He was a Protocrat.
Wen ran to the other rooms to check everyone, but they were sleeping comfortably. The prickle of danger he had felt earlier was gone. He relaxed, and tried to shake the men awake.
Not one of them stirred.
No doubt a drugged sleep, he thought. Something in the drink. Their breath all smelled rank, and he did not recognise the poison. There was nothing he could do about that. With any luck, they would wake with no ill effects but a sore head in the morning. They were safe for the time being.
One by one, Wen carried them into one room, and stood guard for the remainder of the night.
He did not expect more than one assassin – it was the way of most assassins to work alone. But this was the work of the Protectorate. It did not pay to be careless, or make assumptions, when dealing with an inhuman race. One could not presume to know such an alien mind.
He prodded the inert body on the floor, just to make sure it was dead, and sat with his back against the wall. He studied it for a moment, searching the body. The blade was tipped with some purple fluid – they liked to make sure. Wen did not understand why they did not come in force, but snuck about in the dead of night. Surely there were enough of them to come in force. He knew as well as Shorn that they could travel on the air, that they could send an army in an instant.
He found no clues on the body of the assassin. There was a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, which was unusual, but the mark, of a scroll, did not help at all. He did not know what it signified, and what he did not understand he did not waste time chasing.
He slid the dagger safely under one of the beds – he would dispose of it in the morning.
Then, tiredness creeping up on him, he tried to find a comfortable position against the wall. It was hard, and cold.
Four drugged men’s snoring filled the air.
It would be a long night.
*
Chapter Twenty-Six
In the morning Renir was deeply, unpleasantly, surprised to wake and find Wen’s unsightly face peering down at him.
He started and scuttled back, to find that he was sleeping on the floor. He looked around and found the others looking down at him.
“Glad you’re awake, Renir. Feel rested?”
Renir took a moment to take stock. His feet were frozen – he had taken his boots off to go to sleep. His mouth felt like someone else had vomited in it. It was not a pleasant feeling. Then his head began to pound like he had the worst hangover in the history of drinking. Spikes of pain drove into his head, and he found that he was dribbling. He groaned and lay back on the floor.
“No,” said Renir, turning his pounding head to look at the rest his friends, and the alien body on the floor by his feet, “my head feels like an arena full of blood.”
“You were drugged. This,” Wen said, kicking the body with a calloused toe, “was to be our murderer.”
“What happened?”
“I can only surmise that your drink was poisoned. I didn’t drink or eat. Luckily, I came back in time. But it is irrelevant. If the Protectorate can find us here, there is no more time to dally. We ride now.”
Renir nodded. He pushed himself to his feet. He waited for the nausea to pass, then kicked the Bear in the ribs.
After some explaining, and a few shaky starts, they packed and made their way to the bar. There were a couple of fishermen milling about, expecting their breakfast. They all looked slightly bemused, waiting for the owner to turn up.
None of the men thought to tell them he was no doubt already dead, probably dumped in his own cellar.
They strode outside, loaded up their horses, and were on their way before Dow breached the sea. When they were well clear of the village, Renir leant over Thud’s side and vomited heartily.
“I don’t suppose there’s time for breakfast?” said Bourninund with a grin. “We’ve got some green cheese left, and a hunk of greener bread…”
Renir spat the taste clear of his mouth. “I’d rather kiss you.”
“Not with that mouth, thanks,” Bourninund replied.
“I think we’ll all get along better on this journey if you two avoid the temptation to become romantically inclined,” said Drun.
Shorn and Wen laughed together.
Renir grumbled the rest of the day, but, he thought, if Wen could laugh, perhaps there was hope for him yet.
*
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The horses thundered north for the best part of a week.
They camped only at night, and did not break for midday. There was little by the way of forage. It was mainly plains, so they ate a few rare mushrooms and even risked some mouldy bread. Renir wasn’t used to such hardships, and his stomach protested vociferously most of the next day. The others had, evidently, eaten worse before.
They all felt the urgency of their quest again. Only when the reached the Seafarer’s boats would they be safe from the Protectorate, and then, only for a brief time. Any respite from the hunt was welcome.
How the assassin had found them when Drun was there to shield them was a mystery that for the time being would have to remain unsolved. They fled as fast as they could. Each man’s horse was fresh. They made good time. Renir’s behind was even getting used to the riding. He had been sore for a couple of days, but his body could take most hardships now. It was the haunting, he knew, but apparently it didn’t protect his insides, only healed wounds. His stomach felt tender all the time.
His axe bumped against his back as he rode. Bourninund drew up beside him. He brought out a handful of seeds and, amazingly, some jerked meat.
“Want some?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course I do!” replied Renir. Then, suspicion dawning, he added, “If you had food, why did we eat that bread?”
“You wouldn’t have eaten it if I’d given you these first, would you?”
“Brindle’s goat, man, I was sick for a day afterwards!”
“Good for you, old bread,” said Bourninund with a sly smile. “Clears you out.”
He handed some seeds to Renir, who took them without thanks. “I’ll remember that next time you’re hungry.”
“Don’t be sore. We all ate the bread. It just takes some getting used to, travelling rations.”
Wen drew aside, reining in his horse.
“Couldn’t help but overhear. Never mind, though. There will be food aplenty where we’re going.”
“I hope so,” said Renir.
“I’ve had worse, anyway. Eventually, you’ll eat anything.”
“I’ll leave you two to it. Here, have some seeds.”
Wen took a handful with his thanks, and Renir geed Thud into a trot.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the two men rode side by side. Renir struggled to say something to fill the quiet. He thought Wen probably wasn’t as worried about it as he was.
Eventually, after some miles had passed, Renir gave in.
“What’s your story then?”
Wen grunted. “I sense morality within you boy, but yours is not yet…advanced enough to deal with my tale. We’ll save it for another day, eh?”
“Shorn says you smoke the Seer’s grass.”
Wen looked at Renir through a grey eyebrow. “Does he now? And what is it to you?”
“Will you smoke for the Protocrat?”
“Aye, I will. As I always do.”
Renir’s wisdom was different to the usual kind. His was more the kind that children possess.
“What happens when you smoke?”
Wen sighed. “You’re a straightforward man, at least, Renir. I’ll give you that much.”
”Well, I thank you, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Very well,” said Wen. “Whenever I kill someone, I smoke the Seer’s grass. I commune with their soul. Trust me when I say I’ve never had a good trip. My victims are never happy to see me.”
“Why would you do that?” said Renir. He thought about what to say next, bu
t in the end just said what he wanted to anyway. “If you see dead people all the time, doesn’t that make you just a little, well, insane?”
“One day, perhaps, you can coax me back to sanity,” said Wen. Seeing Renir’s surprise at this statement, Wen laughed.
“Ah, look at you all – too frightened to say so – you all suspect my mind is ailing, but you’re all too proud,” at this he looked at Drun’s back, “he’s too polite or too wary to say so. So I’ll say it for you. I border the gates every day. But I’m not yet too far gone. I may be insane, but it’s out of choice, so I’ll ask you not to judge me for it. We all have our own brand of insanity, do we not?”
Renir decided it was time to practise ‘magnanimous’, which he had once read about in a book. “You’re right, of course. Which of us can truly say we are not a little touched? Forgive me, Wen. I have judged you harshly.”
Wen acknowledged this with a dip of his head. “You do yourself justice, Renir.”
Renir smiled a little. He felt they had achieved an understanding. The rest of his friends had probably already got there, but Renir was not a priest, or a warrior. Perhaps, for such a simple man, his trust came at a higher price.
*
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Klan Mard blew smoke away from the fire. The smoke swirled lazily on the white air, curling branches fleeing a burning tree. The rare rock below the unnatural fire glowed harshly within the white fields of Teryithyr. Slowly, Klan reached into the fire and retrieved a burning coal, brought across the seas with his men from the mines at Kulthor. He watched in quiet fascination as his flesh charred around the coal. The light from the fire and his own bright red eyes lit the night, but Pernant Noom could see no pain on his master’s terrible face. He stood to attention still, even though the Anamnesor’s mind was elsewhere.
It wasn’t unheard of for Klan Mard’s mind to be in two places at once.
The coal rose from Klan’s hand to float, gently rotating, in the air. He pulled his hand from underneath it. It stayed where it was. Noom watched with his jaw hanging open as Klan licked his burnt palm, and held it up for Noom to see. The smile of pleasure on Klan’s face was more terrible than the fact that the wound was healed.
Noom swallowed.
“The Seer’s grass, Pernant,” ordered Klan, holding out his undamaged hand.
Pernant Noom took the expensive drug from his belt pouch and passed it to Klan, who took it in his long fingers.
He placed the roll on the coal, balancing it carefully, although why he took such care Noom could not understand. Surely, if he set his remarkable mind to it, his master could balance a centrine on the point of a pin.
Thicker smoke rose from the burning roll, and Klan cupped the smoke, brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. Noom had never seen the Seer’s grass smoked before, but he imagined he saw Klan’s pupils turn upward within their sockets. It was difficult to tell – Klan’s eyes were red from pupil to whites, like orbs of blood leaking across his face. But it was not blood. It was just the light.
That a Protocrat of such power would use the Seer’s grass was a testament to its potency. Even Klan could not cross the barrier to reach the dead. Only the Seer’s grass was capable of taking the living into the underworld, past the guardians – the place Sturmen called Madal’s gates. The living had seen those gates before. But only with the Seer’s grass could one see them and return.
Noom imagined Klan’s soul travelling through space and time, but he was not an imaginative man. As far as he could understand, the Anamnesor was temporarily dead, and when the Seer’s grass wore off he would live again. Yet he did not understand why his master was still seated upright on the snow, and why, if he was dead, the burning coal had not fallen to the ground.
He remained at attention.
After a time, his hands freezing and the cold seeping through his boots, he thought he saw Klan stir. He wondered what was so important that only the dead could know. But there was much he did not understand. Klan was the Anamnesor, though, and Tenthers were not selected for their deductive powers. They were chosen because they obeyed, and they were warriors beyond compare. They were a special breed.
They were smart enough to know when to stand to attention – until told otherwise. Perhaps, Noom thought, if a day passed and Klan had not moved, he might risk relieving himself behind a rare outcropping of rock that overlooked the camp.
Fortunately, he was saved from such worries.
Klan sputtered and smoke blew from his lungs. His breath hitched in his chest, once, then he rose smoothly as if he had been aware of his surroundings all along. He was instantly alert.
“I have found out some interesting things, Pernant. Our enemies have grown in number.”
Pernant knew when he was expected to speak. He kept silent.
Klan added, talking to himself, “So the Saviour has an ally? He must be gifted. To kill my assassin…” He realised the Pernant was still before him.
“Pernant, we were expecting company. Three men, one of whom was magically gifted. It seems we are now expecting five. They have murdered one of my men and embark for this land. There are scant few places they can reach this land. There are only two – the mountains are impassable. Take your men, and another two Tens, to each place. Bring Incantors. There is no need for Particulates – there is nothing living near the coast. I will mark the spots that must be watched for a landing by sea. My orders stand. In this land there is no need for subterfuge. All five men are to be killed. Do not take them lightly. Among them more than one is gifted.”
“If I might speak, master?”
“Go on.”
“Surely humans have no magic?”
Klan smiled at the Pernant, but he took no comfort in it. “Do not doubt me again. They are gifted, and they are dangerous. Now, you are to travel across the land. They can only travel by sea, and they have left from a village called Pulhuth. Passage will take no less than one month. You have until then to reach then. Wait…”
For a moment Klan’s skin glowed as red as the fire, as if he was burning inside, then just as quickly the glow died and there was just natural light to see by.
“The journey should take but two weeks. It will do the men good to stretch their legs. Travel across the snows. You are not to use magic.”
“And the beasts?”
“If you encounter any Teryithyrians, I would be surprised, but use your discretion.”
“Use your discretion” Klan knew would be taken to mean ‘take no prisoners.’
“Do not fail me, Pernant. You have my orders. Now, go.”
Pernant Noom bowed deeply and walked away. As he left, he heard Klan muttering to himself.
“Now, how difficult can it be to find a burning mountain on an ice plain?”
Pernant minded his own business most days, but to him, this seemed passing strange.
*
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Renir and his companions arrived within a few days. They set the horses loose when they could no longer ride.
Renir shed a tear to lose Thud. Shorn touched his shoulder, and even Bourninund did not mock him. A man bonded with his horse. He knew they would be free on the plains, where food and water were plentiful, but he didn’t think they would be happier.
Thud nuzzled Renir’s hand. It almost broke his heart to push him away.
Shorn and Harlot’s separation was somewhat easier. Harlot bit Shorn’s good hand and he thumped her on the nose.
Perhaps some riders did not bond with their horses.
They began the arduous climb to the cliff face. The cold was biting, and fingers froze in tenuous hand holds. Drun seemed to have little difficulty, despite seeming to be the frailest of the quintet, but then he had no armour or blade to carry.
Renir’s armour bore heavily on him as he dragged himself up the steep rock. His breath came in laboured gasps. Wen was well ahead of him, and Bourninund just behind. Even Shorn, with a crippled leg and arm, climbed faster.
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He took a break to breath on his frozen hands and urged himself on. Each man apart from Drun carried a pack, with the bare essentials. Shorn assured them the Seafarers would trade with them, although they were boat people and Renir didn’t think fur cloaks would be in plentiful supply.
He tore a finger on a jagged rock, and was surprised to see the blood congealing almost instantly. He wasn’t sure if it was his preternatural ability to heal that he should thank, or the unreasonable temperatures. The wind seemed to grow in bluster. This close to the ocean and the mountains it was only to be expected. Both could be harsh. Together they were hellish.
Tugging his pack tighter around his shoulders (the joints complaining, freezing up) he continued his ascent. He took a moment to look up and saw that everybody else had gained the summit. Drun was not even wearing a cloak, just a shirt and mittens.
He swore and dug his toes into a crack, heaving himself higher.
Finally, he reached the top to sarcastic jeers from Bourninund. He would have swung for him, but instead he sat down heavily and tried to catch his breath.
“Don’t sit still, you’ll freeze,” said Drun. “The trick for the cold is to keep moving. The joints seize up if you don’t, then you’re in real trouble.”
“I can’t move.”
“Well, you’ll have to. The Feewar are here. Come on, Renir. You’re the youngest and the fittest. You should be leading the way. Just a little further, and besides, the rest is downhill from here.”
“I’m youngest, but you’ve all had years to earn your muscles. Mine are still inexperienced. Anyone fancy carrying me? I’ll carry your pack for you.”
Bourninund chuckled. “Don’t be daft. Come on. You can see them from here.”
Renir groaned and stood up. As he did so the wind caught him and he fell on his behind again. Shorn held out a hand for him.
“Careful. Up here the wind is stronger than a man. Keep low.”
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 9