He took a bite of the proffered apple and found it sweet.
He sat, Tirielle to one side, the Queen and her consort before them.
They spoke of much and little. Renir ate and drank together with Tirielle, and somehow he conveyed to Tirielle without words that he understood precisely why their hosts had no need of sustenance.
Finally, recovered, he belched and Roskel actually laughed.
Renir grinned.
'Time,' said Selana, no glamour needed anymore now that they all understood who they were and that their purpose was entwined.
Even without the glamour, though, the undead Queen was...stunning.
'Time to return?' he said.
She nodded.
'Then I'm ready,' he said. He had his own armour strapped about his body - armour he'd earned, not the shining false armour gifted to him by The Order of the Sard. His axe was firm and true in his fist and the Crown sat easy on his head.
For now, at least.
'Tirielle,' he said, making no attempt to keep secrets from Selana or Roskel. 'I know your doubts. The crown showed me secrets, though...trust the Queen and her consort. They are true. They are friends to my...line. And my friends are theirs, too. Trust...' he managed to say, but then, Selana and Renir were simply...gone.
*
Chapter Forty
'So much to impart...so much knowledge...and who, even those of us with power to burn, can tell what will be needed and what will not? No one...not I, not Caeus...can hold it all.'
Selana spoke briefly in the short space of time it took to travel through the deep earth, up and into the breezy air once against. The feel of it, even through Selana's magic, pulled something in Renir.
It felt as though the wind called to him.
He found he yearned for the air, for the dirt, for the sky and the clouds and the suns and the moons of Sturma all the more.
'What is important?' Renir shrugged, uncomfortable, but happily so, pressed against the undead Queen's body as he was. They travelled within some kind of sphere that seemed to be darkness made solid. 'Love, maybe...goodness? In the scale of time so grand to a man like me...maybe love alone, yes. How a man, or a woman lives. How they die, what they do with their time...'
'You think the dead don't love?' said Selana, her soft, velvet lips nearly pressed against Renir's ear.
'I know they do,' said Renir. 'I know they do.'
Selana pulled back a little way within their tight sphere, so she could see the new king's face. 'Then you know more than most, King Esyn of the ancient line of kings, the first of the Sturmen.'
She placed a kiss with those soft, cold lips on his mouth and he felt some wonderful kind of giddy magic pass from her stale breath into his warm lungs.
'For sustenance,' she said. 'For the battle.'
'Thank you...but...what? What battle?'
She grinned, and somehow, in that grin, impish and full of humour, Renir saw a hint within the dead Queen of the care and hope she held for humankind, small and insignificant though they might be.
'This one,' she said.
*
Renir found himself alone in a smoking and ruined city, in the midst of a terrible battle. The silence he had grown used to over the last few (days?) disappeared, and the sound of battle suddenly hammered at his ears.
Fire burned bright and smoke drifted across the city.
'For sustenance,' she'd said. And now he knew why he would have need it.
Angry, hate-filled faces surrounded him. He knew those faces...hoped he'd never see such again. Draymen and women, some wearing Sturman armour, some hefting Sturman swords. He turned on his heel...taking them in.
Their rage was calmed for a second or two by the shock of finding him suddenly in their midst.
All the grace I'm going to get, he thought.
Seventeen warriors, he counted. Once, he'd have pissed himself with fear to face but one warrior. Flailed or ran or cried for help.
'For sustenance,' she'd said, and she hadn't lied. Her kiss had been filled with strength and heart.
His limbs should have ached from the walk. He should have been tired from the lack of food and water. A few apples and what little he had drank could not have filled him with the energy he found coursing through his limbs. His fingertips near enough tingled and itched, ready for work.
He should have been blinking in the smog, from the brightness of the fires in the night and the smoke. But he was not afraid. He was not surprised.
He moved before they could.
Crushing Haertjuge overhand into a woman's head, splitting helm and skull. Yanking his blade free, cutting into the chest of the next underneath their raised arm. Dead, their weapon dropped to the littered ground around them.
Spin, his base mind told him.
A sword passed mere inches from Renir's own chest.
The crown on his head proved no hindrance, the tiredness he should feel was completely gone.
Only power remained in Renir's limbs.
A pike thrust and a spear together, intend to impale and hold him. Haertjuge through the haft of the pole-arm, one-handed. He caught the head of the spear on his gauntlet and deflected it into the midriff of a thin young warrior who gurgled as the spear head took out his guts. A rusty sword thrust at him, and a narrow dagger. The Draymen's weapons were pillaged, and random. Both men died.
A hard punch from a wild-haired woman caught Renir's shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Three Draymen broke and ran, and Renir span to find another seven (he'd lost count) were running, too, seeking an easier kind of slaughter this night. Renir wouldn't let them off so easy.
He stalked the bastards, through the fire-lit night, smoke swirling in a blustering wind that came and went. The King did not laugh or grin, took no pride in his hunt. It was grim work.
And then, as Haertjuge dripped Drayman blood in the dirt, he rounded a corner and saw a familiar sight, and one that, finally, brought a smile to his smoke-darkened face. Bear.
His friend Bourninund was there, twin short swords spinning, whirling, slicing. Overwhelmed, but fighting like an old man who'd forgotten to die and just kept right on forgetting.
'Bear!' Renir shouted, his voice powerful and loud even over the squeal of steel. 'To me!'
Bourninund, and Renir now, too, were entirely cut away from the main fighting. Renir, in some distant part of him, was aware that the greater concentration of screams and shouting and the greater stench of fear and pain and fury was further in, closer to the castle. He and Bourninund were a long way from safety.
Then, three dead men down and maybe six living warriors before Renir could reach Bear, the King saw his friend cut down. A great barbarian with a shaggy mane of braided hair had caught Bourninund with a heavy old rusty axe, a single-bladed thing made, perhaps, for felling trees.
'Bastard!' Renir roared himself hoarse in shock and rage and with a cold mind...to turn the barbarian's attention from his friend to himself. The giant turned. Renir swiped away the remaining two warriors between them. Darkness and light danced across the shattered rubble and tumbled walls that was all that remained of the inner city.
Bourninund's killer really was a big one. Half as big again as Renir. The man's rusted axe was twice as long in the haft as Haertjuge. Idly, Renir wondered if the savage had named his long axe.
He shrugged. The man looked confused. Renir didn't care. He was angry and his heart was numb from watching his friend die while he fought like a hero, out here alone and unsung.
The barbarian kicked Bourninund, the man just a bloody corpse there on the ground, then the monster raised his massive axe over his head, like Renir was nothing but an annoyance, getting in the way while he was busy cutting Bear clean in two.
Renir would never reach the giant in time.
Combat has no rules...
He threw Haertjuge overhand with all his might, nearly tearing his own shoulder loose in the socket. The monstrous man was forced to swing his long-hafted axe, but to deflect t
he blow, not to further maim Bear. He turned his attention to Renir, who spat.
“Come on then, you great oaf. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
The barbarian merely snarled. He obviously didn't understand Renir, but sometimes words don't matter if the intent is clear enough. And Renir intended to kill the bastard barehanded, if he had to. The man stepped over Bourninund, his massive axe held in one hand, unwavering, like it weighed no more than a dirk. Renir smiled warmly, watching the man come closer.
For a second, the barbarian faltered. It wasn’t often people smiled at him.
Then, without much preamble, his attention turned to the blade protruding from his ribs. A startled gasp passed his lips, and he crashed to the ground with a thump loud enough to be heard over the demented roar of battle all around.
Bourninund dragged himself to his feet, spitting blood and a cracked tooth out. He wobbled for a second, cracked his back straight again, then grinned.
“I thought I told you never to give up your weapon.”
“Well, thank you, too,” replied Renir, and strode to where his axe lay. “A little bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”
Renir pulled Bear into his arms, then, and hugged the old man so hard he thought he heard a rib crack.
Bear was still grinning, though, his face a mess, lips split and his front teeth sheared in half.
'Good to see you, youngster,' said the old mercenary.
The clatter of heavy-shod feet over the cobbles and rubble forced them to turn, weapons ready. All around them, men poured into the street.
Sturmen. Maybe twenty, but footfalls giving a hint of more some way behind. Every man had a weapon of some sort, a few leather armour, or chain, and one or two even had plate.
'Who's in charge here? Brung men from Gern's Crest on the Thane's say so.'
'And you are?' said Renir.
'Sutter. Thane's men, this lot. Soldiers and bastards. Looks like no bugger knows what's what. Messiest damn fight I ever saw. More Draymen on the way in. Castle's best bet 'til more arrive. You know who leads here?'
Bear nodded toward Renir.
'Him, I should think,' he said with a grin. 'The daft bastard with the shiny crown.'
Sutter and few of the others looked at the corpses of the Draymen strewn around. 'You're work?'
'Ours,' said Renir.
'Mostly his,' said Bear, still grinning.
'Well, shiny crowns I don't know nothing about, but you know your business, alright. I'll follow you to the castle, at least. Don't be expecting a curtsy, eh?'
Renir laughed. 'I should hope not. Sutter, and your friends...welcome.'
'Aye. My...Lord?'
'King, man. King.'
'Bear...give it a rest, would you?' said Renir with a sigh.
'My King...' said Sutter, unsure, still. Sturma hadn't had a king for so long, the man had no idea what a King should sound like, or look like. But the fellow had a big axe and gold on his head.
Good enough for him.
Renir felt for the man. Must be confusing. Hells, he was confused himself.
'Welcome, Sutter, and your men, too. A man with a good sense of timing's always welcome in the midst of battle, eh?'
*
Chapter Forty-One
Renir was barely aware of anything on the short walk back to the castle. The song of steel, perhaps, still ringing out in the darkness outside the walls of Castle Naeth. As he neared the castle, he became, dimly, aware of murmurs among the men, the odd half-hearted cheer to see reinforcements in the shape of the men from Gern's Crest. A few horse among them, too, and they'd brought three wagons of supplies, which they managed to negotiate through the odd pitched battle within the stone houses and cobbled streets. Somehow, with Renir and Bear and Sutter striding through fires and smoke at the head of their little convoy, it must have looked as though the trio had guided the men through the five hells themselves.
To scant safety, though, thought Renir, absently. He noted things he might not have, once, but he was a simple man, a plain man, even...but not stupid. He noted the numbers and the state of the men waiting outside the castle wall, waiting for brothers and friends to fight their way back. Waiting until the last possible moment before the great portcullis would close, before the massive gates would be bared outside. Waiting for that moment when their commander decided that the loss of the few would have to serve to save the many.
Renir saw Quintal and Cenphalph there, still in their pretty white cloaks. Masters of war, for sure. Beside Quintal, a captain whom Renir had never even spoken with. Not a guardsman, but once a Thane's man, perhaps. A man who knew war and the city both.
The three were in conversation at the base of the thick castle walls, surrounded by fighting men. The three of them were safe enough, though Renir knew they were arguing the best moment to close the gates to their advantage. That would hurt any man...to close a door on so many lives.
How many townfolk within, and how many lost without, outside the walls, raped or murdered or hurt for sport? What had they lost? Renir tried to imagine how they thought, as a king might.
Lost maybe a thousand men, even more townsfolk. What's left? How much food inside? How long can we stand a siege? Enough horses for the most important among us to flee the slaughter come the end...or to serve as food, should all fail?
Renir tried to think like those men there, in their shining armour. Those men bred for war. But he couldn't. Crown or not, he still thought like a fisherman.
To him, war was a talent he'd found later in his young life, but he'd never be so enamoured with it as to find it glorious. It was a sordid business, war. Even Selana, dead for longer than Renir could imagine, knew that life had weight, had import.
War saw the brown ordure of men who shit themselves, the blood and bone. Was that glorious?
And the Draymar...the perfect fighting machine...could he hate them? See them as demons, or rapists, or murders? They were dark-hearted bastards, yes...but hate them?
Renir walked on, thinking, and as he did so the crowd of soldiers outside the walls continued to murmur and whisper. The susurration of rumours spreading reached his ears and travelled on through the castle. Even to the simple folk within the temporary safety of the castle's thick walls. His people. More so, Renir, thought, that the soldiers and shining warlords of the Sard.
Shorn, maybe. Shorn would understand Renir's heart on the matter. Bear, his grizzled friend Bourninund. Tirielle, even. That woman had a true heart.
Once more, he saw Quintal and Cenphalph talking low to the Captain he didn't know. He imagine their words.
The poor fighters die easiest. They always die first. Got a good, hard contingent of men, now.
Renir saw the truth in it. There was nothing about war that was beautiful to the eye, but if you looked without passion you could, maybe, see the strongest blossoming as the weak fell by the wayside.
It still didn't mean it was a good way to look at the deaths in a battle, though, like it was a mere cull to let the strongest flourish. The longer this war went on, the harder the veterans on both sides would become. And those hard men...what would they need, come the quiet, to still their warrior's hearts?
More war.
And in that way, Renir thought, wars were won and made at the same time.
You can win a war. You can't beat war itself.
And as the first of the men waiting at the gates took a knee, Renir wasn't gladdened at all, but saddened.
Was he but war's fool, now?
More men took the knee, and behind them, Quintal himself strode forward, beautiful and terrible in his war-garb.
'No...Quintal...no...' said Renir, but to no avail.
The leader of the order of the Sard, too, knelt before the new king, drew his long, workman's sword, and held it out to the King.
*
Chapter Forty-Two
Caeus' understanding of the world of Rythe was far deeper than that of his brothers and sisters, the returning Elethyn.
While, to them, Carious and Dow were nothing more than fuel, to him they were a guide in the wilds of time. The Elethyn misunderstood this, as they always had. Human kind, they set store by the movements and vagaries of the suns. The seasons marked the passage of their years, short though they were. Perhaps the Elethyn had understood this, once, and forgotten it. Maybe they never came to this knowledge at all. It had been such a long time now that the Red Wizard himself did not know how or why he felt the shifting moods of the suns within his soul.
But the suns, the moons, the planet herself...they were not separate. There was a strange kind of symbiosis between the five bodies. Rythe turned about the suns, and the suns influence was felt in the warmth of the sky or the growth of crops. Seasons came and went, life was birthed or passed to dirt and dust whether the suns shone or not. But it was not the doing of the suns alone.
Hren and Gern, the twin moons...they exerted a strange pull upon Rythe, more subtle, sometimes, but no less powerful for their subtlety.
The raising of the Seafarer's cursed land was no miracle. It was merely timing. Caeus cursed them, once, to forsake the touch of their land until their geas was fulfilled...but even a man such as Caeus...to sink an island?
As he landed on that very island, the ground still quaked from shifting. It was night now on this side of the world.
The Elethyn followed, like bright bolts in the black sky.
Moonless, tonight. As Caeus knew it would be. No light from the suns to reach this place. On the other side of the world, too, it would be dark, for just a few moments. And in these moments all the light of the suns would be blocked from the world by the perfect conjunction of the moons, shielding the suns from the surface of Rythe. A lunar eclipse, one that happened but every thousand years.
The Elethyn landed.
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