Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (53 page)

But who, or what, could survive in such a creature’s insides?

The emergent man spat something unthinkable from his mouth, and the corners turned into a toothy smile.

Then he
opened his eyes and fierce burning light blinded them all. They could see nothing but the blood red afterglow.

“I am Caeus,
”
it said, in a voice that was not human, not human at all.

Tirielle left Shorn and ran at the thing, more hideous in its lack of humanity than even a protocrat, more alien in countenance than the revenant, screaming defiance. She would not be tricked at the last.

As she thrust the dagger at the creature, its red eyes blazed and she flew backward.

H
e closed his terrible eyes for a moment, and
the world dimmed and flared, then
suddenly the remainder of the Sard appeared, blinking, shocked, in the room. Renir, Wen and Bourninund appeared an instant later, Renir crying out in shock.

*

Chapter Ninety-Six

The force holding him back disappeared in the wink of an eye, and surprised, Klan blinked. In that moment the fiery rage of the mountain descended on him, a ton of molten lava streaming around him, filling his mouth, running between his toes and fingers, burning his robe from his back and searing his skin with a pain he could not imagine possible.

He screamed, and did the only thing he could. He turned the lava back to stone.

*

Chapter Ninety-Seven

“It is so good to be alive again
,” said the last wizard
, glowing brighter than the fires leaping around the plateau
.
“I am most grateful,” it said with a smile that did not touch its burning eyes, eyes infested by the blight.

“My time has come again, and my brothers come. I have much work to do.”

“Never!” cried Drun, who blazed with golden light, but the red wizard, red from head to toe, merely flicked a finger and Drun’s glorious light winked out in an instant. Then he raised his hands and spoke a short incantation, more out of habit than necessity.

In its wake, the cavern under the mountain was deserted. T
hey disappeared from the
mountain, back into a
world more terrible than anyone could imagine, a world in which the Elethyn, the bastard sons of Carious and Dow, had returned.

The last of the Sun Destroyers, Caeus, would once more shake Rythe to its very core.

*

Epilogue

Summer fades, and time moves on. It is a time of legends. The end of legends. It is only fitting that the leaves, as heroes, fall.

Heroes are made every day, as long as there is a witness, solitary, perhaps, but one with the power of words to build the legend, and as the old fade, new ones are born.

On Sturma, brave men fought on without a leader, a thousand songs went unsung as the fallen grew and fewer remained to tell the tales of deeds done by those about to die.

On Lianthre,
the
rahken
nation rises, as does a strange continent, far out in the forgotten oceans, unseen, but felt, by the Seafarers. Mountains crumbled, the suns shone, seas flowed over new lands and around the old.

And on the trees, leaves turned, ready to fall.

- The End -

Apocrypha

The Island Archive

Read on, Dear Reader...read on...

Thank you for making it to the end. Please visit my Amazon page for more of my work, or consider leaving a review on this, hate it or love it or someplace in between.

Craig

About the Author:

Craig Saunders lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and three children, who he pretends to listen to while making up stories in his head.

He has published more than two dozen short stories, and is the author of many novels including Rain (Twisted Library Press), Spiggot (Grand Mal Press), The Love of the Dead (Evil Jester Press)[Forthcoming] and A Stranger's Grave (Grand Mal Press).

He blogs at www.petrifiedtank.blogspot.com.

Just a little longer...

Just a short i
ntroduction, if you'll allow me. No glossary with this book - to be honest, I'm not sure if anyone actually reads them anyway, but I will be uploading the entire apocrypha with the final book...

For now,
this is the first story I ever wrote. From this, Rythe came about. This is the story of the assassination of Tirielle's father.

The Martyr’s Tale

My story begins the same for each death. I watch, and I am constant in my habits. I take the work that suits me, and work for money and food as much as pride. The sky is suitably grey today and rain runs from the corners of my hat. On a roof I sit to watch my work in progress. Other rooftops are similarly mounted with observers. Today is a special day. The day my work goes public.

In the square below stands a podium. On this podium stands a man, the public speaker. I watch the rapt faces of his followers as he raises his hands and starts to speak. People on roofs and in the square grow silent. The speech begins.

The throng lies under a hush blanket and a resonant voice rings out, loud enough to be heard over the drone of rain and murmur. It has begun and will end sooner than anticipated. But this is well for I should not stay to gloat.

*

In my world joy is reserved. Tables are never turned and there is no champion of the people. I am the closest thing to hope most people have.

*

The rain fell on and the crowd paid it no attention. The speaker continued, and for the second time in my life I belonged to something larger than myself. The first joined in torture and this second joined in rapture. He spoke of dreams I had never dreamt, of life with purpose and equal measures of life even for those who could not afford it. The people loved him and I could sense their love, was lifted by it. I could not see the faces through the haze of rain but I could see the speaker stood alone, speaking words unguarded – sometimes, even words need a chaperon. The words that raised hope and brought the low high had also brought me here.

*

Before my birth I had a dream. Subtle death waits for those men who disobey the Slavemaster
, that wiry Protocrat, alien and aloof above the pain of his mortal playthings
.

Torture is reserved for his favourites only –
‘
I am a busy man,
’
he would say, as he removed your bones. He hoped you appreciated the attention you received. Sometimes an apprentice would suture the boneless shell of an arm or a leg. Sometimes the favoured were left to their own devices, teeth and nail and anything that could cut to excise the dead flesh.

Sometimes death was subtle and sometimes death was silent. Mostly, though, in that place, it was a sombre, sobbing death, waiting in the wings while the authors of its legacy carried out their work, and the victims subsided, defiled and worn and crying for their mothers and for the pleasure of the demons watching. Mostly, it seemed to me, death came slow and languid while lives played out in dark corners populated by despair.

It took me two years to escape that place. I was not favoured and I was not killed. But I feel death in me now, taking me slowly. I know I am favoured by death. He is sparing me his time and for that I am grateful.

When at last I die, he will not keep me waiting.

It is good to know.

*

The man on the podium is dead. I killed him last night.

*

I refuse to leave the suffering behind. Perhaps this one disclaimer in my work was born from my incarceration, perhaps from the one undying part of my life before, when all I knew of pain had been learned from others. Once, not long free from tortured souls outside my own, I had killed a woman. On my way to kill a man. I do not know if he deserved to die but I was paid and the job was done. I killed the woman with a knife, and impolitely she insisted on showing me her eyes. Ordinarily I do not watch. It seems impolite should I see death at work, and while I know he watches me we have not yet such rapport that I should receive the honour.

I watched the life leave her eyes and always surprisingly a mere trickle of blood escaped the wound as arteries held their dying blood, and breath abated. The woman died and I carried out my work. Untouched.
I returned unhurried leaving the man dead above.

The price was paid, and I could no more deny the price than my own nature. The Protectorate made me, and I was their creature. A dog directed, a hound sicced on their enemies.

As I retraced my steps, in the knowledge that the passage would be clear, I passed the woman’s body. Still warm, her long dark hair fanned across the floor of the room, and I noticed, pleased, that I had not cause her to vacate, at least a little dignity in the husk remaining. I noticed a kitchen through an opening. Perhaps she had been a house slave. Drifting on the warm air came muffled sound.

I could still hear a boyish crying as I left.

Sometimes I am misinformed. I kill extras, I still get paid. The detritus make no difference in my line of work. I imagine death feels much the same regardless of my intentions. I left the house that day disbelieving at the guilt I felt. I had killed that boy’s mother, leaving a grieving boy, a soulless shell like me. To leave the dead was noble work. To leave the suffering, that was torture.

That night I slept alone and dreamed of prison.

The following morning I returned and killed the boy. I slept untroubled sleep thereafter.

             
             
             
             
             
             
*

The man on the podium spoke truths I knew. He spoke of union. The people joined in murmurs of agreement, he spoke of solace and silence reigned as thoughts inverted. He spoke of pride and shame rose unbidden in me. I thought at times he knew me and talked directly to my conscience. I do not think anyone else could have found it, long since withered as it was. He had a talent, for when he spoke he spoke to me, as he spoke to all those gathered.

Watching closely now, the great man, for he was a great man, faltered and stumbled. He stood straight one last time and looked ahead.

“I am killed”, I heard over the increasing roar of disbelief. He raised his hands for silence one last time and fell forward. His last words would be interred with him. His body hit the wooden flooring, slick from rain, and slipped toward the circling crowd. He fell but no-one rose to take his place.