Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Urlain had faded to nothing in the eternal night that hid the remnant city from Carious and Dow’s ferocious grief. The Sard rode hard through it, unaware the city had ever been. The clatter of their horses' hooves against the cracked ground churned the dust of the city past into the air, their passing obscured from eyes that lived in the night by the swirling haze. A magic unknown to the Protectorate hid them from scrying, too. Had the Protectorate but looked they would have seen the maelstrom grow.

  The leader of the Sard, Quintal, spoke in his head, his eyes shut against the wind. The others surrounding him held his horse on course. Communing on the move was not easy, but these horses were trained to perfection.

  When he finished, he opened his eyes.

  “Drun cannot find her and can no longer look. The Saviour, the man now known as Shorn, is in greater peril,” he shouted over the din of the horses’ hooves. “We must find Tirielle ourselves!”

  The Order felt his fear. Should either die before time their years of work would end in failure. The horses felt it, too. Blacker than Urlain’s endless night when they had left their stables at Sybremreyen, the horses’ smooth coats would be muddy brown with dust and sweat before the Sard found sunlight again.

  *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mard’s eyes opened. They were the only light in the pitch-black room, the heavy shutters kept out all light but that inside. The knock came again, and he rose, pulling on plain breeches and a long soft green shirt that came to his knees. “What is it?” he called.

  “Brother, Speculate Yrie calls for you. It is urgent.”

  Mard took a deep breath. It was still early and he had only lain for a few hours. “I will come.” No doubt Shorn was dead and the time had come to receive his new orders. He grudgingly said goodbye to his delegation, and the bed. A comfortable bed was a hard thing to give up when it was still dark outside, even for something less than a man. While he would admit it to no one, least of all himself, his little diversion gave him pleasure. It was nice to have company sometimes.

  He wondering what diversions the night would bring as he opened the door and saw the four regimental guards and Incantor that waited. Company seemed the last thing on their minds. Well, life was never dull.

  He went along for the charade.

  An Inquisitor sat in the pristine room. A few tools were laid out. How interesting. Tools he had not seen before. Every surface on the tools was matt and smooth. Designed for maintenance, presumably.

  Jek was waiting beside the inquisitor. “Greetings, Klan. Please accept my apologies for dragging you from bed in the middle of the night.”

  “No apologies are required. I take it this is for me?”

  “Yes, but nothing to alarm yourself over, just a little punishment for your failure.”

  “Failure, Lord?”

  “Please Klan, ‘Brother’, if you will. Yes, Prognostication reported in the night that your beasts were killed. Nevermind, we are brothers, and, well…most unfortunate. They cannot sense the fate of Shorn, but we are working on the assumption that he is still alive.”

  “He will fester and die if they have even maimed him.”

  “Well, it is the rule. I’m sure we can make reparations should our vision prove flawed. Anyway,” Jek indicated the tools with a sweeping gesture, “I hope you don’t mind but it is standard practice.”

  “No, Brothers,” he addressed both, “I generally find these sessions fascinatingly painful.” Klan looked at the man standing to one side, a short man with an immaculate beard, straight black common to the Hierarchy males. There were no eyes but a red-orange cavity where they should have been.

  “This is Brother San. A fastidious man, aren’t you, San?”

  “I like order,” said the man. His expression remained vacant.

  “Indeed. San burnt himself out. Don’t mind him being blind though – he hasn’t had any mishaps yet. I have requested San leave you fit for duty.”

  Klan nodded and walked to the wooden chair. He saw it also was immaculate. “I understand.” He sat down, and said to San. “Its nice to see you run a tidy shop, Brother.”

  San bowed his head to his superior, and passed him a bit for his teeth. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Klan Mard declined the proffered aid and watched as San strapped him in. Mard signalled goodbye with his eyes as Jek left, and winced as he felt the buckle pinch the flesh. A good start, at least.

  When San stripped him and put the pail under the seat hole, he knew he was in for a long session.

  Jek left the room, closing the door on the clear white room, just as the screams began. He closed his eyes and breathed in though his nose. A look of delight passed across his face, and he blew the smell out. Not as good as fear, but pain, that was good, too.

  Behind him, a muffled crunch could be heard through the thick door. Jek rapped his cane smartly on the stone flagging and turned his mind back to business. He was thankful they had such an inventive torturer. There was satisfaction to be had in Arram that the Hierarchy had yet to dream of.

  Klan Mard screamed in the bloodless room as his brother plied his trade. He laughed a slithering, awful laugh, too.

  Yes, indeed. Perks of the job, he thought, as he felt cool steel touch him. A sickening wet crunch came again and he looked down. I must thank Brother San, he thought, and screamed higher.

  *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tirielle, Roth and Captain Gurt slowed as they came to the Illi’uit mission. All three sensed it at once.

  Emerging from the Calcorn Road, the trio sighted the mission ahead. They had run hard for around two hours, Roth always scouting ahead – even in Lianthre it did not pay to be careless walking the roads after dark. Or during the day, for that matter.

  The road meandered like a leper all along the western side of Lianthre, opening out into the mile or so of groves. The walk in from the east was staggering, the buildings of Lianthre doggedly pointing up through the haze of the city’s dimly burning lights, the taller towers stark as shadows as the traveller approached. As the weary traveller emerged at the end of the Calcorn Road, the first sight to reward them was the Illi’uit mission. A graceful building built by the Sisters themselves over four hundred years ago the mission was a reminder of plainer times. It was made entirely of wood – the missionaries had eschewed excess and were at the time the one bright sight in the ancient slums surrounding the city. The lines were clear and solid. Its own design made it proud. The building said peace as much as its purpose.

  The groves surrounding it had been planted years ago when the Hierarchy’s ‘Premier’ of the time had decreed poverty to be outlawed. They might have lent the approach to Lianthre a better air than the slums ever had, but Tirielle was unsure at what cost they had been planted. The slums had been torn down.

  Funnily, thought Tirielle, looking at the marvellous wooden structure, father mentioned the slums being torn down and how his father had seen it happen before his birth. The beggars and cripples that inhabited the slums, their condition brought about by their situation, had never returned. There were no slums left. And no people. She wondered at that.

  An overactive imagination…she hoped.

  The mission, elegant and still standing proud, was silent. A few lanterns outside, ornately chiselled from petrified wood, sat on poles, throwing wildly cavorting shadows into the dance along the path leading to the giant doors. The doors were closed, which was unusual in itself, but the silence was immense.

  A cloud passed overhead and Tirielle shivered. Roth’s claws emerged. Gurt’s sword rasped as it came from its scabbard.

  Wey puffed a great cloud of steaming breath from both nostrils and stamped the ground with one hoof. Tirielle absentmindedly put a hand on his flank to calm him. She nodded to the Captain as he raised an eyebrow in her direction, and noted Roth sampling the air, looking at the grounds around the mission.

  “Yes, something is amiss. The gloaming feels heavy tonight.” The Captain of the
guard shook his head as he voiced their fears. “My Lady, would you mind my imposing on you to wait here? I should go ahead, just in case…”

  Roth spoke to the Captain, in quiet tones. All their voices were hushed by unvoiced consent. “Captain, perhaps a little company?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Master Rahken…”

  “Please Captain, call me Roth,” Roth favoured him with his toothy grin.

  “Very well, Roth, I was about to suggest that you stay with Lady Tirielle, lest anything untoward happen.”

  “I am not totally incapable of looking after myself, Captain. As you are well aware.”

  “I agree, my Lady, but I would rather cover all eventualities. This is very far from right…” He looked up at Roth’s features, and a look of understanding passed between the two.

  Tirielle, noticing the look, said, “What is it?”

  The Captain pursed his lips and squinted, usually sure of himself and his own abilities. He felt cold on his spine looking at the mission. Roth indicated with a tip of its head that the Captain should continue.

  “We smell the blood.”

  Roth added, “I smell everything in there, Tirielle. It will not be a place for you.”

  Quietly Tirielle asked the question that had been floating in her head, looking to Roth for some confirmation, “The seer?”

  “I cannot tell…the odours are too…mixed. All I see is dark, but…blood. The blood is strong.”

  “How many do you sense?”

  “I fear the worst.”

  “All of them? Dead?” her eyes implored it to lie to her.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot tell. But there will be many…”

  The group stood in a line in front of a copse dislocated from the woods and hills cradling the immense city of Lianthre. Gurt was watching their surroundings now. The silence seemed to grow to encompass them all, until even speech felt like a struggle. “The animals? Why is there no noise?”

  “They sense death. The animals know death well. They live closer to it than you or I.”

  Tirielle pursed her lips. “Well, go.”

  Gurt asked, “Will you wait by the copse? You can hide should the need arise.”

  “I do not take with hiding where it can be helped, Captain.”

  Gurt clucked his tongue, “Sometimes…” and then remembered himself.

  “What? Please, do not treat me as a stranger. Not tonight.”

  “Sometimes you remind me of your father. Sometimes we all need a place to hide.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so. Roth, would you accompany the Captain?” Seeing its coming dissent, she raised her hand to forestall any arguments. “I will be fine. Please…I must know of the seer. She is an innocent in all this…and we need her.” This last admission a selfish one, but Tirielle knew she would need the seer’s powers to prevail in the coming months.

  “Then?” Roth started forward, looking to the Captain.

  “Hold!” the Captain whispered forcefully. Tension was flowing from the Mission and he could feel the eyes of the wild night woods on his back. “I will check the perimeter first.”

  “No, Captain, you are right. I am unused to company in such situations, please, I will go. It will be quicker.”

  Before objections could be raised, it disappeared on padded feet into the night, keeping the woods behind it and crouching low as it ran wide of the front entrance and into the groves surrounding the shell. For such an immense beast, Gurt found the speed at which it merged into the trees disconcerting. In seconds, it had disappeared into the night. Tirielle imagined Roth’s powerful frame gliding over the assorted traps for the stealthy on the ground, leaving no sound, and marvelled. It was as if it punched a hole in the air itself and stepped through to whatever world was on the other side. The absence of sound should have been a word in its own right…this was beyond mere silence. Roth stole sound away.

  “I believe you have an ally there in Roth, Lady.” The Captain had hunkered down, examining the ground.

  “Yes, we have only just met…” she gave a subdued laugh. “I’ve known it for so long now, Captain, and never knew its name. “

  “Then it was a fortuitous introduction. For I do not know what we do here, Lady, but it seems to me that we have strayed onto roads best travelled with true friends.” He caught her eye.

  “Captain. Gurt. I would confide in you but I cannot.” She shook her head sadly. “I hope, I truly do, that one day it will be different.”

  If Gurt resented not being invited into Tirielle’s secret world, and he was convinced now after years of service that she lived in a different world, he showed no outward sign. Hers was the world where her father had spent his last breath in a muddy puddle, murdered in some forsaken outpost of the empire.

  What a world for a young girl to grow up in. Murder and assassination were rife, thievery increasingly common in the city, unexplained atrocities away from prying eyes in the countryside. He wished he could protect Tirielle from the evil, kept her safe from harm. He wanted so to tell her to leave now, to run away and never come back. He saw the look of determination on her face, though, the way she lent an ear as she concentrated, trying to pick up some indication of Roth’s return.

  No, he thought. Even were I to suggest it, she would never leave.

  Instead, he said, “I’m sure he will return soon.”

  “I know, Captain. It is a game I play sometimes. Whenever it is away I listen for its return, hoping to catch it out. I haven’t yet.”

  “Nor will you lady,’ Roth appeared from the wood behind them. There was a gentle sheen of dew on its fur.

  Gurt had only time to turn his head. I would be dead now, he thought. A sobering thought. That thought, the chill breeze and strange foreboding sense of something amiss raised his hackles.

  “Captain, shall we?” whispered Roth.

  Gurt regained his composure quickly. “Did you find anything?”

  “No, but there were tracks to and from the mission. Many horses, caravans or carts – I cannot tell which, but the tracks cut deep.”

  “Then there is nothing for it.”

  “Lady…”

  Tirielle stopped him, “Yes, Captain (but he could nag), I will be right here…”

  The two warriors turned to the mission, Gurt clanging.

  “Captain,” Tirielle called gently, “your shield?”

  “Ah.” He tied it to the side of Wey’s saddle.

  The door swung inward. Fetid air and flies burst out of the darkened hallway before them and Roth let loose a growl that made Gurt’s bones ache. The lines around the old man’s eyes crinkled as he winced at the stench.

  Both thought the same thing. Rotting meat.

  Roth motioned to the Captain that he would go right, then pointed a huge clawed hand to the foot of the stairs – the stairs to the second floor where the Sisters lived. Even the kitchens were housed upstairs, put there to raise it above the fumes of the slums that had once carpeted the area. The second floor had allowed some breeze to blow over the tops of the trees and the slums with their permanent stench of sewage and decay.

  The Captain wondered if buildings sensed déjà vu.

  Gurt indicated that he understood and moved off to the left. The Mission was not vast and although it had seen tenure as a hospital in the past it had not housed the ill since the slum clearance. The initiated still served there but the mission now acted as a wayhouse for travellers on the road to Lianthre. It still took in the sick and needy that asked. There were none here today.

  Gurt moved into the traveller’s quarters, some twenty separate rooms, and began to search each methodically, looking for the host of flies that led to the dead.

  The sickbeds were to the right. Moving like a wraith, Roth slowly opened the door. Stealth was one thing a door hated. Slowly, gently, it pushed the door to the sick beds, too slow for the door to catch it out. Roth entered with excessive caution.

  Each bed remained crisp, white sheets covering wooden frames. Down stuf
fed mattresses were the norm, but no good for the sick and bleeding. The hard wood beds could be washed down. Roth reached out a hand and felt the wood, smooth from years of wear. It looked. All it saw was what Lianthrians saw – the cold rectangle of coarse cloth, wooden headboards worn thin and black from years of poorly, sweating heads resting there. Even without its remarkable sight, anyone could tell that there had been no presence here today. The whole room stretched out behind it. Large windows on the external wall let in enough night-light for even a human to see by. A crack of orange light crept through the door behind.

  It saw the colours, the past death and pain, but there was not a soul in sight.

  Gurt pushed open the last door. Nothing. Nothing but empty beds and closets…unattended footlockers for the itinerants, traders and merchants that stayed. He moved, cautiously, into the hall again, to the foot of the stairs. Roth already waited there. Both men shook their heads in answer to the silent question. Gurt motioned to the stairs. They climbed.

  Upstairs, the kitchen spoke to itself in the language of drips and hisses. Unerringly tidy pans lined up to witness the scene…

  Emptiness sang and the drip drip drip doubled. Echoed. From the apartments…

  Once upstairs the hall narrowed. The stars in the sky shone through windows and cracked doors, casting deep shadow all around. Roth and Gurt cautiously opened each door, knowing what they would find. Nothing.

  The last door stood before them. The door to the baths.

  The drip grew in tenor.

  A swinging, insistent creak joined the music. The flies’ wings batted the air and in came the wind, rattling the windows.

  Then, the quiet before the storm. The final breath before the wailing.

  Gurt and Roth reached out together and pushed the doors in.

  Tirielle waited patiently but not for long.