Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Shorn grunted and hefted his sword. “I’m tired, my leg aches and I want to get away from this stink. Let’s get on with it. Whatever waits through that door, I intend to kill it and get this wizard. The beast reeks, and the wizard has led me a merry dance. He better be grateful.”

There was always time for a smile. Shorn, in many ways, remained refreshing.

“Then let us enter the belly of the beast,” he said, and pushed the door…just so…(he did not know how he knew, it just seemed right, like the knowledge had been in his head all along…or like something else was guiding him) and it opened, stone grating on stone.

Beyond, a blackness darker than moonless night, a liquid, sucking blackness, covering the entrance.

Drun pushed at it, and his hand went through, and came back unscathed.

“Heed me, brothers,” he said, but not unkindly. “Do not follow me. We do what must be done.” His words were punctuated by a quickening of the beat — the wizard grew impatient.

“His heart wakes already. We will come back, fear not. We will win through.”

Roth did not look up as Tirielle stood before the blackness. Doubt assailed the beast. For the first time in its life, it understood fear. Its bravery was stripped away. The pain of loss felt to strong the bear. It stood, in agony, filled with indecision and fright. It watched her back as she moved forward. It could find no comforting words, no thought for others, as it always had. It was routed to the spot, fear crippling its strong limbs. So this was fear? It could not understand how humans could live with it. It swallowed the rahken’s heart, chewed on it. Its belly gnawed at it, as though its fear was eating its way inside to the out. But it stilled its face and held as calmly as it could. It would not allow Tirielle to see its cowardice, not come the last.

But she did not look back. Tirielle stepped through, followed by Shorn. No words of encouragement, no backward glances from the warrior.

Drun nodded to his brothers, laid a hand on Renir’s shoulder. “We will return, if we can. If not, get free. Follow my brothers, they will find a way.”

Renir clasped the old priest’s offered hand. “Make sure you come back, old man. You just make sure. And watch out for Shorn. He’s headstrong, you know.”

“I know,” smiled Drun. “I will bring him back.”

Silently, and only to himself, he added ‘if I can’.

Klan Mard’s bare feet made no sound on the warm stone beneath his feet. He padded silently, his blood red eyes lighting the path before him.

He could not sense them — the Sard hid them from sight — but they had led him to the wizard. Finally, a test of his powers!

Excitement flowed through him, and he sought for control. He could not give in to his urges, not yet. He had to control himself. He fought down the power bubbling inside of him.

Gone were the worries of leadership. His soldiers could fend for themselves. He had handpicked them. They were the best. The battle was not his concern. Only finding the wizard, and destroying him forever, that was all that concerned him. Human mages these days were nothing. They did not know their power. He would face one, a remnant from ancient days, the one who had been powerful enough to dispatch his forebears, to banish them from Rythe.

How powerful could such a wizard be? It sent a delicious chill of anticipation through his body.

But as he strode on, and he could hear their voices even through the catastrophic rumbling of the mountain tearing itself apart, his mood darkened. He felt the anguish of his soldiers dying outside, their agonies feeding him. They had eluded him for so long. But no longer. He would wear their faces and grin back at them as they died. He would inflict such pain on them, such tortures, as he tore them apart. He would burn them, drive nails of pain into their souls, but never their faces. Those he would save. He would save them for his congregation. He grinned malevolently, evil in the red glow. The rock hissed and cracked around him. It boiled beneath his feet as he passed.

A gout of fire erupted through a fissure in the pathway. He walked on, unscathed. The strength of the ascension was coursing through his body. He was harder than stone, sharper than tempered steel. Nothing could harm him. He was invincible. Impervious to all weapons. Pain would feed him. Fear would give him strength. He would grow in power as he destroyed the Sard, took Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s face from her dying body while he held her in his power. He would make them all watch, hold them still, tear their life from their frail human corpses…

He raged, the rock around him melting and pouring into the tunnel. The mountain’s fire joined his own. Unseen, insensible now to all but rage, the caverns filled with molten rock and livid fire, burning, running downward into the heart of the mountain, a river of fire following in his wake. The heat did not touch him. He was stronger than stone. He was invincible.

He burned brighter than the fire. His whole body glowed red, terrible heat coming from him in waves. His pace quickened. He could hear them talking now, talking in low voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. How they infuriated him, with their petty worries, with their stupid mewling words…

His ambitions were greater. Come the return, he would stand above all others. He would rule beside his makers, teach the humans what true control was.

He raged. His power grew. He breathed in each death from his soldiers, luxuriating in their pain, bridled emotions barely held in check. He turned the corner, and they were there!

At last, taste my fire! And he lashed out with all his strength.

Roth’s fur caught fire instantly in that first, terrible blast.

The three barbarian warriors dived to the floor, flames streaking over their heads and hitting the rock, which plinked, cooling suddenly as the Sard’s latent energies flowed forth, meeting fire with sunlight, with growth and love and the beauty of full summer, nascent spring, and crisp, cool winters.

The Sard’s magnificent armour shone back against the fire, with a brilliant golden glow, and the fire from the terrible creature before them was met. They drew their swords, holding the fire back with some innate magic that only those blessed by gods could possess.

In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense — unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.

A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.

Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.

It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.

The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.