AWAKE!
Deep underground, catacombed in blind, deaf, life, the revenant stirred.
Syzergy can never exist in legends. The weight of time ensures it.
*
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Four horses mounted with marred men waited before Pulhuth’s massive gates.
The city spread for miles to the left and right. The gates were incongruous – there were no walls. The town’s defence was the town. Houses made a wall themselves. The outer streets all ended in more houses – while the inhabitants could enter their homes and look out onto the marshes that surrounded Pulhuth they could not enter from the outside. Tiny windows faced outward from the stone buildings, strong enough to withstand siege from ordinary weapons. Shorn knew this town had never been assailed by magic – but then, in the years since the last Draymar wars, there had been no wizards.
The wealthy lived with their outside views in their comfortable stone town houses. The poor took their revenge inside.
Nobody had thought to widen the roads. Each house on the inside was made of wood and there seemed to be no central authority here to make people respect other’s rights of way – afterthoughts jutted at odd angles from many of the houses, giving the appearance of a child’s bedroom, or a beaver’s dam. What they were trying to keep out Shorn could only imagine – strangers, he guessed, from the glares of some of the older home owners. They came out of their ramshackle houses for no other purpose, it seemed, than to contrive to make the roads even narrower. The rich seemed to breed well enough for the stone houses surrounding the town – the poor seemed to breed more readily (or perhaps the breeding made them poor? Just look at all those hungry mouths…) and as a result they were crammed into every available space.
As they rode past old women in diaphanous circling skirts and fat men on ponies Renir constantly turned this way and that, excusing himself to each and every person he and Thud caught with a knee or a flank. Few took exception with him though – for some reason each time he spoke he said ‘excuse us’, for him and his horse, which seemed to confuse people enough for him to get by.
Renir turned back to Shorn and continued his tale.
“Anyways, as I was saying (excuse us)…”
Shorn saw him momentarily distracted again and continued for him.
“Bones bleached, grass growing through them?”
“Yes, that was it. Anyway, after the battle the whole of Sturma was in disarray. Unlike the other lands that you have spoken of, we have no king. To get the whole of Sturma to fight in itself would be a miracle. Back then Gek Fathand brought the people together out of fear. Today, there is no one I know of who has that kind of power. I don’t think you can be a leader at war unless you have fat hands.” Renir looked at Shorn’s hands. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Shorn looked down at his own hands, right one resting on his thigh, close to the hilt of his sword, which hung down at the back by his right hip. He looked back up to Renir. “That’s your theory, eh?”
“Maybe. Either that, or some other outstanding feature. You know, like flaming red hair, or an arm brace…yes, that might do.”
“What, Shorn of the Bracers? Or Shorn the Cripple?”
“No, no!” said Renir hastily. “That’s not what I meant at all! I just mean I think you have to have some kind of defining feature to be a war hero, or a king. You know, it’s never Renir Esyn, King, it would be, I don’t know, Renir the Weak Axe…”
“It’s not the axe that’s weak.”
“Yes, well, thank you. Anyway, that’s all I was saying.”
The central market spread out in front of them. The reek distracted them all from the deafening noise of impatiently haggling and sharp arguments.
They had thankfully avoided the worst of the Draymar invasion on the way in, but the crazed hubbub of shoppers reminded Renir what battle had felt like. For a moment he felt strangely nostalgic. Bourninund broke him from his thoughts.
“We should find somewhere to stay before we do anything else.”
Shorn looked at Drun, who was regarding him with a raised eyebrow. Shorn nodded his understanding. “Bourninund, we need somewhere with space. Somewhere private that won’t ask questions. We may be a while, and there may be the occasional swordfight…I think it’s time for Renir to learn how to use that monstrosity he carries around on his back.
“Hey! I thought I did pretty well!”
“Yes, you did…” as Shorn said this, his fist lashed out and caught Renir on the temple. Renir fell with a smack into the mud on the floor. “But not well enough. If you’re to travel any further with you must be able to pull your own weight.”
Renir pushed himself up and dusted himself off, suspiciously sniffing something on his elbow. “Can you never just make a point, man!”
“That was my point,” replied Shorn.
“And well made, I thought.” Bourninund added airily.
“I think we should get off the street – it seems we’ve already made enough of a spectacle.” Drun looked around him at the faces all staring. “Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t draw any more attention to ourselves? I do not know how far our enemies reach but I fear nowhere is safe for us.”
“Then out of the way it is.” Bourninund tutted his horse around. “This way. There’s a tavern on the southern outskirts. I know the barmaid.” The old man looked misty. “She’s the heart of discretion. For the right price.”
“That’s what I’ll call it,” said Renir, wistfully.
“Eh?”
“My axe. Haertjuge. The Heart of Discretion.”
Shorn nodded approvingly. “It is a good name.”
*
Chapter Ninety
The man was amazing. He was quite old, according to Shorn, but here they were – their second stop since arriving – and Bourninund was in a whore house. Renir called it a whore house, Bourninund said it was no sin; the women provided a valuable service, which was why they were handsomely paid for it. Be polite, he told him – if it were a crime then the person who paid should be punished and called names.
Ordinary men watch the puppets, he told him. Clever men watch the strings.
The enlightened watch the puppeteer.
Renir sat with his foot tapping impatiently as the old man performed, until he got tired with the company (some young lady, undoubtedly pretty in a country sort of way – what else am I used to, thought Renir). Initially he had been flattered that the girl had come to keep him company while he waited for Bourninund (gods, the man took an age!) until he realised the girl was just after some work. Renir had no qualms about paying but hadn’t brought any money with him. And the girl was just so phenomenally dull.
Drun and Shorn waited in the tavern, where they had taken a room and the whole barn. The barmaid, as Bourninund had said, was more than accommodating. The woman was older than Renir had imagined from Bourninund’s description and sported a beautiful gap-toothed grin peeking out from large rosy cheeks. The old woman (old, laughed Renir, the woman was probably no more than fifty. She’d just aged badly from the look of her) was delightful though. Renir thought she would jiggle herself to death when she had seen Bourninund.
Renir got up and bashed on a few doors, calling for his new companion. And charge, it seemed tonight. After several gruff replies and a couple of death threats Renir got the reply he was waiting for.
“Renir? Damn it, man, I’m busy!”
“What are you doing? You’ve been ages!”
“Ploughing a furrow! What do you think I’m doing, you dolt?!”
“Well, hurry up! No field takes that long to plough.”
“Maybe not if you’re planting sprouts! Get lost!”
He had time to return to his seat and tap his feet a couple of times before the door crashed open down the hall and an extremely dissatisfied lady emerged, buttoning a rather large blouse. Bourninund emerged a moment later, buckling his two short swords.
“Thank your lucky stars I finished, boy.” Bourninund told hi
m as he approached.
“I understand fully,” chuckled Renir as the old mercenary walked toward him. “That field,” he said at the slowly departing back of the woman, “must’ve taken ages to seed.”
Bourninund scowled. “You youngsters know nothing. If you knew how long it takes a man my age to rouse an interest you’d not go interrupting lightly. Anyway,” he added, giving a forlorn sigh as he watched the departing behemoth, “nothing wrong with a big lass.”
“Well, you got your money’s worth.”
“That I did,” nodded Bourninund as they made for the door.
“In more ways than one,” Renir finished, quietly.
“Come on, let’s get the others. I know Shorn will enjoy the little delights I have planned for this evening.”
Gods, the man had stamina. Renir hadn’t even performed and all he wanted to do was go to bed.
*
Chapter Ninety-One
The four men did not look out of place wearing their best torn shirts in the warm night, late dusk unseen behind a wall of houses. The town lamps burned early on Rampton Street, the sporadic lights giving the streets a hilly aspect.
A bald and massive man put out a fist in greeting at the door to the establishment. “Weapons.”
Shorn lent forward, into the man’s face. “Really?”
The big man, a fat-lipped grin on his huge face, knocked on the door. It opened and there was a door-sized mongrel, limp hair hanging over its immortal hide. On two hind legs it sat. Magic whirred between two yellowed nodes on its breast. It had been headless from birth.
“Yes, really,” the doorman replied with a smirk.
Bourninund, Shorn, and Renir left their weapons at the door as bid, and entered Rean’s Player Emporium.
The smoke hit them as soon as they entered. Bourninund fingered a thick scar on his cheek and looked around the room, taking in the patrons, the atmosphere, and some of the thick smoke. The town outside, prim and intrusive with its stares and strange faces, was held back at the door. In the face of the unnatural scrutiny the whole of the foreign population seemed to have been pushed underground and out of sight. The citizen’s worst fears would come true were they ever to wander into this side street.
The tavern had been Bourninund’s idea.
Drun left them at their corner table, by a back door, and ordered. Bourninund supposed he should make some attempt at conversation.
“So, Renir, when did you first decide to become a mercenary?”
“I haven’t become a mercenary, I think I’m more sort of tagging along. Anyway, I have an aversion to work.”
“Sounds painful.”
“It is. Very,” agreed Renir.
“Well, if you’re not a mercenary then, when did you start to fight for money?”
Shorn hunffed.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He pulled out a bench and sat. Bottom shaped grooves were worn into the wood.
“I don’t fight for money.” Renir looked worried. “I suppose I should really. But who’d pay me?”
Bourninund sat beside Shorn, Renir opposite. “So when did you decide to fight for money?” asked Renir.
“When I was younger. How else do you eat?”
Drun returned and caught the tail-end of the conversation. Mercenaries were often held in disdain because they fought for money – not for reasons of the soul. But, a necessary evil perhaps? Bourninund caught Drun examining him.
“Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong with fighting for money? Anyway, how else would you get money if you don’t work for it?”
“I don’t know. Work is wrong. And perhaps the reasons you fight for are wrong. Perhaps because it’s all slavery. Being so low robs you of your humanity, robs you of your compassion. You worry more about having no work – whatever that may be – or having no money, than about those people around you. It robs you of your soul.”
Shorn shrugged. “So?”
“Yeah, but everyone needs to eat. Everyone needs money,” said Bourninund.
“So you’re working for money? Have you never thought to ask who money is?” Drun sat down.
“Maybe the sin belongs to the one who pays, Drun, not Bourninund.” Renir winked at Bourninund.
‘The person who pays never pays’, Bourninund nodded to Renir, smiling.
“Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Drun. It’s your turn,” said Shorn.
“My turn?! But I’ve just been!”
“That’s beside the point. Oldest buys first.”
Drun appraised Bourninund suspiciously but decided to leave it. “Fine, fine. Lend me some more money, then.”
Shorn saw his chance while Drun was passing round four mugs of smoking beer. Fumes drifted heavily around the group. Patrons smoked and drank, chattered inanely, danced and caressed in dark alcoves.
“Bourninund, would you do me a favour? I have to go away. These two won’t understand. Promise me you’ll take Renir in hand and continue his training. Drun will try to find me but you must dissuade him…”
“What? What are you talking about?” Bourninund spoke loudly over some repetitive strings playing on a raised section of flooring in the centre, with the bar between the instruments and patrons surrounding the player like a last stand. Smart move, thought Bourninund. Nevertheless, by the time the patrons had reached the bar they tended to forget thoughts of throttling the player. Bourninund had been here many times before. He knew the vapours would have an effect long before the urge to strangle the musician grew irresistible. By the time the vapours were gone he would be swaying just like the others.
The player flicked a wave of sound with his head as his dance grew. Each time the rhythm reacted, a new instrument merged with the sounds and what had begun as an insistent murmur became a rippling eddy of chest-thumping majesty in the fore. Strings faded behind it in hushed awe and his shoulders began to move in time with the player’s left hand.
The player moved as the vapours and smokes swirled around his dancing body, each movement coaxing shy and harsh rhythms into time with each other.
Shorn nudged him, hard. “Not yet! Come on, focus for a minute.” Drun and Renir were slack-jawed and swaying, too. A young woman passed and Renir’s head followed her pendulantly as she went.
“I need you to look after Renir while I’m gone.”
“You’re going?” Bourninund took a sip of his drink, the vapours now gone, savouring the bittersweet Orman mead, then wiping the bubbling froth away with a worn, filthy, hand.
“Yes!”
“What?”
Shorn gave up. They would cope without him. Drun would no longer hide him from the Protectorate’s gaze when he left, but his sword would protect him, as it always had.
He shook his head to himself and joined them, inhaling deeply through his nose just as the player finished his turn and returned to his seat. Another patron rose to take his go. The pre-play influx of new patrons came in – the doors were closed when a player entered the square.
It looked to the casual observer as if all the patrons were magical – anyone who stayed long enough and was straight enough in all the fumes would quickly realise it was the square that was enchanted – it played the players’ moves. The players tended to be languid, the music soothing and surreal. The smoke blew into the centre square. The square became heavier with smoke the later the evening progressed. And so the music slowed.
While they waited for Bourninund to return with some smoke wheels and drinks Renir looked around. He was nodding his head in agreement with Drun as the old man carried on explaining some perceived theory. At every word he was sure of the next, sure he had heard it before.
“Going back to the looking beyond, perceiving everything…how many times have you seen someone try to open a door the wrong way? All it would take is a look at the door jamb, yet…”
He was able to see through his eyelids. Ladies’ perfume and the sweet array of aromas all around him were confusing him.
/> “When you improve, you will learn to look behind, Renir. It’s all a matter of perception.”
He felt some sense of Shorn staring at him as he heard himself reply. “Behind?”
“Yes, the past. Only then will you understand.”
The bar was different to what Renir was used to. All manner of entertainments were available – nubile women upstairs (or men), drinks and vapours and smoke. They all took mead, but there was no escaping the mixtures of colours and breezes layered in the dark light. The smoke filled the gaps and snaked through the weave on the wall hangings (they did little to keep out the evening chill coming fast through the crack in the stone walls), but even the harsh slicing drafts felt good and clean against the skin.
The smoke blew away from Shorn and he breathed out loudly. He thought he carried on, but began speaking. “He was my master – we had a – falling out. It was my first scar, my first real battle. He left me for dead. I didn’t know what to do with it. I pulled out the broken bone shards and stitched it back together myself.”
Renir stopped his musings and all of his altered senses focused on Shorn, each pore, his odour, the rough skin. A light, too, surrounding him. He looked at the other patrons – they all had it. He laughed at himself as he looked at Shorn, forcing himself to focus as the man spoke. Drun waved a hand in the air at nothing in particular.
Shorn’s wore a faraway look. That was the first time he’d bled in anger. Since that moment he had forgotten everything the old master had taught him. Were his teachings so wrong that he could justify running away from the light for his whole life? He looked over at Drun, sipping his mead. Drun, in turn, looked over the tavern. Smoke from a pipe at the table behind was making him heady. His eyes were sticky and he blinked. He nodded to Bourninund. Bourninund nodded back and placed new distractions on the table.
“What?” said Renir.
“You asked me where I got the scar.”
Renir looked like a tired man – tar pit eyes. He still cried out in his sleep, but when he awoke, he would always struggle through exercises, working himself every morning. Shorn always trained late, Renir always in the morning. It seemed to help focus Renir’s mind in the waking world. He put his mug down and lent his head against both arms on the table.
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 37