Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) by Craig Saunders Page A

suppose it’s the early bird that goes to bed early.”
    “Sounds almost philosophical, Renir.”
    ”Is this cup half full?” asked Renir in reply. “Anyway, I don’t know anything of philosophy. It seems to me it’s the province of the old, and books.”
    “I beg to differ,” said Bourninund. “In my experience I’ve found no better place for philosophy than taverns.”
    “I’m going to sleep,” Shorn said, and rose. “I don’t like to be an old maid, but you three would do well to get some rest, too.”
    “Yes, ma m ,” said Renir and Bourninund as one. Shorn scowled and went ahead.
    “He’s right. A man needs his sleep to think straight.”
    “Well, to bed then,” said Renir, with a little regret. He was enjoying his drink. He downed the rest, wincing slightly despite the pleasantness of the heat. Between them they had finished off twenty glasses. He thought twenty was about right. He counted what he could see, then halved it.
 
    *
 

Chapter Twenty-Five
     
    Shorn was already deep asleep as Wen entered from the stables. Even here, in the north, Wen wore no shoes. His feet were so scarred and calloused they were practically their own boot. He made no noise on the wooden floorboards. He reached his bed, and felt something…amiss. It was enough. In his long life he had found out that the slightest inkling of danger should be heeded. He had lived so long because he was talented, and gifted with immense speed and strength, but also because he listened to his senses.
    He was still alert, even after a hard day. Instead of drinking with the others, he had taken the time to wander around the village. It always paid to be sure of a way out. He took care of every eventuality. He was surprised. Shorn should have taken better care. From what he could smell on Shorn’s breath, his student had been drinking heavy liquor, enough to put him into a stupor.
    There was danger on the air, and Shorn was insensible. Wen took a moment to wonder if the others were similarly laid out, fully clothed on their beds, their heads spinning in their sleep.
    Wen put the thought aside. There was nothing he could do about the rest. Deal with the enemy in front of you first.
    He closed his eyes.
    The wind blew fiercely outside, and he could not trust his hearing. It was a moonless night. There was no light to discern that anything was wrong. But he had lived a lifetime of violence. He could feel it, feel the swell that preceded the tidal wave, the subtle signs a man could read, if he had the talent and the experience. 
    It was an out of place kind of feeling. Shorn slept soundly. Usually his student was as in tune with the ebb and flow of danger as the master, but perhaps the liquor had dulled his senses.
    Without seeming to move, Wen melted back toward the wall, and in the scant light almost disappeared. He stood so still that even if someone had been looking directly at him, they would have only thought it was a strangely lumpy bit of plastering. Had the observer had a candle, the light would have flickered and split around him. 
    Wen had lived in the shadow for so long, the darkness had seeped into the old master. He had many tricks, some learned, some absorbed. Since learning his trade on his home continent, and following his expulsion, he had made use of his life, hunting killers, meting out his own brand of justice. His time pitting himself against the merciless (often cowards, but just as often men of rare cruelty and talent) had granted him some special skills. He had needed them over the years. Any edge granted against some of the gifted warriors he had slain was welcome.
    Shadowed, perfectly still against the wall, Wen waited, only a hint of mist to give him away where his breath frosted in the air.
    It did not take long. The door creaked open slowly. Wen opened his eyes. A man stepped into the darkness. Wen’s eyes were accustomed to the murk, but could see beyond mere mortal sight. The man wore an apron, stained with