Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

He stepped back from the door and it exploded inward, soldiers tumbling through. His sword leapt in his hand. He beheaded the first warrior to step through, and with a thrust ripped open the neck of the second. He danced back and gave himself room, the chamber’s breadth more than ample to swing a blade. He would not fight in a corner. While he could not fight in the glory of the sun, its light filled his mind, with love, and finally, its approval.

He twirled and slashed, his blade twinkling in the eerie radiance of the portal, and Tenthers fell as they entered the room. One threw himself forward, skewering himself on j’ark’s blade, and in the moment he freed it two more soldiers entered. Their armour turned aside a glancing blow, dark armour forged with blood, a filthy grey. Beside them, j’ark was a shining light. His cloak whirled around him as he span on his heel, his sword slicing cleanly through two necks — but in the time it took to dispatch the two warriors more had entered. He was dimly aware of his shoulder wound opening again, and blood flowing within his glittering armour.

He embraced the pain, for with it he knew he was still alive.

He saw a blade swinging toward his head but could do little to avoid it. It clanged against his helm, knocking it from his head. His eyes blazed with power he did know he had, and he felt Unthor’s spirit welling inside him, giving him strength. He shook his head and his sword arm was suddenly full of renewed vigour. He thrust through the warrior’s armour, disembowelling him, drew his dagger with his failing left arm and drove it between the eye slit in the helm of yet another soldier.

Then time seemed endless. Each moment drawn fully, vision unimpaired by thought, nothing but the dance of the blade, the flowing and pumping of blood. The flagstones were slick with it, the air filled with cries of agony. None of it affected j’ark.Peace held him tight. He saw his death to come. He was tiring fast, his blood flowing freely from his shoulder. He did not realise it, but he slowed. Imperceptibly, but enough.

A sword sliced across the back of his dagger hand, and the blade clattered to the flagstones. Two more soldiers entered the chamber. Surrounded now, Unthor’s spirit urged him on… just a little longer, brother, I can see them, they are near the end…just a little longer… and he whirled, blocking a thrust at his back. A sword pierced his hamstring and he felt sudden blood drenching his greaves.

Limping, he killed yet another soldier. A sword glanced against his scalp. Blood blinded him in one eye.

A moment longer, brother, I am with you…your left!

He parried, clumsy now, for such an accomplished swordsman, but still faster than most mortals. A warrior fell, his breastplate sliced through.

NOW!

The power of Unthor’s voice rang through his head. He shouldered a soldier out of the way. The soldier tumbled to the floor.

The gems hummed, but j’ark could no longer hear them. All he could hear was the strange singing of the spirits within the portal, Unthor’s voice among them, and yet still strong within his head.

He swung with all his might.

The crystal shattered, and the world imploded.

Shards flew into the portal, the power pulling at his soul. The afterworld’s darkness surrounded him, but it was held back by a strange, rising golden glow.

At the last, pain was forgotten. All was peace.

In death, j’ark finally shone.

Shockwaves tore at the rock and ice. The day had darkened preternaturally, a thick grey cloud seeming to grow from the peak of the highest mountain. The pristine white of the plateau had grown grey with what, to Shorn’s eyes, looked like ash. It could not be, though. There were no fires…the only time Shorn had seen the sky rain ash was in Cabran, and that was only because the city had been torched following the dreadful battle.

Shorn stumbled into a roll as a blade whistled past his head. He lashed out with his sword and a red-robed warrior fell. He gained his feet, lurching as the ground bucked and warped under foot, parrying a vicious blow and using his brace as a shield to turn aside a long dagger, then running the man through. Their breastplates were of inferior quality — Drayman armour had given his blade more pause for thought than the dark armour these warriors wore.

But their blades were true. He bled from a scalp wound already, and had only narrowly avoided becoming a full head shorter because one soldier had put too much faith in the shifting land.

He ran, stumbling and falling, slashing wildly. It was the best he could manage.

Before he knew it, he was free of attackers. He crested as small rise, where the ground rock was uncovered. He scanned the battle with a jaded warrior’s eye.

These soldiers were something different. And this was a new kind of battle. Even the ground fought against them. Ice and snow flowed down the rock face, the ground tore itself apart, and the insane crackling of magic flew overhead. Battle lines were forgotten. It was pure chaos, unlike any battle he had ever fought. At the start the Teryithyrian casters had taken their place around the Protocrat ranks, and the battle had begun in a haphazard fashion, soldiers falling to invisible hands. Drun’s magic joined the white beasts, and power burned the frigid air. Flames shot through the air, snowflakes battled them and lighting cracked. The beasts fought with the powers of nature, wielding natural forces like a hammer on the Protocrats. The tenthers — if that’s what they were — fought with fire and darkness, with waves of despair and crushing hatred.

Behind them, the Teryithyrian warriors fought the Protectorate, with tooth and claw, their casters holding the power of the Protocrat wizards at bay. He did not understand magic, but he could feel it. He didn’t need his swords ululating song to know what flew through the air around him.

He could not see his companion’s in the heaving melee, but caught the occasional glimpse of Renir’s whirring axe and the mayhem that followed the axe man where he fought. Drun stood on a similar hillock, at the edge of the battle, surrounded by a nimbus of holy light. His magic joined with that of the white beasts. Shorn took a moment to wonder just how powerful the priest was…perhaps, with his aid, they might win the day.

A warrior had seen him, but Shorn was untroubled. He held the high ground. He stood firm as the soldier charged toward him, held his blade to one side and prepared to strike. The hill crumbled, his weak leg buckled under him, but still he managed to disembowel the warrior in front of him.

He found himself alone again, a dead warrior at his feet. He whirled, looking for another enemy.

No one stood before him. Somehow, he had made it through.

He returned his gaze to the battle, his breath still steady, his mind clear and calm despite the cacophony of screams and battle cries floating through the air. He was untouched by the magic colliding in the skies above, or the ash raining from above. He searched for the portal with sharp eyes, but having never seen one he did not know what to look for.

Power coruscated through the air, and he found what he was looking for. It was a shimmering circle of light, an unprotected beacon in the centre of the battle.

He caught sight of Renir’s flashing axe from the corner of his eye. He hoped his friend had learned enough to protect himself in midst of a battle, where, outnumbered, swords came from all sides. But from the glittering arc of his weapon, Haertjuge, Shorn saw that he had learned a warrior’s trick — attack hard enough, and defence takes care of itself. It was a way to create space, always fighting on the front foot, push the enemy back and you will find you have time to think, in the way that thoughts come in the heat of battle — furiously, leaping into your mind.