As she unconsciously wrung the bandages, charcoal rubbed off in her hands. Realization struck and she shot a look to Raithe and the Dherg shield he carried. “Oh, blessed Mari!”
An instant later her head filled with an incredible pain as a ringing erupted in her ears. Everyone on the dahl with the exception of Arion, whose fingers were intensely working patterns in the air, threw hands to their heads. Several, including Gryndal, fell to their knees. Where he sprawled, the grass grew at an astounding rate, grasping his wrists and fingers. The vegetation where he’d been standing attacked the ringed god with a fury, wrapping his legs and climbing along his body to enclose his face. Stronger, longer roots reached out of the soil and looped around the thrashing god, pinning him with a hundred tiny straps.
The ringing faded.
Persephone took the moment to speak to Raithe, and Nyphron whispered something to Grygor. The giant drew his massive sword and charged the Miralyith’s prone form.
“No!” Arion shouted.
Taking her eyes off Gryndal, she cast a spell that knocked the giant off his feet and the sword from his hand. That was all it took. The grass appeared to have second thoughts about holding the ringed god any longer, and two fingers on Gryndal’s left hand moved. Arion was thrown hard on her back, knocking the wind from her. The grass around Gryndal shriveled and died. He tore himself free just as Grygor retrieved his sword and started his swing. Then the giant simply stopped. He froze with the great blade partway through a horizontal swing aimed for Gryndal’s neck.
Arion gasped for air but still managed to move her fingers. As she did, the giant was enclosed in what looked to be a soap bubble. Now it was her turn to suffer the imprisonment of grass as hundreds of blades began clutching at her fingers and ankles, wrapping around her head and across her mouth. Gryndal turned to face the giant, taking particular interest in the sword and how close it had come. “You dare challenge me, Grenmorian?”
Gryndal made a quick motion with his fingers. A burst of light ignited in a flash all around Grygor, but the attack broke harmlessly against the bubble.
“Medak! No!” Nyphron shouted as another Galantian, the small one with the knives, threw one and then chased it with another.
Both blades disappeared with a hiss and a cloud of vapor. Gryndal squeezed a fist, and Medak screamed until his head caved in.
Gryndal frowned at the Fhrey with a furious glare. He glanced back at the giant, but he was still protected by the bubble. Blood dripped down Gryndal’s chest where rings had been torn out, and his skin was red and blotchy from the fire. With Arion trapped, no one else moved, and the dahl grew frighteningly quiet.
“Blasphemers!” Gryndal shouted in a voice so venomous that even his soldiers took a step back. “How dare you challenge me! Me!” Lightning flared once more overhead. “And you,” he said to the dead body of Medak. “What a fool. The giant I can understand. He isn’t a Fhrey. But you, you couldn’t kill me without forfeiting your soul.”
“I can,” Raithe said in Fhrey as he walked forward, making a point to step between Gryndal and Suri, who sat with Minna on the gravel path. His words were neither loud nor boastful. They were casual to the point of absurdity, as if he were challenging a drunk to an arm-wrestling match. He drew Shegon’s sword and held it loosely in one hand, the little Dherg shield in the other, as he closed the distance between them. “I am the God Killer.”
“So you’re the one!” Gryndal laughed. “You aren’t a killer of gods, little Rhune. You only murdered a Fhrey. The Fhrey aren’t gods—but I am.”
“Good,” Raithe replied. “Then this time when I kill you there won’t be any confusion.”
Gryndal smiled. “Goodbye, would-be God Killer.”
Gryndal raised one finger to hail the lightning. At the same time, Raithe raised the little shield, and Persephone prayed she was right. A jagged bolt flashed down from the overhead clouds and struck the shield in Raithe’s hand. The jagged finger of blue-white light bounced back at Gryndal. The rest was lost to the blinding flash and the thunderous crack that followed. When Persephone could see again, Raithe was still standing. Across from him, Gryndal was on his knees, smoking.
Without pause or hesitation, Raithe stepped forward, eliminating the remaining distance between the two. Gryndal didn’t move. Maybe he was already dead, but the Dureyan didn’t stop. He swung for the exposed neck. With a single stroke of the blade and a follow-through that carried to his other foot, Raithe severed the ringed god’s head.
For a moment, no one spoke or moved. The pause might have lasted only an instant, but to Persephone it stretched out for minutes. The prince, whom everyone had forgotten about, was still on the porch, staring at Gryndal’s severed head, which lay on its left cheek in the grass. Mawyndulë’s mouth was open, lips quivering as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. He blinked, and his brows furrowed in disbelief.
Overhead, the storm once more dispersed and the sun shone through.
The first to regain her senses was Suri, who ran to where Arion lay and began ripping away handfuls of grass. Looking down, Persephone was surprised to see Math’s spear in the dirt not too far away. Walking over, she picked it up and thumped the butt of the shaft on the ground. “Clan Rhen!” she shouted, then raised the spear above her head. “Defend your homes!”
They all stared at her, wide-eyed, confused.
“You heard her!” Moya shouted, shoving those closest to her, including Tressa, whom she heaved the hardest. Tope picked up the rake that had fallen and raised it over his shoulder. Bergin the Brewer found an ax. The rest of the men and women of the dahl scurried off. They disappeared into roundhouses, and just as Persephone thought they might stay inside, they returned with shovels, knives, and spears. Moya herself pulled a torch from the post near the well. Roan emerged with her little ax. Tressa had a stone knife, and even Gifford raised his crutch menacingly as the crowd reconvened with stern, angry faces.
Nyphron looked toward the prince, then over to the lion helms, who still had their weapons drawn. “It might be best if you escorted His Highness out of here. If there’s a fight, he might die, and Lothian wouldn’t like that.”
“Do as he says.” Arion was back on her feet, wiping mud and grass from the sleeves of her asica.
The prince stared with tear-filled eyes at the corpse of Gryndal. He shouted, “You’re a traitor!”
The words came out in a high-pitched rage, and with red-faced fury he began to gesture feverishly with his hands. His fingers moved as if he were manipulating some complicated and invisible thing. He spoke words Persephone didn’t understand, singing them with an awful voice and a halting rhythm.
As he sang, a light formed before the young Fhrey. It whirled with a fiery streak and flew at Raithe, who raised the shield once more.
“No,” Arion said. There wasn’t any force to her words, no effort, but the fiery ball snuffed itself out before it got anywhere near Raithe.
Mawyndulë chanted once more and waved his hands, but nothing happened. Mawyndulë looked livid. He tried again and again, and each time Arion blocked him with no real effort.
Once more the prince began to conjure. This time Arion shoved out her palm and spoke a word. The prince was thrown off his feet.