Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  “See?” said Drun with a satisfied smile.

  “Humpf,” said Wen. “Not bad, I suppose.”

  “Never seen that before,” said Bourninund appreciatively.

  “Me neither. No good if you’re fighting more than one man, though. Often, that’s the case.”

  “But he’s only fighting one man,” Drun pointed out.

  “Suppose so,” conceded Wen.

  Shorn landed a light blow on Renir’s temple, followed by a chop with the edge of his hand against the student’s elbow. It was obviously a stunning blow. Renir’s right arm fell numb against his side, but he did not give up. He blocked another blow to his head, swung a leg and upended Shorn again.

  The mercenary rose with a smile, and the two men touched fists to signal the end of their training for the day. Renir clapped Shorn on the shoulder, then looked around for the old men. Spotting them in the crowd, they made their way over.

  “He’s getting better,” said Wen grudgingly as they approached. “Not many men could put Shorn on his arse. Still, bet he couldn’t best him with a blade in his hand.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Bourninund.

  “I sincerely hope he’ll never have to,” said Drun.

  “What do you think then?” said Renir as he made his way to them. “Pretty nifty, eh?”

  “Don’t get cocky, lad,” said Wen.

  “Not bad, bit slow off the mark,” said Bourninund.

  “Bit of encouragement wouldn’t go amiss,” complained Renir.

  “Don’t pay them any mind, Renir. Can we talk?” Drun inclined his head.

  “Suppose so. My arm’s still numb, by the way. Thanks, Shorn.”

  “My arse is numb, too,” said Shorn with a rueful grin. “Won’t be long now before you can beat any man in a fair fight. Different with the blade, though. We’ll practise that tomorrow.”

  “Look forward to it,” Renir said, and let Drun lead him away.

  They walked until they reached the edge of the island ship, and Drun sat lightly looking out over the seas. In the distance, the sky was a purpling bruise, a storm heading inland from the ocean. The wind was still calm, but it would not be long in coming. Already the temperature was dropping, and this far north it was chill, despite the bitter glare of the twin suns.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Sometimes I forget you’re just as important a part of this company as Shorn, or I. You might not be a child of prophesy, but I see a greatness in you.”

  “Stop kidding around, Drun,” said Renir bashfully. He sat next to the priest, buttoning his jerkin against the chill outriders of the storm.

  “I don’t play, Renir. Neither should you.” Drun pinned him with a serious eye. “It can’t wait any longer. I’ve been putting off talking to you, perhaps in error, but too long. I think we should talk about your dreams.”

  Renir shook his head, his long hair hiding his face from those dangerous, bright yellow eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask. It became my business when it began affecting you. I can’t let anything endanger us on our journey. Shorn must reach the wizard, or the old ones will return, and everything we know will be burnt away. You have changed since we have been on the road, Renir. For the better, I believe, but there is something strange going on, and I must know what it is if I am to help. You cry out, sometimes you talk in your sleep, and sometimes you twitch, and lash out, but it can go on no longer. You are not alone. Everything you do affects us all. We are all linked now.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to Wen? If anyone is a danger to us, it’s Wen and his seer’s grass.”

  “I won’t pretend I’m not chary of talking to him, but his addiction serves a purpose as surely as your dreams. Fate finds a path for all of us. I don’t doubt we were set on this path from our birth, and perhaps Carious and Dow have watched over us since our father’s fathers were born. We all serve fate, in our own way. Now, tell me of your dreams, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Renir fiddled with his jerkin for a few moments, and considered holding onto his dreams, but only for a second. Drun was right. He might well be risking his friends. How many times had he cursed the others for keeping their secrets? He would not fall into the same trap. No matter how hard it might be to stay true.

  He began to talk, reluctantly and haltingly. He was embarrassed by some of his dreams, and frightened, too. But if he could not trust Drun, he could trust no one. It had taken him many months to believe in Shorn. That trust was earned, sometimes the hardest way of all, in the midst of battle. Drun was different, though. He asked little but what a man was willing to give. He had not asked Renir to risk his life on this journey. That had been his choice.

  No time to regret, and no chance to go back. He was committed. It was with that sense of commitment that he found the courage to talk.

  “I dream of a witch. She has changed me, in ways I never imagined possible. I heal faster and more completely than is natural. It doesn’t feel wrong, exactly, but it is strange. I haven’t spoken of it with you because…well, I was afraid.”

  Drun said nothing, but looked away from Renir. He felt it might be easy for the fledgling warrior if he was not scrutinised while he unburdened himself.

  “I was afraid you would try to fix me, or take this gift away. I like it, Drun. I feel so much more…complete…than I ever did. I feel braver, stronger…it is most unusual, but I don’t think there is anything malign about it. The witch gives, but she never takes.”

  “Do you know anything of the lore of witches?”

  “I do. I know there is always a price. But she has not demanded it.”

  “And she will not, not until the time comes when she does. With a witch you never know the price, not until it is too late.”

  “But she does not feel evil. Besides, in my dreams, I have never had the chance to ask about the price. They are always too busy, and she talks constantly…I can barely get a word in edgewise.”

  “And you can think, react, in your dreams?”

  “In the witch dreams, yes. In others, no.”

  “Then it is a visitation. You are a dreamer, no? I would imagine you have always had vivid dreams.”

  “Just ordinary dreams, I suppose. Nothing strange about them. Aside from the witch.”

  “And what does she tell you?”

  “I can’t always remember. I do know she gives me warnings, sometimes, like…don’t trust Wen…who Shorn’s son was…things like that. It’s as though she knows the future.”

  “Does she ever harm you?”

  Renir seemed to Drun to think of an answer overly long, but the priest did not interrupt.

  “When it began, I was terrified. I think I know why, though.”

  Drun was interested. “Why, do you think?”

  “I fought it. I have come to accept it. It is like…having a friend. I don’t know as I trust her — I wouldn’t trust anyone who barged in on my dreams…but she has only given me knowledge, and this strange power to heal. Also, this may sound strange…”

  “Very little sounds strange to me, Renir.”

  “You’ve never heard my story of the bewildered goose before.”

  “And probably have no need to. What is strange?”

  “I think she likes me…I get the impression that when I don’t do what she wants, she is angry, but only because she is worried for me. I think she wants me to live, but also to do the right things…I don’t know, it’s almost like all women. Perhaps there is nothing strange about it. I suppose most women find a way to push men into doing what they think is best for them, even if the man doesn’t think so.”

  “Women are often wiser than men,” Drun mused, largely to himself, but Renir heard him.

  “Well, I think this one has the makings of me. It’s like she knows me better than I know myself, sometimes. She knows things about me I have never spoken out loud…all my embarrassments — and there have been a few — all my fear
s, my hopes, my dreams. Can a visitor read minds in the dream world?”

  “No, you can converse, or remain silent. You can be truthful, or deceitful, and the visitor would never know.”

  “And yet she seems to know.”

  “Perhaps she is merely perceptive.”

  “Yes,” said Renir, “But it seems to be more than just that.”

  Drun picked at the hem of his cloak, which was bunched around his knees. The Seafarers had made it for him. It was a fine, thick cloak. They would need it when they went ashore.

  Renir looked at his own. It was threadbare, and far too thin for the north.

  He sighed. Forever the poor relation on this trip. Still, at least he was better clothed than Wen. The giant wore no shirt most of the time. But he did not seem bothered by the cold.

  “I think I am happy with my witch for the time being. She does me no harm, and seems to want no harm to come to me. I am beginning to think of her as the sixth member of our little army.”

  “I just hope she’s a friend, that is all I am worried about.”

  “She seems to be, that is all I can say for now. In the witch dreams, it sounds strange, but I feel that if I could just see her face, I would know her. I feel I have known her throughout lifetimes…I cannot explain the feeling better than that.”

  “A strange feeling, as you say. But I can say no more, because I do not understand it myself. It will have to do.”

  Renir nodded. “I’m glad you made me talk about it. I feel better.”

  “I’m not done yet, my friend. Tell me about the other dreams.”

  “They are just that — plain dreams.”

  “Do they feel wrong?”

  “No, not at all. I think they are just dreams, not visitations.”

  “Tell me anyway. Sometimes people close to the strands of fate can see it. I have vivid dreams too. It is good to tell of them. I would hear of yours.”

  “You tell me about yours, I’ll tell you about mine.”

  Drun smiled mildly, but Renir saw that his eyes were bright and hard. “No, Renir. I would burden no man with my dreams. We have a load enough to carry for an army. I hope your dreams are lighter than mine.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Renir with a hard laugh. “Two nights ago I dreamt of a woman, in danger, and a man with many faces chasing her. The man with many faces was not really a man, though, but it was the closest I could come in words to describing him. He had a long, narrow, face, with long hair that hung close to his cheeks, hiding his eyes. I do not think any man would have a face like that. He was wearing a strange, shifting robe that was uncomfortable on the eye…I was afraid, even though it was only a dream.”

  “Two nights ago I heard you cry out in your sleep. I thought it was not a good dream.”

  “No, he was evil. You know how some men are wrong in their hearts, full of bile and spite…this man does not have even enough passion to wish ill on others. He just ruins to feel…something. I think he is empty inside.”

  “And not a man, I suspect, but a Protocrat. It is as good a description as any of their hearts. But I wouldn’t fear him, he is just one of many. He was not in your dreams — Protocrats and Hierarchs travel different roads in their dreams — I do not think they could visit yours. But it is portentous. And what of the woman being chased?”

  “I heard her speak in my dream. The words were muffled, and I could not understand them, but on one side of her stood a rainbow, and on the other nine glowing suns, but small enough that I could see them. But I could not make out her face. She was in shadow, the shadow of the Protocrat. His shadow fell across her, even as she ran. Does that mean anything, do you think?”

  Drun paled. “I think so, yes. I believe that was Tirielle, the third of whom we have spoken. She is in danger. The rainbow is a Seer that travels with her, the suns are my brethren…she also travels with a rahken, did you see it?”

  “The beasts you have told me of?” Drun nodded. “No, I did not. What of the Protocrat?”

  “I do not know him. But you would not be granted such a vision if it were not important.”

  Renir found it was good to speak of his dreams.

  “What else do you dream?”

  “I dream about the war in Sturma. I see a large man presiding over it, similar in appearance to the other man I see — another Protocrat, I presume — but it is even stranger. In my dreams I do battle with him, but he fires magic against me, and I cannot fight it. But that is not the strange thing — in this dream I feel at peace. And most unusually, there is an army at my back. Each time his flames knock me down, men hold me up again, push me back to my feet…what do you think that means?”

  “I must confess, I do not know,” said Drun, stroking his beard thoughtfully and looking out to sea. “Is there anything else?”

  “One last dream. I have this on occasion. Of a girl. Her eyes are multi-hued — she is in the centre of the battle. It is all so confusing…In my dreams she dies in a city, surrounded by books…”

  Drun looked up sharply. “This girl, she dies?”

  “Is that important? It’s only in the dream.”

  Drun’s expression darkened. His eyes glowed brighter, and he tugged at his beard. “I hope not. I must find out…Sit with me Renir, I must find out…” he tailed off, and went silent, a frightening, thoughtful expression on his tanned and lined face.

  Renir had felt better than he had for days, even if Drun had not told him what his dreams meant, but now he was worried he had said something wrong. The Sard looked furious and thoughtful. It was no longer comfortable sitting next to him, not with that expression on his ancient face. But Renir could not refuse.

  “I’ll sit a while. It’s a beautiful view.” It was true. The suns were rising high, and the storm was still a way off. The clouds reared in the sky, purple in places, dark grey in others. White clouds sat to the south, promising more welcome weather whenever he returned to Sturma. If he could…

  Drun took a deep breath and clapped the fledgling warrior on the shoulder. Renir was thankful for the contact. He did not wish Drun to be angry with him.

  “Whatever happens next, Renir, don’t worry. I am just going travelling for a while. Now, be silent. I just hope it’s not too late,” Drun added, a calculating look on his face as he glanced at the looming skies.

  “It’s fine,” said Renir, and tailed off as Drun’s breath caught in his throat, and Renir watched him struggle, holding his breath for a time.

  Beside him, Drun’s body fell back against the boards.

  “Drun!” shouted Renir, and thumped the old man’s chest. “Breathe, damn it!”

  A dry rattle escaped Drun’s throat, and he began to breathe. His eyes stared unseeing, though, as if seeing a vision in the sky.

  Travelling, thought Renir. He had heard Drun speak of it, and he didn’t know if he should do anything. He looked around him. There was no one to see.

  “Brindle’s goat,” he swore, and settled in for a long wait, watching the clouds sail ever closer across roughening seas.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Drun flew across the sea faster than he ever had, flying toward noon, then dusk, and arriving just in time to make twilight. He felt his form quavering, but relief that he had found the city in time, only to have it shattered.

  Surrounding the city was a darkness that had nothing to do with night. Ghostly shapes prowled the air outside, an evil he knew well but had avoided for thirty-seven years. The darkening skies were polluted with its taint, birds returning early to their evening roosts, shaken just as he was but not knowing why, just feeling the instinct to flee. His fear grew, but he could not flee and hang from a tree.

  Concentrating his soul and all his power on the city of Beheth, and the shifting rainbow under its pristine roofs, untouchable by the taint of the enemy, he made his ethereal form as small as a dart, heavy and swift, and dived through the darkness, sucking the last of the light from the setting suns.

  All the colours o
f the rainbow floated through the roof of a great inn, as though they were tendrils of smoke, drifting to the night sky. He could only hope that she was asleep, and that he could touch her mind, if only enough to make her stir, or cry out. Perhaps he could reach her sleeping mind and use her voice to warn them. It was no use warning her, she would be insensible.

  His form darted in through the open window, and snaked around her head, but just in time she blinked and sat up.

  “Drun, I presume?” she said in a far too mature voice that pierced into his brain.

  In his surprise, he almost lost his form and snapped back across the ocean. As it was, he saw, looking out at the advancing night and the alien darkness on the boundaries of the city, he had little time.

  “You must flee!” he blurted, still amazed that the girl was awake. He had been out of touch for too long. “The Protectorate await outside the city. They know you are here. There is no time. Do not pack, just warn the others and leave now.”

  “I cannot!” she shouted without words. She shook her head to underline her point. “You know as well as I do what matters most. It is not me, it is the wizard. We will do what we must.”

  “Fool girl! Listen to me! They are coming!”

  “Well,” she said with a stubborn tilt of her head, “There is no need to be rude…”

  “Just do it…flee tonight…you must head north — it is the only way out of the city…” Drun could feel the pull as the last of the evening light fled.

  “Fate finds its own way, Drun Sard, and we must trust it. Now go, before you disappear entirely.”

  Drun had time to marvel at her poise. So much presence for one so young, he thought at the same time as his frustration at her rejection. Stupid girl!

  He had no more time to think. On the last rays of light, his body snapped back. He sensed, rather than felt, the tainted darkness seeking him as he was called back out of the night, but his soul travelled so swiftly it was just a hint of a bony hand before it touched your shoulder in a dream…

  He had no time to feel the skeletal touch of the Protectorate’s wizard, just the memory of it, like a violation imagined rather than experienced.