Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Roth’s night proved to be more interesting. It prowled the streets, staying in the shadows like it was the most natural thing. Where it was forced to cross a patch of lantern light, it moved swiftly and surely, without so much as a sound.

It stuck to darkened alleyways where it could, and was only seen once. That was because it wanted to be noticed. It was the perfect opportunity, and just what it had been looking for.

Unmindful of the dangers, which admittedly were scarce in any city where the Protectorate roamed (aside from the obvious peril from the Protectorate themselves) a solitary drunk left his cups and tavern and started out wavering on tipsy feet along an alleyway. As Roth watched from a darkened doorway, two men followed unobtrusively behind, but Roth could tell from the way they held themselves that they were armed. One carried a cudgel within his sleeve, his hand turned inward to prevent the weapon from slipping out, the other, from his gait, was wary of a dagger in his loose fitting breeches.

Roth followed the unlikely trio at a safe distance, remaining quiet without seeming to expend any effort doing so.

It did not have long to wait.

The two men quickened their pace, coming up from behind the drunk as he reached the door of his house. Roth reached them as the cudgel was in hand, but before the blow. With a snarl it knocked the thief’s arm aside, breaking the arm with the force of the blow, and smashed the man bearing the dagger to the ground. The drunkard screeched and quickly darted into his house, bolting the door and calling for his wife. He would sober quickly, and in some respects Roth was glad he would live to do so, but that was not what he came for.

One thief was trying to gain his feet when Roth kicked him back to the floor. The other was cradling his broken arm. Roth knelt before them, pulling back the cowl of the robe it wore, and roared. The men scuttled backward, and Roth turned and walked away. As it left, it could hear them fleeing in the night.

Roth was just as careful returning to the Great Tree.

When it reached Quintal’s room, it knocked politely, and was bade enter.

“It is done,” it said.

“That should put the cat amongst the pigeons,” said the leader of the Sard with a wry grin. “Let’s hope Sia is right. Tomorrow night will be harder. Are you sure you can get away unseen?”

Roth barred its teeth in a grin, and nodded. “It is good to be doing something again. I will be ready.”

“Then until tomorrow. From here on, we will all be creatures of the night.”

As Roth left, Quintal smiled and turned back to the window, staring at the moon’s gentle light over Beheth.

Creatures of the night. The Protectorate would rise to the bait. They had to. The night would not be solely their domain any longer.

Two thieves sat before the high magistrate, both held fast in iron chains. The man on the left, with a broken forearm, sweated profusely, his face white with pain…and fear.

Flanked by two gaunt-faced guards, and chained as they were, there was no chance of escape. They held no illusions as to their charges. Their guards might be stick-thin, their bodies seemingly emaciated under their long robes, but they were Protocrats, the arm of the magistrate. Neither guard sweated in the growing heat of the morning.

They were motionless, a blade poised to fall.

Gerrard, the thief with a sore head, began to shake. The magistrate still did not look up from his report. Gerrard thought of his wife, and his young son, a mere two years of age. He prayed to Renalon, the god of paupers and thieves — he knew there were no gods to watch over the cutthroats of the world, but he was neither skilled enough to be an accomplished thief, nor had he the patience to be a beggar.

Perhaps Renaleve would hear his plea and spare them.

He held onto the image of his son’s face, the tuft of dark hair that sprouted from the back of his soft head, his gently brown eyes and his endearing giggle, a giggle which from time to time was followed by a high-pitched squeal of delight whenever they played peek and boo, or when tiggled under his chin.

For him, he would die quietly. When they had been found, fleeing along the streets, the Tenthers had asked him where he lived. Even under their blows, he had said nothing. Fortunately, his partner did not know, either. They had only met a week previously, and he had been sensible enough to keep his home a secret from the man. He wouldn’t have blamed Wex for telling them. When they had twisted his shattered arm the man had screamed to wake the night. No, he would not have blamed him.

He noticed the magistrate looking deep into his eyes. He raised his head. There was no point in trying to be submissive any longer. He would die this day. The least he could say when he passed the gates was that he had died bravely, without a whimper. No sense in begging, either. Perhaps he would soil himself, but who didn’t, faced with death at the end of a steel blade?

“It says here your names are Gerrard and Wex? Is that correct?”

“Ye…Yes,” said Wex, softly through chattering teeth. He was in so much pain he could not even force a simple affirmative from his mouth.

“We are so called,” said Gerrard, more bravely.

“And you were accosted by a rahken, you say? Here in the city?”

“Yes, high magistrate, as big as a horse, it were. Broke my friend here’s arm, clean in two. We weren’t doing nothing to it, mind, just out for a stroll.”

“With a cudgel and a dagger?”

“Self-protection, High Magistrate,” said Gerrard hopefully.

“I think not. Another man reported two men of your description attacking him outside his home. We must uphold the peace, you understand? Good, I’m glad there will not be the need for unpleasantness.”

By unpleasantness Gerrard was sure the Protocrat meant wheedling and mewling, not their deaths. That wouldn’t bother him at all.

“Tell me more of this rahken.”

“It were tall, and fast. All brown fur and teeth and claws. Only ever seen one once, when me and my old man were out at the lakes, fishing, but never forget it. Quick as you like it broke my friend’s arm, like a snake…a big furry snake, with arms and legs…” Gerrard realised in his fear he was rambling and broke off.

“And, to your obviously untutored eye, did it use magic? Was their anything unnatural about it?”

“Might have been magic, your honour, might well have been. Ain’t natural for something that big to be so fast. Ain’t natural.”

“Very well. That will be all. You may go. Officers of the court, see them out the back gates. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Gerrard harboured a moment’s foolish hope as he was led outside. He glanced at Wex and saw terror there, which turned his own stomach.

If there was one thing the Protectorate loved more than pain, it was the death of hope.

A starved smile passed the magistrates lips as he heard two soft thumps from the corridor at the rear of the room. The magistrate shuffled his papers, and made a note to double the Tenther patrols in the west of city this night. He would have to draw a patrol from another section of the city, but trouble was minor these days. His superiors would be pleased, should he bring them the head of a rahken, even if his one had no magic.

Troubling, perhaps, that a rahken warrior could sneak into their city undetected, especially since the edict demanding their instant death, but nothing to lose sleep over. He passed the order to an aid, with his stamp and seal on it.

To the usher he said, “Bring in the next case. My docket is full today, and I would like finish early. My wife is waiting for me.”