Rythe Falls (25 page)

Chapter Fifty

There had barely been more than three human mages in the last thousand years, Klan knew, but for those rare Feewar kin. He knew it to be true, because the Bone Archive within him told him so. And now a whole brotherhood of sorts arrived unannounced and blasted his damn army back to the five hells.

             
'How fortuitous,' he said to himself, seated comfortably as could be expected with no skin, robed but barefoot on the soft and trampled grass of the Sturman plains. In front of him the remaining Draymen fled on foot or with a rare horse. Treasures, spoils of war dragging, but only what little they could carry.

             
How many dead in the fight, how many burned by these new human magelings?

             
Klan drew a tiny symbol with a blackened fingernail in the damp dirt and a small, barely perceptible magic flared before him. A knife, created from the dirt of the land, with an echo of the magic with which he'd created the portal through the dark places to bring this useless army across the mountains.

             
Plenty dead. Once, that would have made him happy, but it didn't matter much to him any longer. This was no longer a war he could win. He was masterless...his own man. And he could please his own whims.

             
He brought the dirt-knife out and into his ravaged hand, and as the day ended and darkness began to fall, he found a Drayman straggler dragging away his spoils, a bare-chested and pale Sturman youngling. The girl being dragged screamed at the sight of Klan, hideous even in the low light of the stars. He stabbed her swiftly, and then, when the Drayman all his, cut him slowly.

             
Some things you could rush...others were delicate.

             
An hour later, Klan wore the man's face over his own, like a helm, from chin to the nape of his neck with hair, too. It fit well enough, but with a little magic and a touch of death-tainted dirt, Klan shifted the mask around on his ruined head until it was a perfect fit. Almost as though it was his own.

             
He spoke, and spoke with the man's voice in that ugly language of the Draymen. Then, he stripped clear of his own robe and put on the man's blood drenched rags, took the hide buckler and the pathetic curved blade for his own.

             
With a happy grin, Klan then sat down in the grass with the sack by his right hand. The sack held a head and was the only thing Klan brought from beyond the mountains through to this side.

             
He patted the sack, sat, and waited.

             
For the suns, the moons, the changing of the tide, he didn't know. He'd know when the time was right.

*

Tirielle opened her eyes. She had no idea how long they had been closed, but she blinked, the single candle in the room blinding after such darkness.

             
'It is done,' she said. No pride, no boasting, just a simple statement.

             
'And how do you know?' asked Selana. While Tirielle sat in concentration, Selana lay on a long divan of some ancient leather. The seat looked uncomfortable, but somehow Selana managed to seem at rest no matter what she did. Her body flowed, languid, from one activity to another, and not once in the time Tirielle spent in her company did the Queen ever seem rushed.

             
'The land sighs.' Tirielle paused. 'No, that is wrong. The land exhales.'

             
'Good,' said Selana. 'This is not your land...but you feel it?'

             
'The land is all one land.'

             
'And these people, these Sturmen?'

             
'All one people. From Draymar to Sturma, from Lianthe to Ascalain. This is the truth. The land cannot lie.'

             
'Good. You serve the land. The King serves the people. And who will remind him of this?'

             
'The witch kin.'

             
Selana smiled, and Tirielle was pleased. She had come, in a few days, to admire the Queen. Dark, deadly...undead...but there was something there that spoke of simple strength, a kind of steel unlike a man's. One that would bend, rather than slice, one that could flow through a matter, rather than chop it in two.

             
Farinder returned to their room and bowed, a slight thing, to Selana first, then Tirielle, but he granted Tirielle a grin which told her he was impressed, too.

             
For the dead, the two had a certain kind of warmth.

             
'A King, I think, needs a friend,' said Selana. 'Go to him. We will meet again, but it is time you were among the...light.'

             
Tirielle thought the Queen nearly slipped, and that shocked her, but Selana winked and she understood that the slip, too, was entirely intentional. Everything about the woman spoke of poise, guile, and a deep and hard intellect.

             
'All kings need a friend, no, Roskel?'

             
The thief, consort, whatever he was, nodded. 'A King is surrounded by demands...a good friend is...a door. A solid door, the kind men sometimes need to go behind and close against the world.'

             
'I understand,' said Tirielle.

             
She'd been born to duty. Born to be a politician, to follow her father's path, once. Then given to the Kuh'taenium to serve. She understood duty and servitude. But friendship?               She could consider this, in her heart, another form of servitude. To be friend to a man in a crown she barely knew...to serve his ego and comfort his soul, be a balm to his conscience when the hard decisions had to be taken...or, she could learn to be a friend.

             
She'd had a friend, once. Roth, the rahken. Roth had died for them all.

             
Is that what a friend needs to be willing to do...to be true?

             
Selana was knelt in front of her, and Tirielle realised that she had not risen since kneeling to listen to the voice of the land.

             
Selana's nails were like razors, deadly, should she wish. But she was gentle as she placed her finger beneath Tirielle's chin and lifted her eyes so that they looked at each, no more than a foot distance between them.

             
'You misunderstand, I think. Tirielle, I asked nothing of you. I ask not that you be consort, nor concubine, nor merely a foil for a man's poor decisions. A witch serves the land, but the land demands no obedience. Sense and heart rule a witch. Let these things be your guide. You are Tirielle A'm Dralorn. You are a witch, yes...but you are your own woman and always must be. Now...' said Selana with a softness in her eyes that made Tirielle gulp. 'Go and live as you would...let your soul be your guide and the land be your wisdom.'

             
Selana blew dry, dusty air into Tirielle's face, forcing her to blink, and when her vision cleared she found herself in a broken tavern surrounded by drunk soldiers roaring out yarns and battle stories and drinking away the last remnants of their fear of death. And there, at a table in the lightest part of the tavern, was the man Renir Esyn, walking among (his men...they're his men, now), talking, nodding, clasping hands, and being...

             
A King.

*

Chapter
Fifty-Two

The city stank. An old city, like Naeth, had a hell of a smell at the best of times thanks to the simplest of sewers, which drained into the river that ran through the southern side. Thankfully, the late autumn was cool, but the stench of raw sewage was ever-present through the city. Most cities in Sturma boasted a pungent stench along the rivers and at their docks. But after the fire and destruction, detritus blocked the rudimental sewers. Bodies, rubble and charred timber.

             
Rain poured and had nowhere to drain. The outer city was turned to mud. The lower parts of the inner city turned to streams, but filthy ones - the kind people got sick from. All in the space of a day.

             
But no man or woman had the stomach for seeing the city righted. By the time night fell on the torn city, the first quiet night since the Draymen swarmed the walls and castle, people began to pick up what they could. Families returned to look, fruitlessly, for their homes in the outskirts. Some were lucky enough to have board with friends or loved ones in the inner city, and some of those buildings were mostly standing. Fire took the thatch, but in places there was, at least, shelter to be had. Inns and taverns opened their doors until city-folk were jammed, elbow to elbow. If they had a groat or two to spare, maybe they shared a mug and some small comfort.

             
The castle keep was full, those buildings that remained standing were full. No one slept in the rain, unless by choice.

             
People do what they can in the wake of war. Hunt for their loves, or right broken things. Maybe drink away the pain, but mostly that's just a different way of righting broken things. Renir understood this, in his simple way, without words or deeds. But he, too, King or not, needed a little time. Maybe a King shouldn't have time. But he took a mug of ale in the wreck of an inn once named The Maiden's Hearth. He and his mug moved (slowly - the place was so full a man could scarcely move without knocking another) through the inn, nodding to men, taking their adulation and congratulations, though it felt dishonest to do so. Dishonest, perhaps, but just another way of smoothing over some pain, perhaps? Let them believe thousands died for some purpose other than the madness of war, other than for men's pride.

             
They had not even faced the greater threat, yet had died in droves. A great victory that felt an awful lot like a loss to Renir.

             
Bourninund and Wen were propped against a far wall, well hidden in the darkness, but Renir was good at finding drunk mercenaries. He'd been close enough to one himself, though maybe he'd never fought for coin.

             
'Bear. Wen,' he said, sliding himself with a little effort into a gap in the men. He took a long pull on his mug. Someone nudged his elbow, mutter a slight curse until they noticed his crown.

             
'My lord...please...'

             
'It's fine,' he said, and waved the man away before he could start bowing.

             
'Bloody embarrassing, this thing.'

             
'I should imagine,' said Bear, with a tired smile. 'Men fought for that trinket and the man under it. Fought hard.'

             
Renir took his meaning, though he didn't appreciate it.

             
Can't even have a drink with old friends anymore. Right or wrong, every damn thing is laden with meaning since I put this on my head.

             
'Bear, where in hells was Shorn? I thought he'd be in the thick of it...can't find him anywhere.'

             
Bear and Wen exchanged a glance.

             
'We still haven't seen him either, Renir,' said Wen.

             
'You think he's alright?'

             
'He can look after himself...thought he'd have let someone know, though...' said Bourninund.

             
Renir nodded. 'Got a history of wandering, I guess...but...he didn't tell anyone?'

             
'No.'

             
Renir thought about it for a moment. Looked Bear in the eye. Bourninund knew Shorn better, perhaps, than he or Wen. 'You worried? Should I be?'

             
Bear shook his head, easily, but Renir didn't find him convincing.

             
Concern clouding his mind, Renir and the two mercenaries watched people doing what they do best after a fight. Drink and love and patch over the broken places.

             
Renir gave his mug to Bear. 'All yours. Got things to do, I think. You know...Kinging.'

             
Then, before the two men could gut him for it he pulled them both into an embrace, then walked off. Bear and Wen exchanged an amused glance.

             
'Kinging's gone to his head,' said Wen.

             
'Aye,' said Bourninund. 'But the King's ale tastes just the same as mine.'

*

People didn't seem to know how to respond to Renir as he made his way through the throng in the Maiden's Hearth to the door. Elbow-to-elbow, a couple of men tried to take a knee, a few more tried to bow. Couldn't be done. There were probably men asleep standing up in the crowded inn, and nobody would be any the wiser until the place emptied and they fell down.

             
'It's the King...'

             
'My Lord...'

             
'My Grace...well fought...'

             
'The King!'

             
By the time he closed the door behind him and stepped into the rain, the sudden blast of the cold and the wet on his face, in his hair...it was a relief.

             
In the street, not twenty yards from the inn, there lay two bodies. A Drayman and a Sturman. Locked in death.

             
Someone should clear this up,
he knew. And soon.

             
But not tonight. Let them rest,
he thought.
If only for tonight.

*

For some reason, he didn't feel tired. He knew he should. He'd fought, taking his share of cuts and knocks. His finger was broken and roughly bound, his ribs hurt when he took a breath. But compared to what he'd seen? Men cut down by the thousand, by steel, and then mage-fire at the end.

             
The stench still nestled somewhere inside him and he'd barely eaten since the battle because of it. Yet some strange energy coursed through him. So he walked. Not for any reason other than to feel the rain on his face, to see the streets and what remained of them. Perhaps just to be sure he was still alive. He might sleep and remember dying. If he walked he could feel the rain, smell the char under the downpour, and the sewers. He could hear the murmur of people behind doors, finding shelted and solace where they could.

             
'Renir? I mean...King Esyn.'

             
Renir looked up to see a man sitting atop a broken wall. The robe of his hood was down. Maybe taking a moment to remember the simple things, like water falling from the sky.

             
'Brother...Garner...isn't it?'

             
'Yes.'

             
When a man's walking through a downpour in a crown, it doesn't make sense to question another's motives for getting drenched in a mage's robe.

             
'I meant to thank you and your brothers...without your aid...we would have lost.'

             
'I'm...glad.'

             
There was a 'but' there, somewhere. Renir frowned, but said nothing. He waited. The man seemed to want to say more, but held back because...the crown? Maybe. People saw the crown. Forgot there was a man beneath.

             
Renir reached up and took it off. Held it in his hands. 'It's just a fancy hat, Brother Garner,' he said.

             
Hard to see, through the rain, but it looked as though Garner managed a tired smile.

             
'Did we make things better today?' said the mage, eventually.

             
'What do you mean?'

             
'Men kill each other. I think we probably have done for a long, long time...but...does it help? Now we're better at it? Does it help?'

             
'I...you saved the battle, friend. You saved lives...'

             
Garner nodded, but it was only the merest inclination. 'Once, maybe, we had iron and they had sticks. Then we had steel, now we've got fire whenever we wish and the earth rising up, or the air, boiling, or...'

             
'When does it stop? Where? Is that your meaning?'

             
'I suppose it is.'

             
Renir took a step closer to the man. 'Beings like...Caeus...they have such power. They think on the future and the past and of a thousand small things, all at once. But you and I, brother Garner...I think we're just men. We live for the day. I think such power is awful, terrible...but if a good man wields it...magic, steel...neither thing is wrong, or evil...but did you help? Garner, I don't have the answer. Did the world become wonderful today? No.  But you saved my life. I'm grateful.'

             
Garner thought on this for a while. 'Thank you, King Esyn.'

             
Renir shook his head. 'Thank you. Good night,' he said, and with a nod, made to move on.

             
'My King?'

             
'Yes?'

             
'A woman was looking for you.'

             
'That's a rare thing.'

             
'I don't think she recognised me, but I did her. I met her once. Lady A'm Dralorn, that's her name. She headed up toward the castle.'

             
Renir smiled. So she'd returned.

             
'Good night,' he said, and head off toward the castle with a purpose, at last.

*