Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Pulhuth’s northern gates stood open, as they always had done. The city had never been assaulted from the north — nothing lay that way but Thaxamalan’s Saw, and whatever hid behind it. The peaks of that giant mountain range, reaching far into the cloudless summer sky, were perennially snow-capped. The guards at the gate thought nothing of their beauty, but were grateful to the mountains, largely because of the cool, blustery wind that whistled down from their heights chilling their skin on what was otherwise a blistering day.

In the wavering distance, across the plains on a little-used track that serviced the northern side of the city, two riders approached. The guard could make out the glint of weapons above their right shoulders, but little else at this distance.

Gradually, watched every second of the way (not because the guard was bound by duty to be observant, but because day in day out there was little else to look at on this side of the city) the riders drew closer, at a gallop.

Staring into the distance all day had given the guard fine eyesight. He gradually made out that the two men were warriors. They rode upright, bore weapons and had stout shoulders. The one on the left, who rode a white horse, was a thick set man with dark skin. His head was shaven. The one of the left, some glinting blade attached to his left arm, wore a full beard and long, unruly hair.

Weapons were of course permitted within the city walls, but these two men had the look of an invading army all by themselves. The guard thought about calling his superior down from his drink in the turret above the gatehouse, but he would no doubt berate the soldier for taking him from his rest.

He thought, ever so briefly, about challenging the two men as to their destination within the city, and even more briefly about asking them to relinquish their swords, which he could see were not for self-defence but for war.

But he was not a stupid man.

They drew level with him, and as they looked at him, he thought better of everything, and even of being a guard. They did not pay him enough.

Shorn and Wen passed unchallenged.

As he watched their receding swords, the guard decided he was long overdue a toilet break.

Sturmen think the wind is the spirits talking, those anguished souls that cannot pass Madal’s gates. Sometimes they scream. Today, the wind was picking up, howling through the city. A man could be forgiven for thinking the spirits were being tortured.

Shorn strode up to the doors of the barn, his legs now supporting him, but there was a pronounced limp, the legacy of a snowy night high in the Culthorn mountains, and the poison of a deep, muscle rending bite from unnatural hounds. He pushed the doors aside and saw the back of the man who had rescued him that night. He almost failed to recognise him.

Renir swung around as the wind howled through the open barn door, and saw his friend standing watching him at his exercises.

“Shorn!” he cried, all thoughts of form forgotten, and dropped his axe where he stood. He covered the distance to his friend and the two warriors clasped hands. The mercenary noted how Renir’s grip had strengthened while he had been away.

Renir pulled his friend into a hug. After a moment, the taciturn mercenary pulled away, a grin on his battered face.

“Renir, it is good to see you. I am glad that you have not squandered your time on ale and women.”

“I can’t lay claim to an ale free time. I might have supped a few in your absence,” he said with a glint in his eye. “I think you’ll find that it’s the Bear who’s been sampling the local ladies. I, alas, remain innocent.”

“The Bear?”

“Bourninund. It’s my pet name for him. He pretends he hates the name, but I think secretly he is pleased.”

“Well, I think we can dispense with the training for now. We should make a special night of it, for tomorrow we ride. I hope Bourninund has trained you well. Our journey only becomes more difficult with time.”

“We are to leave?”

“Aye, it is high time. I have already been gone too long, and the Seafarers won’t wait for long. They only come on sufferance. They know me well.”

“They don’t know me.”

“But they do know Wen.”

“He’s here?”

“He’s talking with Drun.”

“I take it you made up, then.”

“After a fashion. I suppose you could say so.”

“Can’t wait to meet him. No hard feelings, eh?”

Shorn shrugged and forced a smile. “There will always be hard feelings. You can strike a man and get over it, but to scar a man — that cuts all ties. But Wen knows the meaning of duty. He owes me, and I am no longer the man I was. I can understand the need for allies, and he is a powerful man.” Shorn clasped Renir’s shoulder, noting the firmness there where once there was only bone. “I believe you will find him…interesting. I’ve had the time to get to know him again, and we’ve both changed. He’s still formidable, but while his arms grow stronger with time, his mind…I think I’ll let you see for yourself. I have said enough.”

Shorn steered the fledgling warrior to the door, before Renir remembered his axe.

A few seconds later and they were on the way to the bar. Renir’s mind raced. He was apprehensive. He was about to meet the man who gave Shorn his scar. His mind was full of questions, but, he supposed, they would have to wait until later. For now, the chance to meet new friends, and greet the old.

One look at the man seated with Drun and Bourninund, quaffing ale like a man with a fatal thirst, and Renir understood more than he wished to.

Shorn’s old mentor and teacher, Wen Gossar, was more than slightly suicidal. The dark skinned man was a giant, broad across the shoulder and chest, with thick, strong hands. His back was bowed with age, but he looked hale enough to Renir His head gleamed in the bright sunshine that streaked through the slats across the windows, and a strip of light fell on his face, lighting the man’s eyes — it was a sight that Renir thought would live long in his memory.

Renir tried to refrain from making an instant judgement, but, he thought, Shorn must be as insane as his teacher surely was to bring him along. Renir could see insanity bubbling in those red-rimmed eyes, shining bright with madness. The man’s mouth leered on one side, like someone affected by a heavy blow to the brain. He was dribbling his beer on his stained jerkin, looking around the room distractedly as Drun was saying something to him.

The man was too busy eyeing the bar to take note of Renir’s examination, although Renir knew he had spotted them entering the tavern. In a glimpse of those eyes Renir saw not only madness, but a cold intelligence, despite the slack features on one side of his mouth.

Renir wondered if the sparseness of customers was because of the unusual heat, or because the customers of the Horseshoe were wise enough to place self-preservation above the desire for cool ale. Renir thought it was probably the later. Shorn left Renir standing just inside the door and walked to the small group. Renir found himself rooted to the spot. Of all the crazy things he had done since finding Shorn that cold night so long ago, meeting Wen was the thing he least wanted to do. It was more than apprehension. It bordered on fear.

He would not let it rule him.

Urlane, although a vague memory, would never allow him to be a coward, and usually Renir gave little thought to his own welfare. It was not a habit he would let himself fall into. He pulled his feet from the boards and walked slowly, reluctantly, to meet the giant.

“Ah, and this is Renir. He, too, joins us on our journey,” said Drun by way of introduction.