Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  “The code demands justice for failure.” The men looked on, some turning to gauge Nabren’s reaction. Shorn’s only hope rested in Nabren’s pride – the man had no honour, but perhaps pride would stop him calling on the others to cut him down. He knew them, yes, but they were mercenaries, after all.

  “I charge you, Nabren. I will extract my justice now, from your flesh.” His voice carried well and some of the men shifted. Then Shorn’s palm, sweating and palsied, slipped against the smoothed wood of his crutch. Renir reached out to steady Shorn as he saw him falter. Before his hand could touch the man Shorn said savagely through his teeth, “No!” Renir jumped back a little at the ferocity.

  Shorn held his damaged hand low and flat and calmly explained, “I would like them to think I can at least stand unaided,” in a more reasonable tone. Renir looked a little stunned at the verbal slap. Then he remembered. Despite the time he had nursed this man he was still a killer, if the need arose. Perhaps, he thought…would he turn on me?

  Some of the men in camp laughed at the crippled man, not recognising Shorn from the distance. “Look, the cripple wants a fight!” One shouted to the other mercenaries. “Come now, there is no steel in you…” Shorn hobbled closer to distant whispers of “…that is Shorn!” and “Where’s he been?” and “I thought he was dead.” The whispers stopped as he neared and awed hush descended.

  “I will have my vengeance!” he roared at the men. “Nabren, you failed to kill me and I will take back what is mine. Return my sword now and I will make your death painless. Fight me and I will hound your craven soul to hell itself.”

  Nabren walked forward, drawing his/Shorn’s sword. “On your best day you could not defeat me,” the sword sang as it left its sheath, “look how she glows for me. She is mine.” His voice cracked slightly; with a hint of fear? No, Shorn thought. Not from Nabren De Sonbren. The man responsible for the sacking of Yotman, the burning and salting of Cabran farmland and the subsequent famine, not to mention the slaughter of Rondal Lohfi, his predecessor. The list was endless – most of the stories Shorn had only heard through a veil of rumour. That this man was a monster was undeniably true. That, and that there was no fear in him.

  No, the cracked voice was not fear. It was madness itself, the thoughts within tainted and warped by the medium of words. Shorn imagined even the man’s writing was shattered and slurred.

  “Do you know fear, Nabren?” he asked for time. Shorn could see Nabren’s muscles straining across his shoulders as the big man stretched and expanded. He heard a joint pop despite the distance.

  “Ha! I know no fear! You should know that, Mandolan. Or would you prefer I call you Shorn? You pick. It’s your death.”

  “Every man should know fear, especially those with cruelty in their hearts. Call me what you will, but Shorn will suffice, Raven. Or do you prefer Nabren?”

  The man’s chest undulated as he laughed. “Still, what’s in a name? I wonder, Shorn…how do you propose to fight me? With that stick?” Sniggers passed among some of the men. The smarter among them stayed quiet and waited.

  “I would fight you on my knees if I had to…” Shorn shrugged at the group in general, giving a wry smile that only Renir could see. “…I would appreciate a sword though.”

  “Someone give Pasmir a sword.” Nabren used the name Shorn had used long ago. A name he had never given to Nabren. A name he would never give again. It threw him into memory for a second, until a blade spinning toward him brought him back. Dargirre’s, a veteran among mercenaries, a man Shorn had shared battle with before. The wicked sharp blade dug into the ground at Shorn’s feet.

  “I’ve never fought a man on a crutch before – it should be interesting.”

  Shorn took the sword up in his right hand, swinging as if testing the weight. Everyone in the camp knew his reputation, but seemed to forget as they watched the effectively one-sided man swing clumsily, wedging his weight on his makeshift crutch as he swung too far and overbalanced to correct. Renir wondered why he was not allowed to help but it was alright for Shorn to make a meal of this.

  “How is that standing on your own feet?” Renir mumbled at the crippled warrior.

  “It’s not. I want them to think me weak and proud, not weak and reliant on a nursemaid.”

  “Nursemaid, is it?”

  “Now is not the time, Renir…” Shorn sighed at no one in particular. “Stay out of it…and…” Nabren was now in front of the mercenaries, walking toward the two outlanders, “if this doesn’t work, I suggest you run. Very fast. If you’re lucky they might not think you worth the chase.”

  “I’m no runner.”

  “Trust me Renir – everyone’s a runner in the right circumstances.”

  “They’ll catch me.”

  “Yes. They probably will.”

  Nabren roared. The grass at his feet cringed away from him and he ran directly for Shorn, sword raised above his head. Shorn was still practising swinging the sword.

  “Shorn!” Renir’s shout made him look up. He saw Nabren hurtling toward him, ignored him and looked back down, changing to a backhanded grip on the sword and examining the leather binding.

  “Shorn!” Renir’s voice now high pitched, “What are you doing!?”

  Shorn ignored him and listened for the stampede to get closer. He could feel the minute tremor of Nabren’s heavy frame pounding the dirt, coming closer, the tremor lessened by the soft grass. He changed his grip back, and held the sword across his body, the point angled down to a boot crusted with blood and dirt. Renir backed away unconsciously, taking in the instant. The sun warming his face, shadows long behind him, Nabren’s shadow drawing toward them stretched long by the setting sun to the west. The wind dropped but the grass parted before the mercenary, moving out of harm’s way. The men in the background lounged on swords, looking on in interest.

  Shorn felt the wind change as Nabren’s shadow head darkened Shorn’s foot. Time slowed to a crawl as Nabren’s sword sliced to his right, aiming for Shorn’s neck. Renir’s neck muscles persuaded his head to turn, his eyes following the blade. He saw Shorn stumble, drop the crutch and fall to his left. He saw the elbow rising, the sword in Shorn’s hand still pointing down. It looked for a moment as if he meant to take the blow on his forearm…time for Renir to think ‘No! you’ll lose you arm…’ then Nabren’s blow passed harmlessly where Shorn’s head had been a moment before, and Shorn lay on the grass to one side, his borrowed blade now pointing to the sky.

  Nabren ran on a pace and crashed to the ground with a dull thud. A wet crack preceded it; the half-cut thighbone snapping under weight. A shocked cry from both men, Nabren’s high and sharp, Shorn’s a muffled grunt as the thick crutch followed him to the ground and hit his wounded leg.

  Renir had only had time to move his head. Still unsure of what happened, his mind working out the meaning behind the pictures.

  Shorn dragged himself over to where Nabren lay. The mercenaries at the camp started to walk forward. Shorn saw none of this, the edges of his vision blackened, but he saw Nabren try to rise, look down at the gash across his thigh and the bone within, then notice for the first time Shorn crawling toward him. Nabren reached for the fallen sword.

  Spitting fury, Shorn threw himself at the bigger man and crashed a backhanded fist into his face, the blow lent weight by the sword still grasped tight within. A second crack knocked the man back to the ground.

  Throwing the borrowed sword aside, Shorn took up his own.

  It felt comfortable. It also shook violently in his hand. Struggling, he raised himself up on a knee just as Nabren pushed himself up again. Nabren looked through beaten eyes at Shorn.

  “You could never take me on my worst day,” Shorn said. Without warning, no hint of anger in his face, the sword in his hand leapt forward and through Nabren’s wrist, taking the hand.

  Renir, still stunned from the speed of the confrontation, let out a shocked gasp.

  “Who was it?” The tendons in Shorn’s neck stood out as he
snarled at the broken man, sword point now held at Nabren’s wide throat. “Stay down!” Drawing blood now. “Who!?”

  “Hnhnhn…” Nabren eyelids fluttered as the man tried to stem the flow of bright blood pumping from his wrist with his other hand. The severed hand lay in grass just behind. Renir noticed how the blood looked brown in the shadows of the approaching onlookers.

  “WHO?!”

  Shorn instantly reversed grip and plunged the sword into Nabren’s belly. The blow drove the man down to the grass again.

  “Tell me!”

  “Nghh…” escaped Nabren’s lips. His eyes jittered wildly, then sprang open as he spat at Shorn. Blood mixed with spittle hit Shorn’s face as he turned his head toward the man.

  “Shorn!” Renir final came to, “Stop!”

  “Shut up!” Shorn turned his head to Renir. Renir shut up. His suspicions were right – the man’s face was that of a feral hound. The scar stood livid against his face, reddened with exertion and still poisoned blood.

  Renir watched the scene play out in stunned silence. Shorn put his face to Nabren’s and hissed at him, foaming blood covering both men’s faces, a picture painted in the dying sunlight. The wind ran through the grass, pulling the words to Renir’s ear, “…death will take hours. By the time I’m done even Madal’s gate will be shut to you.”

  None of the onlookers would enter the circle and Shorn’s rage ran freely. The sword rose again.

  Renir was sick.

  The sword rose again.

  Finally, the words came. The man uttering them was unrecognisable as such. “A wizard…is all…I know…” Nabren’s dismembered body surrounded him. Shorn was slick with blood. Renir’s weary eyes gave in for him. Shorn quietened. “Where?”

  Nabren’s last laugh came. “Not here…is all I know…hnghngh.” Shorn’s sword rose. “Kill me. Bastard.” The sword rose one last time.

  Nabren’s head rolled to where Renir lay passed out. Shorn fell on top of Nabren’s remains, and he too joined Renir in unconsciousness.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Sard felt the urgency. The wind fled before them, dust clouds spiralled in front of them, obscuring their view. But they could feel her now. They swung wide of Lianthre all day, the suns passing overhead behind them. The wind cleared the path for them. Branches swooped down from trees like birds of prey, and Quintal noted how some of the branches were broken, torn from their sires to litter the earthen path under their horses’ hooves.

  The line spread wide as they felt her nearing. It covered the width of the road. They came around a bend, smelling human waste and the sweat of beasts nudging through the wilder odours. Before them a huge caravan, the main conveyors’ giant tower towed on a platform; a pack of Bayers, vicious war dogs; people, obviously prisoners, being stuffed like pennies into a box, and there, small in front of them; the Sacrifice, sitting on the ground. A figure, larger than her, was looming over her. The horses slowed.

  The tornado driven before the Sard grew to a crescendo.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Renir imagined shapes in the mould and mildew grown on the sandy brown canvass above him.

  He had come to alone. His tent was sparsely furnished with a carry chest (locked) and the bedroll he lay on. He wondered whether to go outside. He played the scene before he passed out through his head, and decided there was no one in the camp he wanted to talk to.

  The flap opened and a man came in. He was bare-chested, tattooed with scars and welts in random patterns across his skin. His arms were long and wiry, but his back hunched like an old man’s. The scars made the man look timeless – if damaged.

  “Renir? You’re awake…”

  Renir sat up warily. He was still clothed. “How long was I out for?”

  “Not long. Shorn’s resting. I don’t know how he made it back. I don’t think anyone knows how he managed to kill Nabren.”

  Renir looked through hooded eyes. His brown hair was pasted to his forehead with sweat. His armpits felt wet, too. “I don’t think I care.”

  The man before him nodded sagely. “It’s not an easy thing to see.”

  “He tortured the man to death.”

  The man looked at Renir. He gave him a kindly smile, not easy with such a marred countenance. “You’re right. He did.” The man took a breath and continued, “But what do you think Nabren would have done to Shorn? Tried to do to Shorn?” The man corrected himself. “Trust me, Renir…it would have been much, much worse.”

  “But there’s no excuse, right?”

  The man shook his head. “Excuse or not, when you live on the edge of death…sometimes…well, sometimes, you don’t need excuses. There is no other way.”

  “And what purpose did it serve?”

  “To keep Shorn alive. Nabren, it seems, was not his only enemy.”

  The man took a flask from his waistband and passed it to Renir. “Drink.”

  “Who are you?” Renir asked, taking the proffered flask cautiously. Everything seemed full of death in this camp. The man nodded. Renir swigged sweet burning liquid. He coughed and took another gulp before passing it back.

  “I am Bourninund Raylor and I would have Shorn at my back any day death visits. I owe him my life…as do many here.”

  “Well, Bourninund, Shorn owes me his life, and I wish I’d never saved it.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, friend,” Bourninund lowered himself to his haunches. “He is one of too few good men.”

  “How do you figure? Where I come from hacking people to pieces does not make a good man.”

  Without notice, the aging fighter bashed the tent post with a fist. “And what of Nabren, fool! What do you think he has done!”

  The post reverberated, knocking Renir from his fugue. “Does he torture and maim!?”

  Bourninund looked him in the eye. “You have not heard of him?” Seeing Renir’s shaking head, he continued. “And yet you came?” A thoughtful looked passed his eyes. “Nabren was the worst. Before you judge, let me tell you a little tale. Then perhaps you will allow that what you have seen today is not all there is.”

  “Ten years now I have known Shorn.” Bourninund began. “He fights for money. He has burned villages to the ground, slaughtered man and woman without prejudice. He fights with a fury I have never seen. War is a quiet business in Sturma, but the Draymar lands run for thousands and thousands of miles. You cannot imagine how Draymar stretches. There are islands across seas they travel to, different features among them. They do not fight and bicker among themselves but with other regions they call ‘olm-ays’. It’s a stupid tongue and I speak it poorly, but I have seen whole regions do war on each other. Sturma is tiny by comparison – even the old war you have known about would have only involved perhaps three or four ‘olm-ays’. And there are more than I have counted. There is often work for a foreign mercenary. Their wars are nothing like the stories of old, and their people are many. They can spare them. Through years spent there Shorn has fought by my side. Never once have I beaten him to the battle.

  “This should be enough for any man, but I see it will not be enough for you.”

  Renir shrugged. He no longer cared one way or the other.

  Bourninund carried on. “One day, far to the north, five of us stood together. Around us bodies birthed flies. We had been hired to protect a town from a vicious Draymar warlord in a place you will have never heard of, for a people we cared nothing for – this is the life we lead, Renir. We fight for money. While others raise animals, trade, farm, we, well, we kill for a living.”

  “And this is supposed to help how?”

  “By opening your eyes to the realities of life. Have you ever seen war?”

  “No, but I listened to the tales. I know the Draymar came, and we fought, and won, long ago.”

  Bourninund laughed. “Won? There were no winners. I was not here either…” Renir wondered again at the man’s age – he could be fifty. He could be a hundred.
His hair greyed at the temples though, making him, perhaps, older than Shorn. “That was over seventy years ago (so under seventy then) but my teacher was a veteran. He told me of the bodies left to rot, the carnage of that day. One whole day of bloodshed, from sun up, to sun down…”

  “How does this concern Shorn?”

  “It doesn’t. But I have a point. War is eternal. There will always be strife. Grow up, Renir. You cannot avoid conflict.”

  “Go on.”

  “We were surrounded that day. The raiders were many – I know not how many – but they came on and on. Blooded and tired, they broke through the barriers. The villagers were huddled in the centre. The five of us on the outside. For days without food, under siege, we had fought them back, repelling their sorties…our swords broken, spear shafts, horses and bodies littered the ground around us…” the man took on a distant look. Renir sensed this was close to the man’s heart.

  “The raiders came. They were rogue Draymar, terrible in appearance and decorated grotesquely – human parts adorned their clothes. If we lost, we knew the people who had hired us would be killed. Raped…tortured…their fates would be worse than ours.” He paused to look at Renir, making sure he was hanging on every word. He was. “The raiders surrounded us. They showed us respect – five alone, bloodied and broken, had held them back. We were all prepared to die – but the innocent people behind us – they were not. They cried – have you ever heard a child cry in fear, Renir?”

  Renir shook his head that he had not.

  “It is the most terrible sound. It cuts through your very soul. It is worse than any blade.”

  “We would have fought to the death. But we didn’t have to. Shorn, bloodied, tired, barely able to lift his sword, called out to the leader.”