Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 28

  “Yes, Guryon. The lady. You know her scent. She smells of one you found before.”

  “Guryon dislike finding.”

  “But it is part of your skill, is it not?”

  “Yes.” The Guryon hesitated. “But Guryon find. Nothing to take back.” It looked pitifully sad at that moment. Jek’s cold heart almost forgot itself…almost forgot why it wanted to take one back. Caution was needed when negotiating a crossroads.

  “Do I not pay you in companions? Always?”

  “True.”

  “Then find her for me. When you go back, I will reward you in kind.” He bowed his head slightly to indicate that the meeting was over. Through his eyebrows he noticed the Guryon looking at the bolt he held in his hand. He looked up, as if surprised.

  “Is there something else?”

  The Guryon shifted to the right. Then the left. Finally it asked. “The weapon?”

  “Oh!” Jek feigned surprise. “The weapon! I am so foolish… here I hold one of the five bolts and I forgot completely about it!” Guryon’s eyes (he thought they were eyes) shifted and Jek thought he had played it too far.

  The Guryon only said however, “When I find the lady, I will have the weapon?”

  “Of course, of course. That was the deal. That is why I have brought one of the bolts. For you to have. Good faith.”

  Guryon shimmied in the air of the room and all heat went. Jek realised it was laughing. ‘Good faith indeed,’ it said.

  Only “Guryon thank you” came out as words.

  Jek threw the bolt underhand at the Guryon. It disappeared straight through.

  He was prepared to pay. The service was outstanding. But, he thought to himself again as the Guryon bowed and imploded from the mortal realm, ‘keep the first price small, always small’.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Fenore had called Tirielle and the Sard together. They waited expectantly for Roth’s mother to speak. Tirielle fidgeted. Fenore began.

  “It is time I told you what I know. I feel you will need knowledge where you go.”

  Tirielle and the Sard sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the vast chamber. Tirielle was eager to see behind the veil. She listened raptly to the giant rahken.

  “Now the seer is awake it is time for you to leave. I know the path you must take, and the girl is a part of your future. The rahkens have prophesies, unlike the Protectorate and the Sard, who only deal in legend.”

  Tirielle sat forward. As much as she did not want to leave, she knew she could put it off for no longer. Her belly quaked at the thought of facing her fears again, but, she told herself sternly, I am the daughter of Dran A’m Dralorn. I will face my fears.

  She was, she understood, still afraid. The fear would not stop her though. With Roth and the Sard by her side, she would stand tall.

  Fenore smiled at her, as if the giant rahken could somehow understand her anxiety.

  “The road ahead will be hard, but with true companions, you can prevail. Now, to what you must know before you leave. That the three must come together to awake the wizard, you all know. Only the red wizard can stop the return. But for the wizard to awake, the time must be right. The rahkens know this because of an ancient alliance with the red wizard. Our pictures do not remember the returning race’s true name, but we call them the Sun Destroyers. They are an evil race. They are the Hierarch’s forebearers. They are to be feared.”

  All present listened intently.

  “This is why I bade you to come before me. I must tell you when. When the rahkens see a change in the suns, the wizard shall awake. The suns already show their fear. The time is soon. You must take Roth with you. It will know when the time is right. But we know not where the red wizard slumbers. Perhaps in Beheth you can find the answers. But I do know you do not have much time. You do not have the time to take passage by sea. Time will be measured in months, not years.

  “Tirielle, keep Roth by your side, always. I see that you must do this. My friends, Order of the Sard, I see that all of you will not accompany Tirielle on her journey. But however many of you remain behind, you must keep the seer alive. She is essential to those who would fight the Protectorate. Heed my words well, all of you. This we have seen.”

  Tirielle looked around at the nine members of the Sard gathered around the rahken. They all looked grave. Tirielle pushed her fear to one side. The time to fight the Protectorate was at hand. She was ready.

  She caught Fenore’s eye, and the old rahken nodded to her, kindly.

  “Now, I have spoken for long enough. You must dally here no longer. It is not safe for you. I fear on your journey there will be no safe haven. Be wary always. The Protectorate has many eyes. Prepare yourselves. You must leave tomorrow.”

  The Sard rose as one. Tirielle stayed behind. She was eager. She would not sleep tonight.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Renir, Shorn and Drun arrived outside the pallisade at Runtor, below the northern pass of the Culthorn mountains. They were greeted by the sight of vines of smoke creeping up into the sky. The coming night air solidified the vines and the wind pushed them into bending tendrils. Ash butterflies flew high on the warm air and fell back to earth tired, to die on the hard packed dirt underfoot. The light from the fires around the fort glowed orange, and with no cloud to hold it down it floated off, diminishing into space among the twinkling stars. The night would be chill.

  All was silent until they got closer, when the lonely archer atop a tower announced their arrival to his captain (after a few shaky moments on his part). The horse’s hooves clopped against the trampled earth.

  This was too much. This had not been part of his training. Shorn took in the results of his labour, his accusation – no doubt Drun would think of this sight as catharsis for Shorn’s soul. This wasn’t his fault though. Shorn had not started this. It was too big.

  Shorn looked at the extent of the battle and the scope of the carnage. This was no skirmish. It looked like a prelude.

  The defenders had been hit hard. Bodies still littered the floor around the wooden fort and small fires persisted all about. Palisade walls were bent back against their own pilings in some places, listing dangerously inward where the weight of the Draymar attackers had pushed it in. The wall had held. Some of the bodies of the dead still bowed to it.

  The majority of the attackers looked like Draymar, the mismatched armour and variety of arms an easy giveaway. Shorn did not need to see faces to know their race. He had trained the Draymar, but from looking at those faces which were turned up and still intact he knew these were not any raiding party that he had seen. He was glad they were not the Draymar he had trained.

  He took in the layout of the fort and the death all around it. They still stood a chance. The defenders may even have fought too well, he though, despondent. The Draymar, for all their purported logic, loved a challenge. The attackers had come for a slaughter and found a game opponent. They would be back.

  “Do we have time for this, Drun?” asked Shorn.

  “We will make time for it. Time is not as important to your journey as preparation.”

  Shorn scowled. This looked like a lot of preparation.

  They took their horses into a courtyard wide enough for a hundred horses. The fort was defensible, or it would have been, thought Shorn, as he entered through the open front gates, but there were too few men to hold it; barely half a garrison remained and all the defenders looked sooted and soiled and above all tired. He looked around and felt sad for the refugees inside, the women and the children…he feared they would all meet death early tomorrow.

  The captain was walking toward them. As they drew closer they saw the wrinkles of the sun had yet to reach the captain’s eyes. He was but a boy.

  “Welcome, travellers. I fear we cannot offer our usual sup today,” called the captain in a smoked voice.

  “We are aware of your plight, Captain,” called Drun, coming closer. “Please allow us to offer our a
ssistance. I am a skilled healer, my companion,” he pointed to Shorn, “here has some knowledge of both warfare and of the Draymar, if he can be of use. His name is,” Shorn held his breath – he never knew if Drun was about to drop him into trouble, “Shorn. My other companion is Renir, who despite his fearsome appearance is unlikely to be of much use in a fight.”

  “Hey!” Renir looked hurt for a moment, then shrugged at the Captain. “Well, it is true. But I’m willing to lend a hand where I can.”

  “Well, friends are welcome. I believe we may need more in the days ahead. I am called Jermin. But I fear your timing may be fatal. This was no raiding party.” The Captain looked bitter and tired beyond belief.

  Shorn dismounted. “Well, they’ll not attack again today. It is not their way.”

  “Strange bunch, then. They could wipe us out if they did. Still, plenty of time for that tomorrow, then.”

  “When it comes to the Draymar always think logic, Captain – well, almost always – and you’ll begin to understand.” Shorn brought out his crutch, causing the captain’s eyes to rise, and led Harlot into the fort. The others followed and walked their horses alongside the Captain.

  Heavy logs had been cut into spikes to make the walls. Shorn worked out how high they were – the ground was lower outside, dug down. The barrier was too high for a man to scale, and he had never seen the Draymar use a ladder. If they saw no use for something they would not use it. It didn’t mean that they would not change their minds.

  Shorn and Drun both looked at each other – the fort a shambles and the men were resting when they should have been preparing for tomorrow. The Captain seemed very wet behind the ears.

  Shorn continued. “They won’t come in the dark because it’s too difficult for them to see to loot. If they didn’t kill you all it would be a waste of death as they assume you would strip the bodies before them. They do not come in force because they are unsure. They will grow bolder and they fight for things. Nothing more.”

  The archer’s tower was on the wrong side of the fort, before the gates facing to the east. It was effectively useless – the Draymar would come down from the mountains to the west. He wondered if the architect was also responsible for the rubble grave at Naeth.

  There must have been only fifty men to hold the walls that surrounded a barracks, toilet, armoury and a mess. It was a strange place to put an armoury, but Shorn thought it could prove useful. The refugees that remained cooked their own food with fires in the central clearing, effectively blocking the thoroughfare for any soldiers needed to leave their posts and reinforce another wall. The camp was roughly square, and the corner to the southwest still burned. Shorn sighed. So this is the price I must pay.

  “What was that?” the Captain looked at Shorn.

  “Nothing captain. I was thinking aloud. If I may make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “We should move those people to one side of the fort, to allow the archers to cross. And put the fires out, apart from the one in the middle. Braziers are fine for guards on post tonight but not tomorrow. The Draymar will not burn us, no sense in doing it ourselves.”

  The Captain eyed Shorn thoughtfully. “How do you know that? They burned us before.”

  “They burned areas that would not spread – look, Captain – there, there…easy to put out. No, I suspect the fires were merely a distraction, another means to make your men panic. They may even want to take the fort for themselves.”

  “You sound well versed in the art of war. The fires will be out soon – I have a team working to bring water from the well but the well is a long way off.”

  “Who built this place! Did they not think to build it on the well!?”

  “Well, as you say, it is indefensible but it was build in times of peace by builders, not warriors. We have known peace for so long.”

  “And war for longer before that. Regardless, while the men are gathering water we should gather a team to heap earth on those fires. Forgive me for saying so, Captain, but any fighter would have done that already. And you should really value the water more – we may need that to drink if we become trapped for days. “

  The captain looked set to take offence but Drun intervened, “Forgive my friend, Captain. He can be blunt. I take it you are not a fighting man?”

  The captain sighed and rubbed his sooty face. “No, he is right. The Captain of the Guard was killed. It is a stupid situation, but the army rules that the next highest ranking officer takes command in such situations – I am not a captain of men but of things. I am just the logistics officer, the bursar. I know how many pies we have and how many flagons of ale but I’ve not killed a man in anger...” He drew a hand over his weary eyes. “At least, not until today. I fear the army has killed us all – I don’t know what’s best to do.”

  Drun patted the brave man on the shoulder kindly. “I am sure that you are doing your best, Captain. I would not like to interfere, but to avoid breaking the rules, perhaps you could take Shorn on as an adviser? I understand that the hiring of mercenaries is not unheard of in the Sturman army?”

  “No, in times of war we will take any assistance we can get. If you would?” He looked at Shorn hopefully.

  “There will be a small fee,” Shorn said, adding, “one that you could accept, Drun,” before Drun could say anything.

  “Very well then, I take you on as my adviser.” The captain led Shorn into the camp. “Forgive me for asking, but are you and your companions Sturman?”

  Shorn admired the captain’s tact; he had not even looked at Shorn’s scar.

  “Well, shall we say we’re one third Sturman?”

  “Oh. Oh..?” said the captain.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The air of Arram’s bowels was not still, but thick with floating dust. The books buried there slowly breaking apart, the skin that fell from the readers; the library had been so long the dust was part of the reading. It played with the words as they drifted from the books.

  Klan watched the readers. There were many skilled readers. His was not here. Klan could read. He could keep the whole of the Protectorate archive stored in his very bones. But he was not a reader.

  Still Shorn and the girl, Tirielle, eluded them. He put it to one side. His growing power was useless in the search. The Sacrifice and the Saviour were invisible. He had busied himself instead.

  Instead of worry he occupied his time by building the Anamnesors. Klan had planned for this a long time. It had begun before he even joined the ranks of the Protectorate. The bastard child, hierarch blood mixed with that part which was protocrat. They said he would never reach the Speculate.

  He had always known he would. Their snide remarks would turn to pitiful pleas soon enough. His finished force would rival the best.

  Now for the final touch. He had to choose the last.

  He wanted the seer but could not have her. As a man he enjoyed the wanting. All hierarchs enjoyed the wanting. They found it luxuriant. Klan, only part protocrat, full ascendant, was something else. Want was fast becoming personal preference and it just was not the same thing.

  Klan’s Anamnesors were strong and proud. He was well pleased with his growth as both a wizard and a leader in the Speculate. He was amazed at just how easily he had overcome any resistance from the other Speculate members. Murder between members was forbidden but this did not mean the hiring or persuading of assassins did not take place. Klan had not hired an assassin and would not. He wouldn’t pay to have someone else kill for him. He got all that he wanted with his wits and trade alone, sometimes he made use of the knowledge within his bone archive (which he found he could not always recall, but had to replenish from time to time with increasingly easy journeys inside) and sometimes he made use of his powers. The only bloodshed was of those who came against him.

  Klan’s division was making an impression. He had a team of three hundred men and women under his command, each painstakingly picked. Each was a master in their field.
The other leaders all worked on criteria, never seeing personally those under their command. The process was too unwieldy. Klan had found a better way. By picking each member himself, he knew his division was worth ten of the other leaders divisions. Some tried to hide their best away. Some like Mermi. It never worked.

  He left the balcony overlooking the library. The man he looked for was not among the readers. He closed his eyes and listened with his body to the turning of the leaves, dry coughs, the blinking of rheumy eyes. There, underneath the library – well, he was surprised. His growing talents were showing him new things every day. The old man was hidden away under the library. Such length they would go to.

  Under the library, Fernip Unger, a sickly, wizened protocrat, read by candlelight and guesswork. Klan watched him through the floor. When Klan had been in his Protectorate infancy, the ancient reader (old even then) had been there. He had known of him ever since working in Arram. He was always in the Library. When he had been burning the archives onto his soul the old man had been there.

  This was a man with a quest for knowledge. He would be perfect. Mermi could not refuse to let him go – the deal was set.

  Klan blinked.

  He appeared in the little underground room (actually, thought Klan, the library was underground, too – half of Arram was) behind the reader.

  He could see the trapdoor leading up from under here. This was where the forbidden knowledge was kept – it must be – he could see the outline of a badly concealed door and feel the dark and the draft coming from it. The Island Archive. All those secrets in there, secrets that never told...

  When he had time he would add this to his reservoir but for now he had to complete his team.

  “Can I help you?” Fernip Unger spoke without turning. His voice was dusty.

  The protocrat was stooped over a small desk. Klan moved round to see his eyes. They still shone. Nearly white they created their own light. Klan could see the words on the page dance out to meet his eyes. The pages of the worn book he was reading through were turning by themselves.