Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Renir sighed. “Sorry. Perhaps it troubles me more than I let on. But it’s still my head. I’m afraid if Drun goes in he might change me. I like who I am. People shouldn’t be in other people’s heads. It’s not natural.”

“Can’t say I disagree. You deal with it in your own way. I’m sure there’s some purpose behind it.”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think you might be right. The haunting becomes more powerful with each passing night, but somehow there is a sense of comfort there. I don’t think my ghosts mean me any harm. I think they’re just a mite heavy handed. Perhaps they’re just getting used to haunting, new to it, maybe. But I don’t think they mean me any harm.”

“Well, just so long as you don’t go crazy on me. I can’t abide crazy people. I’ve fought alongside crazy people before — wars tend to mangle people’s minds — and let me tell you, you don’t want to be standing beside them when they lose it.”

“I’m not going to lose it, don’t worry.”

Bourinund smiled, a somewhat lopsided expression on his scarred face. “No, I don’t think you will.”

“I think it may even be some kind of spell. I feel stronger.”

“Well? That’s only natural. We’ve been training every day for the last month — you’re going to feel stronger. I doubt you’ve noticed, but you’re not the man I met in the Nabren’s camp any longer. You’ve steel in your backbone now, lad. All you need is a few more battles. If you live, you’ll be a warrior of some note. Mark my words.”

Just what I was thinking I needed, thought Renir. A few more battles.

“No, that’s not what I mean, Bourninund. I feel stronger, but this is different. I’ve felt like this ever since I had the sword in my leg.”

“Strange business that. You’ve still got the scar, but I would have expected at least a hint of a limp. It’s not quite natural if you ask me, but then I don’t hold it against you.”

“Well, I thank you for your beneficence, but perhaps you noticed how quickly it healed.”

“It wasn’t that deep, was it?”

“Can’t you tell from the scar? It was to the bone.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not all as perceptive as you young folk.”

Renir humpfed. “I thought the bandage I wore around my thigh for a week would have given it away.”

“You were wearing trousers,” Bourninund pointed out.

“Yeah, well, there was that, but…”

“Hang on,” Bourninund interjected thoughtfully. “A sword through the leg and a bandage for a week.”

Renir nodded pointedly. “Now, do you see my point?”

“Hmm, you’re a man of much strangeness, but…”

This time Renir stopped the old mercenary. “…But it happens? Does it? Do people recover from a sword to the thigh in a week? I’m serious, Bourninund. I could have taken the bandage off after two days.”

Bourninund pulled at the leather binding around his wiry wrists, a thoughtful expression on his face. “That is strange.”

“Exactly!” Renir said, somewhat triumphantly.

“Well, alright, no need to get excited. Isn’t it a good thing? You might be immortal.”

“Ha,” Renir laughed pointedly. “It might seem like a good thing, but my grandmother always told me, be wary of gifts from unseen friends.”

“Grandmother?”

“Yes,” Renir said irritably, “Large lady, full of good advice and the queen of barbed comments. You don’t know her.”

“Oh,” Bourninund said wistfully. “I always was partial to the larger lady.”

“I’d noticed,” said Renir with a grin. “Sometimes it’s a wonder you haven’t suffocated in bed.”

“That’s the thing with large ladies. They’re like sponges, with all those folds and crevasses…”

“I think that’s quite enough information for the time being, thank you. I’m but a young man, Boar. Such knowledge could scar me for life.”

“Just trying to educate you in the ways of life, lad. There’s more to being a warrior than swordplay. Got to take a little entertainment between times. Let off a bit of steam.”

Renir had nothing to say to that. They both stared thoughtfully into their mugs, and set to drinking. It was better than staring at the walls.

Both thought of women. Renir’s cackled insanely, scrapping blackened nails along his spine in his sleep. Bourninund’s were merely fat.

In many respects, the Boar was the simpler of the two.

Drun Sard sat carefully stroking his greying beard. The grey was steadily winning the battle against the black, although a few patches stubbornly continued to fight. His skin was tanned leather, from more years under the suns and sea air than he cared to remember. His eyes were pale yellow, and as he stared at Carious sailing across the sky they seemed to match its glow. He wore a robe with a certain degree of surprise. He had spent so many years naked that clothing felt like a stranger’s touch on his skin.

Two old men, two young. One of those off on some fool errand yet again. It seemed Shorn was determined to kill himself. Despite Shorn’s request that Drun not look for him, Drun had not been able to resist the temptation. He had seen the approach of the mercenary’s old teacher. He could watch no more. Each man had to fight his own battles, and Shorn would never have forgiven him had he intervened. Shorn might die, he might not. Fate was not for Drun to decide. He merely guided, sometimes advised. He never pushed. He considered himself a priest of the sun, and he, like they, influenced from afar. Sometimes they scolded, come the spring they teased new shoots from the frozen earth, but mostly they watched from the sky and let matters take their course.

That was Drun’s view of Rythe’s twin suns. It was a view held by all of the Sard, but in many respects they were wrong. The suns were far from benign. They had their own plans, just as powerful as that of any other god. The only difference between Carious and Dow and the gods of Rythe was that when you looked up and called to them, they saw. All gods but the suns were blind and deaf. Many had worshipped the suns over time. They called for the summer, and a good harvest. They prayed for an end to the long winter, for clear skies above their fishing boats. Carious and Dow were unusual. They listened. They granted prayers. They were useful gods.

But even a sun, even a god, is not all powerful. Gods know fear. Gods end. Gods need believers. Believers don’t need gods.

To Drun, who thought he knew the will of his gods, such knowledge would have unmanned him. It is better that people believe their gods are immortal. It gives them hope. Often, it is the only precious thing people possess.

Drun didn’t pray. Shorn would return, or he wouldn’t. In many ways, Drun knew Shorn better than the mercenary knew himself. He had been watching him for many years. After all, that was who Drun was. He was the watcher. Tirielle was the first, the Sacrifice. Shorn was the second, the Saviour. Drun made up the triangle. Together they would wake the last wizard.

That day seemed such a long way off. The priest did not know how long remained. He did not know too much.

From his perch upon the flat roof of the coach house he could see the suns, twins lighting the way across the sea in the distance. He hoped it was bright enough. Below him shambolic residences of rotting wood sank into the loam. The middens outside squelched up to meet the tin pot patched roofs.

The dirty streets of the poor quarter turned to dust with each gust of wind. A dog yipped, the sad sound of a pauper’s dog. It was a dry day, the kind of day when backstreet sounds carried on the scorching wind. Even the few streets that were cobbled would thin with time were it not for the effluent of the beggars and starving lice.