Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  He did not despair, though. The beast was slow, and it bled. If it bled, it could die. All things of flesh and blood died, in the end, if they lost enough blood. If he could just cut through the Achilles tendon…he slashed again, and was rewarded with a deafening howl.

  He could not longer hear anything, but he could feel the heat, the burning in his broken ribs and his heart pounding against his chest.

  It seemed like it had lasted an age, before he saw Tirielle standing before the creature on the pathway, head held proud, her arms wide in supplication.

  “No!” he cried out, as he saw what she meant to do.

  He would not let her sacrifice herself to the creature. There would be no death but the revenant’s here today. He ran, aching all over, covered in burning blood, and dived, crashing into her body as the revenant’s hand swept down to pick her up. How could he stand by while the beast tore her life from her frail body? How could he let her die for him, even though she did not know him?

  They both tumbled to the floor, and Shorn looked up, pushing Tirielle away.

  “None of us will die this day! Now get back!”

  A fist smashed the path and he dodged just in time, skipping away from it and hacking wildly at the hand. He was rewarded as the tip of its finger fell free into the lake of fire.

  He wasted no more time on Tirielle, but twisted inside and hacked through the tendon at the wrist. The beast’s cry was terrible, the pain in his head from the sound of it terrible and tangible. Then it swung its useless hand, and the bony ridges of its knuckles smashed into his back. His broken body flew through the air.

  The last thing he heard before he tumbled into blackness was Tirielle’s shouting, somehow he could still hear (but dying, he thought, dying, as consciousness faded).

  “Take your sacrifice, take me and let this end. I will die for him,” she shouted above its roar.

  Perhaps it heard. Perhaps not. For Shorn, all was silent.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Klan’s snarl rivalled that of the revenant.

  “I will pass!”

  The Sard were uncharacteristically silent. But Typraille spared some energy for a grin both wide and, to Klan, infuriating. As his rage grew, so did his power. The Sard were now holding back Klan’s burning rage and a river of molten rock that was pouring around them.

  Renir longed to escape, to plunge through the blackness behind him, where perhaps a cool death awaited him. But somehow, he doubted it. He imagined behind the Sard was the safest place he could be.

  He was unused to feeling so useless. He could do nothing to aid the Sard. If their powers could not hold the snarling Protocrat back, then he would merely die a fiery death in moments. He glanced nervously at Wen, but both he and the Bear seemed calm, stoically accepting of whatever end might be in store for them.

  Klan Mard raged, untouched by the molten rock pushing against him. It was as though the wall of flames that pour from his eyes was solid, and Renir realised with growing horror that the Sard’s heels were being pushed backward. They were being pushed toward the darkness between the ancient doors, and whatever lay behind it, toward the wizard.

  If they went in, all would be lost…but then Roth had dived through. Perhaps…no, it was not worth the risk. To fail now, to fail at the last, when so many had been sacrificed.

  Renir steeled his heart, and prepared to die. A voice from within calmed him with soothing, loving words. At least he would not be alone. He knew with surety that there was a certain kind of life after death. It brought peace to him.

  He watched, as calm as his two remaining friends, as the Sard were inexorably pushed back toward the gate.

  The Protocrat’s face was a rictus of malice, evil in the flesh, but he found himself uncaring, unworried. He was free.

  Slowly, the Sard were losing, but the voice in his head gave Renir hope.

  ‘Know hope, my love. Even now, the tides of Rythe are turning.’

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  The beasts hand came down to take Tirielle, Drun watching in frozen horror, when tumbling through the blackness came a creature blazing with fire, elemental fury hurling toward the screaming revenant.

  Twice denied the Sacrifice, another warrior faced the foe.

  Roth’s hurtled along the pathway, leaping over Tirielle with a roar, onto the revenant’s outstretched hand. Its sharp claws dug into the swinging tree-trunk thick arm, and hand over hand it scaled the heights as though it were climbing a mountain.

  Drun could do nothing but watch. Never in his long life had he felt so useless. Roth would ruin all their long plans. For it to die saving Tirielle would ruin all he had waited for. It would skew and shatter the prophesy. But then, what did it matter? The revenant had eaten the last wizard. They fought for nothing. There was no hope, only to fight until the last.

  Perhaps, he thought, watching Roth scale the great beast like a mountainside, that was all there was come the end. To fight.

  Tirielle watched with tears in her eyes as Roth, streaming flames, crawled up the revenant’s shoulder. She saw it meant to tear at the revenant, even as the rahken died, but it was too slow, dying as it was. Roth’s usual preternatural speed had deserted it.

  The rearing beast roared its defiance as it snatched Roth from its shoulder and squeezed it in one enormous hand. Steaming blood dripped from its hand where Shorn had wounded it, but he too had died in vain. She could do nothing but watch as another brave warrior died trying to save her from her ultimate fate.

  The great beast snatched her friend up. It was all Tirielle could do to close her eyes against the sight of the rahken’s death, but she could not drown out Roth’s cries of agony as it was crushed in that huge bony paw.

  Mercifully, it was over soon. She turned her head away as the revenant stuffed Roth into its mouth and swallowed.

  It was time for her to do her duty. She had lost enough. She was ready to go to her death.

  What more could she lose? Perhaps the revenant would allow Drun to go. Surely he could continue the fight, even without the red wizard. He had power enough. He could rally the rahkens (who would tell Roth’s parents, now that she was gone?…but there was no time to worry about the living anymore).

  She walked, once again, toward the beast. The pathway seemed unnaturally long, as though it stretched out eternally. But then she knew time and distance were the same thing, warped by pain. And her pain was immense. She only wished she had not lost more on the pathway to make her sacrifice. If only she could have given her life to save others, but instead it was a hollow death. She had saved no one.

  She raised her hands in supplication and stood trembling before the beast. It roared, with pleasure, she thought…but its voice was cut off.

  Suddenly, it was gurgling, bubbling like the boiling lava around her. Blood burst from its throat, spraying across the cavern in a great steaming arc, and Roth tumbled lifelessly out from the gaping wound, a burnt, dead husk.

  The revenant fell silent, its throat torn out.

  She watched in amazement, and terror, and pity for the fallen, as the monster slowly crumpled to one massive knee. Almost sedately, after the pace of the fight, it keeled over, dead.

  The tremor shook her to her knees. Then its head fell into the lake of fire and caught light. The flames burned high.

  She found her feet again. She ran to Roth, who lay steaming, crippled and lifeless.

  At the last, Roth had saved her. How many had died to save her? And she had not even been able to save her friend.

  “Oh, Roth,” she cried, cradling the rahken in her arms. “What have you done?”

  She emitted a startled cry as Roth croaked, “Only what I was made to do. Mourn me not, Tirielle, for I was always the Sacrifice. It was my fate to bear, not yours.”

  Its body was broken, a shattered lump of meat, but still it managed a smile for her. “I am only glad I found the courage in the end.”

  “You are full of courage,
Roth. A more courageous creature I have never met.”

  “And yet, I knew fear.”

  “We all do, Roth,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

  “I’m sorry…you lost…so much…” It managed, and the final death rattle came from its throat. She hugged it to her breast, crying freely now.

  The flames licked the air around her.

  A hand took her arm.

  “We must go, Tirielle. There is no wizard, but the day is not yet done. My brothers need me. We must leave Roth behind. I need you to help me carry Shorn.”

  “I’ll carry myself,” said Shorn, approaching from behind them. He was cradling his arm. Blood was streaming from a deep laceration in his scalp, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.

  Drun stood, pulling Tirielle from Roth’s body.

  “Come. We may have lost today, but we fight on until the last breath. The return is nearing, and we must fight with the tools we have.”

  “Give me a moment to catch my breath,” said Shorn, his voice rasping and wracked with pain.

  Tirielle’s tears fell freely, but she straightened her back and took Shorn around the waist. He winced, but he couldn’t be picky. He needed a shoulder to lean on.

  “It was brave, in the end. I would have liked to thank it.”

  Tirielle just nodded mutely, and pulled Shorn along, toward the path.

  A tearing sound came from behind them, and they turned as one. Shorn’s sword rose, always his first response to a threat. But his knees were trembling, and his head was pounding.

  Fire licked at the revenants whole body, spreading fast. It was not rising again, but something was coming. Its belly was being pushed upward, bulging out against the revenant’s insides. There was a wet ripping sound, and a hand pushed through, covered in some sickly fluid.

  Shorn held his sword out in one quavering hand. Fire burned inside his arm. It was broken, but somehow he still found the strength to hold his blade.

  Tirielle finally drew her daggers. “I’m not dying anymore,” she said.

  The hand was followed by an arm, a face, and then a man was pulling himself over the beasts burning belly, stepping through the flames. It was covered, red from head to foot, no doubt with the beast’s lifeblood.

  But who, or what, could survive in such a creature’s insides?

  The emergent man spat something unthinkable from his mouth, and the corners turned into a toothy smile.

  Then he opened his eyes and fierce burning light blinded them all. They could see nothing but the blood red afterglow.

  “I am Caeus,” it said, in a voice that was not human, not human at all.

  Tirielle left Shorn and ran at the thing, more hideous in its lack of humanity than even a protocrat, more alien in countenance than the revenant, screaming defiance. She would not be tricked at the last.

  As she thrust the dagger at the creature, its red eyes blazed and she flew backward.

  He closed his terrible eyes for a moment, and the world dimmed and flared, then suddenly the remainder of the Sard appeared, blinking, shocked, in the room. Renir, Wen and Bourninund appeared an instant later, Renir crying out in shock.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  The force holding him back disappeared in the wink of an eye, and surprised, Klan blinked. In that moment the fiery rage of the mountain descended on him, a ton of molten lava streaming around him, filling his mouth, running between his toes and fingers, burning his robe from his back and searing his skin with a pain he could not imagine possible.

  He screamed, and did the only thing he could. He turned the lava back to stone.

  *

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  “It is so good to be alive again,” said the last wizard, glowing brighter than the fires leaping around the plateau. “I am most grateful,” it said with a smile that did not touch its burning eyes, eyes infested by the blight.

  “My time has come again, and my brothers come. I have much work to do.”

  “Never!” cried Drun, who blazed with golden light, but the red wizard, red from head to toe, merely flicked a finger and Drun’s glorious light winked out in an instant. Then he raised his hands and spoke a short incantation, more out of habit than necessity.

  In its wake, the cavern under the mountain was deserted. They disappeared from the mountain, back into a world more terrible than anyone could imagine, a world in which the Elethyn, the bastard sons of Carious and Dow, had returned.

  The last of the Sun Destroyers, Caeus, would once more shake Rythe to its very core.

  *

  Epilogue

  Summer fades, and time moves on. It is a time of legends. The end of legends. It is only fitting that the leaves, as heroes, fall.

  Heroes are made every day, as long as there is a witness, solitary, perhaps, but one with the power of words to build the legend, and as the old fade, new ones are born.

  On Sturma, brave men fought on without a leader, a thousand songs went unsung as the fallen grew and fewer remained to tell the tales of deeds done by those about to die.

  On Lianthre, the rahken nation rises, as does a strange continent, far out in the forgotten oceans, unseen, but felt, by the Seafarers. Mountains crumbled, the suns shone, seas flowed over new lands and around the old.

  And on the trees, leaves turned, ready to fall.

  - The End -

  Apocrypha

  The Island Archive

  Read on, Dear Reader...read on...

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for making it to the end. Please visit my Amazon page for more of my work, or consider leaving a review on this, hate it or love it or someplace in between.

  Craig

  About the Author:

  Craig Saunders lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and three children, who he pretends to listen to while making up stories in his head.

  He has published more than two dozen short stories, and is the author of many novels including Rain (Twisted Library Press), Spiggot (Grand Mal Press), The Love of the Dead (Evil Jester Press)[Forthcoming] and A Stranger's Grave (Grand Mal Press).

  He blogs at www.petrifiedtank.blogspot.com.

  Just a little longer...

  *Bonus short story*

  Just a short introduction, if you'll allow me. No glossary with this book - to be honest, I'm not sure if anyone actually reads them anyway, but I will be uploading the entire apocrypha with the final book...

  For now, this is the first story I ever wrote. From this, Rythe came about. This is the story of the assassination of Tirielle's father.

  The Martyr’s Tale

  My story begins the same for each death. I watch, and I am constant in my habits. I take the work that suits me, and work for money and food as much as pride. The sky is suitably grey today and rain runs from the corners of my hat. On a roof I sit to watch my work in progress. Other rooftops are similarly mounted with observers. Today is a special day. The day my work goes public.

  In the square below stands a podium. On this podium stands a man, the public speaker. I watch the rapt faces of his followers as he raises his hands and starts to speak. People on roofs and in the square grow silent. The speech begins.

  The throng lies under a hush blanket and a resonant voice rings out, loud enough to be heard over the drone of rain and murmur. It has begun and will end sooner than anticipated. But this is well for I should not stay to gloat.

  *

  In my world joy is reserved. Tables are never turned and there is no champion of the people. I am the closest thing to hope most people have.

  *

  The rain fell on and the crowd paid it no attention. The speaker continued, and for the second time in my life I belonged to something larger than myself. The first joined in torture and this second joined in rapture. He spoke of dreams I had never dreamt, of life with purpose and equal measures of life even for those who could not afford it. The people loved him and I could sense their love, was lifted by it. I could not s
ee the faces through the haze of rain but I could see the speaker stood alone, speaking words unguarded – sometimes, even words need a chaperon. The words that raised hope and brought the low high had also brought me here.

  *

  Before my birth I had a dream. Subtle death waits for those men who disobey the Slavemaster, that wiry Protocrat, alien and aloof above the pain of his mortal playthings.

  Torture is reserved for his favourites only – ‘I am a busy man,’ he would say, as he removed your bones. He hoped you appreciated the attention you received. Sometimes an apprentice would suture the boneless shell of an arm or a leg. Sometimes the favoured were left to their own devices, teeth and nail and anything that could cut to excise the dead flesh.

  Sometimes death was subtle and sometimes death was silent. Mostly, though, in that place, it was a sombre, sobbing death, waiting in the wings while the authors of its legacy carried out their work, and the victims subsided, defiled and worn and crying for their mothers and for the pleasure of the demons watching. Mostly, it seemed to me, death came slow and languid while lives played out in dark corners populated by despair.