Текст книги "Tides of Rythe"

Автор книги: Craig Saunders

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Sixty-Three

Wen kept his iron grip on the rail, but Drun seemed not bothered in the slightest by the shifting deck underneath his feet. His feet were still bare.

“Not had time to get boots? You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll pick some up when we get there. I’m sure we’ll meet someone with a pair of boots that will fit.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It stands to reason. The Protectorate have been seeking to obstruct us, searching for us. They know of the wizard, I am sure of it, and they hunt him, too. I think it obvious that they will find us at some point. There are too few places to make landfall in Teryithyr – the coast is mainly cliffs of ice. They may not be able to see us with their magics, but commonsense tells them we must make landfall somewhere, and all they have to do is wait for us. I fear our passage will not be as easy as it has been to date.”

“Then we will be ready when we land.”

“It may not be enough. I doubt it will be a few warriors. I think they will have mages with them. I am able to do a little magic myself, but I rely on the sun to give me my power – it is sorely muted in a storm, or at night. I will be little use.”

“No different to fighting mages anywhere. Kill them first.”

“You’ve fought spellcasters before? Protocrat wizards?”

“No, wizards in my land. If you can get to them, they die by the blade same as anyone else.”

“Getting to them is the trick.”

“Sure it is. Easier with the bow than the sword, but a bow’s useless in a close fight. What we need is an army.”

“I fear we will have to make do with what we have. We have little to work with, but we have no army. This journey is not about power, but about stealth. If we can make landfall, we can follow their hunters into the wild. An army could not sneak up on them, even if we had one.”

“I wasn’t serious. I’m not expecting that we have an army.”

“Perhaps one day we will. But not this day. First, we find the wizard.”

“You think we can find him? In the wastes?”

“My brothers will worry about that end of it. They will tell us where he lies. All we have to do is find the Protocrats and follow them. There will be a way. It has been prophesied since before the dawn of time, since the rending and remaking of this world. You can’t argue with that,” said Drun with a wry grin.

“Don’t place too much import on prophesy, priest. There’s plenty of ways for fate to turn us wrong. Nothing in this world is guaranteed.”

“Perhaps not, but what can we do but try?”

Shorn shouted at them over the howling wind.

Wen nodded to Drun, and they both made their way to the prow.

“We’re nearing land!” he shouted.

“How do you know?”

“I can feel the approaching land,” said Orosh. “I feel the shallows of the sea, like a constriction in my chest. It is the curse.”

“How long?” asked Drun.

“Hard to tell. An hour, maybe less. We have to slow, or the waves will break us against the cliffs. We head for Jagged Cove. If the storm permits…”

“Let’s hope it does,” said Drun. “I think we need to be ready when we land, and warm. Wake the others, and suit up. It’s dangerous at sea, but don what armour you have and make your weapons ready. I trust the seafarers to land us safely – I do not trust the Protectorate to allow us safely to shore.”

Wen grunted and walked to Renir and Bourninund, whom he nudged, not unkindly, in turn.

Both men came to with a start.

“It’s nearly time. Get your armour on, Renir. Bourninund, be ready. We’re expecting a warm welcome when we land.”

Renir roused himself and pulled the sheet from their packs. They would have to fight with their packs on. He slowly pulled on his breastplate with his numb hands, buckled it with some effort. Then he slid on his greaves, only buckling his bracers at the last minute. He found he could not fit his gloves on anymore, so stuffed them in his pack and settled for rubbing his frozen appendages robustly, trying to get some circulation to return. They were as stubborn as the snow. Eventually, he could feel well enough to grasp his axe. He found some room and went through his warming exercises. He felt a fool – none of the other warriors were bothering, but he did not want a cramp at the wrong time. Not when it was so bitterly cold. A sudden seizure brought on by the freezing temperatures and exertion could put him in the grave. He didn’t think his witch-given ability to regenerate even serious wounds would save him from death. After all, it was doing nothing about the cold.

A sudden gust forced itself under his cloak and he shuddered. As he grimaced, he felt his beard crack. Ice was crusted there. He laughed then.

“Land!” cried the seafarer at the prow, and the ship slowed to a crawl. Renir squinted into the gloom, looking for the tell tale darkness of a landmass in a storm. His hair no longer whipped around his head in the snow and wind – it merely hung in limp frozen clumps around his face. He pushed an errant icicle aside and shielded his eyes.“I can see nothing, either,” said Shorn, beside him. “The seafarers can feel it though. I think we’ll find out soon just how warm it can get out here. If you’re cold now, it won’t last long.”

“I could do with a bit of a warm up,” Renir grinned, although he felt the familiar lurching of his belly, as he always did when violence was imminent. He would not admit to fear though, even if only to himself. His friends were on the line, and on some deep level of his mind Renir knew they were all he had in life. They were worth fighting for. It was a friendship born of battle, and it was as strong as the steel he wielded with growing expertise.

“Are you ready?” Shorn asked him, concern evident in his face.

“As I’ll ever be. If we make it through this – and I’m truly hoping there’s no one there to greet us – ask me again. With any luck there will just be a scout.”

“I wouldn’t wager so,” said Wen in his gruff manner that Renir was slowly coming to realise was his way of showing kindness. “I can feel it. So can Faerblane.”

Renir strained his ears, but he could not hear the telltale hum of Shorn’s sword above the howling wind. He could make out the groaning of the ship under pressures at which most boats would crumble. He could hear the roaring of the seas, and the crash of waves against the hull that even seafarer magic could not hold back. But no magic. No song.

“It’s there,” said Shorn, as if he could read Renir’s thoughts (and hope, too) in his friend’s face. “It’s been there since Orosh began shaping the seas. But then, it was a pleasant hum. Now, it is a tortured vibration, a cacophony…it hates Protectorate magic. I think it was made to kill them, but perhaps that is just my wish, my imagination…”

“I hate them, too. Haertjuge will stand beside you. Together, we will make a dent in their pride.”

“Watch your own pride, boy. The Protectorate are not to be taken lightly.”

Renir rubbed his knuckles…and the sky brightened to a malevolent scarlet. A ball of fire crashed into the waves to their side.

“Get down and be ready!” shouted the seafarer at them, not breaking his concentration.

Drun pulled himself to full height and added his power – diminished in the storm but still great – to the seafarer’s pulsing light. The yellow joined the blue, and for an instant many other colours swam at the edge of the bolt of coloured light. Then a green light hit the seas, as though Drun had anticipated what the seafarer intended. A great wave grew in an instant, greater than any that surrounded them, fed and pushed on, channelled, into a towering monster, a leviathan made of foam and weighted with water.

Renir did not know how much water weighed, but he imagined the bull-necked summoning was as heavy as a house…it grew…a hill, perhaps, or a village. Then it was all he could see.

Yet another ball of fire flew from the cove, headed straight toward them, but the leviathan merely swatted it with one gigantic fist. Renir heard the hiss as flame met water, but the leviathan was unaffected. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore now, and around the sides of the summoning he could see land begin to take shape. The snows were fierce indeed, and he had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from nattering.

Then the giant smashed down, a hundred feet of water hitting the shore in a second. In the backwash, with no time for words, the warriors leapt into the shallows and rushed forward, snarls and war-cries on their lips.

Behind them, the seafarer’s boat was already heading out to sea. Drun’s time was over. It was time for the blade, and the fist.

Wen ran straight at a wizard – set apart by his garb – and ran him through.

Some of the Protocrats were insensible, or had been washed out to shore, but many more were rousing themselves. Shorn beheaded one, and then he was in a battle, two Protocrats circling him. Renir watched as he swept the legs from under one and whirled to face the other. I’ll have to remember that…he thought to himself and only just noticed the short sword coming at his head. He fell to one knee and swung his axe with all his might at a knee – the blade slashed through, coming out the other side with a spray of blood, startlingly bright against the snow. The Protocrat fell to the floor, screaming. Renir strode past him, crashing a blow into a helmed warrior’s skull, crushing the helm and skull alike. A sword glanced off his back and he spun on his heel. The red-robed warrior fell to the ground without a sound, a gaping wound where his face had once been.

He saw the Bear slide on the soft, slush covered ground, striking upward into a soldier’s thigh. Before the man could bleed to death Bourninund pulled his legs from under him, taking a glancing blow in his side.

He ran to help, but two soldiers blocked his way suddenly. He had little experience of facing more than one soldier. Even the odds, came a gruff, old warrior’s voice in his mind.He spun again, his axe flying round at head height. Two bright arcs of blood filled his vision as he came to rest. Or stack them in your favour, he told himself and grinned wildly.

All discomfort was forgotten. He blood boiled. He raged.

As he ran to the Bear’s side, he was only just raising himself from the ground. He faced a soldier, but the soldier’s back was turned to Renir. He could not hear his approach over the wind.The soldier’s sword point hovered above the ground like a serpent poised to strike. Bourninunds swords – shorter than Shorn’s, designed for thrusting rather than slashing, swung. The Protocrat Tenther fell from the power of the blow, and the Bear’s sword, stuck between his ribs, pulled Bourninund’s arm from its socket.

“Goddamn!” he cursed. Renir could hear him over the raging storm. The Bear’s other sword, still clutched tight in his hand now trailed its point on the floor.

Renir crashed his axe overhand into the helm of a dark eyed man and watched him crumple to the ground.

“Renir! Quick, grab my hand!”

He was at Bourninund’s side, and took hold of his friend’s arm in a two-handed grip, twisting the arm straight against the elbow joint.Shorn covered them, pointing his sword perpendicular to the ground at the next attacker.

“Quick, now, when I say, twist and push it up!”

Renir needed no instruction. For some reason the knowledge of how to return the shoulder to its socket was suddenly large in his mind. He took Bourninund’s hand in his, putting his left against the elbow to hold the arm straight, twisted and pushed upward hard.

“Araagh!”

The Protocrat fell to Shorn’s sword.

Bourninund’s fist crashed into Renir’s nose.

Wen walked calmly to their side and returned his sword to his scabbard, which he had dropped on the beach when they landed.

When Renir came too again Shorn was looking down at him. He turned his head gingerly to Bourninund. “What is it with mercenaries?” Honestly, you lend a hand.”

Shorn was still laughing at him, but Bourninund looked sheepish. “Sorry, Renir.” His face didn’t look like his apology was heart-felt. “I should’ve warned you. I tend to hit things when I’m hurt. Self-defense.”

Shorn nodded. “Not to worry, Renir, first time I did it – he did the same thing to me.”

“Fair enough. Next time you can put your own damn shoulder back in. Did we win?”

Shorn pulled him up, and looked pointedly around at the bodies strewn across the cove.

“Guess so,” said Renir with a nod, and suddenly his legs felt very weak.

“Let’s get out of this wind,” said Shorn, and together, they walked to where Drun was waiting, unscathed, with a new pair of dead man’s boots on his feet.

Chapter Sixty-Four

How am I going to fight this? Reih thought to herself. They would come for her if she didn’t kill herself. But if she fled, like a coward? What secrets would eternity hold for a coward?

They were close. Not close enough to run though. So, the Protocrats wanted the Kua’taenium dead? They’ll not find it so easy while she could still change her fate. Come. Kuh’taenium, show me the scene:

Reih standing alone on a platform. Surrounded by her peers. Among them stood the Hierarchy. Above them stood the Protectorate.A seat. On a stall. A heavy spice smell hangs in the air. Heat. The Kuh’taenium expresses…gratitude? She turns to look and there, not a man, but a view.

A flash and she was back. The visions were stronger. She felt stronger. She looked out from the top of her owner and slave, looking out to the city below, across its great expanse, and up, rising up. The colours garish in some places, grim in others, lavish nowhere. The slum.

A knock came at her door.

“Enter,” she called.

Her bodyguard, Perr, spoke in clipped, military tones. She would have to have words with him. He was a new addition, but already his manner was grating on her.

“A petitioner, my lady. Should I send him hence? He has the look of a ruffian. He says you sent him a letter.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Send him in. And Perr?”

“Yes, my lady,”

“I will see him alone.”

“But…!”

“Alone!”

A sour look crossed his face, but he left her.

The door was left ajar, and an old, gnarly man with the strength of back to shame a century-oak strode in. Gurt entered with an ancient grace, and the first smile in such a long time broke Reih’s stony face.

Light, at last!

The builders are on our side now…I remember the old days. Give him your trust, and we may yet live.

The words were like a balm to her soul, as was the sight of Tirielle’s old companion.

Chapter Sixty-Five

It seemed a shame to waste it. There was a camp set up in lee of the wind, where a sparse coastal tree of a kind not seen on Sturma battled against the weather, stripped bare, perhaps dead, perhaps just dormant, like a bear slumbering through the winter, but Renir didn’t think this winter would ever end.

The wind pulled at the sides of the tent – they had taken the largest, and shared it together – but the snow was blissfully silent, piling up around them. In the morning they would have a job to clear the snow away, and head on their way, wherever that may be, but for now there was a brazier with hot coals and provisions. Evidently the Protectorate’s bowels were happy with the same fare as any man’s. There were cold meats, frozen but after some chewing tasty, nonetheless. Pickles vegetables floated in some liquid which did not freeze, despite the biting cold, and brandy sloshed back and forth between them, warming the insides even if the extremities remained a bit frosty.

They had left the bodies where they lay. With high tide, they would be carried out to sea. If not, they would freeze, be covered by snow and ice, forgotten for eternity in the wastes.

There was no one left to care. They had slaughtered them all.

Renir tried hard, but he found no compassion for them either. They would have killed him, and while he had compassion in abundance, he was no saint. He would save it for those who also loved. To him, they seemed more deserving.

Drun professed a different view – those who hated needed love more than most, for hate lived inside them, too, and tore away all humanity. Pity them, he said.

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.