Hren and Gern
Bestiary
Mir - bird.
Helting Mir - upside down bird.
Teriythyr - Strange white furred beasts of the icy wastelands...honourable mention...See 'Rythe Awakes' and 'The Tides of Rythe' to find out more.
Hath'Ku'Atch - travel on lightning and sometimes take jobs in mortal lands as bouncers and doormen. No, really.
Minstrel - Nominee in the bestiary category, recipient of the blue rosette for horse names. Roskel's horse.
Dragons - Mythical. Left Rythe and went over to G.R.R. Martin. We don't talk to them anymore.
Sandpipers - I never really thought about it. Probably some kind of sentient plant with legs. Doesn't matter an awful lot, does it?
The Southern Tempath - Like a badger, but smaller, with feathers and a beak and wings. Possibly not a badger.
Old Places
Yemathalan - The Bladesinger's fortress, one of the elder buildings, kin to Kuh'taenium and Sebreymeyen.
The Cathedral on the Plains
Wraith's Guard
Naeth's Underworld - Selana's lair.
Gods
Madal
Brindle
There are probably more, but to be honest I got a bit tired, had a nap and moved on. You should, too. Rythe Awakes is next up, isn't it? Hmm?
*pointed looks*
*through red-rimmed, tired eyes, dry and sore from all the writing...years, this took. Years.*
Places
Spar - The location of the Castle of Light, the seat of power for generations of Thanes.
Fresh Woods - Smells like potpourri, or sewers.
Haven - New city of thieves and bandits once established by the Bandit King Slain, latterly improved upon by Tarn, latterly known as 'The Outlaw King'. Bit confusing, all this history.
Kar - Had a Thane, now it doesn't. Kind of an aside, this entry. I'd just skip ahead to the next one, were I you.
Naeth - Pretty much the capital of Sturma. A lot goes on there, and I'm so close to the end of this glossary I honestly just want a cup of tea and my pipe. So, I'm gonna leave that right there, and hopefully see you in the next instalment of the Rythe tales, 'Rythe Awakes', and meet you in the stupid glossary section. Love you...thanks for coming!
The End. Of the glossary.
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed the Line of Kings Trilogy, the story continues in the Rythe Quadrilogy, set a thousand years on...in the time of the return of the Sun Destroyers.
A sample of Rythe Awakes follows.
Bonus sample:
Rythe Awakes
The Rythe Quadrilogy:
Book One
by
Craig Saunders
Prologue
The First (The Sacrifice)
It was a wizard’s castle; paranoid and proud. Torches adorned each polished wall, bathing its many halls in reflected light. Murmuring wind and guards in subdued conversation made the only sounds. Any noise above a whisper and the castle’s latest master, Lord Fridel, March Chief of the Protectorate, would hear.
A quiet, careful, ninety-three years old, he rested secure in the knowledge that no intruder could reach his marble sanctuary. As a member of the Protectorate’s ruling council he was afforded great security. The walls of his castle were five feet thick in places, a full garrison of loyal guards patrolled below, and two of his personal retinue stood watch outside his room’s thick oak doors. The castle had but one tower (a winding staircase the only point of access), and Fridel’s chambers perched on top, safe from would-be murderers and assassins. The defences were enough to deter anybody.
But not anything.
*
Far to the south and west of Lord Fridel’s stronghold, on the outskirts of Lianthre city (the capital of Lianthre, named for the continent), a summer breeze blew soft black hair across a darkly pretty face. A young woman, only twenty-five years of age, stood atop a flat roof that overlooked her ornate country gardens. She stared into the night, directly at the solitary tower of the castle she knew was there. Tall and bright in the daytime. Hidden in the dark.
Below, the carmillon’s evening blossoms went unnoticed.
She had expected to feel joy this night, but her heart felt utterly empty. There was only the void where hatred once flowed. The feeling was not pleasant, but she did mourn the opportunity missed; the chance to slip a dagger between Fridel's ribs herself.
It was not murder, or worse, assassination. It was just a balancing of accounts and the rahken warrior, her warrior, would play the scales in her stead.
She pulled her hair back from her face as the blossoms closed. Without their lurid light, she could see nothing of her lands or servants, only a faraway lantern. On a moonless night like this, the sole indication of how large her estate had become was the lantern's tiny firefly glow bobbing in the distance – a guard, patrolling the boundary.
The rahkens were a strange, fierce race that lived outside both the Protectorate and the human spheres of influence. Before the creature’s arrival, there had been only an overgrown and thorny wilderness across her land.
She had been tending the family grove in the sweltering heat of the previous high summer when the rahken came to her. The grove was modest then, lovingly restored by her after years of neglect during her expulsion. Thoughts of larger plots worried at her as she worried over the growth.
Alone and unannounced the rahken had arrived, startling her despite the brightness of the suns. A dagger appeared in her hand, sliding from where it lurked in the sleeve of her dress, but had not flown. Instead, in stunned silence she stayed her hand as the warrior knelt and bowed its head to her.
She had expected assassins, not a supplicant. With its fingers the rahken made the sign of the circle, and with that simple motion its rare service was hers.
She grew in power as a councillor in Lianthre’s seat of human government, the Kuh’taenium. Her initial triumphs were perhaps granted in sympathy, but her current status was due to genuine respect...and all would come to nought. In merely six years, she had been elevated to the same status her father had achieved before her at half his age. Just six years to reach the pinnacle of human power on the continent of Lianthre.
But a human would never be as powerful as the Protectorate.
Even with such an ally as the rahken, what could one woman returning from exile hope to achieve against such a mighty adversary?
Now she knew. Revenge was all.
All she had discovered to find her father’s assassin, all that she had risked, and for what? Who among her fellow Councillors could she tell? There were few in the Kuh’taenium she called friend and could confide in none.
Even so, she was proud of her rise to power, for all that her father would have told her pride was for fools.
Perhaps pride is foolish, she thought. But isn't every human triumph folly to those who rule from the shadows?
*
The blue-burning torches in the hallway outside Fridel’s door sputtered in the drafty tower. At each gust light flitted through the shadows. The rahken warrior merely pulled the darkness tighter and waited, silent and unseen, as it watched the guards outside the protocrat Lord's door.
It was at home in the gloom. The great beast’s pure brown eyes – the colour of its pelt – saw in a way entirely different to human sight, reliant only on the facets of light, rather the whole. It saw the changing shades of stone and metal, the movements of the guards and the play of the wind through the dark corners and the bright hall. Heat from the soldiers at the door appeared as a corona, orange, with the black of cool steel where chainmail covered torso. The guard on the left shifted slightly. He would move soon.
The warrior readied itself as the guard on the right picked at something stuck between his teeth that smelled like meat. It stretched its huge shoulders. The other soldier strode lazily closer to the waiting rahken, shrouded in shadow. They were quiet boots the guard wore, but may as well have been iron on the stone, for stealt
h could not fool the rahken. The protocrat came closer and the great beast struck out with sharp, hard claws. There was no malice in its eyes as it spread its powerful fingers apart and tore the guard's windpipe. Breath wheezed and blood flowed, welling in the chainmail links before dripping onto the stone floor. The drips slowed and the guard’s polished leather boots gave a final judder.
The warrior lowered the protocrat to the floor.
Seconds from death the second guard hummed a slow tune.
The rahken wasted no time.
Bounding, blindingly fast steps and the warrior’s hand smashed palm outward into the guard’s gnarly face with enough force and speed that he barely had time to register a blurring of the dark, and then, nothing. His head smashed through the door, bone jutting and blood flying and the door splintered, shattering apart, the guard and rahken both tumbling through into the chamber beyond. Lord Fridel rose from his chair, sighting along a crossbow. Light from the fire in the hearth glinted on the bolt.
The rahken coiled and sprang. Its hard head drove Fridel into the air. Open hands, claws extended, rent the late Lord’s chest and the March Chief of the Protectorate died as the bolt clattered, blunted, in the hall.
The rahken stood for a second, focusing on the room, its barrel chest barely moving. On Fridel’s writing table was a letter. It was no creature of letters, but if it concentrated it could see the aftertrail where Fridel’s eyes had passed the script. Meaning hung in the air. It could recognise the intentions, and they were dark. It was enough.
Clutching the papers in one hand, it left the way it came.
*
Tirielle A’m Dralorn heard the siren call in the distance as guards signalled the attack. Her warrior had succeeded again. Folly or not, Lord Fridel's death had been a long time coming.
For you, father, she thought. Then, she turned and went inside to wait the rahken's return.
*
The Second (The Saviour)
Across the wide seas of the world of Rythe lay a continent unknown to most Lianthrians. The entire western side of that continent was taken up by the wild, vast plains of Draymar.
A solitary figure stood in the meagre shelter of a tree. In Draymar growth was sparse and the grass underfoot and the occasional lost tree were the only things to break the monotony of the landscape until the mountains to the east, magnificent and breathtaking after miles of barren land. The man watched, eyes narrowed as he strained to see through the mists that slid down the slopes.
He wore what had once been a cloak, which hung from his frame in tatters. A scar ran from cheek to cheek, straight through his nose. The stitches that had held his face together once had done their job. They had left their impression, however. Observers often thought of a caterpillar.
It would have been the defining feature on most peoples’ faces, but not for this man. The scar became invisible very quickly.
His name was Shorn. It was his most recent name, but not the only one. In his line of work names were a skin to be shed. The deeds of a mercenary should go unsung.
He was famous in certain circles – revered – almost. Among others, he was very unpopular, although his critics never seemed to get their harshest words out in time.
Shorn’s breathed slowly into the wretched cloak to make the most of the warmth. Watching the horizon behind him from the shadow of the tree, he thought about his chances. Time was a commodity. Time was something Shorn understood better than most. Rhythm. Breath. Heartbeat. His heart beat slower now and he counted time to it. He stood under the tree for a very long time, but he forced himself to count and remain calm, not sure if he had been still for long enough. Ahead lay the woods, and the mountains.
Safety beyond them?
Straining all his senses, he willed the mist to part and let him see, but it was heavy and dark would come soon, then he would be hunted and blind.
There was nothing for it. It was his profession to know when to run and that time was now. He pushed away from the lonely tree and broke for the forest.
He did not see the spines that rose up in the mist behind him, slicing the mist as they passed.
*
The Third (The Watcher)
Far out to sea, the triangle was complete.
The Third was charged with watching the First and the Second. Together, these Three mortals were fated to come together at the end of days. He had watched Tirielle A'm Dralorn and the mercenary Shorn for many years. Now, Shorn was close - just across the mountains and he would be in Sturma.
The First, on Lianthre, was beyond his reach.
The First was the Sacrifice. The Second was the Saviour.
The man who watched them was called Drun Sard, the chosen of the Order of Sard. The Order of Sard were paladins, and Drun Sard their sole priest, he alone among their number gifted in the arcane arts.
Well enough versed to understand that the time had come to show themselves.
The time of the return is close.
Drun Sard knew this without doubt.
He had been on a platform at sea for a long, long time. An unkempt mass of knotted hair and beard now reached halfway down his chest and back. He sat on a wooden platform that floated out at sea where few birds flew. He ate what fish he needed and drank rainwater when it came. Occasionally the birds brought him gifts. He always thanked them.
He looked around his home, held to its spot by Seafarer magic and protected by his own. He laid an uncalloused palm on the worn wooden frame.
I won't miss this at all, he thought. The time for watching was over. What it heralded he could not celebrate, but to see land again...
Drun dived into the sea, where he ran his hands through his hair and beard under the water. He stayed there long enough to remove the knots of the last few years. Then, still dripping, he sat on the platform under the gaze of Rythe’s twin suns, closed his eyes and dreamed of the circle far across the world.
*
In a circle at the southern reaches of Lianthre, nine men sat.
One opened his eyes, and said, 'The watcher is ready.'
Others nodded. All heard Drun Sard's words, but this man spoke first for them in matters of war.
'Our ancient enemy already plot the downfall of the Sacrifice. Their hand is evident in an attack on the Saviour, too.' The speaker, their leader Quintal, sat with the paladins - leader, but not about, nor at the head of their number. The circle was their symbol, and had many meanings but foremost; unity. 'It is time for us to act. The Watcher will go to the Saviour. We must protect the First. A'm Dralorn is our charge.'
The man next to Quintal rose smoothly, despite having sat in the circle for hours while they waited on word from Drun Sard. Each man wore armour of shifting colours and their eyes were golden. Shining hair fell across the swordsman's face as he bent to pick up the sword and stretched, straightened and looked around at his brethren.
He bowed his head slightly to the leader of the Sard.
'Then we ride?' he asked.
Quintal nodded. 'We ride.'
'Good,' he said.
Outside, nine horses pranced impatiently. The remaining devotees of the Order of Sard mounted and left their temple home Sybremreyen behind, and rode to a future where only battle was certain.
*
Drun heaved an upturned boat from the platform. It turned mid-air, splashing into the sea.
He had watched the Sacrifice and the Saviour take the path toward oblivion. The Sard may have changed over many, many years, but the Order always remained the same in their duty; to watch for the coming of the Three, and to oppose the Protectorate wherever their evil manifested.
The time of the last battle neared.
Drun hoped that it was not too late to make a change. Tirielle and Shorn had made their choices, learned many lessons. Now the time had come for the Third to join them together and for their real teaching to begin.
*
And, lastly, if you made it all the way to the end of that...thank you!
&n
bsp; About the Author:
Craig Saunders writes humour, horror, fantasy...and anything else going. He is the author of many novels and novellas, including Deadlift, the Spiggot series and The Estate. He has stories forthcoming from Darkfuse, and more fantasy tales set in the world of Rythe.
He lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:
www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor
@Grumblesprout
Thank you for reading.
Also by Craig Saunders:
Novels
Left to Darkness (The Oblivion Series #1)
Masters of Blood and Bone
The Estate
A Home by the Sea
Rain
The Noose and Gibbet
A Stranger's Grave
The Love of the Dead
Spiggot
Spiggot, Too
The Seven Point Star
The Gold Ring
Days of Christmas: A Sarah House Novel
Novellas
Flesh and Coin
Bloodeye
Deadlift
A Scarecrow to Watch over Her
The Walls of Madness
Insulation
The Dead Boy: A Dead Days Novella (# 1)
Short Story Collections
Dead in the Trunk
Angels in Black and White
Dark Words and Black Deeds
Writing as C. R. Saunders:
Vigil
Writing as Craig R. Saunders:
The Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)
The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)
The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Page 19
