It was such a nice setting, he would not spoil it with base emotions, like pity.
Klan sated himself on the pain of all the dead and left his supper behind. As he passed through the lake of carnage that lay across the snow-covered vista he laid a marker for his Incantors. There would be some cleaning up to do first but the Anamnesors would make short work of it. He could do it himself, he supposed, if he set his will to it, but, well…why have a dog and bark yourself?
Teryithyr lay open before the will of the Protectorate. Endless, frightful, ice, blanketed the land for as far as Klan could imagine (some mention was made in the archive that the continent actually extended so far into the north as to join Lianthre to it with ice). As he stood, barefoot in the snow, the first of his Incantors laid the path from Arram to the wastes.
Stepping from the whirring words that split the air, the Anamnesors stepped into the white. The invasion of Teryithyr had been short. While Tirielle and Shorn (and the Watcher) remained free, they could do nothing if the red wizard was destroyed before they could reach him. Let them have their petty triumphs, thought Klan. It will do them no good. Already the end game draws near.
The hunt for the last wizard had begun, and nobody but the Protectorate heard the baying.
*
Chapter Eighty-Six
The night after the first battle for Sturma, Renir was low again. Slowing down. Somehow he had managed to take the fight to the Draymar, take a sword in the leg and still carry on. He had seemed resourceful then.
The horses wandered freely again tonight. The small band of travellers (Drun, Bourninund, Shorn and Renir) were bone-weary from the battle (well, apart from Bourninund, but he had his obviously advanced years to deal with), but, Renir thought, the weariness was nothing like that first time. He was, he slowly came to realise, immune to harm. He was beginning to think he was infected.
Still, tonight he would sleep, dreams or no. He was so tired. It was nice to be relaxed for a change, anyway. They had men at their backs and knew the road had been cleared. Tonight he would relax. Tonight, for the first time…since…he tried to remember the last time he had slept without fear of his night terrors. He coped with them better now, but they were still there…and yet, since then, he had taken a sword in the leg and not just lived but healed. It was amazing. He thought Drun might have had something to do with it but when he was truly honest with himself he realised he didn’t really ache either. Physically, he just felt slightly tired.
He knew his companions looked at him strangely sometimes. He didn’t think he was particularly odd. But he had overheard Drun saying to Bourninund earlier, “Don’t mention it!”
He looked at Drun from the corner of his eye, sitting across the fire from Shorn. The old man knew something. Renir just wasn’t sure how to go about asking what it was. It seemed embarrassing to have to ask if your friend thought you mad.
Drun, too, was looking around the gathered faces.
He was thinking. His thoughts closely mirrored everyone else’s there: tonight, we are safe. Renir, Drun thought without looking at him, had been moping since the fight in his old village. He wondered if he was upset about Hertha and just keeping it in. Renir had certainly seemed sound of mind before then. Drun imagined he would feel bad because he wasn’t there to save her, angry with the life left him. Renir seemed that kind of man.
He just hoped the woman’s voice was a symptom and not an entirely separate malady.
Renir did feel guilty about Hertha, but he was questioning his own sanity. He must be crazy, he thought, because he was beginning to think the apparition that haunted his dreams was Hertha. He lay awake long into the night, long after the others had fallen asleep. Every night. Each night he lay awake waiting till he could wake no more and he dreamed of the witch. His dreams were hazy now, hidden from him on waking. They were no longer terrifying, less haranguing, even. More…chiding.
Something was familiar about the tone of the witch talking to him in dreams. It was becoming clearer with each dream. Renir knew he had been talking to his horse again earlier on the trail. That didn’t bother him as much as the stares from his companions. Each time he caught them staring at him he had an uncanny sense that something had happened before – he had just not been present to witness it.
So? He told himself. I’ve started talking to my horse? As my ailments go, it’s the least.
“Eat something, Renir.” Shorn thumped him on the shoulder and passed an apple to him. No one had felt much like hunting today so they ate old apples and a couple of fish Bourninund had caught in river. The river was, at last, to the south of them.
The food sounded good. Sumptuous plops were coming from the brew on the fire. Drun had mashed some of the fruit together and was, for reasons Renir couldn’t figure out, simmering the mixture over the fire. Renir had never had hot fruit before but Drun had not steered him wrong on his culinary journey yet. Drun stirred it skillfully while the others talked.
“Come on, Renir. You’ve been staring into space all night.”
“Sorry, I’ve been thinking.”
“Well, mind yourself, boy. Thinking gets in the way of food.” Bourninund took a proffered cup of the hot juice from Drun. “What is it?” he asked after taking a sip. It was thick.
“A remedy for tense muscles. It’s the pith from old retaff fruits – it’s like a pint of brandy. Drink it. It will take away the stresses of the day.”
“Fruit brandy, eh?” Bourninund downed it all in one dry-lipped gulp. “Shorn, when we get to Pulhuth will we be able to leave straight away?”
The companions had told Bourninund that they intended to travel on from Pulhuth, but not yet where.
Renir tossed his apple core onto the fire and took a drink from Drun.
“We could, perhaps, but I’m sure we could all use a night’s rest away from the gaze of the stars.”
“I know I could. I was glad you said that. I’d hate to miss a chance to wet my blade.”
“I’d be inclined to agree,” said Shorn, looking pointedly at Drun. “Where we’re going it’s liable to snap off.”
“Where are we going?” Despite being slightly drunk already Bourninund was not slow.
“The Frozen North, my friend,” said Renir.
“Teryithyr? I’ve never been.” Bourninund did not seem fazed in the slightest.
“I know someone who has.”
“Really?” said Shorn.
“Well, come to think of it, I know someone who’s met someone who has,” said Renir.
“You shouldn’t believe every tale you hear,” chuckled Bourninund. “No one’s been that far north.”
“He has,” said Drun, pointing to Shorn.
“Really?”
“Ha!” said Shorn, “You should take your own advice.”
“Humpf.” Bourninund replied and, after exploring a new horizontal realm more fully, added, “Well, Renir, I can think of nothing else to do, and you owe me a tale.”
“For what?”
“It’s his thing. A tale for a tale.”
“Well, surely you’ve got more interesting tales than me, Shorn.”
Shorn snuffed and pulled out his bed roll. “Perhaps, but it’s you he told the tale to. Pay your own debts, Renir.”
“That’s very apt, Shorn,” said Drun.
Shorn ignored him.
Renir began speaking. “Very well. Once, my grandmother told me a tale. There was a man once, long ago, she said, who fought in Draymar. Long before Gek’s battle or any battle we have ever heard of.”
Shorn sat back to listen more attentively. He was too tired today for stories but guessed, correctly, that Renir wanted the noise of words for company tonight, if only to drown out his own thoughts. No reason why Shorn actually had to listen, though. He found if you sounded like you were listening, people generally assumed you were.
“I can’t remember the man’s name from the tale – she told it in my youth – “
“You’re still a youth!”
/>
“I know, Bourninund, we cannot all be as venerable as yourself.” Renir rolled his eyes at him. “Anyway, this man – Poorfate the Warrior, his name might have been – ”
“Well, that’s a daft name. Now we know how the tale ends!”
“Are you going to let me finish? Yes? Right…anyway, Poorfate took up his sword to vanquish the Draymar might. Back then, grand monoliths still stood, our ancestor’s stone and earthen follies reached for the heavens and the hells and fey creatures roamed the land. The Draymar were legion and Sturmen were strong and proud. The great halls still stood and our – ” he looked around “ – and my Thanes were swift of sword, their breastplates and horse’s backs straight and true.
“Poorfate was happy in his home. He was so sure – war would never come to his home. His taxes ensured it. Everyday he left his home and worked the land. He tilled his fields and harvested his crops and slept fat at night in the bossom of his beloved wife. Well, war knocks on every door. He returned from the fields one day to find his wife killed and his house burning brightly.
“In a god-like rage he bellowed onto the fire and turned his scythe into a great shining sword…”
Bourninund was seeing double.
“That’s a pretty good story.”
Renir looked at Bourninund and down at his cup. He put it down while he continued. “It’s not finished yet. So, he left the ruins of his life and went to fight for his revenge. Many Draymar were slain with his great sword, the other warriors held him high in his victory. Joyful with the blood high he raised his sword to the heavens…and was hit by lighting.”
Bourninund laughed. Renir laughed at him. “It’s not supposed to be a funny story. Anyway, then he tried to protect himself in battle with a shield – ”
“So he’s not dead then?”
“Damn it, Bourninund, pipe down would you!” Bourninund’s constant interruptions were spoiling Shorn rest.
“No, he’s not dead yet. But thanks for ruining my story…”
“It’s alright, Renir,” Drun added this time. “I think we all know how the story ends anyway. You insisted on calling the hero ‘Poorfate’.”
“Fine then, I won’t tell it.” Renir sat back huffily.
“No! No! Go on, go on. We all want to hear it, don’t we?” said Drun, trying to draw him out.
“Not especially,” mumbled Shorn and Bourninund together, making themselves laugh.
“Oh, go on, Renir, tell us the story, please?” Bourninund chuckled to himself inanely.
“Perhaps you should have given them the drink after the story?” Renir said to Drun.
“Perhaps you should have told me you intended to tell a story first?” retorted Drun.
“Fine, fine.” Renir settled himself and carried on.
“Anyway,” he continued. “He fought, and still the horde came.”
“I thought he got hit by lighting?”
“Shut up, man!” cried Drun in exasperation.
“Huuuuu. Yes, he was hit by lighting. He lived. The next day he fought again. Is that alright?”
“Yes, yes, that makes sense.” Bourninund’s eyes slipped shut.
“The Draymar covered the field like a plague, and his sword was not enough. Angrier now because they would not die, and had so many more swords than his countrymen, he forged a might shield from the hands of the dead, to clutch the invader’s swords. He fought them back over the mountains until he won the day. His great sword dripped blood, his shield bristled with pillaged weapons and his vanquished foes were strewn before him, bowed to the victor. To cry to all the lands of his glory that day Poorfate stood atop a giant mountain, high up in the sky. Standing on the top of the mountain he was struck a second time.”
“Old Poorfate was none too bright from the sound of it.”
“Yes, well, there is that. On the third day, in polished armour made from the boots of the dead to borrow their speed, Poorfate stood before the Draymar once again. This time neither lightning nor sword would harm him. He saw his vengeance before him and took it. He fought like the wind with all the passion of the grieved and when all the horde lay like autumn wheat he stood alone on the battlefield, surrounded by the dead on all sides. The storm fell from above and with his borrowed speed he ran across the field to his home, the only man left standing. None can outrun the lightning. On the battlefield, untouched by the enemy’s swords, he was the last to die.”
They waited for more.
“That’s it,” said Renir.
Drun shook himself and then his head. “An interesting tale. Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“But it doesn’t mean anything!” Bourninund turned over to go to sleep. “Bah! That’s not a tale. The heroes aren’t supposed to die at the end.”
“That’s not true, Bourninund. It means many things. It’s just a tool for thought, grandmother always used to tell me. I started thinking, since Hertha died, that perhaps the story means ‘what’s the use in going on?’”
Shorn looked across at Renir and caught his eye. “Maybe it means that hiding from your destiny doesn’t help – death will find you wherever you go.”
Drun shrugged. “It could mean either. It is a good tale. Maybe it means that even though he knew he was fighting death he held it off till the last, or just that farmers are exceptionally unlucky.”
“Maybe it means even stupid people can be heroes.” Bourninund mumbled as he drifted off.
Renir lay down with a pleasant fugue slipping over him like a blanket. At times like this, listening to Bourninund’s gentle snoring and Shorn fidgeting in his bedroll, he missed Hertha’s nagging. It always gave him something else to think about.
As they lay down for the night on the hard cold ground, Drun spoke softly to Shorn. “I will dream of danger tonight. I would lie to you if I said the road ahead will be easy.”
“How do you know what you’ll dream?”
“I know, Shorn, because I dream it every night.” He looked straight at Renir as he said, “The same thing every night.”
*
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Already far from the first great battle of the last age on Lianthre, Tirielle awoke early from a troubled sleep. She noticed she was awake before any one but Carth, who stood watch silently. The seer had not made a sound all night, but Tirielle was not concerned. In Beheth they would find a cure for her strange condition. Then they would travel on. For the former Lady A’m Dralorn now knew that she could not escape her destiny.
While the camp slept peacefully around her, Tirielle thought how far she had come. Would that her father had been there to see her journey. The Protectorate had finally shown their hand and Tirielle, her father’s daughter, had stood proud against them – just as her father had done before her. He had paid with his life.
No more would she pine for her father though. She had become a woman on this journey. Her childhood was baggage she could not afford to bring.
She had lost so much along the way. Her childhood home, her friends, her seat in the Kuh’taenium. She had no choice but to let it go. It was the price of true success. Now she was on the path. To oppose the Protectorate and all their evil wherever she encountered it. She had allies in the battle. Roth, her right hand, and the might of the Order of Sard – Paladins who had fought the Protectorate through the ages, and survived. She had thrown her lot in with powerful friends.
And now it seemed it was her destiny to fight her sworn enemies. She would find a cure for the seer – honour demanded it – but it seemed her fate was intertwinned with the Sard and their quest for the red wizard. She did not know what form her future would take, but she knew she must see the Protectorate fall. Anything less, after all she had seen, all she had learned, would be a failure.
These men, the Sard, seemed so sure of what fate had in store for her. She wondered what it meant to be a sacrifice. She spared a thought for the other two of three, whom she had never met, fighting their way to the same future, even though they were a
whole ocean away. She wondered what they were like. If they were honourable, like she hoped she was.
Time would tell. Her path was long, though. To Beheth, then if she survived that, to an alien land, Teryithyr. The journey would be long indeed. There would be many more friends – and enemies – to meet along the way.
It was a lonely road, though. No matter how many allies she had for the coming battle, she would ultimately face her fate alone. This she felt in her heart. It pained her. She longed for someone to share her fear with. That was what really troubled her. She spent so much energy trying to be strong. Just once she wanted someone to hold her in their arms and lend her some of their strength.
She looked around the sleeping camp. She was even alone tonight.
Sometimes, she thought, I miss my father.
Alone with her thoughts, Tirielle arose. She had to prepare. Her journey had only just begun.
Tonight there would be enough time to dream, of the road ahead, and gods willing, the war that would follow.
*
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Stories of the sun reach everywhere on Rythe, even underground. There are legends that are true.
Some begin with dark or end with light, some start with light and fall to the shade, but together…
They revolve.
Under Teryithyr, miniscule particles of light, small enough to pass unnoticed by the most vigilant of observers, bounced from snowflake to snowflake. The particles spread when they hit the frozen, random prisms and went their own ways. Deeper, where new snow turned to ice, the light got lost. It covered the snow, working its way through like tumbling rock through a cavern and the graceful fall of the sparrowhawk through air in the same moment. The light spun and rebounded here, careened and parried iceshards there. The message was unstoppable.
LAST CHILD. ABOMINATION. THE TIME IS NEAR.
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 36
