Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  “Wen,” he muttered to his mug. “That’s where I got the scar.”

  “He gave you the scar?”

  “Wen Gossar. He gave me a sword and a scar, nothing more.”

  “He gave you the scar?” said Renir again. Drun nudged him.

  “Yes, we parted in anger and he tried to kill me.”

  “Why?” asked Drun.

  “Because he forbade me to fight for money.”

  Drun widened his eyes as he tried to focus on the unexpected conversation.

  “Did he?” He stalled for time.

  “Yes. Said he’d unleashed enough weapons of war in his life and would not make the greatest mistake of his life by letting me live. I refused to back down. It think it broke his heart – he saw me as some kind of redemption for some evil of his own. I think he wanted to make me like him but without the dark inside. When he failed it broke him.”

  “And you fought?”

  “Yes.” Shorn was getting morbid.

  “And?”

  “He gave me this scar and left me for dead; I was his student for most of my growing life and he took his sword and pushed it into my face.”

  Renir took a sip of his drink and shrugged. He returned his full attention to everything in the bar. Conversation wouldn’t stay in his head and he couldn’t separate Shorn’s words from the music of people that played when the player’s square was silent.

  “Tell me the story…” Drun managed.

  Shorn focused on him after some misdirected effort. “After my family and my people were slaughtered I alone escaped. I was seven at the time, precocious, I suppose.” He shrugged and sighed slowly, stretching his face as he spoke. His jawed clicked. “I got out alive but no one else did. I saw them. The wizards. They came at Dow’s first light. I remember standing in and upstairs hill. No, wait…that’s not right. Standing in an upstairs room. My mother was beside me. The sunlight did not hit them. They stood in shadow. Yes, they stood in shadow. Shadow-ow…ow.”

  Drun lent across the table and dug a nail into Shorn’s hand as he sat saying ‘auoo…auoo’ over and over.

  Shorn stopped. “Sorry. Yes. Wen. He gave me the scar.”

  Drun pinched him again. “Who is Wen?”

  “Wen. He taught me how to fight. On the boat.”

  The priest sighed and looked round at the stage. This conversation was far too much effort.

  “What?” Renir said, turning back.

  “That’s where I met the Seafarers.”

  “What?”

  “Wen and I were on the boat.”

  “Who’s Wen?” asked Renir as Bourninund opened his eyes.

  “Shorn’s master.”

  “Oh,” said Renir. He waved hair from his eyes that wasn’t there.

  “Shorn’s off to see the seafarers. I’m going to train you,” said Bourninund.

  Shorn sighed and put his hands over his eyes. “That was suppose to be a secret…” he said at no one in particular. Nobody heard.

  Renir just exclaimed, “The next player is on!”

  The next player came on and all thoughts of speech were forgotten.

  Shorn watched over his mug. He took a gulp and wiped a satisfied grin free of froth. They would get on. He hoped they would. He couldn’t tell them now. He would explain when he came back. They would understand. He downed his beer and joined them in their rapture listening to the music. In the back of his mind darker thoughts would not leave him.

  I know he’ll be there and this time I’ll have to kill him.

  Renir, Bourninund and Drun drank and smoked until all three got up together to play. It was their turn. Shorn declined to join them. Lounging back against a thick comfortable blanket protecting his overly-sensitive skin from the cold wood (he stroked it periodically though, enjoying the sensation of soft and hard at the same time, minute grains still detectable under his fingers) he watched the determined (if slightly sideways) walk of the three men as they approached the centre. The other patrons watching them move, too. He was not the only one. The others with senses heightened out of preference, rather than dulled, could see it too. Something special about this trio. A circle around them. Whole, almost, even without their fourth.

  Shorn fancied he could hear their banter as they readied themselves. The two old men and one young, shabbily clothed, held the attention of the whole bar now. Playing with three was unheard of – two could keep time, if they were well-attuned to each other – twins and couples were sometimes famous players, some extra perception connecting them in thought, which came across in the music.

  Three were never attuned well enough to play together yet no one tried to stop them.

  They entered the square.

  Drun began, testing, moving only his right hand gently, describing tiny circles with each finger. A chord sprang into life and slunk through the haze. Another, and another.

  Renir motioned with a friendly smile to Bourninund. Bourninund bowed – a symbol. A nod of the head – yes! A show! – from Renir – some of the crowd laughing now as another symbol crashed over the string’s – the timing was out but as Renir shook his head in exaggerated disdain at the old mercenary; a beat came in time with his head. He sank into the time of it and his beat joined Drun’s.

  Bourninund reached over the bar and took some brew from one of the bar staff, showboating while the crowd tapped and swayed to the other two. He walked back to stand in between them. Unmoving, he pursed his lipped, then bit at the bottom lip, as if deep in thought. Drun’s foot slid back and forth across the wooden floor and a sliding wind instrument hummed into a swoon. Still Bourninund stood looking puzzled. For the benefit of the enthralled audience he shook his head – a drum sounded three times, dundun-dun – then went back to the bar to take more drink, this time winking cheekily at a toothless young girl – she looked no more than ten but had grey hair – this time taking his ale in one gulp. He smiled, as if hitting upon the meaning of life, and returned to where the instruments were waiting.

  Renir was gently tapping a thigh and a soft sound like a wet-rag being rhythmically slapped against smooth tin trickled through the assorted sighs of the people around Shorn.

  Then, Bourninund stumbled, slowly. Umm-umm as he rocked. He continued. Lurching drunkenly, Bourninund made the song complete. The patrons and the bar staff stopped as one and became silent as the most perfect tune of the night made joy and filled all the soundless spaces.

  Shorn listened to the melody until he finished his drink.

  On the way out he picked up the only friend he could bring and left the song echoing behind. His sword could hear it, too. The Seafarers would only come for Shorn. He would have to beg his old friends to take the new with him. Past Thaxamalan’s Saw and into the frozen north, where his real journey would begin. Shorn would meet his fate there. First, though, there was something he would have to do alone. Shorn old hoped his teacher was no longer there. His old teacher would never let him live long enough to find out if the wizard really did exist.

  Shorn embarked on a new journey, alone, as he had always been. The song followed him down the street.

  Faerblane sang back, and its song was beautiful.

  *

  Epilogue

  The Draymar rose from their long slumber and travelled in force across the mountains. Their masses swelled in each corner of a land that dwarfed its neighbour in both size and population. When the Draymar moved the land shuddered from their passing.

  Their initial forays into their trusting neighbourland were short and painful for the Sturmen. So long had the peace reigned few Sturmen could even lift their swords. The mercenaries came in force. Coffers were bled quickly dry. Old men who remembered tales of war and lessons from long ago rallied bravely along the borderlands and the Thanes began to raise their armies.

  By the time they realised the extent of the problem, Gern’s Crest, the Spar and the Fresh Woods had fallen. Of the south, only the Lare Bog remained unsullied by the invaders. The Draymar, entrenched, cou
ld not be pushed back by the forces that the disparate Sturmans could raise. The Draymar amassed, an endless migration into Sturma. The summer heat was rising. Soon they would be ready. On hoof or foot they marched across the hills until Sturma could not contain them.

  In the north, they came across the northern pass. Among their number walked an indigent man, clothed simply in uneasy hides and teeth. An outsider in all lands but the fourth, the Draymar would not challenge him, for they knew his blade.

  His feet were hardened with ancient skin. Dirt had seeped into blood, skin had grown over scars and dirt. From one camp to the next he walked, asking for word. He poured his heart into a new discipline. He took his heart and made it a weapon and a shield, moulded it until he was a curse on men. Revenge came to him a thousand times and each changed him further from the man who was once able to love.

  Age had no hold on him; unhindered by compassion his cells renewed and grew themselves. The scars on and through his body remained by his will alone, a physical manifestation, a permanent reminder, of the pain he bore inside.

  Countless lessons he had learned on this wide continent – stealth, disappearing, mirroring – and none had brought him any closer to the one true goal. Lost to him for months now, as though disappeared, he could feel the student once again. The gods of wrath must love, too.

  He had killed a thousand in practise and now the last was in sight. Pasmir, Calagon, Mandolen. On his journey he had slain many killers. Warriors from schools new and old, some who had learned their arts from masters themselves, some just gifted naturals. All murderers. All killed by his hand.

  The whole of the Protectorate could not find Shorn, but patience was the teacher’s talent. Patience in all things.

  For twenty-three years he had followed Shorn’s erratic path. He had seen the aftermath of his passing – always from afar, one step behind. Twenty-more years, waiting for the student to come into sight again. A chance to break the bond and finally set his feet down. A chance for the murderer to look into his eyes.

  Wen turned his head. Across the endless plain, the sky glowed, bleaching the horizon. He set his feet in motion.

  *

  Thank you.

  The following is a gift. My thanks to you.

  Take a peek. Go on. Go on, just flip the page. Go ahead…

  However.

  That would be entirely unfitting, don’t you think?

  Some gifts are a double-edged sword. Like Faerblane.

  Do you really want to see the future?

  Very well.

  For your delectation: The Island Archive.

  Read it at your peril.

  Part the Last

  Morry’s Gransald

  Welcome, weary traveller. Rest a while. Put up your boots. Here, take a draught. I hear the roads are treacherous today. Travellers such as yourself are eager for news. Hmm? Well, we all see the truth as we see it, eh? Come now, tell me…

  Will you not share what you have learned? Here, stranger. Lean at the bar. Allow me to buy you a drink…

  Dark? Dark you say? Trouble yourself not, friend. It is but a trick of the light. Here, take another sup. Refreshing, is it not?

  Yes, I’m sure it is. Still…no, don’t mind the cup…yes, yes. Darker now. I know. The clientelle prefer it this way…

  Morry

  Cast – Major

  Drun Sard – (Note: Origin ‘Sadhu’; holy man/aesthetic). Member of the Order of Sard. The Watcher, the third of three humans destined to change Rythe forever. Serves no power but Carious. Ladened with magic, Drun was forced into exile for many years (excusing many of his innumerable habits, but not the flemming) to hide from the Protectorate.

  He also talks to animals. Called the Binding, as it is his duty to bring together the three. Only uses magic against true evil. Drun is sixty-seven. He looks younger than they say he does.

  Klan Mard – The bearer of the Bone Archive, chronicles from the beginning of time, which are seared onto his skeleton. He likes faces, long walks on the beach and bloody screaming death, although only with Worcestershire sauce.

  Protocrat, leader of the Anamnesors, and twenty-first member of the Speculate.

  Renir Esyn – Not brave and unamusing. Sociable fellow. Niave, has a good nature. Mother and cousin Serig in hometown. Ex. Womanly-wise, oddly. Heroically lazy.

  Roth – Actually over (this part is smudged and unreadable. Fate is fickle today. Perhaps, if you close the book, thenopenitagainquick! …nope.)

  Roth takes a subservient role with Tirielle. For what purpose we know not why…(God damn it! Oriliothros! Give that back!)

  Very smart, eloquent, follows purpose set out by the red wizard’s geas (the wizard also known, mistakenly, as ‘the Revenant’). Hard bastard.

  Shorn – (Also Calagon, Despirinne, Pasmir, Mandolan) Ugly. Mercenary. Decreed by fate to serve the role of Saviour. The second of three mortals destined to change the face of Rythe forever. Trained by Wen Gossar. Motto: ‘doesn’t matter how you do it, so long as it gets done’.

  Monoglot.

  Tirielle A’m Dralorn – Council member and seat of the Kuh’taenium, now deposed. Daughter of Dran A’m Dralorn. The First, or the Sacrifice. Nickname ‘Tiri’. Nice person. Happy to use violence. Speaks posh. Broken tooth, black hair.

  Wen Gossar – Lives in seclusion. Taught Shorn. Knows Shorn as the Archivist. Wen came from a distant land (the fourth continent) where swordplay is an art. Weapons Master. He wants to die. Beloved of the Primate's Lady. Primate found out, attacked Wen for he was mighty jealous. Wen had to scarper. Killed his love. Depressive, suicidal. Taciturn. Could say more, but…hey! What are you doing up!?

  PS. Wielder of the Cruor Bract, Faerblane’s sister-sword.

  PPS. Morbid. Likes porridge.

  Minor

  Bourninund Maltern Raylor – Mercenary. Friend to Shorn, slope-shouldered, wiry arms. Smells of turps.

  Briskle - Sings to animals. Tenor. Member of the Sard.

  Brother San – Torturer (Trials and Appeals). Protocrat.

  Captain Jermin – Bean-counting captain full of the exuberance of youth.

  Caravaner – Father of Taye.

  Caretaker – Temple. See: 'Sybremreyen'.

  Carious/Wurfen/Heridh/Htlo – The larger sun.

  Carnadin – Mercenary.

  Carth – Quiet member of the Sard.

  Cenphalph H’y Casdiem – Sard.

  Dargirre – Mercenary, from Nabren’s camp.

  Delvin – Renir’s friend in Turnmarket. Trader.

  Disper Lohrtrus – Sard. Long moustache.

  Dow/Rhow/Gier/Urlw – The smaller Sun.

  Draken – Mercenary.

  Dran A’m Dralorn – Tirielle's father. Activist. Council member. Spoke out against the Protectorate at Kolthad. Kolthad allowed enslavery of criminals (an individual act of one of the more pyschotic members of the Protectorate, it turned out). Her father had called it a trial for all peoples and inhumans.

  D’taso – Prison caravan guard. Missing an arm and a head but still loved. Will pay reward for his return, his Mam.

  Fenore – Roth’s mother.

  Garner – Refugee from the wooden tower. A magically gifted dissident.

  Gek Fathand – Historical leader of the Sturmen in the last battle with the Draymar. Dead.

  Gordir – Blacksmith. Former. Forged Haertjuge.

  Gurt – Tirielle’s captain of guard. Takes Wey in. See ‘Tides of Rythe’ for further details. Lives north of Lianthre.

  Guy – Soon to be dead Councillor. Killed by Tun. Don’t fret. You won’t miss him.

  Gy – Doctor at mercenary camp. So’s we don’t get confused.

  Haraman – Tirielle's servant.

  Harlot – From Nabren. Shorn's Mare. Swears at it.

  Hirith Gorlan – Historian/Preceptor.

  Hertha – Renir's missus. Dead.

  Hren and Gern – The moons. Alright, I know. I’m making a point…

  j’ark – Tirielle’s love to come
– in which case he should die (See ‘I love you I love you’ scene)? Very good fighter and sacrifices himself to save them. Never really her type, mind.

  Jek Yrie – Leader of Protectorate. Leader of Speculate. *For further discourse on Psuedo-Hierarchical Structures within the Protectorate, see Hirith Gorlan’s excellent ‘Socaetse’. Klan's boss.

  Jugun – Man who grassed up Renir for his doings behind the Bull Catcher. Kuh’taenium – Council building for humans, in Lianthre. Remembers and sees. Is dying.

  Lord Fridel – Was a member of the Speculate.

  Ludec – Roth’s father, well respected among the rahkens. Ludec is the Master Trainer in the magic of Peace.

  Magret – Innkeeper at Sharma's Inn (Turnmarket).

  Master Reader Fernip Unger – Master Reader. Deceased.

  Morhock – Main refugee from the wooden tower. Powerful magic.

  Nabren de Sonbren (Raven) – Legendary mercenary, evil. Stole Shorn’s sword. Set Klan and spineys on Shorn.

  Orag – Hath’ku’atch.

  Perr – Reih’s bodyguard. No, wait, that’s not in here…

  Porith – Bourninund’s first battle-partner.

  Primate Maarinen – Wen's paramour's cuckold.

  Quintal – Leader of the Sard. Wide eyes set deep yellow, grey hair worn short with creased skin around the eyes. The oldest of the Sard.