Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Read online

  Tirielle looked at him with annoyance but sat down. “What do you mean?”

  Cenphalph interrupted. Typraille tended to confuse issues. “The Protectorate already hunt you, Tirielle, for what you know, what you have done, who you are – there are many reasons and none matter. What matters is that you are the First. They will hunt you down and kill you. Now they know there was a seer in the caravan and that she has disappeared – even were you not such a valuable prize, Tirielle, you would still be hunted for your association with her. Neither of you are safe. With us, despite our lack of magic there are some blessings we receive – you will be hidden. We will come with you, and help the seer. Then we will bring you to your fate. There is no other way.”

  Perhaps she was tired and could not think straight, but the more they talked the more Tirielle came to believe them. The Protectorate had greater designs than she had imagined. The conquest in these foreign lands, the hunt for the wizard, and herself a part of the key. Fate had played her a losing hand.

  She wished Roth was around. The Order of Sard were all kind and deferential to her, but she needed some support against these strangers. They seemed to have the girl’s interested at heart but their interest in her must be unhealthy. No one person could be that important.

  But then, if what they said was true, how could she refuse their quest? Stand against the Protectorate as she had always wanted or save one girl…

  “Whatever you decide, we can wait no longer than morning.”

  “It will be here in the morning,” promised Tirielle.

  *

  Chapter Fifty

  The air above the grave had already been fetid when he had found her. It did not take Drun long to find it. The old priest (a priest with no congregation though he might be) had pointed out her grave to him and left him alone at his request. Renir knelt, with his knees either side of her, and begun shovelling dirt with his hands. Someone had buried the dog on top of Hertha. Renir looked at her and tried to think of something to say. Eventually, through his tears he said, “Goodbye.”

  As an afterthought he added, ‘Whiney old cow.”

  He took a tear on the end of one finger, kissed the finger, wiped sand away with the back of his knuckles, and placed the tear on Hertha's lips. She looked serene, if dirty, and almost beautiful. She looked in death at peace.

  He took the dog out of the grave. It felt like it had been stuffed.

  He covered Hertha over, using his hands.

  He walked back to where the other two were waiting and still felt like he was saying goodbye. The dog lay stiff like a headstone on top of the grave.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-One

  He overheard them talking where they stood over a shallow grave and the body it contained.

  They had shovelled dirt away from the body of one of the villagers. Renir saw it was Wenel, a regular travelling tradesman. Shorn heard him approach.

  "The wounds – see here? This is something I have not seen before. And the ambush...they act nothing like Draymar. It was not the Draymar that did this, was it?"

  "No, this is the work of the Protectorate. See the cuts are all of the same type as each other – the Draymar were arrayed with differing arms, were they not?"

  "Yes. And the taint."

  Drun was surprised. "You feel the taint?"

  "I felt the same thing before." He pulled his sword. It sang a melancholy flush of notes strung together by a spider’s web. Drun closed his eyes and let his head sway in an unfelt breeze. His eyes opened and blazed. The song changed to a warm strip of air on cool skin.

  Shorn sheathed the weapon and the song faded out. "Before I met you in the hills, I was in a mercenary camp. One night I felt a presence and my sword sang out."

  "I think the song likes him," Renir interrupted. "It was Drun's hand on your sword that saved us from the Draymar."

  "I don’t know, Renir – perhaps it did that because it didn’t like me. What happened?"

  "When you touched the sword a beautiful, amazing sonorous horn sounded and blew the Draymar away from me like boats in a wave. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I could see the sound! I don’t know what it was. I’ve never seen or heard its like before."

  "Well, it seems there is yet much even I do not understand. The sword is an artefact, of that I have no doubt. Does it have a name?"

  “It may have,” said Shorn. “I’ve never asked it. Did you look at her?”

  “Yes, I saw her. I’ve said my goodbyes. Just one more to go.”

  Renir stood in front of the smithy, his last goodbye. As an afterthought he picked up the axe, beautifully carved hardwood haft, a metal guard for the upper hand, and leather binding cunningly wound around the handle. The pommel was of polished silver, the curved double head created a wicked ellipse. He swung it as Shorn approached from behind.

  The suns cut wide shadow across the interior, making Shorn squint to see inside.

  Renir said, “I’m taking this.”

  “I can see why you would say goodbye here. A strange place to find a master smith." Shorn scratched at his face and continued. "Are you sure you want to come with us? You’re not a fighter, Renir.”

  “I’m not a coward either. I know what will happen to Sturma if the Draymar advance unchecked. The Thane may be impotent now – he needs a chance to raise some sort of army though. You know as well as I do they’ll raze everything from coast to coast. We’re not ready for a war and I’ll not let my ancestors die for nought.”

  “I will fight the Draymar where I can but we do not know where they strike! Surely you understand just how large Draymar is?”

  “Not really,” admitted Renir. “But, irrespective of our foe’s might, surely there are only a limited number of places they can strike at Sturma? The mountains are our allies in this…”

  “True, there are few places a force could cross the mountains, but enough. Regardless, you are not a fighter.” Shorn said this patiently and gently pushed to lower the axe, which had risen before Renir’s face unbidden. “I get the feeling Drun will see me battle before I die, but I don’t think he has it in for you.”

  “Why are you doing this then? You do not seem to owe him anything.”

  “Of course I do, and he knows it. He saved my life just as you did. “

  “I’m taking this,” Renir said stubbornly. The axe was no heavier in his hands than a stick and yet it felt reassuringly solid. “I’m going.”

  “Is it named?”

  “No, Gordir made it, I know that.”

  “Fine, but take the armour, too.”

  Renir looked at the assortment, all was too large. Shorn explained. “You’ll live longer.”

  “But it’s not made for me. It’s too big.”

  “I know. Wear what does fit, we'll sell the rest and buy you something better.”

  “I feel bad taking it from a friend.”

  “He was a friend, wasn't he?”

  “...”

  “Good. We will need money and work like that will fetch a tidy sum. See if there is anything there that will fit you.”

  Renir hefted the axe thoughtfully. Sunlight cast the etchings into deeper relief. Against the dark interior of the smithy the blade looked hollowed through. “You think I should name the axe?”

  “No, but if you do, name it nothing dark.”

  While Renir paced around the smithy, holding finely crafted armour against himself, Shorn left then came back with a sheet, which he laid upon the ground. Renir kept a pair of steel reinforced bracers, the steel bars thin and strong, built for sturdier forearms than Renir’s but he pulled them tight and they were quite snug. Shorn approved. “What about a helm?” Renir tried out both that were in the smithy, but neither felt right and he declined. A pair of greaves hung well from his belt, which he tied down with leather straps around his knees. He walked up and down for a while.

  “Do I look stupid?” he asked.

  “No more than usual. You’ll look better stupid than
with no legs, though.”

  “Here, put them in here.” They piled up the armour as Drun came up the street, leading the two horses.

  He knocked at the entrance to the smithy. “Come, we should not stay here any longer.”

  Shorn nodded as he tied the knots on two bundles of armour, then secured them on the horse. “We’ll walk until we can sell this. Maybe there will be enough for another horse.”

  “No need for that. I will find my own horse.”

  “You have your own horse?”

  “No,” Drun said. “But I will have.”

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Klan, impatient as ever, pulled at a long earlobe. The torture the Speculate had meted out was severe enough to cause him concern. The pain had been intense and half of Klan’s power was controlling the pain, half concentrated on healing and holding together shattered scribbled-on bones. He grimaced as he told Jek of the encounter with the golden priest, mourning his new bone archive, of which Brother San had just destroyed the feet parts, or the Urn era, as foolhardy historians would call it.

  “They can no longer see him. It is as if he has disappeared. The old man shields him somehow. None have been able to find him.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, Brother. I, too, thought it a myth.”

  “And you are sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. Power like that...his power rivals our own.”

  “Nevertheless, Klan, I am pleased. Your latest failure has been assuaged. If he truly is the Sard, there is only one.”

  “If the stories are true...”

  Jek walked thoughtfully along the long approach to the front entrance of Arram. Jek gave no indication he was aware of Klan’s pain and walked on at normal speed. Klan followed on broken feet. The pillared entrance to their back flickered with lantern light in the distance, the dark night breeze lend the backing to their conversation as the gigantic trees that lined the road swayed and creaked. Both men wore bare feet.

  “A prize indeed, Klan. To capture the Sard! The secrets that man must hold.”

  “You think it is true that he is immortal?”

  “No man is immortal.”

  “Then how? The stories go back as far as our records do. Records from over 7,000 years ago mention him.”

  “That long? I must confess I have not read the records yet.”

  “I have, Brother. I spent my time well while I waited on your return.”

  “Then tell me what you have learned.”

  Klan's features paled as he remembered. His flame turned inward, eyes dimming. Jek stood beside him when he stopped, looking in wonder through his own red eyes at Klan's sharp, pale face become transparent, veins tiny and large alike stand out in relief against skeleton, then like cooling fire turn back to normal. Klan shuddered a little and a small trickle of blood ran down his long black hair to fall with a thud against his clear toenail. He breathed deeply, slowly, returning to himself. He spoke. “It is still...difficult to control.” He would not admit that his injuries were troubling him. The sensation was extremely distracting. He could not keep a straight face as a smile bubbled underneath. If such delights were the price of failure…it would not last forever though. The Protectorate did not bear failure lightly. His position was already tenuous.

  “I have never seen that. What did you just do?”

  “I could never read and remember our entire records in two days. I explored within this new magic and found a way.”

  “A way to what?”

  “Remember it all.”

  “The magic remembers?”

  “No. I think the magic is shifting...a membrane being pulled...it does not remember. I burned it into my skeleton. Every word. I can send my eyes…inward. It is...disturbing. To see so much of ones' self.”

  Jek tapped a finger against his ring. His robe covered his head. He stood a full foot taller than Klan and was a powerful man, rare among the Protectorate.

  He walked with a gnarled black cane of ancient wood and did not limp.

  “Please...tell me what you have gleaned from yourself.”

  “It is strange. I feel there is more to this. Facets to this story we do not understand.”

  Jek was uncharacteristically gracious. “Tirielle should have been killed when she was a child but we did not know then who she was to become. We only found her when she returned from exile. I have found more than even the Ordanals are aware of…”

  “You did not tell Mermi anything important, I trust?”

  “No, Brother, I had the records mostly to myself and did not see her while I was there, just the librarians. They must have thought it odd, especially the speed at which I read, but did not remark. Nevertheless, there have been reports from various sources, but under various names…the records are old and to learn all the old tongues will take me some time longer.”

  “Well, that proves he is not immortal!”

  “Perhaps, but even so, despite those differences the stories bear remarkable similarities. A man of power; golden, butter, yellow, straw, sandy eyes; a hero to people in all the stories. This man – or men, granted – could be anything, otherworldly beast, a man who takes other men's face through the ages, or just remarkable coincidence. What a remarkable significance, though.

  “Thirty-seven definite examples of one man at portentous events throughout our history. Five thousand years ago Hirith Gorlan, Master Ordanal at the time, proposed the theory of an 'eternal saint'." Klan was deep in concentration again, inner glow hot against his skin. "Saint in our language of the time, interestingly, was 'daenmor'.”

  “Opposer?”

  “Yes. The old Hierarchs use it still.”

  Klan looked out of the corner of his eye at Jek.

  “He surmised that this eternal saint was one man, throughout the ages described as a meddler. The man would be there, fighting for good – but on each occasion the man would be fighting against the Protectorate. I can see the links, Brother. He or they fought against us. Accounts of human tales call him 'Vigilant', the Sturmen referred to him as 'The Eyes of the Sun,' the Archive contained reference to 'End Watcher'. An older account says he has the power to burn, use animals, fly even. There is a list...I will compile it for you to look over. Most are ridiculous and surely impossible even for us. But it sounds like there are humans with powers like our own.”

  “What happened to Gorlan?”

  “Hirith Gorlan was discredited, for two thousand years after his death called by historians 'Gorlan the Immortal Fool' in reference to his theory. No mention is made of the theory again. But – ” Klan held up a finger “ – during that time the Archive records, which we now have, mention him seventeen times in their part of the world. I think he fled these shores and worked on Sturma, and then came back here.”

  “Good. Thank you for your report.” Jek was becoming more and more concerned that everything was transparent to Klan. “You understand as I do that for these two to live would mean the return might not take place. I believe it is time we called the Speculate for this. It is too early yet.”

  Jek's cane rapped the stone road. He swung it in his hand as he turned to walk back. Klan followed him and continued. “I am sure with the power of the Speculate fully behind us we will find them, and the lock, the red wizard. The scrolls merely confirm what we already knew – he is in the frozen north on the continent of Sturma.”

  “Well, that is good news.”

  “Ah-hgam. There is more yet.”

  “What is it?” Jek's hood cast his face into deep shadow.

  “I think there is much more than one ‘Sard’. I don't think he is an immortal. I think the Order of Sard is not one man, but many that live in the same time. There are other reports, reports that no one has picked up on, of armoured swordsmen, who ride great steeds. They are the warriors of legend too, and in many incidents work against us also…” He stopped and looked Jek in the eye. “They, too, have yellow eyes.”

  “Why have I never heard of th
is?”

  Klan saw no deceit there, but how easy was it to fake for men like them? He may be favoured but it was still sensible to show caution when dealing with Jek. He saved the best for last, just to see the expression on Jek’s face.

  “We have only looked to the mystical. We have ignored most other history. These warriors – if the two are somehow connected – have no magic, they are swordsmen. Great, no doubt, but nothing more than swordsmen. The Protectorate has long been focused on preventing an awareness of magic among the humans. We are more powerful than the Hierarchy, yet even we have overlooked the Sard and been beaten so many times…and perhaps once more… While you were away, the lady Tirielle A'm Dralorn has been taken from a caravan headed here. Several of the guards reported. They were tortured for their cowardice in running away, but we rewarded them for the message. They also claimed that the men who took them were armoured swordsmen...”

  Jek began to walk with urgency. Klan smiled and followed.

  “Wipe that smile off your face, Brother.”

  The smile disappeared as the sun set. Klan decided to keep the news of the swords, and more importantly the seer, to himself.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  In the cold black expanse of space light snuck through. Even the overpowering dark could not hold back the suns’ light.

  A million suns spoke at once.

  Messages contained in light travelled the wide empty seas between solar systems, between galaxies. The universe watched their passage with interest and read the fear there.

  It passed the messages on. Even a universe could die.

  The thread of fear clung to the words and grew with each new telling. Terror leapt from the dark abyss and clung to each letter as it travelled by. The darkness tried to bow the waves but they carried on, pulling the dark space behind it, unstoppable, dragging it. The light pushed through the black wide oceans between the inhabited spaces of the universe, outside time and cold with loneliness. The messages passed the birthplaces of their creators, the empty husks where once great thinkers were no longer present, the absence there greater for their having been. The stars mourned the death of their kin and spoke in hushed tones across the vast expanse. Empty playgrounds were all that remained, comets gliding listlessly, looking for a home.