Текст книги "Tides of Rythe"

Автор книги: Craig Saunders

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

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 passed 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.

“You must tell me, Roth.”

“I am ashamed to admit, lady, that I do not know.”

Tirielle huffed in frustration. It was impossible to tell if Roth was telling the truth. There was so much that lived under the surface when it came to her fearsome friend, and while she was not afraid of it, she did not want to press too hard.

“Now, I must go. But remember this, Tiri; Not all sacrifices are to the death.”

“What does that mean?”

Roth seemed sad, but merely shook its head. Then, before she had time to question further, was a blur among the trees.

She mounted, feeling that there was some pattern, some secret at the heart of their quest, that she must fathom, or they would all fail.

Quintal looked at her with a question on his face.

“I am ready,” she said briskly, and urged her horse into a fast canter. The danger of the Protectorate was ever present in her mind.

“Where to?” she asked the leader of the paladins.

“North, for now. The Seer tells us this is where we must go, and she is our eyes. Tonight, we will commune with Drun Sard. Perhaps he can guide us further.”

“I hope so. I am tired of fleeing.”

“The time will come soon when we will turn and bite back, lady. I feel this, and I always trust my feelings. The end draws near. And with it, a new beginning.”

“One we should fear,” said Tirielle too quietly to be overheard.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Reih entered the chamber, fewer seats were occupied. Fewer councillors. It was weak. She was trying desperately to concentrate on the conversion. They were making her sick, squabbling blindly while ignoring the point. Did they even realise they were under attack? Kalea was thumping his chair and being incendiary.

“But it’s our law! Not theirs!”

Reih reluctantly pushed herself from her chair. “No, Councillor Kalea. It is not our law. Nor is it theirs. Until we understand the law belongs to no-one, we shouldn’t even be allowed to speak of it. The law is its own. And so should it be. It is because of our tampering, our attempts at possession, that it is sick. It is sick because of us.“

“But Lianthre will descend into chaos without it!”

“Nonsense. Chaos is nothing to be afraid of. It is only change. It is to good what order is to evil. One only exist because of the other – the symbiosis is evident in all life – you truly think human law itself is outside of nature’s laws, not part of it?“

She thought about her meeting with Gurt, a builder! She wondered how many of the Councillors haranguing her were sending letters, too. She heard some of the gossip spreading (the Kuh’taenium heard far more that she ever would). If she was caught she would become part of that gossip – just like Tirielle. This was no place for idle banter. The Hierarchy could hear it – the Protectorate already had.

She turned back to the assembly in Kuh’taenium’s great interior. She looked at them bickering while the Kuh’taenium hung in the balance and she strove to keep her grasp on hope. How long now before the sickening took its effect on her? The memories of her home were already becoming warped in place. A small change, at first, but the personality could not but suffer the ailments of the body, and the Kuh’taenium’s body was more…demonstrative…than humans, with all their frailty sickness usually killed them before sickness reached the mind. The Kuh’taenium, in all its vastness, would die insane. Because of their linking she too would experience all its terrible agony and confusion as it journeyed on to death’s hall (how big they must be to fit the Kuh’taenium!).

Desperation makes odd bedfellows, she thought. Folly, perhaps, but, ah, desperation. To save the Kuh’taenium and herself she had just entrusted her life to some street brawler she had never met before.

The pointless debate rolled on. All the time she was thinking about the builders. They still existed. The Kuh’taenium was right, as always. While its power might be diminished, its memory was not.

Chapter Seventy

Before sunset the Sard made camp. j’ark sat silently, his sword beside him, his legs crossed and eyes closed. He emptied his mind but thoughts of Unthor intruded. He could not break his concentration though. Without their ninth fellow, the communion was more difficult. He sensed the feeling of loss among the Sard, sadness welling as their feelings were knitted together in concentration.

Thankfully, it was not long before Drun’s ethereal figure materialised before them, becoming more solid, more real with each passing second. He opened his eyes as soon as he felt the priest’s presence, and at once felt calmer. It was always surprising to him, the depth of peace that Drun Sard radiated.

“Brothers. I feel your loss. I too, am bereft.”

“We know loss as we knew our brother,” replied Quintal sadly. “It is our destiny to lose one another, until we are no more. But then, that is every man’s burden, and we deserve no less, no more, than any other mortal.”

Drun bowed to each of them in turn.

“As we lose each other, our spirits join. Join with Unthor’s spirit now, and as you knew him as a man take strength from his passing. Now, feel!”

And suddenly strength suffused j’ark’s aching muscles, the strength of Unthor. He felt none of Unthor’s fears or failings, just his purity, his power. His blood pounded in his temples, his muscles twitched and became engorged, as though he was feeding on his friend’s blood. But he knew that was not the case. It was Unthor’s last gift to them, the gift of the fallen, to share their essence with their brothers. Each time one fell, he would do the same for his brothers. They would not pass the gates until the last of them fell. Only then would their spirits pass into eternity, and finally know rest.

The power was amazing, even though j’ark knew it was only a portion of his brother’s spirit that had been invested in him.

Slowly, the pounding subsided, and he felt his heart rate return to mortal levels. Drun seemed to be smiling at him, even though he had not felt what he felt, he understood. It was not for Drun, this sharing of the spirit, for he was not a warrior. The feeling would taint him.

But he understood.

“Now, brothers, to matters at hand.”

“We have found the entrance to the resting place of the wizard. He is in a volcano, deep beneath the earth. There is a mountain range that splits the frozen lands, and the fire mountain is the largest.

“The Protectorate already hunt there. It is there that you must go.”

“How do you propose we travel?”

“There is a portal there.”

j’ark could feel apprehension rising.

“And the other end of the tunnel?”

“In Arram.”

As Drun explained, j’ark felt his apprehension growing. He did not think it was fear, but he knew more would fall in the halls of the enemy. He would leave the planning to better men – Typraille and Cenphalph, and Quintal.

His would be the sword that would grant them passage. He saw it in his head. He also noticed Drun looking at them all with kindness in his eyes, as he asked them to do the unthinkable. To Arram. His heart pounded once more, and he prepared himself. His finger crept to his sword. He wanted to feel its comfort, its heft, but to touch a weapon during communion would break the circle. Instead, he watched, and listened, as the Sard planned, and prayed, if his was the next death to be shared, that he would be brave.

He wondered if Tirielle would mourn him, should he fall.

He closed his eyes as Drun left the circle, and the last rays of sunlight drifted slowly onto his face.

This time, he was the last to rise, the last to leave the circle, but as always, he took his sword, and felt at peace.

Chapter Seventy-One

The snow drifted against the side of the tent, laying thick on the canvass. Inside, four men slept deeply. In their sleep Bourninund and Wen snored mountainous, growling snores. Drun’s face was serene, as though his inner peace extended to his dream life. The worries of the last day were behind him. His loss, which had drawn his face long and made his eyes, usually warm and kind, seem harsh as the winter sun, bleached of warmth, bringing light but little life.

Shorn tossed and turned in his sleep, his energy abundant even in the grip of whatever dream plagued him. His face was drawn into a snarl, lips pulled back to bare his gums, his breath coming in short gasps.

But Renir, lost in sleep, looked puzzled. Occasionally, he spoke, as though holding one side of a conversation. More often, he held both sides of the conversation himself. To Shorn, who knew him better, perhaps, than any other, it would seem as though Renir was holding a conversation with himself.

“Who are you?” Renir’s voice, somewhat muffled where his bedroll was bunched against his face.

“You already know. Perhaps, yet, you are not ready to accept.” His voice was pitched slightly higher than usual, the tone, the intonation, all wrong…a woman’s tone, chiding but laced with kindness.

“Who are you!” he shouted this time.

Drun awoke in the middle of the conversation, and pulled himself into a sitting position, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees.

The warriors slept, the priest watched, and Renir slept on, talking in his sleep, sometimes answering himself, wretched face pulled tight.

Drun would not step into the man’s dreams. Every man’s dreams were a journey, sometimes taken with friends, sometimes alone. But the destination could not be changed.

Drun listened, though. And Renir, obliging his audience, spoke long into the night.