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 rahkens 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 eyes 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 understand how humans could live with it. It 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.
But she did not look back. Tirielle stepped through, followed by Shorn. No words of encouragement, no backward glances from the warrior.
Drun nodded to his brothers, laid a hand on Renir’s shoulder. “We will return, if we can. If not, get free. Follow my brothers, they will find a way.”
Renir clasped the old priest’s offered hand. “Make sure you come back, old man. You just make sure. And watch out for Shorn. He’s headstrong, you know.”
“I know,” smiled Drun. “I will bring him back.”
Silently, and only to himself, he added ‘if I can’.
Chapter Ninety-One
Klan Mard’s bare feet made no sound on the warm stone beneath his feet. He padded silently, his blood red eyes lighting the path before him.
He could not sense them — the Sard hid them from sight — but they had led him to the wizard. Finally, a test of his powers!
Excitement flowed through him, and he sought for control. He could not give in to his urges, not yet. He had to control himself. He fought down the power bubbling inside of him.
Gone were the worries of leadership. His soldiers could fend for themselves. He had handpicked them. They were the best. The battle was not his concern. Only finding the wizard, and destroying him forever, that was all that concerned him. Human mages these days were nothing. They did not know their power. He would face one, a remnant from ancient days, the one who had been powerful enough to dispatch his forebears, to banish them from Rythe.
