Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Read online

  The soldiers looked ready. The caravaners were afraid but refused to run; Jermin could no longer spare an escort and to run had become at least as dangerous as staying. A couple of the farmers were former soldiers and were proficient enough in the bow. They would prove useful and, Shorn thought, we could use all assistance offered today. In the distance they could hear the Draymar battle cries as they neared the fort.

  At the west wall Shorn stood tall and turned his back on the Draymar. The air was warm now, alive with small noises. A lull in the cries came and they could hear the flitting of insects. The fort’s protectors looked up at Shorn, tall and proud. He stood tall now he wasn’t crouched over his crutch. He looked strange in his fine new brace and armoured hand mixed with the rags he still wore. Renir watched him. “I really should have a word with him about his image.” The girl’s voice again.

  “Renir?”

  Renir snapped back. “Sorry. I drifted off. What?”

  “Are you well?” Drun asked with concern.

  “I’m fine, Drun, thank you. I’ll play my part today.”

  “I know you will, Renir.” Drun looked at him thoughtfully. “I know you will.”

  On the raised wooden walkway around the palisade, Shorn drew his sword and rested both hands on the pommel in front of him. His voice carried well. His face still drew awe. His hair and beard were fierce.

  Renir thought between the two of them they looked like Drun’s disciples.

  “I’m no good at speeches and there’s no time,” began Shorn. “Fight bravely and we may see the day out.

  “Turn and run once and all will be lost,” he added as an afterthought.

  The Captain mounted the platform and stood by Shorn’s side. “So I’ll just say this one last time…any questions?”

  Everyone remained silent.

  “Then you know what to do. Be proud.” He raised his sword in salute to the defenders.

  “Pick you plot,” muttered Renir under his breath. He was beginning to feel somewhat unsure about his future. He hoped he would not have to read it in his own entrails.

  The thunder of hooves bore down on them as Shorn came down from the platform and spoke to Renir.

  “I want you to go in the tower and tell me where the Draymar are attacking.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  “Because. I’ll stay at the gate and defend here. I am not strong enough to climb ladders and I’m no archer. I’ll be fine on the flat ground.”

  “An archer can do the same work and it would be a waste of men.”

  “I’d rather you stayed safe, Renir. You do not know how to fight.”

  “I will learn as I go.”

  “You’ll not change your mind?”

  “No. I’ll not stand by uselessly when good people are dying.”

  Shorn looked at his friend. “Then fight by me. Have you given that axe a name yet?”

  “Not yet. I think I should soon. I’m beginning to feel like it’s mine.”

  “Well, if you live through today, I think you’ll earn it.”

  The battle cries of the Draymar rose to fever pitch.

  “Archers?” Shorn shouted to the lookout in the tower. The muscles on Shorn’s right hand corded and twisted on the hilt of his sword.

  “No! Pikes and swords, mainly.”

  “Then fire when you can archers!” he yelled at the archers in the camp.

  Archers were the only upper hand he had. A second later the first thuwa-d! sounded.

  Shorn ran to the wall. “This takes too long. I need to see first hand.”

  “Calm yourself,” counselled Renir. “They listened well. You must trust them.”

  “You sound like Drun.”

  “Brindle’s Horns, Sir! North and South!” cried the lookout.

  Arrows flew and Shorn could now see the heads of the first Draymar attackers briefly. Too few fell. Those on foot would be at the walls soon. Those Draymar with mounts were circling the fort already.

  He hoped the young captain’s memory and heart served him well at the walls.

  The archer, Shorn’s eyes above, went silent as he began firing.

  Shorn and Renir turned to the gate as the first hook came sailing over.

  Thirty or so horsemen and women had broken round the sides of the fort and each was pulling at a rope which ended in a vicious hook. The raiders were clad like Renir – all their armour was piecemeal. Renir’s fitted at least. The Draymar liked helms, though. This was good. A helmed warrior was slower, more cautious, because they couldn’t see.

  The Draymar horsemen urged their horses on, desperate to break the gates before their runners came and had to attack the walls. Shorn and Renir ran forward and hacked at the ropes. Some sheared through when Renir hit but some stayed, too, and his axe kept twisting in his hands.

  “Change your grip! Wrists in line when hitting, in a ‘v’ when blocking or pulling it back.” Shorn had to shout to be heard over the growing clamour. “Like you’re wringing it!”

  The gates began to tilt outward. An archer took a flaming arrow and waited. The ropes kept coming. The gates buckled and snapped in places, then…

  “Fire!” Shorn yelled and the archer shot the arrow, trailing smoke behind it, over the gates.

  A second later, gases from the bloated stomachs of the dead, primed with pitch and dried grass, exploded. Small popping noises could be heard on the wind.

  The horses at the gate panicked and ran. The gates came down as they did.

  Renir turned to say, “So this is my first battle, then?” but Shorn was gone. He was running at the horsemen stranded in the fire.

  For a moment the riders were in too much of a mess to do anything. Shorn moved slowly still on his wounded leg. It would probably never be the same but his movements were becoming more assured. He moved and knew exactly where each rider was. He moved only when he had to. All other times he used his sword, holding the centre of the clearing. He slashed at the legs of a horse, taking it down. Still no one swung at him. The smoke drifted across Renir’s sight and Shorn disappeared. Then he was to Renir’s right and a man hit the floor. A helmet flew in the air when the Draymar’s head cracked against the packed dirt. Renir saw that Shorn only used his right hand on his sword at first, but seemed to tire remarkably fast. The poison and his wounds had robbed him of far more than he let on yet still he fought. Another man fell before the attackers realised that Shorn was not a demon but a man.

  And suddenly hard blows were raining down on him. He used his gauntlet and sword in a shield overhead and lashed out whenever he was able. Each time he struck with deadly accuracy.

  Renir was rooted to the spot for what was only few seconds but it felt stretched, with him far at the edge. He only broke into a run when an arrow flew overhead and smacked into a hitching post at the front of the camp. His eyes followed it to where the archers were shooting. One of the Draymar footmen had reached the walls. He must have climbed over out of sight. Renir thought grand, just the one. Before he could advance his attacker fell with a heavy arrow protruding from his mailshirt.

  Renir started running to Shorn. He clearly heard a high scream coming from behind him.

  The high screams are the death screams, the old warrior had told him once. He had drunk a beer with his good hand and said, “I didn’t make that sound, boy. I made no sound when it went. It was too fast. When the doctor burned it, mind, I screamed then. A deep, growling scream. That’s a scream you can live with.”

  “Should you be so frank with the boy?”

  “He asked if I screamed, woman. No child should grow into this life not knowing what their parents know from the outset. Speak plain and teach them your mistakes and triumphs. Maybe that way they’ll grow into better men.”

  Renir remembered his mother, serving at the bar. They talked, the man and his mother. He and Renir spoke often, too. Renir listening to his tales, the big man laughing at Renir’s thick hands and feet. Always such a clumsy child. He remembered now. Listening to
tales while waiting to go home and not wanting to go.

  He remembered his mother then, coming across to bar to hug the man. “You’re well enough a man, Ulan.” She had said. He had a tear in his eye.

  A sword strike passed unnoticed to his left. Shorn yelled and Renir came back to himself. He flinched back at a horse’s tail that brushed his face. He felt so weak and the breastplate felt heavy after only thirty yards. A horse with no rider bolted forward into the camp, forcing Renir to jump aside.

  Then he was among them.

  Shouts and clanging metal and weapons, a spear breaking. Wet steam from a horse’s nostrils blasted his face. His legs shook and he felt like the axe would slip from his hands. Smoke burned the back of his throat. He was sure the axe would slip but instead he swung and it bit deep into a leg. As he pulled back it stuck. His hands came off the haft and he hit himself in the face with his gauntlets.

  A sword came down at that instant and glanced of Renir’s bracer. Shorn’s steel fist lashed out and caught another sword underneath as it sliced toward Renir’s neck, pushing it up and over Renir’s head. He turned and thrust upward into an attack, slicing through the unprotected belly above. Shorn blocked another blow over Renir’s head as Renir flinched. He shoved Renir toward his axe.

  “Always pull it out with the defensive grip!” he roared over the cries of the man he just gutted. “And never aim anything at your own head, you great plud!”

  Renir dove forward under a glancing blow that came off his backplate. As he ran through the melee he managed to knock one blow aside with his bracer, then saw the leg right in front of him. He took hold of his axe’s haft and wrenched it from the leg of the screaming man. He pulled as Shorn had said. It came free.

  And a sword pierced the back of his leg. He registered an arrow stop in the flank of a horse bucking beside him before the pain hit. He swung to see what had stabbed him and if he would live. As he swung he felt burning fire, the sword was wrenched free from the attacker’s hand. Sabre, he thought. Good, a clean blade. He changed his grip mid-swing so blade was in line with his attacker’s head. His body arched and the axe fell.

  It sank deep. Blood rained down.

  The defenders had fought all morning. Captain Jermin wiped away the sweat. The heat out here was unbearable. The chills would set in soon enough. For now the sweat still coated his skin.

  The flies from the river banks flourishing in the heat and putrification quieted and stopped their incessant buzzing. The chatter from the camp rose but the captain could hear none of it. Iron and steel still rang in his ears.

  His sword was bloodied and crusted in his hand. He could not let go and his knuckles were still white on the handle.

  The Draymar had been repelled. He looked at them waiting at the treeline. Fires were burning as they cooked their lunch. Five of his men killed. Fifty-two Draymar, from what he could tell. And yet he was supposed to be thankful it had not been more. That was what galled.

  Shorn struggled up the stairs toward him. All the defenders wanted to talk to this man, Jermin thought. It would be so easy for him to take that adoration, turn it to something else. Yet he asks for nothing but talks with all, although he kept the conversation short with each. Thanks to this man we are alive, Jermin thought. And his friend. He had made a difference, that was sure.

  “Well, Captain. We are alive.”

  Shorn handed the captain a bowl of vegetables with horse stew. They saved their preserves. The captain took it, but did not let go of the sword.

  “I hear you fought valiantly, Jermin.” Shorn had asked the soldiers how the captain had acquitted himself. They all seemed surprised to realise; the young man had fought with valour and led them well. “There is no need to eat your meal with the sword though. Look. I have brought a spoon.”

  “So many dead.” Jermin said, finally breaking the bond with his sword. The crusted blood cracked as the seal was broken. Jermin’s hand would not straighten.

  “Fifty-seven.”

  Shorn sat beside him. “Five of those ours. They all fought bravely this morning. Later, more will die.” He began eating.

  Jermin ate too. “I never wanted to do this. I am no leader. Not like you. You fight like a demon and kept us alive.”

  Shorn wiped some of the stew from his beard. “I held one wall and led a friend. You held three walls against many more and won this day. You are a leader, Jermin, whether you like it or not.”

  Jermin sat heavily with his back against the wall. A light breeze crept through and massaged the captain’s back with cool air. The change in temperature flaked some of the dried blood of his iron armour. Some of the tension drained from his face. “The next attack will be worse, yes?”

  Shorn nodded. “Oh, much worse. That was just a prod. They know our strength now. They’ll not muck about next time.”

  Jermin was quiet for a while and looked out over the camp. The medical tent was full at the moment. Fewer would die, thanks largely to Shorn’s friend Drun, who seemed to have a remarkable understanding for the body. If he was not adept with surgical implements, he could still guide their doctor to the source of the bleeding. “Your friend will be alright? He fought well.”

  Shorn shrugged. “I hope so, but the sword ran deep. Drun will tell him what he can and can’t do.”

  “Is he your leader?”

  “Hpf. I suppose he is. We always seem to do what he wants.”

  “I can hear that, Shorn.”

  “I know you can, old man. That is why I said it.” Drun let the flap of the medical tent close behind him and approached the two men.

  “I say what is for the best. Forgive him, Captain. He is bitter because he feels Renir is his responsibility. Which he is. But the wound will heal. Renir insists he will be able to fight tomorrow. I have strapped it heavily. The two of you will need some help tomorrow.”

  “Are you offering?” asked Shorn.

  “No. But I think Renir is learning fast. I would not take away his pride in the achievements of today. I cannot help, but the archers can.”

  “Yes, they could. We will use their spears against them, give them to the wall defenders to throw and release half of the archers to defend us.”

  “I don’t think you and Renir really need it. You don’t realise what you did. Still, insists on saying he is a weakling. It will help Renir’s mind, Shorn. He has been strange and this exhaustion may, oddly, give him some peace from his dreams.”

  Renir emerged from the medical tent and the men stopped talking.

  Drun called to him. “Get back and rest or you’ll open it!”

  Renir’s upper body was still armoured under the blanket wrapped round his shoulders but his right leg was naked from the waist, save for the thick bandage covering his wound. He called back. “Fine, you better come in here, though. I have an idea…”

  “You should be sleeping, you need rest if you are to fight tomorrow. Do you not remember the aches you suffered before?” Drun pushed himself up, sighing.

  “But it’s a good idea. Quick, before I forget.”

  Drun walked back wearily to the medical tent. “Alright, alright, what is it?”

  Renir lent nonchalantly against the doorpost. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ll need some grease…”

  The lookout’s cry came just as Carious broke over mountains still shrouded by mist. It would be a few hours yet till the dark brown earth turned to dust. When it did the temperature would be soaring.

  The air was still before the cry. It was the same after the cry. No one ran to the walls. They were too tired.

  Each expected respite. The defenders would get none.

  A defender came out of the medical tent (the second time – a rare occurrence) as the warning cry became more insistent. Occasionally, a whimper slipped from the tent. Renir didn’t remember all that the one-handed man had told him in his youth, but he was sure he probably had a rule for the noises the dying made. Renir tried to imagine himself making such a noise. He spoke
to himself at the tent’s entrance; and the dying whimper…

  There was no one there to hear him.

  In a battle such as this only the seriously wounded made it to the medical tent. If you could bear the pain and still swing you didn’t warrant attention. Not when other men were missing limbs and being carried to the tent by fighters struggling to carry a screaming man (high screams…) and hold the slippery mass of intestines that fell out, annoyingly, whenever they could. All of the guts pushed back in by the doctor had been dragged through the dirt at some point. The heat was not helping either. Wounds would fester quickly even though Drun and the Doctor were careful of infection. Unfortunately, Drun’s knowledge of salves and balms was next to useless when none of the ingredients could be obtained. That any were alive at all was a testament to Drun and the doctor’s skills.

  Still, they patched me up pretty well, thought Renir. He patted his bandaged leg carefully.

  The door flaps shut heavily against each other behind him, the metal bars that held the flap closed clashing dull and heavy against each other. Renir stepped out stretched high in the air, his arms way above his head, and yawned widely. He wore his armour but now one leg of his trouser was missing, exposing the bandage on his leg. He hobbled over to where he saw Shorn, waiting at the hastily repaired gates. There would be no time for fear.

  Renir took his axe from its sheath. He had slept for an hour or so with the axe digging into his kidneys and as he took stock of his injuries he thought he might have been punched in the back. As he limped to the broken gate, past his splintery inventions (an integral part of his earlier idea), he pulled up his shirt and tried to crane his neck far enough to examine himself. He couldn’t see a bruise. He figured even if his back was purpled he could still move. The other aches and pains drifted like clouds past the sun and did not trouble him. The doctor was a genius.

  Drun had tried to talk Renir out of fighting again. After watching Renir sleep he wanted him in his sight all day and deep concern was evident in his furrowed brow. Renir would have none of it though. His leg did not pain him.