Craig Saunders: Tides of Rythe

Finally, he was awake.

He renewed his energy, and willed the pain of his burning limbs away. He attacked, and was rewarded with more rubies falling from his master’s sword.

Wen overreached, and Shorn took his chance, slicing the blade along his left arm across the bald head of the weapons’ master, bringing forth a bright line of red, but realising in the same moment it had been but a feint as he felt a bright explosion of fire along his ribs. Catching the flat of the sword inside his arm he flung his head forward and was rewarded with a crack as his forehead broke Wen’s nose. Wen swept Shorn’s leg at the same moment, and Shorn fell, releasing Wen’s sword which rose and fell with such speed that Shorn could only shift his weight in time to feel the wind parting beside his cheek. He kicked out, connecting with the old man’s knee, at the same moment slicing another ruby from the red blade. Flicking himself backward he landed on his feet, sword at the ready once more. His breath was coming in laboured gasps, but then so was Wen’s. He dared not think Wen spent, though. Instead of allowing either of them respite, the swords met once more.

And another ruby fell.

But two rubies left now, Shorn saw through preternaturally sharp eyes. He blocked close to his head, guile now his only weapon, allowing Wen to think his energy spent, and at the last moment swung his crippled arm into the sword, knocking the penultimate ruby free, and at that instant finding the guard with the flat of his sword, pulling the blade free from Wen’s grip.

There was a moment, while the sword flew through the air, that Shorn could have killed Wen. But instead, he stepped back. He was expecting Wen to look confused, or resigned, but no emotion entered the old man’s eyes. Instead, they looked hazed, as if he was seeing something else. Then, as the song of swords faded, the weapons’ master raised his hands in supplication.

“I am well pleased with you, my student, as are the spirits of your slain. You may yet be their avatar.”

Wen smiled as Shorn collapsed in exhaustion to his knees.

Behind him, the Cruor Bract quivered in the rock…but one ruby remained.

My friends,

I must leave, but trust that I will return. I have never been a man to shirk painful duties, and for me to meet my fate, I must first do this. I go to a place where none can follow. I would continue this journey with a fresh heart. I sense ahead lies sorrow, heavy enough for any man’s heart, but perhaps too heavy for mine, burdened as it already is.

Drun, please do not follow me upon the winds, or the suns, or however it is that your soul travels. I alone can see our way forward. This is my past, my memory, and it is personal to me. Please respect that. I feel I have earned at least that much trust.

Renir, I would ask that you use this time wisely. Our road together is not yet ended, and it will no doubt get harder still. Trust in Bourninund’s skill with arms. Learn all that he has to teach you. It will stand you in good stead. While we may not be able to win all our battles with force of arms, if I have learned one thing it is that a strong sword sways many arguments. Or, in your case, a strong axe. Learn well.

Bourninund, I am trusting Renir’s continuing education to you. I know I can rely on you, old friend.

To you all, I say this. When the summer is at its height, be ready. Time will be short, and we will need swift mounts. As Drun often says, you make your own time. It is true of so many things in life. I am making time for us now.

Gods willing, we will be leaving these shores before summer falls.

Shorn.

Renir refolded the letter along its well worn creases and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

No matter how many times he read the letter, he could not see the sense in Shorn’s words. They were brothers on the road. It was folly to split, especially now, when they were so close to their goal. Surely, with war rising in the west and south, and against other adversaries who were able to wield uncanny magic, they would be stronger together. There was nothing that could be personal, not on this quest. Admittedly, Renir’s experience of quests generally involved shopping, and avoiding Hertha.

The thought of Hertha sent a swift ache through his heart, but the feeling was fleeting. His grief was largely past, although Renir was wise enough to know that grief never vanished, it just became part of you, like whiskers, or a well-worn callous.

The morning air was ripe with the corruption of the city, but, Renir realised, he barely noticed the stench of rotting food and sewage anymore. It had become merely a background irritation. He took a deep breath and willed his mind onto matters present.

Never mind the future, or the past, he cautioned himself. Look after this moment, and it may pass on to the next. To fail in such a simple task could mean his death on this journey. For now, he would practise once more the art of war. He knew nothing of leadership, or tactics, but he was determined to become a soldier of some merit. Too many times already had he been found wanting. When he was called upon to wield his mighty axe again, Haertjuge would not be shamed with defeat.

He drew his axe and began his warming routine. Bourninund would be along soon (with a sore head, no doubt) and when facing the wily mercenary Renir had found it beneficial to remain supple. The old warrior had a knack for drawing on Renir’s reserves of strength, energy and skill. Slowly, as if fighting underwater, Renir drew his axe in the patterns Bourninund had taught him. He moved his feet smoothly along the worn boards, the quiet broken by an occasional stamp as he lunged and spun on every fifth stroke, the only time he created any sound above a whisper. At the seventy-fifth stroke, he had worked up a decent sweat. He sheathed his axe, then gently stretched his muscles, each in turn, working up from his calves to his neck. The muscles stood out on his neck now, a sign of his growing strength. He wiped the sweat from his brow when he was finished, and took a break.

Which, typically, was the moment Bourninund chose to enter through the barn door.

He eyed Renir suspiciously, but noted the darkening patches under the arms of Renir’s threadbare shirt, and said nothing. He was armed as always with his two short swords.

“Morning, lad,” said the old mercenary in greeting.

“Morning, Boar, late night?” enquired Renir solicitously. The wiry mercenary had a glazed look to his eyes, and he had failed to button his britches. “Forgot to sheath your sword this morning, I see.”

Bourninund felt his crotch gingerly and buttoned up swiftly with his gnarled fingers. The man was old, and had bumps and lumps upon scars and calluses, but somehow, despite the physical evidence, he seemed to manage a rendezvous with his large lady friend, the proprietor of the Upright Horseshoe, the coach tavern where they had stayed for the last month, each night.

The owner allowed them to make use of the hay barn each day, apart from Sundays, when the three fellow travellers made the most of the ale and took a day of rest.

“Just airing it, young pup. Ready?”

Renir hefted his axe. The early sun’s rays broken through the gaps in the wooden walls, glinting along the etched blade. It had seen much use already for such a young weapon, but it was as yet unmarked.

“Ready when you are, old fella.”

Bourninund grunted. “Less of the cheek, youngster. And put that away before I stick it up you sideways. Fists today.”

Renir put the axe beside him on a crate, one of the few not splintered. Bourninund called him a sissy for worrying about it, but Renir had put a blanket over the crate to protect his behind from splinters. Renir didn’t care what Bourninund said — he reckoned there were few warriors of any kind of steel who could withstand a splinter in their arse.