Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 11

  As suddenly as the flashing rain that fed the swamps, a blast of primaeval power unlike anything he had ever experienced skewered him with mind tones sharp as razors. The language, the feeling, the emotion…it was unlike any other beast he had encountered, from the majestic to the miniscule.

  The next thing he knew the beast were gone. He lay on his back, looking up at the sun, head resting against a protruding root where he had been seated before. His feet were soaked and his face burned so badly he had been unable to touch it.

  He had been fairly delirious from sunstroke at the time but the memory of the message had been clear.

  He no longer thought all animals stupid and exercised a healthy caution.

  Healthy caution was something he dearly wished Shorn would exercise before it was too late. There was little more he could do until he got to Sturma. They would just have to manage on their own.

  Drun stood on shaky legs and threw himself into the water. He barely winced as the sharp cold salt water stabbed at the holes worn through his sun-darkened skin.

  Drying himself cautiously with his bobbled blanket, Drun Sard took one final look at the horizon. Dow was on his way to bed, and Carious was rising in the east. Today would be a long day but he could do no more. A perfect line of blue sat in the distance, the shore still hidden beyond it. The seas covered the earth like shimmering bedclothes of satin. Drun felt the warmth of the world holding onto him but shivered uncontrollably. He tugged his only blanket onto the splintered sides of the boat, crawled under his makeshift tent, and let himself pass out.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  For six days Tirielle and Roth had been chained. The great city of Lianthre was far behind them. All they knew was that they travelled south to Arram. Even the name conjured dread.

  The rahken’s thick fur was worn thin at its wrists and ankles, thick and heavy iron binding it to the massive caravan tower. Both sat still but the shackles fitted more easily on Tirielle’s limbs. The rahken bore its trials better.

  They had spent their time in parts bewailing their fortunes, devising plans to escape, or staring with bloodshot and tired eyes out of tiny holes that let in shy light, wavering through the miasma of faecal fumes. They stared at the dull landscape only able to see a rough outline from the holes, there to let the prisoner’s breathe, not to give them a view. They waited for trees to thin – vegetation became sparse before the road opened out onto the borders of Arram – when they did, they knew their time was over.

  To Tirielle, time was already wrong.

  It was so slow. There were times when she would scream from the frustration. Roth always calmed her down. The great beast was firmly shackled and even with its prodigious strength could not break free. She screamed and railed against her captors and Roth talked her out of the darkness. Tirielle survived thanks to the giant.

  Roth talked to the other prisoners chained on their floor. It held them together with bluntness and compassion, and bore its own trials like a saint. The prisoners spoke of their despair. Roth calmed them with thoughts of life before, letting them speak of their history and nodding sagely without interruption. The guards came and took the humans out for cleaning. Most returned. They only ever came to take the humans out.

  The giant did not seem at all bothered at its changing fortunes as it sat unmoving, talking to Tirielle about her past.

  She looked over and saw Roth was awake just as the first glint of sunshine stabbed through the tiny airholes.

  They greeted each other as they had every morning and talked of nothing in particular, until the conversation turned to their predicament. “They have come for me once before,” said Tirielle quietly, so that only Roth could hear. “I thought to get my revenge on them and look what I have got us into.”

  “When did they come before?”

  “They killed my father and came for me in my third cycle. The Sisters of Illi’uit took me in and gave me sanctuary. When the seasons changed again I came out. I only returned to the Council when I was old enough to challenge. The Council has protected me ever since. I just wish I could trust them now. I had done nothing wrong back then, now, I don’t know. Perhaps I am wrong. The Protectorate could not remove someone quite so public, so openly – they elected for patience. That was back then.”

  Her nostrils flared. “So I sought them out instead. This can only been directed at me – I can’t imagine they would have known about the seer.”

  “I do not know. They have powerful magic. More powerful than anything I have ever seen.”

  Tirielle scratched at a clump of hair. “What about the rahkens? I do not understand why you would join with a human, or serve. You are powerful yourself. I have seen you.” Hastily she added; “Please do not think that I mean I consider you a servant!“

  Roth laughed, causing the other prisoners to look round. Any sound made them jump, or worse, cow.

  “None of us think of ourselves as servants. Please, Tirielle, think of us more as ‘compatriots’. We all have a fellow concern – the Protectorate.”

  “Are you changing the subject, Roth?” said Tirielle.

  “No, I am merely talking of matters of immediate import. We cannot remain chained forever.”

  Tirielle nodded and leaned closer to Roth. Quietly she asked, “How is it that you remain so calm? You seem not perturbed in the slightest that we are on our way to death…and worse.”

  Roth had checked that no other prisoners were listening, and replied in confidence, “I am bothered, Lady. But you see the faces of those around us?” Tirielle had looked around, and nodded that she did. “You see the terror in their faces. I see the terror in their colours. They are in need of just one, just one among them, to show no fear. The fear itself would be worse than the death that waits them. To die in fear, Tirielle, can break a soul.” Roth paused for a moment, studying her face as she digested this. “I may be chained, but that at least…that I can still give.”

  Tirielle’s face broke into an unexpected, tired, smile. She looked around the caravan’s murky interior for a second, her eyes moistening, and back at her companion.

  “I am glad to have you with me, Roth.” She sniffed a little and paused. “When I die, I hope I am allowed the memory of when we first spoke, and your faith since…not this.”

  Roth strained against the chains. All it could do was touch Tirielle’s naked leg with one razor claw.

  The caravan pulled to a halt.

  “I will try again today,” she whispered to Roth, as the guards began to climb the inner stairs, “though I do not know if she is even here.”

  Roth raised its head, judging the distance of the guards against the sound of footfalls amplified in the wooden stairwell. “We must ask the other prisoners. Leave it much longer and it will be too late.”

  “I cannot ask the other prisoners, not yet. All it would take is one stray word and if she is not already here they will seek her out. They will use her to hurt me.” Tiriellle’s voice was full of urgency as the sound of booted feet came closer. Roth gave its gruff agreement. Tirielle and Roth had had this conversation everyday, and yet still she would not give in. “Tomorrow, Roth, I promise. If I do not see her today, we will ask the other prisoners for word of the seer.”

  Roth took a breath and dug its claws into the wooden bench out of sight and out of frustration. “Then tomorrow.”

  The sound of iron soled boots passed them and continued to the upper levels. The circular tower spun sounds deceitfully. Except, sometimes, the sounds that no one needed to hear. The screams made it through the night unmolested.

  Roth made itself listen every night. The dreadful death cries from above and below merely served to strengthen its resolve.

  A mangy guard finally came onto their level. He unlocked the human prisoners and escorted them to the stairs where they met another of their captors, before he returned to release the next. Nobody put up a fight here or tried to escape. Not after the first two days. The screams that came after th
e first night were enough to knock dissent out of most prisoners. Seeing the remains the day after had done it for the rest.

  Tirielle’s hand brushed Roth’s shoulder as she was led out. Roth stayed where it was – they hadn’t let it out for the whole week, and only gave water. Tirielle did not know if this was because the wizards had left and the guards could not control it, or if it was just some further cruelty. She swore a bloody revenge on each and every one of her tormentors, as she had every day since her capture.

  To her gain, Turror had not had the wherewithal to abuse her, merely managing to make her dirty and spend himself in dull excitement against her leg. His aim with his fist had been better though.

  In her struggle her hair had become tangled and filthy. Now, her lank and matted hair hid her attractive face and as she was covered in her own waste. The grime acted as a shield. She had avoided the most callous of the guard’s attentions. Some of the other, prettier, girls had not been so lucky.

  She forgot for a moment to thank her luck as she was roughly shoved into the sun. Its sudden glare pricked the back of her head with intense pain. She looked around her as she did each day, to see the buckets had been laid out as they always were. The guards stood around disinterestedly as usual – they cared not if the prisoners used the water to wash. In any event they would only be returning to the same infested hell afterward. At the end of everyday the downtrodden prisoners were told to wash themselves, each given their own bucket of water. Tirielle approached her bucket and as had become her ritual she searched the faces of the other prisoners, hoping to find the seer. She had not seen anyone who could have been the young girl. She did not know if all the prisoners from the tower were taken out, but she had never seen any new faces. Only fewer.

  Roth said hope set you free. She only thought it chained her.

  As she stood in the permanent orange glow of the sun, peering cautiously through strands of stinking hair, a wisp of breeze took her own smell away for a moment…and brought with it some odour new. A guard started toward her.

  But that smell…

  Pure, mindless hatred soiled the guard’s eyes. She thought perhaps today would be the day she was killed. After all, to the guards, she was no more special than the others.

  But what was that smell?

  She could see his odd eyes now, the left looking to the trees. She smelled his approach as she watched it, but the clean, sweet breeze grew, pushing the foulness away. Something other took its place. Fresh, free of the decay and rot of hate and fear.

  Then it became wind.

  Pushing at the guard, blowing the dust from the road. The dust swirled around Tirielle and added to the muck. The approaching man had to lean a heavy shoulder to the wind. The wind grew in power.

  If she was to die here then so be it. It would not be in fear. She raised her eyes to meet death. She would not be like the meek. She bunched her fists. She would not die screaming. Not for this. Not for anyone. The wind gave her strength. She felt it clearing her mind. He felt it too. Indecision blossomed in his lurching eyes.

  For the first time in a week, the air was clean.

  The wind blew in and the watching guards became restless, looking to each other, holding tight to their charges as they began hurriedly returning them to the tower. In a rush now they paid scant attention to anyone else. Those who remained strained eyes against the dust at the big man trying to drag the tiny girl into the trees. Pushing against the storm. They shrugged and continued on. Even for a guard, it was best not to get involved.

  Tirielle was dragged toward the trees.

  The wind howled.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Far into Draymar lands, two figures approached a modest mercenary camp. One was using a heavy branch as a crutch and had tattered rags covering his arm and an obviously wounded leg. The other worn a sleeveless leather jerkin, showing scrawny arms.

  They had made good time considering Shorn still bled and, frankly, was beginning to smell.

  Shorn leaned heavily on the crutch. Both the men’s skin was clammy – one from fear, one from weakness. The scared man shook his head at the stubborn warrior beside him.

  “I told you this was an awful idea.”

  During their time in the mountains Shorn had come to appreciate Renir, his openness, his good heart. He made him laugh too, which had helped pass the time. He still chuckled to himself occasionally at the things Renir said. Once Renir had complained about the cold. ‘At least I’ll stay young’, Renir had said. Shorn had replied that when he was young he’d been full of piss and vinegar and didn’t complain about the cold. Renir had replied he wasn’t the same, but if he were he’d feel stupid wearing a pickled sleeveless gherkin in the snow. Renir was like that.

  Odd.

  The time passed quickly, most of Shorn’s time spent drifting in and out of consciousness. Most of his hazy memories were of Renir worrying over him, trying to keep the conversation light as he tended Shorn’s wounds and forced food he had chewed himself into Shorn’s mouth. He had laughed painfully sometimes. Then he found out Renir’s village lay directly in the path of the Draymar and had not laughed for the longest time.

  Shorn’s conscience, what little there was, got the better of him. Now here he was, feeling like he owed this man. He was healing fast and the poison haze had left him. His mind felt back to normal, with the occasional flashback to hallucinations of an old man and battle dreams. I even dream of battle, he though to himself sadly. Now I am here with this man, to repay my debt.

  Shorn didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He had to get his sword back before Nabren moved on. As soon as the Draymar began their attacks Nabren would be on the move. He couldn’t afford the time to wait for his wounds to heal. He couldn’t tell Renir, either. This was the kindest way, he assured himself. If he lived Renir would understand. If he died, well, they both died. At least Renir would be spared the sorrow of losing a wife.

  Nabren had been training the Draymar to assault all the villages along the coast, the plan; to slaughter villages and raid the coast…sea raiders, not the Draymar, would be blamed. There was no stopping it now. He had trained some of the Draymar himself. They would kill everything in their path.

  It was the first act of a planned invasion, but Shorn could not have known this. He had merely trained the guerilla forces that would be the precursor to the first wave of the first clan to cross the mountains into an unsuspecting and entirely unready Sturma.

  Shorn cursed himself inwardly for falling weak. How much simpler his life would have been had none of this happened. He now he owed this man his life and at the same time was about to be a party to the slaughter of his family and friends. He looked at his travelling companion, muttering almost constantly under his breath. Yes, life could have been so much simpler.

  Still he kept the secret to himself and took him along. Am I really saving this man’s life by not telling him, or just looking out for myself as always? He decided to stop thinking about it. Why could he not do both?

  Anyway, the point was moot. He felt the pull of death on his skin and consoled himself that here, at the hands of professionals, both their deaths would be swift. He knew from first-hand experience that death at the hands of the Draymar could be a drawn out process. At the very least, he could save Renir from that.

  He strove for brevity. “Well, I need my sword, and you agreed to come, so don’t start nagging me again. If your floating wizard can’t change my mind, what makes you think you will?”

  “I was just saying that there is time for you to heal before taking your vengeance. I feel slightly responsible, and while I have through hard lonely nights forsaken my loving home…”

  “You told me you hated your wife.”

  “Besides the point. They are going to tear us to pieces.”

  “No. They won’t,” Shorn pointed to the large muscular man emerging from the central tent, “he might…”

  The men in the camp were coming forward to see what
the fuss was, as the cry went up. Shorn held his hand over his eyes, squinting slightly, pointing. Renir looked through the shadows of the tents as Nabren strode past his hired men. He looked impressive. A man hewn from what other men would have called brawn.

  The pommel and handle of the double-handed sword that meant so much to Shorn was peering over the man’s broad shoulders. Its silver pommel glinted in the sinking sun. The scabbard’s leather straps crisscrossed the man’s chest.

  Renir swallowed and Shorn cracked the knuckles of his good hand. That he was bold enough to hold the sword in front of men Shorn had shared the woes – and joys – of battle with irritated him slightly. Nabren’s grinning face infuriated him. The mercenary’s eyes burned bright with rage.

  All the men before them were armed. Some wore armour but most, out here in the latent light of the sinking sun, just wore leather bracers, shirts and trousers. He looked at each but Nabren as he approached, hobbling. Those with better eyesight gave the slightest nod of their heads to the limping warrior. Shorn could only see the outlines of shapes yet, but returned the nods anyway. If he lived he could greet them later.

  Shorn called out to them, “Ho!”

  “Who calls here?” one of the mercenaries shouted back.

  “A man wronged by Nabren De Sonbren. Stand aside and none other than Nabren will be harmed here.” Renir shifted his weight onto his right foot, distancing himself unconsciously from Shorn. Shorn looked at him questioningly, but Renir gawped gracelessly at the emerging mercenaries lining up before him, over thirty now. Shorn left him alone and continued digging his own grave.