Renir was of a mind to put them down before they could harm the undeserving. He had seen enough good men worn down and killed by adversity and hate to try all in his power to save them that fate. He would shed no tears for the Protectorate. From what he knew of them, they had not even the smallest kernel of love within them to grow, no matter how much sunshine and water they were fed. They were born to hate, and malice. It was their sunshine. Creatures, in short, he could not understand. Neither did he have any desire to save them. They could rot in hell for all he cared.
He snuggled his feet closer to the welcome warmth of the brazier. Philosophy was not for him. He leaned toward the simpler understand of life. In short, he was becoming a warrior.
He had come to realise, as had Shorn, Bourninund, and Wen (although Wen seemed to entertain deeper thoughts on the subject, which Renir had trouble understanding but which Drun seemed to approve of, in some indefinable way), that in battle there was no room for thought, or compassion, or quarter. Strive to live, and fight for the man at your side.
Simply elegant.
Drun had made his head ache — to do good was the same, he claimed. It made perfect sense until you realised that not everyone held the same philosophy.
It tired him to think of it, so he took another swig of the jug offered him by Wen, and drained the last drop. Shorn popped the cork on another. Wen sat cross-legged, and delved into his waxed leather pouch which nestled against his hard gut.
“Is that wise?” asked Drun, not unkindly.
“It is my way. Even for these scum, I must commune. And it is essential, too. We have no other means to discover where they hailed from. We must follow them. As you had promised, your fellows have not arrived. We do not even know where to begin. As distasteful as you might find the grass, it is our only means.”
“I do not find it distasteful, not at all. I am concerned, though. It seems overly morbid to me.”
“And you seem soft, yet you battle well, Drun. A man is complex, and cannot be understood fully. I have my way, you have yours. Let it be at that.”
Wen spoke not harshly, but with a kind of respect that was earned in battle. For some reason Drun’s willingness to use his magic in aid of them had softened Wen’s stony attitude to the priest. It was a relief to them all. They could not afford division, not when their very survival depended on them working together, and risking their lives for one another.
Renir would have shed a little tear, had he not been afraid his eye ball would freeze.
Wen stuffed some of the sweet smelling grass into his pipe, and lit a small taper from the coals. He tamped the weed with a finger as he puffed, until the smoke began to fill the room — it was not an unpleasant smell, but Drun’s nose wrinkled as though smelling someone’s doings on his shoes. Wen’s eyes reddened, watering — not frozen yet, thought Renir. Smoked joined that of the coals, and Renir felt lightheaded, as he had in Rean’s Player’s Emporium (that night seemed like an age ago, but it had only been two months or so). Smoke swirled on the drafty air, and to Renir it seemed as though they were more than random patterns — he saw that Wen’s eyes were following the patterns, a distant look on his face like he was seeing something beyond.
The tiny scar on Wen’s shiny forehead stood out in sharp relief, a reminder of a misjudged head butt. Renir realised that the giant’s teeth were sallow, a peaky kind of yellow — no doubt a result of his addiction to the grass.
“Close your eyes, Renir, or you too will drift into places you do not wish to go.”
He took Drun’s advice, and while the wind seemed especially sonorous, he no longer felt adrift.
“You always did have a predilection for stupidity, Shorn…it sings when in presence of beautiful magic — it only whines near evil magic. You’re so accustomed to using it in battle you’ve never seen it…”
“It takes a while to get where you’re going. Sometimes a mind gets caught up in the past, sometimes the future,” Drun told him, by way of explanation for Wen’s sudden meanderings.
Renir nodded in response to Drun’s whispered words.
“Will he talk like that all night?”
“No, just kept your eyes closed and listen.”
And as if in response to Renir’s questions, he realised that Wen’s internal compass had found what he was looking for.
“And where do you hail from? Where is the hunt centred?”
Renir kept his eyes closed, but he listened carefully for any information that might come of the encounter. He wondered if the other half of the conversation was being held with someone he had slain, or if he was a victim of Wen’s blade.
“You may as well.”
“Most of the dead don’t worry about the past. I don’t know about Protocrats, though. Perhaps they hold onto their hate,” said Drun, quietly, so as not to disturb the dark warrior.
“For the fire mountain? Is there such a thing?” asked Wen, then fell silent for a long time, occasionally breaking the silence with only a murmured ‘yes’, or to bark a laugh. It seemed the dead were garrulous.
“…what of him? How powerful is the blight?
“I have it. Thank you. Go in peace. Follow the path.
“Yes, the path is all there is. One day we will meet again. Do not stray. I wish that on no man…I hold no hatred for your kind. Take my advice. Follow the path.”
The smell had gone — the pipe must have gone out. Renir risked a glance at his companions. Shorn’s eyes were closed tight. His scar was bright red — a reaction to the cold, or the smoke, he didn’t know. He noticed that the hairs peeking out of Bourninund’s long nostrils were greying.
All huddled round the stingy warmth of the fire. Wen found another to commune with, a picture of formed in Renir’s mind. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut this time.
Time passed slowly, drawn out behind the storm, the time of the dead seeping through. The snow plains were blanketed in the silence of stone. Except for Sybremreyen. Or the Kuh’taenium. Or the groaning of Thaxamalan’s saw to the south, stretching up to cut the bough of the sky.
Outside, unaffected by the cold, the Teryithyr watched the tent, and the slowly swirling snow, with the patience born of winter.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Cenphalph Cas Diem wheeled his horse round and left Briskel, singing his doeful tune to the forest, at their backs. The song rose on the air, drifting lazily through the dark trees, laying unsuspecting night owls to an unaccustomed rest. Badgers slumbered peacefully beneath the earth — come morning their bellies would grumble and they would not know why.
The hounds at the Sard’s heels barked snidely in the distance.
For two days now, aided by the paladin’s subtle magic, their horses had kept a good lead, but they could flee blindly no longer. It was time to turn and fight. The bayers, the Protectorate’s war hounds, would be the vanguard, rushing ahead of the main force, tireless and swift as the wind; biting, snarling dervishes. They would not stop the hunt now they had the scent. It would be folly to continue a race they could not win. The horses needed rest, and watering, and while faster on flat, care was needed in the woods. A lame horse could spell the end of one of them.
Briskel paid no heed to Cenphalph as his companion departed, leaving him and Yuthran alone on the back trail. His singing continued, superseding the usual forest symphony, cajoling its denizens to sleep with gentle imprecations. His magical helm reverberated with his subtle power, enough to make those too close to him ache in the jaw from clenching their teeth too tight. But at a distance it was soporific, deceptively gentle.
The bayers’ howling was nearer, now. Perhaps a mile, and closing fast. Yuthran drew his sword and stood still, his legs and shoulders loose, should the bayers prove more resilient to Briskle’s song than the creatures of the night.
It was a ploy that would only work now that the bayers had a good lead on their handlers. Yuthran prayed that it would work. They needed to buy time.
A crashing sound broke the peace that
now lay on the forest. The bayers had hit the edge of the wave of sound, and fought against sleep as was their nature. These might be a different breed of bayer than that which they had met before, but still they would not be able to resist the allure of sleep. One reached their clearing, foaming at the mouth, its wild teeth snapping on air even as its eyelids drooped. Another broke through the wall. They should have fallen as soon as they hit the waves of sound, but still they fought to reach their prey, snarling with the last of their energy. Even for bayers, such dedication to the hunt was unusual. Yuthran, approaching a hound, could see the reason of it now. He felt a tear form on his beardless cheek — their collars were spiked, but with the spikes pointed inward. Driven by scent, their blood up from the hunt, they could no more stop than rest. Only when they captured their quarry would their handlers release them from their pain.
The song continued, too beautiful now for the work that must be done.
Yuthran let his tears come as he drove the point of his sword down through the dog’s ribs and into its lungs. It would soon breathe its last. The ridge of bone protecting its heart was too thick to pierce. This slow, suffocating death was the kindest he could manage.
Still, as he slew the beasts, one by one, compassion welled in his heart. He could not hurt those that drove the hounds, and the slaughter seemed obscene, like killing children for the sins of their fathers.
The song covered the forest air. The bayers made no sound but that of the blood bubbling in their lungs.
Bayers could feel no gratitude, but Yuthran imagined one looked at him with thanks in its eyes. It was a kindness, and yet he cried.
The work done, Briskle’s song tailed off. The nocturnal creatures were slow to wake, but slowly life filled the forest once more. Briskle’s face was like stone, but still Yuthran put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. He did not feel foolish for the gesture, or his tears. They had no choice, but sometimes compassion has its price.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
That night they camped in peace, the first night they had not been beset by the howling of the bayers.
Tirielle knew, as did the others, at what cost that peace had been bought. Necessary, but saddening just the same.
Still, she did not feel safe, and found sleep elusive, even though her companions slept soundly. With so many hunters searching the woods behind them she imagined all too easily a sneaking sword finding its way into her ribs as she slept. The Protectorate had no horses, for a horse would not bear one, but they were tireless, and this new force, these red cloaked warriors, they were something she did not understand. That they could kill one of the Sard…she had thought the paladins invincible, perhaps even immortal. Her illusions were shattered, and whatever fleeting comfort she took from their presence was fading with the fire by her feet.
She pulled the cloak about her, and read one more time by the faint light of their small fire.
When the suns sing their child home, when the revenant’s heart beats once more within its breast, the time will come. Within the mountain of fire the beast has slept for a thousand years, yet its fire will come again. See the darkening skies, furious with its breath. What was once white will become black. Seas will rise and life will take its final gasp before the return. Only the three can lay the beast to rest, but in the final days hope will die and the suns will burn with shame no longer.
Her heart beat faster in her own breast. It was with luck that but a few paragraphs had been lost to the fire — most remained intact.
She laid the vellum on the table and wiped her eyes. It was not comfortable reading, however fortuitous the discovery had been. Whatever they did, whatever they were supposed to achieve, it would avail them nothing. Rythe would be destroyed, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
Hope would die. Yet there must be a purpose for the three, for her and the two she had never met, toiling in a distant land, searching for a wisp of light within the growing darkness. A sacrifice, herself, and a saviour, the man called Shorn. A watcher. Perhaps Drun was only meant to observe the ending of their world. What point, then, in their actions?
But the Seer told her hope could not die. At least they had a starting place. She could not afford despair. To lie down and die was not her way. She would fight her fate, as she always had. Together, with her guardians at her side, she would find a way. Now they knew where the wizard rested — in the mountain of fire — a volcano. Dormant, no doubt, but it would wake with the wizard. It would cover the world in fire and ash. She had read the histories, and knew that while the world darkened when a volcano erupted, it brightened once more.
She read the next passage slowly, as she had the night she found the scroll.
Three to come, three to slay the beast, three to wake the wizard from his slumber. His time will come again. Only the wizard is eternal. Blooded in the banishment, he will rend the world asunder. The mountain of fire will fear his coming, the suns will call to him and quiver in the skies.
Fear the wizard. Only he can bring hope afresh, and with it only death can come.
What man — for surely the author could only be a man, could imagine anyone would want to wake the wizard, after reading his prophesies? It was foolish. If waking the wizard was the only way to save Rythe, surely it would have been more prudent to call him the saviour, and extol his virtues. Not this…doom.
Hope would die…the world would be torn…the suns themselves feeling shame? What nonsense was this? Poetic licence, she hoped. If it was all hopeless, if one was as bad as the other, then what was the point? She could not believe that. She needed to believe there was a purpose to their quest, a chance to destroy the Protectorate. With the wizard on their side they could do it. Who else but a being of such power could work such a miracle, and save her land?
Following the work was a map, and it was this which Tirielle studied now. A key showed the direction of the suns, and an opening, a natural cave leading to the bowels of the volcano. She thought she could find the entrance. It looked simple enough, although from what she knew of ice — in Lianthre it was a rarity, even in winter — it grew with time. The mountains north of Lianthre were often peaked with snow and there were lakes of ice in the crevasses and on the plateaus. It shifted. She had studied geography, and knew from the maps that the landscape changed over hundreds of years. In a land of ice structures could be torn down, shifted and even rock could crumble.
But she knew where to look. At the thought of finding the wizard, her heart tripped. It was not to be as joyous an occasion as she had hoped, but fearful and uncertain.
But what choice?
She did not feel sleepy in the slightest. Beside her the Seer slept soundly. Even Roth was tired from their flight. But there was so much to worry over. The end of the journey was looking no more attractive than the beginning.
She looked at the map again. Now she knew what to expect, where to find the mountain, and how to enter it.
All that remained was to travel thousands of miles before they were captured, tortured and killed.
She smiled at last. The whole thing was folly. But she watched j’ark’s frowning features as he slept, and she felt unreasonable happiness, if only for a moment. She put her head on the hard earth, head turned to one side to look at the warrior. Eventually her eyes closed, her mind shut down, and left worry behind for tomorrow.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Morning broke, and Tirielle at last found a moment to catch Roth before it ran on ahead, scouting before them for patrols or any other unwanted company. Soon, they would be at Arram.
“Roth, we must talk a moment,” she said urgently before it could leave.
“I have but a moment, Tirielle. I must scout, and I hunger. I need to eat.”
Tirielle felt somewhat embarrassed at the thought of the giant rahken hunting, and did not wish to know what it ate.
“I won’t keep you but a moment. The scroll tells of a joining of the rahken nation and the last wizard, of a time before, and age pa
ssed when man and rahken were allies…I must know what you know, Roth. The time for secrets is ended. To piece together the story, to know what lies in store for all of us, I must know what came before.
“I would have you tell me what your mother told you.”
“I cannot tell!”
“You must!” she said with fervour. “We stumble blindly, and you know something…”
“Some secrets must be kept.”
“Not between friends.”
Roth sighed, shrugging its massive shoulders and somehow looking sheepish — or at least like the wolf that had eaten the sheep.
“There is much I cannot tell. It is an archaic tale, handed down through time. It is our history, but much is forgotten, even among the rahken nation. I do not know the long of it, but once, long ago, the rahkens and one known as the red wizard joined their magic and banished the old ones, the Sun Destroyers. How it was achieved, or even if it is true or just a myth, I do not know.
“Once, man and rahken were allies, and then the Hierarchy rose to power. How they took the mantle of power I do not know, either, but somewhere in time man lost the ability to weave the threads of magic. That is not rahken history. We keep no record of the history of man, aside from that which joins with the tapestry of our own.”
“I read much during my time in the library. Poetry and myths, histories dry and ancient. Some of the language is redolent of a gentler time. Under the surface though, the language evokes a feeling of despair. There is no comedy. There is no romance. And yet many times I read passionate works, and they were of a time when the rahkens walked among men. What came to pass to break that friendship? I saw a statue in Beheth, a monument to a rahken. It is long forgotten, the gifts your race gave to mine. What caused the breaking?”
Roth looked away.
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