Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Drun took a deep breath and clapped the fledgling warrior on the shoulder. Renir was thankful for the contact. He did not wish Drun to be angry with him.

“Whatever happens next, Renir, don’t worry. I am just going travelling for a while. Now, be silent. I just hope it’s not too late,” Drun added, a calculating look on his face as he glanced at the looming skies.

“It’s fine,” said Renir, and tailed off as Drun’s breath caught in his throat, and Renir watched him struggle, holding his breath for a time.

Beside him, Drun’s body fell back against the boards.

“Drun!” shouted Renir, and thumped the old man’s chest. “Breathe, damn it!”

A dry rattle escaped Drun’s throat, and he began to breathe. His eyes stared unseeing, though, as if seeing a vision in the sky.

Travelling, thought Renir. He had heard Drun speak of it, and he didn’t know if he should do anything. He looked around him. There was no one to see.

“Brindle’s goat,” he swore, and settled in for a long wait, watching the clouds sail ever closer across roughening seas.

Drun flew across the sea faster than he ever had, flying toward noon, then dusk, and arriving just in time to make twilight. He felt his form quavering, but relief that he had found the city in time, only to have it shattered.

Surrounding the city was a darkness that had nothing to do with night. Ghostly shapes prowled the air outside, an evil he knew well but had avoided for thirty-seven years. The darkening skies were polluted with its taint, birds returning early to their evening roosts, shaken just as he was but not knowing why, just feeling the instinct to flee. His fear grew, but he could not flee and hang from a tree.

Concentrating his soul and all his power on the city of Beheth, and the shifting rainbow under its pristine roofs, untouchable by the taint of the enemy, he made his ethereal form as small as a dart, heavy and swift, and dived through the darkness, sucking the last of the light from the setting suns.

All the colours of the rainbow floated through the roof of a great inn, as though they were tendrils of smoke, drifting to the night sky. He could only hope that she was asleep, and that he could touch her mind, if only enough to make her stir, or cry out. Perhaps he could reach her sleeping mind and use her voice to warn them. It was no use warning her, she would be insensible.

His form darted in through the open window, and snaked around her head, but just in time she blinked and sat up.

“ Drun, I presume?” she said in a far too mature voice that pierced into his brain.

In his surprise, he almost lost his form and snapped back across the ocean. As it was, he saw, looking out at the advancing night and the alien darkness on the boundaries of the city, he had little time.

“You must flee!” he blurted, still amazed that the girl was awake. He had been out of touch for too long. “The Protectorate await outside the city. They know you are here. There is no time. Do not pack, just warn the others and leave now.”

“I cannot!” she shouted without words. She shook her head to underline her point. “You know as well as I do what matters most. It is not me, it is the wizard. We will do what we must.”

“Fool girl! Listen to me! They are coming!”

“Well,” she said with a stubborn tilt of her head, “There is no need to be rude…”

“Just do it…flee tonight…you must head north — it is the only way out of the city…” Drun could feel the pull as the last of the evening light fled.

“Fate finds its own way, Drun Sard, and we must trust it. Now go, before you disappear entirely.”

Drun had time to marvel at her poise. So much presence for one so young, he thought at the same time as his frustration at her rejection. Stupid girl!

He had no more time to think. On the last rays of light, his body snapped back. He sensed, rather than felt, the tainted darkness seeking him as he was called back out of the night, but his soul travelled so swiftly it was just a hint of a bony hand before it touched your shoulder in a dream…

He had no time to feel the skeletal touch of the Protectorate’s wizard, just the memory of it, like a violation imagined rather than experienced.

He blinked, and felt the first drops of rain on his face. He sat up, but could only spare a frown at Renir’s concerned and amazed face.

“Surrounded by stupidity,” he grumbled. “It’s a wonder the world hasn’t ended already.”

“Welcome back,” said Renir. “Nice of you to put a rosy tint on things. I feel so much better now.”

Drun merely growled at him. He rose, shook his cloak out, and stalked off to get out of the rain.

Renir coughed and turned his face upward to the sky. Drun might be surrounded by stupidity. Renir was surrounded by grumpy old curmudgeons.

At least with just the rain for company things were simple for a change. Then the lightning streaked the sky, and lit Renir’s face. For once, he looked happy and at ease. He stared lazily out to sea. Cold and alone, rain ran in rivulets from his beard. He smiled, closed his eyes, and waited for the storm to break.

Night fell slowly, laying long shadows along Beheth’s confusing streets. As always, Tirielle followed a new route to the library in the hope that no assassin could lay in wait. The Protectorate patrols were now concentrated in the west of the city. She gave them no thought. Roth had done its deadly work well.

Typraille followed behind, making no pretence at concealment. The Sard hoped open protection would deter any attacker — Carth followed their back trail, Unthor strode along a parallel street, keeping them in sight only occasionally through refuse strewn alleyways and across hunched bridges. Tirielle would have preferred to have them all at her back, but it would have to be enough. They could not afford to leave the inn unprotected. She could not afford to leave the Seer alone. As much as she had grown to love the girl, she could not fool herself. The Seer could prove to be a great ally in days to come. She could not lose her. She would not.

Whatever her motivations for protecting the Seer, it was still possible that the assassin, whoever it might be, would wait for them at the Great Tree Inn. He could be hiding on the rooftops, or biding his time until he could send a bolt or arrow through their window come early morning. The Sard thought few assassins would be bold enough to strike in the daylight, but Tirielle knew better. Bitter experience had taught her to expect the unexpected when it came to dealing with those that dealt only in death. It was no game. There were no rules. The choices were simple; be killed, or kill.

If she knew from where the threat came she could have struck early and hard, removing the threat before it had a chance to sneak up on them. But assassins were impolite by nature — they kept you waiting.

Guessing, going over the angles in her mind, Tirielle had been forced to split the Sard. They were at their most effective when they fought together, but only against a vastly significant force. Against a lone man, one trained in the art of subtle murder, they could only protect her as well as she could protect herself.

She was watchful. She trusted the Sard with her life, but would not relax. Not this night. Not when she was hunted from the shadows. She put her trust in vigilance. Hers, and that of the Sard. Only in harmony would they succeed.

Heart pounding in her breast, ears attuned to the night, she walked carefully, as swiftly as she dared. Haste could mean a sign missed, a sound unheard over her own footfalls. She wished Roth could be with them, but it was simply more logical for it to guard the inn. If it were seen now (however unlikely that was) the Protectorate would come in force. All its work would be for nought, and the last thing they needed this night was additional interference. It was too great a risk.