Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (50 page)

Tirielle spared a thought for those dying outside. But if they were truly
rahken
s in all but colour she imagined they could handle themselves quite adequately in battle.

She wondered if it was their hand she saw in the caves and tunnels they passed. Magnificent pictorial histories adorned the ceilings and walls of caverns they traversed, intersperse between winding tunnels and, on one occasion, a bridge spanning a deep chasm, full of fire. It was remarkable that the bridge had not collapsed in the shaking. But it seemed the mountain was calmer on the inside. Like it waited for them, held its breath in anticipation.

She had no idea where she was going, but she could hear a steady, regular rumbling coming from lower down. The path did not deviate. There were no decisions to make, no forks in the path.

Everything leading up to a final moment of clarity. An end to her purpose…and her life?

She was not ready to die. To give it all up, hand the mantle over to another…if it freed her people she could accept it…but she did not want to die. There was so much to live for, so much more she knew she could achieve. But if the wizard was a legend, a being of immense power as he was fabled to be, then he could achieve more in one minute than she could in a lifetime.

Would he be a worthy successor in the battle to come? Could he truly halt the return that the Sard feared, that they had spent t
heir life preparing to confront?
If so, then she would pass on, without fear in her heart, but with regret.

She took comfort in the fact that she would meet her father again in the after world, and j’ark would be there to greet her, alongside all the other fallen. In the after world, there would be no Protectorate. It was the one place where a soul could truly be free of fear…

Her mind spitefully reminded her of the lost souls in the portal…no, she could not be sure. Perhaps the Protectorate had even subordinated the world of the dead. Though they surely had no souls of their own, the dead were still cattle to them, herding into a portal to hold back the darkness between the stars. Fuel, perhaps, in their insane hatred that drove them in all things.

She could only hope the last wizard could halt their progress. If she could do anything, anything at all, to stop their plans, even destroy them, if she could, she would do it, and while she would be sad to leave the world, she would give herself freely. What were tears and regrets to the dead?

Perhaps, she thought with sneaking hope, her title did not mean her death. The Sard had reminded her, as had the Seer, that there were many forms of Sacrifice. But could she fool herself into believing all would end well?

If they should triumph this day, how would they return to Lianthre? How were the
rahken
s faring in their own battle against the Protectorate? Without her, could they rally the humans to their cause…her cause? She could not leave it behind. It was her battle, and she would fight to the last not to give it up, not before she saw her people free. Free to live without terror, without oppression. For those with magic to return to her country and use their powers to improve life, not, as the Protectorate did, to suppress it.

So much to live for.

It tore at her, but she knew no matter how much she lived, she could not outwit fate. She did not want to die. But neither would she stand in the way of destiny.
She could bear the
loss, if only to do her duty. j
’ark was not the only creature of duty. It had subsumed her, too.

She turned her eyes to Drun’s glowing light, and strode on, down into the deep, toward the steady, growing beat of the mountain’s heart.

*

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Shorn looked up at the roof of a cavern as they passed. A great mural had been made on the domed ceiling. He strained in the dim light of Drun’s magic, but could not make out any detail. It seemed as though there was a man in the centre of the picture, holding out his hands wide in a gesture of supplication. He was surrounded by the white beasts, and the brown, like Roth. In
the picture there were two suns, but only one moon
.

“How am I supposed to trust such a beast?” he had whispered the man called Typraille as they descended into the murk. “It could tear me in two.”

“I as do,” smiled the armoured warrior, his moustaches twitching. “With your life.”

It seemed, from the telling, that Roth’s kind made murals, too. Typraille had seen them. They must be related. From the picture, it seemed the white and the brown had stood together with the figure – who could only be the wizard they were searching for. But the information meant to little to him. He was not a man to worry about things he did not understand. If he lost sleep over everything he did not understand, he would be forever staring at the moon. He worried instead about the pretty woman. She was gnawing at her lip.

The Sacrifice, Drun had told her.

Was he meant to save her? Save himself?

He did not know what was meant for him, what the immediate future had in store for him, but he knew that should the wizard wake he would find himself whole again, with a new purpose, a meaning in his life. He did not intend to die in this cave. When he died it would be in the suns’ light, his sword in his hand and his enemies fallen at his feet.

It had been his life until now, but he was changing. He recognised it in himself. Where once he would never have dreamed of risking his life for anything but the thrill of battle, to test himself against endless foes, now he found himself caring about his companions.

Staunch Bourninund, his sword-mate through countless battles. He could not imagine the Bear, as Renir had taken to calling the old warrior, searching his soul for anything. To him, the fight was all about the money, anything that allowed him to drink and womanise. Even for him, though, such days might be getting short. Perhaps he just wished to die in battle, not in ignominy, lost to cancer or bone-rot, wasting in some hovel, mourned by none. At least in battle he knew his brothers would weep for him, at the last.

He was as unsure of Wen’s motivations for joining their quest. He could rationalise most of the other, but Wen was an enigma. He fought like the demons that lived in his head. He always had. He was haunted by his slain. Perhaps he longed for the day when he could join the dead, rest at last. His had been a long life, and one that left behind pain and suffering…he had run from his life in his own country, but in the end he had sought the life of the sword again.

It seemed the blade was alluring. Look at Renir. When Shorn had met him the man had never even held a weapon. Now he wielded his great axe like a warrior born. Renir could not see it himself, but the fisherman had become a deadly fighter. Shorn marvelled at the change in his friend every day. Renir knew no fear, and fought by Shorn’s side merely because they had become friends.

He thought there was much to learn from Renir. He was a stronger man than he gave him credit for. Shorn had been complicit in Renir’s wife’s death, and yet Renir had
stuck by him, following him even after the terrible moment of
Nabren’s slaughter, never growing to love the violence but somehow floating above the sordid life he had immersed himself in. His nature was unchanged, even though his body and actions called him warrior, somehow his friend’s soul had remained gentle and caring.

A fine man. A man, Shorn realised, he was proud to call friend. He would go to the ends of the world for Renir, for he knew Renir would do no less – had done no less – for him.

He turned from the mural and strode on, following the light, and the rising sounds from below.

He could smell it, lurking underneath the sulphur, its musk strong. He drew his sword ready.
Its
strong odour
was
blown on the steam in the caverns. It seemed the battle was never done. No one had said anything about a guardian, but he could smell beast. He would face it as he had everything since he left his island home with nothing to his name but the memory of loving parents and a life surrounded by books. He would face it, with sword in hand, and fear under boot.

*

Chapter Ninety

Drun smiled. The two were ready. They thought not of themselves, not any longer. He just hoped it was enough.

The beat rose, and the sounds of rattling chains could be heard. The wizard waited for them. But it sounded, and smelled, as though the last wizard had a guardian. The smell poured through the stone halls, as did the sounds of something ranting, tearing at the walls.

Drun
paused, wiped his face clear of emotion. His place was to observe. What he saw was trepidation, concern, but not one hint of fear, except on the face of the beast known to him only as Roth.

Before him, a great stone door barred the way. The doors towered toward the ceiling of the cavern they had come to. They were adorned with carvings and strange symbols. They were a thousand years old, but untouched by time. The carvings were strange, the symbols unreadable for he did not know the language, but he knew who had carved them. Only one race could work in stone with such grace and beauty. It was
rahken
hands at work. There was so much about the
rahken
s that he did not understand.

And it was too late to start now. He had his duty, his place in the fate of Rythe, and it was to observe come the awakening of the wizard. His place was not to understand. If anything came after they stepped through those majestic doors, he did not know what it was. His life from this moment forward would be a new, undiscovered country. He had known the future all his life, and from this moment forward he would have to learn to live as a new man, one like any other. With powers beyond ordinary mortals, but a man, nonetheless. One who faced each new dawn with fascination, or dread.

He turned his kind eye
s on his brothers, his friends
, looking at each of them in turn.

“It is our place, brothers, to face the wizard, to wake him from his slumber. Only Tirielle, Shorn and I must enter. If we win through, we will return. Do not try to follow. To do so would mean death. Only those who need to enter should do so. Tirielle, Shorn, are you ready?”

Tirielle nodded firmly, her chin held high. “I am ready.”

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 understan
d how humans could live with it. I
t 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.