Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Renir frowned. The cloud never moved…but it couldn’t be…the winds were so fierce, and the boat was travelling out to sea. “Is that it?” he asked, unsure as to what he was seeing but now sure it was no cloud. “Is that Teryithyr? But it can’t be. It should be to the north west, and we are travelling east…what is it?”

“Not Teryithyr, of that you can be sure. That, my friend, is a boat.”

“What?” said Renir. Disbelief rode his voice like the ship rode the waves. “But it almost covers the horizon.” Renir strained his eyes again. “It looks grey from here. Like the cliffs of the Spar.”

“It is no cliff. It is our home — one of them. That is Daindom, the fifth ship of the fleet, and the largest,” said Orosh. “Would that we had land to call our own, but it serves the Feewar well.”

“But it’s as big as an island! How does it stay afloat?”

Orosh never took his eyes from the seas, but answered as if reciting from memory. “Until the Feewar find land again, the sea shall be our home. Until the seas fall, or land rises, the Feewar will sail. Our boats will grow, our magic is strong. Upon the great blue seas until the renewal.

“It is what we are taught in the cradle — we are cursed to roam the seas until we find our land again, but we have been given gifts, too. There are those among us that can calm the stormy seas, and our ships are living things, grown from the Ulian, a strange tree that needs no soil, only sea water. It floats forever on the sea, as do our people. We live in harmony with the Ulian. Without it we would need land, and on land we sicken.”

It was as long a speech as Orosh had made. Renir wondered quietly to himself why the Seafarers had been cursed in the first place, but he thought that impolitic to ask. I would have not thought on someone else’s sensibility before my journey, he thought to himself. Perhaps one day I will become a Thane, and keep the people happy with my new found thoughtfulness. Perhaps one day I will forget all about asking the questions that matter, and lead my subjects to destruction.

He suppressed a smile. His subjects. He didn’t even have a home anymore, let alone a people to call his own. Delusional! Who would want to be a leader of the people?

Instead, he asked “What do you eat, then? Stuck at sea, forage must be sparse.”

“Wait, and you will see. Things are not always as they seem over the horizon.” Orosh replied.

Renir waited at the prow, staring at the approaching leviathan. As their vessel drew closer to Diandom, Wen and Bourninund joined him, Bourninund in as deep awe as Renir, Wen with an expression of studied boredom on his dark face.

“Big, ain’t it?” said Bourninund.

Wen hawked into the sea.

“As ever, the master of understatement,” said Shorn.

“Why beat fancy with words when one will suffice?” said the dark warrior.

As they approached Renir noticed he could make out features on the boat (island, he thought to himself. More island than boat.) There were cliffs, the brown of the Seafarer’s remarkable trees, and an inlet. It was a bay, and beached (for want of a better work — Renir thought he might have to invent a new word for what he was seeing) there were five boats, similar in size and construction to the one he sail on. Trees grew proudly upwards, but also sideways, on the deck (land? He wondered. It was the only word he knew which would suffice). People walked down to the lower ground from the main deck of the ship, all dressed as brightly as Orosh and his crew. They stood, outlined against the sky, watching their approach.

Renir remembered Drun’s caution, and looked around for the old priest, but he was facing the other way, as though this new phenomenon was of less interest to him than their wake. Renir unconsciously fingered his axe, then realising what he was doing put his hands to his sides, hoping none of the crew had noticed. Whatever threat they faced, whatever it was that troubled Drun, he could not face it alone, and with Orosh standing beside them, there was little he could do to draw the priest’s attention to the matter.

“Farewell Bay, friend Renir. That is where we bid farewell to the old ones. The birthing bay is on the far side, always facing the east.”

I can’t say I wondered, thought Renir, but saying goodbye to the old ones sounded somewhat ominous. He raised an eyebrow to Shorn, but the mercenary shook his head carefully, closing his eyes for a moment as if to shut off the subject.

If Orosh wanted to speak, he would let him.

“But they come to greet us here…?” asked Renir, mindful of stepping on a strange people’s beliefs. With Drun’s warning fresh in his mind and none of the other men seeming willing to take the lead, he felt obliged to engage the captain of this boat if no one else would. It wouldn’t be seemly to let him ramble on alone.

“Yes, sometimes we land here, when we come from the west. Fewer boats are built each year, though. Much is lost with the passing of the tides.”

Orosh seemed unaccountably sad as they drew closer, and Shorn took Renir’s elbow and led him to one side. Orosh did not seem to notice that Renir was no longer with him, but continued to calm the seas with his stare.

Diandom loomed closer, until they beached. Renir would have sprawled, but Shorn was braced and held him firm.

”Watch my lead,” the mercenary whispered, as Orosh leapt over the side to the deck, or land, or whatever it was that Renir could not decide.

“Drun warned me…”

“I know,” Shorn interrupted, and followed the crew down.

There was nothing for it. Renir followed his friends, Drun bringing up the rear. Arrayed before them were more than fifty Feewar, each as grim as the next. Not a one wore a welcoming smile. Renir loosened his fingers and watched Shorn for any sign that he was worried out of the corner of his eye.

“So, the student and the master return,” said a gargantuan man, stepping in front of the gathering crowd. “I thought I told you never to come back.”

Shorn’s sigh was audible. Wen made no move, but muttered under his breath, “Blasted Seafarers. Their memories are too long by half.”

“We asked for passage, and were granted it. Old wrongs hold no weight here, and we claim passage. You cannot harm us, Dainar.”

“Oathbreaker! There will be no right of passage for you! Hold them!” he cried, and weapons were in hands faster than Renir would have believe possible, had his own as not appeared before his eyes, held unwavering, facing the Seafarers, anger evident in each one’s eyes.

“We wish no blood shed, Dainar, just passage. Much water has washed the shore since then,” Shorn told the man.

Dainar’s chins merely wobbled, the only sign he had heard.

“You will face the court. Now, drop your weapons.”

Renir dropped his instantly, then picked it up with a sheepish grin and a scowl from Wen.

“I thought it would not be so easy. You will face the court, or you will die.” He motioned with one stubby hand, and unseen before, Seafarers bearing bows, which Renir had never seen, rose from the trees above.

“Bows are forbidden!” cried Shorn in surprise.

“Much has changed since you broke your oath, warrior. The old ways are drowning, and a new way shows itself to us. Now, drop your weapons or die where you stand.”

“Drop them,” said Wen. “We will find another way to win our battles. Some times, force of arms is not the way. They will not kill us.”

“Not yet, anyway,” said Shorn, disgust evident in his gruff voice.

“I like this not one whit,” spat Bourninund, kneeling and placing his short swords on the living deck. “Not one whit.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Bourninund,” Drun spoke for the first time. “I think they mean to keep us alive a while longer. I will do what I can.”