He was as unsure of Wen’s motivations for joining their quest. He could rationalise most of the other, but Wen was an enigma. He fought like the demons that lived in his head. He always had. He was haunted by his slain. Perhaps he longed for the day when he could join the dead, rest at last. His had been a long life, and one that left behind pain and suffering…he had run from his life in his own country, but in the end he had sought the life of the sword again.
It seemed the blade was alluring. Look at Renir. When Shorn had met him the man had never even held a weapon. Now he wielded his great axe like a warrior born. Renir could not see it himself, but the fisherman had become a deadly fighter. Shorn marvelled at the change in his friend every day. Renir knew no fear, and fought by Shorn’s side merely because they had become friends.
He thought there was much to learn from Renir. He was a stronger man than he gave him credit for. Shorn had been complicit in Renir’s wife’s death, and yet Renir had stuck by him, following him even after the terrible moment of Nabren’s slaughter, never growing to love the violence but somehow floating above the sordid life he had immersed himself in. His nature was unchanged, even though his body and actions called him warrior, somehow his friend’s soul had remained gentle and caring.
A fine man. A man, Shorn realised, he was proud to call friend. He would go to the ends of the world for Renir, for he knew Renir would do no less – had done no less – for him.
He turned from the mural and strode on, following the light, and the rising sounds from below.
He could smell it, lurking underneath the sulphur, its musk strong. He drew his sword ready. Its strong odour was blown on the steam in the caverns. It seemed the battle was never done. No one had said anything about a guardian, but he could smell beast. He would face it as he had everything since he left his island home with nothing to his name but the memory of loving parents and a life surrounded by books. He would face it, with sword in hand, and fear under boot.
*
Chapter Ninety
Drun smiled. The two were ready. They thought not of themselves, not any longer. He just hoped it was enough.
The beat rose, and the sounds of rattling chains could be heard. The wizard waited for them. But it sounded, and smelled, as though the last wizard had a guardian. The smell poured through the stone halls, as did the sounds of something ranting, tearing at the walls.
Drun paused, wiped his face clear of emotion. His place was to observe. What he saw was trepidation, concern, but not one hint of fear, except on the face of the beast known to him only as Roth.
Before him, a great stone door barred the way. The doors towered toward the ceiling of the cavern they had come to. They were adorned with carvings and strange symbols. They were a thousand years old, but untouched by time. The carvings were strange, the symbols unreadable for he did not know the language, but he knew who had carved them. Only one race could work in stone with such grace and beauty. It was rahken hands at work. There was so much about the rahkens that he did not understand.
And it was too late to start now. He had his duty, his place in the fate of Rythe, and it was to observe come the awakening of the wizard. His place was not to understand. If anything came after they stepped through those majestic doors, he did not know what it was. His life from this moment forward would be a new, undiscovered country. He had known the future all his life, and from this moment forward he would have to learn to live as a new man, one like any other. With powers beyond ordinary mortals, but a man, nonetheless. One who faced each new dawn with fascination, or dread.
He turned his kind eyes on his brothers, his friends, looking at each of them in turn.
“It is our place, brothers, to face the wizard, to wake him from his slumber. Only Tirielle, Shorn and I must enter. If we win through, we will return. Do not try to follow. To do so would mean death. Only those who need to enter should do so. Tirielle, Shorn, are you ready?”
Tirielle nodded firmly, her chin held high. “I am ready.”
Shorn grunted and hefted his sword. “I’m tired, my leg aches and I want to get away from this stink. Let’s get on with it. Whatever waits through that door, I intend to kill it and get this wizard. The beast reeks, and the wizard has led me a merry dance. He better be grateful.”
There was always time for a smile. Shorn, in many ways, remained refreshing.
“Then let us enter the belly of the beast,” he said, and pushed the door…just so…(he did not know how he knew, it just seemed right, like the knowledge had been in his head all along…or like something else was guiding him) and it opened, stone grating on stone.
Beyond, a blackness darker than moonless night, a liquid, sucking blackness, covering the entrance.
Drun pushed at it, and his hand went through, and came back unscathed.
“Heed me, brothers,” he said, but not unkindly. “Do not follow me. We do what must be done.” His words were punctuated by a quickening of the beat – the wizard grew impatient.
“His heart wakes already. We will come back, fear not. We will win through.”
Roth did not look up as Tirielle stood before the blackness. Doubt assailed the beast. For the first time in its life, it understood fear. Its bravery was stripped away. The pain of loss felt to strong the bear. It stood, in agony, filled with indecision and fright. It watched her back as she moved forward. It could find no comforting words, no thought for others, as it always had. It was routed to the spot, fear crippling its strong limbs. So this was fear? It could not understand how humans could live with it. It swallowed the rahken’s heart, chewed on it. Its belly gnawed at it, as though its fear was eating its way inside to the out. But it stilled its face and held as calmly as it could. It would not allow Tirielle to see its cowardice, not come the last.
But she did not look back. Tirielle stepped through, followed by Shorn. No words of encouragement, no backward glances from the warrior.
Drun nodded to his brothers, laid a hand on Renir’s shoulder. “We will return, if we can. If not, get free. Follow my brothers, they will find a way.”
Renir clasped the old priest’s offered hand. “Make sure you come back, old man. You just make sure. And watch out for Shorn. He’s headstrong, you know.”
“I know,” smiled Drun. “I will bring him back.”
Silently, and only to himself, he added ‘if I can’.
*
Chapter Ninety-One
Klan Mard’s bare feet made no sound on the warm stone beneath his feet. He padded silently, his blood red eyes lighting the path before him.
He could not sense them – the Sard hid them from sight – but they had led him to the wizard. Finally, a test of his powers!
Excitement flowed through him, and he sought for control. He could not give in to his urges, not yet. He had to control himself. He fought down the power bubbling inside of him.
Gone were the worries of leadership. His soldiers could fend for themselves. He had handpicked them. They were the best. The battle was not his concern. Only finding the wizard, and destroying him forever, that was all that concerned him. Human mages these days were nothing. They did not know their power. He would face one, a remnant from ancient days, the one who had been powerful enough to dispatch his forebears, to banish them from Rythe.
How powerful could such a wizard be? It sent a delicious chill of anticipation through his body.
But as he strode on, and he could hear their voices even through the catastrophic rumbling of the mountain tearing itself apart, his mood darkened. He felt the anguish of his soldiers dying outside, their agonies feeding him. They had eluded him for so long. But no longer. He would wear their faces and grin back at them as they died. He would inflict such pain on them, such tortures, as he tore them apart. He would burn them, drive nails of pain into their souls, but never their faces. Those he would save. He would save them for his congregation. He grinned malevolently, evil in the red glow. The rock hissed and cracked around him. It boiled beneath his fe
et as he passed.
A gout of fire erupted through a fissure in the pathway. He walked on, unscathed. The strength of the ascension was coursing through his body. He was harder than stone, sharper than tempered steel. Nothing could harm him. He was invincible. Impervious to all weapons. Pain would feed him. Fear would give him strength. He would grow in power as he destroyed the Sard, took Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s face from her dying body while he held her in his power. He would make them all watch, hold them still, tear their life from their frail human corpses…
He raged, the rock around him melting and pouring into the tunnel. The mountain’s fire joined his own. Unseen, insensible now to all but rage, the caverns filled with molten rock and livid fire, burning, running downward into the heart of the mountain, a river of fire following in his wake. The heat did not touch him. He was stronger than stone. He was invincible.
He burned brighter than the fire. His whole body glowed red, terrible heat coming from him in waves. His pace quickened. He could hear them talking now, talking in low voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. How they infuriated him, with their petty worries, with their stupid mewling words…
His ambitions were greater. Come the return, he would stand above all others. He would rule beside his makers, teach the humans what true control was.
He raged. His power grew. He breathed in each death from his soldiers, luxuriating in their pain, bridled emotions barely held in check. He turned the corner, and they were there!
At last, taste my fire! And he lashed out with all his strength.
*
Chapter Ninety-Two
Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.
The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.
The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.
In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense – unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.
A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.
Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.
It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.
The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.
Then, as the contest began in earnest, the Sard pushed to the limit of their strength by the hideous apparition shrouded in flame, Roth heard a voice from the past, and echo in its mind.
‘You are the Sacrifice, my child. It is the wizard’s geas, the price we pay for our freedom, for our lives. You must do what you are born to do, but in the end, it will be hard on you. Remember all that you are, when the time comes and your fear turns you to lead. Remember your strength, and your heart…remember the love that others have felt for you. Do not let Tirielle die, Roth. In the end, I think you will understand.’
And it did. Its mother had known. It had listened to the words. This was the price it must pay. To die in fear. But it would not be a coward. Not at the last. It would not let Tirielle take the place that was rightfully its own.
Roth saw what it must do. This was not its battle. It did not matter if the Sard won or lost here. There was only one thing it could do. Finally, burning and in an agony it had never before known, it was time to face its fate. Time to face death.
It could still do what it must. Nothing could escape fate, not the mighty, not the weak. All must make sacrifices.
It took the only chance it could, toward the only end that it was ever destined to meet. Roth dived through the blackness, trailing flames, into the chamber beyond.
*
Chapter Ninety-Three
Shorn quailed at the sight of it. The behemoth was chained to the walls of a massive cavern, in chains of some silvery metal untouched by the passage of time. The chains themselves were immense – each link fully as thick as a man’s chest, stretching across the cavern, looped and fixed into holes in the cavern wall.
The heat was fierce. It scorched the skin.
Tirielle stood proudly before it, shouting to be heard above the din. Her face was fearless.
“Are you Caeus?” to her credit, Shorn thought, her voice did not waver.
Shorn could barely make out the rumbling words, the beasts language was so mauled by its massive jaw.
“NO. I ATE CAEUS. I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT.”
Shorn saw her hang her head in despair. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was not as accustomed to disappointment as he was.
It could have been laughing, but Shorn did not believe such a creature felt humour, or understood anything but slaughter. It was not built for peace, or love, or any of the light that made a human whole. It was alien and terrible, a monstrosity from out of time, a creature of nightmare and darkness.
The beast’s head reached the roof of the massive cavern. Dull green eyes stared myopically at the intruders. It howled, the whole cavern shaking, and renewed its struggle against its bonds. Shorn was knocked to his knees by the sound of the beast’s torment, dropping his sword and placing his hands over his ears, but his whole body shook, his bones ached from the rage of it, the plaintive cry of a millennium of anguish. Drun was on his knees, too, his light temporarily dulled.
They needed no other light, though. Around the monstrosity was a lake of fire, bubbling lava, with but one path forward – a path too narrow for the creature to take.
To defeat it, they would have to travel that one narrow path, know bravery beyond any other mortal. They would have to walk to their own slaughter. It would not come to them.
He walked forward, heart pounding a thousand times faster than the revenant’s, the creatures heartbeat that of the mountains, next to Shorn’s, stuttering along like a helting mir’s upon waking. If the woman could face it, though, he thought he could, too.
He took up his place beside her on the pathway and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Her head hung in despair, but his was proud. He saw the battle ahead. It was what he lived for.
But what terror could life hold for a man of war? He watched in amazement as the creature snapped free of one bond with a cry like thunder. It knocked both of them to their knees. He struggled against the wave of sound, and gained his feet, pulling Tirielle up along side him.
With a huge effort the revenant pulled with both clawed hands, straining against the last chain. With a terrible groan of breaking rock it came free. Trailing the chains, hanging in the lake of fire, it turned its baleful gaze on the interlopers.
The revenant finally free after aeons in tormenting chains, stamped a foot and issued its challenge. It lumbered forward as far as
it could go, and with a snarl that shook the mountain clawed at the two of them.
They tumbled underneath the blow. Shorn took his sword in both hands and was instantly upon it. It towered over him. It did not see him roll between its feet, but felt the sting of his blade slicing into its ankle. It kicked out, one giant foot smashing Shorn to the ground.
The mercenary rolled from his fall and rose again. He winced at the pain in his ribs – it hurt worse than a kick from a horse. A rib was broken, for sure, but he did not have the luxury of licking his wounds.
The revenant howled in anguish, but what was a mere nick with a blade compared to an age of torment, a life in chains? It turned ponderously in the space it could, forcing Shorn to back away toward the edge of the lake. Flames lapped at his cloak. He was drenched in sweat from the heat – perhaps that was what stopped him from bursting into flames.
A massive, leathery fist came crashing down, as though the creature intended to squash him like an insect, but Shorn was rolling to one side and swiping as hard as he could at the inside of the creature’s wrist. His sword dug deep, and steaming ichor ran from the wound, splashing the ground where Shorn had been…Never stop moving. Shorn did not need to remind himself to move, to run and leap and strike where he could. He could not reach the creatures bones, but he could strike at tendons – he knew enough of the body to know where tendons hid beneath the skin, and what damage the severance of one could do to a man. This creature was no different. Its structure was the same, even though its skin was as tough as hide, thick and hard. It had claws instead of nails, two massive curving eye teeth and drooled fire, but what was it, if not an animal?
Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It spoke no more garbled words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick skin, smashed and stamped and bled fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 34