Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

He was not interested in them, but he was interested in an isolated city on the coast of a distant continent — the fourth continent. There lived a people not unlike his own, a diluted race of Hierarchs, touched by time and weakening blood, but the city he saw through his blooded eyes was remarkable in many ways. The Hierarchs there ruled with open cruelty, its humans little more than slaves.

The only problem was how to approach them. He would have to think on it. But he had time yet. If all of his resources could not stop the awakening of the wizard, then he would need all the allies with power he could muster. The future was far from certain. But foolish was the leader who did not plan for every eventuality. He was a proud being, but wise enough to know that even he did not have the foresight of the gods. He was, after all, still mortal.

Well, close enough.

Forces clashed across the world of Rythe, and pulled apart again, seeking weakness, openings, that elusive chink in an enemy’s armour.

On Lianthre, Roth’s race, the mighty rahkens, stood against the Protectorate. They did not seek to openly attack their might, but held their ground, holding the underground lairs of their kind, allowing magically gifted human dissidents sanctuary, actively seeking out those with vestiges of magical power and training them in the ways of the magi.

They would need allies in the final battle, and the humans were not yet aware of their own potential. The rahken nation let it be known that their homes were sanctuary for the hunted. The numbers of humans with fey eyes were growing.

They had promised Tirielle A’m Dralorn an army should she return. It was not an idle promise — the rahken nation saw far into the future, but more importantly, saw further into the past than even the scrolls of the Island Archive.

They could afford to be patient. They knew of the return, but they would fight for honour, and promises. Their time would come soon enough.

Other continents carried on their petty struggles, unaware of the scythe hanging over their heads. To them, each battle was life and death — the fate of the world bears little importance when you are fighting for your life. Rythe itself was born of strife. Wars were commonplace on each and every continent but Lianthre, and even now that was changing.

But some wars are fought because of pride, and some necessity.

Some, though, are fought because of fate.

On Sturma, unaware of the future, its people struggled to hold back the tide of invasion from neighbouring Draymar. On Sturma, too far within its borders, forces of a more material nature clashed. The remaining Thanes battled the Draymar to a standstill, but without a rallying figure the war would not last long. The Thanes were too fat, too full of self-importance, to rally anything but instead sat back and watched their men die from afar, defending only what was their own and not the whole of the country.

Slowly, the land was falling apart.

Without a figurehead to lead them, the Sturman would fall, and with it, a once proud country.

Should that happen, Renir would have no country to call his own.

Untouched by the war, Pulhuth sat abutting the ocean, its waves gently lapping the shores in the east while waves of a more immediate nature broke against the surviving Sturman forces holding the tide at bay in the west.

Within its walls, untroubled by rising war, Renir and his two friends waited, and prepared.

The waiting was soon to end. Time moves on.

While the three men sat in the Upright Horseshoe, supping their evening ale, Tirielle swore soundly.

Her dress was torn, her once long and lustrous hair had become a chain. She had taken the fine blades gifted her by Fenore and the rahkens and cut it away. She didn’t think twice about it. No soul searching, no regret, she just cut her hair off and moved on.

Hair was hair. She needed to appear as someone she was not.

Ahead, the reason for Tirielle’s outburst rode closer still.

Further west and south of Roth’s home scrub and scree gave way to tree and bush. By the time Tirielle noticed the change in the landscape, the drier ground underfoot, the way Dow lingered longer overhead, she looked back and could no longer see where the trees had left…

Sweat dripped from Tirielle’s brow. It was not just the heat that was making her sweat. They were closer to civilisation now and the dangers they faced were different. A patrol of the Protectorate’s forces, quite common but still troubling, approached the armed convoy with their hands upon their weapons.

It was not surprising. She should have thought of it sooner. On the main thoroughfare to Beheth, nine armoured warriors and one rahken stood out somewhat.

Tirielle wiped the sweat clear and loosened her blades in their sheaths.

“Quintal! To me!” she called, sure that the approaching patrol could not here her yet.

The leader of the Sard rode to the caravan and pulled up alongside her.

“There is no need to worry, lady. We can deal with this.”

“And would you fight your way through the streets of Beheth, too?” asked Tirielle, her tone short. Even so, she did not reseat her knives against inside the sheaths hidden in the wide sleeves of her dress.

Quintal merely laughed. “No, Beheth is a human city, with fewer Protocrats. Once there we will use mortal means of disguise, for we cannot hold an illusion for long. But you will note the patrol is comprised of mere tenthers. There are no wizards. This, we can handle.”

“And how do you propose to do so?”

”Merely an illusion, lady. Trust me,” he said with a smile.

He rode out to meet the patrol.

The caravan pulled up while Quintal spoke with the Protocrat force — only one ten, which j’ark alone could probably have bested — and held his hand straight and flat in the sign for parley.

Tirielle could hear their words drifting to her on the dry air, although each soldier wore armour. With her protectors, and the tenthers, all armoured, the sight shimmered in the high suns’ glare. She did not need to see, though, just here.

She heard their words, but what came out of Quintal’s mouth in no way mirrored reality. He told the force they were headed west — when they were clearly on the road south. He told the force that they were travelling merchants, with clothes for sale in Rowan, a town of moderate size to the west, and the Protocrat replied that all was well.

It all seemed to be going well — some magic was at play, Tirielle knew, even though the Sard claimed they knew no magic — then suddenly the seer cried out from her bedroll in the back of the wagon.

Tirielle’s heart leapt into her mouth.

“It is nothing, sir,” said Quintal smoothly. “Merely my child. The heat makes her miserable and crotchety.”

“Ah,” said the Protocrat, “Babies.”

Even Protocrats had children, remembered Tirielle, and males were the same whatever the race — mewling babies were best ignored, and passed onto the nearest woman.

“I pity you,” said the Protocrat, and waved them on.

Tirielle’s heart resumed its normal patter.

Once clear, Quintal returned to her side.

“No magic, eh?” said Tirielle, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

Quintal smiled. “Just a trick, Tirielle. The eye sees what it wants to see, and sometimes the ear hears what it wants to hear. Here, out under the sun, we can give assumption a push. Nothing more.”

“And you are no more than a warrior, I suppose you would have me believe.”

“And your humble servant,” replied Quintal, with a quick grin.

Gods save me from humble men, thought Tirielle.