Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  He started by closing his eyes. He lay like this waiting for his power to build, his magic running through him, until blinding light glowed through from his chamber out the cracks in the old door. As the pressure built to breaking point the wood and stone themselves began to change. Younger Protocrats walking the halls scampered past the glow or wisely turned back. None of the scamperers made it.

  Deep red light shone through each hole in his murky robe, just as it had when he had first discovered the extent of his new power. His eyes turned into the back of his head and his sight shone free. Time slowed and Klan’s breathing became shallow. His chest barely moved but his heart still beat inside it…the thumping heart could be seen painted dark and caged within his breast against the fleshy contours of the ceiling as the light raced through his body. He saw his cells and looked closer to read what was writ there. Hovering slowly underneath his own cells next to his bones, black and red circlets roiling above and around and through the sight. He went deeper, until just the words reached his mind.

  He read while the walls buckled and the furniture crinkled and died a second death. He read the history of everything.

  All three references were there. Deeper. The tiniest details. Like another man who wields a made sword. A sword with a name. The Cruor Bract.

  Another mention, the other name, that was what he needed…perhaps?

  A barren wasteland in the frozen north, a plate of ice only inhabitable by the insane. Twenty years ago – the timing was inaccurate. The ilm’yan scout wrote in jumbled streams of consciousness… One passage in the whole record, the date unsure…

  The passage read:

  …Snow snow (this went on for some time) on hald mace shor two no longer men two Swords mist feeWar faer crua art rubi blane Bract slew aer (perhaps Faer? Klan could not tell from the text – he could only copy what there was, not turn back time. Nothing could) faceschaane the refewar adbom eyes in nation more turndraggle noses too pervail to meet again wen the swrods once more the suns aarrn thei child awak chuld wake…

  Well, thought Klan, perhaps not that lucky.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Renir and Shorn awoke, rested but with wounds still intact, to see Drun smiling in all his natural glory, hunched and brittle, over a new fire. A pot hung over the fire with some bubbling brew within, and a large bird on a makeshift spit spun invitingly. Delicious smells wafted across the men.

  To Shorn he said, “Who are you?”

  “Don’t you remember? We met in the hills. You are Drun and I am Shorn.”

  “I am glad you remember,” said the priest and bowed low, lifting Shorn's hand to his forehead. “You are the Second.”

  Shorn blinked and was about to say ‘No I’m not’, but Drun turned his gaze to Renir and said, “Good morning, Renir.”

  The day that greeted them was glorious and stunning. The rain had fallen back into the clouds above creating sworls of sullen grey in the sky. Here and there spears of sunshine lanced the earth and sea. Seabirds sought land. They waited on the ground and in the eves for the rain to return tumbling through the sun-pierced clouds.

  A bird hopped onto some dry wood next to Renir.

  Drun stood and bowed his head to each man in turn and before either could interject, said, “You have my gratitude for looking over me.”

  “No thanks required. Thank you for saving us, that was amazing – I remember little but you saved us from the Draymar…”

  “I don’t think it was I – I am not a warrior, Renir.”

  “Nevertheless…how do you feel?” Renir’s neck cracked as he turned his head.

  “Thin. Let us eat and prepare for our journey.”

  “Eh?” both men said as one.

  “Our journey? Did I forget to mention it? We must go to Naeth. Only the Thane there can raise an army to save Sturma. And even now it may be too late. After that, Pulhuth, I believe? Is that not correct, Shorn?”

  Renir saw Shorn's furrowed forehead and said, "He speaks for me."

  "Does he now?" Drun looked over each man slowly before turning back to his cooking. Shorn and Renir stared at his back. Drun spoke without turning. "We have to leave here today. The men that came here, they will return. The wizard you felt – “ at this he looked at Shorn “ – will return. He will return for you because of who you are. Irrespective of what you’ve done until now, it is the now that is important. They will hunt you for who you are, not what you have done. To live, for the world to live, you must become something different.” He took the stew from the fire and put it down on the sand, nestling the pot into a depression to stop it from falling over, and stuck three wooden ladles in. “Renir, I do not know about you, but it seems contrite that Shorn’s enemies were waiting here – how would they know where you lived? Did you tell anyone at the camp?”

  “Well, one person…Bourninund.”

  Shorn shook his head. “If you are looking for some complicity here, wizard, you are looking to the wrong man. Bourninund is beyond reproach.”

  Drun frowned. “Then there are other possibilities – you were followed, overheard, or it was pure chance…or perhaps it is you they were after?”

  Before Renir had a chance to question this, Shorn interrupted. “Regardless, and my appreciation aside – you did save my life – but I’m not sure I’m going to run off with you.”

  “I haven’t saved your life yet, Shorn.”

  Shorn looked quizzically at Drun. “What do you mean?”

  “You stray far from course Shorn. Or Pasmir, Calagon, Despirinne - oh!...shall I go on?"

  Shorn spoke with quiet power. "How do you know me?"

  "Stay your hand, mercenary." Drun continued stirring his creation. Renir took the initiative.

  "Are you a wizard? When you came to me in my dream..."

  "A wizard? No, no. Not at all. My power comes from elsewhere, it is merely a gift. A wizard as you would know it...they take their power. I am something that comes but once a generation." Drun stopped stirring. "Shorn is the same, too. He is something rare, Renir.” He turned pensive and said, “I have a tale to tell, if you will bear to hear it?"

  Renir looked to Shorn who seemed to disapprove. The sword on his back suddenly seemed larger, the man coiled like a blade under weight. The air around the fire was fast becoming thick with a menace Renir could feel plucking at the hair on his neck. I should change the subject, he thought. Then the second after: still, I am curious.

  “I care not either way,” said Shorn.

  Renir feared what would happen if he let the conversation turn. Shorn was tense for some reason, angered by the wizard. He didn’t think it would escalate but thought better of taking chances. In the end he said, "Well, I am partial to a good tale."

  "Then a tale I shall tell. But first, let us eat. I am weak from my journey and there is much we will need strength for yet."

  Shorn stubbornly cut in, "I'm not sure I want anything to do with you, wizard. Again, I thank you for saving my life in the hills..."

  "I am NOT a wizard!" The shout reverberated back from the wooden walls of the uninspired dwellings. Shorn looked on with darkening eyes. "If you must call me anything, my name is Drun Sard. Do you not remember? I have told you my name once before." Renir felt like a child.

  Drun fixed Shorn in his gaze and light burned bright around them lighting up the gloomy day. The horses whinnied and backed away from where they were grazing behind the house opposite Renir's shack. "I...I remember a warrior in shining armour...a tower built from the dead. You trained me to fight in my dream."

  The Watcher nodded. He signalled that the meal was ready. "It is good that you remember. I pulled you back from the abyss. I did this not for selfish reasons or out of philanthropic ideals. You are more important than you know. I even understand now why it is that I irritate you so.”

  "Then why don't you stop with all your mullock and tell us what you are talking about?" Growled the fuming mercenary. "Enough of this rambling!"

 
"Why so angry Calagon?" Drun's voice stayed infuriatingly calm. Shorn's ire grew by the second. “Perhaps it is the guilt that weighs heavy on your mind?”

  "Do not bait me. You know not who I am."

  "That I know your names is not enough for you? Would you like me to recite them all? It is quite a list. As are your deeds. This latest atrocity is your last, mercenary. It is time to redress the balance."

  Renir stopped them both before the mood could become more oppressive. "Please. I for one believe that you are here out of noble intent." He paused before adding, "even if you are annoyingly vague."

  Drun did not respond and emboldened, Renir continued. "Whatever it is that you have to do with Shorn I am sure it has nothing to do with me. I am not involved in all this. I did as you bid and gave your message to Shorn. I lost much here – I fear the worst for my wife; that she has paid the price for your quest, whatever that may be, and my friends; my village is now empty of life. If this is not enough, then I beg you both, please stop behaving like children and give me some of that food."

  Drun ignored Renir and stared intently at Shorn. He said, "I see it even now. The darkness is in you, eating you. You feel the hatred rising up inside you. The hatred all the people you have slain gave to you in the moment of their dying. But no longer. You will learn the value of life, or you will bring about the end of Rythe."

  Shorn tried to calm himself to listen. Drun's eyes still glowed. The words went into Shorn's head and touched another memory.

  A kind-faced teacher, a warrior, clad in fantastic armour, unostentatious yet beautiful in its simple line...and the sheen that looked like pearl sometimes and slick spirits the next. Grinning deranged faces drooling and snarling at him. Drun oblivious. Making Shorn want to learn. Lessons. Endless lessons and piercing barbs from the teacher about his past. Letting his anger grow, then telling him of all the garbled souls Shorn's revenge on the world had left behind, turning the hate in on himself, telling him of the souls departed, finally turning the anger to pity.

  The poison was made from envy. The emotion taken from Nabren and turned into beasts could only be killed by pity.

  Shorn came back to himself with a start. Shorn, this time, looked at Drun in a different way. He was beginning to understand something. He realised what it was about the magic he had felt that night in the tent. The night his sword had sung.

  It had been a memory. Something he had tried to escape for all these years. And Drun had reminded him.

  The cloud broke. Drun's eyes returned to normal, just amazing, complete yellow. He nodded to Shorn. “Yes, Shorn, you remember them.” Out to sea a wall of rain began to fall. Drun took a deep breath to continue. Renir was engrossed in something at the bottom of his bowl and the moment passed him by.

  Shorn waved him on. He would not talk about it here. Drun sighed but nodded that he would leave that scar untouched for now.

  “Why Pulhuth? Naeth for the Thane…Pulhuth?”

  “For the Seafarers, Shorn. We go into the North.”

  “Why?”

  “That is where your destiny lies. You are part of a key. Only the three can avert the end of the world.” Drun watched Shorn for his reaction. Shorn was not forthcoming.

  “The end of the world, eh? Nonsense. And anyway, the North is impassable.”

  “Not by sea.”

  Shorn glared at him. “No.”

  Drun straightened and cracked his back. “Well, yes.”

  “Why the North?” Renir put in to stop this first meeting degenerating into a squabble. Renir didn’t even know what they were talking about.

  “That is where salvation rests. That is where the key must be used. But does it matter anyway? You cannot stay here. We must move, before they find us.”

  “I’ll not go north.”

  “At least listen to what I have to say.” Shorn just glared. “So then, to it.” Drun squatted gingerly, sore knees encrusted with sand, and prodded his food. Looking at his audience of two, Drun began.

  “Rythe consists of more than just Sturma and Draymar. Long ago, people did not populate these shores, but fled another continent called Lianthre and settled here. A race called the Hierarchy lives there – although this is not their true name. They are a people characterised by the same features; dark, thick hair, sharp aquiline faces with high strong cheeks and pale skin like gauze stretched over their faces. Lianthrians are like us though they are ruled utterly by the Hierarchy. Imagine living in that world. There is no countryside that they do not own. The Hierarchs rule it thoroughly through a force known as the Protectorate. They have done so since people can remember. This is an enemy we face. They are a cold and hard enemy. This is something Shorn would know, Renir. And will know again.”

  Renir was munching on meat from the bone. Drun puffed his cheeks out and carried on, rolling his eyes to himself.

  “Shorn, you are the Second, the Saviour. I am the Third, the Watcher. We are two of three. The First, also called the Sacrifice, is on Lianthre, under the protection of my Order. Together, we three form a key of sorts. We are fated to be used. In the north, the lock resides, waiting for our coming as it has through the ages. We alone can awaken a being of such power that even the Protectorate will cower before its might. It is known as the red wizard. But our enemies are great. The enemies of your youth, Shorn. The people that made you are what you are today. A thug.”

  Shorn put his spoon in his bowl and spoke. “I remember what you did to me. I remember speaking to you in my mind…I don’t know if I thank you or kill you where you stand for tampering with what’s not yours to toy with…but I don’t know. I’m a not a rash man, so I will listen. But nor am I a different man for all your…wisdom. I am still the same man. I am no Saviour of worlds. Nor do I wish to be. I am a killer, old man, remember that.” As he said this he fingered the leather hilt of his sword, the wrapping dark and worn with sweat.

  Drun chuckled. Renir didn’t understand why the old man was baiting Shorn and he was so tired he did not care. If they were to come to blows Renir would patch them up afterwards. For now all he wanted to do was lay still.

  “There is no one else. You will find the same end whether you come with me or not, but you can stumble blindly on through your future if you wish. Whatever you decide, I tell you this: your fate will be the same.”

  Shorn nodded him on, squinting suspiciously.

  “The Protectorate have powers unheard of on Sturma. You have hedge wizards here, and so few people that an already rare talent is scarce. The Draymar number more. They will bring with them wizards when they come in force…

  “The wizards of the Protectorate could wipe out the entire nations of Sturma and the Draymar.”

  Drun saw he had their attention. “Good. Now listen to me, because our lives depend on it. On Lianthre the true power of governance rests with the Protectorate and they do not confine their meanderings to Lianthre. Shorn knows this because he has met them before.”

  Renir looked perplexed.

  “They killed my family,” Shorn told him without looking round.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The suns would soon rise over the tall trees lining the old stone path to Arram’s doors. Even now, their light was fading from the moons over the complex. In the brightening air the sound of Jek’s cane beat the birdsong. He was stomping and bashing his way down the long path to the great white pillars of Arram’s front arch, on his way back from an outside appointment. A most unsatisfactory meeting. And still he had not heard from the Guryon. He was disappointed. They were usually faster. He did not like to feel fury. It was one emotion he did not revel in, one that made it hard to think.

  Anger expanded from him and the mood of the first three Brothers to pass him plummeted. Their faces sagged and they felt despair and anger rise in them. It was strictly forbidden, even for the Speculate, to use magic against other Protocrats, but this was outside and there was nothing Arram could do about it.

  Jek did not even notice. He str
ode on, coming closer, until the tap-tap of his cane began to echo back from the front wall. A quilted visitor was dashing from the halls now, looking extremely flustered. The Mithprail Tors representative, Jek seemed to remember. A cumbersome idiot, too.

  Hierarch representatives were fleeing the halls like fleas. She took one look at his expression and wisely decided not the tell him that Arram might soon be dust. The next person to come running from the halls was not so lucky. As Jek passed the Brother, controlling his breath with calm, said, “Speculate, forgive me, but there is an urgent matter – one of the ascendants, Klan Mard, is destroying the chambers! Master…forgive me.”

  Jek stood looking at the man for a moment. The Brother opened his mouth to talk but never got a sentence out. Jek’s muscular arm swung, his cane connected with the Brother’s neck and passed straight through.

  He growled at the corpse, “and you didn’t think to ask him to stop!”

  The head rolled away and took no heed. Jek didn’t even stop to look but stormed into the front gates of Arram with his robe swirling behind him like a wave and his cane clacking against the stones. He felt better. He felt his rage slipping under his control. No one else thought to interrupt his stride. They knew the smile on his face must be glued on. The rictus of malice underneath was too difficult to hide.

  As he approached Klan’s chamber Jek saw the Brother he killed may have had a point.

  The door to Klan’s quarters was petrified. The stone underfoot had melted and cooled in place. Jek knocked and calmed himself. He called, “Klan. If you would be so kind as to desist? You seem to be curdling the foundations,” disappointment in his voice.

  The light fell back immediately. Klan came to the door and looked…thinner. He looked at the door and the floor and put his head in his hands. “Forgive me, brother – I was reading and seem to have forgotten to turn out the light.”