Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Bourninund ignored Wen’s questioning gaze as the woman came over. Wen asked for a chicken — everyone else asked for ale and stew. It was still early in the day and they needed fuel to drink until late, which they fully intended to do.

Wen glared at Renir over a chicken leg, tearing the meat with sharp, stained teeth. Another sign of a seasoned smoker. Renir wondered that his teeth hadn’t fallen out yet, for they were certainly sour, and now, close across the table from the madman, Renir could smell the taint of Kun on his breath.

It would soon become busy, and Renir was glad for a table near the bar. On this, the fifth day of the week, most people were paid. Harlots would be working the tables within a few hours. It was common for the ladies to work a certain tavern, and they made most of their income for the week on the last day. They could have been fine, or tarnished — in the moody light of the Long Pig it was impossible to tell. Renir guessed the shoppers wouldn’t be examining their wares by the light of day, either.

He turned his gaze back to Wen.

The big man was barely resting. Whereas Shorn gave the impression of nonchalance in a tavern, never letting his guard down, but always seeming to be relaxed and carefree, Wen was the exact opposite. Every muscle in his huge chest stood taut. His face was strained, his discomfort in being in such surrounds evident. He glared at the serving girl, sending her scurrying back to the bar. None of the other drinkers would even look their way.

“Relax, Wen,” said Shorn, sensing his old master’s discomfort. “There is no one here to fight.”

“It is not the living that concern me, Mandolen, but the dead. I see them everywhere, hanging on like cobwebs to their loved ones. I wish I had never returned to the city.”

“Well, if you will insist on communing with the dead, it is no surprise that they follow you. You invited them in, and the dead are ever lonely.”

“I see your dead, Shorn. They crowd to the walls and overlap the ceiling.”

“Let’s not get into this now, Wen. Have a drink and forget your duty for a time. We leave in the morning and I for one do not intend to be maudlin in my cups.”

“Nor I,” said Bourninund, taking a swig of warm, piss tasting ale, “But on this swill I’ll be sober come morning. Haven’t they any real ale?”

Renir took a taste of his. “It’s certainly light,” he said, holding it up to the light of a lantern. “I expect my ale to be more like mud, not shine like a dewdrop.”

The girl that Wen had glared at was replaced by the fat barmaid, who was much more to Bourninund’s liking. He treated her to a goosing and a cheeky wink as she laid their drinks on the table. She was shocked more than offended — she expected to scold the patrons for confusing her bargirls with the working ladies, not to be abused. Such was her surprise at the Bear’s lascivious attentions that she forgot entirely to take umbrage and walked back to her side of the bar with a sort of bemused grin on her face, looking over her shoulder once at Bourninund, to find him watching her girth sway across the crowded room.

Renir watched all this and shook his head. Their party might have changed (no doubt for the worse, he thought ruefully) but the Bear never would.

They drank quietly into the evening, talking little, but in some small way taking the measure of their newest member. Shorn seemed to have found a balance with the man who had tried to kill him, which was strange as Shorn was not renowned for his forgiving nature. Perhaps it was the priest’s influence rubbing off on him.

Bourninund took the new addition in his stride, matching the old master drink for drink, not out of any sense of competition, more out of interest than anything else. A mercenary finds many ways to pass the peaceful hours, and contrary to popular thought avoided confrontation when they weren’t being paid to fight. Bourninund seemed comfortable around Wen.

Renir was, he noted with some satisfaction, not the only one to think Wen dangerous. Drun was more reserved than usual, and while he might have been solicitous on the face of things, Renir knew the priest well enough to know that he struggled with some doubt internally. That Drun had not already told Wen what he thought of him, or tried to change him in some infinitesimal way, was a testament to how wary he was.

As far as Renir was concerned, the man was a threat. He sat on a knife edge, drinking steadily but never losing the tension that rode his shoulders and his eyes. Renir, by now knowing trouble all too well, slowed down his drinking and kept his hands loose.

He had no illusions about winning a fight with the man, but should it come to violence he didn’t want it said when he met Madal that he’d died because he was too in his cups to draw his axe. He had vowed long ago that on this journey he would not be a sixth finger. Hertha had had one, and it hadn’t made her any more useful around their home. He would pull his weight, and so he had. He was no longer lazy or fat, but lean, and as wily as could be expected after so few battles.

He fully intended to see more.

They drank in careful conversation for the best part of an hour.

Wen was the first to rise, leaving to relieve himself in the back. Drun nudged Renir’s arm as the big warrior glided effortlessly through the growing throng.

“You think as I think? That he is mad?”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one. His eyes scream while he sits calmly. I do not trust him, Drun.”

“He thinks he is mad, too. But I do not think that is the case.”

“I’m not so sure. If not mad, then what is he?”

“Unhappy. Sad people convince themselves they’re ill, or insane. It’s easier to accept and deal with. Wen would like to think he’s dead, but really he’d just like to be. It is a common ailment of those riddled by guilt.”

“You mean he’s suicidal,” said Renir.

“Probably, but he’s so accustomed to surviving his body won’t let him die,” said Shorn, overhearing them.

“You seem to be comfortable with him, Shorn, considering he tried to kill you.”

“But he didn’t. We’ll never be friends, but we have both changed. When we met again, we fought, but I think it was more out of duty than true anger. He feels he should speak for the dead, that his own slain urge him to make amends for his early life. You would be strange, too, if the dead rode your shoulder.”

Renir thought about this for a moment.

“Do the dead follow a warrior?”

“I don’t know, Renir. I have never seen the souls of the dead rise. They go beyond Madal’s Gates — there is no return.”

“But Wen sees differently?”

“So he says. Even when he was teaching me, for many years, he saw the dead. His addiction to the seer’s grass is a new thing. I did not get to ask him much on the topic since our meeting. He is often reluctant to talk of the dead, but if you catch him in the right mood he will talk for hours. I have yet to catch him in the right mood.”

“He seems sad,” said Drun.

Shorn nodded. “Even I know that. He was sad when I first met him, and time has not diminished his sorrow. It is a tale I will let him tell you.”

“As it should be.” Drun spied Wen emerging from the toilet. “Perhaps, on our journey, he will find peace.”

“I think, perhaps, that Wen was never destined to know peace. He knows tortures of the mind too well. I fear they will follow him to the grave.”

“Don’t be so sure, Shorn,” said Drun with a gentle smile. “Peace can be found in the strangest of places.”

“Well, as strange places go, wait until you see the Seafarer’s boats. Perhaps when we are aboard, Wen will remember himself as he was then, and move on.”