Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“It’s not their business, Wen,” said Shorn, more calmly than could be expected from someone with such a furious face — even in the murk of their cells his scar glowed white with hot anger.

“We can have no secrets, now. Least of all those that might kill us.”

“Oh, I doubt very much they’ll kill you. It’s me that’s going to die in the sea.”He grinned at Drun, “Is this what you had in mind for me, priest? To die where I was forged? In the cold heart of the ocean?”

“It might happen, it might not,” said Drun mystically, and closed his eyes, as if the topic of Shorn’s impending death were of little import.

Shorn stared at him for a moment, disbelief on his face. “Is that all you have to say?!”

“Leave him be, Shorn. Focus your anger on getting us out of here, preferably on a boat,” Wen put a hand on Shorn’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off irritably.

“I’ll tell them, then, as you’re in such a mood.”

“Do as you like, Wen, but don’t drag me into it.” And with his last words on the subject Shorn turned to face the wall with an ill-natured huff.

Wen made himself comfortable and told them the tale.

“There are many things I am sure you don’t know about Shorn, and many things I could not say about him. His life until we met was one of flight, endless flight from those who pursue you now. He told me, and if he wasn’t such a sullen groat he could tell you himself, that he left his childhood home, the Island Archive, when he was ten years old, but what he didn’t tell you is that it was the Seafarer’s that took him onto their boat all those years ago.”

Renir settled himself. He loved a good tale, and any chance to learn more about the mercenary whose fate was tied to his own was welcome.

“I was already on the boat, ship or island — I’ve yet to find the words to describe the Seafarer’s vessels. When we met, the only two landfarers on the ship, we were drawn together, perhaps because no matter how welcoming the Seafarers were on the outside, deep down we knew that we were outsiders…however long we stayed aboard this vessel we would never truly be welcomed into their arms. We stayed under polite sufferance, and we both knew it. When Shorn discovered what I was, he begged me to train him. I had sworn never to raise a weapon again, but I could no more stand against his will than you all. He is a whirlpool, drawing those close to him into his fate. He tugs, and we dance on his strings. I have only just come to realise this, but had I known it then, I am not sure it would have changed anything. He is a vortex, and all those he touches are changed in the passing, as I was.

“I held out for a year, but the constant badgering of the young can wear the sturdiest of men down, and to my chagrin and eternal shame, I gave in. I began teaching Shorn, teaching him the only art I had ever known, and soon I discovered that he would be an artist with the palette I gave him, painting pictures in blood and bone. But I didn’t know that to begin with, and once I had taught him for too long, too long to stop, he had nearly surpassed me — and he was still so young. I could no more stop than kill myself. I have always been weak.”

This he said so sadly that Renir found himself wondering at the depths of shame that drove a man such as Wen. He was discovering that the weapons’ master was more than just a blade and arm. Perhaps he would be an asset yet…or perhaps his shame would be undoing, as Shorn’s rage might be his.

As if reading his mind, Wen said, “Shorn hid it well, but he was consumed with rage within. He hid it well,“ he repeated sadly. “He was calm in all his training. Never did he let on what he would become — a mercenary, a killer such as had not been seen since ages past. If only I had known…but then, perhaps the crucible of war has moulded him into what he needs to be in the final days. I do not know. The gods draw men into their plots and I cannot fathom their will or their ways.”

Shorn grunted, but kept his peace. Renir wondered if this was what Shorn wanted all along — a purging of the past — but one that was too painful for him to excise alone.

“I taught him well. But as he grew into a man, there were other dangers than just his sword. A young woman began to show interest in him. There had always been young girls watching us train, and men, too. But I would not train them, and they never asked. The Seafarers are people of deep pride. They would not have landfarers teaching them what they knew. Even if they had asked, I would have refused. But it was only natural that it should happen — I could no more stop it than stand against the tides. The young woman came back, day after day, and she would talk to Shorn, and then hold his hand, brush past him…all the ways a woman leads a man by the nose. But Shorn’s anger, I believe, held him back from love. Or maybe, I don’t know the truth of this, he sensed in her the seeds of darkness.”

“Shiandra,” guessed Bourninund.

“Of course,” replied Wen. “Who else? It is by her hand that we are held. She is Dainar’s daughter, and he can stand the wrong no more than she can. He would grant her the sun if he could. That such a beauty should spring from his loins…and Seafarer children are rare enough. She wanted Shorn, and Shorn did not want her.”

“I can’t see why,” said Renir. “She is as fine a woman as I have ever laid eyes on.”

“That’s not saying much, Renir. Your experience in such matters is shy, even for one so young.”

Renir bristled. “I can’t help it if I was married. How’s a man supposed to meet beautiful women when he’s got a wife?”

“Easy,” said Bourninund. “Most people figure on marrying someone beautiful in the first place.”

“Well, it’s not like I had a choice. She had her hooks into me before I had a chance to pick someone else. Anyway,” he added gruffly, “she wasn’t a bad woman.”

“Few are, Renir. I’m sure she was fair. Perhaps one day you will remember her so, too,” said Drun, who Renir had thought sleeping. The old man’s strange yellow eyes were closed, but his ears missed little, and his mind even less.

“Perhaps,” replied Renir. “Anyway, just because Shiandra loved Shorn, I don’t see why she would want to have him killed.”

“Few better reasons for ire than love, boy,” said Wen. “And I’m not sure love is the right word. I believe she coveted him. He was a fine looking young man back then, and she was, and by the looks of it, still is, a wilful woman. She wanted him, and he did not want her. But even so, a man is often led by his loins, especially one so young…”

“I know how that goes,” interrupted Renir.

“And I, too,” said Wen. “Who could blame a man? One thing led to another, and then Shorn refused her hand in marriage. There was nothing else Dainar could do — he set us ashore, and the rest is history. Shorn left to become what he could, me, well, I set out to make amends. But sometimes the past is something that drags along behind you, weighing you down. And here we are, facing the past again.”

Drun opened his eyes, looking at Shorn’s back. “Sometimes we must lay the past to rest before we can fully explore the future. Every action has consequences, even those which we do not take.”

Shorn had no doubt about who Drun was addressing his comments to. “Sometimes you make my bowels ache, priest,” was his only retort.

Slowly, carefully, the men talked into the night. Not one mentioned the court to come, or what they would do. They knew they had no weapons, but they did not need to plan — if Shorn was to die, then they would die fighting to save him. Sometimes, duty is plain enough.

Renir wondered if he would die well. Fighting like the heroes of old, with nothing but his fists against a bow. Perhaps he could catch an arrow in his hand, or fight his way to a sword before he was slain. He did not know how to wield a sword, but surely it was better than bare fists against a weapon. Was he fast enough to duck an arrow, swift enough to gain a weapon, or lay low an opponent before he died? He did not want to die badly, not when he was surrounded by such men as these. He knew they would fight well, and die for each other…he only hoped it would not come to that. But, he resolved, whatever happened, he would not be put to sea. He would die fighting, not drowning or eaten alive. Better the blade…