Chapter One Sunrise Brogan McTyre Brogan McTyre knew he was sleeping. It was only in his dreams that he had time to grieve. When the He-Kisshi came and took his family, stole them away to appease the appetites of the gods, he followed and sought to stop them. He failed, and his world changed. In his dream he had time to think, to consider the world around him without feeling the pressure of keeping his allies alive and trying to stop the gods from destroying the world in a retaliatory tantrum. Long enough then to lower his head and remember his beloved Nora''s laugh, her kiss, the feeling of her breath when they embraced. Leidhe and Sherla, laughing at a secret jest between them, the sort it seemed that only twins could share. Time enough to mourn his son, Braghe, who would never grow old enough to shave, or ride a horse, or sharpen a knife.
He understood that what he saw was not real, could not be real, and did not match with his last memory of slipping into a fitful slumber along the rocky edge of the Broken Swords, amidst chunks of rough crystal the size of his head. The fact that he knew it was a dream changed nothing. In that moment, everything he experienced was his reality. He stood along the spine of the mountains, facing north. To the south the range continued on almost to the sea. To the east the black, raging storm clouds hid half the land away and shattered the peace with a thousand tongues of lightning. To the west the lands were clear and pristine, but foreign to him: Mentath, the country he''d fought against in his youth, was a place he never wanted to see again. The female voice that spoke to him came from Mentath and spoke with barely suppressed hatred.
"You are hunted, Brogan McTyre. You, who have enslaved a people and angered the gods." "It was enslave them or kill them. They deserved worse than they got." In the real world he might have felt guilt over the words, but not in his dream. "The gods do not agree." The voice trembled with rage and the storms lashed out to the west, mirroring that fury. Not to be outdone, Brogan raised his axe above his head and roared back, "The gods took my family from me! They deserve nothing but death and destruction!" "Blasphemy!" To the west something twisted within the cloudbanks.
A great, hunched shape that slithered through the storms and hid itself in the corner of the eye. Below that form the ocean surged over the land devouring all that it touched, threatening to reach all the way to the mountains. Winds roared across the plains and reached out, whipping his hair in a frenzy. His clothes rippled in the charnel gale, and the scent of carrion forced itself on him. Brogan was not afraid. He should have been. He knew that, dream or not, he had actually angered the gods. He understood that their rage would end the world.
"Tell your gods I''m coming for them! Tell your gods that I''ll see them dead for what they did!" "You who end the world would make threats? The gods will have you one way or another, Brogan McTyre. We prepare for you. We will cut your heart out and offer it to the gods. If they are merciful they will let us live. If not, in whatever comes after this world, we will find you, and make you suffer." The wind woke him. It blew across his face and pelted him with a fine, gritty hail. Brogan rolled over and pulled his cloak closer around his broad shoulders.
There was absolutely nothing glorious about sleeping in the mountains as winter crept closer. For one moment he was at peace, and then the truth rushed in as brutally as the tide in his fading dream. Nora. Braghe, Leidhe and Sherla. Their loss was a weight on his chest that would likely never leave him. It was also a hot blade that burned inside, a glowing ember that wanted to ignite and burn the world. He opened his eyes as the wind shifted and he felt a warm breath touch his flesh. Warm enough that it was something other than the wind.
His hand clenched around his axe''s grip and he looked up toward the source of that warmth. Harper Ruttket smiled at him. It was not a pleasant expression. The glint in the eyes and the curl of his lip, reminded Brogan far too much of a predatory animal. He tried moving the axe, but Harper was wiser than that. The man''s foot pressed down on the blade and kept it pinned there. Sometimes he forgot that Harper was his best friend. "It''s morning soon.
The sun is climbing and soon enough we''ll be discovered if we''re not on our way." If Harper was at all worried about the way Brogan tried to move his blade he hid it well behind that predatory smirk. "I hate you, Harper." "Of course you do. That''s why you put me on the last watch of the night. Get up, you bastard." The dream was gone but the reality remained. He was a wanted man.
He and his friends were being hunted down for offending the gods. They had done so by interrupting the ritual sacrifice of all four members of Brogan''s family. His family died, but the rituals demanded were not completed and, as they soon learned, the world was ending as a result of their actions. The Grakhul were a people who served the gods, preparing the sacrifices and committing the ritual acts. Brogan and his companions had killed a great number of Grakhul, mostly men, and sold the rest into slavery, making them wealthy beyond measure. But they couldn''t spend a coin without getting themselves burned at the stake or worse. They''d angered the gods and that was bad enough, but they''d also offended the Slavers Union by selling them the remaining pale-skinned people and lying about where they came from. The Grakhul were under the protection of the very gods Brogan had already offended.
The messengers of the gods, the He-Kisshi, had, according to the rumors they''d heard, destroyed the home of the Slavers Union to show the dissatisfaction of the gods. The slavers would doubtless like a refund. Brogan wasn''t much in a mood to negotiate with the slavers, as he was already a condemned man in all five kingdoms. He was going to need that money to muster an army sufficient for his needs. The only good news was that Brogan was a mercenary. He understood how mercenaries felt and worked. They would be loyal as long as the coin held out. They would also be loyal to their own before they''d be fair with the slavers.
At least until the slavers offered more money. He rose and looked down toward the east and the gathering storms that swept across the plains of Arthorne, hiding half the known world from view. The winds howled. The rains drenched the plains and left a vast watery surface where once had been desert. To the south, where the land was higher, the waters had not completely taken over, but rivers and streams all flowed over their banks, lakes were larger than they should have been, and in some places the heavy caul of storm clouds obscured what should have been easily seen. The day was only just beginning and there was so much to do. He had to gather an army. He had to plan how to fend off several armies that wanted them captured and offered to the gods of the Grakhul.
He had to leave behind his friends, if only for a time, and find the best possible answer for how to kill a pantheon of gods. There was a voice in his head that told him his tasks were too great. He thought of Nora and his children, and crushed the doubts behind a veil of hatred. Fuck the gods. They''d pay for what they''d done. If he could save the world in the process, he''d do so. If he could not, he''d be content to slay the gods. To the east the sun broke the horizon.
The northern areas were buried in storm clouds and lightning. The southern areas were bright and clear. Beneath his feet the Broken Blades - where once upon a time gods, or giants, had fought and died - held the light at bay. To the northeast the darkness continued, save where tongues of lightning shattered the peace and stabbed into the heart of the land again and again in an endless fury. The gods were angry and they wanted blood. He knew just how they felt.