Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  They drank in careful conversation for the best part of an hour.

  Wen was the first to rise, leaving to relieve himself in the back. Drun nudged Renir’s arm as the big warrior glided effortlessly through the growing throng.

  “You think as I think? That he is mad?”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one. His eyes scream while he sits calmly. I do not trust him, Drun.”

  “He thinks he is mad, too. But I do not think that is the case.”

  “I’m not so sure. If not mad, then what is he?”

  “Unhappy. Sad people convince themselves they’re ill, or insane. It’s easier to accept and deal with. Wen would like to think he’s dead, but really he’d just like to be. It is a common ailment of those riddled by guilt.”

  “You mean he’s suicidal,” said Renir.

  “Probably, but he’s so accustomed to surviving his body won’t let him die,” said Shorn, overhearing them.

  “You seem to be comfortable with him, Shorn, considering he tried to kill you.”

  “But he didn’t. We’ll never be friends, but we have both changed. When we met again, we fought, but I think it was more out of duty than true anger. He feels he should speak for the dead, that his own slain urge him to make amends for his early life. You would be strange, too, if the dead rode your shoulder.”

  Renir thought about this for a moment.

  “Do the dead follow a warrior?”

  “I don’t know, Renir. I have never seen the souls of the dead rise. They go beyond Madal’s Gates – there is no return.”

  “But Wen sees differently?”

  “So he says. Even when he was teaching me, for many years, he saw the dead. His addiction to the seer’s grass is a new thing. I did not get to ask him much on the topic since our meeting. He is often reluctant to talk of the dead, but if you catch him in the right mood he will talk for hours. I have yet to catch him in the right mood.”

  “He seems sad,” said Drun.

  Shorn nodded. “Even I know that. He was sad when I first met him, and time has not diminished his sorrow. It is a tale I will let him tell you.”

  “As it should be.” Drun spied Wen emerging from the toilet. “Perhaps, on our journey, he will find peace.”

  “I think, perhaps, that Wen was never destined to know peace. He knows tortures of the mind too well. I fear they will follow him to the grave.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Shorn,” said Drun with a gentle smile. “Peace can be found in the strangest of places.”

  “Well, as strange places go, wait until you see the Seafarer’s boats. Perhaps when we are aboard, Wen will remember himself as he was then, and move on.”

  “I for one,” said Bourninund, tearing his gaze from the large barmaid, “am looking forward to a trip by sea. I envy you, Shorn. I have never been to sea.”

  “Envy is for fools, old friend. You wouldn’t envy me if you knew how long I’d spent at sea.”

  “How long?” asked Renir.

  “Seven years. Almost my entire childhood. I was sixteen before I found land again.”

  “Seven years with Wen?”

  “Every day. Day in, day out, the roll of the sea and the clatter of blades.”

  “Must have been boring.”

  Shorn laughed. “Oh, you’ll see. There’s plenty of places to roam on a Seafarer’s ship.”

  “There can’t be that many,” said Bourninund.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Wen made it through the swathe of drinkers and sat back down, the seat creaking underneath him, to find a full mug of pale ale before him.

  He drank it thoughtfully.

  Renir watched him through his eyebrows, and stroked ale from his moustache. The journey was about to get interesting.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The darkness of the tunnel was strangely deceptive. It seemed, on the face of it, absolutely. To a human eye, it would be. But to a rahken, darkness was just a different kind of light.

  Feloth ran as swiftly as it was able. He was a mere messenger, but he was as gifted as any young rahken. It saw much, and where darkness was at its heaviest, it used scent to guide its path.

  The message was too important to dally.

  It ran on, onto the fifth of the caverns it was to visit. Since the battle at their ancient home, home once to Roth, and its parents, messengers had been sent to every corner of Lianthre, warning the rahken nation of the war to come. They would be prepared, and Feloth would not fail in its duty.

  It knew nothing of the geas. That knowledge was reserved for the elders. But it knew of duty, and love. It had love for Fenore and Ludec, Roth’s parents, the elders of its home. The ancient pact with the wizard, the red wizard, whose name is lost to the ages, but perhaps not to the rahkens, would remain a secret until the end.

  But a war could not be fought in secret.

  The rahkens would rise.

  Kull, Baanth and Ulrioth ran the eastern, western and northern passageways. Feloth ran the south. So far, there had been few obstacles of import, some cavern dwellers to be dealt with, and twice falls in the passages that necessitated overland detours. But the rahken messenger had not been detected.

  In the meantime, the rahken had discovered that the Protectorate had not moved against the nation while they remained in their caverns. How long that would last, Feloth did not know. But no rahken would die surprised. Soon, they would all be ready.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Renir awoke with a thumping head in the room he shared with the Bear.

  “Bear, are you up?”

  “I am now,” grumbled Bourninund, who sat up with a growl. “My head’s throbbing. How’d I do last night?”

  “Fine, apart from viciously attacking the barmaid.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember? You tried to drag her back her with you, and she clubbed you on the head. We had to carry you back. You were out cold.”

  “I thought my head ached too much for mere ale.”

  “Well, what do you expect?”

  “Hmph. You’d think a fat girl’d be grateful.”

  “Well, Bear, live and learn. Anyway, time we were off.”

  They all met for to break their fast with fruit and cheese.

  Renir was grateful he only had to ride Thud this morning. Practice was out of the question. His head felt like someone had tarred and feathered the inside. Bourninund had told him once that the practice was for the action – to have the tool at hand when the time comes, but also to take away thought. He said that when action was called for thought could sometimes get a man killed.

  ‘When you are better you will think before action. The best, like Shorn, can move so fast, so naturally, they have the spare time for thought. They move outside of time…’

  Renir wished the same were true for drinking.

  With a sigh, he looked to his companions. They all looked weary, and three of them were at least three times his age.

  A motley band to be saving Rythe, but, he thought ruefully, they were all they had.

  As one, they mounted, and rode slowly to the northern gate. Renir bid the city farewell, and hoped he would return once again.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The village was barely worth stopping at, but the men needed provisions, and one final night of rest before the journey further north, into the freezing winds of the Elsin peninsular. There was an Inn, a few houses and a smattering of boats on the shore, beached shells that looked like walrus carcasses in the distance. The homes were like the huts of Renir’s village, rounded and built of wood and daub. Renir thought for a moment of his home to the south. To come this far north and find that things were much the same – it was like looking in a mirror. But where in the south the summer months would make sweat drip from a man’s brow, even were he sleeping still in the dead of night, here, in summer, it was freezing. The wind blew with a vengeance from the mountains and the se
a seemingly at the same time, mixing together cold and damp. Here, under the frosty gaze of Thaxamalan, the suns held no heat. They served only to light the snow-capped peaks. A million shards of light blinded the eye, eyes which at the same time were watering from the freezing wind.

  Renir wished he had a woollen hat, like he saw the fishermen wearing, or their fingerless mittens. His own cloak afforded scant protection from the elements. Without thicker clothes he and his friends would not survive past Thaxamalan’s Saw. They might not even survive the trip through the frigid northern seas.

  Still, he thought, soon he would be out of the biting wind. Dow slid over the horizon in the west (the Culthorn mountains were but a memory here – they were mere hills compared to the might of the Saw. No other mountains could exist in their sight), but no moons rose to take their place. It was mid month, the first night of a week of moonless nights. The tide was low. Being a fisherman Renir knew the catch would be sparse this week. He had never been a great fisherman, but even he knew not to waste time on the seas on the moonless weeks. The fish would be sluggish and low in the ocean.

  The fishermen he saw in the distance were finishing for the day. No doubt tending their nets. Renir could barely imagine what kind of man would row these freezing seas. Surely, were one to fall overboard, they would turn to ice as soon as they hit the water.

  As night fell, in its slow, graceful way, it seemed that against all possibility it was actually getting colder. He pulled open the door to the Grumbling Sprout, after stabling his horse with Harlot (Wen’s horse was named Warlock, and had a temperament to match his master’s. He was stabled on his own, and the stable hand refused to go near him after receiving a nasty nip to the shoulder) and Drun and Bourninund’s horses, who refused to name their animals. The horse would be able to take the cold. Renir wasn’t sure he could.

  He stepped inside, and growled to himself to find within the Grumbling Sprout, the town’s strangely named Inn, it was almost as cold as it was outside. The wind sliced through the wooden walls and taunted the fire glowing in the hearth.

  He took a seat with the others, and ordered drinks. He grumbled some more, and thought the place aptly named. There was no ale. They were reduced to drinking a local brew (brewed, perhaps, from sprouts). It was potent enough. After a few tiny glasses of the drink Renir felt some welcome warmth seeping into his bones. Each sip burnt the gullet, like a ball of fire slipping down a man’s throat.

  People adapted to their situation, Renir thought in a brief moment of clarity brought on by a spiteful draft on his spine. He took another sip of the liquid, and put his small glass down carefully.

  The proprietor smiled in a friendly way to the men as he laid their food on the table. Renir thought anyone that smiled that way as they put foul smelling fish stew on the table could be up to no good. He prodded the soup suspiciously. It was no doubt something the locals saved for weary travellers, so they could all have a good laugh at the fools eating slops they wouldn’t give to a pig. Renir pushed the bowl away. As he did so a blank eyed fish head floated to the surface.

  He put his spoon down careful, and slid the bowl toward Bourninund. The bear nodded his gratitude and pulled Renir’s bowl closer to his. The old mercenary was slurping happily at his stew. Shorn and Drun were eating theirs too. Renir looked up.

  He was not surprised to see the owner of the inn looking at them with that suspicious smile on his face.

  “It’s strange, don’t you think, how people adapt to their situations?” he said, gulping down the remainder of his drink and holding up a hand for another. “In the south we drink ale all year round, and even in the snows of winter it’s not cold enough to drink a brew such as this. Yet here in the north, where the wind is more evil than I could imagine, they have invented a drink to negate the ill effects of the weather.”

  Bourninund grunted around a fish tail which was protruding from between his lips. He sucked the flesh from the bones, and spat the rest back into his bowl. “Keep your divagations to a minimum, Renir. Us old men tend toward befuddlement.”

  Renir, feeling quite drunk already, said, “I don’t know what divigilation’s are, but it’s a potent brew.”

  “It certainly is, and we should take it easy now, and head to bed. We must be off early in the morning. We’ve many miles to make up yet,” said Shorn, who together with Drun was taking only sips of the drink between mouthfuls of the noxious smelling stew.

  “I think I’ll take that advice,” agreed Drun. “I’ll see you at sun rise.” With a nod to his companions, he finished his drink and headed toward the rooms.

  Renir watched him go. “I suppose it’s the early bird that goes to bed early.”

  “Sounds almost philosophical, Renir.”

  ”Is this cup half full?” asked Renir in reply. “Anyway, I don’t know anything of philosophy. It seems to me it’s the province of the old, and books.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Bourninund. “In my experience I’ve found no better place for philosophy than taverns.”

  “I’m going to sleep,” Shorn said, and rose. “I don’t like to be an old maid, but you three would do well to get some rest, too.”

  “Yes, mam,” said Renir and Bourninund as one. Shorn scowled and went ahead.

  “He’s right. A man needs his sleep to think straight.”

  “Well, to bed then,” said Renir, with a little regret. He was enjoying his drink. He downed the rest, wincing slightly despite the pleasantness of the heat. Between them they had finished off twenty glasses. He thought twenty was about right. He counted what he could see, then halved it.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shorn was already deep asleep as Wen entered from the stables. Even here, in the north, Wen wore no shoes. His feet were so scarred and calloused they were practically their own boot. He made no noise on the wooden floorboards. He reached his bed, and felt something…amiss. It was enough. In his long life he had found out that the slightest inkling of danger should be heeded. He had lived so long because he was talented, and gifted with immense speed and strength, but also because he listened to his senses.

  He was still alert, even after a hard day. Instead of drinking with the others, he had taken the time to wander around the village. It always paid to be sure of a way out. He took care of every eventuality. He was surprised. Shorn should have taken better care. From what he could smell on Shorn’s breath, his student had been drinking heavy liquor, enough to put him into a stupor.

  There was danger on the air, and Shorn was insensible. Wen took a moment to wonder if the others were similarly laid out, fully clothed on their beds, their heads spinning in their sleep.

  Wen put the thought aside. There was nothing he could do about the rest. Deal with the enemy in front of you first.

  He closed his eyes.

  The wind blew fiercely outside, and he could not trust his hearing. It was a moonless night. There was no light to discern that anything was wrong. But he had lived a lifetime of violence. He could feel it, feel the swell that preceded the tidal wave, the subtle signs a man could read, if he had the talent and the experience.

  It was an out of place kind of feeling. Shorn slept soundly. Usually his student was as in tune with the ebb and flow of danger as the master, but perhaps the liquor had dulled his senses.

  Without seeming to move, Wen melted back toward the wall, and in the scant light almost disappeared. He stood so still that even if someone had been looking directly at him, they would have only thought it was a strangely lumpy bit of plastering. Had the observer had a candle, the light would have flickered and split around him.

  Wen had lived in the shadow for so long, the darkness had seeped into the old master. He had many tricks, some learned, some absorbed. Since learning his trade on his home continent, and following his expulsion, he had made use of his life, hunting killers, meting out his own brand of justice. His time pitting himself against the merciless (often cowards, but just as often men of rare crue
lty and talent) had granted him some special skills. He had needed them over the years. Any edge granted against some of the gifted warriors he had slain was welcome.

  Shadowed, perfectly still against the wall, Wen waited, only a hint of mist to give him away where his breath frosted in the air.

  It did not take long. The door creaked open slowly. Wen opened his eyes. A man stepped into the darkness. Wen’s eyes were accustomed to the murk, but could see beyond mere mortal sight. The man wore an apron, stained with food and sweat at the armpits. He could see it was the proprietor of the Grumbling Sprout. But there was something wrong. He was no man. To the trained eye, there was the shimmering of a glamour about the smiling face. In this light the smile was cold. It takes the dark sometimes to see what really was.

  Then, before Wen’s extraordinary eyes, something remarkable happened. The glamour passed, whatever spell had granted the illusion fading. The man became taller, his clothing changing to the black of the assassin. His hair lengthened. His face became narrow, with a hooked nose, and an inhumanly pale face. Pure magic, in some ways a learned trick, like Wen’s tricks, but for one subtle difference. Wen’s ability was talent. This was magic.

  Wen waited to see what would happen next. Shorn’s sword sung from within its scabbard. But Shorn did not wake.

  Wen waited for the perfect moment. The owner of the tavern drew a short blade from his belt, and advanced toward Shorn.

  His attention turned, expecting no threat, the man let out a startled cry as Wen’s bare foot connected with his knee. But instead of crumpling to the floor with a broken knee, as Wen had intended, the assassin turned and slashed with the blade. Wen took no chances. He smashed the edge of one rock hard hand into the assassin’s throat, blocking the assassin’s knife arm with his free hand.

  This time the man fell to the floor. Still, Shorn did not stir. As Wen struck a match and lit a candle on the table between his and Shorn’s beds, Wen swore softly. The man’s face looked far from human in the flickering light.