Deliverer?”
“That is what my people call
him
. The Night King. Malabron.”
“So they’ve hated and killed us all these years because he told them to?”
Grath’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Maybe, a long time ago, one of
you
killed one of us,” he said. “Maybe that’s how it all started. Have you ever thought of that?”
Finn turned away angrily and the pain in his shoulder blazed up with such sudden fury he had to stifle a cry. The fever iron’s effect was already wearing off, and he caught himself wishing for it to come back. He still couldn’t let go of the pouch in his hand. Someone else might need this
gaal
, he told himself. He had to keep it for the others, not for himself.
“It wouldn’t have happened like that,” he breathed. “My people only kill when we have to, to defend ourselves. We’re not beasts.”
“Of course not,” Grath said with a shrug. “We are.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You believe it.”
Finn was silent.
“All my life I was taught that your kind hated us and wished us dead,” Grath said. “I never saw anything that proved otherwise. The cunning ones, we called your kind. You were always smaller and weaker than us, but just a little quicker, a little cleverer with tools and plans. We lost everything we had to you, the elders said. They said it was because the true lord of this realm, the one you call the Night King, had been defeated and banished long ago by you and your allies, the Ancient Powers. So we took him as our lord, our god, and fought his battles for him, waiting and hoping for the day he would come again and lead us to victory.”
“Malabron only wants power for himself,” Finn said. His head was pounding, making it difficult to form his thoughts into words. And his wounded arm was burning and throbbing worse than ever now. “He’ll destroy everything to get it, even those who serve him.”
“And yet my people still die shouting his name,” Grath said. “But I no longer serve the Night King.” He gave a dry laugh. “Maybe that means I am no longer mordog.”
“How did it happen?” Finn asked. “How did you become an enemy of your own people?”
“When I was still very young, there was a healer in my village who began to preach a strange new idea: that we did not have to make war on your folk, the cunning ones. That we could learn to live in peace with you if we renounced the Deliverer, who was no god but only a weaver of lies. My people thought the healer mad and drove him from the village. For years I wondered what had happened to him. Finally, when I was grown, I went looking for him. I needed to see the healer for myself.”
“Why?”
“Because he was my father.”
“Did you find him?”
Grath nodded.
“He was living in a cave in the hills like an animal. He knew who I was before I said a word. He had known I would seek him out one day. I told him what had happened in our village since he’d been driven out. His own family—my mother and my sister and I—shunned and spat on by everyone. Living like dogs on the few scraps the others tossed away. And now that I was old enough I had sought him out for one reason. To kill him.”
Finn stared at the mordog. “Did you?”
“I raised my blade and he just sat there, not moving, not looking at me. Then he said, ‘If it’s my time to die, at least I will not die a slave.’ And I put down my sword. I asked him why he had spoken against the Deliverer. Why he had slandered our god. He looked at me then, and he said that if I wanted an answer, I would have to stay with him. I stayed with him a long time and he taught me many things. He showed me the truth—that I
was
a slave. That we mordog served a master none of us had ever seen, who cared nothingfor us. Our purpose was only to hate and to kill. To be the monster that others feared.”
Grath lifted his blade and examined the notched edge.
“It was a very hard thing to do, he told me, to walk away from your own story.
“That is what my people call
him
. The Night King. Malabron.”
“So they’ve hated and killed us all these years because he told them to?”
Grath’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Maybe, a long time ago, one of
you
killed one of us,” he said. “Maybe that’s how it all started. Have you ever thought of that?”
Finn turned away angrily and the pain in his shoulder blazed up with such sudden fury he had to stifle a cry. The fever iron’s effect was already wearing off, and he caught himself wishing for it to come back. He still couldn’t let go of the pouch in his hand. Someone else might need this
gaal
, he told himself. He had to keep it for the others, not for himself.
“It wouldn’t have happened like that,” he breathed. “My people only kill when we have to, to defend ourselves. We’re not beasts.”
“Of course not,” Grath said with a shrug. “We are.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You believe it.”
Finn was silent.
“All my life I was taught that your kind hated us and wished us dead,” Grath said. “I never saw anything that proved otherwise. The cunning ones, we called your kind. You were always smaller and weaker than us, but just a little quicker, a little cleverer with tools and plans. We lost everything we had to you, the elders said. They said it was because the true lord of this realm, the one you call the Night King, had been defeated and banished long ago by you and your allies, the Ancient Powers. So we took him as our lord, our god, and fought his battles for him, waiting and hoping for the day he would come again and lead us to victory.”
“Malabron only wants power for himself,” Finn said. His head was pounding, making it difficult to form his thoughts into words. And his wounded arm was burning and throbbing worse than ever now. “He’ll destroy everything to get it, even those who serve him.”
“And yet my people still die shouting his name,” Grath said. “But I no longer serve the Night King.” He gave a dry laugh. “Maybe that means I am no longer mordog.”
“How did it happen?” Finn asked. “How did you become an enemy of your own people?”
“When I was still very young, there was a healer in my village who began to preach a strange new idea: that we did not have to make war on your folk, the cunning ones. That we could learn to live in peace with you if we renounced the Deliverer, who was no god but only a weaver of lies. My people thought the healer mad and drove him from the village. For years I wondered what had happened to him. Finally, when I was grown, I went looking for him. I needed to see the healer for myself.”
“Why?”
“Because he was my father.”
“Did you find him?”
Grath nodded.
“He was living in a cave in the hills like an animal. He knew who I was before I said a word. He had known I would seek him out one day. I told him what had happened in our village since he’d been driven out. His own family—my mother and my sister and I—shunned and spat on by everyone. Living like dogs on the few scraps the others tossed away. And now that I was old enough I had sought him out for one reason. To kill him.”
Finn stared at the mordog. “Did you?”
“I raised my blade and he just sat there, not moving, not looking at me. Then he said, ‘If it’s my time to die, at least I will not die a slave.’ And I put down my sword. I asked him why he had spoken against the Deliverer. Why he had slandered our god. He looked at me then, and he said that if I wanted an answer, I would have to stay with him. I stayed with him a long time and he taught me many things. He showed me the truth—that I
was
a slave. That we mordog served a master none of us had ever seen, who cared nothingfor us. Our purpose was only to hate and to kill. To be the monster that others feared.”
Grath lifted his blade and examined the notched edge.
“It was a very hard thing to do, he told me, to walk away from your own story.
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