The Sard had arrived. It was an unknown quantity that affected his goal directly.
The air by the coast was brisk, invigorating. He did not have the time to take pleasure in its cold caress. Around him, at the cove, were signs of battle, a scene of death frozen for all time, or at least until the return. Then things would warm up enough to thaw even the frozen wastes. The dead that littered the cove would fester and split open, decomposition finally destroying the tableau of carnage that greeted his arrival.
He stalked the beach, looking carefully at the frozen bodies. A sword thrust, he saw, brushing snow from the chest of one of his soldiers. Clean through, he noted, turning the body with some effort. An incantor, throat slashed. Another clean cut. The story was the same no matter where he looked. Too few bodies. Some must have been washed out to sea. But not since death. Almost immediately they would have been frozen. His enemy had landed, and somehow overcome his casters. There were only two ways to overcome his casters – with stronger magic, or a well aimed arrow. None of the dead sported arrows. He could only imagine that it was the Sard wizard.
Together, with Shorn, and their mysterious companion, they had slaughtered all his warriors. Powerful adversaries indeed.
He was not annoyed. He was piqued. The loss of more of his elite bothered him, as did the power that the Sard obviously wielded. The warriors, Shorn, famed as he was, worried him. Somehow, although he was merely a man with sword, he continued to elude his grasp. His ally, though, the Sard…he was something to be reckoned with.
Klan knew all about human power. For centuries, the Protectorate had tried to stamp it out. But like a roach, it survived, against all odds. Sometimes he wondered. Was it more powerful, more dangerous, than the arts his own kind used? Were the legends true?
He kicked a body with mild manners, and opened the portal.
They were coming to him. All he had to do was prove ready. There was no more time, or need, for subtly.
*
Chapter Seventy-Seven
It had been the hardest week of Tirielle’s long flight to date. The wildlife shunned the forest between Beheth and Arram, as if sensing the darkness to the north.
Tirielle had wondered many times if it was some enchanted laid down for an age by the Protectorate, magic lasting from the dawn of time, stilling the forest so that they could hear the whisper of any approach through the silence.
Food had been scarce, a forage woefully sparse. She had lost weight, she knew, and felt hunger gnawing at her insides most days. Now the end was in sight. They had ridden as hard as they could to reach this point. Hiding out, in a hollow a mile from Arram, hiding under the noses of the very hunters that sought them.
All they had to do was top the rise, and shout ‘here we are!’ and the mighty warriors of the Protectorate would be upon then.
Sometimes Tirielle longed to do just that. To end it all. She was tired, so tired, of the battles never fought, the war waged in hiding and silence, ducking, avoiding confrontation, sneaking through the back door. She wished it was all over. It was such a long road to travel. But when she felt despair welling from the black places in her mind she quelled the thoughts as best she could, with comfort from her friends, kind words from Roth, and memories of her father. It was her father who had taught her to be strong, to understand the tricks a mind could play on the unwary. Her father, who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the fight for freedom, the fight for justice, in a town far to the north. They had suffered more than most at the hands of the Protectorate. What had he done, though, in the end? He had saved the town, but the Protectorate had covered up, and without his strong voice against them, there was no one left to stand for the abused, to fight for justice for the meek.
She missed him daily, but never more so than when she felt despair, for she knew that even as a memory he was trying to raise her spirits, telling her to remember what made her human. It was the difference between humans and the Protectorate – compassion. The drive to do what was right, to fight against the fear and stand true, stand tall, in the face of oppression, despite of terror and human frailty. She understood her weakness.
In the face of her fear, and her tiredness, she consoled herself that she was human. She gave thanks that she could feel such emotions, that she could feel love, and anger, and hate. Her emotions ranged wide and free, and that set her apart from them. She had her father to thank for his wisdom, for the power to fight her own innate weaknesses and the drive to overcome them.
But it was so hard sometimes. Now, despite her fear, she knew she must enter Arram, not as a councillor, without title, just a sneak thief hiding in the dark places where the enemy dwelt.
Disper crawled back to the hollow, somehow managing to keep his cloak clean through the dirt. Tirielle started at his sudden appearance.
He gave her a quick smile, and turned to the Seer.
“I cannot see it, Sia. Are you sure it is there?”
“It is. I can see it in my mind. A small culvert, leading underground. It is there.”
Tirielle’s horse snickered. She placed a calming hand on the mare’s flank. Another friend to leave behind. She supposed, after losing Unthor, she could bear the lose of another horse. Horses, after all, were not people.
No Protocrat would imagine that they would have headed for Arram. The Protectorate in their hubris would think it insane that any human could gain entrance to their stronghold. But the Seer had seen the way. In her eyes, the future was solid, a thing of startling clarity. She had seen much, but told little. Tirielle watched her companion as she tried to give the Sard more accurate description of where the forgotten entrance was. That she could see the future she could believe. That the Seer could be mature enough to know how much, or how little, to tell them…that was remarkable. She was but a girl.
“I will move closer,” he said out loud in response to the Seer’s suggestion.
“Might I suggest, Disper, that you remove your cloak to do so? You shine like the sun.”
“Suggestion noted, Roth,” said Disper with a wry grin.
“Perhaps I should go.”
“No, my friend. If it is there, it will be small. I’m not sure you could pass.”
“Roth will pass. Roth must go with you.”
The Seer and Roth shared a look, unfathomable to Tirielle, but somehow full of meaning. Roth was the first to look away.
Tirielle wondered again just how much the Seer foresaw…and how much Roth was keeping from her. Sometimes her friend was as inscrutable as the child. But all things in their place, she schooled herself. Perhaps it was best not to know the future, as the Seer often reminded her. If you knew what was in store, always, it would be impossible to lead a normal life. You would be ruled by the knowledge. Crippled.
“Very well. We will go together. I fear that we could meet a patrol.”
“There will be no patrol. We dally too long. The time is now.”
The Sard exchanged glance. “Is there something we should know?”
“They come.”
“Then we waste time here,” said Quintal. “It is time to leave.”
“I cannot go with you.”
“What are you talking about? We have lost one already, and one is too many. You must come with us, Sia. We have need of your knowledge, and I have need of your company.”
The Seer smiled kindly at Tirielle, but shook her head. Tirielle thought she saw sadness in those startling, multihued eyes. It had always been there, Tirielle realised only now, as they were parting.
“I cannot, Tirielle. I must go, and you all must follow your own path. Just remember,” she looked at Tirielle as she spoke, “that all things happen for a reason. Sometimes the path might not seem true, but though it meanders, it leads to the same end. Follow the path, and know that the future will right itself. Follow the path, Tirielle, to its end. There you will find what you seek.”
“What do I seek?”
“I fear that is for every one to figure out for themselves. I cann
ot change a person’s nature. I am not a guide. I am a Seer. That is all I am. It is my gift, and my curse, but a person’s heart is theirs and theirs alone. Follow the path, Tirielle. I only hope that you will find what you desire.”
Tirielle held her tongue at a silencing gesture from the Seer.
Sometimes, it sounded like she was a thousand years older than the child she looked.
“Briskle and Yuthran will come with me. I have work to do on this land.”
“We should stick together,” said Disper, his tone perhaps harsher than the Seer deserved.
“If we stay together we will all fall. You must go, I must stay. I need an escort, and I must draw the hunters away. I know where to go. We go to the north. Once more, I must return to Lianthre. There is one there who will need my help more than you. Reih is in need of guidance. You know where to go. You know what needs to be done. As do you, Roth. Now heed my words. It will be as I say, or all will fall. There is no other way. The red wizard is not the only goal. If the wizard awakes, or not, he will be of no use if he has no allies remaining. The Kuh’taenium is under attack. I must go there.”
“Then you need a larger escort.”
“No, I need Briskle for they will send Bayers against us, and I would not separate Yuthran from his friend. Enough. Go now.”
She mounted, and Briskle and Yuthran mounted behind her at a nod from Quintal. The Seer gave them no time for long farewells, but heeled her horse up the rise and set off.
“Sunlight on your swords, brothers,” said Yuthran, and spurred his horse after the Seer. Briskle merely nodded to his brothers, and headed after them.
Suddenly, Tirielle felt their loss, although Briskle and Yuthran rarely spoke to anyone, often conversing between just the two of them. To some, it would have seemed rude, but there was a bond there that could not be broken. To lose one would have meant the loss of both, anyway.
“Hide our saddles, Cenphalph. With luck, we will pass this way again. Set the horses free. They will find their way back home. I think your mare will be smart enough to follow. Don’t worry, Tirielle, you will see her again.”
“I will make sure of it,” said Roth, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She had not realised how much she needed the comfort of the giant’s touch until that moment.
Briskly, she nodded her head. “Then let’s get going. There is no time. Already, Drun and Shorn will be at the portal. We cannot let them fight alone.”
“Let’s go,” said Quintal. Slowly, they walked to the rise, then they crawled as fast as they could to the fence.
Roth stumbled across the culvert first. It fed into a small stream, and it reeked of rot and slime. Tirielle crawled through the mud, crossing the stream. Long gone were the days when she worried over a muddy dress. If anything, it was like being a child again, playing in the woods, making stories up in her head.
In her stories, though, never would she have crawled through such muck to face her own death.
It was true, what her father said. An adult was someone who put away childish fantasies, and knew their death was certain. But even knowing death faced her, she was a woman. She would not shy away.
But, as she gazed into the dark, dank tunnel, how she wished she could.
*
Chapter Seventy-Eight
High above the central city of Lianthre stood the poor houses and tents and shacks and carts that passed for homes. Outside a taller house Reih sat at a market stall, under the canopy, protecting her from the rain coming down here. The rain here was dirty and stained clothes. As the only person with clean clothes she stood out. There was no chance of getting robbed though, she thought – Reih was the only one with a personal guard as well.
She had looked out before and seen exactly what the Kuh’taenium had shown her. She had smelled the spice. Now she sat inside, her protector cold and silent behind her by the opening. She sipped some of the syrupy drink, some oil from Qit Wile Mines. It was said to enhance and envigourate the soul. Her soul was that of the Kuh’taenium though. It took much more than a drink to dull her sense.
The streets here stank, but Reih smiled to herself anyway, ignoring the sewage rot smell. The slums spread high on the hill, like a nose trying to escape the bodies own smell. It spread onto the hill in the east and higher than even the tallest towers in the centre of Lianthre, where the hierarch lived in their towering monoliths, plain and huge tower of sweeping beams and shining metal rooves. The slums stood higher though. Now she could see the city below she could see the sprawl, the buildings spreading like a stain, held back by the rich protected in their groves. Even the real rain migrated to them, like it prefered money. The rain was clean and sweet out on the West, where they all lived, the dirty rain fell to the east, on the poor.
The Hierarchs, the council themselves complicit, had pushed out the poor hundreds of years ago, the ones nobody wanted. They ignored them and dragged themselves down together. Would that it had been different, she thought. I too, am complicit. Perhaps it is not all a bad thing, though, she thought next; here in the slums Reih saw pride. The streets were filthy with mud and damp warm constant rain and passing carts splashed mud against the fronts of the buildings. Even in high summer the rain fell here. But inside each mud covered house she knew the building would be exquisite, they always were. The mud was just a shield. If you were poor you didn’t clean the outside of your house – that was just asking for trouble. You didn’t want to stand out. The poor themselves were greater at holding back their number than any hurdles the affluent set for them.
No, inside their homes was were they lived their secret lives. The artisans of the city thought they were talented. They worked with the finest materials, carving through heartwood or stone to manufacture something beautiful in its own way, but manufactured none the less. It was something they did everyday. There was no love in their carvings. These people carved their own, with flimsy knives and spikes and hammers. The materials they used were all they could get, and yet they created beauty. If a carving I was working on splintered, I would buy some new wood. These people couldn’t buy new wood. When their wood broke, they had to change the picture.
She sipped some more of the sweet liquid down and turned away from the view to look at Sventhan. The stout man looked back at her over his mashed nose. “The Kuh’taenium said you needed help.”
“How is it that you can hear it?” Reih shifted in her seat to question the man.
“Nevermind that lady, what do you want?”
“I don’t know, I never thought about it. The Kuh’taenium said you could help. It didn’t say why.”
Sverthan sighed and unstoppered a pitch black jug. He topped up the drink she held out. The liquid held in the jug for a second, then with a gloop some fell out into the cup. It didn’t splash. “Then why did you come here?”
“It told me to. How can you help?”
“I can help in many ways lady. I am a builder. I know the Kuh’taenium as you do. It speaks to our blood. It is time to call on our support. There is a war coming, and like it or not you are in the middle.”
“I am a councillor. No warrior. I don’t know who I can trust. I only know the threat is real.”
“Then I will do what I can for you. Who’s the lump?“
“My guard, Perr.”
Sverthan stared at him, utterly still. Then, a knife flashed. It flew from under his counter straight at the armoured man’s helm. Perr didn’t flinch but let the blade bounce against the metal, blunting the tip.
Perr, mildly annoyed, looked across to Reih.
“It’s alright.” She said to Perr and turned to Sverthan. “Now really. You shouldn’t upset him. “
“He didn’t even catch it! He’s useless. You are in danger and the man can’t even catch a knife! You should leave now, while you can. How well do you think the Kuh’taenium would fare without you!?”
Perr sighed behind Reih.
“How well do you think it would fare without me. Dead or fleeing, it would ma
ke little difference. I’ll not do either gladly. If I leave the Kuh’taenium will surely fall.”
“It will never be unprotected. It has its own defences – after all, we built it.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, man. It’s thousands of years old.”
“Yes it is, councellor, and you would do well to remember that. Let me say the people I represent have a vested interest in it. So just remember, you might think you have her best interests at heart, but if you take one wrong turn we’ll not sit idly and watch her die.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her. I’m sure there are many things that you would not believe, lady, but I haven’t the time or the patience to go into it. You believe her. That is all you need for now. Now, listen to me carefully. The building is the focus of our power, and she must not fall. The builders are on your side now. We are no army. That is up to you. We can protect you, but the time has come to fight. We must destroy the threat if the people are to survive.”
“And bring war?”
“You have no choice. Raise the armies. The rahkens nation already rails against our oppressors. They know our people of old. You will be surprised,” said Sventhan. “The land longs to fight. It cannot bear the weight of the Protectorate much longer…but it is the Hierarchy that are the true enemy, and their fathers, who soon return from the stars.”
“It is no longer possible to remain idle, for to do so will mean the end of this land and every other. You think the land harsh now. The fathers of the Hierarchy will tear each mortal to pieces and feast on their pain, bathe in their blood. You cannot say you are afraid. You do not even know what it means. But if you fail, you will. You will know suffering and terror until your death, and the death of the people you are supposed to be shepherding through this age.”
Reih listened, and if she thought the builder overstepped the mark she did not say so. She listened with a growing sense of dread. Not because he was a great orator, like some she had known, or an accomplished troubadour, deftly spinning a yarn. She listened because in some dark part of her heart, she knew it was the terrible truth…and her twin knew this also.
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 29
