Текст книги "Tides of Rythe"

Автор книги: Craig Saunders

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Chapter Thirty-Five

They were fed well. Fish stew, mushrooms, which grew on the bark of the Ulian, and seeds. Sometimes there were mussels, which lived on the base of the boat – one of their captors, Gian, told them they dived and harvested the mussels. The seafarers could hold their breath for longer than most ordinary men, but Renir saw no gills. They were, after all, just men.

“Grilled fish, today. I wonder, they must have metal aboard, or else what would they hold their fires on, and what do you think they burn? I’m sure they wouldn’t burn their precious trees.”

Shorn barked a laugh. “Yes, they have metal. But are you sure you want to know what they burn?”

“Now you’ve said that, I’m not sure at all. Hertha always said my curiosity would get me in hot water. What do they burn then?”

Drun noticed the hesitation when Renir spoke of Hertha, but he said nothing. It was not his place to intrude, although, he had to admit to himself, that did not often stop him.

“Their waste. Nothing is thrown out on a seafarer’s boat. They dry it and burn it. Also, you’ve be surprised what grows on a seafarer’s boat.”

Renir gagged, his face paling even here, in the shadows of their cell.

“Oh, don’t worry, it burns hot and adds no flavour. Besides, you should be thankful. They don’t often cook. Usually they eat their food raw. If anything, we’re eating better than they are tonight.”

“I’d rather eat what their eating, if that’s the case, and thank you very much for spoiling my stew.”

“You’ll soon learn to eat what your given, lad,” said Bourninund, patting Renir gently on the shoulder. “A fighting man can’t afford to be choosy. Besides, it would just make you soft.”

“Shush,” whispered Wen. “They are coming.”

Renir could hear nothing at first, but slowly became aware of soft footfalls approaching along the corridor to the cells. He had been able to make out little of the boat on his way to incarceration, but it seemed they had been led to the south side of the boat – through what he could only describe as a village. There had been houses along the way, and crops of mushrooms growing, as though the seafarers were imitating a landfarer farm. He made out a clothier, with rolls of cloth hanging under an awning. The bones of some gigantic fish held the roof of one dwelling open, again covered in some canvas like material – perhaps a gathering hall, or a theatre of sorts, he could not tell. Their strange trees grew out of each other, some tall, some short, but evidence of human hands in what should have been the chaos of nature in the way they grew. Tunnels between the mighty trunks were evident, as were pathways and groves. Flowers grew in the canopies above, and seabirds nested. Perhaps they farmed eggs, and slaughtered the birds when they got old, as one would a chicken. He saw no other evidence of life, save the Seafarers themselves, who came to watch them paraded on their way to captivity, ushered on by men bearing bows and, unless Renir missed his mark, arrows tipped with razor sharp teeth. No doubt these, too, came from some deep sea beast he had never had the misfortune to cross.

He had heard tales of such creatures, from the Leviathans that prowled the sea under the lands, to the seawolves, whose teeth grew as long as daggers. It was said if just a scratch was received from a seawolf’s teeth, that it would bleed, an unstaunchable flow until the victim bled to death. They were just some of the tales he heard tell – like the many-armed sea snail, puffershrooms, gransalds and wailing fish, he even heard tell of fish that could fly, and mount the land, people that could breath underwater but who had fins instead of hands and feet…tales of the sea were endless, and old fishermen were fools for them, but he was beginning to think that perhaps there was a shred of truth in the old tales.

In the dim light outside their cells Renir was aware that the footfalls had halted, and that there was a woman, quietly watching them. The bar outside the door was lifted, and a stunningly attractive woman entered. The men all straightened their backs and puffed their chests out, apart from Shorn who sniffed and shook his head.

“I should have known you’d want to come and gloat,” he said, his eyes blazing with the anger that had fuelled him for so long.

“What, no kiss, no lover’s whispers for your wife?”

Renir dribbled some stew onto his shirt. Wife? What other secrets do we keep from each other, even now, so far along the road?

“You’re not my wife, Shiandra, and you never were. I told you then as I tell you now, we were not wed, and I would not wed you. Now, slither back to your cave and leave us to court, I will plead our case there, but I won’t plead to you.”

Faced with such ire Shiandra merely smiled sweetly and pouted. “I wanted you then, but if you will not hold to your oath, then perhaps you should face the justice of the sea. But I am more forgiving than the ocean, Shorn. I would take you back. You only have to ask.”

“You always were a hard bargainer, Shiandra,” said Wen, through gritted teeth. “Give her what she wants, Shorn, and be done with it.”

“Never!” Shorn leapt from his cot and took her round the neck. Renir leapt too, and took hold of Shorn’s arm, trying to free the woman – whether she was the reason for their captivity or not, Renir could see that throttling her would not get them out alive. Bourninund joined him, holding Shorn around the chest, while Renir struggled with the mercenary’s vice-like grip – it was like wrestling a bull. The strength in Shorn’s good arm was phenomenal, his grip like granite.

“Stop!” cried Drun, seeing that they could not break Shorn’s grip. Shiandra was turning blue, scratching futility at Shorn’s iron grip, soft choking sounds coming from her throat.

Where Renir and Bourninund could not move him, the power in Drun’s age cracked voice could.

Shorn pushed the woman away from him in disgust. She gagged and rubbed her throat, once sweet eyes now filled with murderous intent. Her voice still raw from being strangled, nevertheless she managed to speak.

“I will see you meat for the seawolves, my love. Meat.” This last she spat, and turned on her heel. She pulled the bar back down across their door, and the last sound as she stormed away was her laboured breathing, gradually fading. Only when she had gone did he hear Shorn’s breathing, heavy with rage. Bourninund carefully let him go, backing away. Sometimes there was no telling what Shorn’s rage would make him do, but he merely threw himself down on the cot and buried his head in his hands.

Renir left him alone for a long time, wondering how long it would be prudent to let him stew, his curiosity, and his sense of self preservation, growing in him all the time. Eventually, he could stand to wait no longer.

“What was all that about then?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Renir. Let me alone.”

“We need to know, Shorn,” said Bourninund solicitously. “We need to make it out of here alive, and I’m not just saying that because I like my skin. We have a job to do, and we can’t very well do it inside a seawolf’s stomach.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about, and I won’t,” Shorn said through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with fury.

Wen sighed. “If you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll tell them.”

“It’s not their business, Wen,” said Shorn, more calmly than could be expected from someone with such a furious face – even in the murk of their cells his scar glowed white with hot anger.

“We can have no secrets, now. Least of all those that might kill us.”

“Oh, I doubt very much they’ll kill you. It’s me that’s going to die in the sea.”He grinned at Drun, “Is this what you had in mind for me, priest? To die where I was forged? In the cold heart of the ocean?”

“It might happen, it might not,” said Drun mystically, and closed his eyes, as if the topic of Shorn’s impending death were of little import.

Shorn stared at him for a moment, disbelief on his face. “Is that all you have to say?!”

“Leave him be, Shorn. Focus your anger on getting us out of here, preferably on a boat,” Wen put a hand on Shorn’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off irritably.

“I’ll tell them, then, as you’re in such a mood.”

“Do as you like, Wen, but don’t drag me into it.” And with his last words on the subject Shorn turned to face the wall with an ill-natured huff.

Wen made himself comfortable and told them the tale.

“There are many things I am sure you don’t know about Shorn, and many things I could not say about him. His life until we met was one of flight, endless flight from those who pursue you now. He told me, and if he wasn’t such a sullen groat he could tell you himself, that he left his childhood home, the Island Archive, when he was ten years old, but what he didn’t tell you is that it was the Seafarer’s that took him onto their boat all those years ago.”

Renir settled himself. He loved a good tale, and any chance to learn more about the mercenary whose fate was tied to his own was welcome.

“I was already on the boat, ship or island – I’ve yet to find the words to describe the Seafarer’s vessels. When we met, the only two landfarers on the ship, we were drawn together, perhaps because no matter how welcoming the Seafarers were on the outside, deep down we knew that we were outsiders…however long we stayed aboard this vessel we would never truly be welcomed into their arms. We stayed under polite sufferance, and we both knew it. When Shorn discovered what I was, he begged me to train him. I had sworn never to raise a weapon again, but I could no more stand against his will than you all. He is a whirlpool, drawing those close to him into his fate. He tugs, and we dance on his strings. I have only just come to realise this, but had I known it then, I am not sure it would have changed anything. He is a vortex, and all those he touches are changed in the passing, as I was.

“I held out for a year, but the constant badgering of the young can wear the sturdiest of men down, and to my chagrin and eternal shame, I gave in. I began teaching Shorn, teaching him the only art I had ever known, and soon I discovered that he would be an artist with the palette I gave him, painting pictures in blood and bone. But I didn’t know that to begin with, and once I had taught him for too long, too long to stop, he had nearly surpassed me – and he was still so young. I could no more stop than kill myself. I have always been weak.”

This he said so sadly that Renir found himself wondering at the depths of shame that drove a man such as Wen. He was discovering that the weapons’ master was more than just a blade and arm. Perhaps he would be an asset yet…or perhaps his shame would be undoing, as Shorn’s rage might be his.

As if reading his mind, Wen said, “Shorn hid it well, but he was consumed with rage within. He hid it well,“ he repeated sadly. “He was calm in all his training. Never did he let on what he would become – a mercenary, a killer such as had not been seen since ages past. If only I had known…but then, perhaps the crucible of war has moulded him into what he needs to be in the final days. I do not know. The gods draw men into their plots and I cannot fathom their will or their ways.”

Shorn grunted, but kept his peace. Renir wondered if this was what Shorn wanted all along – a purging of the past – but one that was too painful for him to excise alone.

“I taught him well. But as he grew into a man, there were other dangers than just his sword. A young woman began to show interest in him. There had always been young girls watching us train, and men, too. But I would not train them, and they never asked. The Seafarers are people of deep pride. They would not have landfarers teaching them what they knew. Even if they had asked, I would have refused. But it was only natural that it should happen – I could no more stop it than stand against the tides. The young woman came back, day after day, and she would talk to Shorn, and then hold his hand, brush past him…all the ways a woman leads a man by the nose. But Shorn’s anger, I believe, held him back from love. Or maybe, I don’t know the truth of this, he sensed in her the seeds of darkness.”

“Shiandra,” guessed Bourninund.

“Of course,” replied Wen. “Who else? It is by her hand that we are held. She is Dainar’s daughter, and he can stand the wrong no more than she can. He would grant her the sun if he could. That such a beauty should spring from his loins…and Seafarer children are rare enough. She wanted Shorn, and Shorn did not want her.”

“I can’t see why,” said Renir. “She is as fine a woman as I have ever laid eyes on.”

“That’s not saying much, Renir. Your experience in such matters is shy, even for one so young.”

Renir bristled. “I can’t help it if I was married. How’s a man supposed to meet beautiful women when he’s got a wife?”

“Easy,” said Bourninund. “Most people figure on marrying someone beautiful in the first place.”

“Well, it’s not like I had a choice. She had her hooks into me before I had a chance to pick someone else. Anyway,” he added gruffly, “she wasn’t a bad woman.”

“Few are, Renir. I’m sure she was fair. Perhaps one day you will remember her so, too,” said Drun, who Renir had thought sleeping. The old man’s strange yellow eyes were closed, but his ears missed little, and his mind even less.

“Perhaps,” replied Renir. “Anyway, just because Shiandra loved Shorn, I don’t see why she would want to have him killed.”

“Few better reasons for ire than love, boy,” said Wen. “And I’m not sure love is the right word. I believe she coveted him. He was a fine looking young man back then, and she was, and by the looks of it, still is, a wilful woman. She wanted him, and he did not want her. But even so, a man is often led by his loins, especially one so young…”

“I know how that goes,” interrupted Renir.

“And I, too,” said Wen. “Who could blame a man? One thing led to another, and then Shorn refused her hand in marriage. There was nothing else Dainar could do – he set us ashore, and the rest is history. Shorn left to become what he could, me, well, I set out to make amends. But sometimes the past is something that drags along behind you, weighing you down. And here we are, facing the past again.”

Drun opened his eyes, looking at Shorn’s back. “Sometimes we must lay the past to rest before we can fully explore the future. Every action has consequences, even those which we do not take.”

Shorn had no doubt about who Drun was addressing his comments to. “Sometimes you make my bowels ache, priest,” was his only retort.

Slowly, carefully, the men talked into the night. Not one mentioned the court to come, or what they would do. They knew they had no weapons, but they did not need to plan – if Shorn was to die, then they would die fighting to save him. Sometimes, duty is plain enough.

Renir wondered if he would die well. Fighting like the heroes of old, with nothing but his fists against a bow. Perhaps he could catch an arrow in his hand, or fight his way to a sword before he was slain. He did not know how to wield a sword, but surely it was better than bare fists against a weapon. Was he fast enough to duck an arrow, swift enough to gain a weapon, or lay low an opponent before he died? He did not want to die badly, not when he was surrounded by such men as these. He knew they would fight well, and die for each other…he only hoped it would not come to that. But, he resolved, whatever happened, he would not be put to sea. He would die fighting, not drowning or eaten alive. Better the blade…

Chapter Thirty-Six

…was a warrior’s thought, Renir realised. He looked down at himself from a great height, and only when he could see himself as he was, his dreaming eyes sharper than his own, did he see himself as he had become. He was broad across the shoulder, still unscarred, but grizzly in countenance. Many would pause before attacking such a man. I have become like them, he thought to himself from his lofty perch, floating above his body. I am a warrior.

But not yet a mercenary. Never that.

Only gradually was he aware of another presence, beyond his reach, on a different plain than this.

She called to him, and he knew her voice. In his dreams, he knew her voice, but the knowledge would fade upon waking. It always did.

“We must speak. Time is ever short, as it was always destined to be short for us. Come to me…listen well.”

Renir floated, ethereal and splendid, unclothed above the sea. Below the surface he could see the seawolves, prowling the depths, shimmering underneath the waves. Foam hung on the air, blow by unfelt tides and ghostly winds. From beneath the sea a face rose, but one obscured by the depths. Try as he might, he could not make it out. Perhaps if he were to go below the surface, he would be able to see more clearly, but even in dreams he understood that to do so would be to risk death, an unclean death, rent and torn by the serrated teeth of the seawolves, gulped into their gullets and digested over days…his dream self shuddered, and on his cot his body’s breath quickened at the thought.

“No, there is no need to come down here. All you need is to hear me.”

He wished he could see more clearly. He almost remembered, but the memory was like the tides. Just as he thought he could feel the knowledge of who the woman was, the tides took it out of his reach. She was the sea, and he the shore, forever meetings, only to part again with the shifting of the moons.

He reached out to the water, but she hissed at him from the darkening depths.

“No! You must not!”

“But who are you?”

“In time, perhaps, you will know,” she said, calmer now that he had moved his hands away from the water. “For now, hear me, and listen well. You are on the precipice once again, and once more I must draw you back from your own undoing. Time and time again, throughout the ages, you have tried to fall – you are your own undoing. Again, you court death, as though you rail against your purpose, but I have not come so far to let you fail now.”

“I don’t understand. You are a witch, and yet you care what happens to one man? I know of witches. They never care for the living, they consort with the dead.”

“You know nothing but the fool rumours of men, born of the ignorance of an age. Hear me now, and hear me well. Mind me, Renir. I will rend your dreams and hound your soul if you die now. If you fear me then love me also, for I am your salvation. Now, when you wake you must remember this, if you remember nothing else…”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Renir’s eyelids twitched in his sleep, and once or twice he called out. Drun watched him through hooded eyelids, tired himself but a light sleeper. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched, but he did not try to intrude. He had done so already, and he felt a barrier around Renir’s sleeping mind, as though the man were shielded from intrusion. It would not do to trespass there, of that he was sure.

Someone, something, was already there. And Drun knew without understanding why, that his presence would not be welcome. Not welcome at all.

He lay thinking as the sun slowly rose outside, unseen but sensed, his god rising in the sky to bring life and wakefulness once more to this side of the world, passing over the other, forgotten for the night.

Renir was a mystery to him. He grew in stature, it seemed, with each passing day. He awoke refreshed and alert, but his sleep was tortured, sometimes punctuated by flailing, or screaming, sometimes murmuring and laughing, but always busy. Anyone with such a rich dream life should be shattered upon waking, tired beyond belief. It was as if Renir lived a second life, in dreams.

Their passage had been strange, indeed. He was unsure as to Renir’s place in events to come. He had been so intent on watching Shorn, trying to guide Shorn to an awakening, that he had ignored their companions for too long. Renir, suddenly a warrior of some note, despite his inexperience. Renir with his childish wit and wisdom born of the heart, Bourninund, as loyal a friend as any could wish, bound, too, to Shorn’s fate, drawing into the whirlpool that Wen imagined as Shorn’s wake. Wen himself, strange, strong and just maybe insane and suicidal. Wen could no more take his own life than that of an innocent. Each man had his own reasons for joining them on this journey, there own purpose to discover along the way. They would play as large a part in whatever was to come as perhaps Shorn himself. Shorn, the Saviour, but who was he to save? Rythe? Himself? Those he touched along the way?

Drun did not know, but before he could come to any conclusions, the door opened and a guard stepped inside.

“Morning has come, old man. Rouse your companions. Court begins after you break fast.”

Another man, armed also, placed five pieces of fruit on a wooden tray inside the door and left. “Time enough to eat. I will return shortly.”

Shorn, Wen and Bourninund awoke at the voices, but Renir still muttered in his dreams. Shorn shook him until he woke. Renir looked around sheepishly for a moment, as if embarrassed, then wished them all good morning with a smile.

“Ah, fruit for breakfast. It is like living among the gods. Not a fish in sight, and for that I am thankful.”

“Wind yourself down, Renir, today we probably die.”

“What will be will be,” he said cryptically, and crunched on the sweet, hard fruit.

They all ate in silence, until the guard returned.

“On your feet,” he said.

“Thank you for having us,” said Renir with a smile. The guard merely growled, and led them along the corridor, from under the trees, into the light of a new day.

Renir stretched, and followed the rest of the men, who all walked like it was their last day on earth, to the judgement circle. The court took no chances, he saw. There were guards surrounded them, and two guards for each man. He was pushed, not roughly, but insistently, into his allotted place. He took it all in good humour.

Time enough, he thought, and turned his face to the morning sun. Only Carious had breached the horizon, and from his place in what he took to be the centre of the ship, he could see no sea. He was thankful for small mercies.

A huge man took the centre of the court, flanked by five men on one side, five women on the other. All looked stern. Renir smiled at them. Dainar scowled. A small cat, the only animal Renir had seen, sheltered from the sun beneath the fat man’s umbriferous gut.

“You are accused of breaking oath, Shorn of the Island Archive, and your companions stand with you as conspirators. The Seas know mercy, even for Landfarers. Once you were our guests, and you broke our faith. For this the court calls for your death. Do I have consent from the court?”

Five ‘ayes’ came from the men, shortly followed by affirmatives from the women.

Shorn hung his head, but remained silent. Renir saw that he caught Wen’s eye from under his shaggy hair, and Wen’s subtle nod in return. He prepared himself. Soon, it would be time. But not yet. The time must be right.

“Who accuses Shorn?”

“I do!” called Shiandra, stepping forward between the ranks of watching Feewar, head held proudly to show her bruised neck. Never tug a jemandril’s tail, and never scorn a woman. It was sound advice his mother had given him.

“And what oath did he break?” demanded Dainar of his daughter, as if he did not already know.

“I was his promised, and he denied me.”

Anger accompanied each word, and Renir could sense her hurt pride in every syllable. It must be galling for such a beautiful woman not to get the man she coveted, but he could find no sympathy for her. He could see she was poison, now that she knew better.

“That is a lie,” shouted Shorn above the murmuring crowds. “I made no promise, but a lover’s promise in the night.”

“Liar!” she screamed, her face scarlet with rage.

How embarrassing, Renir thought, to be caught out in front of so many people. So Shorn was not going quietly, he was pleased to see. But he knew it would come to blows yet.

Bide, he had been warned, or waste it all. He waited, at the ready.

“I bedded you, and you made no complaints then.”

Shiandra screamed in incoherent rage, and leapt for Shorn, but a guard was there to hold her back.

“The Landfarer insults my blood for the last time!” cried Dainar. “To death, I call.”

“Aye!” came the replies from each side, and Shiandra screamed her joy, as Shorn spun on his heel, thumping a rigid foot into the guard behind him. Bourninund and Wen both took their guards with fists, and Renir took his moment to smash his fist into the pumice-stone guard behind him, laying him low, and took the other guard around the throat as the other fell to the floor insensible.

The others had subdued their guards, and each held one hostage, apart from Drun, who stood serenely.

Now was the time. Let us see who blinks first, thought Renir.

“Tell us all the real reason for your ire, Shiandra, tell us in front of your husband, or does it shame you still?” Renir’s words were like a spear in her chest. He saw her pain, and then her rage.

“Silence him!” she cried, but he thought he could see panic in her eyes. “Kill them!”

A woman’s scorn, thought Renir. Thank god she wasn’t his wife. Once was enough, he thought. In Hertha, he realised, he had had much to be thankful for, even if she had been a harridan most of the time, but never had she been vengeful.

“Ask your daughter, Dainar, ask her well!”

Dainar held up a hand to the archers surrounding Renir’s companions and their hostages. Renir could feel his own captive’s throat gulping beneath his forearm. And well he should be nervous. It hung in the balance.

“Well, daughter? What is he talking about?”

“Nothing. He lies!”

“Do I? Do you shame yourself with further lies? Would you lie always to your father, to your husband, your son? Would you lie in front of your son’s father?!”

Shock rippled through the crowd.

“What is the meaning of this!? Shiandra, what does he mean?” The speaker stepped forward from the crowd, a strong man, handsome in his own way, but his face drawn in confusion. Following him was a young boy, no more than twelve. Renir hated himself then, but there had been no other choice. Sometimes his dreams were nightmares, and sometimes, he thought, the nightmares followed him into the waking world.

More lives ruined in their quest. One day, he prayed, the destruction would end.

“Liar! They lie, husband! Kill them!” she screamed.

Dainar kept his hand held high, indecision on his face, drawing his pudgy lips together in a tight embrace. Should that hand fall they would all die. But it was Shiandra who decided it for them. Opening her eyes wide a stream of ice coalesced in the air, an icicle flying through the air at Shorn’s heart. Before it could get there burning yellow light blazed from one side – Drun – who had been silent and still throughout. The yellow fire met the ice, and steam hissed into the air, ice and fire growing until there was a small cloud of steam between the court and the captives. Shiandra screamed in her anger, and renewed her efforts to kill Shorn, tendons on her neck standing proud, as though she were pushing physically against the assault, but Drun redoubled his power, his face calm as the air, serene as the suns.

Renir’s captive strained against his arm, but Renir held tight and watched. It was out of his hands now. The contest ended abruptly when a guard behind Drun finally clubbed him to the ground. But it was enough. Shiandra’s assault halted as her son jumped in front of her.

“Stop, mother! You’ll kill him! Grandfather!” called her son. “Father!” the boy cried out, but looked not at Shiandra’s husband, but at Shorn. Shiandra crumpled visibly in front of her son, an open admission of her lie, and the ice fell to the ground. Tears stood out on her cheeks, and she hung her head in shame.

Dainar spoke above the shocked whispers of the gathered crowd.

“Enough! Shiandra, cease this now. I would speak to you alone. Court is in recess. Let no man harm the prisoners, and in return I would appreciated it if you men would let your hostages go. No one will be harmed until I return.”

“I don’t think we will give up our only bargaining chip so easily, Dainar,” replied Shorn.

“You have my word no man will come to harm today. I have seen enough.”

“Then on your word, Dainar,” called Shorn, and released the guard, who stepped back warily. Renir and the others released theirs carefully, and when no reprisals for the sudden violence occurred, the guards being as good as Dainar’s words, Renir rushed to Drun’s side.

He shook him carefully, as Drun’s eyes cracked open. “Is it safe?”

“Yes, I think it is. How’s your head?”

“Never better,” the old man replied gingerly rising to his feet with a helping hand from the young warrior. “How did you know?”

Renir shuffled his feet in acute embarrassment. “A witch came to me while I slept.”

“Well, you must thank her for me,” said Drun sincerely.

“Peace, but it’s never dull,” said Bourninund, with a wink to Renir. “I could do with an ale.”

“Me, too,” said Renir, and finally let himself sigh with relief. “Perhaps now I can get some sleep. I have my guardian to thank, although as to payment, I can only guess.”

He spared a thought for Shorn. He was staring at his son, crestfallen, and his son was staring back at him openly, into cold grey eyes, so much like his own. Forgotten, to one side, stood the man who had no doubt been his father all his years. To one side Shiandra’s husband wept quietly. Of Shiandra and her father there was no sign.

Gods, thought Renir, is the price of being a hero always so high?