Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Would they survive in such a harsh land? He knew Shorn and Drun were set on finding the mythical last wizard, but how could they, when so many were against them? Even the lands and the seas seem to block their progress. Surely the growing storm was sent by the gods…it could be nothing else. The sky was an unnatural colour, and even as Renir wondered at the evil hue of the billowing clouds, the rain turned to stinging sleet, scouring his forehead and cheeks. It turned in an instant from uncomfortable to painful.

  He pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his face, and saw all but Wen do the same. Wen’s only concession to the eternal winter of the north was to wear a thick sheepskin jerkin which still left his monumental arms bare. Renir shook his head and left the prow to huddle against their pack, hoping for some shelter but only finding an unforgiving seat against his armour, jutting angles digging into the small of his back. At least his back was hidden from the bitter sleet.

  Their packs were large. They could all be worn on their backs, meaning that they would have to carry their weapons. Their sheaths had been lubricated by fish oil, a smelly but essential measure. Moisture would get into the sheaths and freeze, binding the weapons and making them useless in the wastes. It was something Renir would not have thought of, but metal grew cold quickly.

  Beside their provisions, armour, and weapons they had also been gifted heavy cloaks and mittens of seal skin, warm and proof against water. His boots were shoddy and he had not been able to procure new ones – the Seafarers had no knowledge of how to make them, as they had no need of them. When the winters came they sailed south, where it was, the seafarers had assured him, warm even when the snows came to the north. Renir could well imagine a land of endless sunshine. After all, they were headed to the frozen lands, and everything had its opposite.

  Bourninund approached, rolling somewhat against the motion of the sea that the seafarer could not quite stifle.

  “Share a little warmth?”

  “Snuggle up. We’ll play tents.”

  “I’m too tired for that. Shift a little,” he said, making himself as comfortable as he could against their packs. “Don’t think I’m some woman who needs a cuddle and conversation. I’d be more obliged if you stayed still and kept quiet.”

  “After the moments we shared? I’m hurt, Bear.”

  Bourninund grunted, nestled, and was soon snoring with a loud rasp that was torn away on the wind.

  Renir wriggled his toes in his boots and closed his own eyes. It would be a long wait. He never realised the sea was so big. He was bored of it already.

  Soon, his soft snoring joined Bourninund’s, battling against the whirling, crying wind.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It was a talent all mercenaries mastered, or they died quick tired deaths with aching arms. Shorn was pleased to see that Renir had learned the art.

  The rocking of the boat was growing. There were now two seafarers fighting against the roaring seas.

  Renir and Bourninund slept on regardless, huddled together in a battlefield slumber, their backs to each other for support and warmth. For two hours now they slept. Shorn could not sleep, for he had seen what awaited them.

  He was looking at the latest threat now, but dare not interrupt the seafarer to ask what it was. A small hill of ice, no more than a hundred yards to the right. There was no rudder on the ship, but the seafarers, by some magic he did not understand, steered the ship expertly and safely around each mound of ice, staying well clear. But the frequency with which they encountered them was increasing. Shorn understood that it meant they were nearing the wastelands. He felt increasing apprehension. He did not know what to expect, other than hardship unlike any he had experienced before in a life that had been harder than most. A land unlike any other, where winter was not only endless, but more extreme than the soft, easy winters of the Drayman plains or the forests of Sturma. Even in the fastness of the Culthorn mountains he had not been as cold as he was now. And the coldness that had already made his feet grow numb would only become worse. He gave silent thanks for the seal skin cloak he wore. Without it his whole body would be frozen by now.

  He could only imagine the danger that lie in the waters around them, that it was cold enough for ice to float in it. By all rights ice should be confined to rivers and lakes, not float free on the sea. Only once had he seen the wastelands, and it had not been as bad as it was this time. This ice-filled water was something new.

  He rubbed his hands together in the warmth of his cloak, rubbing his left forearm where his muscles had wasted. The chill seemed to seep into the bones in his arm. He clenched and unclenched the fist, as he did every day. He made it to a count of five hundred and stopped. Instead of chill the remaining muscles in the arm were now on fire.

  It was a welcome relief.

  The boat tilted suddenly and dramatically, throwing Shorn to the deck. He fell as he had been taught, but he could not roll on the boat for fear of falling into the frigid waters. The boat righted itself but Shorn heard the tearing, scraping sound from below.

  “We hit a berg!” called one of the ship’s hands.

  “Check the hold,” called Orosh. “The boat’s stronger than it looks,” he told Shorn as the warrior took to his feet again.

  “I wasn’t worried,” Shorn told him, pulling his cloak tight again.

  “Time to slow down. This is the longest part of the journey,” he told Shorn, sparing him a grin. “Just pray we’re not holed. You’ll be dead within a minute if you fall in there.”

  “You’re full of comfort,” grumbled Shorn. Then he noticed the sleet had changed to snow, and cursed. He was not looking forward to Teryithyr at all.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Wen kept his iron grip on the rail, but Drun seemed not bothered in the slightest by the shifting deck underneath his feet. His feet were still bare.

  “Not had time to get boots? You’ll freeze.”

  “I’ll pick some up when we get there. I’m sure we’ll meet someone with a pair of boots that will fit.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “It stands to reason. The Protectorate have been seeking to obstruct us, searching for us. They know of the wizard, I am sure of it, and they hunt him, too. I think it obvious that they will find us at some point. There are too few places to make landfall in Teryithyr – the coast is mainly cliffs of ice. They may not be able to see us with their magics, but commonsense tells them we must make landfall somewhere, and all they have to do is wait for us. I fear our passage will not be as easy as it has been to date.”

  “Then we will be ready when we land.”

  “It may not be enough. I doubt it will be a few warriors. I think they will have mages with them. I am able to do a little magic myself, but I rely on the sun to give me my power – it is sorely muted in a storm, or at night. I will be little use.”

  “No different to fighting mages anywhere. Kill them first.”

  “You’ve fought spellcasters before? Protocrat wizards?”

  “No, wizards in my land. If you can get to them, they die by the blade same as anyone else.”

  “Getting to them is the trick.”

  “Sure it is. Easier with the bow than the sword, but a bow’s useless in a close fight. What we need is an army.”

  “I fear we will have to make do with what we have. We have little to work with, but we have no army. This journey is not about power, but about stealth. If we can make landfall, we can follow their hunters into the wild. An army could not sneak up on them, even if we had one.”

  “I wasn’t serious. I’m not expecting that we have an army.”

  “Perhaps one day we will. But not this day. First, we find the wizard.”

  “You think we can find him? In the wastes?”

  “My brothers will worry about that end of it. They will tell us where he lies. All we have to do is find the Protocrats and follow them. There will be a way. It has been prophesied since before the dawn of time,
since the rending and remaking of this world. You can’t argue with that,” said Drun with a wry grin.

  “Don’t place too much import on prophesy, priest. There’s plenty of ways for fate to turn us wrong. Nothing in this world is guaranteed.”

  “Perhaps not, but what can we do but try?”

  Shorn shouted at them over the howling wind.

  Wen nodded to Drun, and they both made their way to the prow.

  “We’re nearing land!” he shouted.

  “How do you know?”

  “I can feel the approaching land,” said Orosh. “I feel the shallows of the sea, like a constriction in my chest. It is the curse.”

  “How long?” asked Drun.

  “Hard to tell. An hour, maybe less. We have to slow, or the waves will break us against the cliffs. We head for Jagged Cove. If the storm permits…”

  “Let’s hope it does,” said Drun. “I think we need to be ready when we land, and warm. Wake the others, and suit up. It’s dangerous at sea, but don what armour you have and make your weapons ready. I trust the seafarers to land us safely – I do not trust the Protectorate to allow us safely to shore.”

  Wen grunted and walked to Renir and Bourninund, whom he nudged, not unkindly, in turn.

  Both men came to with a start.

  “It’s nearly time. Get your armour on, Renir. Bourninund, be ready. We’re expecting a warm welcome when we land.”

  Renir roused himself and pulled the sheet from their packs. They would have to fight with their packs on. He slowly pulled on his breastplate with his numb hands, buckled it with some effort. Then he slid on his greaves, only buckling his bracers at the last minute. He found he could not fit his gloves on anymore, so stuffed them in his pack and settled for rubbing his frozen appendages robustly, trying to get some circulation to return. They were as stubborn as the snow. Eventually, he could feel well enough to grasp his axe. He found some room and went through his warming exercises. He felt a fool – none of the other warriors were bothering, but he did not want a cramp at the wrong time. Not when it was so bitterly cold. A sudden seizure brought on by the freezing temperatures and exertion could put him in the grave. He didn’t think his witch-given ability to regenerate even serious wounds would save him from death. After all, it was doing nothing about the cold.

  A sudden gust forced itself under his cloak and he shuddered. As he grimaced, he felt his beard crack. Ice was crusted there. He laughed then.

  “Land!” cried the seafarer at the prow, and the ship slowed to a crawl. Renir squinted into the gloom, looking for the tell tale darkness of a landmass in a storm. His hair no longer whipped around his head in the snow and wind – it merely hung in limp frozen clumps around his face. He pushed an errant icicle aside and shielded his eyes. “I can see nothing, either,” said Shorn, beside him. “The seafarers can feel it though. I think we’ll find out soon just how warm it can get out here. If you’re cold now, it won’t last long.”

  “I could do with a bit of a warm up,” Renir grinned, although he felt the familiar lurching of his belly, as he always did when violence was imminent. He would not admit to fear though, even if only to himself. His friends were on the line, and on some deep level of his mind Renir knew they were all he had in life. They were worth fighting for. It was a friendship born of battle, and it was as strong as the steel he wielded with growing expertise.

  “Are you ready?” Shorn asked him, concern evident in his face.

  “As I’ll ever be. If we make it through this – and I’m truly hoping there’s no one there to greet us – ask me again. With any luck there will just be a scout.”

  “I wouldn’t wager so,” said Wen in his gruff manner that Renir was slowly coming to realise was his way of showing kindness. “I can feel it. So can Faerblane.”

  Renir strained his ears, but he could not hear the telltale hum of Shorn’s sword above the howling wind. He could make out the groaning of the ship under pressures at which most boats would crumble. He could hear the roaring of the seas, and the crash of waves against the hull that even seafarer magic could not hold back. But no magic. No song.

  “It’s there,” said Shorn, as if he could read Renir’s thoughts (and hope, too) in his friend’s face. “It’s been there since Orosh began shaping the seas. But then, it was a pleasant hum. Now, it is a tortured vibration, a cacophony…it hates Protectorate magic. I think it was made to kill them, but perhaps that is just my wish, my imagination…”

  “I hate them, too. Haertjuge will stand beside you. Together, we will make a dent in their pride.”

  “Watch your own pride, boy. The Protectorate are not to be taken lightly.”

  Renir rubbed his knuckles…and the sky brightened to a malevolent scarlet. A ball of fire crashed into the waves to their side.

  “Get down and be ready!” shouted the seafarer at them, not breaking his concentration.

  Drun pulled himself to full height and added his power – diminished in the storm but still great – to the seafarer’s pulsing light. The yellow joined the blue, and for an instant many other colours swam at the edge of the bolt of coloured light. Then a green light hit the seas, as though Drun had anticipated what the seafarer intended. A great wave grew in an instant, greater than any that surrounded them, fed and pushed on, channelled, into a towering monster, a leviathan made of foam and weighted with water.

  Renir did not know how much water weighed, but he imagined the bull-necked summoning was as heavy as a house…it grew…a hill, perhaps, or a village. Then it was all he could see.

  Yet another ball of fire flew from the cove, headed straight toward them, but the leviathan merely swatted it with one gigantic fist. Renir heard the hiss as flame met water, but the leviathan was unaffected. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore now, and around the sides of the summoning he could see land begin to take shape. The snows were fierce indeed, and he had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from nattering.

  Then the giant smashed down, a hundred feet of water hitting the shore in a second. In the backwash, with no time for words, the warriors leapt into the shallows and rushed forward, snarls and war-cries on their lips.

  Behind them, the seafarer’s boat was already heading out to sea. Drun’s time was over. It was time for the blade, and the fist.

  Wen ran straight at a wizard – set apart by his garb – and ran him through.

  Some of the Protocrats were insensible, or had been washed out to shore, but many more were rousing themselves. Shorn beheaded one, and then he was in a battle, two Protocrats circling him. Renir watched as he swept the legs from under one and whirled to face the other. I’ll have to remember that…he thought to himself and only just noticed the short sword coming at his head. He fell to one knee and swung his axe with all his might at a knee – the blade slashed through, coming out the other side with a spray of blood, startlingly bright against the snow. The Protocrat fell to the floor, screaming. Renir strode past him, crashing a blow into a helmed warrior’s skull, crushing the helm and skull alike. A sword glanced off his back and he spun on his heel. The red-robed warrior fell to the ground without a sound, a gaping wound where his face had once been.

  He saw the Bear slide on the soft, slush covered ground, striking upward into a soldier’s thigh. Before the man could bleed to death Bourninund pulled his legs from under him, taking a glancing blow in his side.

  He ran to help, but two soldiers blocked his way suddenly. He had little experience of facing more than one soldier. Even the odds, came a gruff, old warrior’s voice in his mind. He spun again, his axe flying round at head height. Two bright arcs of blood filled his vision as he came to rest. Or stack them in your favour, he told himself and grinned wildly.

  All discomfort was forgotten. He blood boiled. He raged.

  As he ran to the Bear’s side, he was only just raising himself from the ground. He faced a soldier, but the soldier’s back was turned to Renir. He could not hear his approach over the wind. The soldier’s swo
rd point hovered above the ground like a serpent poised to strike. Bourninunds swords – shorter than Shorn’s, designed for thrusting rather than slashing, swung. The Protocrat Tenther fell from the power of the blow, and the Bear’s sword, stuck between his ribs, pulled Bourninund’s arm from its socket.

  “Goddamn!” he cursed. Renir could hear him over the raging storm. The Bear’s other sword, still clutched tight in his hand now trailed its point on the floor.

  Renir crashed his axe overhand into the helm of a dark eyed man and watched him crumple to the ground.

  “Renir! Quick, grab my hand!”

  He was at Bourninund’s side, and took hold of his friend’s arm in a two-handed grip, twisting the arm straight against the elbow joint. Shorn covered them, pointing his sword perpendicular to the ground at the next attacker.

  “Quick, now, when I say, twist and push it up!”

  Renir needed no instruction. For some reason the knowledge of how to return the shoulder to its socket was suddenly large in his mind. He took Bourninund’s hand in his, putting his left against the elbow to hold the arm straight, twisted and pushed upward hard.

  “Araagh!”

  The Protocrat fell to Shorn’s sword.

  Bourninund’s fist crashed into Renir’s nose.

  Wen walked calmly to their side and returned his sword to his scabbard, which he had dropped on the beach when they landed.

  When Renir came too again Shorn was looking down at him. He turned his head gingerly to Bourninund. “What is it with mercenaries?” Honestly, you lend a hand.”

  Shorn was still laughing at him, but Bourninund looked sheepish. “Sorry, Renir.” His face didn’t look like his apology was heart-felt. “I should’ve warned you. I tend to hit things when I’m hurt. Self-defense.”