Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Now he watched his companions with new eyes. He watched their new allies in awe since his awakening. There was so much to learn. And learn, and grow, he must.

As the week past, the voice in his head spoke to him. He grew to love her a little, even if he did feel fear at the prospect of his own, personal quest. So much to do.

But he was committed on a course. His blood called to him. His land called to him. Suddenly he was aware of how much he missed Sturma, how much he loved the land he grew in, and how it took for him to leave that land to learn his destiny, his future, and the power of his blood.

He would be forged on foreign plains. He had to know of the world. That was his lot. To bring his land together, to hold strong. There would be a future. When the wizard awoke, it would not be the end, but a new beginning.

So he watched, and he listened. He learned much in that week. When he spoke, he learned to do so within his head. Drun questioned him, but he was not ready to share yet. He bounced, he rode the Terythyr’s back, he followed.

When the time came, the voice told him, following was a good lesson. One had to know how to follow in order to lead.

The immensity of it humbled him. One must know how to be humble to recognise hubris, the voice warned him, and he listened. On the way he discovered something else amazing. He knew love. He loved the voice, in a way he never had in life. Without the bonds of flesh binding her, and his eyes, understanding blossomed, and love grew. If only, he mused in a secret part of his mind, his wife had been so forgiving when she had been flesh and blood.

The mountain was falling down. The ground shook under his feet, and Klan, for all his power, could not stop it. An avalanche of rock had fallen to ground in the last quake, tumbling down the side of the mountain like a flowing river, some boulders as large as a man, snows in great waves pushing the rock forward.

He fumed in peace. He had lost base camp. Not a trace of them remained. Yet he could not take out his frustration on a mountain. Even he could not move the earth, bring back life, or hold back an avalanche. So he fumed in peace, his eyes leaking red light, but he could control himself to a greater degree now. He no longer lost his temper, or killed in a fit of pique.

Instead he willed himself calm, blinked and closed his eyes. The messenger before him was not quaking, but Klan read fear in his face, in the set of his shoulders. But he would not burn him. He recognised that the soldier was no more at fault than himself.

Oh, but he longed to lash out with his ascendants power, to burn the soldier to a crisp, to drink in his pain, fuelling greater feats, to burn all his men and raze the mountains flat, melt the ice and set the world on fire…but that was the blight talking. Klan could control it. It was his power, his to wield. He would not be a tool for the blight. He could not afford a lapse. He had already lost a hundred men to the shaking mountains and the quaking lands.

Perhaps the land quaked from fear of him?

He permitted himself a small smile. The soldier, misinterpreting that smile, began to sweat, despite the frigid air in the tent. Klan needed no heat. He burned with an inner fire.

“Leave me,” he said, and closed his eyes lest the sight of the soldier infuriated him beyond control.

He just needed some time alone. Some time to calm himself. The tent glowed red. He breathed deeply and pushed himself inside. Searching, searching the bone archive, as he often did. He found comfort, a kind of peace in the hard letters scorched onto his skeleton. The flowing words calmed him, the hunt, a hunt for knowledge. Somehow it soothed him. He did not know why. Mostly he found himself soothed by taking life, by striping a face from bone, or staring at his delegation in his quarters in Arram.

Every thinking being needed a break from their work.

The ground rumbled beneath its covering of ice, but it did not bother Klan. He was insensible to the going on of the world for a moment in time.

Blinking, the light extinguished itself, and he returned to the real world, but an instant spend with his bone archive, and he felt refreshed.

He poked his head out into the sunshine and called an aid to him.

“Take note, Iryal, I wish a new base camp set one mile from the site of the avalanche. It is the centre of the disturbance. I feel we will find our goal there before long. See to it.”

“Yes, Anamnesor.” The aid bowed and left quickly to execute his orders before Klan could change his mind. Their leader was somewhat unstable. All his soldiers realised this, but the honour of serving the new division was all they thought of. It was their lot to serve. They were soldiers. He was the Anamnesor, riding high among the Speculate. He was ascendant. It was more than most of them could ever hope for.

Klan turned his attention back inside, and researched what he could find of quakes, and fire mountains. He set himself a goal. By tonight he would be in place. He would find the mountain. Already he knew that it would be the centre of the disturbances. He spared a moment to wonder where his adversaries were. He had not heard from his outriders. In a moment, he would travel there and see what was happening. He could commune, but he felt he needed a personal touch.

Periodic rumbles came while he searched. The quakes were becoming more frequent. The ice was shaking itself apart.

Had he spared the time to look, Klan, with his powerful eyes, might have discerned the mountain peak above him slowly growing, pulsing, like a beating heart.

The snow cleared overnight, and they woke to a brilliant clear sky, a pristine blue. Early morning sun glinted lazily on the fresh snow. Drun woke first, and his eyes smiled at the sight. For a Sard, bathing in sunlight, even a cold sun, was like a balm to the soul. He stretched, waking the beast next to him with a careless elbow.

He emerged from the shadow of the rocks he had been sheltering under, stamped his feet to settle his toes in his new boots, and strode out to bath in the cold sunlight. Behind him, too early to rise, the warriors slept, huddled for warmth against the rocks, surrounded by the snow beasts, taking warmth from their shaggy hair. He could afford to let them sleep. They had been running with the humans on their broad shoulders for a week. They seemed tireless, giants perfectly designed to survive the harsh land.

Once Drun had explained what they planned to do, the Terythyrian’s had agreed at once to aid them. They hunted while they ran, and while fruit and vegetables were non-existent, meat was surprisingly abundant. They soon got used to raw meat, Renir being the only one who had turned his nose up, although a grumbling belly is a great incentive to try new things.

Drun knew the value of food. From his long exile at sea, he had always been grateful for any sustenance. In some ways raw meat was preferable to that which had been charred. It had a fuller, distinctive flavour. He remembered fondly the taste of raw snapper, and shell-snipe, even squid, to some extent, although the texture had left something to be desired.

Stretching, he toyed with the idea of communing, but he had nothing to tell. The day was set already. He could do little but interfere now.

He looked to the horizon and saw their goal. Peaks reared into the sky, slicing into the beautiful blue sky with a cold white blade. Clouds hovered darkly at their tips, promising more snow to come.

The range extended as far as the eye could see, covering the plains. The ground rose steadily. In the mountains he knew the air would become thin, their breathing laboured. He wondered how the warriors would fare when they had to fight among the clouds. He had no doubt about the Terythyrians — they made their homes among the mountains. They were accustomed to hardship, the unforgiving land that they called home.