Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“I for one,” said Bourninund, tearing his gaze from the large barmaid, “am looking forward to a trip by sea. I envy you, Shorn. I have never been to sea.”

“Envy is for fools, old friend. You wouldn’t envy me if you knew how long I’d spent at sea.”

“How long?” asked Renir.

“Seven years. Almost my entire childhood. I was sixteen before I found land again.”

“Seven years with Wen?”

“Every day. Day in, day out, the roll of the sea and the clatter of blades.”

“Must have been boring.”

Shorn laughed. “Oh, you’ll see. There’s plenty of places to roam on a Seafarer’s ship.”

“There can’t be that many,” said Bourninund.

“You’d be surprised.”

Wen made it through the swathe of drinkers and sat back down, the seat creaking underneath him, to find a full mug of pale ale before him.

He drank it thoughtfully.

Renir watched him through his eyebrows, and stroked ale from his moustache. The journey was about to get interesting.

The darkness of the tunnel was strangely deceptive. It seemed, on the face of it, absolutely. To a human eye, it would be. But to a rahken, darkness was just a different kind of light.

Feloth ran as swiftly as it was able. He was a mere messenger, but he was as gifted as any young rahken. It saw much, and where darkness was at its heaviest, it used scent to guide its path.

The message was too important to dally.

It ran on, onto the fifth of the caverns it was to visit. Since the battle at their ancient home, home once to Roth, and its parents, messengers had been sent to every corner of Lianthre, warning the rahken nation of the war to come. They would be prepared, and Feloth would not fail in its duty.

It knew nothing of the geas. That knowledge was reserved for the elders. But it knew of duty, and love. It had love for Fenore and Ludec, Roth’s parents, the elders of its home. The ancient pact with the wizard, the red wizard, whose name is lost to the ages, but perhaps not to the rahkens, would remain a secret until the end.

But a war could not be fought in secret.

The rahkens would rise.

Kull, Baanth and Ulrioth ran the eastern, western and northern passageways. Feloth ran the south. So far, there had been few obstacles of import, some cavern dwellers to be dealt with, and twice falls in the passages that necessitated overland detours. But the rahken messenger had not been detected.

In the meantime, the rahken had discovered that the Protectorate had not moved against the nation while they remained in their caverns. How long that would last, Feloth did not know. But no rahken would die surprised. Soon, they would all be ready.

Renir awoke with a thumping head in the room he shared with the Bear.

“Bear, are you up?”

“I am now,” grumbled Bourninund, who sat up with a growl. “My head’s throbbing. How’d I do last night?”

“Fine, apart from viciously attacking the barmaid.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember? You tried to drag her back her with you, and she clubbed you on the head. We had to carry you back. You were out cold.”

“I thought my head ached too much for mere ale.”

“Well, what do you expect?”

“Hmph. You’d think a fat girl’d be grateful.”

“Well, Bear, live and learn. Anyway, time we were off.”

They all met for to break their fast with fruit and cheese.

Renir was grateful he only had to ride Thud this morning. Practice was out of the question. His head felt like someone had tarred and feathered the inside. Bourninund had told him once that the practice was for the action — to have the tool at hand when the time comes, but also to take away thought. He said that when action was called for thought could sometimes get a man killed.

‘When you are better you will think before action. The best, like Shorn, can move so fast, so naturally, they have the spare time for thought. They move outside of time…’

Renir wished the same were true for drinking.

With a sigh, he looked to his companions. They all looked weary, and three of them were at least three times his age.

A motley band to be saving Rythe, but, he thought ruefully, they were all they had.

As one, they mounted, and rode slowly to the northern gate. Renir bid the city farewell, and hoped he would return once again.

The village was barely worth stopping at, but the men needed provisions, and one final night of rest before the journey further north, into the freezing winds of the Elsin peninsular. There was an Inn, a few houses and a smattering of boats on the shore, beached shells that looked like walrus carcasses in the distance. The homes were like the huts of Renir’s village, rounded and built of wood and daub. Renir thought for a moment of his home to the south. To come this far north and find that things were much the same — it was like looking in a mirror. But where in the south the summer months would make sweat drip from a man’s brow, even were he sleeping still in the dead of night, here, in summer, it was freezing. The wind blew with a vengeance from the mountains and the sea seemingly at the same time, mixing together cold and damp. Here, under the frosty gaze of Thaxamalan, the suns held no heat. They served only to light the snow-capped peaks. A million shards of light blinded the eye, eyes which at the same time were watering from the freezing wind.

Renir wished he had a woollen hat, like he saw the fishermen wearing, or their fingerless mittens. His own cloak afforded scant protection from the elements. Without thicker clothes he and his friends would not survive past Thaxamalan’s Saw. They might not even survive the trip through the frigid northern seas.

Still, he thought, soon he would be out of the biting wind. Dow slid over the horizon in the west (the Culthorn mountains were but a memory here — they were mere hills compared to the might of the Saw. No other mountains could exist in their sight), but no moons rose to take their place. It was mid month, the first night of a week of moonless nights. The tide was low. Being a fisherman Renir knew the catch would be sparse this week. He had never been a great fisherman, but even he knew not to waste time on the seas on the moonless weeks. The fish would be sluggish and low in the ocean.

The fishermen he saw in the distance were finishing for the day. No doubt tending their nets. Renir could barely imagine what kind of man would row these freezing seas. Surely, were one to fall overboard, they would turn to ice as soon as they hit the water.

As night fell, in its slow, graceful way, it seemed that against all possibility it was actually getting colder. He pulled open the door to the Grumbling Sprout, after stabling his horse with Harlot (Wen’s horse was named Warlock, and had a temperament to match his master’s. He was stabled on his own, and the stable hand refused to go near him after receiving a nasty nip to the shoulder) and Drun and Bourninund’s horses, who refused to name their animals. The horse would be able to take the cold. Renir wasn’t sure he could.

He stepped inside, and growled to himself to find within the Grumbling Sprout, the town’s strangely named Inn, it was almost as cold as it was outside. The wind sliced through the wooden walls and taunted the fire glowing in the hearth.

He took a seat with the others, and ordered drinks. He grumbled some more, and thought the place aptly named. There was no ale. They were reduced to drinking a local brew (brewed, perhaps, from sprouts). It was potent enough. After a few tiny glasses of the drink Renir felt some welcome warmth seeping into his bones. Each sip burnt the gullet, like a ball of fire slipping down a man’s throat.