But even a sun, even a god, is not all powerful. Gods know fear. Gods end. Gods need believers. Believers don’t need gods.
To Drun, who thought he knew the will of his gods, such knowledge would have unmanned him. It is better that people believe their gods are immortal. It gives them hope. Often, it is the only precious thing people possess.
Drun didn’t pray. Shorn would return, or he wouldn’t. In many ways, Drun knew Shorn better than the mercenary knew himself. He had been watching him for many years. After all, that was who Drun was. He was the watcher. Tirielle was the first, the Sacrifice. Shorn was the second, the Saviour. Drun made up the triangle. Together they would wake the last wizard.
That day seemed such a long way off. The priest did not know how long remained. He did not know too much.
From his perch upon the flat roof of the coach house he could see the suns, twins lighting the way across the sea in the distance. He hoped it was bright enough. Below him shambolic residences of rotting wood sank into the loam. The middens outside squelched up to meet the tin pot patched roofs.
The dirty streets of the poor quarter turned to dust with each gust of wind. A dog yipped, the sad sound of a pauper’s dog. It was a dry day, the kind of day when backstreet sounds carried on the scorching wind. Even the few streets that were cobbled would thin with time were it not for the effluent of the beggars and starving lice.
It was not a beautiful city. Drun knew it had been a capital once. Now, it was just a sad remnant. Still, all the cities of this continent that Drun had visited were in a similar state of repair. Once, a millennium ago, Sturma had had kings, and cathedrals, and sprawling cities. That age had long passed. It was a new age. An age for warriors and beggars, for cutthroats and mercenaries. The only law was that of the blade, the only religions were those that needed no church.
Drun wondered what they were truly fighting for. What, in the end, would they win?
He turned his gaze back to the sun and cleared his mind of such thoughts. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath and lay back, opening his mind to the Carious’ touch, his god. Carious granted Drun certain gifts. It was not magic, more a question of faith.
Blackness cramped his vision at the edges as his body struggled for breath, but he did not give in. It was unnatural to starve a body of air so long, but through long years of practise, Drun had managed it. He knew his body would breathe for itself, once his will had left his body.
Darkness was absolute for an instant, that moment where the soul flees the body and nothing exists – no afterlife, no desires, no memories. Then, a blinding light intruding into his soul, the emergence of thought and remembrance. His soul flew free of his body, and he took a moment to stare down at the prostrate form. Breathe hitched in the old body’s throat, and his chest began to move. With a strange sense of detachment he noted that it was a body that had seen too many summers. The clothes were ill-fitting, the hair too long. But did such things matter?
Freed of the shell, Drun did not think so. There was only ever a passing sadness as he flew free, seeing his body age so, knowing that one day it would all end, and that he would take his final flight. But that day had not yet come. For now, he surrendered himself to the joy of freedom, and flew upon the suns’ rays, gliding, increasingly swiftly, across the sea. Soon, he lost sight of land behind him, and travelled to where the pull was strongest. There was a time, unreal time, which he was unable to judge, where there was nothing but the sea and the sun. Drun knew he passed thousands of miles of ocean. But he travelled faster when called, when there was an anchor to bring him back to earth. Communion was hard, but the joy of the flight, the sun shining clearly through his soul, that was worth it, every time.
Land appeared below him, and his flight slowed. Travel was always quicker over sea, with the light of the sun reflected from below by the shimmering water.
Slowed, he took in the sights. This was Lianthre, a thousand miles of sea separating this continent from his body in Sturma. It was vast beyond imagining. Sturma could be travelled in a few months on horse back. Drun did not know how long it would take to travel shore to shore on Lianthre. A year, perhaps longer. He was thankful in this time of urgency that he could achieve such distances in mere hours.
The pull was stronger now, and he let himself be drawn toward the circle.
Within moments he was before his brothers. A circle of nine paladins, resplendent in shimmering armour, aglow in the slowly setting sun, were seated upon their heels. Nine swords rested beside them, plain but well kept. As he sank lower, the yellow light of their eyes could be seen. Those eyes twinkled in welcome, but Drun sensed the sadness that ruled them, the weight of their duty bearing heavily on their broad shoulders. He had a fleeting moment when he found himself wishing that they could be together once again, to lend each other strength and light before the darkness could close in all around them. But time was short. Dow was already sinking, and a darkness blacker than mere night was closing with each passing day.
The leader of the nine, Quintal, bowed his head at the ethereal form of their priest, and smiled his greeting.
“Brothers, the sun sets and yet there is so much more to do. Time is closing in. I must be brief.
“Soon, the Saviour will lead us to Teryithyr where we must all meet again. The journey will be long, but I fear that yours will be longer. I see the blooded path before us, but we must not waver. Be guided by the Sacrifice – she will bring you to me. If we beat the Protectorate to our goal or not, I cannot foresee. But our future is decided. We will meet on far shores, but we will not be whole again. Before I leave, understand that I cannot know which of us will fall. By Carious’ grace, if the sun still shines on Rythe, we will meet again. Follow her, my brothers, for there is no other way. Trust in her, and we will be together again. It has been too long since we were last whole. I would embrace you all again, but for those that go into the light, I love you all as I love the sun. We will prevail, even as we fall.”
The light faded, but not before Drun saw what he had hoped for in his brother’s eyes.
Not fear, but resolution.
And as suddenly as he had come, Drun was snapped back on the last of the suns light, to tumble across the wide sea, to where his body waited. With a cry he slammed into his recumbent body, and felt all his aches in every limb, felt the pain in his stomach that had plagued him for months now. Lastly, before he wept, he felt the crushing sadness at the deaths to come. He said his goodbyes to his brothers.
Wiping his eyes and cursing himself for a fool, Drun rose to his feet shakily and made his way down the stairs to his friends. He could use a drink.
*
Chapter Ten
j’ark was the first to break the circle. As always, he rose before taking his sword. Silently, Quintal, the leader and the oldest member of the Sard, laughed at his companion. j’ark strove so hard to be an outsider, and yet he would gladly die for his friends and brothers.
Sadly, Quintal thought, our number will soon become smaller. Who would it be? He took the time to look into each of his brothers faces. Carth, the silent warrior, mighty as an Oak, and just as immovable. Briskle, whose face was hidden behind the helm he always wore, or his translator Yuthran, the two of whom were inseparable. Cenphalph, perhaps, or Disper, with his sad moustache, Typraille, with his quick wit and fearless soul. Would it be Unthor, a solid warrior, but would his troubled soul fail him at the last? Quintal would miss his council, should it be so.
It could even be him. His years were drawing to a close anyway. Maybe it would be a kindness, before his strength of arm and speed of eye failed him. He would not be sad to go, but he had his duty, as did they all. They would see it through, until the end, or their end.
He pushed himself up easily, taking sword as he rose. The remaining Sard rose with him, and as one they sheathed their swords and donned their cloaks.
Quintal followed j’ark to the shore of the lake.
“It seems there is little time.”
“No, it draws to a close,” replied j’ark, sighing wistfully. “It has been a long road already.”
“We must be steady. How is your resolve, my friend?”
“You question my heart?”
“Not your bravery, j’ark, never that. But, yes, it is your heart that seems to be in question.”
j’ark turned and caught sight of Tirielle. Quintal saw the sadness in his friend’s eyes and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“It is difficult sometimes, this life. We leave so much behind.”
“But,” j’ark sighed, “there are rewards, too.”
“Not many,” Quintal admitted. “We kill in the name of good. We leave love behind, and bodies in our wake. All in the name of Carious and Dow. But we must be strong. Most men don’t need killing, but there’s no other answer for some. Most evil, some insane. Occasionally comes along a good man with a bad blade. Through no fault of his own, death will spring. His goods works might outweigh the bad but then it’s down to you to make that choice – the greater good. Do you believe there is such a thing j’ark?”
j’ark looked around their camp, taking in the small fire, with the evening’s catch roasting, the warriors, all fine and staunch companions. He knew he would die for them. Worse, he knew he would kill for them, too.
“I believe in the greater good. Sometimes, though, I just don’t know what it is.”
“This world is protected by the twin sentinels of light and hope – Carious and Dow. It is from them that we get our strength. You know their will.”
“Once I knew,” said j’ark, nodding to the sky. “But it is dark now.”
Quintal nodded sadly. “And darkness yet to come.”
*
Chapter Eleven
Reih sobbed into her sleeves. Great, hacking coughs accompanied her tears, her chest heaving with exertion as she desperately tried to stop. Her ally had been murdered within her halls – and she had no choice but to watch it.
Reih’s friend and fellow councillor had been talking to one of the Protectorate. The Protocrat’s face was covered by the cowl of his hood but that did not matter. Reih could see who it was easily enough despite that. The oversized hands, pale and stark against the black robe. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Tun, head of their Search Division – a not so secret police force within the obscene mass of the Protectorate’s forces.
But still, with the Kuh’taenium’s sickness…some of the memories were already fading, imperfect. It could so easily have forgotten, but it had held onto this memory and forced it upon its sister, Reih. She wished she had remained ignorant, but it was too late for that.
Through a clearing mist that enveloped her mind, as it always did when the Kuh’taenium communicated with her, she heard Guy say, “You’ve got spies all over the place, it is not good enough! This must stop if the human council is to function.”
She saw that the Protocrat had smiled under his hood, the light of the halls illuminating only his lips – his teeth did not show. There was no mirth in that smile. “It does not matter,” Tun told Guy. “The Kuh’taenium is finished anyway. It is just a matter of time – it is sickening because the Protectorate are weakening it by taking away the living beings inside – all the councillors.”
Guy had known he would die. He had signed his own death warrant within council chambers when the Interpellate had petitioned for Tirielle’s disbarment. Still, she had not expected that such a barbaric act would, or could, take place within the pristine halls of the Kuh’taenium.
The scene, through her link with the building, played over in her mind. She saw through hazing vision a knife and/Guy lunges for the Protectorate. She heard the tang as the thin blade hit the metal under the robes/diagonal hoops of metal all through the ranking officer’s armour. Not the greatest defence and a blade will still go through but as the hoops cannot be seen by an attacker they would not know their location. She watched the blade fall to the floor and/it was suddenly protruding from Guy’s gagging throat, the councillor slain by his own blade. He died and hit the floor. The assailant did not move while Guy lay dying, but she could imagine a cold smile played on Tun’s face as he watched Guy’s life drain into the stone.
Reih sobbed for her friend and for herself. That the attacker had been Tun was not the most troubling thing. Nor that Tun must know she had seen him. No, it was that the Kuh’taenium itself was no longer safe from the Protectorate. Its protections meant nothing. It was all ending. She did not understand why the Protectorate were only now destroying the council. That, she thought, was the most important thing to remember. If she could discern the reason for this attack on the seat of human government, perhaps she could fight it. Did the Hierarchy know what was going on? Was it on their orders that the Protectorate acted, or were their dogs free of their leash?
She didn’t know, but of one thing she was certain – to save the Kuh’taenium, she must find out.
The Protectorate knew, as she did…the Kuh’taenium remembered.
*
Chapter Twelve
Further to the south, Klan Mard was unaware of Tun’s assignment. Jek, the leader of the Speculate and thus the iron ruler of the Protectorate’s forces, failed to inform any of the Speculatae of all his plots. As Speculate, it was expected for him to retain a certain degree of autonomy. He was a juggler – the Speculate’s other twenty members the knives. Klan knew this. He also knew that it was acceptable, within certain parameters, for any Speculate member to do what they thought was necessary for the good of the whole.
He was, in his own mind, fulfilling that very requirement while he visited his favourite creation in the depths of the library. He breathed in the musty odour of ancient parchment and vellum, the dust heavy and cloying, but Klan appreciated the smell.
Soft candlelight flickered within the gloom, creating waves of light. One of these granted sparse illumination to the book Fernip Unger was absorbing. Within its glow, Klan put one hand on the Protocrat’s shoulder, leaning forward to absently flick the pages of the book, to the consternation of the reader.
Klan himself was a man of letters. He chuckled to himself – his bones were carved from letters. He had, in a moment of inspiration, etched the entire archive of the Protectorate onto his bones, a feat he accomplished even though he had been newly ascended at the time. His bone archive was his to peruse whenever he had the time, but there were many books outside the archive that only a Protocrat with a true scholar’s mind could understand. There were too many ancient languages, riddles and obscurities contained within the Ordanal’s vast library. It took a man of specific talents to discern what was important and what was mere chaff, to be ignored (never discarded, though). That was Fernip Unger’s job.
Fernip, on the other hand, was not quite as keen as Klan. When it came to feelings, Fernip had even less than his master, the leader of the Anamnesors. Partly it was because he had never been a passionate creature, partly because he was dead. The dead tend to be a less emotional than the living.
Fernip sighed, and more dust joined the musty air. His lungs no longer required oxygen, but his muscles still worked and breathing was a habit that was hard to forget. He had been rejuvenated, so that he looked like a much younger man, but in reality he was in his hundreds. But then, what does age matter when you are immortal?
Klan had needed the best for his elite division, and he had not let terminal cancer spoil his plans. He had healed the ancient reader of his illness, but in the process had created a walking, talking cadaver.
A mild side effect, thought Klan. He should be happy, but no, he frowns constantly and shows me no gratitude when I come to visit.
Klan sighed inwardly – he was not one to make friends easily. He understood this. Still, if he wanted companionship, and a friendly face, he always had his delegation.
The thought of his collection of grinning faces, which adorned the ceiling of his quarters, gave him comfort. Holding the thought in his mind, he turned his attention back to the r
eader.
“Any news for me today, Master Reader?”
“I haven’t been to the toilet for months.”
Klan smiled without humour. The dead could be so droll.
“I meant, Master Reader, have you discerned the location of the red wizard’s resting place, as I asked?”
“I have too few scrolls to work with. Much of what was written about the wizard is merely fantasy and legend. I need access to a wider library. I fear there is little within our archives I have not already trawled.”
“Well, what have you found? I did not give you the gift of immortality so you could while away your time engrossed in frippery and erotic tales.”
“If there is one thing I have learned during my living years, and a lesson that has been drummed into my very bones since my untimely, and somewhat unusual death, it is the value of patience.”
“I could always kill you again.”
“I live in hope, Anamnesor.”
Klan smiled coldly. “Careful what you wish for, Master Reader. Now, as you were saying…”
“I don’t think I was…” Master Reader Unger saw the expression on Klan’s face, lent a demonic air by the red light leaking from his eyes “…but I believe I have found something within the scrolls.”
“And?”
“It was among the Archipelago Scrolls, and they tell of the war between the old ones and the rahkens. It was partially burned, no doubt in the eruption of the Archivists’ Island twenty five years ago, but whole enough for me to discern that once, there was a great wizard, who, with the aid of the rahkens, defeated the old ones.”
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 5
