Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (13 page)

Then, before Wen’s extraordinary eyes, something remarkable happened. The glamour passed, whatever spell had granted the illusion fading. The man became taller, his clothing changing to the black of the assassin. His hair lengthened. His face became narrow, with a hooked nose, and an inhumanly pale face. Pure magic, in some ways a learned trick, like Wen’s tricks, but for one subtle difference. Wen’s ability was talent. This was magic.

Wen waited to see what would happen next. Shorn’s sword sung from within its scabbard. But Shorn did not wake.

Wen waited for the perfect moment. The owner of the tavern drew a short blade from his belt, and advanced toward Shorn.

His attention turned, expecting no threat, the man let out a startled cry as Wen’s bare foot connected with his knee. But instead of crumpling to the floor with a broken knee, as Wen had intended, the assassin turned and slashed with the blade. Wen took no chances. He smashed the edge of one rock hard hand into the assassin’s throat, blocking the assassin’s knife arm with his free hand.

This time the man fell to the floor. Still, Shorn did not stir. As Wen struck a match and lit a candle on the table between his and Shorn’s beds, Wen swore softly. The man’s face looked far from human in the flickering light.

He was a Protocrat.

Wen ran to the other rooms to check everyone, but they were sleeping comfortably. The prickle of danger he had felt earlier was gone. He relaxed, and tried to shake the men awake.

Not one of them stirred.

No doubt a drugged sleep, he thought. Something in the drink. Their breath all smelled rank, and he did not recognise the poison. There was nothing he could do about that. With any luck, they would wake with no ill effects but a sore head in the morning. They were safe for the time being.

One by one, Wen carried them into one room, and stood guard for the remainder of the night.

He did not expect more than one assassin – it was the way of most assassins to work alone. But this was the work of the Protectorate. It did not pay to be careless, or make assumptions, when dealing with an inhuman race. One could not presume to know such an alien mind.

He prodded the inert body on the floor, just to make sure it was dead, and sat with his back against the wall. He studied it for a moment, searching the body. The blade was tipped with some purple fluid – they liked to make sure. Wen did not understand why they did not come in force, but snuck about in the
dead of night. Surely there were
enough of them to come in force. He knew as well as Shorn that they could travel on the air, that they could send an army in an instant.

He found no clues on the body of the assassin. There was a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, which was unusual, but the mark, of a scroll, did not help at all. He did not know what it signified, and what he did not understand he did not waste time chasing.

He slid the dagger safely under one of the beds – he would dispose of it in the morning.

Then, tiredness creeping up on him, he tried to find a comfortable position against the wall. It was hard, and cold.

Four drugged men’s snoring filled the air.

It would be a long night.

*

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the morning Renir was deeply, unpleasantly, surprised to wake and find Wen’s unsightly face peering down at him.

He started and scuttled back, to find that he was sleeping on the floor. He looked around and found the others looking down at him.

“Glad you’re awake, Renir. Feel rested?”

Renir took a moment to take stock. His feet were frozen – he had taken his boots off to go to sleep. His mouth felt like someone else had vomited in
it.
It was not a pleasant feeling. Then his head began to pound like he had the worst hangover in the history of drinking. Spikes of pain drove into his head, and he found that he was dribbling. He groaned and lay back on the floor.

“No,” said Renir, turning his pounding head to look at the rest his friends, and the alien body on the floor by his feet, “my head feels like an arena full of blood.”

“You were drugged. This,” Wen said, kicking the body with a calloused toe, “was to be our murderer.”

“What happened?”

“I
can only surmise that your drink was poisoned. I didn’t drink or eat
. Luckily, I came back in time. But it is irrelevant. If the Protectorate can find us here, there is no more time to dally. We ride now.”

Renir nodded. He pushed himself to his feet. He waited for the nausea to pass, then kicked the Bear in the ribs.

After some explaining, and a few shaky starts, they packed and made their way to the bar. There were a couple of fishermen milling about, expecting their breakfast. They all looked slightly bemused, waiting for the owner to turn up.

None of the men thought to tell them he was no doubt already dead, probably dumped in his own cellar.

They strode outside, loaded up their horses, and were on their way before Dow breached the sea. When they were well clear of the village, Renir leant over Thud’s side and vomited heartily.

“I don’t suppose there’s time for breakfast?” said Bourninund with a grin. “We’ve got some green cheese left, and a hunk of greener bread…”

Renir spat the taste clear of his mouth. “I’d rather kiss you.”

“Not with that mouth, thanks,” Bourninund replied.

“I think we’ll all get along better on this journey if you two avoid the temptation to become romantically inclined,” said Drun.

Shorn and Wen laughed together.

Renir grumbled the rest of the day, but, he thought, if Wen could laugh, perhaps there was hope for him yet.

*

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The horses thundered north for the best part of a week.

They camped only at night, and did not break for midday. There was little by the way of forage. It was mainly plains, so they ate a few rare mushrooms and even risked some mouldy bread. Renir wasn’t used to such hardships, and his stomach protested vociferously most of the next day. The others had, evidently, eaten worse before.

They all felt the urgency of their quest again. Only when the reached the Seafarer’s boats would they be safe from the Protectorate, and then, only for a brief time. Any respite from the hunt was welcome.

How the assassin had found them when Drun was there to shield them was a mystery that for the time being would have to remain unsolved. They fled as fast as they could. Each man’s horse
was fresh. They made good time.
Renir’s behind was even getting used to the riding. He had been sore for a couple of days, but his body could take most hardships now. It was the haunting, he knew, but apparently it didn’t protect his insides, only healed wounds. His stomach felt tender all the time.

His axe bumped against his back as he rode. Bourninund drew up beside him. He brought out a handful of seeds and, amazingly, some jerked meat.

“Want some?” he asked with a grin.

“Of course I do!” replied Renir. Then, suspicion dawning, he added, “If you had food, why did we eat that bread?”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it if I’d given you these first, would you?”

“Brindle’s goat, man, I was sick for a day afterwards!”

“Good for you, old bread,” said Bourninund with a sly smile. “Clears you out.”

He handed some seeds to Renir, who took them without thanks. “I’ll remember that next time you
’
r
e
hungry.”

“Don’t be sore. We all ate the bread. It just takes some getting used to, travelling rations.”

Wen drew aside, reining in his horse.

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Never mind, though. There will be food aplenty where we’re going.”

“I hope so,” said Renir.

“I’ve had worse, anyway. Eventually, you’ll eat anything.”

“I’ll leave you two to it. Here, have some seeds.”

Wen took a handful with his thanks, and Renir geed Thud into a trot.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the two men rode side by side. Renir struggled to say something to fill the quiet. He thought Wen probably wasn’t as worried about it as he was.

Eventually, after some miles had passed, Renir gave in.

“What’s your story then?”

Wen grunted. “I sense morality within you boy, but yours is not yet…advanced enough to deal with my tale. We’ll save it for another day, eh?”

“Shorn says you smoke the Seer’s grass.”

Wen looked at Renir through a grey eyebrow. “Does he now? And what is it to you?”

“Will you smoke for the Protocrat?”

“Aye, I will. As I always do.”

Renir’s wisdom was different to the usual kind. His was more the kind that children possess.

“What happens when you smoke?”

Wen sighed. “You’re a straightforward man, at least, Renir. I’ll give you that much.”

”Well, I thank you, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Very we
ll,” said Wen. “Whenever I kill
someone, I smoke the Seer’s grass. I commune with their soul. Trust me when I say I’ve never had a good trip. My victims are never happy to see me.”

“Why would you do that?” said Renir. He thought about what to say next, but in the end just said what he wanted to anyway. “If you see dead people all the time, doesn’t that make you just a little, well, insane?”

“One day, perhaps, you can coax me back to sanity,” said Wen. Seeing Renir’s surprise at this statement, Wen laughed.

“Ah, look at you all – too frightened to say so – you all suspect my mind is ailing, but you’re all too proud,” at this he looked at Drun’s back, “he’s too polite or too wary to say so. So I’ll say it for you. I border the gates every day. But I’m not yet too far gone. I may be insane, but it’s out of choice, so I’ll ask you not to judge me for it. We all have our own brand of insanity, do we not?”

Renir decided it was time to practise ‘magnanimous’, which he had once read about in a book.
“You’re right, of course. Which of us can truly say we are not a little touched? Forgive me, Wen. I have judged you harshly.”

Wen acknowledged this with a dip of his head. “You do yourself justice, Renir.”

Renir smiled a little. He felt they had achieved an understanding. The rest of his friends had probably already got there, but Renir was not a priest, or a warrior. Perhaps, for such a simple man, his trust came at a higher price.

*

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Klan Mard blew smoke away from the fire. The smoke swirled lazily on the white air, curling branches fleeing a burning tree. The rare rock below the unnatural fire glowed harshly within the white fields of Teryithyr. Slowly, Klan reached into the fire and retrieved a burning coal, brought across the seas with hi
s men from the mines at Kulthor
. He watched in quiet fascination as his flesh charred around the coal. The light from the fire and his own bright red eyes lit the night, but Pernant Noom could see no pain on his master’s terrible face. He stood to attention still, even though the Anamnesor’s mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t unheard of for Klan Mard’s mind to be in two places at once.

The coal rose from Klan’s hand to float, gently rotating, in the air. He pulled his hand from underneath it. It stayed where it was. Noom watched with his jaw hanging open as Klan licked his burnt palm, and held it up for Noom to see. The smile of pleasure on Klan’s face was more terrible than the fact that the wound was healed.

Noom swallowed.

“The Seer’s grass, Pernant,” ordered Klan, holding out his undamaged hand.