Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 17

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  Chapter Forty

  Shorn and Renir stopped once more on their return. They camped away from Turnmarket, skirting the town, then rode hard to make it back to Renir’s village for early morning. Renir had suggested ‘Gravestone’ as a name for Shorn’s horse but Shorn decided to name it ‘Harlot’. He swore at it a lot.

  Renir named his Thud.

  There was no life in the fields today and an eerie hush hung in the receding morning mist. Both horses were skittish and pranced annoyingly. Shorn’s horse threw him to the ground once for no apparent reason. The mercenary landed with a resounding crash, hopped upright and whacked the horse across its face with his crutch. After he had finished swearing he moved to draw his sword from its back sheath. Renir managed to talk him out of cutting the horse’s legs off. Shorn settled for cursing soundly. The mare was unimpressed.

  The blunt clopping of the horses’ hooves grew quieter as dirt gave way to sandy ground and sparse long grasses. The smell of salt air became stronger. In the distance, hidden where the land sloped down to the sea and wild dunes, Renir’s village waited. The absence of sound was deafening. The smoke from the smithy that usually acted as a beacon should have been clouding the sky above where only clouds of white sailed.

  Both men dismounted as they came into sight of the first buildings. Now early morning, Renir noted that the village should be awake. Shorn signalled his agreement but continued on, casting his eyes and ears around the surrounding dunes for signs of trouble. The village lay before them as flat and still as the sea behind it; the wooden buildings deserted, the lone street empty, and the houses still shuttered. The smithy was the only open front.

  Gordir’s axe sat untouched. Planished by the master smith, the Lord of the Spar’s armour looked perfectly smooth and stood fat and proud on a metal frame.

  The fire had not been lit this morning – it had not been put out this morning, either. Had it been, the creak of cooling metal and stone hearth would periodically sound.

  Renir was no longer worried about a scolding from Hertha. He could feel the cold fear rising in him that no scolding would ever come again.

  Shorn signalled that they should remount. Mounted, Shorn could borrow Harlot’s mobility. On foot he remained a cripple. His wounded leg was healing fast, the stitching and burning under the bandage aiding slow healing (the bandage remained resolutely hessian, not a hint of red seeped through), but the leg below and above was blackened. Splashes of livid yellows and purples bled into the flesh of his skin.

  Shorn’s arm still pulled and irritated with the constant itching of skin mending underneath the bandage. He had already taken off the sling and Renir often caught him trying to close his fist but wincing slightly in pain. Renir knew if Shorn were made to wince, the pain would be unbearable for most men.

  They pulled the horses to a halt as they came to the first house.

  Shorn turned Harlot to face his companion. Quietly he asked, “Which house?”

  Renir inclined his head to the south where his home stood watching the quiet ocean. Nudging his horse back the way they came so they would not have to ride through the centre of the village the mercenary drew his great blade soundlessly from its oiled sheath.

  Renir clicked at Thud from inside his cheek and followed Shorn round the outskirts of the village.

  The sea lapping the shore gave rise to a lulling susurration, grain upon grain of wet sand rubbing together, the monotony occasionally broken by a pebble rolling in the froth. The smell from the sea obscured all but the harshest odours – the body odours of the men, the smell of damp wood, the drying sweat on the horses.

  Shorn motioned for Renir to stay still. The sandy, lonely street was clear of footprints, no traces of human passage evident. That in itself screamed complicity. He cantered closer to Renir and whispered to him that they should leave. Thud snorted softly. Renir shook his head ferociously. He would not leave unknowing.

  They dismounted.

  Shorn moved to take the lead but Renir indicated, sadly, that this was his duty.

  The shuttered windows of Renir’s home were held tight against the slated wooden walls, the wind insufficient to shift them. Gaps in the wooden cladding revealed only dark inside. The thatched roof above still held onto the previous night’s airborne moisture. Drops of pure clean water sparkled in the rising sun trapped in the spiders’ webs in the eaves. The spiders were nowhere to be seen.

  Renir moved to the door. Shorn stood, leaning against his crutch and the wall of the shack, the point of his sword held back to strike.

  Renir’s hand hovered over the handle. He looked to Shorn and the mercenary nodded his silent assent.

  He pushed. A massive ‘crack!’ pierced the air and both men, shocked for a split second, looked as one at the motley blade that protruded from the splintered door. The blade stopped an inch from Renir’s head.

  He threw himself backward, landing on his bottom and scuttling away from the door as it opened. A fearsome warrior clad in dull cracked leather and a battered helm came through, holding a rusted dagger by his side. As his arm drew back as he lunged to stab at Renir. He did not look to the side, but died as Shorn’s blade cleaved his ribs open from behind. The assailant fell onto the sand in front of Renir.

  A dreadful groaning came as the doors opened all at once and twenty or more Draymar warriors emerged, all equipped with archaic armour taken long ago from fallen foes. Weapons were rusted from neglect and ignorance, for the Draymar knew not how to maintain them. Still the sight was fearsome. As Shorn reached out to pull Renir from the ground he said, “Take the dagger.”

  “Come, quickly, to the horses!“

  They turned to go back to the horses as more Draymar sprang from under the sand and ran at the horses, which bolted.

  They were surrounded. Shorn realised he recognised some of the faces. He had trained these warriors.

  “Should we give in?” asked Renir.

  “Never. We fight to the death!” Shorn hissed under his breath.

  “Ours or theirs?”

  Shorn glared at him.

  “What do they want?” whispered Renir, ignoring Shorn’s look – he was too busy staring at their attackers.

  “A fight, I would imagine.”

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t fight at all?”

  Shorn sighed as he rested his blade against his useless arm and said, “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Shorn swung, catching a raider through the protective circlet he wore. Renir leaped and drove the rusted dagger at a female warrior with a welted face – marks of courage – ducking under the spear she swung at him. The dagger slid into her side, eliciting a cry of angry pain from his foe, but snapped cleanly in his hand, leaving him a bladeless hilt in his fist. The wooden haft of the spear came round again – he instinctively raised his arm to block the blow. The concussive force shuddered up to his shoulder. He swung the fist still grasping the hilt into her nose and crushed it.

  Shorn lent heavily on one leg and caught a downward blow in the crook of his crutch, thrusting his sword into the unprotected belly of a second attacker swinging a long axe. The attacker fell dying and dropping his weapon as the first attacker withdrew his blade from the improvised block. Shorn’s blade sliced cleanly through his neck before the next blow came.

  Renir was slippery with fear. He stooped and took the long axe from the clutch of the dying man. Shorn stood beside him as the Draymar rounded.

  “Lean on me.” Renir nudged him.

  Renir hefted the axe. It was clumsy and blunt.

  A brief moment of clarity hit him. “All their weapons are pillaged?”

  “Yes,” Shorn’s nose dripped blood, broken again but Renir did not know from where, “the Draymar make little themselves. Also, remember that they know not what comes after death, so they have no fear of it.”

  Shorn’s sword swung up to block a thick sword, Renir pounced under the two swords and slashed across an attacker’s leg with the blunted
axe, breaking it at the knee. As the attacker fell another took her place. A man thrust a hardened wooden spear at Renir. Shorn’s sword flashed before Renir’s face before he had time to react and cut the haft in two.

  Renir’s crashed a fist into another attacker’s groin, doubling him over, and Shorn brought the pommel of the sword down hard on the back of the man’s head.

  Over the sound of Renir’s laboured breath a roar came, startling him into turning. A man with a tattooed face swinging a mace, the shaft more rust that iron, came rushing toward them. Renir instinctively, barely, had time to twist and throw up his axe to block the blow but the blade caught the shaft of the mace, not the head. The blade met no resistance – the mace sheared off cleanly. The man ran on weaponless, tripping over to fall in a tangled lump.

  The head of the mace continued on its path and hit Shorn full in the temple.

  Renir glanced down for a second and saw Shorn with blood now running from his face, slumped, and thought him dead. With a mighty shout that surprised him as much as the attackers, he swung the axe above his head.

  “Come, then!”

  Two, three Draymar took the full brunt of his rage until they realised their prize had already fallen. The fight was over.

  Smiling, taunting, they skirted round him, flitting back as he advanced.

  The strange wizard had told them the man with the double-handed sword was the only threat. This one, his companion, did not matter. The orders saved Renir. For now.

  The leader of the Draymar called her warriors back just as Renir’s swinging axe caught one of her men too slow to move a resounding blow to the head. The blunt blade smashed through cheek and tooth, chipped white shards following the axe’s arc.

  Renir backed off and stood growling with all his menace over his fallen friend, axe held high in inexperience above his head. The Draymar looked at their fallen comrades and began a discussion in their own language, ignoring Renir totally. His legs felt weak from fear but he kept his eye on the surrounding raiders. His arms were already shaking from holding the weight of the huge axe overhead, but he would not show weakness now. Someone chuckled in an odd, unripe tongue.

  Renir felt his anger rising. He counted the Draymar. Fourteen remained.

  They came again.

  When he swung the axe they dodged back. Sometimes a sword or spear leapt forward and drew blood. They played with him and he bled.

  The Draymar laughed at their sport until the axe no longer rose, but dragged heavily on the ground. Sweat blurred Renir's vision. His arms burned with acid fire inside and refused to move. He dropped the axe and clenched his fists as hard as he was still able. One of the Draymar smiled at him and bowed his head in respect. Renir spat and called them on.

  The lead warrior, better equipped than the rest, motioned forward one of her companions, a woman wearing an oversized helm, padded jerkin and flesh gauntlets of some strange animal hide. She raised her sword and flicked it toward him with a flourish. She walked forward to finish him.

  Renir prepared to die just as she stopped.

  The Draymar shouted something and pointed to the water. He risked a glance away from his executioner who looked uncharacteristically fearful and apprehensive. She was no longer looking at the tired man before her, but out to sea.

  There, standing confidently at the prow of a rotting vessel stood the golden-eyed man from his dreams. Coming closer – unbelievable fast – his vessel propelled by a broiling mass of water, occasionally glinting with leaping fish. The man’s hair was matted and sodden, clinging, his beard stuck against his bare chest, making the gaunt old man look even frailer than the times Renir had met with him inside his head. The man looked wild and he could see now that he wavered and chuntered into his beard. He looked insane. The water seethed with jumping fish and the man soaked with the foam cried out. The cry was in Draymar and carried across the fast diminishing distance to the shore.

  The effect was astounding. Even though the cry sounded like nonsense to Renir, the Draymar blanched in terror. Blinking back sweat, he turned his head back to see all fourteen Draymar pull up as though slapped. Awed expressions made their light eyes wide. The woman with the sword turned and looked with dread painted large on her features to the leader. Her lank hair spun in the air. The leader considered the new development momentarily, then shrugged and waved her on.

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  Chapter Forty-One

  To the east of town Klan stood. He motioned for the men to rise. The remaining Tenthers behind him stood unseen by all against the background of sand dunes. The Protectorate had warned that they must not be seen. If they showed their hand in this now there would be repercussions. Jek had warned them time after time: other eyes than ours watch the future. Klan understood. A new order, the returning…they would not be able to keep the coming of the three a secret forever. Jek merely wanted a headstart. Yet despite all their precautions, another player had found them already. He could feel the power even from this distance.

  Klan watched perplexed as the stranger in the boat came on. The light from his eyes grew and the Tenthers around him shuffled their feet. They could see the man hunched over and then nothing as red glowed and every time they tried to see it was like straining to peer through stained glass. Klan blinked and tried to stop it. He had no idea what he was capable of now. He blinked and cleared his head. The red receded and the approaching boat came into clearer view.

  It was unexpected and felt painful. Clean.

  The men waited for his order but none came. Klan’s sandaled feet sank into the sand as he watched the burning bright ball of light approach with apprehension rising.

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  Chapter Forty-Two

  Slow now/we slow now/shallow come land fear/far enough/Watcher/remember/Watcher not we/cannot aid/stand/alone said the fish, propelling Drun’s tiny boat closer to the shore.

  Stand? We...do not know what standing is? We...swim? said the Watcher through a haze that used to be his consciousness.

  Watcher not we/Watcher I/walk/Watcher walk/we swim replied the fish. They were trying to help, but the Watcher was a stubborn man. His mind had wandered among their kind overly long.

  We? Said the Watcher, hopefully.

  Watcher/ said the fish.

  Then, the shore loomed.

  The boat cracked and broke to pieces as it left the sea. Weathered planks careened in the air.

  Drun came tumbling out, rolling and flopping, to where Shorn lay. He gasped for air. Soft hands smacked at the sand. The Draymar woman stopped again and stared.

  Sand matted the grey man's hair. She frowned at him, sword forgotten in her fist, as he floundered on the shore. His lips pursed and breath caught in the back of his throat. The leader spoke behind her.

  'Wait,' she said.

  The Draymar and Renir ignored each other as they watched the man drowning on the shore; the Draymar intrigued, Renir unthinking. Drun flapped his arms and flipped over onto his front. The woman raised an eyebrow and approached the man. She prodded him with her sword. Renir forgot to move.

  Drun turned a shade of blue.

  We drown! said the Watcher.

  Watcher not we/remember/walk…

  The voice of the shoal faded. Drun was on his own.

  A tattered blanket hung on one side of the boat, the only recognisable remains. A small barrel and some fish parts, rotten, lay on the sand among the wooden pieces The wood was wet with sea, and darker where blood stained the seating planks.

  Do not leave me! There was no reply.

  Me?

  Me?

  Renir still stood dumb.

  The woman walked back to the man on the ground and kicked him over onto his front. Kicked him toward Shorn.

  No reply came from the old man. Not even a grunt. She kicked him harder and breath gasped into Drun's lungs. She kicked him again and his hand flopped onto Shorn's sword. The sword sank into the Watcher's hand.

  It floated up and Drun's unresisting fingers were pulled around it.
The sword floated and light/visible/sound lashed out.

  The Draymar fell as one to their knees and screamed in pain. The sound grew another notch and blasted them back. It threw their bodies with astounding force away from the three finished men.

  They thumped the ground and a small hiccup of expended dying breath dented the wave minutely. As soon as it had come the sound stopped, swelled backward, then flew forth again.

  In the distance, unseen, the waiting Tenthers clutched their ears in pain. The sound wave fell back everywhere else but pushed to a point and the last of its energy ripped at Klan. He fell to the ground.

  Blood seeped from his skin as he screamed.

  The wizard rose bleeding from his knees and shouted.

  “Come! To Arram!” One of the men mumbled something and without warning a line of fire burst from Klan’s throat. The man fell to the ground, burnt to a crisp.

  Klan felt fear. This was unexpected. The sheer power of the man. It could only be the third.

  He opened the way and they ran through, back to Arram, away from the light.

  Away from the Watcher.

  Renir fell to the ground next to the Watcher and they both met Shorn in sleep.

  The fish swam back to sea, the birds tested the air with song.

  Before it sank, the glorious wave danced into the air and sang like spring to the returning bear.

  Sword and sea rested tranquil against the sand.

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  Chapter Forty-Three

  Shorn woke when shadow crossed him. His head pounded with fire. Above him, Harlot was stamping the ground. He closed his eyes again and groaned. Pictures from the battle flashed bright and vivid and mingled with the pain in his head. He let his head fall heavily to the side and saw the man from his dreams lying unconscious on the sand, the tide lapping at his feet. Renir lay next to him. Neither looked badly wounded, just sleeping. He dragged himself to his knees, pausing only for the stabbing stars to pass.