Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  This he said so sadly that Renir found himself wondering at the depths of shame that drove a man such as Wen. He was discovering that the weapons’ master was more than just a blade and arm. Perhaps he would be an asset yet…or perhaps his shame would be undoing, as Shorn’s rage might be his.

  As if reading his mind, Wen said, “Shorn hid it well, but he was consumed with rage within. He hid it well,“ he repeated sadly. “He was calm in all his training. Never did he let on what he would become – a mercenary, a killer such as had not been seen since ages past. If only I had known…but then, perhaps the crucible of war has moulded him into what he needs to be in the final days. I do not know. The gods draw men into their plots and I cannot fathom their will or their ways.”

  Shorn grunted, but kept his peace. Renir wondered if this was what Shorn wanted all along – a purging of the past – but one that was too painful for him to excise alone.

  “I taught him well. But as he grew into a man, there were other dangers than just his sword. A young woman began to show interest in him. There had always been young girls watching us train, and men, too. But I would not train them, and they never asked. The Seafarers are people of deep pride. They would not have landfarers teaching them what they knew. Even if they had asked, I would have refused. But it was only natural that it should happen – I could no more stop it than stand against the tides. The young woman came back, day after day, and she would talk to Shorn, and then hold his hand, brush past him…all the ways a woman leads a man by the nose. But Shorn’s anger, I believe, held him back from love. Or maybe, I don’t know the truth of this, he sensed in her the seeds of darkness.”

  “Shiandra,” guessed Bourninund.

  “Of course,” replied Wen. “Who else? It is by her hand that we are held. She is Dainar’s daughter, and he can stand the wrong no more than she can. He would grant her the sun if he could. That such a beauty should spring from his loins…and Seafarer children are rare enough. She wanted Shorn, and Shorn did not want her.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Renir. “She is as fine a woman as I have ever laid eyes on.”

  “That’s not saying much, Renir. Your experience in such matters is shy, even for one so young.”

  Renir bristled. “I can’t help it if I was married. How’s a man supposed to meet beautiful women when he’s got a wife?”

  “Easy,” said Bourninund. “Most people figure on marrying someone beautiful in the first place.”

  “Well, it’s not like I had a choice. She had her hooks into me before I had a chance to pick someone else. Anyway,” he added gruffly, “she wasn’t a bad woman.”

  “Few are, Renir. I’m sure she was fair. Perhaps one day you will remember her so, too,” said Drun, who Renir had thought sleeping. The old man’s strange yellow eyes were closed, but his ears missed little, and his mind even less.

  “Perhaps,” replied Renir. “Anyway, just because Shiandra loved Shorn, I don’t see why she would want to have him killed.”

  “Few better reasons for ire than love, boy,” said Wen. “And I’m not sure love is the right word. I believe she coveted him. He was a fine looking young man back then, and she was, and by the looks of it, still is, a wilful woman. She wanted him, and he did not want her. But even so, a man is often led by his loins, especially one so young…”

  “I know how that goes,” interrupted Renir.

  “And I, too,” said Wen. “Who could blame a man? One thing led to another, and then Shorn refused her hand in marriage. There was nothing else Dainar could do – he set us ashore, and the rest is history. Shorn left to become what he could, me, well, I set out to make amends. But sometimes the past is something that drags along behind you, weighing you down. And here we are, facing the past again.”

  Drun opened his eyes, looking at Shorn’s back. “Sometimes we must lay the past to rest before we can fully explore the future. Every action has consequences, even those which we do not take.”

  Shorn had no doubt about who Drun was addressing his comments to. “Sometimes you make my bowels ache, priest,” was his only retort.

  Slowly, carefully, the men talked into the night. Not one mentioned the court to come, or what they would do. They knew they had no weapons, but they did not need to plan – if Shorn was to die, then they would die fighting to save him. Sometimes, duty is plain enough.

  Renir wondered if he would die well. Fighting like the heroes of old, with nothing but his fists against a bow. Perhaps he could catch an arrow in his hand, or fight his way to a sword before he was slain. He did not know how to wield a sword, but surely it was better than bare fists against a weapon. Was he fast enough to duck an arrow, swift enough to gain a weapon, or lay low an opponent before he died? He did not want to die badly, not when he was surrounded by such men as these. He knew they would fight well, and die for each other…he only hoped it would not come to that. But, he resolved, whatever happened, he would not be put to sea. He would die fighting, not drowning or eaten alive. Better the blade…

  *

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  …was a warrior’s thought, Renir realised. He looked down at himself from a great height, and only when he could see himself as he was, his dreaming eyes sharper than his own, did he see himself as he had become. He was broad across the shoulder, still unscarred, but grizzly in countenance. Many would pause before attacking such a man. I have become like them, he thought to himself from his lofty perch, floating above his body. I am a warrior.

  But not yet a mercenary. Never that.

  Only gradually was he aware of another presence, beyond his reach, on a different plain than this.

  She called to him, and he knew her voice. In his dreams, he knew her voice, but the knowledge would fade upon waking. It always did.

  “We must speak. Time is ever short, as it was always destined to be short for us. Come to me…listen well.”

  Renir floated, ethereal and splendid, unclothed above the sea. Below the surface he could see the seawolves, prowling the depths, shimmering underneath the waves. Foam hung on the air, blow by unfelt tides and ghostly winds. From beneath the sea a face rose, but one obscured by the depths. Try as he might, he could not make it out. Perhaps if he were to go below the surface, he would be able to see more clearly, but even in dreams he understood that to do so would be to risk death, an unclean death, rent and torn by the serrated teeth of the seawolves, gulped into their gullets and digested over days…his dream self shuddered, and on his cot his body’s breath quickened at the thought.

  “No, there is no need to come down here. All you need is to hear me.”

  He wished he could see more clearly. He almost remembered, but the memory was like the tides. Just as he thought he could feel the knowledge of who the woman was, the tides took it out of his reach. She was the sea, and he the shore, forever meetings, only to part again with the shifting of the moons.

  He reached out to the water, but she hissed at him from the darkening depths.

  “No! You must not!”

  “But who are you?”

  “In time, perhaps, you will know,” she said, calmer now that he had moved his hands away from the water. “For now, hear me, and listen well. You are on the precipice once again, and once more I must draw you back from your own undoing. Time and time again, throughout the ages, you have tried to fall – you are your own undoing. Again, you court death, as though you rail against your purpose, but I have not come so far to let you fail now.”

  “I don’t understand. You are a witch, and yet you care what happens to one man? I know of witches. They never care for the living, they consort with the dead.”

  “You know nothing but the fool rumours of men, born of the ignorance of an age. Hear me now, and hear me well. Mind me, Renir. I will rend your dreams and hound your soul if you die now. If you fear me then love me also, for I am your salvation. Now, when you wake you must remember this, if you remember nothing else…”

  *

  Chapter Thirty-S
even

  Renir’s eyelids twitched in his sleep, and once or twice he called out. Drun watched him through hooded eyelids, tired himself but a light sleeper. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched, but he did not try to intrude. He had done so already, and he felt a barrier around Renir’s sleeping mind, as though the man were shielded from intrusion. It would not do to trespass there, of that he was sure.

  Someone, something, was already there. And Drun knew without understanding why, that his presence would not be welcome. Not welcome at all.

  He lay thinking as the sun slowly rose outside, unseen but sensed, his god rising in the sky to bring life and wakefulness once more to this side of the world, passing over the other, forgotten for the night.

  Renir was a mystery to him. He grew in stature, it seemed, with each passing day. He awoke refreshed and alert, but his sleep was tortured, sometimes punctuated by flailing, or screaming, sometimes murmuring and laughing, but always busy. Anyone with such a rich dream life should be shattered upon waking, tired beyond belief. It was as if Renir lived a second life, in dreams.

  Their passage had been strange, indeed. He was unsure as to Renir’s place in events to come. He had been so intent on watching Shorn, trying to guide Shorn to an awakening, that he had ignored their companions for too long. Renir, suddenly a warrior of some note, despite his inexperience. Renir with his childish wit and wisdom born of the heart, Bourninund, as loyal a friend as any could wish, bound, too, to Shorn’s fate, drawing into the whirlpool that Wen imagined as Shorn’s wake. Wen himself, strange, strong and just maybe insane and suicidal. Wen could no more take his own life than that of an innocent. Each man had his own reasons for joining them on this journey, there own purpose to discover along the way. They would play as large a part in whatever was to come as perhaps Shorn himself. Shorn, the Saviour, but who was he to save? Rythe? Himself? Those he touched along the way?

  Drun did not know, but before he could come to any conclusions, the door opened and a guard stepped inside.

  “Morning has come, old man. Rouse your companions. Court begins after you break fast.”

  Another man, armed also, placed five pieces of fruit on a wooden tray inside the door and left. “Time enough to eat. I will return shortly.”

  Shorn, Wen and Bourninund awoke at the voices, but Renir still muttered in his dreams. Shorn shook him until he woke. Renir looked around sheepishly for a moment, as if embarrassed, then wished them all good morning with a smile.

  “Ah, fruit for breakfast. It is like living among the gods. Not a fish in sight, and for that I am thankful.”

  “Wind yourself down, Renir, today we probably die.”

  “What will be will be,” he said cryptically, and crunched on the sweet, hard fruit.

  They all ate in silence, until the guard returned.

  “On your feet,” he said.

  “Thank you for having us,” said Renir with a smile. The guard merely growled, and led them along the corridor, from under the trees, into the light of a new day.

  Renir stretched, and followed the rest of the men, who all walked like it was their last day on earth, to the judgement circle. The court took no chances, he saw. There were guards surrounded them, and two guards for each man. He was pushed, not roughly, but insistently, into his allotted place. He took it all in good humour.

  Time enough, he thought, and turned his face to the morning sun. Only Carious had breached the horizon, and from his place in what he took to be the centre of the ship, he could see no sea. He was thankful for small mercies.

  A huge man took the centre of the court, flanked by five men on one side, five women on the other. All looked stern. Renir smiled at them. Dainar scowled. A small cat, the only animal Renir had seen, sheltered from the sun beneath the fat man’s umbriferous gut.

  “You are accused of breaking oath, Shorn of the Island Archive, and your companions stand with you as conspirators. The Seas know mercy, even for Landfarers. Once you were our guests, and you broke our faith. For this the court calls for your death. Do I have consent from the court?”

  Five ‘ayes’ came from the men, shortly followed by affirmatives from the women.

  Shorn hung his head, but remained silent. Renir saw that he caught Wen’s eye from under his shaggy hair, and Wen’s subtle nod in return. He prepared himself. Soon, it would be time. But not yet. The time must be right.

  “Who accuses Shorn?”

  “I do!” called Shiandra, stepping forward between the ranks of watching Feewar, head held proudly to show her bruised neck. Never tug a jemandril’s tail, and never scorn a woman. It was sound advice his mother had given him.

  “And what oath did he break?” demanded Dainar of his daughter, as if he did not already know.

  “I was his promised, and he denied me.”

  Anger accompanied each word, and Renir could sense her hurt pride in every syllable. It must be galling for such a beautiful woman not to get the man she coveted, but he could find no sympathy for her. He could see she was poison, now that she knew better.

  “That is a lie,” shouted Shorn above the murmuring crowds. “I made no promise, but a lover’s promise in the night.”

  “Liar!” she screamed, her face scarlet with rage.

  How embarrassing, Renir thought, to be caught out in front of so many people. So Shorn was not going quietly, he was pleased to see. But he knew it would come to blows yet.

  Bide, he had been warned, or waste it all. He waited, at the ready.

  “I bedded you, and you made no complaints then.”

  Shiandra screamed in incoherent rage, and leapt for Shorn, but a guard was there to hold her back.

  “The Landfarer insults my blood for the last time!” cried Dainar. “To death, I call.”

  “Aye!” came the replies from each side, and Shiandra screamed her joy, as Shorn spun on his heel, thumping a rigid foot into the guard behind him. Bourninund and Wen both took their guards with fists, and Renir took his moment to smash his fist into the pumice-stone guard behind him, laying him low, and took the other guard around the throat as the other fell to the floor insensible.

  The others had subdued their guards, and each held one hostage, apart from Drun, who stood serenely.

  Now was the time. Let us see who blinks first, thought Renir.

  “Tell us all the real reason for your ire, Shiandra, tell us in front of your husband, or does it shame you still?” Renir’s words were like a spear in her chest. He saw her pain, and then her rage.

  “Silence him!” she cried, but he thought he could see panic in her eyes. “Kill them!”

  A woman’s scorn, thought Renir. Thank god she wasn’t his wife. Once was enough, he thought. In Hertha, he realised, he had had much to be thankful for, even if she had been a harridan most of the time, but never had she been vengeful.

  “Ask your daughter, Dainar, ask her well!”

  Dainar held up a hand to the archers surrounding Renir’s companions and their hostages. Renir could feel his own captive’s throat gulping beneath his forearm. And well he should be nervous. It hung in the balance.

  “Well, daughter? What is he talking about?”

  “Nothing. He lies!”

  “Do I? Do you shame yourself with further lies? Would you lie always to your father, to your husband, your son? Would you lie in front of your son’s father?!”

  Shock rippled through the crowd.

  “What is the meaning of this!? Shiandra, what does he mean?” The speaker stepped forward from the crowd, a strong man, handsome in his own way, but his face drawn in confusion. Following him was a young boy, no more than twelve. Renir hated himself then, but there had been no other choice. Sometimes his dreams were nightmares, and sometimes, he thought, the nightmares followed him into the waking world.

  More lives ruined in their quest. One day, he prayed, the destruction would end.

  “Liar! They lie, husband! Kill them!” she screamed.

  Dainar kept his hand held high, inde
cision on his face, drawing his pudgy lips together in a tight embrace. Should that hand fall they would all die. But it was Shiandra who decided it for them. Opening her eyes wide a stream of ice coalesced in the air, an icicle flying through the air at Shorn’s heart. Before it could get there burning yellow light blazed from one side – Drun – who had been silent and still throughout. The yellow fire met the ice, and steam hissed into the air, ice and fire growing until there was a small cloud of steam between the court and the captives. Shiandra screamed in her anger, and renewed her efforts to kill Shorn, tendons on her neck standing proud, as though she were pushing physically against the assault, but Drun redoubled his power, his face calm as the air, serene as the suns.

  Renir’s captive strained against his arm, but Renir held tight and watched. It was out of his hands now. The contest ended abruptly when a guard behind Drun finally clubbed him to the ground. But it was enough. Shiandra’s assault halted as her son jumped in front of her.

  “Stop, mother! You’ll kill him! Grandfather!” called her son. “Father!” the boy cried out, but looked not at Shiandra’s husband, but at Shorn. Shiandra crumpled visibly in front of her son, an open admission of her lie, and the ice fell to the ground. Tears stood out on her cheeks, and she hung her head in shame.

  Dainar spoke above the shocked whispers of the gathered crowd.

  “Enough! Shiandra, cease this now. I would speak to you alone. Court is in recess. Let no man harm the prisoners, and in return I would appreciated it if you men would let your hostages go. No one will be harmed until I return.”