Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  He eyed Renir suspiciously, but noted the darkening patches under the arms of Renir’s threadbare shirt, and said nothing. He was armed as always with his two short swords.

  “Morning, lad,” said the old mercenary in greeting.

  “Morning, Boar, late night?” enquired Renir solicitously. The wiry mercenary had a glazed look to his eyes, and he had failed to button his britches. “Forgot to sheath your sword this morning, I see.”

  Bourninund felt his crotch gingerly and buttoned up swiftly with his gnarled fingers. The man was old, and had bumps and lumps upon scars and calluses, but somehow, despite the physical evidence, he seemed to manage a rendezvous with his large lady friend, the proprietor of the Upright Horseshoe, the coach tavern where they had stayed for the last month, each night.

  The owner allowed them to make use of the hay barn each day, apart from Sundays, when the three fellow travellers made the most of the ale and took a day of rest.

  “Just airing it, young pup. Ready?”

  Renir hefted his axe. The early sun’s rays broken through the gaps in the wooden walls, glinting along the etched blade. It had seen much use already for such a young weapon, but it was as yet unmarked.

  “Ready when you are, old fella.”

  Bourninund grunted. “Less of the cheek, youngster. And put that away before I stick it up you sideways. Fists today.”

  Renir put the axe beside him on a crate, one of the few not splintered. Bourninund called him a sissy for worrying about it, but Renir had put a blanket over the crate to protect his behind from splinters. Renir didn’t care what Bourninund said — he reckoned there were few warriors of any kind of steel who could withstand a splinter in their arse.

  The two men unstrapped their sheaths and laid them aside.

  “Remember I told you that you can’t block straight with an axe? It’s a limitation, but it’s also a strength. Because the blade is curved, sword strikes glance off. That means you have a chance to hit your enemy before they can get their sword back into play.

  “Now, today, remember that. You can do the same thing with a sword, or a forearm when you’re blocking a blow. Watch and learn.”

  Bourninund raised his fist, and Renir noted how the muscles on the old man’s forearms corded as he clenched his hands. Renir’s arms showed some sign of improvement, but, he supposed, he had not yet had a lifetime of war to carve him.

  He flexed his shoulders, and advanced warily. The boar was full of tricks, but he was learning. He laid him low just as often as he himself was knocked upon the floor.

  He swung, his fist a blur, only to be blocked by one of Bourninund’s granite forearms, feeling the shock travel up his arm, but the old man turned the punch, pushing Renir’s arm up. Renir followed through almost instantly with a straight left, but he was now off balance. Bourninund swayed to one side, and suddenly Renir was gazing at pinpoints of light shining on the roof.

  Renir shook his head clear and stood once again, raising his fists. It was going to be a long morning.

  Chapter Eight

  The bar that served as home for the men on Sundays and most evenings was strangely quiet considering that it was only late lunchtime. The Upright Horseshoe had most things they required; rooms, space to practise, and a friendly lady of sizeable girth for Bourninund’s peace of mind. It was perfect for their purposes. It stood on the quieter, poorer, outskirts of the city of Pulhuth. It was a place where people minded their own business, and most of the denizen’s wore one kind of blade or another. It was not unusual to go armed, and it might have even been considered foolhardy not to. After all, an unarmed man only has so many chances of besting a gang of thugs with knives. At least an armed man, in a pinch, can slit his own throat and save himself some pain.

  The watch paid the poor quarter no mind, and the poor quarter return the favour to the law. The status quo worked, and suited Renir and his companions. No questions were asked, and in return they left everyone else to their own devices, unless of course they were forced into action. Bourninund had only been forced to kill a man once, though. It was enough to disarm a mugger, usually, but the man in question had been overly sure of his own prowess and had been persistent. Renir shed no tears for the thief.

  He was, in many ways, a different man to the one who had left behind his village and his wife many months ago. Somehow broader in his morality. Where once he only saw shades of black and white, now blood had seeped in. In some respects, the view was more beautiful, more fully appreciated, for the additional tone.

  Renir was nothing if not adaptable.

  And he was thankful, too. There was a war going on to the west, but to be in Pulhuth at night you would not have guessed it. It was not often a topic of conversation in the bar, or any of the other drinking establishments the trio visited. There was no distant clamour of battle, no glow in the night time sky. Pulhuth had yet to feel the warmth of war, but some of its young men had gone off to fight already. Pulhuth, once an ancient capital, remained largely untouched by the invading Draymen, but it was only a matter of time before it, too, was overrun. Far to the south the Thane of Spar was rumoured to be digging in his heels, and Naeth had raised an army of mercenaries which was driving the Draymar back toward the Culthorn mountains. Runtor, in the north west, had finally been fortified, securing the northern pass. The Thane of Naeth’s ragged mercenary army was holding it, for now, but there were more Draymen than Sturmen. They didn’t need to be a canny army, just big.

  War had ravaged the countryside. Renir was almost glad to be headed across Thaxamalan’s Saw. Whatever lay behind the frozen mountain range could not be worse than war. Renir had already seen more than one battle, and that was more than enough.

  Renir sipped his beer. He was too tired to quaff. But not as tired as he had been a month ago. Longer than that, in his previous life (as he thought of it) he had been heroically lazy, had ran only to fat and if he’d done a days work in his life, he was fairly sure it had been spread out evenly. Even the fish he had occasionally caught were more energetic than he was, and they were often quite dead.

  Now, he thought with some satisfaction, he was different. Not better, he realised, in a philosophical sense, but certainly better equipped to deal with all life would throw at him on this journey.

  There was no reason for him to fight. He could have gone to Turnmarket, worked in one of the numerous bars there, talked about the weather to the traders, sprouts to the farmers and winked at the serving girls. But he couldn’t return to his village. Everyone there was dead. He had no children, no wife. No dog, he thought, and at least that thought was tinged with warmth.

  No, he was now a man with no past, and no future. Fate had not singled him out to carry out great deeds. That was for Shorn, and Drun. He was like Bourninund. Caught up like a fish in fate’s nets. But he would not flounder.

  Flounder, he mused, and took another sip of his beer.

  What choice did he have? He had friends now, and a purpose. If nothing else, he was a loyal man. He knew himself as few others did, and he had come to an understanding with himself long ago. He would never be a coward, never take the easy way out.

  After all, he had married Hertha, hadn’t he?

  “You look like a man with much on his mind,” Bourninund said, interrupting Renir’s thoughts. “Still having the dreams?”

  Renir had felt he had to tell someone about his dreams. Since his first real wound, from a deep sword thrust to the back of his leg during the battle for Runtor at the northern pass, he had been having strange, powerful dreams. He had shared them with Drun and Bourninund. The sharing wasn’t easy, but while they had been waiting for Shorn there was nothing to do but practise with blade and fist, and talk long into the evening.

  Every day Renir woke, his sleep scars deeper than the morning before. They took longer to fade, as though the swords that drew them were becoming more terrible with each passing night. In the morning, when he trained, it was with greater and greater ferocity, as though he tried
to slay his sleeping demons in the waking world. But his axe would not reach.

  “Same as always, Boar. Nothing worth talking about. We can’t fix it.”

  “A man needs sleep to fight, my friend. You can’t keep on like this. Perhaps we should take you to a healer.”

  “If Drun can’t heal me, I doubt anyone could.”

  “You won’t let him try.”

  “That’s because I don’t want him rooting around in my head while I sleep. He’s done that once already. I didn’t like it then, and I won’t like it now.”

  Besides, thought Renir, he was afraid of what Drun might find. A man’s dreams were a castle, a sanctuary from the terrors of the waking world. He already had one interloper. He feared what another would do to his mind. Already, it felt fragile enough to snap.

  “Fine. It’s your head.”

  “That’s right, and if anyone’s going to mess with it they bloody well better bring a big sword.”

  Only the dreams that sometimes lingered into the day, the dreams that from time to time would make him speak lucidly in a woman’s tongue…well, the witch in his dreams had power, and needed no sword to prove her point.

  “Alright, only trying to help.”

  Renir sighed. “Sorry. Perhaps it troubles me more than I let on. But it’s still my head. I’m afraid if Drun goes in he might change me. I like who I am. People shouldn’t be in other people’s heads. It’s not natural.”

  “Can’t say I disagree. You deal with it in your own way. I’m sure there’s some purpose behind it.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think you might be right. The haunting becomes more powerful with each passing night, but somehow there is a sense of comfort there. I don’t think my ghosts mean me any harm. I think they’re just a mite heavy handed. Perhaps they’re just getting used to haunting, new to it, maybe. But I don’t think they mean me any harm.”

  “Well, just so long as you don’t go crazy on me. I can’t abide crazy people. I’ve fought alongside crazy people before — wars tend to mangle people’s minds — and let me tell you, you don’t want to be standing beside them when they lose it.”

  “I’m not going to lose it, don’t worry.”

  Bourinund smiled, a somewhat lopsided expression on his scarred face. “No, I don’t think you will.”

  “I think it may even be some kind of spell. I feel stronger.”

  “Well? That’s only natural. We’ve been training every day for the last month — you’re going to feel stronger. I doubt you’ve noticed, but you’re not the man I met in the Nabren’s camp any longer. You’ve steel in your backbone now, lad. All you need is a few more battles. If you live, you’ll be a warrior of some note. Mark my words.”

  Just what I was thinking I needed, thought Renir. A few more battles.

  “No, that’s not what I mean, Bourninund. I feel stronger, but this is different. I’ve felt like this ever since I had the sword in my leg.”

  “Strange business that. You’ve still got the scar, but I would have expected at least a hint of a limp. It’s not quite natural if you ask me, but then I don’t hold it against you.”

  “Well, I thank you for your beneficence, but perhaps you noticed how quickly it healed.”

  “It wasn’t that deep, was it?”

  “Can’t you tell from the scar? It was to the bone.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not all as perceptive as you young folk.”

  Renir humpfed. “I thought the bandage I wore around my thigh for a week would have given it away.”

  “You were wearing trousers,” Bourninund pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, there was that, but…”

  “Hang on,” Bourninund interjected thoughtfully. “A sword through the leg and a bandage for a week.”

  Renir nodded pointedly. “Now, do you see my point?”

  “Hmm, you’re a man of much strangeness, but…”

  This time Renir stopped the old mercenary. “…But it happens? Does it? Do people recover from a sword to the thigh in a week? I’m serious, Bourninund. I could have taken the bandage off after two days.”

  Bourninund pulled at the leather binding around his wiry wrists, a thoughtful expression on his face. “That is strange.”

  “Exactly!” Renir said, somewhat triumphantly.

  “Well, alright, no need to get excited. Isn’t it a good thing? You might be immortal.”

  “Ha,” Renir laughed pointedly. “It might seem like a good thing, but my grandmother always told me, be wary of gifts from unseen friends.”

  “Grandmother?”

  “Yes,” Renir said irritably, “Large lady, full of good advice and the queen of barbed comments. You don’t know her.”

  “Oh,” Bourninund said wistfully. “I always was partial to the larger lady.”

  “I’d noticed,” said Renir with a grin. “Sometimes it’s a wonder you haven’t suffocated in bed.”

  “That’s the thing with large ladies. They’re like sponges, with all those folds and crevasses…”

  “I think that’s quite enough information for the time being, thank you. I’m but a young man, Boar. Such knowledge could scar me for life.”

  “Just trying to educate you in the ways of life, lad. There’s more to being a warrior than swordplay. Got to take a little entertainment between times. Let off a bit of steam.”

  Renir had nothing to say to that. They both stared thoughtfully into their mugs, and set to drinking. It was better than staring at the walls.

  Both thought of women. Renir’s cackled insanely, scrapping blackened nails along his spine in his sleep. Bourninund’s were merely fat.

  In many respects, the Boar was the simpler of the two.

  Chapter Nine

  Drun Sard sat carefully stroking his greying beard. The grey was steadily winning the battle against the black, although a few patches stubbornly continued to fight. His skin was tanned leather, from more years under the suns and sea air than he cared to remember. His eyes were pale yellow, and as he stared at Carious sailing across the sky they seemed to match its glow. He wore a robe with a certain degree of surprise. He had spent so many years naked that clothing felt like a stranger’s touch on his skin.

  Two old men, two young. One of those off on some fool errand yet again. It seemed Shorn was determined to kill himself. Despite Shorn’s request that Drun not look for him, Drun had not been able to resist the temptation. He had seen the approach of the mercenary’s old teacher. He could watch no more. Each man had to fight his own battles, and Shorn would never have forgiven him had he intervened. Shorn might die, he might not. Fate was not for Drun to decide. He merely guided, sometimes advised. He never pushed. He considered himself a priest of the sun, and he, like they, influenced from afar. Sometimes they scolded, come the spring they teased new shoots from the frozen earth, but mostly they watched from the sky and let matters take their course.

  That was Drun’s view of Rythe’s twin suns. It was a view held by all of the Sard, but in many respects they were wrong. The suns were far from benign. They had their own plans, just as powerful as that of any other god. The only difference between Carious and Dow and the gods of Rythe was that when you looked up and called to them, they saw. All gods but the suns were blind and deaf. Many had worshipped the suns over time. They called for the summer, and a good harvest. They prayed for an end to the long winter, for clear skies above their fishing boats. Carious and Dow were unusual. They listened. They granted prayers. They were useful gods.

  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?