Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“None of us will die this day! Now get back!”

A fist smashed the path and he dodged just in time, skipping away from it and hacking wildly at the hand. He was rewarded as the tip of its finger fell free into the lake of fire.

He wasted no more time on Tirielle, but twisted inside and hacked through the tendon at the wrist. The beast’s cry was terrible, the pain in his head from the sound of it terrible and tangible. Then it swung its useless hand, and the bony ridges of its knuckles smashed into his back. His broken body flew through the air.

The last thing he heard before he tumbled into blackness was Tirielle’s shouting, somehow he could still hear (but dying, he thought, dying, as consciousness faded).

“Take your sacrifice, take me and let this end. I will die for him,” she shouted above its roar.

Perhaps it heard. Perhaps not. For Shorn, all was silent.

Klan’s snarl rivalled that of the revenant.

“I will pass!”

The Sard were uncharacteristically silent. But Typraille spared some energy for a grin both wide and, to Klan, infuriating. As his rage grew, so did his power. The Sard were now holding back Klan’s burning rage and a river of molten rock that was pouring around them.

Renir longed to escape, to plunge through the blackness behind him, where perhaps a cool death awaited him. But somehow, he doubted it. He imagined behind the Sard was the safest place he could be.

He was unused to feeling so useless. He could do nothing to aid the Sard. If their powers could not hold the snarling Protocrat back, then he would merely die a fiery death in moments. He glanced nervously at Wen, but both he and the Bear seemed calm, stoically accepting of whatever end might be in store for them.

Klan Mard raged, untouched by the molten rock pushing against him. It was as though the wall of flames that pour from his eyes was solid, and Renir realised with growing horror that the Sard’s heels were being pushed backward. They were being pushed toward the darkness between the ancient doors, and whatever lay behind it, toward the wizard.

If they went in, all would be lost…but then Roth had dived through. Perhaps…no, it was not worth the risk. To fail now, to fail at the last, when so many had been sacrificed.

Renir steeled his heart, and prepared to die. A voice from within calmed him with soothing, loving words. At least he would not be alone. He knew with surety that there was a certain kind of life after death. It brought peace to him.

He watched, as calm as his two remaining friends, as the Sard were inexorably pushed back toward the gate.

The Protocrat’s face was a rictus of malice, evil in the flesh, but he found himself uncaring, unworried. He was free.

Slowly, the Sard were losing, but the voice in his head gave Renir hope.

‘Know hope, my love. Even now, the tides of Rythe are turning.’

The beasts hand came down to take Tirielle, Drun watching in frozen horror, when tumbling through the blackness came a creature blazing with fire, elemental fury hurling toward the screaming revenant.

Twice denied the Sacrifice, another warrior faced the foe.

Roth’s hurtled along the pathway, leaping over Tirielle with a roar, onto the revenant’s outstretched hand. Its sharp claws dug into the swinging tree-trunk thick arm, and hand over hand it scaled the heights as though it were climbing a mountain.

Drun could do nothing but watch. Never in his long life had he felt so useless. Roth would ruin all their long plans. For it to die saving Tirielle would ruin all he had waited for. It would skew and shatter the prophesy. But then, what did it matter? The revenant had eaten the last wizard. They fought for nothing. There was no hope, only to fight until the last.

Perhaps, he thought, watching Roth scale the great beast like a mountainside, that was all there was come the end. To fight.

Tirielle watched with tears in her eyes as Roth, streaming flames, crawled up the revenant’s shoulder. She saw it meant to tear at the revenant, even as the rahken died, but it was too slow, dying as it was. Roth’s usual preternatural speed had deserted it.

The rearing beast roared its defiance as it snatched Roth from its shoulder and squeezed it in one enormous hand. Steaming blood dripped from its hand where Shorn had wounded it, but he too had died in vain. She could do nothing but watch as another brave warrior died trying to save her from her ultimate fate.

The great beast snatched her friend up. It was all Tirielle could do to close her eyes against the sight of the rahken’s death, but she could not drown out Roth’s cries of agony as it was crushed in that huge bony paw.

Mercifully, it was over soon. She turned her head away as the revenant stuffed Roth into its mouth and swallowed.

It was time for her to do her duty. She had lost enough. She was ready to go to her death.

What more could she lose? Perhaps the revenant would allow Drun to go. Surely he could continue the fight, even without the red wizard. He had power enough. He could rally the rahkens (who would tell Roth’s parents, now that she was gone?…but there was no time to worry about the living anymore).

She walked, once again, toward the beast. The pathway seemed unnaturally long, as though it stretched out eternally. But then she knew time and distance were the same thing, warped by pain. And her pain was immense. She only wished she had not lost more on the pathway to make her sacrifice. If only she could have given her life to save others, but instead it was a hollow death. She had saved no one.

She raised her hands in supplication and stood trembling before the beast. It roared, with pleasure, she thought…but its voice was cut off.

Suddenly, it was gurgling, bubbling like the boiling lava around her. Blood burst from its throat, spraying across the cavern in a great steaming arc, and Roth tumbled lifelessly out from the gaping wound, a burnt, dead husk.

The revenant fell silent, its throat torn out.

She watched in amazement, and terror, and pity for the fallen, as the monster slowly crumpled to one massive knee. Almost sedately, after the pace of the fight, it keeled over, dead.

The tremor shook her to her knees. Then its head fell into the lake of fire and caught light. The flames burned high.

She found her feet again. She ran to Roth, who lay steaming, crippled and lifeless.

At the last, Roth had saved her. How many had died to save her? And she had not even been able to save her friend.

“Oh, Roth,” she cried, cradling the rahken in her arms. “What have you done?”

She emitted a startled cry as Roth croaked, “Only what I was made to do. Mourn me not, Tirielle, for I was always the Sacrifice. It was my fate to bear, not yours.”

Its body was broken, a shattered lump of meat, but still it managed a smile for her. “I am only glad I found the courage in the end.”

“You are full of courage, Roth. A more courageous creature I have never met.”

“And yet, I knew fear.”

“We all do, Roth,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry…you lost…so much…” It managed, and the final death rattle came from its throat. She hugged it to her breast, crying freely now.

The flames licked the air around her.

A hand took her arm.

“We must go, Tirielle. There is no wizard, but the day is not yet done. My brothers need me. We must leave Roth behind. I need you to help me carry Shorn.”

“I’ll carry myself,” said Shorn, approaching from behind them. He was cradling his arm. Blood was streaming from a deep laceration in his scalp, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.