how warm it can get out here. If you’re cold now, it won’t last long.”
“I could do with a bit of a warm up,” Renir grinned, although he felt the familiar lurching of his belly, as he always did when violence was imminent. He would not admit to fear though, even if only to himself. His friends were on the line, and on some deep level of his mind Renir knew they were all he had in life. They were worth fighting for. It was a friendship born of battle, and it was as strong as the steel he wielded with growing expertise.
“Are you ready?” Shorn asked him, concern evident in his face.
“As I’ll ever be. If we make it through this — and I’m truly hoping there’s no one there to greet us — ask me again. With any luck there will just be a scout.”
“I wouldn’t wager so,” said Wen in his gruff manner that Renir was slowly coming to realise was his way of showing kindness. “I can feel it. So can Faerblane.”
Renir strained his ears, but he could not hear the telltale hum of Shorn’s sword above the howling wind. He could make out the groaning of the ship under pressures at which most boats would crumble. He could hear the roaring of the seas, and the crash of waves against the hull that even seafarer magic could not hold back. But no magic. No song.
“It’s there,” said Shorn, as if he could read Renir’s thoughts (and hope, too) in his friend’s face. “It’s been there since Orosh began shaping the seas. But then, it was a pleasant hum. Now, it is a tortured vibration, a cacophony…it hates Protectorate magic. I think it was made to kill them, but perhaps that is just my wish, my imagination…”
“I hate them, too. Haertjuge will stand beside you. Together, we will make a dent in their pride.”
“Watch your own pride, boy. The Protectorate are not to be taken lightly.”
Renir rubbed his knuckles…and the sky brightened to a malevolent scarlet. A ball of fire crashed into the waves to their side.
“Get down and be ready!” shouted the seafarer at them, not breaking his concentration.
Drun pulled himself to full height and added his power — diminished in the storm but still great — to the seafarer’s pulsing light. The yellow joined the blue, and for an instant many other colours swam at the edge of the bolt of coloured light. Then a green light hit the seas, as though Drun had anticipated what the seafarer intended. A great wave grew in an instant, greater than any that surrounded them, fed and pushed on, channelled, into a towering monster, a leviathan made of foam and weighted with water.
Renir did not know how much water weighed, but he imagined the bull-necked summoning was as heavy as a house…it grew…a hill, perhaps, or a village. Then it was all he could see.
Yet another ball of fire flew from the cove, headed straight toward them, but the leviathan merely swatted it with one gigantic fist. Renir heard the hiss as flame met water, but the leviathan was unaffected. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore now, and around the sides of the summoning he could see land begin to take shape. The snows were fierce indeed, and he had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from nattering.
Then the giant smashed down, a hundred feet of water hitting the shore in a second. In the backwash, with no time for words, the warriors leapt into the shallows and rushed forward, snarls and war-cries on their lips.
Behind them, the seafarer’s boat was already heading out to sea. Drun’s time was over. It was time for the blade, and the fist.
Wen ran straight at a wizard — set apart by his garb — and ran him through.
Some of the Protocrats were insensible, or had been washed out to shore, but many more were rousing themselves. Shorn beheaded one, and then he was in a battle, two Protocrats circling him. Renir watched as he swept the legs from under one and whirled to face the other. I’ll have to remember that…he thought to himself and only just noticed the short sword coming at his head. He fell to one knee and swung his axe with all his might at a knee — the blade slashed through, coming out the other side with a spray of blood, startlingly bright against the snow. The Protocrat fell to the floor, screaming. Renir strode past him, crashing a blow into a helmed warrior’s skull, crushing the helm and skull alike. A sword glanced off his back and he spun on his heel. The red-robed warrior fell to the ground without a sound, a gaping wound where his face had once been.
He saw the Bear slide on the soft, slush covered ground, striking upward into a soldier’s thigh. Before the man could bleed to death Bourninund pulled his legs from under him, taking a glancing blow in his side.
He ran to help, but two soldiers blocked his way suddenly. He had little experience of facing more than one soldier. Even the odds, came a gruff, old warrior’s voice in his mind.He spun again, his axe flying round at head height. Two bright arcs of blood filled his vision as he came to rest. Or stack them in your favour, he told himself and grinned wildly.
All discomfort was forgotten. He blood boiled. He raged.
As he ran to the Bear’s side, he was only just raising himself from the ground. He faced a soldier, but the soldier’s back was turned to Renir. He could not hear his approach over the wind.The soldier’s sword point hovered above the ground like a serpent poised to strike. Bourninunds swords — shorter than Shorn’s, designed for thrusting rather than slashing, swung. The Protocrat Tenther fell from the power of the blow, and the Bear’s sword, stuck between his ribs, pulled Bourninund’s arm from its socket.
“Goddamn!” he cursed. Renir could hear him over the raging storm. The Bear’s other sword, still clutched tight in his hand now trailed its point on the floor.
Renir crashed his axe overhand into the helm of a dark eyed man and watched him crumple to the ground.
“Renir! Quick, grab my hand!”
He was at Bourninund’s side, and took hold of his friend’s arm in a two-handed grip, twisting the arm straight against the elbow joint.Shorn covered them, pointing his sword perpendicular to the ground at the next attacker.
“Quick, now, when I say, twist and push it up!”
Renir needed no instruction. For some reason the knowledge of how to return the shoulder to its socket was suddenly large in his mind. He took Bourninund’s hand in his, putting his left against the elbow to hold the arm straight, twisted and pushed upward hard.
“Araagh!”
The Protocrat fell to Shorn’s sword.
Bourninund’s fist crashed into Renir’s nose.
Wen walked calmly to their side and returned his sword to his scabbard, which he had dropped on the beach when they landed.
When Renir came too again Shorn was looking down at him. He turned his head gingerly to Bourninund. “What is it with mercenaries?” Honestly, you lend a hand.”
Shorn was still laughing at him, but Bourninund looked sheepish. “Sorry, Renir.” His face didn’t look like his apology was heart-felt. “I should’ve warned you. I tend to hit things when I’m hurt. Self-defense.”
Shorn nodded. “Not to worry, Renir, first time I did it — he did the same thing to me.”
“Fair enough. Next time you can put your own damn shoulder back in. Did we win?”
Shorn pulled him up, and looked pointedly around at the bodies strewn across the cove.
“Guess so,” said Renir with a nod, and suddenly his legs felt very weak.
“Let’s get out of this wind,” said Shorn, and together, they walked to where Drun was waiting, unscathed, with a new pair of dead man’s boots on his feet.
Chapter Sixty-Four
How am I going to fight this? Reih thought to herself. They would come for her if she didn’t kill herself. But if she fled, like a coward? What secrets would eternity hold for a coward?
They were close. Not close enough to run though. So, the Protocrats wanted the Kua’taenium dead? They’ll not find it so easy while she could still change her fate. Come. Kuh’taenium, show me the scene:
