Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Nausea rising, he felt the tightness of his sunburned face, and looked to the west were the twin suns were approaching their mountain cradle. The air was cooler now. There was no danger in the wind.

  Crawling on hands and knees the few feet to the other two was sheer agony, but his head was clearing fast. Raising a hand carefully he felt his craggy features and the blood crusted there. Thud trotted up and down the rising shore with one moon rising early like a rider on his back. He seemed to be enjoying himself. The air behind him was already turning a darker shade of blue.

  He left the two men in the care of the horses and after taking up his crutch walked slowly to Renir's hut to look for the makings of a fire and some food. He left his sword reluctantly under the old man's hand.

  In the slowly fading light Shorn recovered his senses and played out the battle in his head. The last thing he could remember was fighting side by side with Renir. From the look of it not Renir, but some other, primal force, had killed the remaining Draymar. Their bodies lay in a semicircle facing the sea. The old man, perhaps, although he looked amazingly frail and paper-thin.

  In person he was nothing like his dreams – the shining warrior and this wrinkled old rag of a man bore no relation. But the face…yes, he thought. The face radiated power.

  Shorn took his time and moved slowly around the village. The people were all gone, bedclothes had not been made, breakfasts sat uneaten and turning on their plates. The whole town could have upped and left in a hurry when the Draymar came but he knew the Draymar were not that clumsy. There were no signs of an earlier battle. The few weapons he found were untouched – the Draymar would have taken those and anything else of use they could carry. A fine armour stood openly waiting for someone to take it in the smithy, a perfectly crafted axe lent against a wall. Shorn marvelled at the craftsmanship. Something was awry.

  He knew they were all dead. He just didn't know how.

  He came back after an investigation of the town, worrying at a lip as he thought the problem over. Nothing made sense. The Draymar were not known for cunning. Waiting in ambush rang wrong. No signs of death.

  Subtly was not part of the Draymar personality, everything they did was designed to make sense. There was no room for needless complication in the Draymar. To leave weapons behind, food? It stank.

  He made a fire downwind from the two unconscious companions from wood taken from a pile stacked against Renir’s hut. He placed a pan in the fire when it turned low and filled it with ale and vegetables and some dried meats. He took some blankets from one of the nearer houses and a crate, some sweet apple brandy, and sat drinking and waiting for the meal. He ate and quietly pondered the problem. Then he took the pan from the fire, added some more wood so it would not burn out, and decided to get drunk while he waited for the men to rise.

  Renir woke with a start and tried to move but his muscles protested vociferously and refused to work. His hands felt swollen and tingly numb, his shoulders bruised inside. He was also suffering from a few slashes on his arms where the scabs were crusted with sand, but had no overly concerning wounds. He heard the sound of the sea and smelled the sweet salt air and knew he was alive.

  Crackling, too. For a moment he thought he was on fire. His neck would not move so he used his legs, the least painfully part of his body, to turn himself over. The moon was bright overhead and shone down on the naked man covered in sand before him. The man from his dreams. He looked more ragged, and even thinner – if that was possible – but it was undoubtedly the same man.

  Renir brushed some sand from his face and pushed himself neared to the man who had saved his life. He felt groggy, like he had a whole body hangover. About to reach out and check the hairy old man was breathing, Shorn called out quietly, “Sshhush...leave him be.”

  Renir twisted his whole body round so he could see behind and let himself smile. At least his face still worked.

  A long string of vocalised ‘mmmm’s’ was the best he could manage. Shorn smiled happily back and said: “And I you. Come, eat.”

  “I...haaa...move.”

  Shorn pushed himself up with the aid of his crutch and came to Renir. He pulled him up with his good hand. The two hobbled over to the fire.

  “How is he?” Renir asked as he sat down. Shorn passed the brandy, and waited until Renir had swallowed several gulps like it was water. He held the flagon in both hands and tipped his whole body back to drink in order to keep from moving his neck.

  “Unconscious, I think. He mutters sometimes. When he wakes we’ll feed him.”

  “He looks so thin.”

  “I take it he came in by boat?”

  Renir gave a nasal laugh, “Yes, like a proud captain to our rescue. I couldn't tell you what happened. He saved us though I don't know how. I don't understand it.”

  “Well, for now, answers can wait. Can you eat?”

  “Anything.”

  “Well that's a relief. I'm an awful cook.”

  It didn't matter. Renir ate from the pot with a wide spoon. When he had finished he used the spoon to scrap the droppings from his stubble and ate them too.

  They sat up for a few hours alternately drinking and staring at the moon. They delighted in the welcome warmth of fire and brandy. They watched a moon saunter across the night sky and the clouds chasing after it. They talked of nothing in particular and left heavier matters for the morning. When the moon was full overhead Shorn left to find more brandy. When he came back the fire was low and Renir was sound asleep on a blanket, snoring gently. Shorn put more wood on the fire, left the horses to their own devices, covered Drun with a blanket, and laid down himself.

  Drun shivered awake in the night. He could smell the food and his weak sweat caked in sand. His shrivelled belly recoiled at the thought of food, but he dragged himself closer to the embers of the fire. He ate a spoonful of thick bitter stew, now cold, and gagged. He tried again, ignoring the pain in his bleeding gums and the loose teeth that wobbled against the soft food. He looked at the two men in the dying glow. They seemed somehow familiar. Close by he could feel pollution. The air felt strange coming through his mouth. The scarred man. The other...he blinked slowly.

  He ate two more mouthfuls and pulled the blanket around himself.

  Drun shivered himself uncontrollably back into sleep.

  Renir finally awoke the following day still listless and confused but refreshingly damp. He rose, his whole body screaming in protest, his muscles stiff and unresponsive. Shorn sat a way off where he had built a makeshift roof for the fire to protect it from the thin drizzle that filled the sky. The suns were invisible today, the whole sky covered as far as the eye could see – which wasn’t very far. Renir looked around as he sat up but even the furthest house in the village was obscured by the dreary hanging sky. His hair was matted from rain and damp sand, which he brushed fecklessly with his hands and scratched himself where the sand had got under his clothing in the night. He said good morning to Shorn, took off his clothes and wandered into the sea. When he had finished his bracing bath he went into his shack and took a change of clothes for himself from the shelf. Changed and refreshed, towelled dry where he could, he took his time (moving slowly treating his joints and flesh with tender care), until he was finished. After a minor skirmish with a fresh shirt he emerged and handed a change of clothes to Shorn.

  “Here. Get yourself clean and I’ll change your bandages. Let’s have a look.”

  “Morning.”

  “Yes, yes, morning. That’s twice now. Let’s not get bogged down in niceties – let’s take a look at those wounds instead.”

  As Renir stripped the bandages from Shorn’s wound, dismissing the bump on the mercenary’s head, he asked, “How is he?”

  Shorn shrugged, looking down at the Drun. “Obviously alive. He moved in the night. How are you?”

  “Sore. Have you eaten?” Renir asked.

  “Not yet, I’ve left some stew. There’s nothing to drink here though. Is there any water?”

&n
bsp; “There should be. I’ll check the other houses in a while. The horses have been drinking from the trough at the smithy – worst case we’ll make do with that.”

  Renir crabbed as he knelt in front of Shorn, whinging about the rigours of battle, Shorn humoured him – after all, he supposed, it must seem that way to a novice. He held his tongue and in his head compared the injuries and discomforts he had suffered to Renir’s aches and pains. He couldn’t remember such aches and pains as those that beset Renir, but then he had been wielding a sword of one kind or another since before his manhood. Perhaps Renir did have a point – Shorn didn’t think he would cope well were he told to become a pig farmer or a wine merchant.

  Renir removed the bandaging, threw the stained bandages onto the fire and examined the angry wounds. Both were healing, but the beasts had bitten deep. The shape of his forearm was wrong where muscle had been torn away along with flesh. Renir asked him to clench his fist, which he did, but there was barely any pressure on his finger. Renir glanced at Shorn, who was trying his hardest not to look dejected.

  “Where did you learn about medicine?” Shorn asked to take his mind off his injury…and to avoid the questions on Renir’s face.

  “Just commonsense mainly, but my grandmother nursed the wounded border guards when the Draymar used to raid regularly. She passed on a few skills to my mother who in turn taught me the basics. She always said it was so much more useful than learning to fight. I think she may have been wrong.”

  “No,” said Shorn, “I think she may have been right.”

  “Well, either way, I can’t fix your arm. The leg looks to be healing well, the muscle is still rounded here,” He pointed to the dented curve of Shorn’s calf, “But I don’t know about your arm.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to manage for the time being.”

  “That you will. Now get yourself into the sea. Sea water is good for wounds.”

  “And hurts like hell.”

  “You’ll be fine. The scabs are hard. Just don’t soak too long, or they’ll fall off and you’ll start bleeding again.”

  “You know nobody likes doctors.”

  “That’s because they’re idiots. But I’m not a doctor. Now get going.”

  Shorn grumbled but got up. “You realise I’ve killed men for less?”

  “You realise I can run with both my legs? Now get in the sea…”

  Drun mumbled pointedly, startling the two men. They waited motionless for more but when none came, continued.

  “I’ll get some food and drink and some more dressings.”

  “What about him?” said Shorn, indicating Drun, where he lay sound asleep on the sand.

  “Nothing we can do about that but wait. Go on.”

  Before Shorn left he pointed to Renir’s shirt where bright blood was visible. “You seem to have forgotten yourself.”

  Renir looked down to his arm where one of his cuts was bleeding again, opened by the sea. “I’ll live. Now get on.”

  Shorn shook his head to himself as he went. He looked back and saw Renir needlessly tidying around the fire. He decided not to bring up the obvious until Renir did. It was the least he could do. He walked into the sea, ignoring the pain where the salt water invaded his fresh wounds, and washed himself with his hands.

  He wondered what Renir would do now. And where the rest of the town was. And where Renir’s wife would be buried. For he was sure beyond doubt that they would only find her dead.

  Renir’s mind still refused to think about the darkest possibilities, and he busied himself maundering in and out of absent neighbour’s homes until Shorn, looking better for a wash (albeit a rough one) came out of the sea. Both men looked disreputable with their impressive growth of stubble but a shave would have to wait. Renir looked at Shorn dressed in his shirt and trousers. A little too small for him, but Renir decided it was best not to laugh. He didn’t think anyone else would, either, as the scarred face and sword hilt looking over his shoulder were not the stuff of comedy. Shorn thanked him and the two sat in silence to eat a late breakfast of leftover stew, some pilfered eggs and brewed tea.

  Shorn’s wrists strayed a long way from the cuff when he drank the tea. Renir pretended not to notice.

  Drun came to late in the afternoon with damp smoke in his nostrils and clumps of sandy hair in his mouth. He twisted in his grainy bedding to see Renir and Shorn looking at him with concerned, ugly faces. He smiled, sighed with palpable relief, turned back into his blanket and returned instantly to sleep.

  For the rest of the day the two men skirted the real issues and discussed the ambush. It was strange that the Draymar, straightforward and guileless, should try to attack them in an ambush, let alone hide the slain. They elected to leave the bodies of the Draymar where they were and mainly looked out to sea. The rain continued for the rest of the day and into the night. Neither complained but sat eating what they could find and drinking whatever was available. Renir was now the right side of drunk. Shorn was drinking in moderation, taking the mantle of responsibility for the night. There was no sense of danger in the air and both horses were calm and seemed happy to wander off periodically. When they came back to town and saw the men were still there they wandered off again. The horses seemed comfortable with each other’s company. Shorn wondered if horses spoke or entertained philosophical thoughts.

  Renir burped and finally broached the subject.

  “I have to know.”

  “I know,” said Shorn. He had been waiting for him to bring it up all day.

  Dark was rising.

  “We’ll begin the search tomorrow. Are you sure you want to…?”

  “Find her? Of course I do.”

  “I’m sure I can manage alone…maybe the old man will be able to help…”

  “I appreciate you are trying to protect me from the worst, but I have already come to terms…I know I’ll not find her alive.”

  “I’m sorry, Renir.” Shorn tried for tact and managed gruff. “You realise it could be…worse…than you imagine.”

  “I’ve seen worse already.”

  Shorn nodded. “Even so…she is you wife.”

  “I never really loved her. I felt more…obliged…than anything else.”

  Sometimes we lie to ourselves out of necessity, Shorn thought in error. He put a hand on Renir’s shoulder. Renir left it there and replied, “I know she was my wife. I know it will be harder than I imagine. My whole town gone. I had friends here. I have lived here, among these, my neighbours,” he indicated the whole town with a gesture, “for years. I know it will be hard…I have known loss before, Shorn, I am no stranger to bereavement. We live on. I’ve seen all the terrible possibilities in my head – I just hope my imagination is worse than the reality.”

  “I hope so, too. I sincerely do. But the reality is seldom as we imagine it.”

  “I know.”

  Shorn fell to silence for a moment. The drink lent Renir some bravado – his words slurred occasionally – Shorn just hoped he could handle it. He knew just how vicious the Draymar could be. He knew because he had seen it. Renir had just heard tales.

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  *

  Chapter Forty-Four

  He had been lucky.

  Klan could feel excitement burbling under the surface of his harsh face. The Speculate, Jek Yrie (named for the body he was the leader of, as was the style on Lianthre), was conspicuously absent. In the reprieve he had used his time wisely. His master (though Jek called him brother Klan laboured under no illusions) would soon find him indispensable. There were definite benefits to ascension.

  He had found the Watcher. All three were now in the open. Jek would be angry that Klan had lost two of them, but Jek did not know the power the Watcher wielded.

  Klan lay on the hard cot he called a bed and stared at the ceiling, preparing himself to test his latest trick. It still pained him and was nearly uncontrollable but he had to try. When Jek returned and found that he had failed again…well, the torture would
prove an inconvenience at this point. Time was too important. Another outstanding failure though it had been (especially for an ascendant) his successes were growing.

  He knew where Shorn was going, even if no one else could see him.

  The records in his head would tell him more and where memory failed logic always remained.

  Shorn was going to summon the seafarers. The Watcher may or may not know where the red wizard’s final resting place lay – Klan did not know. But he could tell from the records that the awakening of the red wizard (something only the three could achieve) was something that the Protectorate feared. Only he could stop the return.

  The wizard, the Watcher, must be the Sard. They, too, were searching for the red wizard. The records were unclear as to the origins of the wizard, but he must be a being of legendary power for the Protectorate to fear him so.

  The Sard, however, were well documented. They were at every portentous events. Meddling. Yes, they would know where the red wizard was. It was the only assumption he could make. The only way north was by portal – or by sea. The records mentioned Shorn. He had not come from Sturman shores. The mercenary could only have come from the sea or left by sea. There was no way he could have been in the north and in the south. Not on foot or horseback. Portal or sea. The humming sword. He would have it back in his grasp now. That spiteful sword with its piercing tune. Would a man who wields such power work with wizards? He was with a wizard, of the Sard, of that he had no doubt.

  Klan could not have comprehended that someone of such obvious talents could be anything but a wizard.

  But the sword. There was another sword. Powerful weapons were rare on Sturma. They had little talent for the making – such backward people. It was a wonder the Speculate didn’t just wipe them out by invading, instead of culling their numbers artificially first.

  The knowledge was there.

  There were too many coincidences for it to be otherwise. Shorn, the sword, the chronicles…

  Calmed, in his dark room with only blades of light and his delegation for company, Klan Mard tortured his bones for knowledge. He had used his time wisely. His new-found power had allowed him to sear most of the Protectorate’s archives onto his very bones.