Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

The rain that had begun the day before continued all night and into the morning. With fresh urgency Shorn and his companions boarded their vessel, making their farewells.

Poul stood with a sullen, thoughtful expression on his face as he watched them embark on the latest leg of their epic journey. His arms were crossed against his chest, his long hair plastered against his forehead. Shorn watched him from the boat, which nestled on the magically becalmed seas like a mir in breeding season, cosy and comfortable on the gentle swell of the waves. The wind caught the sails and the boat leapt toward the distant and frigid land.

Gradually, the sight of his son diminished, and then before long the gargantuan island-ship fell from sight. Only then did Shorn turn his attention from the past to the future. He left the stern and headed to the prow, where Renir and Orosh stood rocking in the growing swell.

Orosh was staring intently at the seas, willing the sea before them to allow them to pass peacefully. He seemed to bear them no ill will. If anything, he seemed somewhat embarrassed by their capture and imprisonment. He had volunteered to take them ashore, despite the pain proximity to land brought a seafarer.

They were heading for the eye of the storm.

“It looks like a big blow is setting in,” called Renir over the growing wind. “Old seamen say you can tell a deep sea storm from the colour of the skies — like a day old bruise.”

“Yup,” said Bourninund, hawking into the ocean. “I hate the rain. Too many days and nights soaked to the bone on Drayman battlefields. Sticks the seams of your arse together if you sit in the mud for long enough.”

Renir nodded at that, thoughtfully. He could imagine it. Storms were not to be taken lightly. Already it had rain solidly for a whole day and night. But this was something else. On the horizon he could see giant waves, five times as tall as the boat. There were no gulls. The wind was gusting, snapping the twin sails against the masts with an ear-rending crack. Even with the seafarer’s magic it was a storm to level mountains. Renir thanked the gods, quietly, that such storms were rare on land.

“How long till landfall?” asked Shorn, wiping the salt spray from his moustache.

Orosh did not turn his attention from the sea — a break of even a minute would capsize the swift boat, or worse, tear it in two. “Hours, at least. If not a day. In this storm, with these waves…and ice floes yet to come. As we near land it will seem like forever. We’ll have to slow to a crawl or risk holing the boat.”

Renir strained his eyes against the rain and spume, squinting heavily into the midday gloom. He could see nothing but the rain, and the sea. The sky was a vicious purple-grey, the suns hidden behind the thick cover.

“I will tell you when to get ready,” Orosh told them, and returned his full attention to the sea. Conversation failed, each man unwilling to break the seafarer’s concentration further.

Renir looked at their supplies. They had dried fish and fruit enough to last a week. He did not know what kind of forage there would be in Teryithyr, but he imagined it to be sparse, ill-nourishing fare. If it was true, and the snows that had capped Thaxamalan’s Saw extended over the whole of the northlands, then sustenance would be meagre indeed. The vegetation in the Spar slumbered through winter — the lands north would never have seen a spring to awaken the ground, never seen a thaw or felt the life-giving warmth of the suns. He wondered if it would be dark, or glitter with a cold beauty like winter in the Spar.

Would they survive in such a harsh land? He knew Shorn and Drun were set on finding the mythical last wizard, but how could they, when so many were against them? Even the lands and the seas seem to block their progress. Surely the growing storm was sent by the gods…it could be nothing else. The sky was an unnatural colour, and even as Renir wondered at the evil hue of the billowing clouds, the rain turned to stinging sleet, scouring his forehead and cheeks. It turned in an instant from uncomfortable to painful.

He pulled the hood of his cloak tight around his face, and saw all but Wen do the same. Wen’s only concession to the eternal winter of the north was to wear a thick sheepskin jerkin which still left his monumental arms bare. Renir shook his head and left the prow to huddle against their pack, hoping for some shelter but only finding an unforgiving seat against his armour, jutting angles digging into the small of his back. At least his back was hidden from the bitter sleet.

Their packs were large. They could all be worn on their backs, meaning that they would have to carry their weapons. Their sheaths had been lubricated by fish oil, a smelly but essential measure. Moisture would get into the sheaths and freeze, binding the weapons and making them useless in the wastes. It was something Renir would not have thought of, but metal grew cold quickly.

Beside their provisions, armour, and weapons they had also been gifted heavy cloaks and mittens of seal skin, warm and proof against water. His boots were shoddy and he had not been able to procure new ones — the Seafarers had no knowledge of how to make them, as they had no need of them. When the winters came they sailed south, where it was, the seafarers had assured him, warm even when the snows came to the north. Renir could well imagine a land of endless sunshine. After all, they were headed to the frozen lands, and everything had its opposite.

Bourninund approached, rolling somewhat against the motion of the sea that the seafarer could not quite stifle.

“Share a little warmth?”

“Snuggle up. We’ll play tents.”

“I’m too tired for that. Shift a little,” he said, making himself as comfortable as he could against their packs. “Don’t think I’m some woman who needs a cuddle and conversation. I’d be more obliged if you stayed still and kept quiet.”

“After the moments we shared? I’m hurt, Bear.”

Bourninund grunted, nestled, and was soon snoring with a loud rasp that was torn away on the wind.

Renir wriggled his toes in his boots and closed his own eyes. It would be a long wait. He never realised the sea was so big. He was bored of it already.

Soon, his soft snoring joined Bourninund’s, battling against the whirling, crying wind.

It was a talent all mercenaries mastered, or they died quick tired deaths with aching arms. Shorn was pleased to see that Renir had learned the art.

The rocking of the boat was growing. There were now two seafarers fighting against the roaring seas.

Renir and Bourninund slept on regardless, huddled together in a battlefield slumber, their backs to each other for support and warmth. For two hours now they slept. Shorn could not sleep, for he had seen what awaited them.

He was looking at the latest threat now, but dare not interrupt the seafarer to ask what it was. A small hill of ice, no more than a hundred yards to the right. There was no rudder on the ship, but the seafarers, by some magic he did not understand, steered the ship expertly and safely around each mound of ice, staying well clear. But the frequency with which they encountered them was increasing. Shorn understood that it meant they were nearing the wastelands. He felt increasing apprehension. He did not know what to expect, other than hardship unlike any he had experienced before in a life that had been harder than most. A land unlike any other, where winter was not only endless, but more extreme than the soft, easy winters of the Drayman plains or the forests of Sturma. Even in the fastness of the Culthorn mountains he had not been as cold as he was now. And the coldness that had already made his feet grow numb would only become worse. He gave silent thanks for the seal skin cloak he wore. Without it his whole body would be frozen by now.