face hardened, if such a thing were possible. “It doesn’t say anything. Because a man can’t kill a god.”
“Trader Justen of Split Road swore it was true,” Brin said, her youthful voice piercing the grumbling din. “Said he’d met Raithe and saw the broken copper.
And
the god’s blade, he—”
“Hush, girl,” Sarah whispered to her daughter.
Brin caught the stern look and diminished, settling back on her heels.
“That’s right,” Atmore said. “I’ve known Justen for most of my life. He’s never lied to anyone. If he says it’s true, then it is. Why else would the gods turn against us? What else could draw such a punishment?”
“A man can’t kill a god,” Sackett said. At the sound of his low voice, the room quieted. Sackett rarely said much, so when the new Shield of the chieftain spoke, people listened. People believed.
“What have
you
heard, Konniger?” Adler shouted from the door, his new eye patch granting him a veteran’s importance.
Konniger looked over to where a group of strangers stood, ten men wearing solemn faces and the predominantly brown Nadak pattern. “Although I agree with Sackett that a god can’t be killed, there is no doubt they have turned on our kind. The gods have destroyed Dureya.”
A confused silence followed.
“What do you mean,
destroyed
?” Farmer Wedon asked.
“These men”—he gestured toward the strangers—“are from Nadak. Five days ago, they saw smoke in the north. They crossed into the highlands of Dureya, but the dahl was gone. Men, women, and children butchered. Their lodge and all the outlying villages are nothing more than burned-out shells, only the wind left to howl.”
The entire hall murmured in disbelief. No words followed, only gasps and curses, which died on stunned lips.
“How many survived?” Tope asked.
“Dureyans?” Konniger took a long breath. “None. Even the livestock were slaughtered.”
“How do we know it was the gods?” Delwin asked. “Maybe it was the Gula-Rhunes.”
The men near the door shook their heads. One with a black leather band wound around his forehead said, “The bodies were in neat rows as if they’d been lined up to die. And their weapons had been left. Nothing was taken, nothing looted. Everything was burned.”
More murmurs.
“So maybe it was the gods, but Dureya was attacked because Raithe, this God Killer, is from there. We haven’t done anything to offend the gods. We don’t bother them, and they won’t bother us, right?” Delwin said in a tone that sounded more like a wish than a declaration. He had an arm around his wife, Sarah, pulling her close. “This has nothing to do with us.”
“But what if it does?” Gifford asked. “What if the gods—maybe they don’t see a diff-wence between
Du-e-ya
and
us
?” Gifford using
r
-words in public indicated more than idle concern. “Tell them what you saw this mow-ning, Tope.”
Heads turned to the haggard farmer, who wiped his face with a grain sack he usually used as a hat. “I saw smoke to the northwest, right up the valley road. Looked like it was coming from Nadak.”
An ominous silence froze the room. The men from Nadak stared at Tope. Then the questions came.
“How much smoke?”
“When was this?”
“What color was the smoke?”
Each voice sounded more concerned than the one before.
“Was a lot of smoke, black smoke,” Tope said. “You can still see it if you climb to the top of the Horn Ridge.”
Hearing this, the strangers rushed out. The rest watched them go into a deceptively pleasant spring day.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Delwin said, but he pulled Sarah closer and placed a hand on his daughter’s head.
“Sounds like the Fway punished them, too,” Gifford said. “If they come, what we going to do?”
“What do you mean,
do
?” Konniger asked. “What is there to do?”
Several of the faces in the hall looked surprised.
Konniger hadn’t exhibited much intelligence over the years, and
“Trader Justen of Split Road swore it was true,” Brin said, her youthful voice piercing the grumbling din. “Said he’d met Raithe and saw the broken copper.
And
the god’s blade, he—”
“Hush, girl,” Sarah whispered to her daughter.
Brin caught the stern look and diminished, settling back on her heels.
“That’s right,” Atmore said. “I’ve known Justen for most of my life. He’s never lied to anyone. If he says it’s true, then it is. Why else would the gods turn against us? What else could draw such a punishment?”
“A man can’t kill a god,” Sackett said. At the sound of his low voice, the room quieted. Sackett rarely said much, so when the new Shield of the chieftain spoke, people listened. People believed.
“What have
you
heard, Konniger?” Adler shouted from the door, his new eye patch granting him a veteran’s importance.
Konniger looked over to where a group of strangers stood, ten men wearing solemn faces and the predominantly brown Nadak pattern. “Although I agree with Sackett that a god can’t be killed, there is no doubt they have turned on our kind. The gods have destroyed Dureya.”
A confused silence followed.
“What do you mean,
destroyed
?” Farmer Wedon asked.
“These men”—he gestured toward the strangers—“are from Nadak. Five days ago, they saw smoke in the north. They crossed into the highlands of Dureya, but the dahl was gone. Men, women, and children butchered. Their lodge and all the outlying villages are nothing more than burned-out shells, only the wind left to howl.”
The entire hall murmured in disbelief. No words followed, only gasps and curses, which died on stunned lips.
“How many survived?” Tope asked.
“Dureyans?” Konniger took a long breath. “None. Even the livestock were slaughtered.”
“How do we know it was the gods?” Delwin asked. “Maybe it was the Gula-Rhunes.”
The men near the door shook their heads. One with a black leather band wound around his forehead said, “The bodies were in neat rows as if they’d been lined up to die. And their weapons had been left. Nothing was taken, nothing looted. Everything was burned.”
More murmurs.
“So maybe it was the gods, but Dureya was attacked because Raithe, this God Killer, is from there. We haven’t done anything to offend the gods. We don’t bother them, and they won’t bother us, right?” Delwin said in a tone that sounded more like a wish than a declaration. He had an arm around his wife, Sarah, pulling her close. “This has nothing to do with us.”
“But what if it does?” Gifford asked. “What if the gods—maybe they don’t see a diff-wence between
Du-e-ya
and
us
?” Gifford using
r
-words in public indicated more than idle concern. “Tell them what you saw this mow-ning, Tope.”
Heads turned to the haggard farmer, who wiped his face with a grain sack he usually used as a hat. “I saw smoke to the northwest, right up the valley road. Looked like it was coming from Nadak.”
An ominous silence froze the room. The men from Nadak stared at Tope. Then the questions came.
“How much smoke?”
“When was this?”
“What color was the smoke?”
Each voice sounded more concerned than the one before.
“Was a lot of smoke, black smoke,” Tope said. “You can still see it if you climb to the top of the Horn Ridge.”
Hearing this, the strangers rushed out. The rest watched them go into a deceptively pleasant spring day.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Delwin said, but he pulled Sarah closer and placed a hand on his daughter’s head.
“Sounds like the Fway punished them, too,” Gifford said. “If they come, what we going to do?”
“What do you mean,
do
?” Konniger asked. “What is there to do?”
Several of the faces in the hall looked surprised.
Konniger hadn’t exhibited much intelligence over the years, and
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