Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 27

  “No,” said Renir, “I don’t suppose you can.”

  A day later they woke and did their morning chores. Camped on the south of the river Shorn sat around the morning fire waiting for a breakfast of Gurnin and river grasses, worriedly glancing at Renir’s back as his plain companion – friend? – washed his face in the cooling river waters. The temperature of the water dropped as they neared the distant hills and Shorn could see Renir shiver. The Culthorn range petered out further to the north, but where they headed the mountains still stood proud.

  “I am concerned. He’s been screaming in the night since we left his wife behind. Do you think he is sound?” Shorn asked Drun while Renir was out of earshot.

  “I don’t know, Shorn. As you know first hand, fixing bodies is vastly different to fixing minds. It may be simply the shock, the sadness that he doesn’t let out.”

  “But he never really seemed that attached to her.”

  Drun shook his head softly. Renir was coming back. “It may have seemed that way but they shared a bond nevertheless.”

  Renir plopped himself down beside them. The rains of the last few days had made the grass luscious. The riverbanks were a glorious thick green, the river clearing as it ran over pebbles not mud.

  Shorn made to speak but saw Drun shake his head at him again. He changed tact midthought and said instead, “Well, we should be able to cross the river today. What do you say Renir?”

  “That sounds fine,” was all he would say. Shorn tried to involve him in conversation but eventually Renir stopped him. “Sorry, I’m tired today. I’d just like to be quiet for a while. Bad dreams last night.”

  Later that day Renir had worsened – he often spoke to his horse to the exclusion of his companions – and Drun and Shorn were at odds. Drun was implacable, but Shorn was prone to bouts of surliness…Drun was telling him things he did not wish to hear.

  “I had a teacher once and have no desire for one again, Drun.”

  “Perhaps he was not right for you anymore?”

  “Don’t be coy, Priest. I know you’ve been in my head. Please don’t pretend you know not of whom I speak.”

  “But I do not. When I was in your head I did not pry Shorn, that would not have been fair.”

  This made Shorn pause. “Then you do not know all of me?”

  “Far from it. I know of the man you speak, for I have been watching you some of the time. But I do not know your story, not the early part, leastways. I only found you when you came to Sturma. It wasn’t difficult then. People were talking about you from North to South. I know why you have had so many names. The burden of your misdeeds haunt you still.”

  “That they do.”

  “Well, I can help. I am not trying to master you, but to help you.”

  “That is perhaps the problem, Drun. I fear I need a master more than a teacher. It is my rage that I cannot control. Maybe the answer is a master to keep me in check.”

  “That is the beauty of the right teacher. With the right teaching you will need no master; you will be able to master yourself.”

  Renir had been riding off ahead, but turned now and waved at them.

  “Well, it seems Renir has woken up at last. He’s been all but asleep in the saddle.”

  “Something troubles him,” said Shorn.

  “Renir is his own man. I cannot claim to understand him in the slightest, for all the powers I have. Come, let’s see what it is. We can get back to our conversation later.”

  “I’ll look forward to it eagerly,” replied Shorn, mustering considerable sarcasm.

  Ahead, Renir had stopped on the crest of a grassy hillock and was waving frantically. Thud stood beside him on the hump. Shorn rose as best he could in the saddle to see what the fuss was.

  A crossing! Finally! And what was that?

  Next to it were people heading their way, on a caravan let by two Durmas, fat beasts ordinarily used for milk and skin. It was odd to see them called to service as beasts of burden. They were ill suited to it.

  The family riding on the cart looked as though they had fallen on hard times. All wore too many clothes in lieu of coats, lending them the appearance of creatures of more form. As they drew closer Shorn could see that they were just humans, and humans who had lived through bad luck from the look of it. The wagon they rode upon was torn of canvas and scarred of wood. As they came closer Shorn noticed the scars of war even on the children’s faces.

  “Ho there!” called a weary-faced man – the father.

  “Good day. You look in need of assistance. Can I help alleviate your burden?” Renir cried back in his friendliest voice.

  Shorn shook his head. Renir still didn’t think like a man carrying an axe and wearing mismatched armour. The weeks of travel and rough living had given Renir more hair, now dirty and sticking out at odd angles. His beard, full if a little weak on his jowls, meant all that could be seen on his face was his eyes. Renir didn’t think of himself as scary, but Shorn thought he would do the job. Especially as his recent aberrant sleep had turned his eyes sunken and pooled.

  Evidently, the caravaner thought so too. He pulled a wooden bow from beneath the seat with a smooth practised motion and quickly notched an arrow, which he pointed pointedly at Renir. He shouted, swinging the arrow back and forth to aim at all three.

  “You’ll take nothing from me, Brigands! The first of you to come closer I’ll take through the heart!” The arrow point was quivering slightly from fear, but Shorn could tell he’d be close enough for discomfort should the arrow fly. The children – he could see there were three now (one held a baby) bunched together behind their father. He wished it didn’t always come to this.

  Renir looked confused for a moment, then realised what he had said. He laughed insanely, which didn’t help, then said, “No! No! I am sorry, friend, I only wished to see if we could help. You seem to have fallen on hard times.”

  The man seemed to think for a second. Shorn and Drun waited silently behind Renir. “You look like brigands! We have nothing of worth for you! Let us pass.”

  Renir looked shocked for a moment. He looked down at himself, confused to see the body that looked back at him. He felt his face then, and realised he could be mistaken for a Draymar from this distance. He looked at his companions. Both raised their eyebrows knowingly.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “You have our apologies. If we leave our arms here, perhaps you would allow us to approach? We are not raider, sir, just travellers looking to help and hear any news you could spare. We will gladly share what little food we have for news. What say you?”

  The man stood, bow still aimed in their direction, and bent his ear to a child who must have been his eldest son. “Leave all your gear there. Approach shirtless – I’ve no mood on me to trust in strangers today.”

  Renir looked at Drun and Shorn. Drun had already taken his shirt off. He looked to the other two. “Well, come on.”

  “What if he decides to try and rob us?” asked Shorn.

  “Don’t be daft,” said Drun. He walked past the two men with his arms held to one side. His donkey stayed where it was.

  Renir shrugged and took off his top. Shorn shook his head and took off his sheath.

  They camped by the crossroads, the man eventually persuaded to let them bring their gear closer, while they spoke of the west. He had been reluctant initially but was warming to them. Now he seemed glad of the adult company.

  “What happened then, friend?” asked Shorn. Renir was making fast friends with the children. He ran around happily, throwing the second youngest in the air to her delight.

  “The Draymar are on the war path again. The border guard came and warned us to leave our homes. They said we could stay at the palisade at Runtor, just below the northern pass. Said we would be safe there. My wife and our three children left everything behind.”

  Drun said kindly, “But your wife is not here.”

  The man looked sadly at his children. “No. We were not safe. The first nigh
t in the fort we, and around forty of our neighbours, were attacked. The garrison was all but wiped out. My wife was killed by a stray arrow in the first assault.” He wiped his eye matter-of-factly, even though there was no tear there. “I told the children she had gone away. Only Taye, the eldest, asked. He’s a good boy. He waited until the other two were out of earshot.”

  Shorn bowed his head. “Then the Draymar come. So you escaped?”

  “Yes. The garrison told us to run when morn broke. They told us to take the country roads and head for Naeth. The Draymar are on the march. Word must reach Naeth.” He paused for a moment. “Unless…unless you would take it? I fear my family can take little more.”

  Drun looked at him kindly but said. “I am sorry for your loss and hardship, I truly am. But if the garrison is under siege then it is there that we must go.”

  “What!” exclaimed Shorn. “That’s madness. How do you think we will be able to hold back the Draymar with just us three?”

  “Of course not, the garrison will be there. Anyway, I’m sure it’s not all of them. We will go.” Drun spoke in a tone that allowed no argument.

  If the father thought it odd that the old man could tell this fearsome scarred warrior and have him listen…he reassessed his situation. He was no longer sure which of the three was more frightening. Regardless, he said, “Well, there were around fifty soldiers at the fort, around forty caravans at the start. Many died the first night, and they would have been assaulted again today. It is at least ten miles toward the mountain.” He indicated the northern mountains, hazy in the distance. “I do not know what you think you can do, but if anyone now is in need of brave men it is the Sturmen stranded there.”

  Drun rose. Shorn shook his head and rose, complaining. As he did so he asked the caravaner, “Can you estimate how many Draymar there are?”

  “Roughly a hundred.” The man rose too and put a hand on Shorn’s arm. Shorn let it stay there. He continued: “but that is a guess. Not many were killed that first night. I fear you will be killed if you go.”

  “So do I,” said Renir, approaching with the young child in his arms, who seemed perfectly content to rest there.

  Drun finished. “But go we must.”

  They rode hard for a time after they said their goodbyes. Haste was paramount. Thud, the heaviest, rode behind. The borrowed armour bashed against Renir’s knees unnoticed as he rode on. He was holding a fully-fledged conversation with his horse.

  Away from the father they spoke freely. They gave him a message to give to the Thane, too, and a pair of gauntlets that had been intended for the Lord of Renir’s region, the Spar, to use to petition the Thane of Naeth, should their previous messages have failed to get through.

  Shorn tried to ignore his friend’s ramblings as Drun explained to Shorn, going back to their earlier argument. “It is part of your teaching…”

  “I told you, Drun, I want no teaching. I have no need.”

  Drun ignored him and carried on. “Part of your teaching, Shorn, is that a good man is responsible for his own actions. There is a price for everything. This is yours.”

  “What price?”

  “The Draymar are raiding these lands because of your actions. Do you see that?”

  “Yes, but, what, atonement? Would you have me atone for every heinous deed in my life?”

  “No, I would not. But you must learn to take responsibility, Shorn. You must learn the consequence, not just the actions. This is part of the path to masterhood. Without learning this you will never surpass the need for a teacher or a master for you will not be the master of yourself.”

  Shorn thought for a moment. “Then if to battle it is, I’ll not be found wanting.”

  Drun sighed in consternation. “Not battle this time, redemption in parts.”

  Shorn shrugged. “You say redemption, I say battle.”

  Drun looked confused for the first time. “Do you even know what redemption means?”

  “Better than you, it seems.”

  Now it was Drun’s turn to seek. “I don’t understand.”

  Shorn laughed. “At last!”

  Renir spoke from behind them. They had forgotten he was there. He said to his horse. “We know what he means, don’t we Thud? He means…some actions…redemption comes in many forms. All take action, as does battle. One cannot battle without action. One cannot be redeemed without action. To sit and die and say I am sorry does not save the soul. Only to go forth and act…”

  His voice came out at an odd pitch. It sounded like a girl’s. Drun and Shorn looked to each other. Something was definitely odd with Renir. Renir saw them looking at him and said, “What? What did I say?”

  This time he sounded like a man with a beard.

  Ahead, smoke laid stark against the darkening night sky.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The Speculate, Jek Yrie, had no need of splendour. He avoided the finely crafted furniture and distant homes that seemed to call out and trap others with their beauty. Sometimes, he despised his brethren for their constant puling. They held such power and still they hankered after inconsequence and trinkets. Not for nothing were they called trappings.

  He was more inclined toward austerity, from his clothes to his room. The robes he wore were always plain and unadorned by any badge of office. His hair was a starkly cut and his face was narrow and sharp, too narrow to express a wide range of emotions; even his face was arrantly unadorned. Only his room showed any sign of his personality; his cluttered desk took one whole wall of the room. A mountain of papers, maps and tools obscured the gouged, worn surface. The shutter above the desk was eternally closed. Nothing useful was ever kept in the murky midden of old papers. This was the only face his visitors got to see – one that Jek had invented.

  The decor within the room did not suffer from lack of light; it too was plain and unadorned, designed solely for warmth in the winter and cool in the summer. His room also bore a bed and two comfortable looking chairs of wood that lured the sitter into uncomfortable positions as they struggled for purchase. The wielder of the might of the Protectorate could not afford to be off his guard, and comfort made him slack. In Arram, comfortable could get you killed. He practised pain nightly and carried his wounds silently. The pain he bore through his waking hours made him remember how he reached the level of Speculate – with great care.

  Jek sat with his back to the ancient black oak desk looking across at his guest. As the most powerful Protocrat on Rythe (perhaps the most powerful Hierarch, too, although he had no wish to test his theories. He was too important to die playing childish games) Jek could have almost anything he wanted.

  Almost. To his acute chagrin he was still unable to find the thorn in his side. He even seemed to be picking up more as he went along. Tirielle A’m Dralorn, the first to escape his snare, fleeing with the Sard. The second, Shorn, together with the Watcher. As powerful as Klan was he could not find them. As powerful as Jek was he could not find them. Their plans for Sturma continued apace with the Draymar rising. Tun, Jek’s subordinate, was weakening the Kuh’taenium – the ancient heart of the human race. The building, invested with the sum of all their knowledge by the Builders of old, would still fall. The timetable was set and they were too far along the timeline to fail now…

  And yet they failed at every pass.

  The Order of Sard with Tirielle, the Watcher with Shorn…it was past time for the Protectorate to awake. The Hierarchy need not know. None need know.

  Drastic times called for drastic measures.

  The chances of anyone finding out were miniscule. He sighed inwardly – to be at the top meant risking everything sometimes. The hiring of an assassin in itself could have meant the end of him. It was forbidden.

  Speculates did not retire. There was only one end for him should he fail. As an aspirant to the Protectorate’s highest mantle he had fast learned that death lurked around every corner. One thing Jek learned faster than the others was that you could avoid death…
if you knew where it was.

  Which was why he sat looking at it.

  The Guryon, the planes’ assassin, shifted unsettlingly before him. Jek could never tell if they were looking at him. Jek closed his eyes and listened to the senses of the other places while he twirled an ornate crossbow bolt between finger and thumb. This was the price. Start high and the Guryon will end the bargain with your soul. Jek didn’t have a soul, but there was still the principle of the thing – no man’s death was worth the weapon.

  Sibilance broke the air before the words, giving Jek ample time to attune his ears. The Guryon spoke all common tongues, but at once, mixed with others no mortal or immortal had ever heard. Hisses and barks and all manner of noise hung in the air, lost, until Jek found a language he understood.

  “Whyfyc..cakkll…Yiu..Yon?” The question was dissected by sounds Jek could not place. Jek played with the quarrel. The light caught on each of the fiery insects crawling there. The Guryon’s eyes were drawn to the glittering projectile. The Guryon’s colour changed to encompass all colours, even colours that did not exist on Rythe. It shifted between the worlds and Jek looked away. He pushed down his desire. He longed to see all the worlds. Just not all at once. The shifting sight of the alien – and familiar – landscapes that peered into the room through the transparent and somehow solid Guryon made even Jek feel nauseous. These sights were not meant for mortal eyes.

  “I have need of someone – outside – to carry out some work for me,” he began.

  “Who…Guryon…take?” Filtering the ideas that made up words took most of Jek’s power, even though he was ascendant.

  “No, no, not take, not this time. Find. I want you to find someone for me. I cannot see her.”

  “The Lady?”