Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  “Renir!” Drun cried, throwing himself flat on the ice, grasping Renir’s wrists.

  Drun pulled with all his strength, but he was an old man, and Renir had packed on muscle over the last few months. His hands could not hold the younger man. His fingers were slipping, as were Renir’s, their grasp on ice slipping, until he only held on by his fingertips…then Drun began to slide toward the gaping tear in the ice. Renir turned from Drun’s face, looking down at the drop. He could not survive the fall, and even if he could, he would never leave the bottom. He felt all the fear he had never felt then, in one moment. His bladder loosened, and he had a moment’s happiness at the sudden warmth it brought.

  Then he screamed again, only now noticing the shouts of alarm from the other men, as a massive, shaggy white face loomed over Drun’s shoulder, seeming to leer at him, with huge eyes and fearsome teeth.

  Drun turned and everything happened at once. His grip gave way, Renir felt the sudden lurch of gravity’s grip on his insides, and a giant clawed hand caught his wrist in an unshakeable grip, dragging – almost throwing him onto the solid surface. He landed with a thump, his teeth clacking together painfully.

  The beast reared, at least seven feet tall. Renir scrabbled back on his heels, sure he was going to be eaten. The beast merely looked at him, and then at Drun. Shorn had leapt the crevasse and stood before Renir, prepared to fight, if necessary, to the death for his friend.

  “No!” Drun shouted forcefully, holding out his hands in a gesture of peace.

  Stupid old man! Thought Renir…but the beast was making some kind of gestures, and Drun hands were shifting, too. The beast nodded its head, warily eyeing Shorn, and now Wen who had taken up a place beside his old pupil.

  “It is friendly,” called Drun. The ground shifted again and Shorn stumbled.

  The beast seemed unaffected by the grumbling ice beneath it. Renir’s relief was evident.

  “What is it?”

  Drun turned his attention from the monster, his hands moving before he did so, to Renir, and the other warriors.

  “It is a Terythyrian – it has no verbal language, but communicates with gestures. It does not understand us, either, but its signs are similar to a race I have encountered before. I had my suspicions, but this confirms it. Everyone – meet Icewalker.”

  “Well, thank it, I suppose…” said Renir, somewhat unsure of himself. He stood, rubbing some life back into his hands.

  Drun translated. The beast roared, making Renir jump, but he stilled himself. He trusted Drun, even if he did not trust this creature.

  Drun laughed, and his hands flew in strange shapes, while the beast watched. Then both their hands were making patterns in the air, as if deep in silent conversation.

  “They have seen our enemies,” Drun said, his voice taking on a serious tone. “Our enemies are theirs. They, too, have suffered at the hands of the Protectorate. They will help us. Gather up your things. We are leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “They will show us the way, and take us there. Their warriors will accompany us…look to the horizon.”

  They looked, and there were hundreds of the shaggy white creatures, mere outlines in the snow, on the horizon.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The Terythyrians were tireless. Renir had been bounced and jounced all the way across the land, through plains, leaping across rends in the ground and ice, across rocky escarpments and around ravines where water had once run free. He had picked up some simple hand signals from Drun, but despaired of ever learning more – the language was complex and largely incomprehensible.

  The Terythyrians knew of the wizard they hunted, too. He wondered at their history. He longed to know from where their kind hailed, what secrets they knew. From what he could gather their race was ancient, but they would not tell more. They would not say how they knew of the wizard. But if the wizard was a creature of myth, their memories must be long indeed to remember so far into the past.

  “Some things are not meant for the knowing,” the voice in his head told him sternly. It was an ever present companion. Sometimes he wished for the loneliness of his own thoughts again, but she was now warm, where once she had seemed a harridan. He was beginning to understand that there had always been a purpose.

  He had a purpose. He marvelled at it. For so long on this journey he had thought himself just a part, a small cog in a great wheel. Now it turned out he had a fate. No longer blown, he would forge his own path. How, he did not know, but he was learning all the time.

  Now he watched his companions with new eyes. He watched their new allies in awe since his awakening. There was so much to learn. And learn, and grow, he must.

  As the week past, the voice in his head spoke to him. He grew to love her a little, even if he did feel fear at the prospect of his own, personal quest. So much to do.

  But he was committed on a course. His blood called to him. His land called to him. Suddenly he was aware of how much he missed Sturma, how much he loved the land he grew in, and how it took for him to leave that land to learn his destiny, his future, and the power of his blood.

  He would be forged on foreign plains. He had to know of the world. That was his lot. To bring his land together, to hold strong. There would be a future. When the wizard awoke, it would not be the end, but a new beginning.

  So he watched, and he listened. He learned much in that week. When he spoke, he learned to do so within his head. Drun questioned him, but he was not ready to share yet. He bounced, he rode the Terythyr’s back, he followed.

  When the time came, the voice told him, following was a good lesson. One had to know how to follow in order to lead.

  The immensity of it humbled him. One must know how to be humble to recognise hubris, the voice warned him, and he listened. On the way he discovered something else amazing. He knew love. He loved the voice, in a way he never had in life. Without the bonds of flesh binding her, and his eyes, understanding blossomed, and love grew. If only, he mused in a secret part of his mind, his wife had been so forgiving when she had been flesh and blood.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  The mountain was falling down. The ground shook under his feet, and Klan, for all his power, could not stop it. An avalanche of rock had fallen to ground in the last quake, tumbling down the side of the mountain like a flowing river, some boulders as large as a man, snows in great waves pushing the rock forward.

  He fumed in peace. He had lost base camp. Not a trace of them remained. Yet he could not take out his frustration on a mountain. Even he could not move the earth, bring back life, or hold back an avalanche. So he fumed in peace, his eyes leaking red light, but he could control himself to a greater degree now. He no longer lost his temper, or killed in a fit of pique.

  Instead he willed himself calm, blinked and closed his eyes. The messenger before him was not quaking, but Klan read fear in his face, in the set of his shoulders. But he would not burn him. He recognised that the soldier was no more at fault than himself.

  Oh, but he longed to lash out with his ascendants power, to burn the soldier to a crisp, to drink in his pain, fuelling greater feats, to burn all his men and raze the mountains flat, melt the ice and set the world on fire…but that was the blight talking. Klan could control it. It was his power, his to wield. He would not be a tool for the blight. He could not afford a lapse. He had already lost a hundred men to the shaking mountains and the quaking lands.

  Perhaps the land quaked from fear of him?

  He permitted himself a small smile. The soldier, misinterpreting that smile, began to sweat, despite the frigid air in the tent. Klan needed no heat. He burned with an inner fire.

  “Leave me,” he said, and closed his eyes lest the sight of the soldier infuriated him beyond control.

  He just needed some time alone. Some time to calm himself. The tent glowed red. He breathed deeply and pushed himself inside. Searching, searching the bone archive, as he often
did. He found comfort, a kind of peace in the hard letters scorched onto his skeleton. The flowing words calmed him, the hunt, a hunt for knowledge. Somehow it soothed him. He did not know why. Mostly he found himself soothed by taking life, by striping a face from bone, or staring at his delegation in his quarters in Arram.

  Every thinking being needed a break from their work.

  The ground rumbled beneath its covering of ice, but it did not bother Klan. He was insensible to the going on of the world for a moment in time.

  Blinking, the light extinguished itself, and he returned to the real world, but an instant spend with his bone archive, and he felt refreshed.

  He poked his head out into the sunshine and called an aid to him.

  “Take note, Iryal, I wish a new base camp set one mile from the site of the avalanche. It is the centre of the disturbance. I feel we will find our goal there before long. See to it.”

  “Yes, Anamnesor.” The aid bowed and left quickly to execute his orders before Klan could change his mind. Their leader was somewhat unstable. All his soldiers realised this, but the honour of serving the new division was all they thought of. It was their lot to serve. They were soldiers. He was the Anamnesor, riding high among the Speculate. He was ascendant. It was more than most of them could ever hope for.

  Klan turned his attention back inside, and researched what he could find of quakes, and fire mountains. He set himself a goal. By tonight he would be in place. He would find the mountain. Already he knew that it would be the centre of the disturbances. He spared a moment to wonder where his adversaries were. He had not heard from his outriders. In a moment, he would travel there and see what was happening. He could commune, but he felt he needed a personal touch.

  Periodic rumbles came while he searched. The quakes were becoming more frequent. The ice was shaking itself apart.

  Had he spared the time to look, Klan, with his powerful eyes, might have discerned the mountain peak above him slowly growing, pulsing, like a beating heart.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The snow cleared overnight, and they woke to a brilliant clear sky, a pristine blue. Early morning sun glinted lazily on the fresh snow. Drun woke first, and his eyes smiled at the sight. For a Sard, bathing in sunlight, even a cold sun, was like a balm to the soul. He stretched, waking the beast next to him with a careless elbow.

  He emerged from the shadow of the rocks he had been sheltering under, stamped his feet to settle his toes in his new boots, and strode out to bath in the cold sunlight. Behind him, too early to rise, the warriors slept, huddled for warmth against the rocks, surrounded by the snow beasts, taking warmth from their shaggy hair. He could afford to let them sleep. They had been running with the humans on their broad shoulders for a week. They seemed tireless, giants perfectly designed to survive the harsh land.

  Once Drun had explained what they planned to do, the Terythyrian’s had agreed at once to aid them. They hunted while they ran, and while fruit and vegetables were non-existent, meat was surprisingly abundant. They soon got used to raw meat, Renir being the only one who had turned his nose up, although a grumbling belly is a great incentive to try new things.

  Drun knew the value of food. From his long exile at sea, he had always been grateful for any sustenance. In some ways raw meat was preferable to that which had been charred. It had a fuller, distinctive flavour. He remembered fondly the taste of raw snapper, and shell-snipe, even squid, to some extent, although the texture had left something to be desired.

  Stretching, he toyed with the idea of communing, but he had nothing to tell. The day was set already. He could do little but interfere now.

  He looked to the horizon and saw their goal. Peaks reared into the sky, slicing into the beautiful blue sky with a cold white blade. Clouds hovered darkly at their tips, promising more snow to come.

  The range extended as far as the eye could see, covering the plains. The ground rose steadily. In the mountains he knew the air would become thin, their breathing laboured. He wondered how the warriors would fare when they had to fight among the clouds. He had no doubt about the Terythyrians – they made their homes among the mountains. They were accustomed to hardship, the unforgiving land that they called home.

  Men, on the other hand, they were not at home in the mountains. The Culthorn mountains, perhaps, were a bane that travellers could live with. This range was something else. The peaks were difficult to judge, but looming large even at this distance Drun thought they might top five thousand feet at their tips.

  Hopefully he would not have to climb so far. He was far from young, and while his faith gave him strength, his bones and muscles told the truth of it. He was not fit enough to make the climb. His brothers told him that the entrance to the volcano was on the west side – they would have to find passage over the mountains. The Protectorate encampment, and their portal, waited for them on this side of the mountain. He had no ideas on how to pass them, allowing his brothers, and Tirielle, to join them.

  He was not a tactician, he was a priest. Best leave the planning to Shorn and Wen. Two men born for war. But, he thought with a smile, Shorn had changed. Drun had played no little part, but Shorn had made the change himself. From a bloodthirsty monster into a man to call a friend.

  Wen had seen the change. It was gratifying, and somehow pleasing, to be travelling with the man that Shorn was becoming. Even though he was in his middle years, it proved that a man was never too old to change. Never too old to learn.

  A pain gripped Drun’s tender bowels. He calmed himself, relaxing as best he could, and turned his face to the sun. Now it shone from those icy peaks, and with the red glow of dawn remaining, it seemed as though those mountains were a blood drenched blade…Drun did not believe in omens, but it boded ill for their chances. He was under no illusions, though. They would not all survive the coming battle.

  Sighing, the pain past, he pulled his cloak tighter, although it was warmer than it had been for a week. He turned his head as he heard someone approaching.

  Wen rubbed some life into his arms. The snow beasts were stirring now, moving out into the plains, some returning from their night time hunting and scouting.

  “Good morning, Drun. It is a fine day.”

  “Something to be thankful for, perhaps,” said Drun with a smile for the old warrior.

  “Well,” said Wen, cracking his broad shoulders and settling them again, “we’ll be there tonight. Are you ready to die?”

  Drun laughed freely. “I have been ready to die for the last ten years. But it need not come to that.” He kept his doubts to himself. “Do you have a plan? Tomorrow, we will fight. If the snows come, I will be blind and powerless. You cannot rely on me.”

  “What of the Terythyrians?”

  It was their one hope. The Terythyrians had a magic of their own. While all could not cast, some among them could wield the magic of the land, a magic pulled from the rock underneath the snow. Those with magical abilities had eyes of slate grey, unlike the Protectorate, somehow warmth suffused their eyes.

  “They will stand beside us. But the Protectorate are strong. If what I know is true, they are at some disadvantage. They feed on the land, and on people, to wield their most powerful magic. They use a breed of magician called Particulates. They feed their incantations with the power of life that they steal. But there is little life for them to feed on. But as you saw when we landed, they are far from powerless.”

  “Their soldiers are fast and wily, too. Without the Terythyrians, there would be no way to prevail. It is luck, or a gift…I do not know. I will leave the philosophy to you, my friend.”

  “And what of you? Are you fit for the battle ahead?”

  “I am. Just one more fight in a long life. If it is my time, I know I am long overdue to pass into the Kingdom of Dunmain.”

  “In Sturma, they believe you pass through a set of gates, into Madal’s kingdom.”

  “And what do you believe, Drun?” said Wen, eyes watching the pries
t shrewdly.

  “I believe we all return to the sun. Perhaps it is different for every man.”

  “Maybe so. I have seen the dead though, but I have yet to see paradise or peace.”

  Drun nodded, and turned his eyes to the distant peaks. “Pray that you don’t tomorrow. We need you still.”

  “My altar is my sword. Does that bother you?”

  “As you say, every man has their own beliefs.”

  All the warriors had risen now, and donned their armour and taken up their packs and weapons. Ice Walker approached them, with another beast who had introduced itself (like the rahkens, the younger warriors had no gender) as Roamer, and spoke with swift hands.

  “Time to go. They want to be in the mountains by nightfall. It will be a long day.”

  “I don’t know. When you reach our age,” said Wen, “days somehow seem too short.”

  Drun, feeling the pain in his gut take hold again, paled but held himself straight. He could only agree.

  *

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Klan arrived at the coast with little fanfare.

  The void had been more disconcerting than usual, the haunted voices that drifted to his ears through the darkness somehow tortured, and he sensed in them rising fear. He did not know why. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was because of his increasing power. It was unknown, and troubling, but he concerned himself with it no more. The space between worlds would forever be a mystery, and he was no student to waste time studying the phenomena of the disembodied voices. Leave that to others. He had more pressing worries.