Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (52 page)

Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It
spoke no more garbled
words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick sk
in, smashed and stamped and ble
d fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.

He did not despair, though. The beast was slow, and it bled. If it bled, it could die. All things of flesh and blood died, in the end, if they lost enough blood. If he could just cut through the Achilles tendon…he slashed again, and was rewarded with a deafening howl.

He could not longer hear anything, but he could feel the heat, the burning in his broken ribs and his heart pounding against his chest.

It seemed like it had lasted an age, before he saw Tirielle standing before the creature on the pathway, head held proud, her arms wide in supplication.

“No!” he cried out, as he saw what she meant to do.

He would not let her sacrifice herself to the creature. There would be no death but the revenant’s here today. He ran, aching all over, covered in burning blood, and dived, crashing into her body as the revenant’s hand swept down to pick her up. How could he stand by while the beast tore her life from her frail body? How could he let her die for him, even though she did not know him?

They both tumbled to the floor, and Shorn looked up, pushing Tirielle away.

“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.

*

Chapter Ninety-Four

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.’

*

Chapter Ninety-Five

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 flame
s,
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 prete
rnatural 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
rahken
s (who would tell Roth’s parents, now that she was gone
?
…but there was no time to worry about t
he 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 s
lowly
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 i
ts 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.

Drun stood, pulling Tirielle from Roth’s body.

“Come. We may have lost today, but we fight on until the last breath. The return is nearing, and we must fight with the tools we have.”

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” said Shorn, his voice rasping and wracked with pain.

Tirielle’s tears fell freely, but she straightened her back and took Shorn around the waist.
He winced, but he couldn’t be picky. He needed a shoulder to lean on.

“It was brave, in the end. I would have liked to thank it.”

Tirielle just nodded mutely, and pulled Shorn along, toward the path.

A tearing sound came from behind the
m, and they turned as one. Shorn’s sword rose, always his first response to a threat. But his knees were trembling, and his head was pounding.

Fire licked at the revenants whole body, spreading fast. It was not rising again, but s
omething
was coming. Its belly
was
being
push
ed
upward, bulging out against
the revenant’s insides
.
There was a wet ripping sound, and a
hand pushed through
, covered in some sickly fluid
.

Shorn held his sword out in one quavering hand.
Fire burned inside his arm. It was broken, but somehow he still found the strength to hold his blade.

Tirielle finally drew her daggers. “I’m not dying anymore,” she said.

The hand was followed by an arm, a face, and then a man was pulling himself over the beasts burning belly, stepping through the flames. It was covered, red from head to foot, no doubt with the beast’s lifeblood.