Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (5 page)

BOOK: Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)
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There is a certain clarity that comes at the moment of your own death, Shorn realised. Never had he felt such a sharpening of the senses as he felt looking at his old master. That clarity never came when he had killed. In battle, before, time seemed to speed. A battle that lasted for hours passed in a daze, senses taking in each important detail, and discarding the rest. To note the cut of a man’s beard, or the colour of his eyes, when a blade was thrust toward your chest…well, you would merely become an observant corpse.

Faerblane clutched lightly in his right hand, he noted Wen Gossar’s eyes first. They were shot through with crazed lines of blood. The width of shoulder had not changed, but the weapons’ master no longer stood proud. The intervening years since he had last seen the man had not been kind. He wore a tattered robe over a leather breastplate, robe and leather worn thin with time. The man himself slumped, his head thrown forward with the ravages of age, staring at a painful angle toward his pupil. Thick hands, scarred and calloused with bruising knuckles, held Faerblane’s brother, the Cruor Bract.

Memories flooded through Shorn’s heightened mind. The past and present merged into one. He remembered his last meeting, a stronger, faster Wen, smashing his ruby encrusted blade into Shorn’s nose, his vision blackening as the weapons’ master turned his back on his student, leaving him for dead, not even worthy of a finishing thrust to the neck. That last sight of the man was etched into Shorn’s memory. The broad back turning away from him as darkness fell and he succumbed to the lure of insensibility.

The man before him was a mere shadow of that man. And yet, why did Shorn see everything with such clarity?

The mercenary raised his sword.

Wen’s head glistened with sweat despite the chill. Shorn saw that the old man’s hand trembled slightly as he raised his own sword in salute. He was not fooled though. The old man’s dark forearms were still powerful.

He did not run. The swords had waited so long that there was something leisurely in their meeting. It w
as as though they savoured their
first contact, took pleasure in the moment of joining.

Wen’s sword, held high over his head, shone red along the blade, Where once a thousand tiny rubies had glinted red along the edge, only a few remained. The rubies were wearing thin. Legend had it that the rubies would wear down and the blood of the slain would rest in their place, crusted between the shards until they too broke away. The sword was designed never to be broken, never to be sharpened. No one knew who made it, or why they chose such an exquisite edge, but legend also said when the row of gems was gone that edge would blunt, and that Cruor Bract would cut no more. That time, Shorn observed sadly as he took his own fighting stance, was not yet. The few rubies remaining caught the high sun’s glare and turned it aside, prisms on a sword created from light.

Shorn’s held onto sound, a chime that sung in the presence of magic. Its song rose as Wen neared.

Shorn looked through sharp and weathered eyes, taking the measure of the man. He shook, and stumbled forward. He was sick, and yet Shorn felt his death, finally, approaching. Perhaps Wen himself was waiting for the day that peace came and his sword could retire itself.

Wen screamed. The sword fell and suddenly the old man revealed his true nature. Shivers travelled up Shorn’s arm at the power of the blow. He turned Cruor Bract aside and spun on his leg, strong enough to support him now, whirling his sword in his good hand. Wen was already facing him, and seemingly without a space in between thought and action the swords clashed once more. The old man was gone, whatever ailed his old master forgotten as the blood cry of battle rose. The swords rose and fell, one shining in the light, one singing boldly, its song loud enough to cover the screaming wind.

As one, almost choreographed, the swords danced through the air. The warriors’ feet shuffled, lunged and leapt. The two men created a spinning, whirring blaze of energy, swords never leaving each other for long, as though they had missed each other so strongly that they could not bear to part.

Slashing a high cut at Shorn’s neck, Wen grunted with effort. He often left himself open, Shorn recalled, but struck with such power that there was no opportunity to return a strike with equal fervour. Under such an onslaught it was all Shorn could do to stay alive, turning the blade aside when he was able, blocking with all his strength when he had no choice.

Wen must be well into his winter years by now, old even when he had tutored Shorn in the way of the sword, but his power and speed had not abated. Each time Shorn’s sword found its way through Wen’s guard, the old man was not there, or his sword travelled to cover a gap so swiftly that Shorn often thought the man was immortal, or protected by the gods themselves.

The years had not changed him. He was bowed outside of the battle, but when his blood was up, he was faster than ever.

Shorn felt his hope diminish. His leg tired, and his left arm more than once failed to grip his sword. He was reduced to using one hand on his sword when he was able, his brace blocking blows when he could not bring Faerblane to bear in time. The sword’s song rose, and Wen seemed distracted – for anyone else, it would have been fatal under Shorn’s counter attack, but again the ruby blade met its brother, but this time a ruby careened from the edge of Wen’s sword, leaving only thirteen – Shorn was amazed at this clarity of sight that was upon him. He was faster than he ever had been, and he understood now that only being at the edge of death granted him this remarkable perception. He had never been so close before. He had not needed it all these years, travelling from one battle to the next, fighting as though asleep.

Finally, he was awake.

He renewed his energy, and willed the pain of his burning limbs away. He attacked, and was rewarded with more rubies falling from his master’s sword.

Wen overreached, and Shorn took his chance, slicing the blade along his left arm across the bald head of the weapons’ master, bringing forth a bright line of red, but realising in the same moment it had been but a feint as he felt a bright explosion of fire along his ribs. Catching the flat of the sword inside his arm he flung his head forward and was rewarded with a crack as his forehead broke Wen’s nose. Wen swept Shorn’s leg at the same moment, and Shorn fell, releasing Wen’s sword which rose and fell with such speed that Shorn could only shift his weight in time to feel the wind parting beside his cheek. He kicked out, connecting with the old man’s knee, at the same moment slicing another ruby from the red blade. Flicking himself backward he landed on his feet, sword at the ready once more. His breath was coming in laboured gasps, but then so was Wen’s. He dared not think Wen spent, though. Instead of allowing either of them respite, the swords met once more.

And another ruby fell.

But two rubies left now, Shorn saw through preternaturally sharp eyes. He blocked close to his head, guile now his only weapon, allowing Wen to think his energy spent, and at the last moment swung his crippled arm into the sword, knocking the penultimate ruby free, and at that instant finding the guard with the flat of his sword, pulling the blade free from Wen’s grip.

There was a moment, while the sword flew through the air, that Shorn could have killed Wen. But instead, he stepped back. He was expecting Wen to look confused, or resigned, but no emotion entered the old man’s eyes. Instead, they looked hazed, as if he was seeing something else. Then, as the song of swords faded, the weapons’ master raised his hands in supplication.

“I am well pleased with you, my student, as are the spirits of your slain. You may yet be their avatar.”

Wen smiled as Shorn collapsed in exhaustion to his knees.

Behind him, the Cruor Bract quivered in the rock…but one ruby remained.

 

*

 

Chapter Seven

 

My friends,

 

I must leave, but trust that I will return. I have never been a man to shirk painful duties, and for me to meet my fate, I must first do this. I go to a place where none can follow. I would continue this journey with a fresh heart. I sense ahead lies sorrow, heavy enough for any man’s heart, but perhaps too heavy for mine, burdened as it already is.

Drun, please do not follow me upon the winds, or the suns, or however it is that your soul travels. I alone can see our way forward. This is my past, my memory, and it is personal to me. Please respect that. I feel I have earned at least that much trust.

Renir, I would ask that you use this time wisely. Our road together is not yet ended, and it will no doubt get harder still. Trust in Bourninund’s skill with arms. Learn all that he has to teach you. It will stand you in good stead. While we may not be able to win all our battles with force of arms, if I have learned one thing it is that a strong sword sways many arguments. Or, in your case, a strong axe. Learn well.

Bourninund, I am trusting Renir’s continuing education to you. I know I can rely on you, old friend.

To you all, I say this. When the summer is at its height, be ready. Time will be short, and we will need swift mounts. As Drun often says, you make your own time. It is true of so many things in life. I am making time for us now.

Gods willing, we will be leaving these shores before summer falls.

 

Shorn.

 

Renir refolded the letter along its well worn creases and slipped it
into the pocket of his trousers
.

No matter how many times he read the letter, he could not see the sense in Shorn’s words. They were brothers on the road. It was folly to split, especially now, when they were so close to their goal. Surely, with war rising in the west and south, and against other adversaries who were able to wield uncanny magic, they would be stronger together. There was nothing that could be personal, not on this quest. Admittedly, Renir’s experience of quests generally involved shopping, and avoiding Hertha.

The thought of Hertha sent a swift ache through his heart, but the feeling was fleeting. His grief was largely past, although Renir was wise enough to know that grief never vanished, it just became part of you, like whiskers, or a well-worn callous.

The morning air was ripe with the corruption of the city, but, Renir realised, he barely noticed the stench of rotting food and sewage anymore. It had become merely a background irritation. He took a deep breath and willed his mind onto matters present.

Never mind the future, or the past, he cautioned himself. Look after this moment, and it may pass on to the next. To fail in such a simple task could mean his death on this journey. For now, he would practise once more the art of war. He knew nothing of leadership, or tactics, but he was determined to become a soldier of some merit. Too many times already had he been found wanting. When he was called upon to wield his mighty axe again, Haertjuge would not be shamed with defeat.

He drew his axe and began his warming routine. Bourninund would be along soon (with a sore head, no doubt) and when facing the wily mercenary Renir had found it beneficial to remain supple. The old warrior had a knack for drawing on Renir’s reserves of strength, energy and skill. Slowly, as if fighting underwater, Renir drew his axe in the patterns Bourninund had taught him. He moved his feet smoothly along the worn boards, the quiet broken by an occasional stamp as he lunged and spun on every fifth stroke, the only time he created any sound above a whisper. At the seventy-fifth stroke, he had worked up a decent sweat. He sheathed his axe, then gently stretched his muscles, each in turn, working up from his calves to his neck. The muscles stood out on his neck now, a sign of his growing strength. He wiped the sweat from his brow when he was finished, and took a break.

Which, typically, was the moment Bourninund chose to enter through the barn door.

He eyed Renir suspiciously, but noted the darkening patches under the arms of Renir’s threadbare shirt, and said nothing. He was armed as always with his two short swords.

“Morning, lad,” said the old mercenary in greeting.

“Morning, Boar, late night?” enquired Renir solicitously. The wiry mercenary had a glazed look to his eyes, and he had failed to button his britches. “Forgot to sheath your sword this morning, I see.”

Bourninund felt his crotch gingerly and buttoned up swiftly with his gnarled fingers. The man was old, and had bumps and lumps upon scars and calluses, but somehow, despite the physical evidence, he seemed to manage a rendezvous with his large lady friend, the proprietor of the Upright Horseshoe, the coach tavern where they had stayed for the last month, each night.

BOOK: Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)
11.64Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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