Текст книги "Tides of Rythe"

Автор книги: Craig Saunders

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter Ninety-Two

Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.

The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.

The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.

In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense – unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.

A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.

Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.

It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.

The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.

Then, as the contest began in earnest, the Sard pushed to the limit of their strength by the hideous apparition shrouded in flame, Roth heard a voice from the past, and echo in its mind.

‘You are the Sacrifice, my child. It is the wizard’s geas, the price we pay for our freedom, for our lives. You must do what you are born to do, but in the end, it will be hard on you. Remember all that you are, when the time comes and your fear turns you to lead. Remember your strength, and your heart…remember the love that others have felt for you. Do not let Tirielle die, Roth. In the end, I think you will understand.’

And it did. Its mother had known. It had listened to the words. This was the price it must pay. To die in fear. But it would not be a coward. Not at the last. It would not let Tirielle take the place that was rightfully its own.

Roth saw what it must do. This was not its battle. It did not matter if the Sard won or lost here. There was only one thing it could do. Finally, burning and in an agony it had never before known, it was time to face its fate. Time to face death.

It could still do what it must. Nothing could escape fate, not the mighty, not the weak. All must make sacrifices.

It took the only chance it could, toward the only end that it was ever destined to meet. Roth dived through the blackness, trailing flames, into the chamber beyond.

Chapter Ninety-Three

Shorn quailed at the sight of it. The behemoth was chained to the walls of a massive cavern, in chains of some silvery metal untouched by the passage of time. The chains themselves were immense – each link fully as thick as a man’s chest, stretching across the cavern, looped and fixed into holes in the cavern wall.

The heat was fierce. It scorched the skin.

Tirielle stood proudly before it, shouting to be heard above the din. Her face was fearless.

“Are you Caeus?” to her credit, Shorn thought, her voice did not waver.

Shorn could barely make out the rumbling words, the beasts language was so mauled by its massive jaw.

“NO. I ATE CAEUS. I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT.”

Shorn saw her hang her head in despair. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was not as accustomed to disappointment as he was.

It could have been laughing, but Shorn did not believe such a creature felt humour, or understood anything but slaughter. It was not built for peace, or love, or any of the light that made a human whole. It was alien and terrible, a monstrosity from out of time, a creature of nightmare and darkness.

The beast’s head reached the roof of the massive cavern. Dull green eyes stared myopically at the intruders. It howled, the whole cavern shaking, and renewed its struggle against its bonds. Shorn was knocked to his knees by the sound of the beast’s torment, dropping his sword and placing his hands over his ears, but his whole body shook, his bones ached from the rage of it, the plaintive cry of a millennium of anguish. Drun was on his knees, too, his light temporarily dulled.

They needed no other light, though. Around the monstrosity was a lake of fire, bubbling lava, with but one path forward – a path too narrow for the creature to take.

To defeat it, they would have to travel that one narrow path, know bravery beyond any other mortal. They would have to walk to their own slaughter. It would not come to them.

He walked forward, heart pounding a thousand times faster than the revenant’s, the creatures heartbeat that of the mountains, next to Shorn’s, stuttering along like a helting mir’s upon waking. If the woman could face it, though, he thought he could, too.

He took up his place beside her on the pathway and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Her head hung in despair, but his was proud. He saw the battle ahead. It was what he lived for.

But what terror could life hold for a man of war? He watched in amazement as the creature snapped free of one bond with a cry like thunder. It knocked both of them to their knees. He struggled against the wave of sound, and gained his feet, pulling Tirielle up along side him.

With a huge effort the revenant pulled with both clawed hands, straining against the last chain. With a terrible groan of breaking rock it came free. Trailing the chains, hanging in the lake of fire, it turned its baleful gaze on the interlopers.

The revenant finally free after aeons in tormenting chains, stamped a foot and issued its challenge. It lumbered forward as far as it could go, and with a snarl that shook the mountain clawed at the two of them.

They tumbled underneath the blow. Shorn took his sword in both hands and was instantly upon it. It towered over him. It did not see him roll between its feet, but felt the sting of his blade slicing into its ankle. It kicked out, one giant foot smashing Shorn to the ground.

The mercenary rolled from his fall and rose again. He winced at the pain in his ribs – it hurt worse than a kick from a horse. A rib was broken, for sure, but he did not have the luxury of licking his wounds.

The revenant howled in anguish, but what was a mere nick with a blade compared to an age of torment, a life in chains? It turned ponderously in the space it could, forcing Shorn to back away toward the edge of the lake. Flames lapped at his cloak. He was drenched in sweat from the heat – perhaps that was what stopped him from bursting into flames.

A massive, leathery fist came crashing down, as though the creature intended to squash him like an insect, but Shorn was rolling to one side and swiping as hard as he could at the inside of the creature’s wrist. His sword dug deep, and steaming ichor ran from the wound, splashing the ground where Shorn had been…Never stop moving. Shorn did not need to remind himself to move, to run and leap and strike where he could. He could not reach the creatures bones, but he could strike at tendons – he knew enough of the body to know where tendons hid beneath the skin, and what damage the severance of one could do to a man. This creature was no different. Its structure was the same, even though its skin was as tough as hide, thick and hard. It had claws instead of nails, two massive curving eye teeth and drooled fire, but what was it, if not an animal?

Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It spoke no more garbled words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick skin, smashed and stamped and bled fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.

He did not despair, though. The beast was slow, and it bled. If it bled, it could die. All things of flesh and blood died, in the end, if they lost enough blood. If he could just cut through the Achilles tendon…he slashed again, and was rewarded with a deafening howl.

He could not longer hear anything, but he could feel the heat, the burning in his broken ribs and his heart pounding against his chest.

It seemed like it had lasted an age, before he saw Tirielle standing before the creature on the pathway, head held proud, her arms wide in supplication.

“No!” he cried out, as he saw what she meant to do.

He would not let her sacrifice herself to the creature. There would be no death but the revenant’s here today. He ran, aching all over, covered in burning blood, and dived, crashing into her body as the revenant’s hand swept down to pick her up. How could he stand by while the beast tore her life from her frail body? How could he let her die for him, even though she did not know him?

They both tumbled to the floor, and Shorn looked up, pushing Tirielle away.

“None of us will die this day! Now get back!”

A fist smashed the path and he dodged just in time, skipping away from it and hacking wildly at the hand. He was rewarded as the tip of its finger fell free into the lake of fire.

He wasted no more time on Tirielle, but twisted inside and hacked through the tendon at the wrist. The beast’s cry was terrible, the pain in his head from the sound of it terrible and tangible. Then it swung its useless hand, and the bony ridges of its knuckles smashed into his back. His broken body flew through the air.

The last thing he heard before he tumbled into blackness was Tirielle’s shouting, somehow he could still hear (but dying, he thought, dying, as consciousness faded).

“Take your sacrifice, take me and let this end. I will die for him,” she shouted above its roar.

Perhaps it heard. Perhaps not. For Shorn, all was silent.

Chapter Ninety-Four

Klan’s snarl rivalled that of the revenant.

“I will pass!”

The Sard were uncharacteristically silent. But Typraille spared some energy for a grin both wide and, to Klan, infuriating. As his rage grew, so did his power. The Sard were now holding back Klan’s burning rage and a river of molten rock that was pouring around them.

Renir longed to escape, to plunge through the blackness behind him, where perhaps a cool death awaited him. But somehow, he doubted it. He imagined behind the Sard was the safest place he could be.

He was unused to feeling so useless. He could do nothing to aid the Sard. If their powers could not hold the snarling Protocrat back, then he would merely die a fiery death in moments. He glanced nervously at Wen, but both he and the Bear seemed calm, stoically accepting of whatever end might be in store for them.

Klan Mard raged, untouched by the molten rock pushing against him. It was as though the wall of flames that pour from his eyes was solid, and Renir realised with growing horror that the Sard’s heels were being pushed backward. They were being pushed toward the darkness between the ancient doors, and whatever lay behind it, toward the wizard.

If they went in, all would be lost…but then Roth had dived through. Perhaps…no, it was not worth the risk. To fail now, to fail at the last, when so many had been sacrificed.

Renir steeled his heart, and prepared to die. A voice from within calmed him with soothing, loving words. At least he would not be alone. He knew with surety that there was a certain kind of life after death. It brought peace to him.

He watched, as calm as his two remaining friends, as the Sard were inexorably pushed back toward the gate.

The Protocrat’s face was a rictus of malice, evil in the flesh, but he found himself uncaring, unworried. He was free.

Slowly, the Sard were losing, but the voice in his head gave Renir hope.

‘Know hope, my love. Even now, the tides of Rythe are turning.’

Chapter Ninety-Five

The beasts hand came down to take Tirielle, Drun watching in frozen horror, when tumbling through the blackness came a creature blazing with fire, elemental fury hurling toward the screaming revenant.

Twice denied the Sacrifice, another warrior faced the foe.

Roth’s hurtled along the pathway, leaping over Tirielle with a roar, onto the revenant’s outstretched hand. Its sharp claws dug into the swinging tree-trunk thick arm, and hand over hand it scaled the heights as though it were climbing a mountain.

Drun could do nothing but watch. Never in his long life had he felt so useless. Roth would ruin all their long plans. For it to die saving Tirielle would ruin all he had waited for. It would skew and shatter the prophesy. But then, what did it matter? The revenant had eaten the last wizard. They fought for nothing. There was no hope, only to fight until the last.

Perhaps, he thought, watching Roth scale the great beast like a mountainside, that was all there was come the end. To fight.

Tirielle watched with tears in her eyes as Roth, streaming flames, crawled up the revenant’s shoulder. She saw it meant to tear at the revenant, even as the rahken died, but it was too slow, dying as it was. Roth’s usual preternatural speed had deserted it.

The rearing beast roared its defiance as it snatched Roth from its shoulder and squeezed it in one enormous hand. Steaming blood dripped from its hand where Shorn had wounded it, but he too had died in vain. She could do nothing but watch as another brave warrior died trying to save her from her ultimate fate.

The great beast snatched her friend up. It was all Tirielle could do to close her eyes against the sight of the rahken’s death, but she could not drown out Roth’s cries of agony as it was crushed in that huge bony paw.

Mercifully, it was over soon. She turned her head away as the revenant stuffed Roth into its mouth and swallowed.

It was time for her to do her duty. She had lost enough. She was ready to go to her death.

What more could she lose? Perhaps the revenant would allow Drun to go. Surely he could continue the fight, even without the red wizard. He had power enough. He could rally the rahkens (who would tell Roth’s parents, now that she was gone?…but there was no time to worry about the living anymore).

She walked, once again, toward the beast. The pathway seemed unnaturally long, as though it stretched out eternally. But then she knew time and distance were the same thing, warped by pain. And her pain was immense. She only wished she had not lost more on the pathway to make her sacrifice. If only she could have given her life to save others, but instead it was a hollow death. She had saved no one.

She raised her hands in supplication and stood trembling before the beast. It roared, with pleasure, she thought…but its voice was cut off.

Suddenly, it was gurgling, bubbling like the boiling lava around her. Blood burst from its throat, spraying across the cavern in a great steaming arc, and Roth tumbled lifelessly out from the gaping wound, a burnt, dead husk.

The revenant fell silent, its throat torn out.

She watched in amazement, and terror, and pity for the fallen, as the monster slowly crumpled to one massive knee. Almost sedately, after the pace of the fight, it keeled over, dead.

The tremor shook her to her knees. Then its head fell into the lake of fire and caught light. The flames burned high.

She found her feet again. She ran to Roth, who lay steaming, crippled and lifeless.

At the last, Roth had saved her. How many had died to save her? And she had not even been able to save her friend.

“Oh, Roth,” she cried, cradling the rahken in her arms. “What have you done?”

She emitted a startled cry as Roth croaked, “Only what I was made to do. Mourn me not, Tirielle, for I was always the Sacrifice. It was my fate to bear, not yours.”

Its body was broken, a shattered lump of meat, but still it managed a smile for her. “I am only glad I found the courage in the end.”

“You are full of courage, Roth. A more courageous creature I have never met.”

“And yet, I knew fear.”

“We all do, Roth,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry…you lost…so much…” It managed, and the final death rattle came from its throat. She hugged it to her breast, crying freely now.

The flames licked the air around her.

A hand took her arm.

“We must go, Tirielle. There is no wizard, but the day is not yet done. My brothers need me. We must leave Roth behind. I need you to help me carry Shorn.”

“I’ll carry myself,” said Shorn, approaching from behind them. He was cradling his arm. Blood was streaming from a deep laceration in his scalp, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.

Drun stood, pulling Tirielle from Roth’s body.

“Come. We may have lost today, but we fight on until the last breath. The return is nearing, and we must fight with the tools we have.”

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” said Shorn, his voice rasping and wracked with pain.

Tirielle’s tears fell freely, but she straightened her back and took Shorn around the waist. He winced, but he couldn’t be picky. He needed a shoulder to lean on.

“It was brave, in the end. I would have liked to thank it.”

Tirielle just nodded mutely, and pulled Shorn along, toward the path.

A tearing sound came from behind them, and they turned as one. Shorn’s sword rose, always his first response to a threat. But his knees were trembling, and his head was pounding.

Fire licked at the revenants whole body, spreading fast. It was not rising again, but something was coming. Its belly was being pushed upward, bulging out against the revenant’s insides. There was a wet ripping sound, and a hand pushed through, covered in some sickly fluid.

Shorn held his sword out in one quavering hand. Fire burned inside his arm. It was broken, but somehow he still found the strength to hold his blade.

Tirielle finally drew her daggers. “I’m not dying anymore,” she said.

The hand was followed by an arm, a face, and then a man was pulling himself over the beasts burning belly, stepping through the flames. It was covered, red from head to foot, no doubt with the beast’s lifeblood.

But who, or what, could survive in such a creature’s insides?

The emergent man spat something unthinkable from his mouth, and the corners turned into a toothy smile.

Then he opened his eyes and fierce burning light blinded them all. They could see nothing but the blood red afterglow.

“I am Caeus,” it said, in a voice that was not human, not human at all.

Tirielle left Shorn and ran at the thing, more hideous in its lack of humanity than even a protocrat, more alien in countenance than the revenant, screaming defiance. She would not be tricked at the last.

As she thrust the dagger at the creature, its red eyes blazed and she flew backward.

He closed his terrible eyes for a moment, and the world dimmed and flared, then suddenly the remainder of the Sard appeared, blinking, shocked, in the room. Renir, Wen and Bourninund appeared an instant later, Renir crying out in shock.

Chapter Ninety-Six

The force holding him back disappeared in the wink of an eye, and surprised, Klan blinked. In that moment the fiery rage of the mountain descended on him, a ton of molten lava streaming around him, filling his mouth, running between his toes and fingers, burning his robe from his back and searing his skin with a pain he could not imagine possible.

He screamed, and did the only thing he could. He turned the lava back to stone.