alive. I don’t need him stalking me for the rest of my life.”

“But—”

“But what?” Raithe set the rocks down near his father’s shoulders. He’d do the outline first before starting the pile. “He’s not your father. I don’t expect you to stay.”