*
Steps led up to the dias, and those steps were damned sturdy.
Good carpenters are a blessing, thought Renir, strangely reminded of his own attempts at carpentry, building a shoddy chair that his wife once sat in. Every night, stoically refusing to complain.
The thought brought a smile to his face.
Men brought gold and trinkets, weapons finely wrought, promissory notes on thick vellum or parchment with thick wax seals, chests, beautifully crafted silverwork, and on. Merchant lords came to make friends with their money and perfumed hair, artisans looked for patrons for their skills and artifice, fisherkings looked for rights to sea and river, farmers and the landed brought offers of wives or livestock...and so it went.
'Can't we wind this up? Crack open the ale?' Renir whispered over his shoulder, to Quintal.
'I think it's probably poor form.'
'I can chase them off with my sword?' offered Wen, seriously.
Renir laughed, but at Tirielle's stern look he remembered he was supposed to be patient, and that his time now belonged to the people.
With a sigh, he returned his attention to the next man, a man bearing a simple sack. The man's head was down, in some misguided show of servitude, perhaps. He was filthy, long hair plaited crudely. And...
'My gods...he...'
Reeks of...dead men... thought Renir, but would not say such of a guest.
Until the man looked up, and Renir felt a terrible lethargy settle on him. A Drayman, here, in the court?
'I bring a gift for the new king, my Liege...' said the Drayman. His tone mocking, but no one moved or even spoke up.
Bear, Wen...his friends...no one?
Of they didn't. Renir tried to rise, to push himself upright from his chair. Where's Haertjuge...where's my bloody axe?
He could not rise. His hands would not move from the arms of his chair.
Why does no one move?
But he knew why no one moved, not him, not his friends. Because this was magic...the foulest kind.
'A simple spell...A simple thing to do. Your pet wizard, there, in his fresh green robes...just a mageling. Shouldn't put your faith in mere children.'
The Drayman grinned, but something seemed wrong with his face. He began to walk toward Renir.
My friends...
Renir strained and strained...but nothing would move apart from his eyes.
No one else, is seemed, could move at all. As he was, Renir sat before the rest of his friends, his council, and he could not even turn his head to look upon them.
The man stopped at the bottom of the steps. His teeth were together, his lips open, his cheeks raised...but it looked nothing like a smile should.
'You know...I could kill you all. Take your lives like...nothing. But why? I confess, I have little to live for these days and you and your kind are more amusing than...the Elethyn...they are so very dry in their pursuits.'
The Drayman seemed unable to control his own face. As he spoke, his muscles twitched, or tensed, or an eyelid would drop.
'Here. Your coronation gift. I will kill you...King. I will spare the rest of your shining lords and ladies...for now. But first? A gift. Custom, I think, should always be respected.'
Renir strained every single muscle in his body until his tendons felt like they would snap...but nothing. Not an inch.
When the Drayman dropped the filthy sack free of his gift, and when he held Shorn's head up high by his friend's lank hair, Renir did feel something give in him. Something snapped.
'A good gift, no? One can never have too many friends...apart from me. I have none. Can't imagine why.'
The Drayman smiled again, a better attempt this time, full of dark, ill-humour. It was a big, broad smile with teeth showing that didn't not fit the face. Then he threw Shorn's head to Renir's feet. It landed with a horrible thud.
The Drayman raised his hands and from his eyes (they're red...blood red...thought Renir, as his mind snapped and snarled at his invisible bonds) came a blinding light. It built until the light was blinding and sickening both.
'Goodbye, young king,' said the creature with the poorly-fitted face, and unleashed his power at the king.
The full power flew, instantly, but instead of killing Renir, Klan Mard's full might hit Drun instead.
'No!' roared Renir. That broken thing inside him realised he was suddenly free...his limbs, his voice...he could move.
Drun was between him and the monster. The priest stood for a moment, smoking, his body ruined and surely dead...yet somehow, he still stood. In death, in life, all that had stood between Renir and the Gates to Madal's open arms.
'Move aside!' shouted someone from behind Renir, but Renir was an idle fisherman no longer. He hadn't been that man for a long time. He was moving, the first weapon he could find already in his hand.
'Move!' Garner, thought Renir dimly as Drun's smoking corpse hit the floor. Renir was past his old friend. The Drayman raised his hands this time, and fire crackled outward in all directions. People screamed and burned. People died.
The Drayman laughed as he sent fire lancing for Renir's chest. Renir ducked and rolled - the fire burned his hair, his back, but fire like a lance was no better than a lance against a man with a dagger...only useful at a distance.
But Renir wasn't distant, he was close.
He roared so loudly his throat screamed pain back to him. As he roared, the Drayman brought his hands - burning hands - together at Renir's face, but Renir ignored the awful pain. In truth, in that moment of pure rage, it did not even register, for while the bastard burned him, he was beating the man to death with Shorn's head as his weapon.
The Drayman's hands fell away. Where he'd touched Renir's skin there was no sensation. In Renir's mind, there was no thought. He beat and beat the man, the creature. Others were hacking and stabbing the creature, too.
Finally, Renir stopped when Tirielle's face appeared before his eyes. He blinked, and regained focus. Saw what he'd done and dropped his friend's head in the mess that remained of the Drayman wizard.
His chest was heaving. He wasn't sure if he was sobbing, or out of breath, and for a moment he forgot he was king, and that it was his coronation, and that thousands watched the moment.
He took the simple solace of a woman's arms around him, and Tirielle held him while he let lose his sorrow. His rage was already spent. Sorrow was all he had left.
'Someone...clean that up.'
'My Lord?'
Renir allowed himself to be led away. Tirielle leading. He was aware of the men behind, of the dead, the stench of death and burned men.
'Just...my Lord...'
Quintal and Bourninund beside them, watchful, now, for more treachery. Wen Gossar's booming voice, commanding someone behind him.
'You...bury that bastard. Bring the head...he was...a friend.'
'But...my Lord...it is...'
'What man, not simple enough?'
'The...the Drayman...he's...hollow...'
Something in the simple honesty of the poor man's voice stopped Renir cold. He turned. 'Wen, wait...'
But he needn't have spoken. Wen saw. So did plenty of others. So many voices, all talking, whispering. Cries of pain, and Renir's own tortured breath ringing in his ears.
'Renir...let others deal with this...' Tirielle. Sensible, no doubt, but he gently shrugged her care aside and strode back through the yard. Looking, now, there were dead all around, burned by the mage's awful fire. Smoke still drifted and the air was hazy.
Or maybe it's just my eyes...because the mage himself...the bastard Drayman?
There was nothing left of him but skin on the dirt. Shed, like it was nothing more than clothing, it bore the marks of swords and the bruising of Renir's beating. But of the flesh inside, nothing remained.
Tirielle was once again at his shoulder, as were Bear, Wen, Quintal and Cenphalph.
'She said this was not over...' Tirielle whispered. Perhaps none but Renir heard.
'Is this
the war we face now? Mages that wear another man's skin like armour?' Renir's fury still hurt him, but his anger was tempered, now. His friend's head had been lifted, and carried off.
'He killed Shorn...wanted me dead...for what? A game?'
'He had red eyes...like a protocrat...but...' Quintal's voice weakened and his words, his thoughts, seemed to drift.
'They're all dead...all destroyed,' said Cenphalph.
'Are they?' said Renir. 'Drun...died. Saving me from this...'
'He knew he was to die. Mourn him not, he said.'
Renir thought a moment. 'I'd like to be alone a while, I think.' The cries of the wounded, the dying, still filled the air. 'I should think the coronation's over. Someone...deal with this...I...'
But he turned before he finished speaking, and walked with his head down toward the castle. At the foot of the keep's steps he stopped. 'Tirielle...'
'My lord? My...Renir?'
'Tell our friend...I'm ready. Not tomorrow. Not this evening. Do what you have to do.'
'You're ready?'
Renir did not turn, but nodded. 'Tell her I no longer fear the dark. She was right, you know...Caeus...Caeus was strong. He had power...but he was wrong. You can't fight dark with light. Can't fight hate with love...and Tirielle?'
'Renir?'
'Tell her to bring her friends. It's time the Elethyn die...time for them all to die.'
'Renir...my King...this is not the way,' said Quintal, not harshly, but in a kind tone.
Renir turned and his eyes were like stone. Quintal dropped his gaze, then, a moment later, took a knee.
'My King...Drun Sard gave his life...he would not...'
'Drun was a friend, Quintal...a good friend...but I will not stand by. I will not give in, or die, or run. I will not hand Sturma or any land, or any people to this. We...not me, alone, but we...we will fight. We are at war and war is a dead man's game.'
'And if Rythe falls?'
'Then darkness rises,' said Renir. His voice was cold, his throat raw, but he meant it. He had nothing to fear from the dark.
*
Epilogue
Even gods have their season. Even suns die.
As one the Elethyn turned their faces toward the suns. As they did so, a great light began to pour forth from someplace within the sentinel armour, until even those great artifacts could not bear the power. The souls trapped within the strange metal, the metal itself, screamed and became molten, melding with the Hierarch's skin, Hierarch and armour both absorbed by the Sun Destroyers.
They glowed brighter still, in power and stature, becoming...as they once were.
The zenith of power in the universe. The thing that suns feared.
As the Elethyn grew in power, the suns dimmed and the world grew colder. The suns' glory, the dominance of the light, waned.
As light fades, so must darkness rise.
On Lianthre, snow fell on the plains, in the swamplands where snow had never been seen. On the Seafarer's nascent island frost glimmered in the pools and the seas themselves grew sluggish with ice. The Drayman steppes, the mountains, the sun-baked wastes beyond the Culthorn mountains all knew the touch of cold for the first time in centuries.
And on Sturma winter came early and hard. The ground soon turned white, the skies grey and gravid with blizzards. The nights were bleak and long and the days cold and grim.
In the dark, the dead things answered the Witch-Queen's call.
The End
First Draft: 31st March 2014 - 21st May 2014
Final Draft: 12th June 2014
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading this story. It is, as I said in the foreword, a labour of love. Please consider leaving a review on Amazon or wherever you purchased this story. A review on Amazon can be very helpful for me, but other readers, too.
I hope you enjoyed this tale well enough to come back for more, when the Rythe Quadrilogy concludes.
Also, if you haven't already read the three books that precede the Rythe tales, you might like The Line of Kings Trilogy. It is an extended prequel trilogy to this larger story. Other Rythe titles are laid out at the front of the story in the 'Also By' section. Oh, and look out for a new, stand-alone story set on Rythe - The Warrior's Soul.
Read on for a bonus short, 'The Unknown Warrior', set during the battle for Naeth.
Craig, 2014
The Shed.
About the Author:
Craig Saunders has is the author of many novels and novellas, including Deadlift, Rain, A Stranger's Grave and The Estate. He has stories forthcoming from DarkFuse, Grand Mal, and more fantasy tales set in the world of Rythe.
He lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and three children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:
www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com
www.theislandarchive.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor
@GrumbleSprout
Bonus Short Story
The Unknown Warrior
The wounded man looked around. Each movement of his head drove daggers into the bones of his neck. Pinpricks of light stood out against the evening’s glow.
His arms ached fiercely, but it felt good. Good to be alive.
So much blood already spilled, and yet…
He found himself smiling, despite the carnage.
The pain was welcome. It was constant. It could not be forgotten. He had forgotten too much. In this perfect moment he was living, there was no escape, no respite, just a constant stream of men to skewer on the end of his blade.
If this was the afterlife, he must have lived well.
He did not know if it was even his sword he held, but he knew enough of himself to understand how to wield it. It was a fine sword, unembellished and beautifully balanced.
He gave it a practised flick to clear the blood. He saw the sword was etched, perhaps by acid. Rare work indeed, for a sword in the hands of a commoner.
He knew he was a commoner. Only the Thane’s men wore full armour. The Thanes too, of course, but they mostly spent their time directing this war, waving their soldiers on with a chicken leg in one hand and a mistress’ young behind in the other.
Thanes had no use for their fancy armour. Neither did the wounded man. His breastplate had served him well. He could tell, even if he couldn’t remember the blows. It was scored on the front maybe six times, where it had turned away a thrust from a weapon, perhaps a pike, or an axe (although the Draymen they faced rarely used axes), or a short sword.
He noted how his leather bracers were trimmed with steel ringlets. It was quality work.
Not a rich man, then, but one who by the evidence took his work seriously. A warrior of some note, perhaps. Maybe people knew his name. He grinned wryly. Would that he had the chance to ask.
If he was famous, he thought, looking over at the survivors, he was not famous in this country (Sturma, his mind threw at him. He clutched onto the name and found that it held. He knew nothing of himself, but enough of the world to keep on living, if only for a little while longer.)
A dagger of the same etched steel lay beside a downed Drayman. The man was still breathing – the dagger had hit him in the temple, but only the pommel had struck. He was unconscious.
Unconscious, but not near enough Madal’s gates for the wounded warrior’s liking.
He moved toward the sleeping Drayman, the ground shifting like some reluctant whore beneath his feet.
Without a thought as to why, he rammed the point of his sword between the Drayman’s ribs. The fallen warrior passed with only a last gasp escaping his lips. These Drayman, unkempt and filthy savages, these were the enemy. This much he understood. Today, there was to be no mercy. A short glance around the courtyard where they fought was enough to tell him so.
He remembered the enemy well.
He took in his surroundings with a practised eye. Great walls surrounded a stone keep. The keep was crumbling – eons old – but the wall
s were recently patched. New stone was interspersed with the old. The walls were thick, but ultimately useless. The gates lay broken and twisted on the dirt of the courtyard. A Sturman (his countryman. That seemed right) lay half obscured underneath the massive oak gates. Magic had been used here, but that made no sense. There was no magic on Sturma. But there was no denying it. The gates were warped and ordinary heat or fire would not buckle steel-bound oak so. They would scorch, certainly, and even burn were the heat fierce enough, but buckle, like the memory of the trees they once were had awoken? No.
There was no other reason he could discern. Not only were their enemy legion, they had foul magic users at their beck and call, too.
A strange new world. One he did not fully understand.
But he knew the blade. That would have to be enough for this day.
He spat blood and only then noted that his lip was split and a tooth was cracked. He remembered taking the head wound, but not the blow to the face.
It had always been thus. It was nothing to concern himself over. He knew where he was now, and what he was doing. And, by the look of the ring of Draymen bodies surrounding him, he was good at it.
Hard men stood beside him. Two score or so. Every one of them was bloodied. One man stood aside from the rest. He wore mismatched armour, but apart from gauntlets and a helm he could have been a Thane’s man, or even a battle commander. He searched his memory, straining against his own mind in a struggle that worsened his throbbing head, but he could only remember the man’s name, and that he fought for the man.
To fight for him was to fight for Sturma.
He didn’t know where that came from, but he knew it to be true.
He took stock of the men remaining. The Sturmen in the dirt far outnumbered those standing, but he smiled a little as he counted the Draymar, with their rusting, pillaged weapons, and their grossly matted hair.
They looked like dung.
Where did this enmity come from? What wrong had sparked this war? Did it even matter?
Rythe Falls Page 24
