Seabirds called from overhead, their long narrow wings suspending them on the strong wind, floating in place with only a ruffle of feathers to attest to the effort. Rowan watched wistfully as they spied fish and folded their wings to plummet headfirst into the sea.
The smooth round head of a cellion popped up above the rolling surface, its liquid brown eyes regarding Rowan with curiosity before it slid beneath the waves, oscillating one of its flippers as if in farewell.
She reached up and adjusted the baldric that carried her sword strapped to her back and caught sight of the intricately tooled leather of the new vembraces her brother Andin had given her last night. She smiled; he had made them for her himself and been so proud to see her wearing them this morning.
Rowan looked to the edge of the bay as movement caught her eye. Three ships hove into view around the tip of the headland. They were making good time in the strong wind. The two smaller, sleeker ships were Myrian, their narrow prows slicing through the waves with precision.
The larger ship was foreign; its many coloured pinions and square sails belled out in the breeze and its wide beam sitting low in the swells. It was flanked by the two Myrian ships — escorts to shadow it into the bay. A merchant ship from beyond the land of Eryos had been easy to acquire passage upon. The Westerners from beyond Eryos and the high mountain barrier that separated it from the rest of the continent were staunch seafarers who explored the waters of the known world to its limits. They brought spice and copper and extraordinary woven goods to the few active ports in Eryos and in turn filled their holds with the rare blue-glazed Stoneman pottery and bales of wool and other trade goods.
Myris Dar was a frequent stop along their trade routes, though it was rare for the merchant ships to be granted permission to land. They were usually met out at sea by the Myrian patrol ships that could easily outrun the larger, more cumbersome vessels to prevent a daring captain from getting through to land ashore. Many battles had been fought several leagues offshore to keep the Western Pirates from sailing off with a ship hold’s worth of Myrian plunder.
Rowan could just make out the distant forms of sailors as they scurried over the decks to reef in the multitude of canvas sheets. She had fought and killed men like these who had broken through the Myrian patrol ships to landed on Myris Dar. There was often little difference between merchants and pirates and she had battled alongside other Myrians to keep their island sovereign and safe from such raiders.
The island of Myris Dar was almost completely forgotten by the people of Eryos, who had not plied the deep oceans to the south of the mainland for centuries. Even if they had heard of the island from western traders, they would be incapable of reaching Myris Dar in their small fishing boats and sloops.
The kingdoms of Eryos had not been able to look beyond their own borders to the wider world since the vast empires that had flourished hundreds of years ago had crumbled to leave only scattered tribes and a chaotic quest for power. From the little she knew of Eryos, it was only just beginning to rise above the age of darkness and turmoil that had swallowed it after the fall of the twin empires. And she and her companions were about to journey into the heart of that struggling, unsettled land, with little idea of what they had to do once they arrived to fulfill their mission.
Rowan looked critically at the large ship as it came about and began to head towards the small port. It had been given permission to land only long enough to accept its cargo, and then it was to sail out on the same tide that brought it in.
The ship’s high deck had a convex camber to it and the hull’s wooden planks were smooth and free of barnacles. The three masts rising from the centre line of the deck were thick and tapered gracefully to the tops. The middle mast ended in a high crow’s nest, with a sailor posted there for lookout.
There would be more than enough room for the small party of warriors, their horses and the gear they would need for the weeks long journey across the Eryos Ocean to the mainland port city of Dendor in Lor Danith. From there Rowan and her party would head into the unknown in search of a city built on high sea cliffs.
Rowan’s gaze slid past the large ship to the sky and ocean beyond in the northwest. Dark thunderclouds were gathering on the horizon in deep grays and purples. She saw a brief flash of white lightening and distant thunder rolled across the swelling waves toward her. Myris Dar experienced little rain during the hot, dry summer. She wondered whether the Seers would note the approaching storm as a sign of things to come.
She looked again at the ship. It would not be long before it pulled up beside the pier. Rowan turned away from it and the ocean and walked across the heavy wooden planks towards her companions.
There was much work to be done yet before they set sail for Eryos.
A Chance Encounter
As he crept towards the campsite, Torrin studied the lonely figure huddled over the small fire. The flames of the fire were well concealed. Only the light it cast upon the figure hunched over it betrayed it. A larger pale form, highlighted against the deeper surrounding shadow, shifted beyond the camp – a horse.
Despite the lateness of the season, the night air was still warm and although this was one of the most beautiful places to be traveling, it was also an extremely dangerous one.
Torrin crouched down and waited, as he knew the others were also doing. The scent of earth and dead leaves rose from the forest floor and he breathed it in deeply. Arynilas appeared suddenly at his side, motioning that all was clear.
Torrin had long since become used to the silence of the Tynithian. He could almost always hear the approach of men like his own kin but a Tynithian was something completely different. The stealth of the Twilight People was legendary, their tracking skills unparalleled. Torrin believed it had to do with the shape shifting abilities of the slight, nimble race. They all had the ability to assume animal form and the instinctual intelligence they gained from that talent was uncanny.
Torrin had heard stories of Tynithians who renounced their human-like forms entirely, living out their extremely long lives in animal shape. As a race, they were very different from humans. Their eyes were tilted and jewel-like in color and their skin was an almost metallic copper tone. They also lived to be thousands of years old.
It was Arynilas who had first seen the faint glimmer through the trees that marked the camp. While Arynilas had crept close to the campsite to investigate further, Torrin, his brother Nathel and their two other companions, Dalemar and Borlin, had waited in the shadows. When the Tynithian had returned, with the news that there appeared to be only one occupant, they had tethered the horses and begun to cautiously move toward the light of the small fire.
The camp and its single occupant were cause for more than a little curiosity. Torrin and his companions had believed they were the only ones able to move through these rugged lands. He glanced up at the stars, marking them. Only half an hour had passed since the discovery of the stranger. Torrin looked ahead to the campsite and the lone figure, questions filling his mind. When he glanced back to Arynilas, the Tynithian had already disappeared, moving on to signal the others that all was safe.
Dalemar had sensed no magic in the stranger, which meant they would not be surprising a Rith who could wield deadly fire. Dalemar, a young Rith himself, a magic wielder, had stood silently with his eyes closed, casting out for the signs of a fellow Rith. He had sensed nothing.
Torrin stood and began to walk towards the campsite. It was time to solve this mystery. It was important to know how this stranger had traveled so far into this forbidden territory, avoiding the death that claimed so many others. “Ho the camp!” he called. Torrin watched closely as the figure rose smoothly, reaching swiftly to the sword over his right shoulder.
“We are friends and mean you no harm. We simply wish to share your fire for a while,” Torrin called quickly. The figure hesitated but did not lower his hand from the weapon. He was cloaked and hooded such that Torrin could not make out a face in the darkness.
&n
bsp; “What do you want?” came a soft reply. It was almost a whisper and there was a hint of a strange accent.
“We were passing by, looking for a suitable rest site and saw your fire. We have food if you have not already eaten. We would share it with you.”
“How many is ‘we’?”
“There are five of us. It is safer to be with a few than with none, don’t you think?”
The figure dropped his hand slowly and looked around at the shadows. He stumbled and caught himself, standing upright again. He reached reflexively to his left shoulder. The man was wounded.
“I do not trust strangers to share my camp.” Again a quiet reply and the unfamiliar accent.
Torrin resumed walking towards the fire. “You look like you are injured. My brother is a healer. He could take a look at your wound.” He stopped three paces from the stranger to avoid causing alarm, though from what he could see of him in the darkness this stranger did not appear to be intimidated, despite his condition.
Torrin had learned long ago how to use his large size to his advantage. He was bigger than the average man, especially the smaller southern people. He was tall and broad of shoulder and his dark hair and eyebrows over an intense blue gaze naturally lent to the stern impression he made. He had used those attributes often to intimidate when he chose, but it also meant he was aware of the fear he could cause unintentionally.
The stranger was smaller than he looked from a distance, perhaps a Lor Danion, though the accent did not fit. The face was still in shadow but as Torrin studied the stranger he caught a glimmer of pale hair within — a plaited braid that disappeared into the darkness of the hood. The people of Lor Danith were almost always dark haired. Torrin supposed he could be a Tynithian; the size would be about right.
Torrin frowned in puzzlement. A long cloak covered most of the stranger but he was well dressed, if a little differently from the styles he was accustomed to. He wore a leather breastplate, intricately tooled with unrecognizable designs; leather vembraces with similar decoration covered the forearms. The cloak was too warm for the balmy weather and Torrin suspected it was worn more for concealment. Shin guards of the same tooled leather were strapped over leather boots with soft soles made for gripping and balancing as well as treading quietly.
Torrin observed the fine boned hands, one of which was resting comfortably on the hilt of an intricately wrought dagger sheathed at the belt. He saw the delicate fingertips and his eyes widened in sudden realization – even Tynithian hands were not that slim, at least not male ones.
“A woman!” exclaimed Borlin in surprise. The short, burly Stoneman had just come into the firelight from the right and was peering at the stranger intently. The stranger assumed an air of ready tension, hooded head turned quickly to the new voice. Torrin could now see the smooth features of her face. He wondered again if she was a Tynithian; the finely arched eyebrows and high cheekbones certainly could belong to a Tynithian. But when she moved her head to look at the rest of Torrin’s companions as they moved into the light, he caught a glimpse of her eyes. Human eyes. Torrin could sense her unease as the rest of his companions gathered around them.
He pitched his voice low, speaking gently. “Please, do not fear us; we mean you no harm. Your honour is safe among us.”
She cast her hood back then and turned to look at Torrin, a dangerous glint in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid, only ready for whatever may come.
The thought struck him with intense incongruity. His experience offered him an opinion of what to expect from a woman but his instincts told him to ignore that opinion, in fact they screamed at him to be wary. This woman was not helpless. Far from it, judging by the way she held her ground — confident and steady.
She stood looking at Torrin, ignoring the rest of his companions, who had stopped now to watch the encounter unfold. A log on the fire popped suddenly, sending up a spray of sparks into the darkness. The woman barely responded to the noise, her gaze evenly on his. There was a challenge there.
Torrin searched for a way to dispel the tension. He lifted his hands, palms outward. “Upon my honour, we are no threat to you,” he said softly.
The defiance in her gaze was replaced by pain and she reached again for her left shoulder with a sharp intake of breath. She swayed on her feet and her knees buckled, eyes closing as consciousness fled.
Torrin jumped forward, reaching out reflexively to catch her. A dark stain had spread through the shirt under the leather breastplate she wore.
“Nathel!” As Torrin lowered the woman to the ground, his brother came forward and knelt on the other side, swiftly unrolling a soft leather packet he took from his satchel. He unbuckled her breastplate and pulled the neck of her shirt up to see the wound, sucking air through clenched teeth as he did. “An arrow wound.” He brought his face closer to see better in the dark. “It looks like she has removed the point and applied a poultice but the wound still bleeds. It looks as though infection has set in. The wound is a few days old, I’d say. Boil some water for tea. I must staunch the flow.”
Borlin went striding off to get the horses and gear, and the Tynithian, Arynilas, went to calm the woman’s restless animal, tethered nearby.
Nathel shook his head, frowning. Firelight caught his close-cropped hair, gilding its sandy color to gold. “It doesn’t look like she has taken the time to let the wound heal properly. It looks to have been broken open more than once.” Nathel looked at Torrin. “How do you suppose she made it this far in without catching the sickness?”
Torrin shook his head in silence, running a hand through his short dark hair. He had no idea.
The woman groaned in pain and the questions in Nathel’s face dissolved into concern for the wounded. He pulled out a clean rag and unstopped his water skin, soaked the cloth and began to clean her wound.
Torrin found himself staring down at her. She was completely unconscious now. What would a woman be doing alone in the Wilds? She was well-armed and provisioned by the look of her camp, but this was a very dangerous place to travel. The Wilds were a no-man’s land, one of a few places in the Land of Eryos where darkness and mystery still held sway. The contested boarders of Klyssen, Lor Danith, Ren and Tabor drew together into a tangled knot in this densely forested region.
Of the seven Kingdoms of Eryos, it was one of a few forbidding places where terror kept most out. Each of the four kingdoms that bordered the Wilds claimed some or all of it but none were willing to defend their stake.
The land was almost impossible to defend in any case — hilly, heavily treed and rugged. Armies had entered the dense vastness, intent on claiming land, but of those that entered the Wilds, few returned. Those that did came out covered in terrible weeping rashes and bloody boils, babbling incoherently about ghost lights and evil Tynithian magic. Most survivors eventually healed from their wounds, but few recovered their sanity.
Torrin and his companions had often come across rusted swords and shields, buckles and half-buried breastplates, the bodies of the warriors they had belonged to long since decomposed and absorbed into the moss covered ground. Graveyards for those swallowed by the Wilds and never heard from again.
But Nathel had discovered the truth about what the ignorant called “Tynithian magic.” It was true that Tynithians had once dwelled in the Wilds, but that was centuries ago. The only magic they had left behind was the wonder of what little remained of their dwellings. It wasn’t until Nathel had solved the mystery that Arynilas had admitted knowing the secret of the Wilds defence. He had kept silent for his people’s sake and their pledge to keep the Wilds safe from human axes and colonization. The Tynithian had sworn Nathel and the rest of the companions to secrecy about the source of the magic — a delicate, creeping vine found throughout most of the forest, climbing up trees and over stones. It had tiny sky blue flowers that attracted bees and butterflies, the only creatures that seemed to be immune to its toxic oil. It was this unassuming plant, with its invisible defence, that had kept men and their armies
or their logging expeditions from making forays into the Wilds since the Tynithians with their slowly shrinking population had abandoned it and their role of protecting the woodlands.
As a healer trained in herb lore, Nathel had thought the rashes and madness people told of to be more likely a result of exposure to poisonous plants. He had carefully taken samples of plants from along the edge of the Wilds and, without touching any of them directly, rubbed them into a fresh hide. It had not taken him long to link the violent reaction with the small vine.
It seemed an absurdity that no one had discovered the truth about the magic before now, but it suited Torrin and his companions well. They had thus learned to identify the plant and how to avoid it and the sickness it carried. It meant that they and they alone could navigate the beautifully rugged country unharmed, a great advantage when the roads that bypassed the Wilds were rife with thieves and brigands.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” It was Dalemar. The young Rith knelt at the woman’s head and tentatively placed his hands on either side of her temples. A moment passed and then she thrashed suddenly, knocking Nathel’s hands away as he tended the shoulder. When she stilled, she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. “There, hopefully that will help.”
Nathel drew back after wiping at the wound to discover the bleeding stopped and the wound almost healed over. He looked across at Dalemar, a grin on his face. “You’ve been keeping secrets from us, Dalemar. Small skill indeed!” He turned to look at Torrin. “Our fledgling Rith has surprised us again, Tor. Soon you will have no need for me at all.” He chuckled to himself while shaking his head at Dalemar.
“Nonsense,” scoffed the Rith, his long, pale blond hair caught the dim light as he shook his head. A smile transformed the smooth lines of his normally thoughtful face. He flipped his hair over his shoulder, exposing a slightly pointed ear, and bent down to look closely at the woman’s wound. “My powers are inconsistent at best. I was lucky Nathel. It will be quite a while before I can surpass your skills as a healer.” He patted Nathel’s shoulder consolingly, which made the big man laugh all the more.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 2
