Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

“A blacksmith…really.” Pernant North wished he could run. A member of the Speculate before him and he had lost four men on a simple eradication. This long, stretched man was beginning to make his head pound with fear for his future. Sickening images sprang into his own mind – fearful futures entirely of his own making.

  Pernant North stood to attention waiting for retribution. Failure was not tolerated. He accepted death as duty above fear and waited for Klan to speak.

  “Take me to this man.” Klan Mard smiled as he said it, and began to hum a quiet dirge. Pernant North thought ‘perhaps I will make it out of this alive’. As he thought it, an anticipatory gleam enter Mard’s eye.

  So nice to see hope flourishing in unexpected places. But my mood is good…who knows?

  Klan hummed on and followed the Pernant back to town and the lifeless bodies that lay there. As he walked he ticked a finger back and forth at the Pernant’s neck. The soldiers watched them approach.

  The dirt around the man was tacky with his blood, a fine film of dust settled on top, a fading muddy river. Gordir’s remaining eye looked dull, the sand and grit stuck in the moisture. Klan turned to the Pernant.

  “This man?”

  The Pernant shifted his feet, his discomfort apparent. “Yes.”

  “This man? He killed four elite soldiers?”

  The Pernant wished fervently that he could be someplace else. “With that axe,” he indicated the wicked looking blade leaning against the smith’s entrance. “I saw with my own eyes the axe shear through the steel of the barrier, Master. He attacked us.”

  “Do you seek to excuse yourself of wrongdoing because YOU WERE ATTACKED?!” The Pernant saw how the red of Klan Mard’s eyes jumped outward, like flames licking at the air.

  “No. I take full responsibility, my Lord.”

  Klan calmed himself. It was still a victory, but there would be four less men to return with and that reflected badly on him. Not that it really mattered anymore.

  “Then see to it! Make camp one mile to the east. Fire discipline. Do not think you get off lightly Pernant – I would punish you but through your ineptitude we are already four men short and can take no more set backs. There is no need to hamper ourselves further.”

  When the Draymar came there would be enough men. More than enough. He wondered why the Protectorate was taking so much effort over the death of one man. Thirty – no, twenty-six, Tenthers on top of a group of mercenary-trained Draymar warriors. For one man? The Saviour, yes, but only a man, nonetheless. Mard had seen him already. Admittedly, the beasts he had set to hunt Shorn had failed, but no man could be worth this amount of effort. Brothers or not, there was much to the workings of the Protectorate he did not understand. Too much.

  But Klan left nothing to chance this time. Knowledge could grant power; the core tenet behind the Protectorate, even though they did not see it themselves. Either way, the death his masters wanted was nigh, at his hands or another’s – it mattered not to him. With the Draymar and the Tenthers present, with Klan knowing where the mercenary would be, they could not fail.

  “Make no mistake – the man Shorn is a fighter of great renown. Surprise is our element.”

  He raised an eyebrow to Pernant North, who wisely agreed with a sharp nod. Klan waved a hand for him to continue. The man walked back toward his men to issue the order to dig in.

  Klan watched him. He saw the Pernant wore his short sword on his left. Pernant laughed at something that one of the men said. The relief on his face was evident from this distance. Klan heard, “To work men. Let’s get ready before the Draymar come. We’ll make this easy on ourselves. If we’re lucky the Draymar will do our work for us. “

  When the work was finished, Klan began chanting quietly.

  Pernant North fell to his knees, clutching his left hand. Charred flesh assailed his nostrils and the men closest to him backed away in horror. The soldier was still whimpering when Klan approached, smiling nastily.

  “Well, you are right-handed, are you not?”

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The dreadful howl ended instantly. The spinning dust slowed and stopped. The prison guards’ faces, pencilled in bewilderment, stood watching the scene before them materialise out of the cloud.

  D’taso, a vast sadist from eastern Lianthre whom no one liked, even among the evil protocrats that migrated to the Protectorate’s arms, had just sent a filthy little girl flying across the hard-packed road with a vicious blow to the face. Speckles of blood hung in the air long after the girl hit the road. The other guards had watched without emotion as D’taso tried to pull her into the seclusion of the woods, the girl fighting hard, her feet dragging in the dirt like she knew where she was going; like she knew the fate that waited there.

  Before the uncommonly large guard reached concealment, he stopped and let go of her arm. The girl momentarily forgotten, D’taso looked up at the sky, nonplussed. The air became unexpectedly still around him.

  In an instant she was forgotten. In the next, some of the observing guards broke into laugher at the scene before them; the huge form of D’taso, ape-like in confusion (the other guards were not immune to wonderment too, chills passing through them as the wind dropped, then ceased, in a manner entirely unnatural), the girl a dervish as she launched herself at the guard easily twice her size and placed a well-aimed kick right on his knee-cap. With the air now still the other guards winced as they heard the crunch of bone on bone. He didn’t fall, but the protocrat’s leg jumped backwards and he roared in pain.

  Unfortunately for Tirielle, the kick was just hard enough to annoy him. Just hard enough to make him remember where he was.

  The guard’s foot had come back to the ground and he had swung his fist, the size of the girl’s head. The blow was hard enough to knock half her front tooth out, split her lip, and send her into the air. She landed with a thump that echoed back from the trees.

  D’taso paced around the floored girl, taunting her as she lay in the dirt. The closer observers there could see the fury in her eyes. She sat up, groaning and spitting out part of a tooth. He had nothing but hatred in his eyes for her.

  The guards, the last of the prisoners forgotten beside them, leaned backed lazily against the base of the tower, settling in to enjoy the show. They smirked and joked quietly to themselves, until the whispers reached D’taso on the still air. He growled at them, “Shut your faces or you’ll be next.”

  They shut up and waited to see what would happen.

  Tirielle spat blood from her lip onto the dirt. The blood tasted like rage. She wished Roth were beside her, as it had been for so long. To fall in battle was acceptable – to have no one to avenge her rankled to her core. She felt the dying breeze pass across her open lip. She watched the leaves blown on the wind dance between the trees as they settled. In the time it took for a leaf to settle she decided this animal would not take her honour – even if it meant her life. She filled a fist with dirt and made to stand.

  D’taso moved in to hit her again, his fist pulling back, stupid ugly violence on his face. His bulk shut out the view of all the guards behind him. Even if she won out against this dullard, she knew she would never outrun them all. Tirielle glanced at the guard’s bunched fists, his burly frame, and prepared to leap and punch him in the groin with her weighted fist. She prayed that hers would be a death that Roth understood. A warrior’s death. She willingly accepted her fate…and hoped for a miracle.

  A shout came from the front of the caravan, startling all the guards to attention. D’taso’s stupid face managed a look of frustration as he grudgingly looked away from his sport.

  “Guards! I told you to get the prisoners inside!”

  Saved! (Back to the caravan, but alive! she added, tainting her relief.) Tirielle took some satisfaction at the guard’s discomfort, as he looked around guiltily to the voice, his body still toward her, his neck twisted. The shout came from a black robed protcrat at the front of the caravan. A wizard. The Protectorate. Still h
ere then, she thought.

  “Master!” D’taso called back. He moved to grab Tirielle by the hair but stopped before his hand even touched her. His legs warped unnaturally and he suddenly hit the ground with his behind and a clang. The last of an ancient language floated to Tirielle’s ears.

  “Unharmed, preferably, hound.” The Protectorate wizard folded his arms into his robes and glared at the guards by the tower. “Are you all hard of hearing? Prisoners! Inside!” he snapped. A flurry of activity ensued as the guards with duties unperformed ran to appease their leader.

  D’taso rose fuming. He dusted off his armour plating while glaring menacingly at Tirielle, daring her to disobey him. She granted him an irritating smile as he reached out for her again, hoping for a reaction she could use to her advantage, but saw her efforts were wasted. D’taso wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes were wide and turned away to the road behind her. She looked beyond him to the guards still standing by the tower. They looked behind her too. She flicked her eyes to the wizard and saw his eyes looking past her.

  That smell. The new smell.

  Tirielle joined the crowd. She turned.

  Nine shining warriors on nine dark steeds covered the road in a line of steel. Cloaks of purest white hung still over the horse’s flanks, scabbarded swords by their sides gleamed with an anticipatory air. Helms of shining steel reflected the sun’s glory, and armour shone with light. They brought light with them.

  Tirielle smelled hope.

  One, the most magnificent of all, nudged his horse ahead of the rest. The rider, glistening, dismounted and walked forward.

  Unbidden, a tear broke free and trickled down Tirielle’s cheek. As it reached her chin she smiled back at the man and knew.

  He is here for me.

  Out of the nine members of the Sard that were born to arms, Quintal had chosen j’ark to act as their emissary, on this, the most important of missions. j’ark was a fine swordsman, and more than adequate for the task. The time for running from the Protectorate had passed. Now, together with the First, they would make the pace.

  j’ark placed the reigns on his horse’s neck, patting it with a gloveless hand and he walked toward the First, looking exactly like a sacrifice, bloodied and cowed on in the dirt. j’ark noted everything in a blink. Even now, at the feet of her captors, he could tell she retained a kind of battered pride. He could sense the strength in her. Drun was not mistaken. She was the first of the three.

  Tirielle stared at the warrior.

  He stared back, stuck for a heartbeat. She was beautiful beyond imagining. j’ark had yet to look at Tirielle’s tormentor. The other guards were wide-eyed but had not moved. All remained lounging against the base of wooden tower where decay lived. j’ark could see the cloud that hung over it, invisible to the ordinary eye. He could see where the cloud seeped into the men. Decay spreads. No matter how hard we fight, we cannot stop it. He shook the thought from his head. Doubt too – how simple the darkest tricks. He silently tutted to the cloud.

  Quintal smiled and knew his choice was right.

  j’ark looked into the guard’s eyes as he walked. The man was thankfully standing apart from his charge. j’ark held the guard’s eyes as they closed the distance, seeing nothing but darkness there. D’taso became unsettled, but j’ark knew he would cover his fear. Fear knew no reason, only hatred. The rasp of the guard drawing his sword came.

  j’ark, paladin of the Sard, let him draw.

  Tirielle watched the warrior move, his smooth liquid grace. D’taso was forgotten behind her, his blade now visible but ignored at the edge of her vision. Her saviour was fully armoured but for his hands, she could see now, not with steel but some shifting, light material. His robe stayed out of the way when his hands moved. Golden light seemed to come from his eyes even though they were shaded in the helm.

  The guard’s sword finally came free as he walked forward past Tirielle. j’ark fought only with himself as he sought patience, the point of his opponent’s sword painfully slow in coming to bear. Two sword-lengths now separated them. j’ark still held back until…there, the guard’s body dropping as he moved to lunge.

  The lunge came. j’ark wasn’t there.

  j’ark’s left hand pulled out his sword and the blade flashed, spinning, whipping through the air as j’ark let go. The guard had time to blink as the blade span twice.

  j’ark was suddenly by D’taso’s side. He caught his sword, this time with his right hand, the blade pointing up.

  A dull thud followed the twang of thin steel.

  Holding the sword with his right hand now, j’ark’s whole body left the ground effortlessly. The whirring man cut the air in two. He landed on both feet past the guard with the sword re-sheathed and resumed his course for Tirielle.

  One small wet thump came from behind him. A louder crash followed that.

  j’ark did not look back but past Tirielle, as a cry of, “Take them!” rang out and back from the trees and the hollow tower. The guards looked askance at the wizard but advanced tentatively, shuffling toward the lone warrior. The wizard began chanting under his breath. j’ark held up a hand. The guards stopped.

  He looked away from them and to Tirielle, who had not moved. He inclined his head to her, as she bled and stared at him dumbly. She saw his eyes properly for the first time. The shining warrior was magnificent, and his eyes were of a bright, honeyed yellow.

  j’ark approached and held out a scarred hand to her. She thought to look to her captor for permission and mentally chided herself – how swiftly my dignity fades! My captor is not a moment dead and I still cannot remember who I am. I am Tirielle A’m Dralorn. In her mind she rocked, holding herself, repeating her mantra over and over until the thought became solid, like a talisman. She took the hand and stood.

  He held her eyes for a moment too long. His head bowed as he said, “Would you do me the kindness of waiting behind me?”

  Tirielle found herself unable to speak.

  D’taso’s body lay rapidly cooling on the ground behind them. The wizard, dressed in robes as usual, stood behind the guards, furthest from danger, chanting and looking to the intruder. j’ark nodded reasonably to the wizard. The wizard’s eyes were dull and grey, coloured with fear. The guards were still frozen, entirely uncertain as to the wisdom of fighting nine mounted, fully armoured paladins.

  The suns burned at opposite ends of the sky and the light bounced from the polished armour the warriors wore. The Bayers, horrific beast that would kill anything – even themselves, were tied away from the caravan. j’ark watched them for a second as they pulled at their stakes and slavered. Nobody except Tirielle and the Sard noticed the details.

  The nearest guard’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword. j’ark checked his charge was behind him, and waved his hand again. Time sped and the guards began their advance.

  He turned his face to the sky deliberately slowly. The guards did not move for a moment, then remembered that death at the hands of these men in front would be swift. To disobey the Protectorate would be to damn themselves to an eternity of pain. The thought galvanised them into action. They moved to charge.

  They stopped short as j’ark spoke clear and bright into the sky.

  “These people will be set free.” The voice reverberated around them. Even the prisoners chained in the tower could hear. “All but the wizard may leave peacefully.” He added as an afterthought, “And this fellow,” pointing a finger at the corpse on the ground without looking behind him.

  The wizard continued his otherworldly muttering and some of the men shifted forward. j’ark sighed inwardly. He knew he would not leave the field this day without more unnecessary death and the stark reality saddened him. Darkness seeped from the chanting wizard and pushed the men forward. So be it. When the time came, j’ark would not be found wanting.

  His voice rang out once more.

  “Or”, he knelt on one knee and bowed his helmed head, “come and die,” he said, as he drew his sword and p
laced it pointing toward the advancing men, “for your guilt,” he unclasped his robe, “complicity,” he continued – four men pulled their swords and ran at him – “in this…” as the first reached him he shouted out, “sickness!”

  The four guards ran out to meet him but never made it past. Two unmanned swords hit compacted earth and rang out sharply, one digging into the ground and wavering like a sapling in a storm. The white cloak was still laid out on the ground. Blood hit the cloth and ran off. Two dead guards fell and hit the ground, bouncing heavily.

  The two men remaining noted how the blood ran off the cloak, leaving it untouched. Doubt flashed then, pushing away the fear emanating from the wizard that drove them. It was too late. One swung at j’ark. j’ark swept past them both. He leisurely sheathed his sword (with a flick) again without taking his eyes from the wizard. Behind him, blood ran along diagonal gashes cleaved in the last two men's breastplates. They fell forward onto the other corpses.

  Tirielle stood with her back to the eight motionless paladins, forgetting her nakedness entirely as she tried to follow j'ark's movements. She saw him only when he stopped.

  The remaining guards looked at the Protectorate wizard, who was not looking at them but staring at the golden saviour. They glanced at each other, then they held their scabbards and ran as fast as they could into the woods.

  The only sound left was the wizard's chanting and the clink of distant chainmail. j’ark stood for a moment, watching the wizard, a small smile playing across his lips. He waited patiently. He should at least give the wizard a chance.

  The wizard opened his eyes and raised his hands dramatically as the chant became a roar. j’ark threw his sword. It span, almost lazily.

  Spittle flew as the wizard hurled the last word at j’ark; “For…”.

  The sword got there first.

  Quintal dismounted and walked up behind Tirielle. She stood watching j’ark’s back as he drew his sword from the wizard’s throat, her eyes following as he began to walk back. He stooped on the way and pulled his unsullied cloak from under the bodies. Quintal moved around into Tirielle’s line of sight. He waited until she looked up.