Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  “Never fear, brother, we will always need the use of your sword arm,” said Torrin quietly. Nathel grinned up at his brother before turning his attention back to his patient. Torrin sometimes thought the healing and tending of the sick or wounded was the only thing his younger brother took seriously.

  Borlin came back then to the campsite with their animals, and the stocky Stoneman set about cooking them all a meal. Torrin and Arynilas unsaddled and cared for the horses and began to set a camp.

  The water boiled and Nathel brewed a bitter tea from his precious stash of winoth root. Torrin knew the tea well; his brother had fed it to him on numerous occasions when he had lost blood to a deeper wound. It tasted fouler than copper tainted water but it worked, helping the body to replenish the blood that was lost. Torrin had seen men treated with the root recuperate days before those not dosed.

  Borlin helped Nathel pour the tea into the woman’s mouth, spoonful by spoonful. She swallowed reflexively but did not wake. Nathel mixed a poultice to apply to the wound to help draw out the infection, and covered her with a thick blanket before joining the companions in their evening meal.

  Of Eryos and the Stranger

  “How is she?”

  Nathel looked up at Torrin from where he was checking his patient. “She will be fine. Thanks to Dalemar the wound is mostly healed and the winoth tea will help her regain her strength.” He smiled mischievously. “Lucky for her she was asleep when we gave it to her.” Nathel knew how horrible the brew was that he gleefully forced on them now and again; he’d had to take it himself on more than one occasion.

  “What do you make of her, Nathel?” Torrin crouched down beside his brother.

  Nathel shook his head. “I don’t know. It is a strange thing. Why would she be alone out here, wounded like this? And the leather armour she wears.” He reached out to trace a finger along the flowing, tooled design of the leather breastplate he had removed. “I’ve never seen its like, and we’ve seen a lot of war trappings, you and I. And a woman, no less, wearing leggings instead of skirts! Do you reckon she knows how to use that sword?”

  Torrin glanced at the woman’s face. “Something tells me she knows.” He looked back at the breastplate. “I don’t recognize the designs either.” He picked up the sword and baldric Nathel had also removed and slowly slid the lightweight blade from its leather scabbard.

  It was single edged, ever so slightly curved, and the balance was superb. A pattern similar to the breastplate was inscribed down the blade from guard to tip. As Torrin tilted the blade, the etched lines caught and reflected the firelight, shifting and glittering across surface. Soft leather was wrapped around the hilt to absorb sweat and prevent the grip from slipping. It was a beautiful thing. There was a sense of strength and power emanating from it. The longer he held it the more certain he became of the feeling – this was a deadly weapon and the grace and beauty of its form only served to heighten that impression.

  Something about the sword caught his attention and he looked more closely at the inscribed blade. It wasn’t just purely design but a curling script of some kind. He had no idea what it said.

  He reluctantly slid the weapon back into its scabbard and laid it aside. His palm and fingertips tingled when the cool metal no longer touched his skin. The dagger he had noticed earlier, now buried under cloak and blanket, had looked to be a similar weapon. “Her features are almost more Tynithian than human,” he said.

  “Not so,” Arynilas said from behind, and the brothers turned to look at him. “Although she does in some ways resemble Tynithians, she has many differences. Her eyes of course do not tilt and she is too tall for a Tynithian.” Torrin nodded, she was indeed tall for a woman, the top of her head was level with his nose; most women barely reached his shoulders. It was one of the reasons he had first mistaken her for a man.

  Arynilas pointed to the breastplate they had been examining with his slim hand. “Her weapons and features remind me of a people I learned of from my grandsire. He traveled the Eryos Ocean for many seasons and had once met an Island people he called Myrians. He said they were unlike the rest of the races of men, and were renowned for their swordsmen and women. He recalled their artistry to be unparalleled by any other humans.”

  “Myrian?” Torrin exchanged glances with his brother, who shared his perplexed expression. “We’ve never heard of this Myrian place.”

  Arynilas shook his head, glossy black hair swinging. “I would be surprised if you had. It is located deep in the Southern Eryos Ocean. I believe the island is called Myris Dar. My grandsire spent a long time among them. Long in human terms.” Kneeling smoothly, he looked at the leatherwork. “Though they have not been heard from here in Eryos for centuries, it would be my guess that she is Myrian. As to what she is doing here, only she will be able to answer that question.

  “My grandsire said the Myrians fiercely protect their isolation, permitting only limited trade and even that is done at sea. They will rarely allow a foreign ship to dock in their harbours. For one to be traveling here is indeed exceptional.”

  As the Tynithian left them, the brothers shared a look and Torrin glanced back down at the sleeping woman. “Go and get some sleep Nathel. I have first watch and will wake you if your patient needs you.”

  Nathel nodded agreement and stood up to stretch before walking to his sleeping roll next to the dying fire. Dalemar and Borlin were already snoring softly, indistinct humps covered in blankets. It had been a long day of travel for them and the discovery of the strange women had made it longer.

  Torrin looked again at the woman; she would most likely sleep for some time. Aside from her slightly outlandish features and clothes, she looked not unlike other women he had met. He studied her slim nose and arched eyebrows, the smooth curve of her cheek and jaw, the slim neck and long, golden hair twisted into a braid – a vision of repose.

  Their first encounter with her had left a very different impression, one that had surprised him. He remembered the defiant gaze, the confident stance and the fierce look of independence. He wanted her to wake up. Torrin looked forward to meeting this woman again.

  He shook himself and turned to take up his position for watch, away from the firelight so that his eyes might adjust to the darkness. Now that they knew other people could travel the Wilds as well, greater vigilance was required.

  The original mystery they had come to investigate had only led to more confounding questions — a woman from a forgotten place, carrying a deadly sword and dressed as a warrior. He and his companions had traveled the length of Eryos, from the Black Hills and Ren Tarnor in the south to Pellaris and Tyrn in the north. Never had they seen a female warrior. As diverse as the seven kingdoms of Eryos were, one thing was consistent – men waged war, not women.

  Torrin looked back at the bundle of blankets lit dimly by the fire’s embers. He shook his head; they could not leave her to whatever strange fate she followed alone, not here, nor could the companions afford the time to delay here to tend to her wounds. They would have to take her into Klyssen to the nearest town along their route.

  These days, even a fortified town was no guarantee of safety. Sightings of the strange groups of creatures they had seen occasionally throughout the last weeks of their journey were increasing. They had no idea what the frightening creatures were or where they had come from but the situation was very alarming. The terrifying beasts moved about in trietons, ragged groups of 30 that spread fear and death in their wake. If the huge creatures were already this widespread, then it did not bode well for the kingdoms of Eryos. As Torrin and his companions traveled steadily north, the creatures were becoming more prevalent.

  They had learned that folk were calling the frightening beasts Raken, a name taken from the old Empire legends of Roon the hunter and the beast that he was forever pitted against. Roon and the Raken could be seen battling in the heavens among the stars, low on the western horizon in winter. But the villagers they questioned had seen creatures made of flesh and bone,
born into the world from fireside tales to reap fear and death.

  Torrin and his companions had encountered a few of the beasts traveling as scouts singly and in pairs. They had learned quickly that it was better to avoid the huge, black creatures than to engage them. The beasts were savage in battle, and not to be taken lightly, their speed and size making up for the lack of skill they demonstrated with weapons.

  The creatures seemed more comfortable with their claws and sharp teeth than with the various weapons they carried. As a warrior, Torrin found it strange for troops to handicap themselves needlessly. It was odd but he welcomed their choice. He had a feeling these creatures would make far more frightening opponents if they discarded their weapons. He and his companions had seen them use scimitars, clubs, spears, maces, flails and even bows, but there was little skill or finesse, only strength and speed and overwhelming size.

  A battle with a handful of the creatures at close range with even odds was one thing, but engaging them while outnumbered was very unwise. The Raken could be beaten by skilled swordplay, but they were more than a match for a veteran soldier if they breached his guard and got in close.

  Torrin and his companions had discovered five ravaged villages so far. The inhabitants were dead, ripped apart and left to rot in the hot sun. It was a vision of horror, especially in the height of summer. The memory of those terrible places, where death had stalked the streets, lay heavily on all the companions. The scenes were made all the more horrifying by the lack of destruction; no buildings were damaged, nothing was stolen or looted. There were no piles of possessions pulled from the houses and scattered across the windy streets, picked clean by rough hands; not a fence rail or curtain was out of place. Only the living had been brutally killed, eviscerated, and left to stain the silent streets.

  They had known to avoid slaughtered towns by the stench that was carried on the wind as they approached. It was always the same, like a signpost, a message. Not a soul was left living. Torrin and his companions couldn’t spare the time to stop and bury the dead. They took to passing by such towns, knowing from experience they would find no survivors.

  The tales of these slaughters had spread through the countryside like wild fire, inciting panic and fear among farmers and townspeople. The murdered towns became places of evil that surrounding farmers wouldn’t approach even to bury friends and relatives.

  Superstitions. Most rural folk were prisoners to their superstitions – Lor Danions especially. Torrin supposed he couldn’t blame them. He had faced the creatures in battle and knew they were mortal, but that still didn’t stop the hair from rising on the back of his neck each time he saw one of them. He could well imagine how a defenceless farmer would feel with nothing but the thin walls of his house to protect him and his family.

  The attacks on the towns and villages were random with no apparent reason as to why a particular place was taken. There would be two villages in close proximity slaughtered and the next left alone, then the one after that taken again. It made no sense. Torrin could find no patterns, nothing at all to explain why. In the end they had to assume the simplest answer – fear. The attacks were meant to instil fear. And it was working.

  Until they entered the Wilds, they had been met with suspicion and fear by everyone they encountered. The only people who seemed unaffected were the bands of thieves roaming with increasingly brazenness. They fed on the growing climate of terror, taking advantage of people already paralyzed by the horror of the Raken assaults.

  How far had this Raken invasion spread since the companions received the summons from Pellar? It was now nearly two months since King Cerebus of Pellar had issued his call for help. Much could have happened since and Torrin had no idea what they would find when they reached the northern kingdom.

  Pellar was the most powerful of the seven kingdoms in the land of Eryos, and Torrin had a hard time believing it might fall. The fact that Cerebus had even issued a summons meant his kingdom was in great peril.

  Torrin sensed the invading Raken were intent on taking all of Eryos, and that they had attacked Pellar first to gain the greatest foothold. The other kingdoms would fall easily afterward.

  Only Pellar had any rapport with the other six kingdoms of Eryos. Cerebus was the one king who had made attempts at developing ties of goodwill. Pellar’s two warring neighbours to the south and west, Klyssen and Tabor, were entrenched in strife hundreds of years old. Border squabbles and enmity, so ancient the root causes were long forgotten, had reduced the trade between the two countries to a bare trickle. Ren, to the south of Tabor, was caught up in a ruinous civil war; merchant trains foolish enough to venture into its lawless territory were quickly looted and destroyed. As a result, most trade was routed through Pellar, filling its coffers and reinforcing its status as the most powerful kingdom in Eryos.

  The great city of Pellaris, boasting the largest of only three main ports on the whole continent, welcomed many ships from Tabor and further west beyond the Timor Mountains. After a sizeable port tax, goods moved in a constant stream south from Pellaris into Klyssen and down into Ren and Lor Danith. Smuggling became a second profession for traders who brought embargoed Taborian goods into Klyssen. Wine, cheese and drenic, a strong, hot drink brewed from the leaves of a plant found only in Tabor’s coastal bogs, were much sought after even in Klyssen, Tabor’s bitterest enemy.

  Further to the south, below Klyssen, the lawless land of Ren seethed in unchecked turmoil. Almost everything was in short supply in Ren but only traders with heavily armed escorts could safely navigate the gauntlet of thieves to make some coin in the unstable landscape. It could be quite profitable for those who could get goods into the country and then get the profits back out again without loosing their heads in the process. Few were willing to take the chance.

  Between Ren and the Eryos Ocean, Lor Danith received trickles of wealth from the northern kingdoms and sent back wool in return. If Pellar was caught in a war with these Raken, the stable trade routes would falter.

  The rest of the kingdoms in Eryos were even less stable than Klyssen and Tabor. Alliances and power shifted frequently, keeping lands that once were rich with great civilizations unstable and weak. Diplomacy was not a well-practiced art in Eryos and most kingdoms were insular and suspicious. Attempts at peaceful resolution of disputes almost always failed and the way of the sword inevitably settled all.

  Violence ruled and kings warily watched each other for the slightest tipping in the scales of power, taking swift advantage of any weakness. It had been that way for centuries after the fall of the Kathornin and Trillian empires. With the collapse of the structures of government, all peace and prosperity was swept away in a tide of lawless chaos. Out of that miasma the seven separate kingdoms grew from tribal states and small fiefdoms to become what is now Eryos.

  Torrin believed the only reason that Pellar had been successful in keeping good relations with the shifting powers of the surrounding countries was because it was too powerful for any of the other six kingdoms to overthrow.

  Eryos had been conflict ridden for generations. Small, localized wars raged and faded like wind-whipped grass fires. The goddess Erys knew how many lives had been spent over the last five hundred years in the name of greed and petty bickering. The memory of the dead added fuel to new conflict and plunged more and more men into bloody battle.

  There was always a war that needed fighting. There was plenty of work for a mercenary, and if you were good, your reputation ensured you were well paid for your work.

  During his travels through Eryos, Torrin had heard many stories — if there was one thing fighting men loved to do, it was to tell stories — of the grand empires of the golden past. Trillian had been a vast empire that covered the territories of present day Ren and Lor Danith. The empire was fabled to have cities with lofty architecture, where the red gold from the mines of the great Timor Mountains to the west flowed freely, paving even the streets it was said, though Torrin knew embellishment when he heard it. But the w
ealth of the mountain mines eventually ran dry and what was once bright and fair had slipped into decay.

  Ruins of those great cities were all that remained now, worn down and mostly buried, forgotten along with the names of their emperors, names whispered only by the wind whistling through the eroded stones.

  The ruins could be found throughout Ren and Lor Danith. Torrin and his companions had camped or ridden through the remains of high columns and towers, the crumbling stones covered in centuries of lichen and moss – homes now only for the nesting birds and small animals. Some ruins were bare hints of their former stature and only those who knew where to look could find the worn stone foundations of the ancient buildings peeking through the ground.

  Pellar was the only kingdom that had retained some glory of former Kathornin, a powerful empire that historically covered present day Pellar, Tabor and Klyssen, though Torrin had heard tell that Pellar was but a pale reflection of that great empire. The city of Pellaris was built on a grand scale with libraries and courthouses and great open squares with plunging fountains and the great fortress of Pellar overlooking it all.

  Klyssen was a land of open grassland and steppes where the great horse herds of the clansmen ranged. Torrin had met and fought alongside the men of Klyssen; they were fierce horsemen and honourable in spirit, but they also had a nomadic history, traditionally moving with their horses to summer and winter grazing grounds. Klyssen had only a few permanent towns and cities populated with people who had turned away from the ancient ways of the horse to plow under the fertile soil and plant crops. Klyssen’s capital city of Wyborn was a quarter of the size of Pellaris and it lacked the sense of permanence and timelessness that had settled over Pellaris. Despite Klyssen’s considerable coastline, it had few ports. It was content, it seemed, to rely on the overland trade from Pellar and Lor Danith.