Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (7 page)

“I think that’s quite enough information for the time being, thank you. I’m but a young man, Boar. Such knowledge could scar me for life.”

“Just trying to educate you in the ways of life, lad. There’s more to being a warrior than swordplay. Got to take a little entertainment between times. Let off a bit of steam.”

Renir had nothing to say to that. They both stared thoughtfully into their mugs, and set to drinking. It was better than staring at the walls.

Both thought of women. Renir’s cackled insanely, scrapping blackened nails along his spine in his sleep. Bourninund’s were merely fat.

In many respects, the Boar
was the simpler of the two.

*

Chapter Nine

Drun Sard sat carefully stroking his greying beard. The grey was steadily winning the battle against the black, although a few patches stubbornly continued to fight. His skin was tanned leather, from more years under the suns and sea air than he cared to remember. His eyes were pale yellow, and as he stared at Carious sailing across the sky they seemed to match its glow. He wore a robe with a certain degree of surprise. He had spent so many years naked that clothing felt like a stranger’s touch on his skin.

Two old men, two young. One of those off on some fool errand yet again. It seemed Shorn was determined to kill himself. Despite Shorn’s request that Drun not look for him, Drun had not been able to resist the temptation. He had seen the approach of the mercenary’s old teacher. He could watch no more. Each man had to fight his own battles, and Shorn would never have forgiven him had he intervened. Shorn might die, he might not. Fate was not for Drun to decide. He merely guided, sometimes advised. He never pushed. He considered himself a priest of the sun, and he, like they, influenced from afar. Sometimes they scolded, come the spring they teased new shoots from the frozen earth, but mostly they watched from the sky and let matters take their course.

That was Drun’s view of Rythe’s twin suns. It was a view held by all of the Sard, but in many respects they were wrong. The suns were far from benign. They had their own plans, just as powerful as that of any other god. The only difference between Carious and Dow and the gods of Rythe was that when you looked up and called to them, they saw. All gods but the suns were blind and deaf. Many had worshipped the suns over time. They called for the summer, and a good harvest. They prayed for an end to the long winter, for clear skies above their fishing boats. Carious and Dow were unusual. They listened. They granted prayers. They were useful gods.

But even a sun, even a god, is not all powerful. Gods know fear. Gods end. Gods need believers. Believers don’t need gods.

To Drun, who thought he knew the will of his gods, such knowledge would have unmanned him. It is better that people believe their gods are immortal. It gives them hope. Often, it is the only precious thing people possess.

Drun didn’t pray. Shorn would return, or he wouldn’t. In many ways, Drun knew Shorn better than the mercenary knew himself. He had been watching him for many years. After all, that was who Drun was. He was the watcher. Tirielle was the first, the Sacrifice. Shorn was the second, the Saviour. Drun made up the triangle. Together they would wake the
last
wizard.

That day seemed such a long way off. The priest did not know how long remained. He did not know too much.

From his perch upon the flat roof of the coach house he could see the suns, twins lighting the way across the sea in the distance. He hoped it was bright enough. Below him shambolic residences of rotting wood sank into the loam. The middens outside squelched up to meet the tin pot patched roofs.

The dirty streets of the poor quarter turned to dust with each gust of wind. A dog yipped, the sad sound of a pauper’s dog. It was a dry day, the kind of day when backstreet sounds carried on the scorching wind. Even the few streets that were cobbled would thin with time were it not for the effluent of the beggars and starving lice.

It was not a beautiful city. Drun knew it had been a capital once. Now, it was just a sad remnant. Still, all the cities of this continent that Drun had visited were in a similar state of repair. Once, a millennium ago, Sturma had had kings, and cathedrals, and sprawling cities. That age had long passed. It was a new age. An age for warriors and beggars, for cutthroats and mercenaries. The only law was that of the blade, the only religions were those that needed no church.

Drun wondered what they were truly fighting for. What, in the end, would they win?

He turned his gaze back to the sun and cleared his mind of such thoughts.
Inhaling deeply, he held his breath and lay back, opening his mind to the Carious’ touch, his god. Carious granted Drun certain gifts. It was not magic, more a question of faith.

Blackness cramped his vision at the edges as his body struggled for breath, but he did not give in. It was unnatural to starve a body of air so long, but through long years of practise, Drun had managed it. He knew his body would breathe for itself, once his will had left his body.

Darkness was absolute for an instant, that moment where the soul flees the body and nothing exists – no afterlife, no desires, no memories. Then, a blinding light intruding into his soul, the emergence of thought and remembrance. His soul flew free of his body, and he took a moment to stare down at the prostrate form. Breathe hitched in the old body’s throat, and his chest began to move. With a strange sense of detachment he noted that it was a body that had seen too many summers. The clothes were ill-fitting, the hair too long. But did such things matter?

Freed of the shell, Drun did not think so. There was only ever a passing sadness as he flew free, seeing his body age so, knowing that one day it would all end, and that he would take his final flight. But that day had not yet come. For now, he surrendered himself to the joy of freedom, and flew upon the suns’ rays, gliding, increasingly swiftly, across the sea. Soon, he lost sight of land behind him, and travelled to where the pull was strongest. There was a time, unreal time, which he was unable to judge, where there was nothing but the sea and the sun. Drun knew he passed thousands of miles of ocean. But he travelled faster when called, when there was an anchor to bring him back to earth. Communion was hard, but the joy of the flight, the sun shining clearly through his soul, that was worth it, every time.

Land appeared below him, and his flight slowed. Travel was always quicker over sea, with the light of the sun reflected from below by the shimmering water.

Slowed, he took in the sights. This was Lianthre, a thousand miles of sea separating this continent from his body in Sturma. It was vast beyond imagining. Sturma could be travelled in a few months on horse back. Drun did not know how long it would take to travel shore to shore on Lianthre. A year, perhaps longer. He was thankful in this time of urgency that he could achieve such distances in mere hours.

The pull was stronger now, and he let himself be drawn toward the circle.

Within moments he was before his brothers. A circle of nine paladins, resplendent in shimmering armour, aglow in the slowly setting sun, were seated upon their heels. Nine swords rested beside them, plain but well kept. As he sank lower, the yellow light of their eyes could be seen. Those eyes twinkled in welcome, but Drun sensed the sadness that ruled them, the weight of their duty bearing heavily on their broad shoulders. He had a fleeting moment when he found himself wishing that they could be together once again, to lend each other strength and light before the darkness could close in all around them. But time was short. Dow was already sinking, and a darkness blacker than mere night was closing with each passing day.

The leader of the nine, Quintal, bowed his head at the ethereal form of their priest, and smiled his greeting.

“Brothers, the sun sets and yet there is so much more to do. Time is closing in. I must be brief.

“Soon, the Saviour will lead us to Teryithyr where we must all meet again. The journey will be long, but I fear that yours will be longer. I see the blooded path before us, but we must not waver. Be guided by the Sacrifice – she will bring you to me. If we beat the Protectorate to our goal or not, I cannot foresee. But our future is decided. We will meet on far shores, but we will not be whole again. Before I leave, understand that I cannot know which of us will fall. By Carious’ grace, if the sun still shines on Rythe, we will meet again. Follow her, my brothers, for there is no other way. Trust in her, and we will be together again. It has been too long since we were last whole. I would embrace you all again, but for those that go into the light, I love you all as I love the sun. We will prevail, even as we fall.”

The light faded, but not before Drun saw what he had hoped for in his brother’s eyes.

Not fear, but resolution.

And as suddenly as he had come, Drun was snapped back on the last of the suns light, to tumble across the wide sea, to where his body waited. With a cry he slammed into his recumbent body, and felt all his aches in every limb, felt the pain in his stomach that had plagued him for months now. Lastly, before he wept, he felt the crushing sadness at the deaths to come. He said his goodbyes to his brothers.

Wiping his eyes and cursing himself for a fool, Drun rose to his feet shakily and made his way down the stairs to his friends. He could use a drink. 

*

Chapter Ten

j’ark was the first to break the circle. As always, he rose before taking his sword. Silently, Quintal, the leader and the oldest member of the Sard, laughed at his companion. j’ark strove so hard to be an outsider, and yet he would gladly die for his friends and brothers.

Sadly, Quintal thought, our number will soon become smaller. Who would it be? He took the time to look into each of his brothers faces. Carth, the silent warrior, mighty as an Oak, and just as immovable. Briskle, whose face was hidden behind the helm he always wore, or his translator Yuthran, the two of whom were inseparable. Cenphalph, perhaps, or Disper, with his sad moustache, Typraille, with his quick wit and fearless soul. Would it be Unthor, a solid warrior, but would his troubled soul fail him at the last? Quintal would miss his council, should it be so.

It could even be him. His years were drawing to a close anyway. Maybe it would be a kindness, before his strength of arm and speed of eye failed him. He would not be sad to go, but he had his duty, as did they all. They would see it through, until the end, or their end.

He pushed himself up easily, taking sword as he rose. The remaining Sard rose with him, and as one they sheathed their swords and donned their cloaks.

Quintal followed j’ark to the shore of the lake.

“It seems there is little time.”

“No, it draws to a close,” replied j’ark, sighing wistfully. “It has been a long road already.”

“We must be steady. How is your resolve, my friend?”

“You question my heart?”

“Not yo
ur bravery, j’ark, never that. But, yes, i
t is your heart that seems to be in question.”

j’ark turned and caught sight of Tirielle. Quintal saw the sadness in his friend’s eyes and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It is difficult sometimes, this life. We leave so much behind.”

“But,” j’ark sighed, “there are rewards, too.”

“Not many,” Quintal admitted. “We kill in the name of good. We leave love behind, and bodies in our wake. All in the name of Carious and Dow. But we must be strong. Most men don’t need killing, but there’s no other answer for some. Most evil, some insane. Occasionally comes along a good man with a bad blade. Through no fault of his own, death will spring. His goods works might outweigh the bad but then it’s down to you to make that choice – the greater good. Do you believe there is such a thing j’ark?”

j’ark looked around their camp, taking in the small fire, with the evening’s catch roasting, the warriors, all fine and staunch companions. He knew he would die for them. Worse, he knew he would kill for them, too.

“I believe in the greater good. Sometimes, though, I just don’t know what it is.”

“This world is protected by the twin sentinels of light and hope – Carious and Dow. It is from them that we get our strength. You know their will.”

“Once I knew,” said j’ark, nodding to the sky. “But it is dark now.”

Quintal nodded sadly. “And darkness yet to come.”