Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Typraille Gar Manson, one of the Sard whom she had met earlier, took the prisoner aside and whispered to her. The woman did not look utterly convinced at his explanation, but evidently agreed there was no danger and returned to sitting with a new-found friend. She was obviously passing on whatever it was that Typraille had said. Typraille wandered across to another group of freed prisoners and spoke to them, too.

  The knight was frighteningly fierce and powerful and – hairy, Tirielle thought. He was kindly though – as were they all – and the prisoners seemed comfortable talking to him, despite their ordeal.

  Typraille had introduced himself after Quintal. It was Typraille that had followed her back into the tower to release Roth. Tirielle hadn’t noticed the stench that still hung in the tower, or the matted clumps of fur, but hugged the rahken with all her remaining strength. Roth had hugged her back with lesser ferocity. Then Typraille had said something strange in a tongue she did not understand. Roth had replied in awe (which she had not recognised in her staunch companion at first) and put his fingers together in an odd configuration. Tirielle resolved then to ask later. The odd scene still played on her mind.

  Each of the Sard seemed to have duties that she could not entirely define; Typraille’s function seemed to be to cater to her wishes, although all the knights seemed adequately equipped to take on any duty and equally reluctant to explain their presence further to her. A versatile bunch with varied talents.

  Not all could sing peace into warbeasts, though, for as far as she could tell that was what the helmed warrior was doing. Each beast he released left the camp quietly and there was no trouble. No one offered her an explanation for anything.

  Tonight, tonight, they kept saying…she busied herself and tried to learn what she could instead.

  The last of the Bayers finally ran free. The helmed warrior stood for a moment and watched it run off into the night. His companion reached out and laid a hand gently on his arm. The man turned sharply, then dropped his head and nodded sadly. Tirielle looked away from them, sensing this last act was somehow private. Both men walked back to camp to lend further aid where they could.

  The other Sard were converging in the centre of the camp; the search through the various compartments of the tower and the other caravans was complete.

  Soon Tirielle would go back to the dissidents – outcasts from a society that shunned the magically gifted – and join them, but for now, the peace of being outside all the minute activities being played out before her calmed her and gave her time to get back into herself. She would go and offer her aid to the wounded and injured in a second large tent erected by the Sard. Quintal, j’ark, and three others she had yet to meet stood outside deep in conversation. The tent glowed. Tirielle decided she did not want to go in just yet.

  She wished Roth were with her. She found her courage bolstered just by its presence, but after its initial greeting, it had left to find a river, or so it said. She thought her only ally had a look of hunger about it. Perhaps it had gone hunting for the remaining guards.

  She found she did not feel sorry for them.

  Carth, the largest of the nine Sard, stood guard alone at the edge of the camp without moving. The other Sard all seemed quiet. Carth seemed nothing. He had not said a word. Typraille had shrugged when she asked him about his companion. ‘He’s a thinker,’ he replied.

  She went and stood beside him.

  Cenphalph H’y Casdiem, Unthor Ren Un Gor, Quintal, j’ark, and Disper Lohrtrus walked to the edge of the camp, leaving the medical tent untended for a moment. j’ark had suggested erecting a third tent away from the medical tent and Disper was arguing vehemently but quietly, against him. A few of the prisoners had noticed the men and watched furtively from a distance. Saviours or not, none of the prisoners were about to get involved. Most of those who had survived with their sanity intact just wanted to leave in peace. They were now fed, their former pallor leaving their faces already, although some were still in a state of shock, freedom having yet to sink in. Those who were quicker to recover their senses were not so impaired as to step between five armoured knights having an argument.

  Tirielle suffered no such scruples when it came to interfering. And she was intensely bored after a day of being told like a little girl, with extreme politeness, to stay out of the way. Well, enough was enough.

  Clean now, she approached the group. The muck that had covered her for the last week had become her shield – now she was clean and clothed she felt strangely exposed.

  The worst of the prisoners moaning in the medical tent obscured their words as she approached. For some, the Sard would only be able to palliate their symptoms. Some wounds were not for healing.

  “She is infected,” said Disper, urgency in his voice.

  “She cannot be. Humankind do not fall prey to the blight. Does she have the look of a Protocrat to you?” asked Cenphalph quietly.

  “No, she does not,” said j’ark, “but we know next to nothing about this blight.”

  Quintal regarded the speakers with bright doleful eyes before he interrupted. “Is this what we have come to? Are we so riddled with fear for our own souls that the first time our resolve is tested we fall apart?” The gathered men looked as one to their feet. “The girl is human, her soul torn and tortured still, by memory and dark eyes and we do nothing but bicker?” He kept all passion from his voice, but it had effect still.

  “You are right, we should be ashamed of ourselves for our fear – even though we seek to deny it.” Disper, pulling at his long moustache smiled placatingly at Quintal. He moved his eyes over the rest of the Order, “Yet the problem remains. We know that the blight spreads, and not how at all. Surely caution is the wisest course here?”

  The blight was just another sign that the return drew near – together with the coming of the three the portents were incontravertable. The blight manifested as a reddening of the whole of the eye, as if the eye itself bled forbidden power.

  Cenphalph held up a finger to stop the conversation as he saw Tirielle approaching. She looked slightly self-conscious but was holding her head high still. Her bottom lip was swollen from the earlier blow. It made her look pouting and proud. Her dark eyes, usually large and shining with interest, were half closed and bloodshot. She caught j’ark’s eye but looked away…then cursed herself for seeming coquettish. His hair was still matted and tangled from wearing his helm – one part stuck up at an odd angle like a third ear. She still thought him beautiful.

  The five men shifted to face her and as one dropped their heads in greeting.

  “What are you talking about?” These men seemed to think she was somehow special, but special or not, she thought of all the men she had known – each responded to a powerful women with respect.

  “I’m sorry, Lady,” Unthor stepped forward. “Some of the…unpleasantness…of the Protectorate lingers here – “

  “Of what do you speak?” She spoke in a terse voice that left no room for escape.

  “Perhaps it is best if we deal with this ourselves, after your trials?” Disper suggested kindly.

  Tirielle bridled for a second then remembered herself – she did not know anywhere near enough to be interfering. Still, she thought, someone has to set these men straight. At least, until they explained why they had come for her. “Firstly, I am no child to be coddled, secondly, some of the people here, unless you hadn’t noticed, are in need of security. They already look to you for guidance – you have taken them from one hell and have given them nothing but freedom in return – freedom they are scared of. Instead of fighting among yourself, perhaps you could look after the prisoners first?” Tirielle bristled at the men, standing on tiptoe. “Are you not priests?”

  Quintal breathed a laugh out through his nose and replied, “Hnn. Paladins, perhaps…I think we left priesthood some time ago. You are right, of course. We have been selfish.”

  He nodded at Unthor and Disper, who bowed to Tirielle and left to aid the freed.

 
Tirielle waited for the two men to leave before she asked, “What is it that you fear?” and then by way of explanation, “The blight? I heard you talking.”

  Quintal looked at the diminutive First before him. She was beautiful, in a way that only people who thought would find attractive. Her strength could be seen in her face. He thought this was a girl that people loved, not lusted for. Quintal took her hand.

  “Lady A’m Dralorn…”

  Tirielle interrupted. “I am no longer the lady. Please, Tirielle seems more fitting….”

  “Then, Tirielle. We found a girl…” Tirielle could tell from his tone that the news coming would not be good. “She has a…malady.”

  “What kind of malady?”

  “We are uncertain. It is a dark illness. The eyes become as blood – that is but one symptom. But we have only ever seen it among the protocrats. Never in a human child.”

  “Take me to her.”

  “La…Tirielle – she cannot speak, and we dare not keep her close to the other wounded…she is…fey.”

  “Fey? Don’t be ridiculous. Take me to her now.”

  “Forgive me, but how is it that you think you can help were we cannot?”

  Tirielle just looked at him with her eyebrows raised. j’ark and Cenphalph looked on trying to hide their amusement while they waited for Quintal to give in.

  The sweet odour of drying blood hung and irritated Tirielle’s nostrils. Quintal led her to one girl, laying on a bed roll made from blankets, separated from the other patients by more blankets hung about her. The tent inside the tent was dark.

  The girl whimpered, twisting in her sheet. Her eyes were covered by what looked like a blindfold, torn from cloth.

  “I know this girl! She is a seer!”

  “What? A seer? Are you telling me she is magical?”

  Tirielle saw the hint of fear on Quintal’s face. “Why does that bother you so? Are you like the Protectorate? Fearful of that you don’t understand?” She paused for a moment. “You yourself have similar power, do you not?”

  j’ark spoke. “No, our powers are…different. Directed. A seer has a power unlike any other. A power unfettered by the boundaries we live within. A seer can cross all barriers.”

  Tirielle nodded that she understood, and sat down on the floor mattress beside the girl. j’ark putting a restraining hand on Quintal’s arm, shaking his head as Quintal made to speak. “How do you know the girl, Tirielle?” j’ark asked kindly. “You seem to know her well…”

  Tirielle looked at the girl while gently stroking her hand. She forgot their presence, then, remembering, continued. “I have been around magic for some time now. It is what I live for. To free it.”

  “Free it?” j’ark asked.

  “Yes, from the chains held by the Protectorate.”

  Quintal, j’ark and Cenphalph looked to each other. Cenphalph spoke. “It seems we have been guilty of ignorance, again.”

  “She is a victim. I think I see some of me in her. I met her at a mission in Lianthre. The sisters there brought me up, gave me a chance. At first I wanted to give something back. Selfish, perhaps, but then I got to know the girl. I was an orphan too, and they took me in. They took me in and they were all killed for me.”

  J’ark looked across at his companions. He looked lost as to what to say next. Quintal stepped in. “Why were you at the mission, Tirielle?”

  “I wasn’t at the same mission as her. I was at the Cathar Mission, before it was destroyed. I just wanted to give something back. My father was killed. She lost everyone, too. I wanted to help her so much.”

  “We will help her.”

  “I did this to her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She was infected, the sisters at the mission were killed, all to avenge a murder I committed. I ordered one of the Speculate killed and this is their revenge. To take the only family I had left.”

  j’ark put an arm round her as Quintal said. “No, you are not guilty of this. They could have found the girl anyway. Look at how she has been used. They fed on her, I think. They came for her. Not for you. Remember, this is not you. Your actions until now would have had little bearing. There is more than we assumed going on here.”

  “More of what going on?”

  “We assumed you would prove unaware of the nature of magic, but you seem well versed.” j’ark explained.

  “The eyes?”

  The men looked to each other again. Quintal took the initiative. “Yes, you are right. The eyes. Not many on this continent know this.” He waited for her to pick him up on the continents, dropping the word in to test the extent of her knowledge. Again the men looked surreptitiously at each other, thinking Tirielle would not notice. She did.

  “Then if it is true, the Protectorate – they need no magic to find magic users?”

  “Yes, all they need see is the eyes.”

  She looked down at the tormented child before her and muttered under her breath, “Then she did not stand a chance…”

  Only Cenphalph heard her. “Yes. She would have been found without complicated spells.”

  Quintal caught their meaning. “Tirielle, the Protocrats have known for thousands of years – the magic is in the eyes.”

  Tirielle suddenly rounded on him and pummelled him with her fists “Then why have you done nothing!” He let her beat against his chest as she continued. “How could you…” indicating the poor girl on the harsh bed “…let it come to this?”

  Tears flowed and Tirielle’s anger waned in the face of Quintal stoicism. Eventually j’ark stepped forward, saying, “It’s alright, alright, hush now.”

  Eventually Tirielle calmed herself. She flopped onto the bed beside the girl and stroked her hair, speaking quietly. “What is wrong with her? Why is she being dragged into this?”

  Saying nothing, Quintal leaned forward and removed the blindfold. The girl became more agitated, fingers raking the sheets, and opened her eyes.

  Blood leaked from the sides of her eyes. Tirielle stood over the girl and looked – all she could see was blood pooled on the girl’s irises, a lake of red obscuring sight.

  To the Sard, the sight was different. The fractious shards of being stabbed at each other and growing pain hung over the bed like a dark cloud harbouring plague rather than rain. The girl did not appear in this other sight, just the signature of her soul…and some infection tearing and eating at the girl, the sickness replacing her flesh and taking on a life all of its own.

  “I think she is just another casualty of a war that has been going on for millennia – just another innocent child discarded by the great war. I am sorry. It is only a matter of time, Tirielle.”

  “Why her? She has done nothing wrong! I killed Fridel, not her! Is this their revenge?!”

  “The Protectorate’s arm is indiscriminate Tirielle, they annihilate everything in their path. The girl was not their target, just a morsel for their hunger. Our order has opposed them through the ages, but we do not have the might to destroy them. The girl will die. She is just one more casualty in a war she knew nothing about. I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do to stop it.”

  Tirielle looked up at them, her lips drawn in a stubborn line.

  “If you can do nothing to stop it, I will.”

  *

  Chapter Thirty

  Drun forced himself above the side of the boat and hunted for signs of the shore. Salt had crystallized at the side of his eyes making them permanently sting.

  Fool wards! Could they do nothing sensible? Even in his weakened state (hallucinations were becoming commonplace) he could travel far enough to see the destruction Shorn had wrought. He could feel the approaching evil. The torture he had been party to had drawn the darkness to the remains. The darkness held such sway there now Drun’s incorporeal body could not travel close for fear of being torn apart in limbo. Or worse…

  Succumbing.

  His soul form could not travel far from his shell, either. In fact, Drun was trapped – a
n unwilling observer of his own body’s demise. The only thing keeping his body alive was death’s insistence on taking the whole package.

  His only chance of reaching the shore was in this separation. His body, starved of food and water, was ready to leave this world.

  His soul, full of desperation and duty, was not.

  Weakness plagued him now. In a deeper part of himself he knew death was at his shoulder. He could hear it whispering to him, worrying him with diatribes on the fundamental pointlessness of his existence, showing him the fates of all worlds, promising the end would be paradise. The watcher listened and nodded his head at death’s wisdom. He watched himself do so and waited to return to the forefront and tell death to leave him be.

  His soul gathered and leapt.

  Drun felt like a thief as he snuck into his own body and looked out through his own eyes. He hoped he could avoid death’s gaze for long enough. He could not afford to make this his final meeting between body and soul.

  Immediately he nearly lost himself in visual and auditory hallucinations. The oceans undulated wildly in preternatural colours around him, melding with the skies. The air spoke in subtle, sly voices, cajoling Drun’s abandoned body. Swim with us. Fly with us. Salvation lies with us. Only us. Come.

  The voices punished him with unrelenting power. The swirls and sways immediately began to pull him into them, his soul becoming thin and disparate.

  He had felt the rest of his order trying to contact him, but weakness, fatigue and malnutrition lend the attempts at communication a feeling of talking through water, the message was garbled and Drun found that he did not care.

  In his body, trapped without the energy to flee, the watcher, the binder, fell heavily into dream. Death placed a hand on his shoulder and waited patiently for the end.

  In the distance, Drun saw himself and the world draw up to swallow him. He cried out in his head and outside of it. Death smiled sagely, and showed him the endlessness of space.

  In reality, the shore swam inexorably closer.