Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  The mood was lightened instantly. The Sard removed their glimmering armour and strode into the water. Dow was setting in the distance, its glow lighting the surface of the lake with red fire. Trees were murmuring gently as a soft breeze rose. It was, thought Quintal with pleasure, about time they had some respite from their travels.

  They splashed in the water, and laughed with rare joy.

  Only Tirielle could not leave her cares behind. For a fleeting moment, the lake made Tirielle sad. Encased bodies of water always made her sad. In her history books she remembered reading the fable of the Moranders, who thought the lakes were prisons, and that the seas were salty with all the tears shed for their imprisoned parts. The Moranders, a peninsular tribe, had dug huge canals and tried to coax the lakes back to the seas, but like a caged bird forgets how to fly free from an opened cage, the lakes refused to leave…

  Her joy at finding the lake was tainted by the thought. She tried to smile as they made camp and dried out, but, she thought wryly, troubles live in the mind. They are not so easily left behind. She smiled wider, and after a while, took another bath. Perhaps she could wash her cares away. They would drift into the water. The lake seemed large enough to bear it.

  Chapter Five

  Footfalls echoed in the bowels of Arram. The moss, infested by vestiges of magic overflowing from one of many portals lent the moss the strange power to glow, coruscating veins of blue crackling through its green tendrils. The velvet carpet deadened the footfalls to a murmur, and the bare feet slapping against the covered flagstones trod lightly.

  Ascending a wide stairway, the blue tinged growth gave way to drier hallways, lit at regular intervals by burning torches. There were no guards, no one to greet the returning mage.

  His robes caught the muted light and shimmered as he strode toward the centre of the Protectorate’s headquarters, heading with single minded ambition toward his rightful place, among the twenty one leaders of the Protectorate, the Speculate. He was late, but even for an ascendant, time could not be manipulated. Travelling to the portal from any location was possible for one with the power to bend reality, but within Arram such displays of power were generally forbidden. But for the leader of the twenty one divisions, Jek, who alone was more powerful than the visitor.

  His eyes caught the torchlight, seeming to reflect their red glow, but his eyes were of a different hue. They shone with their own inner light, a dark blood red, the blood of organs, of menstruation, dark enough to seem black on a moonless night. Sometime they bled light, marking the mage’s light as otherworldly, a preternatural light. It was the mark of an ascendant. As yet there were few, but their numbers, and so the power of the Protectorate, would grow.

  An unassuming door stood before him. From beyond he could hear the sound of voices, arguing, as usual. There was no discipline beyond the door. It was something he would change when the power was fully under his control.

  Reaching out with one emaciated hand, he pushed the door aside and entered boldly.

  As one, the assembled Protocrats turned their heads to look at him.

  Jek, at the head of the circle, was the only one to smile.

  “Ah, Klan, we are graced with your presence, as always. I trust you have not caught a chill?” Jek, the Speculate and leader of the twenty-one, was not to be taken lightly.

  Klan Mard bowed low to his master. “My apologies, Speculate, I was unavoidably detained. But I thank you for your concern. The ice plains have yet to seep into my bones.” Respect was one thing. But obsequiousness, that was for dogs. Klan raised his head and took his place among the circle. He saw that few had ascended. Haran Irulius, Paenth Dorn D’tha, Absalain Ur An…the list was still short. Their eyes glowed with ascendancy, the blight not yet pronounced in all of the twenty-one, but their number was growing.

  “And how goes the search for the red wizard? The one prophesised?” Tun, the head of the Search division, asked this innocuously, as though he cared not one whit for the answer. Klan noted the big Protocrat’s eyes glowed as brightly as his own.

  “Alas, it goes badly,” Klan admitted. “We have not found sign or marker of the wizard’s resting place. I begin to doubt he even exists.”

  “Oh, he exists alright. The Island Archive mentions him, as do our scrolls. It is just a matter of looking in the right place.”

  “If only we could utilise our magics. We are hunting blindly, and the ice plains of Teryithyr are vast indeed.”

  Klan took a moment to examine his brethren and sistren. Mermi had yet to join him among the ascendants, but her eyes were showing a hint of red where ordinarily there was only grey. The ascendancy was gathering pace.

  He voiced his thoughts, although he knew what it meant for him.

  “Ascendancy is coming to us already. Time grows short before the return of the old ones.”

  “And you understand what this means?”

  “Yes, my lord. We must find the wizard, or the three, before long.”

  “And you can do this?”

  “I have spies in every port. I believe the Saviour, the one known as Shorn, still hides on the land of Sturma. There are few ports there, and we are searching still. The Watcher is with him, hiding him from our scryers. The one known as the Sacrifice is similarly hidden, by our enemies, the Sard. Had we known of them sooner, perhaps we could have acted differently.” He looked pointedly at Paenth, who was responsible for this. She had the good grace to look away from Klan’s terrible eyes.

  “We do not know either of their locations,” he added. “I have my men scouring Lianthre as we speak. She cannot hide for long.”

  “We will disband for this night. You all know what to do.”

  Klan left last. His Anamnesors would do his work in his stead. He could use some time to relax, even an ascendant was still subject to the demands of the body.

  After a short trip to the residential quarters, Klan Mard laid softly upon his bed, and stared up at the ceiling in the darkened room. Grinning faces peered down at him, from where they were pinned upon the wood. He smiled, comforted by the sight of his delegation. He wondered if his faces had missed him as he missed them.

  As he stared at them, his eyelids grew heavy.

  For the first time in a month, surrounded by his only friends, the mage fell into a peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Six

  There is a certain clarity that comes at the moment of your own death, Shorn realised. Never had he felt such a sharpening of the senses as he felt looking at his old master. That clarity never came when he had killed. In battle, before, time seemed to speed. A battle that lasted for hours passed in a daze, senses taking in each important detail, and discarding the rest. To note the cut of a man’s beard, or the colour of his eyes, when a blade was thrust toward your chest…well, you would merely become an observant corpse.

  Faerblane clutched lightly in his right hand, he noted Wen Gossar’s eyes first. They were shot through with crazed lines of blood. The width of shoulder had not changed, but the weapons’ master no longer stood proud. The intervening years since he had last seen the man had not been kind. He wore a tattered robe over a leather breastplate, robe and leather worn thin with time. The man himself slumped, his head thrown forward with the ravages of age, staring at a painful angle toward his pupil. Thick hands, scarred and calloused with bruising knuckles, held Faerblane’s brother, the Cruor Bract.

  Memories flooded through Shorn’s heightened mind. The past and present merged into one. He remembered his last meeting, a stronger, faster Wen, smashing his ruby encrusted blade into Shorn’s nose, his vision blackening as the weapons’ master turned his back on his student, leaving him for dead, not even worthy of a finishing thrust to the neck. That last sight of the man was etched into Shorn’s memory. The broad back turning away from him as darkness fell and he succumbed to the lure of insensibility.

  The man before him was a mere shadow of that man. And yet, why did Shorn see everything with such clarity?

  The mercenary r
aised his sword.

  Wen’s head glistened with sweat despite the chill. Shorn saw that the old man’s hand trembled slightly as he raised his own sword in salute. He was not fooled though. The old man’s dark forearms were still powerful.

  He did not run. The swords had waited so long that there was something leisurely in their meeting. It was as though they savoured their first contact, took pleasure in the moment of joining.

  Wen’s sword, held high over his head, shone red along the blade, Where once a thousand tiny rubies had glinted red along the edge, only a few remained. The rubies were wearing thin. Legend had it that the rubies would wear down and the blood of the slain would rest in their place, crusted between the shards until they too broke away. The sword was designed never to be broken, never to be sharpened. No one knew who made it, or why they chose such an exquisite edge, but legend also said when the row of gems was gone that edge would blunt, and that Cruor Bract would cut no more. That time, Shorn observed sadly as he took his own fighting stance, was not yet. The few rubies remaining caught the high sun’s glare and turned it aside, prisms on a sword created from light.

  Shorn’s held onto sound, a chime that sung in the presence of magic. Its song rose as Wen neared.

  Shorn looked through sharp and weathered eyes, taking the measure of the man. He shook, and stumbled forward. He was sick, and yet Shorn felt his death, finally, approaching. Perhaps Wen himself was waiting for the day that peace came and his sword could retire itself.

  Wen screamed. The sword fell and suddenly the old man revealed his true nature. Shivers travelled up Shorn’s arm at the power of the blow. He turned Cruor Bract aside and spun on his leg, strong enough to support him now, whirling his sword in his good hand. Wen was already facing him, and seemingly without a space in between thought and action the swords clashed once more. The old man was gone, whatever ailed his old master forgotten as the blood cry of battle rose. The swords rose and fell, one shining in the light, one singing boldly, its song loud enough to cover the screaming wind.

  As one, almost choreographed, the swords danced through the air. The warriors’ feet shuffled, lunged and leapt. The two men created a spinning, whirring blaze of energy, swords never leaving each other for long, as though they had missed each other so strongly that they could not bear to part.

  Slashing a high cut at Shorn’s neck, Wen grunted with effort. He often left himself open, Shorn recalled, but struck with such power that there was no opportunity to return a strike with equal fervour. Under such an onslaught it was all Shorn could do to stay alive, turning the blade aside when he was able, blocking with all his strength when he had no choice.

  Wen must be well into his winter years by now, old even when he had tutored Shorn in the way of the sword, but his power and speed had not abated. Each time Shorn’s sword found its way through Wen’s guard, the old man was not there, or his sword travelled to cover a gap so swiftly that Shorn often thought the man was immortal, or protected by the gods themselves.

  The years had not changed him. He was bowed outside of the battle, but when his blood was up, he was faster than ever.

  Shorn felt his hope diminish. His leg tired, and his left arm more than once failed to grip his sword. He was reduced to using one hand on his sword when he was able, his brace blocking blows when he could not bring Faerblane to bear in time. The sword’s song rose, and Wen seemed distracted — for anyone else, it would have been fatal under Shorn’s counter attack, but again the ruby blade met its brother, but this time a ruby careened from the edge of Wen’s sword, leaving only thirteen — Shorn was amazed at this clarity of sight that was upon him. He was faster than he ever had been, and he understood now that only being at the edge of death granted him this remarkable perception. He had never been so close before. He had not needed it all these years, travelling from one battle to the next, fighting as though asleep.

  Finally, he was awake.

  He renewed his energy, and willed the pain of his burning limbs away. He attacked, and was rewarded with more rubies falling from his master’s sword.

  Wen overreached, and Shorn took his chance, slicing the blade along his left arm across the bald head of the weapons’ master, bringing forth a bright line of red, but realising in the same moment it had been but a feint as he felt a bright explosion of fire along his ribs. Catching the flat of the sword inside his arm he flung his head forward and was rewarded with a crack as his forehead broke Wen’s nose. Wen swept Shorn’s leg at the same moment, and Shorn fell, releasing Wen’s sword which rose and fell with such speed that Shorn could only shift his weight in time to feel the wind parting beside his cheek. He kicked out, connecting with the old man’s knee, at the same moment slicing another ruby from the red blade. Flicking himself backward he landed on his feet, sword at the ready once more. His breath was coming in laboured gasps, but then so was Wen’s. He dared not think Wen spent, though. Instead of allowing either of them respite, the swords met once more.

  And another ruby fell.

  But two rubies left now, Shorn saw through preternaturally sharp eyes. He blocked close to his head, guile now his only weapon, allowing Wen to think his energy spent, and at the last moment swung his crippled arm into the sword, knocking the penultimate ruby free, and at that instant finding the guard with the flat of his sword, pulling the blade free from Wen’s grip.

  There was a moment, while the sword flew through the air, that Shorn could have killed Wen. But instead, he stepped back. He was expecting Wen to look confused, or resigned, but no emotion entered the old man’s eyes. Instead, they looked hazed, as if he was seeing something else. Then, as the song of swords faded, the weapons’ master raised his hands in supplication.

  “I am well pleased with you, my student, as are the spirits of your slain. You may yet be their avatar.”

  Wen smiled as Shorn collapsed in exhaustion to his knees.

  Behind him, the Cruor Bract quivered in the rock…but one ruby remained.

  Chapter Seven

  My friends,

  I must leave, but trust that I will return. I have never been a man to shirk painful duties, and for me to meet my fate, I must first do this. I go to a place where none can follow. I would continue this journey with a fresh heart. I sense ahead lies sorrow, heavy enough for any man’s heart, but perhaps too heavy for mine, burdened as it already is.

  Drun, please do not follow me upon the winds, or the suns, or however it is that your soul travels. I alone can see our way forward. This is my past, my memory, and it is personal to me. Please respect that. I feel I have earned at least that much trust.

  Renir, I would ask that you use this time wisely. Our road together is not yet ended, and it will no doubt get harder still. Trust in Bourninund’s skill with arms. Learn all that he has to teach you. It will stand you in good stead. While we may not be able to win all our battles with force of arms, if I have learned one thing it is that a strong sword sways many arguments. Or, in your case, a strong axe. Learn well.

  Bourninund, I am trusting Renir’s continuing education to you. I know I can rely on you, old friend.

  To you all, I say this. When the summer is at its height, be ready. Time will be short, and we will need swift mounts. As Drun often says, you make your own time. It is true of so many things in life. I am making time for us now.

  Gods willing, we will be leaving these shores before summer falls.

  Shorn.

  Renir refolded the letter along its well worn creases and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

  No matter how many times he read the letter, he could not see the sense in Shorn’s words. They were brothers on the road. It was folly to split, especially now, when they were so close to their goal. Surely, with war rising in the west and south, and against other adversaries who were able to wield uncanny magic, they would be stronger together. There was nothing that could be personal, not on this quest. Admittedly, Renir’s experience of quests generally involved shopping, and avoiding Herth
a.

  The thought of Hertha sent a swift ache through his heart, but the feeling was fleeting. His grief was largely past, although Renir was wise enough to know that grief never vanished, it just became part of you, like whiskers, or a well-worn callous.

  The morning air was ripe with the corruption of the city, but, Renir realised, he barely noticed the stench of rotting food and sewage anymore. It had become merely a background irritation. He took a deep breath and willed his mind onto matters present.

  Never mind the future, or the past, he cautioned himself. Look after this moment, and it may pass on to the next. To fail in such a simple task could mean his death on this journey. For now, he would practise once more the art of war. He knew nothing of leadership, or tactics, but he was determined to become a soldier of some merit. Too many times already had he been found wanting. When he was called upon to wield his mighty axe again, Haertjuge would not be shamed with defeat.

  He drew his axe and began his warming routine. Bourninund would be along soon (with a sore head, no doubt) and when facing the wily mercenary Renir had found it beneficial to remain supple. The old warrior had a knack for drawing on Renir’s reserves of strength, energy and skill. Slowly, as if fighting underwater, Renir drew his axe in the patterns Bourninund had taught him. He moved his feet smoothly along the worn boards, the quiet broken by an occasional stamp as he lunged and spun on every fifth stroke, the only time he created any sound above a whisper. At the seventy-fifth stroke, he had worked up a decent sweat. He sheathed his axe, then gently stretched his muscles, each in turn, working up from his calves to his neck. The muscles stood out on his neck now, a sign of his growing strength. He wiped the sweat from his brow when he was finished, and took a break.

  Which, typically, was the moment Bourninund chose to enter through the barn door.