Tides of Rythe trt-2 Read online

  “Follow my lead,” said Disper, his voice gnarled but untroubled. He did not seem moved that his brethren fought without him. He was motionless on his steed, the three men’s horses snickering behind his, their reins loose in his hand. “If we fall, I am to take you to safety. We will wait here.”

  His tone brooked no argument. Tirielle did not feel inclined to argue. The fight had not left her, but she could see the sense in it. If the Sard could not defeat the enemy, they would need as much of a lead as they could get.

  Make it back, willed Tirielle.

  In moments the triangle broke aside for the mounted Sard. The charge was swift and decisive. Striking down at the Protectorate from above, heads were split and collarbones shattered. The enemy wore no helms. They had little time to regret it. Quintal’s horse wheeled among them, kicking out and barging aside warriors as if they were saplings to be trampled. The horse was a valuable weapon. There was much of warfare the world could learn from the Sard. Their experience, their unique talents, would be needed if she were ever to defeat the Protocrats. No warrior she knew could have stood against the Protocrats, who fought like Tenthers…if they had been born of demons. They were unbelievably swift. Had it not been the Sard fighting them…

  It was carnage, and Tirielle lost sight of j’ark among the havoc. Quintal’s horse forged a path through for the Sard — they no longer tried to hold the bridge, but fought their way to the other side, slaying Protocrat’s on each side, swords hacking into the enemy from all sides now. There was a moment when the Protectorate forces held, and then, like a cork from a bottle, like fell back from the bridge. On open ground the Sard could bring five horses to bear, and Roth, too, was a dervish among them. It never seemed to tire of the slaughter.

  The last of the soldiers fell to Quintal’s sword. A few had been knocked over the side of the bridge, and were floundering in the deep, filthy canal. Disper rode forward, and Carth and Typraille mounted. j’ark was revived and Tirielle’s heart leapt with relief. She loved him and she did not care if the emotion was not returned. She would be torn apart again, should he fall. She had only ever loved one man before, and she had thought her heart would wither in sorrow when he had died. She could not bear such a loss again. If only she could hold her love in, be cold, barren…but she could not. She was a creature of passions.

  He had to be helped into the saddle, but once there he seemed to revive a little. He looked like a beggar in his blood soaked and filthy cloak, compared to the Sard in their shimmering white cloaks, but his head was held high, and even with his pale face she thought him the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

  But there was no time for fancy.

  The Sard wheeled. Ordinary tenthers appeared, if tenthers could be considered an ordinary threat, streaming out of the alleyways and thoroughfares of Beheth’s city streets. At least they had been distracted, searching the west of the city for Roth. The eastern gates should still be clear…

  Tirielle noticed how quiet the city was, as though it held its breath. She did not blame its people. If she had any sense, she too would be cowering in the safety of her own home. She heeled her horse and followed the Sard as fast as her mare could go.

  They rode hard, horses flying over the cobbled streets of Al’rioth Avenue, down into the east road, heading for the eastern gates. People were beginning to stream into the city at the gates, unaware of the battle behind them. With many a cry of ‘make way!’ and ‘move aside!’ they broke through, bewildered people leaping clear, only to land hard on the flagstones that lay on the eastern road. A wagon turned ahead, and the Sard’s horses cleared it in easy jumps. Tirielle’s own mount was already lathered, but she put her head low and let her have her head. She felt the mare’s muscles bunch underneath, and with a great whoop she was clear, the great east road before her.

  Her horse was urged on by fear. The mare could sense the wrongness pursuing them. The Protectorate did not ride horses for good reason — horses hated them.

  Suddenly they were through the gates. To the north, Tirielle saw there were more of the red-robed warriors streaming toward them. She made out a wizard among them.

  They were finished. She felt despair rise up within her, threatening to buck her from her horse, but she was stubborn. If the Sard would not give up, neither would she.

  The wizard raised her hands, shouting an incantation to the sky. An unnatural darkness fell around them, the air thickening. Her horse seemed to slow, even though she could still feel the mare labouring beneath her. Then a shaft of sunlight broke through the sudden cloud, lighting her way. It covered the Sard and her with its beautiful, cleansing glow. The cloud, and the Protectorate, fell behind and they burst into clear sunshine. Disper came alongside her galloping horse and touched its flank. The mare bucked and sped on with a new lease of life. Trees blurred as the horse ran.

  They were free!

  It almost felt like she was flying. j’ark pulled alongside her, and Dow broke the horizon. The day brightened.Then Tirielle heard the howling from behind. The harsh barking of the Protectorate’s warhounds followed them as they reached the temporary safety of the woodlands.

  Bayers on the loose. Would it ever end, she thought with tired anger. With a look at j’ark, swaying on his stallion beside her, she wondered if she wanted it to.

  There was so much to live for.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Carious and Dow shuddered, sending waves to their last son, the remnant of a bastard people. They come, they said, arise, they screamed, and under the frozen earth and ice the revenant stirred, hearing the messages. Something started within its fearsome breast, a vision of a land it had never known grew in power and its limbs trembled. It awoke, sore, confused and above all angry.

  Its slumber disturbed, it raged against the chains that held it. It stretched and snarled and tore at its breast. From within, a feeling grew. It had not the intelligence or wit to understand what stirred, but long dormant, this felt like spring. A whispered drop of rain on a parched arroyo…an ancient member stirring with forgotten heat suddenly rushing through the blood…a tremulous first beat of a new heart…

  And the vision came in floods, searing it deep within. A distant past, or Rythe’s future, laying in wait among the vast wastelands of the stars.

  A sun burning with bright fury. Barren land, scorched clean of life, fading to yellow, then red. Dirt turned to dust, blown on the desolate winds. Where once deep seas flowed and ebbed, bringing with them food and life, commerce and piracy, adventure and exploration, nothing remained but towering mountains, no longer submerged to pointing in accusation at an uncaring sky. Crevasses and trenches that led to the deep now let forth the planet’s molten bile, bilious gases joining with the poisonous air that flows on the frightful winds.

  Light turning to white, bleaching the landscape. Life had long fled, but its legacy remained. Sad monuments, reaching to the burning skies. Stone follies crumbling under the heat, sand and dust pulling them into a dry, loveless embrace.

  Nothing remained, except the memory of the sun. A pale dead womb in a cold grey sky.

  The revenant saw the vision of the past — the vision of a future yet to come. And in its wailing, in its violent terror, it tore the chains that bound it, and screamed under the earth.

  Above land, where mortals toiled beneath the suns, its cry was heard. The revenant was awake, the warning was in the earth, and sky, blown on the wind. It would allow them no more sleep. While it had slept, beneath the earth’s cold hands, they, too, had closed their eyes. They had forgotten.

  Now, they would remember. It would show them what was to come.

  Chapter Sixty

  The ground trembled beneath Klan’s feet, a slight shock, nothing more. It was not uncommon for the grounds to shift in the south lands.

  Nonplussed, he set to his work. It had put him off his stroke, he saw. With a small incision, he corrected his earlier mistake as well as possible, under the circumstances. It was at the periphery, and cou
ld easily be covered, should it come to that.

  “Such luxurious hair. It is a shame that it would outshine the others. I cannot make them jealous. None must stand out, none must be made to feel inadequate. Such a delicate matter, but you will understand. Harmony must be preserved.”

  He smiled kindly into the staring eyes. The eyelids drooped as he pulled the forehead forward, but he could read the terror there. Iraya Mar’anthanon had failed her masters, and for that he was performing his task while she still lived, but he felt little rancour.

  A small tremor underfoot made his blade slip again, and he slipped while undergoing a delicate procedure around the left eyelid, causing him to nick the eyeball. Viscous fluid seeped forth.

  He swore roundly.

  “I wanted you to watch. To see yourself being born again, to see yourself as you will live in eternity. But no matter, you still have your other eye.”

  He resumed his work, cursing the shifting floor.

  Eventually, Iraya was devoid of all pretence. A pure, expressionless mask was all that remained, held proudly in Klan Mard’s delicate fingers.

  “There,” he told her. “Isn’t that better?”

  Terror filled eyes stared out of the motionless travesty of a once beautiful woman skull, bare of all other expression. Even terror was purely assumption.

  What else could she feel, her pride held before her flaccid, in no mirror’s flattering silver, but in her last lover’s embrace?

  “I have given your human beauty life eternal, despite your failure. Now, I am feeling kindly disposed toward you, considering your gift to me.”

  He smiled into her eyes as he pushed the dagger slowly into her breast.

  “Thank you,” he told the corpse. He set about arranging the body for the other nobles of the city to view. He would have no more failures. When he had finished, the braided hair had become a beautiful flaxen necklace, which he placed around her neck.

  He called the first of the nobles out to his tent. It would be a long day, this lesson, but he was learning patience, and it was a poor master who stinted on his servant’s tuition. Who could he blame for any further failures in Beheth, should he not do his utmost to ensure his teachings were taken to heart?Still, he thought with a pleasurable tingle as the first noble fainted dead away, his bayers hunted, he had his fill of terror, and he took such joy from teaching.

  A good teacher always learned as much as he taught.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The rain that had begun the day before continued all night and into the morning. With fresh urgency Shorn and his companions boarded their vessel, making their farewells.

  Poul stood with a sullen, thoughtful expression on his face as he watched them embark on the latest leg of their epic journey. His arms were crossed against his chest, his long hair plastered against his forehead. Shorn watched him from the boat, which nestled on the magically becalmed seas like a mir in breeding season, cosy and comfortable on the gentle swell of the waves. The wind caught the sails and the boat leapt toward the distant and frigid land.

  Gradually, the sight of his son diminished, and then before long the gargantuan island-ship fell from sight. Only then did Shorn turn his attention from the past to the future. He left the stern and headed to the prow, where Renir and Orosh stood rocking in the growing swell.

  Orosh was staring intently at the seas, willing the sea before them to allow them to pass peacefully. He seemed to bear them no ill will. If anything, he seemed somewhat embarrassed by their capture and imprisonment. He had volunteered to take them ashore, despite the pain proximity to land brought a seafarer.

  They were heading for the eye of the storm.

  “It looks like a big blow is setting in,” called Renir over the growing wind. “Old seamen say you can tell a deep sea storm from the colour of the skies — like a day old bruise.”

  “Yup,” said Bourninund, hawking into the ocean. “I hate the rain. Too many days and nights soaked to the bone on Drayman battlefields. Sticks the seams of your arse together if you sit in the mud for long enough.”

  Renir nodded at that, thoughtfully. He could imagine it. Storms were not to be taken lightly. Already it had rain solidly for a whole day and night. But this was something else. On the horizon he could see giant waves, five times as tall as the boat. There were no gulls. The wind was gusting, snapping the twin sails against the masts with an ear-rending crack. Even with the seafarer’s magic it was a storm to level mountains. Renir thanked the gods, quietly, that such storms were rare on land.

  “How long till landfall?” asked Shorn, wiping the salt spray from his moustache.

  Orosh did not turn his attention from the sea — a break of even a minute would capsize the swift boat, or worse, tear it in two. “Hours, at least. If not a day. In this storm, with these waves…and ice floes yet to come. As we near land it will seem like forever. We’ll have to slow to a crawl or risk holing the boat.”

  Renir strained his eyes against the rain and spume, squinting heavily into the midday gloom. He could see nothing but the rain, and the sea. The sky was a vicious purple-grey, the suns hidden behind the thick cover.

  “I will tell you when to get ready,” Orosh told them, and returned his full attention to the sea. Conversation failed, each man unwilling to break the seafarer’s concentration further.

  Renir looked at their supplies. They had dried fish and fruit enough to last a week. He did not know what kind of forage there would be in Teryithyr, but he imagined it to be sparse, ill-nourishing fare. If it was true, and the snows that had capped Thaxamalan’s Saw extended over the whole of the northlands, then sustenance would be meagre indeed. The vegetation in the Spar slumbered through winter — the lands north would never have seen a spring to awaken the ground, never seen a thaw or felt the life-giving warmth of the suns. He wondered if it would be dark, or glitter with a cold beauty like winter in the Spar.

  Would they survive in such a harsh land? He knew Shorn and Drun were set on finding the mythical last wizard, but how could they, when so many were against them? Even the lands and the seas seem to block their progress. Surely the growing storm was sent by the gods…it could be nothing else. The sky was an unnatural colour, and even as Renir wondered at the evil hue of the billowing clouds, the rain turned to stinging sleet, scouring his forehead and cheeks. It turned in an instant from uncomfortable to painful.

  He pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his face, and saw all but Wen do the same. Wen’s only concession to the eternal winter of the north was to wear a thick sheepskin jerkin which still left his monumental arms bare. Renir shook his head and left the prow to huddle against their pack, hoping for some shelter but only finding an unforgiving seat against his armour, jutting angles digging into the small of his back. At least his back was hidden from the bitter sleet.

  Their packs were large. They could all be worn on their backs, meaning that they would have to carry their weapons. Their sheaths had been lubricated by fish oil, a smelly but essential measure. Moisture would get into the sheaths and freeze, binding the weapons and making them useless in the wastes. It was something Renir would not have thought of, but metal grew cold quickly.

  Beside their provisions, armour, and weapons they had also been gifted heavy cloaks and mittens of seal skin, warm and proof against water. His boots were shoddy and he had not been able to procure new ones — the Seafarers had no knowledge of how to make them, as they had no need of them. When the winters came they sailed south, where it was, the seafarers had assured him, warm even when the snows came to the north. Renir could well imagine a land of endless sunshine. After all, they were headed to the frozen lands, and everything had its opposite.

  Bourninund approached, rolling somewhat against the motion of the sea that the seafarer could not quite stifle.

  “Share a little warmth?”

  “Snuggle up. We’ll play tents.”

  “I’m too tired for that. Shift a little,” he said, making himself as comfortable as h
e could against their packs. “Don’t think I’m some woman who needs a cuddle and conversation. I’d be more obliged if you stayed still and kept quiet.”

  “After the moments we shared? I’m hurt, Bear.”

  Bourninund grunted, nestled, and was soon snoring with a loud rasp that was torn away on the wind.

  Renir wriggled his toes in his boots and closed his own eyes. It would be a long wait. He never realised the sea was so big. He was bored of it already.

  Soon, his soft snoring joined Bourninund’s, battling against the whirling, crying wind.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It was a talent all mercenaries mastered, or they died quick tired deaths with aching arms. Shorn was pleased to see that Renir had learned the art.

  The rocking of the boat was growing. There were now two seafarers fighting against the roaring seas.

  Renir and Bourninund slept on regardless, huddled together in a battlefield slumber, their backs to each other for support and warmth. For two hours now they slept. Shorn could not sleep, for he had seen what awaited them.

  He was looking at the latest threat now, but dare not interrupt the seafarer to ask what it was. A small hill of ice, no more than a hundred yards to the right. There was no rudder on the ship, but the seafarers, by some magic he did not understand, steered the ship expertly and safely around each mound of ice, staying well clear. But the frequency with which they encountered them was increasing. Shorn understood that it meant they were nearing the wastelands. He felt increasing apprehension. He did not know what to expect, other than hardship unlike any he had experienced before in a life that had been harder than most. A land unlike any other, where winter was not only endless, but more extreme than the soft, easy winters of the Drayman plains or the forests of Sturma. Even in the fastness of the Culthorn mountains he had not been as cold as he was now. And the coldness that had already made his feet grow numb would only become worse. He gave silent thanks for the seal skin cloak he wore. Without it his whole body would be frozen by now.