Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (46 page)

The other Sard exchanged glances. Quintal was never one to take offence at j’ark’s refusal to follow his lead. J’ark was a powerful man in his own right. Perhaps Quintal understood that j’ark was at his most effective when given free rein.
The leader
nodded to his fellow paladins, only six remaining, and strode after j’ark. Roth grinned at Tirielle.

“I think I will get my wish. I find myself longing to see Protocrat blood.”

“You are gruesome sometimes, Roth. Their blood stinks of offal.”

Roth looked hurt. “I happen to like offal.”

Tirielle looked away and saw what she feared, j’ark running at a Protocrat who had rounded the corner suddenly. There was no room to swing a blade in the corridor, but somehow j’ark’s two-handed sword turned aside a thrust from the Protocrat’s short sword, an elbow found his throat and the soldier crumpled. With no battle cry or ceremony Carth leapt the crumpled form and fell upon the
following
soldiers, tumbling them. There was no room for more to fight, but Carth could hold the corridor indefinitely – only two soldiers could pass abreast, and two tenthers were no match for the mighty warrior. He seemed to tower in the gloom, filling the corridor with his girth. He used his long dagger to stab low, and his sword to turn aside the short swords of the Protectorate.

Soon, the corridor was littered with bodies. As the Protocrats stumbled over their fallen brothers, Carth pushed them back.

Behind him, j’ark had dragged the fallen soldier behind Carth, away from his ten. He held the tenther by the throat, his thumb pressing into the hollow at the base of the soldier’s throat, his fingers plying the tender spot at the back of his neck. The warrior spat at the paladin, but j’ark increased the pressure. There was no fear on the Protocrats long face, and no anger on j’ark’s. Tirielle saw what he meant to do, but even she was surprised when it came. Tirielle heard his cries even over the clamour of battle from the side of the corridor.

j’ark wasted no time. Carth could not hold back the tenthers for ever.

The dim torch light seemed to brighten, and the corridor was suddenly awash with a golden glow that had nothing to do with the flames, and everything to do with the strange powers that the Sard claimed they did not have.

j
’ark’s dagger fell, and the tenther started talking, babbling in agony. They enjoyed others pain. It did not seem that they enjoyed their own with such fervour.
j’ark listened serenely while Tirielle watched, unable to tear her eyes away. She watched to the end, when without warning j’ark
plunged his dagger into the captive’s neck and stood. Quintal looked at him sadly, for what reason Tirielle could not tell. The warrior needed to die. T
here had been no other choice. j
’ark spared time to shake his head angrily at Quintal.

“Don’t waste time on me now,” he said and strode forward, blood drenched dagger joining Carth’s blade, driving the Protocrat’s back from the junction to clear a path. As soon as they reached the turn, j’ark urged them forward with a wave of his hand. Then he left Carth to protect their backs.

j
’ark walked with no urgency, trusting his quiet brother to protect them and hold back the tide of warriors that washed against him with no more efficacy than the sea against the sand.

“It’s all a trick,” he explained briefly. “It is always where you want it to be – whatever world or place you wish to travel to is where you most need it – usually at the base of
the stairs, but we passed that,
” he paused and ran his hand over the symbol of th
e first chamber they came to, “S
o now it is here. Quickly, inside!”

They dashed through the door into the chamber beyond. It was already well lit. It must have been used recently.

Carth shouldered the bunched mass of the Protectorate aside as he entered the chamber last. He sliced a hand from the arm that snuck through the door, and then slammed it shut. Tirielle looked away from the hand, clenched around the sword. She had seen enough death, but she was not awed by it. The Sard’s abilities with the sword were not something she could ever get used to, but the death they dealt was a necessity. She might turn away from death, and she hoped she would always do so when she could.

Instead, she turned her attention to the chamber. It was larger than she would have imagined. The walls and ceiling curved away, rising to a crest somewhere up above where she could not see. The light from the torches in the sconces on the walls could not reach the room’s heights. The flames held still, although that was remarkable, for she felt the wind from the portal on her face, cool, but bringing with it no relief from the stifling warmth of the underground chamber. Her sweat chilled on her brow, and she wiped at it with one filthy sleeve, merely wiping dirt from one place to another. 

In the centre of the room a massive circle of coruscating light dominated. It was large enough for three men to pass together, or perhaps two
rahken
s. Not large enough for man on horseback, but then the Protectorate had no use for horses.

Beside the shimmering pool, vertical and seeming to hang on its own, two brilliant crystals hummed with power. Tirielle had never seen such a thing. She wandered around to the other side, but the portal was flat – she could not see through it. She wondered if it had a front and a back…and what would happen should they step through the wrong side.

A soft susurration came from the crystals, making her teeth ache gent
ly. The power they must contain,
to hold the space between the worlds open permanently. It was frightening to be close to so much power.

The portal itself made no noise. It sat, ominously, ripples of light running across its surface, but to look within…she forced herself to look away. It was too dark inside. Unnatural, the look of the afterworld, a dead place where nothing could live. Somehow she understood, even though she knew nothing of magic, that this portal led through the world of spirit, it was a rent in the land of the dead, where there was no space, and no time. They would have to pass among the slain, the cancerous, the lepers…children who died in their cribs, ancient women dead from age, the lonely spirits of the world gone by…her imagination ran away with her, and she could suddenly hear all their cries, forlorn and lost…she saw their hands reaching out to her, to pull her down among them, for the comfort of the living, to feel her warm flesh, to pull it apart and step inside.

She pinched herself hard. The voices subsided, and there was nothing frightening about them at all. They were merely the dead, and they meant her no harm.

The moment passed, and she remembered the urgency of their situation. Carth’s bulk was holding the door closed
against the bashing bodies of the tenthers outside
. Quintal was in whispered conversation with j’ark, and somehow j’ark looked troubled, more so than by the mere thought of the Protectorate mass
ed behind the door. Carth was
serene, calmly holding the door closed. Then Quintal laid a hand on j’ark’s shoulder, and pulled him into an embrace.

To Tirielle it looked like a goodbye.

j’ark turned to her and she felt her knees go weak.

“Through the portal, lady. Draw your blades. Quintal will go first, and hope that Drun Sard has reached the other side in time. You will go last.”

She nodded, feeling grim certainty gnawing at her belly.

“And what of you, j’ark?”

“You understand as I do. I have fallen from grace. I must redeem myself.”

“No!” she started to cry then, and she could not remember the last time she had cried more honest tears.

“No tears, lady. There is no other way. Someone must stay behind to close the portal.”

The hammering at the door intruded on her pain.

“You must come,” she pleaded, though from the look in his sad golden eyes she knew already that he would refuse.

“I cannot. I have sullied my vows.”

“How? How have you sullied your vows? You have done nothing wrong. All you did was kill an enemy.”

“That is irrelevant, lady, and you know it. I have fallen, and have loved more than the sun. I am no longer pure…”

Quintal stepped through the portal, not looking back. He could not interfere. It was j’ark’s decision to be the one to stay. Sword held before him, he faced the pathways of the dead. Roth, seeing its friend in distress
,
followed Quintal through the flowing portal, beyond the light and into the darkness. It could feel Tirielle’s pain, and it was almost palpable. Her feelings for j’ark had been evident for some time. It did not wish upon her any more pain. It knew better than most how much she had already lost on her long journey. They blinked from existence. Their receding backs could not even be seen. It was like they had never existed at all.

“What are you saying?” She slapped his face. “Are you saying that you must die because of me!?”

“No, lady. It is not you that is to blame. My feelings have overwhelmed me. I am no longer pure. But never, never blame yourself. It is the way it must be.” He pushed her toward the portal, and took his place behind the door, beside Carth. At Carth’s questioning look, he said, “No, Carth. The task is mine.”

Carth’s only farewell was to touch j’ark’s shoulder, like a big brother would touch his sibling.

“At least say my name,” said Tirielle through her tears, which were falling freely. “Don’t call me lady, not anymore.”

Cenphalph was next, not turning to see j’ark. Perhaps their goodbyes had already been said. Perhaps they spoke with more than words. Typraille ducked his head. “We’ll meet again, brother,” he said, and leapt through the portal, his blade held high.

Carth was next to go.

“Farewell, old friend. Until you join us again,” said Disper, who roared and ran at the space between worlds.

Tirielle was left alone with the man she had grown to love, her saviour in all things.

“There is no more time to waste,” he said, shuddering as the force behind the door rammed it again and again with their shoulders, and hammered it with swords.

“No, no more time,” she said as she drew her daggers. She stepped into his chest and kissed him chastely on the lips. He kissed her back.

“I love you, j’ark.”

“Goodbye…Tirielle,” he said, and she turned from him. Without a backward glance, she stepped through the portal.

“Tirielle,” he said for the last time, tasting her name on his lips. Then, at last, he allowed himself to say out loud the only words that frightened him to the very core.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice was stronger now. It was not so bad. Nothing to be afraid of. His god did not smite him, and he did not feel unclean, or ashamed, but free.

He clenched and unclenched his hand. All weakness was gone, although he was sure the stitches in his shoulder would open soon.

He just had to hold on for long enough. He didn’t know how long it would take for them to travel, or what would happen when he closed the portal. He had to give them time…

The door was being battered at his back, and his feet were slipping on the stones. It opened a crack, and he was pushed inward…

He waited, and in that moment, that moment of perfect clarity when he knew death was coming, he felt at peace at last. He felt whole for loving, not sullied, not impure, but cleansed by Tirielle’s love. His heart felt light, and he knew now, too late, that his gods loved love, they wanted it, wished it on their children.

He cleared his mind, and with little effort put away his regrets. He let himself understand them for a moment, rolled them around in his mind – it was sad that he would not die embraced in the loving arms of Tirielle, or in the warmth of his gods’ golden glow, but he knew that both loved him equally, and would do so even after his death. He regretted only that he had denied himself for so long. Then, like the afterglow of a sudden flash of light burnt into a retina, his mind was clear, filled with purity and purpose.

He stepped back from the door and it exploded inward, soldiers tumbling through. His sword leapt in his hand. He beheaded the first warrior to step through, and with a thrust ripped open the neck of the second. He danced back and gave himself room, the chamber’s breadth more than ample to swing a blade. He would not fight in a corner. While he could not fight in the glory of the sun, its light filled his mind, with love, and finally, its approval.