Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 26
Shorn nodded. “Not to worry, Renir, first time I did it – he did the same thing to me.”
“Fair enough. Next time you can put your own damn shoulder back in. Did we win?”
Shorn pulled him up, and looked pointedly around at the bodies strewn across the cove.
“Guess so,” said Renir with a nod, and suddenly his legs felt very weak.
“Let’s get out of this wind,” said Shorn, and together, they walked to where Drun was waiting, unscathed, with a new pair of dead man’s boots on his feet.
*
Chapter Sixty-Four
How am I going to fight this? Reih thought to herself. They would come for her if she didn’t kill herself. But if she fled, like a coward? What secrets would eternity hold for a coward?
They were close. Not close enough to run though. So, the Protocrats wanted the Kua’taenium dead? They’ll not find it so easy while she could still change her fate. Come. Kuh’taenium, show me the scene:
Reih standing alone on a platform. Surrounded by her peers. Among them stood the Hierarchy. Above them stood the Protectorate.A seat. On a stall. A heavy spice smell hangs in the air. Heat. The Kuh’taenium expresses…gratitude? She turns to look and there, not a man, but a view.
A flash and she was back. The visions were stronger. She felt stronger. She looked out from the top of her owner and slave, looking out to the city below, across its great expanse, and up, rising up. The colours garish in some places, grim in others, lavish nowhere. The slum.
A knock came at her door.
“Enter,” she called.
Her bodyguard, Perr, spoke in clipped, military tones. She would have to have words with him. He was a new addition, but already his manner was grating on her.
“A petitioner, my lady. Should I send him hence? He has the look of a ruffian. He says you sent him a letter.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Send him in. And Perr?”
“Yes, my lady,”
“I will see him alone.”
“But…!”
“Alone!”
A sour look crossed his face, but he left her.
The door was left ajar, and an old, gnarly man with the strength of back to shame a century-oak strode in. Gurt entered with an ancient grace, and the first smile in such a long time broke Reih’s stony face.
Light, at last!
The builders are on our side now…I remember the old days. Give him your trust, and we may yet live.
The words were like a balm to her soul, as was the sight of Tirielle’s old companion.
*
Chapter Sixty-Five
It seemed a shame to waste it. There was a camp set up in lee of the wind, where a sparse coastal tree of a kind not seen on Sturma battled against the weather, stripped bare, perhaps dead, perhaps just dormant, like a bear slumbering through the winter, but Renir didn’t think this winter would ever end.
The wind pulled at the sides of the tent – they had taken the largest, and shared it together – but the snow was blissfully silent, piling up around them. In the morning they would have a job to clear the snow away, and head on their way, wherever that may be, but for now there was a brazier with hot coals and provisions. Evidently the Protectorate’s bowels were happy with the same fare as any man’s. There were cold meats, frozen but after some chewing tasty, nonetheless. Pickles vegetables floated in some liquid which did not freeze, despite the biting cold, and brandy sloshed back and forth between them, warming the insides even if the extremities remained a bit frosty.
They had left the bodies where they lay. With high tide, they would be carried out to sea. If not, they would freeze, be covered by snow and ice, forgotten for eternity in the wastes.
There was no one left to care. They had slaughtered them all.
Renir tried hard, but he found no compassion for them either. They would have killed him, and while he had compassion in abundance, he was no saint. He would save it for those who also loved. To him, they seemed more deserving.
Drun professed a different view – those who hated needed love more than most, for hate lived inside them, too, and tore away all humanity. Pity them, he said.
Renir was of a mind to put them down before they could harm the undeserving. He had seen enough good men worn down and killed by adversity and hate to try all in his power to save them that fate. He would shed no tears for the Protectorate. From what he knew of them, they had not even the smallest kernel of love within them to grow, no matter how much sunshine and water they were fed. They were born to hate, and malice. It was their sunshine. Creatures, in short, he could not understand. Neither did he have any desire to save them. They could rot in hell for all he cared.
He snuggled his feet closer to the welcome warmth of the brazier. Philosophy was not for him. He leaned toward the simpler understand of life. In short, he was becoming a warrior.
He had come to realise, as had Shorn, Bourninund, and Wen (although Wen seemed to entertain deeper thoughts on the subject, which Renir had trouble understanding but which Drun seemed to approve of, in some indefinable way), that in battle there was no room for thought, or compassion, or quarter. Strive to live, and fight for the man at your side.
Simply elegant.
Drun had made his head ache – to do good was the same, he claimed. It made perfect sense until you realised that not everyone held the same philosophy.
It tired him to think of it, so he took another swig of the jug offered him by Wen, and drained the last drop. Shorn popped the cork on another. Wen sat cross-legged, and delved into his waxed leather pouch which nestled against his hard gut.
“Is that wise?” asked Drun, not unkindly.
“It is my way. Even for these scum, I must commune. And it is essential, too. We have no other means to discover where they hailed from. We must follow them. As you had promised, your fellows have not arrived. We do not even know where to begin. As distasteful as you might find the grass, it is our only means.”
“I do not find it distasteful, not at all. I am concerned, though. It seems overly morbid to me.”
“And you seem soft, yet you battle well, Drun. A man is complex, and cannot be understood fully. I have my way, you have yours. Let it be at that.”
Wen spoke not harshly, but with a kind of respect that was earned in battle. For some reason Drun’s willingness to use his magic in aid of them had softened Wen’s stony attitude to the priest. It was a relief to them all. They could not afford division, not when their very survival depended on them working together, and risking their lives for one another.
Renir would have shed a little tear, had he not been afraid his eye ball would freeze.
Wen stuffed some of the sweet smelling grass into his pipe, and lit a small taper from the coals. He tamped the weed with a finger as he puffed, until the smoke began to fill the room – it was not an unpleasant smell, but Drun’s nose wrinkled as though smelling someone’s doings on his shoes. Wen’s eyes reddened, watering – not frozen yet, thought Renir. Smoked joined that of the coals, and Renir felt lightheaded, as he had in Rean’s Player’s Emporium (that night seemed like an age ago, but it had only been two months or so). Smoke swirled on the drafty air, and to Renir it seemed as though they were more than random patterns – he saw that Wen’s eyes were following the patterns, a distant look on his face like he was seeing something beyond.
The tiny scar on Wen’s shiny forehead stood out in sharp relief, a reminder of a misjudged head butt. Renir realised that the giant’s teeth were sallow, a peaky kind of yellow – no doubt a result of his addiction to the grass.
“Close your eyes, Renir, or you too will drift into places you do not wish to go.”
He took Drun’s advice, and while the wind seemed especially sonorous, he no longer felt adrift.
“You always did have a predilection for stupidity, Shorn…it sings when in presence of beautiful magic - it only whines near evil magic. You’re so accustomed to using it in battle you’ve never
seen it…”
“It takes a while to get where you’re going. Sometimes a mind gets caught up in the past, sometimes the future,” Drun told him, by way of explanation for Wen’s sudden meanderings.
Renir nodded in response to Drun’s whispered words.
“Will he talk like that all night?”
“No, just kept your eyes closed and listen.”
And as if in response to Renir’s questions, he realised that Wen’s internal compass had found what he was looking for.
“And where do you hail from? Where is the hunt centred?”
Renir kept his eyes closed, but he listened carefully for any information that might come of the encounter. He wondered if the other half of the conversation was being held with someone he had slain, or if he was a victim of Wen’s blade.
“You may as well.”
“Most of the dead don’t worry about the past. I don’t know about Protocrats, though. Perhaps they hold onto their hate,” said Drun, quietly, so as not to disturb the dark warrior.
“For the fire mountain? Is there such a thing?” asked Wen, then fell silent for a long time, occasionally breaking the silence with only a murmured ‘yes’, or to bark a laugh. It seemed the dead were garrulous.
“…what of him? How powerful is the blight?
“I have it. Thank you. Go in peace. Follow the path.
“Yes, the path is all there is. One day we will meet again. Do not stray. I wish that on no man…I hold no hatred for your kind. Take my advice. Follow the path.”
The smell had gone – the pipe must have gone out. Renir risked a glance at his companions. Shorn’s eyes were closed tight. His scar was bright red – a reaction to the cold, or the smoke, he didn’t know. He noticed that the hairs peeking out of Bourninund’s long nostrils were greying.
All huddled round the stingy warmth of the fire. Wen found another to commune with, a picture of formed in Renir’s mind. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut this time.
Time passed slowly, drawn out behind the storm, the time of the dead seeping through. The snow plains were blanketed in the silence of stone. Except for Sybremreyen. Or the Kuh’taenium. Or the groaning of Thaxamalan’s saw to the south, stretching up to cut the bough of the sky.
Outside, unaffected by the cold, the Teryithyr watched the tent, and the slowly swirling snow, with the patience born of winter.
*
Chapter Sixty-Six
Cenphalph Cas Diem wheeled his horse round and left Briskel, singing his doeful tune to the forest, at their backs. The song rose on the air, drifting lazily through the dark trees, laying unsuspecting night owls to an unaccustomed rest. Badgers slumbered peacefully beneath the earth – come morning their bellies would grumble and they would not know why.
The hounds at the Sard’s heels barked snidely in the distance.
For two days now, aided by the paladin’s subtle magic, their horses had kept a good lead, but they could flee blindly no longer. It was time to turn and fight. The bayers, the Protectorate’s war hounds, would be the vanguard, rushing ahead of the main force, tireless and swift as the wind; biting, snarling dervishes. They would not stop the hunt now they had the scent. It would be folly to continue a race they could not win. The horses needed rest, and watering, and while faster on flat, care was needed in the woods. A lame horse could spell the end of one of them.
Briskel paid no heed to Cenphalph as his companion departed, leaving him and Yuthran alone on the back trail. His singing continued, superseding the usual forest symphony, cajoling its denizens to sleep with gentle imprecations. His magical helm reverberated with his subtle power, enough to make those too close to him ache in the jaw from clenching their teeth too tight. But at a distance it was soporific, deceptively gentle.
The bayers’ howling was nearer, now. Perhaps a mile, and closing fast. Yuthran drew his sword and stood still, his legs and shoulders loose, should the bayers prove more resilient to Briskle’s song than the creatures of the night.
It was a ploy that would only work now that the bayers had a good lead on their handlers. Yuthran prayed that it would work. They needed to buy time.
A crashing sound broke the peace that now lay on the forest. The bayers had hit the edge of the wave of sound, and fought against sleep as was their nature. These might be a different breed of bayer than that which they had met before, but still they would not be able to resist the allure of sleep. One reached their clearing, foaming at the mouth, its wild teeth snapping on air even as its eyelids drooped. Another broke through the wall. They should have fallen as soon as they hit the waves of sound, but still they fought to reach their prey, snarling with the last of their energy. Even for bayers, such dedication to the hunt was unusual. Yuthran, approaching a hound, could see the reason of it now. He felt a tear form on his beardless cheek – their collars were spiked, but with the spikes pointed inward. Driven by scent, their blood up from the hunt, they could no more stop than rest. Only when they captured their quarry would their handlers release them from their pain.
The song continued, too beautiful now for the work that must be done.
Yuthran let his tears come as he drove the point of his sword down through the dog’s ribs and into its lungs. It would soon breathe its last. The ridge of bone protecting its heart was too thick to pierce. This slow, suffocating death was the kindest he could manage.
Still, as he slew the beasts, one by one, compassion welled in his heart. He could not hurt those that drove the hounds, and the slaughter seemed obscene, like killing children for the sins of their fathers.
The song covered the forest air. The bayers made no sound but that of the blood bubbling in their lungs.
Bayers could feel no gratitude, but Yuthran imagined one looked at him with thanks in its eyes. It was a kindness, and yet he cried.
The work done, Briskle’s song tailed off. The nocturnal creatures were slow to wake, but slowly life filled the forest once more. Briskle’s face was like stone, but still Yuthran put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. He did not feel foolish for the gesture, or his tears. They had no choice, but sometimes compassion has its price.
*
Chapter Sixty-Seven
That night they camped in peace, the first night they had not been beset by the howling of the bayers.
Tirielle knew, as did the others, at what cost that peace had been bought. Necessary, but saddening just the same.
Still, she did not feel safe, and found sleep elusive, even though her companions slept soundly. With so many hunters searching the woods behind them she imagined all too easily a sneaking sword finding its way into her ribs as she slept. The Protectorate had no horses, for a horse would not bear one, but they were tireless, and this new force, these red cloaked warriors, they were something she did not understand. That they could kill one of the Sard…she had thought the paladins invincible, perhaps even immortal. Her illusions were shattered, and whatever fleeting comfort she took from their presence was fading with the fire by her feet.
She pulled the cloak about her, and read one more time by the faint light of their small fire.
When the suns sing their child home, when the revenant’s heart beats once more within its breast, the time will come. Within the mountain of fire the beast has slept for a thousand years, yet its fire will come again. See the darkening skies, furious with its breath. What was once white will become black. Seas will rise and life will take its final gasp before the return. Only the three can lay the beast to rest, but in the final days hope will die and the suns will burn with shame no longer.
Her heart beat faster in her own breast. It was with luck that but a few paragraphs had been lost to the fire – most remained intact.
She laid the vellum on the table and wiped her eyes. It was not comfortable reading, however fortuitous the discovery had been. Whatever they did, whatever they were supposed to achieve, it would avail them nothing. Rythe would be destroyed, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
But the Seer told her hope could not die. At least they had a starting place. She could not afford despair. To lie down and die was not her way. She would fight her fate, as she always had. Together, with her guardians at her side, she would find a way. Now they knew where the wizard rested – in the mountain of fire – a volcano. Dormant, no doubt, but it would wake with the wizard. It would cover the world in fire and ash. She had read the histories, and knew that while the world darkened when a volcano erupted, it brightened once more.
She read the next passage slowly, as she had the night she found the scroll.
Three to come, three to slay the beast, three to wake the wizard from his slumber. His time will come again. Only the wizard is eternal. Blooded in the banishment, he will rend the world asunder. The mountain of fire will fear his coming, the suns will call to him and quiver in the skies.
Fear the wizard. Only he can bring hope afresh, and with it only death can come.
What man – for surely the author could only be a man, could imagine anyone would want to wake the wizard, after reading his prophesies? It was foolish. If waking the wizard was the only way to save Rythe, surely it would have been more prudent to call him the saviour, and extol his virtues. Not this…doom.
Hope would die…the world would be torn…the suns themselves feeling shame? What nonsense was this? Poetic licence, she hoped. If it was all hopeless, if one was as bad as the other, then what was the point? She could not believe that. She needed to believe there was a purpose to their quest, a chance to destroy the Protectorate. With the wizard on their side they could do it. Who else but a being of such power could work such a miracle, and save her land?