Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  In time that would seem eternal to mortal eyes a message of ten thousand years, passed from sun to sun, reached Carious. Carious told Dow, and both looked out on the world of their creation and knew why mortals fear.

  They passed the light on, giving it their blessing, adding in a question, to each corner of space. Asking when.

  The words, powered again, given new light, flew free and wrote bold in the darkest places: WE CAN HOLD THEM NO LONGER. THEY RETURN.

  Carious and Dow added in their shame: (OUR CHILDREN RETURN. THE CYCLE IS COMPLETE)

  Hidden in the particles around the light another message came free: (THE CYCLE IS RENEWED.)

  Carious and Dow turned their infinite eyes to Rythe. Its children were lost again.

  In light only Rythe could understand the suns cried out.

  Last of the abomination. Cursed child. Awake.

  In every legend the Lianthrians imagined the dark was on the outside.

  It wasn’t. The dark permeated ever corner of the universe and they were stuck inside with it.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The sound of breaking branches and thrashing underbrush dispersed the huddled serenity of the Pale Forest. The sounds hung in the moist air where nothing but drips of sunlight broke through; each crack of a brittle branch under Roth’s feet began sharp and clear then pulled up short like a spear through water, finally dragged to sleep on the ground with the other sounds resting there.

  The Pale Forest, its ancient heart unmolested since creation, covered hundreds of miles from Arram in the south-east of Lianthre, creeping west where it eventually cleared into the long marshland and the coast beyond.

  Peace was only ever an illusion. The minute conquests of insects took place on every available field of battle. The trees cried out to birds and gave them nourishment. Beast clung to the knobbly trunks of trees, the girth of some of the oldest Pluan trees wider than the Ludfern’s grasp, the spiked and segmented parasites that fed off them and protected them from predators. Ludferns on larger trees dragged themselves round the bark too slowly to fend off the Ghuth…viscous fluid seeped through the bark from grotesque scars of livid open flesh wherever the Ludfern could not reach.

  The beasts’ chitterings quieted and stopped as the sounds of the rahken’s passage reached their assorted senses.

  Roth continued on its course, winning each collision and leaving a freshly broken path for its return. Torn branches and leaves poked out through its tangled matt of hair, though none were thick enough to pierce its hide. A whip-thin cut had marked the leathery skin above its eyes but did not bleed.

  Roth followed the path north where the lighter leaves that got more sun pointed, lighter in Roth’s eyes. It knew night was high in the hidden sky above. Tirielle and the Sard would not be pleased with its news but as hard as Roth had wished it could explain the need for this journey to Tirielle, it still needed permission.

  The journey would not be an easy one. That even Roth’s parents, waiting for them in its childhood home, might not have the answers was something it had no wish to burden Tirielle with.

  The warrior ran on as the light rose behind it.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  She had kept her promise. Roth made it back for morning.

  The new companions were preparing to break camp when Roth returned, breaking through the undergrowth with such force and suddenness it had almost got itself killed as both Cenphalph and Disper, standing closest, had their swords aimed at Roth before they realised who it was.

  “I made it in time…” Roth breathed when the swords were lowered, chest heaving from exertion and relief.

  Tirielle bolted across the camp, a grin on her face, as Cenphalph and Disper, smiling too, lowered their swords and welcomed the travelling warrior.

  Tirielle hugged Roth as hard as she could – not very hard as her arms only reached half the way around it.

  “I’m so glad to see you! Where have you been?”

  “I have been home, Tirielle. I regret to be the bearer of such news, but it is where we must go.”

  “But we head south, to Beheth. Roth! There is so much to tell. We have found the seer.” Tirielle added sadly, “but she is suffering from a malady unlike any we have ever seen...”

  Roth sighed and laid a great hand on Tirielle’s shoulder. “It is good that you have found her. She must come, too. I have been instructed to take you all home with me for council. All of you.”

  Cenphalph, waiting silently, spoke. “Roth, I do not think we can protect such a large group, wherever it is we travel.”

  “It matters not,” replied Roth. “We must all go, for your plans – ” at this Roth fixed on Disper, “ – and for mine. The rahkens have arts…secret arts…that may help.”

  Quintal came and joined them. “Welcome back, Roth. It is good to see you.”

  “It is good to see you, too. I was trying to explain that we must go to my home. It is but a few days from here and we must leave soon. You have stayed in this place for too long and it is no longer safe.”

  Quintal nodded. “But Tirielle insists that we go south to Beheth. We search for a cure for the seer there.”

  “My people have as much chance of curing the girl, if not more, than all of you searching the library for answers that may or may not be there. My home is on the way, and if you feel the need or my kin cannot be of assistance, then we can go on from there. It will be safe from the Protectorate hunters too, who will be out looking for us soon, if they are not already.”

  Quintal looked questioningly to Tirielle, who asked, “What if your people cannot aid us?”

  “Then we will continue on to the library and hope to find some answers there. Either way these people need sanctuary.”

  “There are too many, and we haven’t the means to protect them,” said Quintal.

  Roth explained slowly, “You have here an assembly of magicians unseen in this age – in most, it is likely the merest spark, in some it may be strong enough to nurture… The rahkens teach that all nature’s gifts should be nourished and allowed to become what they will. This is but my belief, but Tirielle, do you not seek answers to the Protectorate conundrum? Do you think when the time comes that answers will be enough to defeat them? You will need allies, and in these dishevelled lost souls allies you have. My family will teach them how to survive and use their skills for living. Besides, do you truly think if we leave these people here now they will live another year? They have been marked and the Protectorate do not make mistakes – this you know only too well, my Lady.”

  Quintal nodded his agreement, and said to Tirielle, “Roth does make a persuasive case. Friends in the times ahead will be beyond value.”

  Tirielle sighed. “I had hoped to avoid dragging more people into this…I thought perhaps they would go their own when we reached safety, but…”

  “I think,” Cenphalph interrupted carefully, “People will be dragged into this whether we like it or not.”

  Hair covered her face for a moment before Tirielle agreed. “You are both right, of course. We have to help even if it makes the going harder.” Tirielle rapped her knuckles against Cenphalph’s armour, eliciting a bony ting, and said, “Friends are indeed hard to come by,” before walking across camp to give the news to the waiting prisoners.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  For two days the group walked and camped together. The leader of the Sard insisted they stay together. It was not safe in the Pale Forest, according to him, but Turentil, one of the dissidents, had seen nothing untoward. The constant companionship was too much for her. She needed to feel the wind on her face, the bustle of the forest, without the taint of human words.

  She walked at the rear of group, dropping back to coo inanely at a helting mir hanging from one of the lower branches of a tree.

  The rest of the group walked ahead in one column, with the marvellous and strange warriors at the outsides. For the past couple of nights Turen
til had grown tired of the incessant hum that came from the only man she had never seen without his helm. He hummed his annoying tune all night long.

  Turentil dallied on the broken path behind the others and marvelled at the splendid variety that made up these forest depths.

  Here a beautiful tree with only long leaves where branches should be, a huge proboscis quietly sampling the moisture that dripped down from the canopy lolled sideways toward her; there against the bark of a larger tree a pulsing sparkling mass of fungi that shifted to let insects crawl through its mass, as though the insect was made of fire and it of flesh; to all sides, unseen behind the thickest leaves, the cries of the forest menagerie assailed her as the beast bristled and swooned and snattered their secret messages.

  She was distracted by a strange cry that stood out from the others, a cry more human than beast. Her neck ached from looking up for so long. As she looked ahead she saw sparkles momentarily flitting in and out of darkening vision. Probably just weakness from the ordeals of the last week. She swayed slightly in the breeze and looked ahead to where the rest of the group should have been, but were not.

  Odd, she thought. I can’t have been here that long. Then, that cry again. Insistent, a cry for help, she thought. I should go help.

  She made to move her feet and was confused for a second when they did not move. She looked down to where her body had been.

  Slimy jaws engulfed her. Opaque sightless eyes stared through her.

  The cries were hers and hers alone.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Quintal took a tally. Another two lost during the day. No matter how many times warned the dissidents to stay with the group, the Sard could not protect them all. Even the forest, it seemed, was against them. Frustration welled inside and had no place to go.

  Roth had said the journey would take no more than three days for a human, but it was two days in already and the group was making no better progress. They could no doubt make greater haste were the group smaller, but all told there were nine horses, one rahken, Tirielle, the Seer (pulled by two of the horses, which needed to travel abreast; this meant more time spent clearing a path for them) the nine members of the Order of the Sard and seventeen dissidents. They had lost five, and infuriatingly Quintal had no idea to what. He could fight a beast he could see, but this was something different entirely. Roth had not been much help either – according to Roth the rahkens did not wander into the woods. There were beasts here whose cunning would defeat brute force with ease. Roth’s advice had been to travel around the borders of the forest, but that would have meant a journey of at least two weeks out in the open with a band of prisoners who did not look able to take care of themselves.

  They were no mewling babies, though. Some, like Garner, took to hardship like they were born into it. He had taken the mantel of leadership among the group, asking for things that the Sard had not thought to provide or providing them himself. Quintal was grateful for the support. After initial teething problems (j’ark had been openly against the idea of taking so many wards on a jaunt through the dangerous woods), the Sard were getting along with the former prisoners, gradually drawing them out of their shock and into life again. They helped clear the ground for camp each night and had begun to take an interest in what was going on around them. Dark patches were still visible under most of their eyes, but even the fear that pervaded the forest could not dent their spirits.

  On the third day a dissident laughed. The forest shrank back for a moment.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  On the east coast of Sturma three new allies headed tentatively north to petition the Thane of Naeth for his support in the inevitable war against Draymar. Thud carried the armour, led by Renir. Only Shorn, under orders from Drun, rode, although the other two were probably in greater need of a saddle. Both hobbled.

  Shorn’s leg was healing fast. It was still weak and scarred but the bruising had paled significantly and the mercenary was no longer irritable with scratchiness. He was still irritable though, and Renir looked away whenever Shorn tentatively dismounted. He was obviously in pain but did not want to admit it to the others. He did not complain; he was just grouchy instead. His infirmity obviously bothered him.

  Renir wished he would complain like everybody else and get on with it.

  Apart from the accompanying pity, Shorn bore his pain well. It reminded Renir that the few aches he suffered would be counted as nothing more than a ‘light engagement’ by the mercenary. Shorn’s left arm was healing but muscle had been torn from the outside of his forearm making his grip almost entirely reliant on his right hand. Last night at camp was the first time Renir had seen him exercise the wasted arm, standing a way off from the camp to be alone and moving with exotic grace. Occasionally the fire would glint from the slow-moving sword. It looked troublingly like exercise to Renir.

  The three settled quickly into a rhythm. Shorn practised while Renir marvelled at the Watcher’s tales over the campfire. He began to wish he had had the opportunity to travel and learn as much. Then he realised he did have the opportunity and that he was doing it now. His clothes chafed, his horse rode unmounted, his feet bled, his sleep was…troubling…and, he ached constantly. The stories Drun told of great adventures and his long years of travel didn’t reflect reality.

  Renir could not wait until his aching muscles were back to their normal painless weakness.

  Neither of the other two, despite infirmity and injury, complained about their suffering. On some childish level this annoyed Renir. He felt churlish for the thought but savoured it quietly anyway.

  With no real thoughts of danger, Drun asserted that they were safe from all eyes while he was with them, magical or otherwise, they talked all day and passed the miles. In the evening Shorn asked Renir if he had thought of a name for his axe. Renir replied not yet, but that he would name it.

  “Be careful,” the mercenary told him. “You give a weapon a name, you give it a soul, a destiny…”

  Both Drun and Renir skirted around the issue of Shorn’s scar until Renir’s curiosity got the better of him.

  No answer was forthcoming.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The following morning the former prisoners were all looking forward to new meals and safe haven. The bright and earnest hope on each of the prisoners’ faces drew their grins wider as they speculated on the rahken camp and meeting more of the enormous beasts. Not one of the former prisoners had seen a rahken as close as they had to Roth and most had believed them to be mere animals. Roth had proved them gladly wrong. It was fast becoming an unexpected hero to them, with its calm wisdom and quiet caring for people it knew nothing of.

  Tirielle listened to their hushed conversations, acting as counterpoint to the helmed warrior’s constant hum, which she all but ignored now after three days. The only time he stopped was when he ate.

  To her left walked Quintal and j’ark. She strained her ears to hear them.

  “Sometimes there is no need to kill, j’ark. I have taught you this lesson time and time again. It is something you seem to refuse to learn.”

  “And I have, time and again, explained that sometimes force is the only language.”

  “But when force becomes your language of choice the darkness seeps in. Of that I need you to be mindful.”

  “Would you have had me battle the guards with fanciful words?”

  “No,” Quintal replied sadly, “you did well and we are proud. But I know you did not need kill the first man.”

  J’ark looked slightly uncomfortable with himself but only said, “I know that, too.”

  He nodded to the leader of the Sard and walked to the back of the group. Tirielle watched him for a while, trying to catch his eye, but Quintal called her over. Before he could speak she said, “What was that about?”

  “Nothing, Lady, nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that,” she replied. “You may as well tell me, because I’ll n
ot give up.”

  Quintal laughed. “Well, that may prove a useful trait. Fair enough. We were arguing as always about how to fight our battles. He believes force is the only way to deal with force. I believe sometimes if you fight force in kind you only make it grow. Unfortunately we may both be right or wrong – in our world there is no way to test it.”

  Tirielle pondered this for a moment. “Perhaps sometimes you have to offset the bad against the greater good.”

  “But then we excuse evil, justify evil in the name of good.”

  “But who’s to say murder is evil? Sometime it is unavoidable.”

  “I have found that. But I wish with all my heart that it were not true.”

  Both fell to silence until Tirielle spoke. “Does j’ark always fight alone?”

  “No, but he is our…ambassador.” At this Quintal allowed himself a bemused chuckle.

  “Seems silly to choose an ambassador if you are worried about his morals,” said Tirielle. ”Well, ambassador or not, maybe you should think about giving him a rest? If it is always his responsibility to be first into battle, did you not think it would change him, that the blood would sway him as it does others?”

  Quintal pondered this for a moment. “It is a wise suggestion, Tirielle, and I thank you for it. Unfortunately, j’ark’s role is that of ambassador and ambassador he will stay.”

  “But why? I mean, if he’s not very good at it?”

  “Because it is the job he least wants to do.”