Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Shorn had killed before and cried. He had killed before and smiled. He had seen women’s – children's – mutilated corpses and felt sick at himself for being a part of the world that tore ordinary lives apart.

  Nabren had seen all that and more. Yet he had walked through the aftermath of ordinary men at war and felt nothing. Working for a man like that, and Shorn had still lost his sword. His embarrassment was burned all the brighter.

  A simple trick was all it had taken to outwit the proud mercenary. Dizziness had overtaken him after only a few mouthfuls of stew, the mainstay of camp food. Immediately he had felt the surety of death visiting again.

  Doubled over, hacking, he had made himself retch up all the undigested food he held, but it proved too little too late. He had passed out in his own vomit. It had taken no more than five minutes to undo a lifetime’s training. In the corner of his field tent Shorn had lain beaten.

  He had regained consciousness miles from the camp. As he rose three beasts with night black hides, spines from neck to tail, pounced from the brush on the plains. He had fought with fists and feet, his head still groggy from the poison and barely managed to stay unscathed. He had only run from the beast when he had put out an eye early in the engagement, only to realise with growing horror that it was coming back; not growing, organically, but coming back just the same, materialising, crystallising. No matter how badly he injured the beasts, they came on. They were implacable.

  Nabren must have ordered it, he reasoned from his forest bed. There had been no one else in the camp that would have committed such an act. With the other trainers (among others Draken, Shall Kim, Dargirre, Bourninund and Carnadin, compatriots in countless wars) eating around the fire outside he would have been safe could he have cried out. The poison had been so fast, though. The only noise he had been able to make was that of retching. Perhaps his being sick had saved his life, but now he wondered if he should have called out to his companions first for aid. A cutthroat bunch, admittedly, but they had honour. Nabren did not have the shame within him to be capable of honour. It had been Nabren’s doing, without a doubt.

  A servant must have taken Shorn's body outside the camp, the subtlety only necessary as Nabren would have lost all the other men at camp had he tried to kill Shorn openly; Shorn's reputation preceded him wherever he went, a veteran of too many battles to count. So he had ordered Shorn poisoned and dumped him out in the wild for the fey beasts to finish him.

  In the mercenary’s work there was no right or wrong side. It had nothing to do with money, or hate – Nabren wanted Shorn’s sword for himself, simple. But Nabren was no wizard, for there was no magic about the man. He knew this from his sword, which hummed and whined (Wen, his teacher in the arts of war, had said it sung, but Shorn thought that too pretty a word) whenever in the presence of magic. Shorn wondered who the wizard had been. The one whose eyes he had felt upon him that night.

  Someone must have summoned or created the hunters to tear him to pieces out of earshot and out of sight of the camp, so the leader of the motley band could deny all knowledge of the act and keep the respect of the men. No doubt Nabren intended to hide the sword and claim he had taken it from Shorn’s body later. So Nabren had an unseen ally. A powerful ally, it seemed.

  He did not think that the beasts were intelligent. Their master must be. A bounty hunter perhaps? He thought that a possibility, as magic was not often used in warfare – wizards were rare anyway (at least, on this continent) and targeted immediately in war. The trick was to kill them before they got their chants out. Such enterprises usually proved short lived for those proficient in the arcane arts. Wizards tended to work from the shadows instead. They used their skills for gain, never for good.

  Thinking through the problem and relaxing in the dappled sunlight, Shorn was not be sure the beasts would perish even by his sword. It was a moot point – to go back for his sword, he would need to get past the beasts unarmed. The passes were the only option left. He would have to lose the beasts long enough to rest and eat and then try to get them to fall (I’m sure they’ll be receptive should I ask. He laughed at himself). If they didn’t die from falling into some deep drop or gorge, at the very least they would have a long climb to catch him.

  He rose and set off again, running at a steady pace.

  Three creatures with black hides that devoured the sunlight rose, too, heads up as if sampling the air. They set off at once. The grass where they had lain shivered as it died.

  *

  Chapter Three

  Turnmarket bustled at midday when Renir finally arrived.

  The town sprang up as a trading post for the western part of Sturma, and because of its proximity to the mountains and the possibility of Draymar raiders it was one of the few areas in Sturma that had a standing army. It was called an army, but for all intents it was no more now than a militia. Since arriving, Renir had seen only five guards, all with pikes and leather armour, none of which was waxed. Their pikes looked none too sharp, either.

  Renir decided he still wouldn’t want to be hit in the head with one.

  A storm was brewing on this side of the towering natural wall that protected Sturma from her old enemy. Renir looked up at the blue-black clouds and knew he would never flee the storm’s reach in time. The weather closer to the mountains was gloriously changeable and had forced Renir to stay in the cheaper of Turnmarket’s two inns before. He had drunk himself into a stupor the last time and spent a cold but peaceful night, the room spinning and snow swirling madly outside. Snow was always a welcome break from Hertha’s incessant nagging. The pounding headaches seemed to last all the way back to his village, though, and served to make Hertha’s gripes all the more invasive. Sometimes that woman could make his head hurt worse than summer ale.

  It was a price worth paying. He looked at the darkening clouds coming in over the mountains and hoped the snow would last a week.

  Entering through the worn wooden gates that broke the fence around the town Renir passed quiet market stalls, until he came to Delvin’s, a small swarthy man who had made haggling an art form. Delvin’s beard reached the top of his ripe belly, a huge encumbrance no doubt funded by the extortionate prices he charged from the unwary. Renir always went to him for Hertha’s household items. Partly it was because Hertha insisted on the best goods, but mainly because Renir enjoyed a little friendly banter with the man he had known for years now.

  “Goodday, Renir! It has been too long.” Delvin rose from a battered stool at the back of his market stall and came round the front to touch Renir’s hand. “Have you come to give me all your money again?”

  “Yes,” Renir answered, frowning, but smiling too, “I don’t know why Hertha insists I get her goods from you, you’re nothing but an extortionist.”

  “How can I be an extortionist with this girth?”

  “I didn’t say a ‘contortionist’…I see you are already twisting my words to your own means.”

  “Now, Renir, you know I relish your visits. You always pay with such grace, unlike some of the other barbarians I see in this line of business. Come round and we’ll talk at the back of the stall – I have some fine Teryithian brandy you might like to sample – unless Hertha’s put you under orders?”

  This was one of the other reasons Renir liked to come to Delvin’s stall – Delvin, while skinflint, was always ready to offer a sample of some outlandish brew of which Renir had never heard.

  The trader led Renir round to the back of the stall, away from the thinning crowd.

  “Where’s Terith?” asked Renir, ignoring the slur on his manhood and moving round to sit on a crate at the back of the battered stall. The marketplace quieted and Renir settled down to barter and watch the crowds moving away. People were already leaving despite it only being midday. Come back! He shouted inside his head. Its snow!

  Then he realised he was the only one of the lot married to his wife.

  “Teryithyr, my friend, is a cold hearted land far to the north, its people cov
ered in white hair from head to foot. Some of the people are giants. Fearsome to behold.”

  “Sounds like fanciful nonsense to me. When have you ever been that far north? Last I heard you hadn’t even crossed the mountains.”

  Delvin unstoppered the brandy flask and took a swig before passing it to Renir. Delvin’s breath caught as he replied, “I’ve never been that far north, as you well know. I traded a set of pans with a guy – Tygrove – his name was, for it. He said he’d heard tales from a man who’d passed Thaxamalan’s saw. I don’t know if I believe it either, men covered with fur indeed. Still, I’ve never been, so you don’t know, do you?”

  Renir took a slug of the brandy and felt his throat tighten and burn like he had drunk fire. “Owyha! Hunf! What is this stuff made of!?”

  Delving laughed and thumped Renir on the back. “The mrith worm!”

  Renir looked to see if his friend was joking. He wasn’t. “All of it?”

  “Yes, it’s the best thing I’ve found for keeping warm when the snows come in.” He pointed at the darkening sky. “Did you not notice the storm rising over the mountains?”

  “Nnn. I thought I’d stay in Sharma’s Inn for the night instead of heading back early. I could do with a break from Hertha. Woman drives me to drink.” He took another swig and handed the flask back.

  “Well, it’s been a while since we had a drink together. What say you to a little ale downstairs to keep the cold out tonight?”

  “That sounds good. I have to go and have some lunch and I've a few things to buy. Shall we say in a few hours? I’ve other stalls to visit, too.”

  “Well in that case, I’d best take some of your coin before you leave. Don’t worry, though. I’ll leave you enough so that you can get me a drink later.”

  “Thanks, Delvin, you're all heart. Huuuh…” sighed Renir, “...now, about those pots.”

  After wandering around for a few hours outside, a few coins lighter and his arms burdened with purchases for Hertha (and a few for himself), the temperature dropped viciously. The first few flakes of snow began to fall. He was wearing a lighter coat than was sensible under the circumstances, so he returned to the inn. To the west he could see the suns shining. Overhead the gloom weighed heavy on the sky.

  Renir got back in good time to avoid being frozen outside. He took a room, thanking the barmaid for his lodgings and paid in advance. Hefting his pack over his shoulder and groaning as unfit limbs struggled with the added weight and smooth worn stairs he ascended to his room: a spartan cell with a rug and wooden walls (there were no stone buildings in Turnmarket). A few blankets were laid out on the bed. A draft came from beneath the bed, wafting a musty smell into the freezing air. The water in the basin was already icing over and his breath froze, too, as he sat down, puffing. He luxuriated in the silence snow brought. Then, he took his boots off, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  *

  Chapter Four

  On a tiny battered boat out to sea Drun Sard, he alone gifted among the Order of Sard, pulled at his beard and thought of Shorn, the Saviour, and how far he had fallen. Drun had followed Shorn's life, his training in the arts of war and growth into the man he was today. When he concentrated on his mind he could feel the heart of the man inside, the honour at the very core of Shorn's being. But the actions the mercenary had taken during life were taking their toll and the code was withering in the constant bloodshed and atrocities that surrounded him. The places left for love to grow were scarce. Drun felt afraid. What would happen to the world, he wondered, were the Saviour to fall any further from grace? Not constructive thoughts for the time at hand.

  He reached inside himself again, felt the last sun in the dry blue sky above on his skin and let its fading warmth seep into his soul. Eyes closed, the weathered skin around them scrunched in concentration, Drun let the suns guide him, pull him from his body. He floated on the rays, feeling and seeing them as solid airways: paths to travel by. On the waves in the air his soul travelled, hundreds of miles, nebulous cloud beneath his ethereal body reflecting his god's light back to him from below. After a time he reached the shores of the continent of Sturma, the mountains of Culthorn after that. Like the eagles searching out their prey from their mountain aeries his spirit flew on the heat of the sun, round in ever widening circles, searching for signs of the Saviour below.

  He saw Shorn, just a speck of dust climbing the rocky terrain to the pass above.

  When he had last flown free from his lonely body Drun had seen the chase begin. His soul had known the creatures for what they were, trailing their sinister histories like snakes across the landscape, their trail easy to follow through the long, dead, grass. Created from malevolent magic, anguish flowed in their veins. Drun’s soul felt them and understood more than he would have liked.

  They could not be killed by Shorn even with his sword. Only Drun and their maker would know that. They could only be extinguished by purity.

  He had tried to tell this to Shorn the first time he had spied the hunters, but his powers were finite. If the mind he tried to reach were not attuned to him, he could only talk through their sleep, and sun travel, by its very nature, did not lend itself to the night. He had hoped to find Shorn napping, trusting in Shorn to realise the creatures could only track his movement and not his scent. But Shorn had not slept and Drun could not get through.

  The first time Shorn had met an adversary he could not defeat alone and Drun could do nothing to help him. The Protectorate had attacked before the Sard were ready and Drun, the fabled watcher, had not seen it coming.

  Circling high still, Drun tracked the following beasts, miles below…running on with slow but determined pace…now clearing the foothills and beginning their ascent to the pass. The dead grass they left behind worked as an arrow, pointing to where Shorn should be. He followed the arrow’s path through to its conclusion, until he saw Shorn below. Shorn, who had spent his life looking to erase the pain of his birth, yet running time after time back to the bloody womb of battle. Waiting for the fight again.

  Time was running short.

  Drun's shadowed-self moved on as the first sun began to set. Looking for a messenger. Flying over Culthorn, crossing the River Frana and its tributaries further to the north. Past the Guardian post. Over Turnmarket...

  *

  Chapter Five

  Renir murmured in his sleep.

  “Renir, I have need of you,” said Drun from inside the sleeping man's mind.

  Renir looked around his room. He remembered renting the room and deciding on a nap to pass the time. He could not remember inviting an old, hairy (and above all naked man) into his room.

  “Forgive me, a-huh, naked, stranger, you seem to have wandered into my room.” He wondered how to get rid of the obviously insane, very naked man standing at the foot of his bed. He didn't feel threatened, but was none too comfortable with the situation. “You, ah, seem to have the wrong room. And I hate to be the one to point it out, but, erm…” He waggled a finger politely.

  Drun looked down at himself, “Well, don't just stand there, get me a towel.” The old man’s voice croaked but was firm and forceful. Renir rose and went to the bathroom. He brought a towel out for the man, his eyebrows raised in disdain and eyes definitely averted as he handed it over. He sat in a chair.

  “There is little time for introductions. I need you to go to the Culthorn Pass and give a message to a man named Shorn. This man will die if you do not go now.” The old man fixed Renir with a stern eye, daring him to disagree.

  Renir realised what was wrong. “How do you know my name?”

  'I am speaking to your sleeping mind. Please trust that I mean you no ill, but you must go to the Culthorn Pass. Set out immediately. You will find him there at the pass.” Renir's eyebrows were stuck high on his forehead, amusement growing on his face as Drun related his instructions.

  “You want me to go to the pass?”

  “Yes. You will come to no harm. The way is clear.”

  “Ve
ry well. I shall do as you say.” Renir shrugged internally, wondering himself if that was possible in a dream. It didn’t really matter what the old man said if he was dreaming, did it? Anything to get rid of him.

  Drun finished, “Tell him the beasts that pursue him are of malign magic. Only purity will quench them. Tell him this, Renir Esyn.”

  Renir's suspicions that the old man was a loony (who was a loony? His eyes kept drawing away to a voluptuous hrun in the corner, sporting a woman’s breast where there should be feathers) were confirmed. He thought to dismiss the dreaming vision, but instead what he said was, “Right you are. I'll pass the message on.”

  Renir awoke. He squashed his eyes to dispel the afterimage of the naked old man and buxom hrun. A mildly (troublingly) alluring dancing hrun, he recalled.

  He looked across the darkening room and shivered from where he had awoken, in the chair. He remembered falling fully asleep in his clothes on top of his bed. The temperature had plummeted but he felt colder. The details of the dream faded from his mind (not the ghostly image of the old man), but he remembered the crux of the message. Something about a man named Shorn and Beasts (a fluffy, slightly green, tail? No, the hrun. Definitely not a dangerous sort of beast) and (naked?) men in his towel. He walked to the washbasin on the cabinet across the floor, the rug under his feet a pleasure in the crisp air. He broke the thin ice on top of the basin and splashed some freezing water onto his face. Outside he could feel the cold of the snow and the dull silence. He pointed a narrow finger at his dripping face in the mirror above the washbasin and said to himself: “Who's crazier, a dreamer of ghosts or the ghost in his dreams?”