Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Tabor had the potential for greatness, but its capital city of Tyrn on the North coast was so bound up in political intrigue and maneuvering that its monarch had never been able to look beyond his own borders to the rest of Eryos. Torrin’s father had taught him long ago that politics — especially in a climate of corruption — would hobble a land as completely as civil war.

  Ren covered the greatest territory south of Tabor; it lay between Lor Danith and the great wall of the Timor Mountains. The Tynithian homeland of Dan Tynell nestled in the northwest corner of Ren against the high mountains, but the strife from within Ren rarely troubled the Twilight People.

  The Lor Danith–Ren border was a stretch of land that had to be crossed in force. In Ren itself, might ruled and the weak were preyed upon without pity. The southernmost border of Ren was an ever-changing line that ended somewhere in the shoulders of the Black Hills, where fierce Stoneman pride and cunning kept the Ren warlords from taking advantage.

  Torrin and his companions had intimate knowledge of Ren. The Ren Wars had earned them a fair amount of gold and a widely known reputation. Thaius the Great, one of Ren’s self-styled rulers, had treated them well in return for their loyalty. Thaius had been the only warlord with the potential to unify Ren. Before he died with an assassin’s arrow in his throat, he had managed to gain control of over three-quarters of the country. With his death, any hope for a united Ren had died also.

  To the east of Ren, the lands of Lor Danith and its island neighbour, Lor Hath, had long ago turned their faces to the sea, shunning the rest of Eryos for the ocean’s bounty. The two realms had grown slowly and of necessity from small villages and fiefdoms ruled by chiefs to a more centralized form of leadership where stewards kept watch on the sovereignty of the country’s borders. The Lor Danions were a quiet people who were suspicious of outsiders; they kept to themselves and discouraged foreign trade above the bare minimum. The constant need for vigilance along Ren’s border kept the realm poor and down-trodden – a land of sheep farmers and fishermen with a ragtag militia that barely kept the bickering Ren warlords at bay.

  Only King Cerebus of Pellar had a chance of uniting the kingdoms to stand against a common threat. Only Pellar was strong enough to make the other kingdoms of Eryos listen; perhaps even the forbidding land of Krang, to the north east, in its mountainous isolation would take notice.

  These Raken were just such a threat, one that Torrin feared could tear Eryos apart if they were not stopped. Erys only knew where they were coming from. In all his days Torrin had not seen their like.

  In the back of his mind a thought uncoiled like a spring, bringing with it a cold dread. Perhaps these creatures were not from Eryos at all. The Timor Mountains existed like a great barrier between Eryos and the shadowed west. Perhaps these creatures were traveling across somehow. The range ran north and south, parallel to the Eryos Ocean with Eryos trapped between and isolated from the rest of the world. Little was known about the realms that lie beyond the Timor Mountains and if the Raken were in fact coming from the west…

  Torrin sighed and shook his head. There was nowhere for a large force to cross the mountains — no supply routes, nowhere to get horses and wagons through. Only the odd intrepid mountaineer had ever ventured up into those intimidating heights. The mountains were said to be impassable and those who attempted crossings returned in weary defeat or were never heard from again.

  Torrin knew the height of the Timors was a killing factor for anyone attempting to climb. Weather became the enemy as much as the sheer cliffs and deadly falls. It was also said that mountain ghosts sucked the air from the sky at the top of the peaks, making it almost impossible to breathe.

  A quiet rustle brought Torrin out of his thoughts. He trained all his senses toward the sound and waited. There was only a sliver of moon and starlight to see by; the second moon would not rise for another hour yet. He silently drew his sword from its scabbard. Staring hard at the surrounding trees, Torrin strained to see through the darkness. He stalked slowly toward the source of the sound, stepping silently through the grass. The minutes slid past. Torrin heard nothing more and began to relax. An animal perhaps.

  As the stars wheeled overhead and the first moon glided through the sky, Torrin stood watch for his companions. When the time came to wake Arynilas for his turn, Torrin found the Tynithian already walking toward him. In the light from the second moon, newly risen, he saw Arynilas pause to look down at the sleeping woman.

  Torrin moved into the campsite and Arynilas nodded to him. “All quiet?” the Tynithian asked.

  Torrin thought of the sound he had heard earlier and dismissed it. “All quiet.”

  Arynilas nodded again and walked silently out to take up watch and Torrin fell wearily into his blankets. As he slid quickly into sleep, his thoughts turned to the west and the shadows therein.

  *

  Torrin woke to the sound of Nathel’s curses. He opened his eyes and looked around the camp in the pale dawn light. Bringing his rough fingertips to his eyes, he attempted to rub away the remaining sleep. Borlin was still snoring under his blankets and Dalemar’s slim frame in his long green coat stood bent over the woman, his back to Torrin. Nathel was crouched on the other side of her, muttering now under his breath, his hand on her brow.

  Torrin sat up and saw Arynilas moving among the horses, offering them water from a bucket. Their nostrils curled with frosted breath in the cold morning air.

  Reaching for his boots, Torrin threw his blankets aside. The insides of his boots were freezing. He stood and stretched his shoulders and back. He was not looking forward to traveling in the cold weather. There was still time before the snow flew, but chilly mornings like this one reminded him that it wouldn’t be long before winter set in, transforming the world to grays and whites.

  He nudged Borlin with the toe of his boot and was rewarded with a groan. The southern Stoneman was usually the first of the companions to rise, puttering around the fire and steeping hot tea for everyone. It was a testament to the long hours of travel the previous day that Borlin still slept.

  Torrin knelt in front of the cold fire, pulling some unburned wood from the black ashes and grabbing a fistful of dried grass he found next to him. He placed it under the wood and drew his firestones from a small pouch at his belt. It took a few quick strikes for a large spark to land in the grass and a thin wisp of smoke began curling upward. Torrin blew on the infant fire and glanced to where his brother and Dalemar were tending the woman. It didn’t look as though she had moved during the night.

  “Here! Get away from me fire!” Borlin’s gruff voice sounded behind Torrin, and he turned to see the Stoneman looking crossly down at him with his broad hands on his hips.

  Torrin rose to his feet and was now looking down at Borlin. “You’re welcome,” he said with a snort. “If you don’t want anyone else doing the cooking, then you should get up to do it before someone else has to.”

  Borlin barked a short laugh. “Ye! Cook? Sweet Erys, save us from that day!” He tilted his head up and jutted his short, red-bearded chin forward, brown eyes challenging. His thick, rusty eyebrows drew down into a scowl, and he made an expressive shooing gesture with a beefy hand.

  Torrin shook his head and turned away, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The five of them had been together for almost four years and Torrin could count on one hand the number of times that Borlin had let anyone else do the cooking. The stocky Stoneman took great pride in his culinary skills. Borlin’s southern people traded in rare spice found only in the Black Hills and their recipes, highly prized throughout Eryos, were almost considered a form of currency. Torrin had no trouble relinquishing cooking duty, though he could fend for himself if he had to.

  When he reached Nathel and Dalemar, his brother was ringing out a wet cloth and placing it over the woman’s forehead. Torrin frowned. “What is it?”

  “Fever has her,” replied Nathel. “The wound’s infection was not drawn out last night as I had hoped. It
is now in her blood and her body is trying to fight it.”

  Torrin crouched down and reached out to touch the smooth skin of the woman’s cheek. It was burning. “Will she survive?”

  Nathel sat back on his heels after examining the arrow wound. He frowned slightly. “With careful tending she will.”

  “Perhaps I should try to heal her again?” said Dalemar.

  Nathel raised his blond eyebrows, his pale blue eyes looking at the Rith. “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Torrin moved back out of the way and Dalemar knelt as he had the previous night and placed his hands on the sides of her head. The Rith closed his eyes and took a deep breath. After a while Dalemar dropped his hands and sighed, shaking his head. A deep frown marred his smooth brow. “Nothing.”

  “It will come, Dalemar. You just need to give it time,” said Torrin. “What you did last night proves it is there.”

  The Rith sighed. “I am tired of giving it time. At this rate I will still be trying to summon a fire when I am five hundred,” he said the words softly but they were tinged with bitterness. Dalemar’s innate abilities as a Rith were slow to manifest, and his use of them was frustratingly inconsistent.

  Torrin shared a look with his brother and Nathel wisely changed the subject. “It will be difficult to move her like this.”

  Torrin shook his head. “We can’t afford to stay here and let her recover — our time is too short. Can you carry her in front of you as we ride?”

  Nathel nodded. “If I have to. But I will need to stop frequently to tend her.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Arynilas appeared behind them. He studied their sleeping guest for a moment, then turned his sapphire eyes to Nathel. “She is very strong. Do not fear for her. She will wake when she is ready.”

  “How do you know?” Nathel looked up at the Tynithian.

  Arynilas cocked his head, the refined lines of his face drawing into a mysterious smile. “It is there, for anyone to see.”

  The Elusive Stalker

  Once the sun had risen, it dispelled the cold of the morning and warmed the air considerably. The sky was clear and the orange and yellow of the turning leaves contrasted against deep blue. The five companions rode through the forest, winding through dense trees in single file and keeping careful watch for the poisonous vine. If it crawled across a pathway they needed to take, they had to clear it from the ground with a pole. It made for slow travel, but it was still faster than the long way around the Wilds. At this time of year, the vine was easy to spot as its summer-green leaves turned early to bright crimson.

  Torrin could see Arynilas ahead of himself and Dalemar through the dappled sunlight as the slight Tynithian scouted. Late-hatching insects buzzed lazily through the warm air around them.

  Torrin heard a moan and swivelled in his saddle. Nathel was riding behind him with the woman seated sideways in front of him like a child. She was swathed in a blanket. All Torrin could see was her face. Still asleep, she twisted restlessly in Nathel’s arms, muttering in her fever. Torrin couldn’t understand what she was saying.

  His brother looked up at him, his face pained. “I need to stop for a while.”

  Torrin nodded and issued a short whistle, signalling to Arynilas at the head of the column to stop. They pulled their horses up and dismounted.

  Borlin, who brought up the rear, had the woman’s big grey stallion tethered to his saddle. The horse tossed his head and snorted with impatience. It was a lovely animal, with a deep chest for stamina and strong, well-formed legs for speed.

  Torrin took the woman from Nathel and placed her gently on the ground while Nathel dismounted. She was scalding hot. Torrin could feel the heat even through the blankets, but her face was dry. She tossed her head, mumbling, the words garbled and incoherent.

  As Nathel began to unwrap the blankets from around her, she opened her eyes suddenly and their piercing gaze pinned Torrin. They were the brightest green eyes he had ever seen.

  She looked around at them, her expression glazed. Torrin knew that look well. It wasn’t them she was seeing, but something else entirely. Pain washed over her features, arched eyebrows pulling together in a frown. Her lips parted. Even, white teeth flashed in a sudden grimace.

  “Dell?” she asked, her voice quavered but then grew in intensity. “Where are you?” There was barely controlled desperation in her tone; anguish and despair rang clear in her words and Torrin’s chest contracted in response. “Sweet Erys!” she cried. “There are too many, we can’t fight this many. It is folly! Dell… We must find a way through. It cannot end here! Please Erys, not like this. Dell! Lesiana! Trevis!. . . No!” The last was shouted into the clear midday air, echoing through the trees and startling a flock of blackbirds from their roost. Then her eyes closed and she was still.

  Nathel placed a cool cloth on her forehead and looked meaningfully at Torrin. They both understood what they just witnessed. The question was whether the arrow wound in her shoulder had come from that battle.

  Torrin thought about the names of people she had called out. They were not names he had ever heard before in his travels through Eryos. Were they her friends, family, a husband or brothers and sister?

  Torrin felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Arynilas standing behind him. The expression in the Tynithian’s face warned him that something was wrong.

  His mind stilled as he rose to his feet. “What is it?”

  “We are being followed.” Arynilas’s calm voice betrayed no alarm.

  Torrin glanced around at the surrounding trees. “Any idea who or what it is?” he asked.

  Arynilas frowned. “Yes, but it is not behaving as I would have thought. It is keeping far enough away to avoid detection and it is very good at keeping itself concealed. I have been able to see only glimpses of it.”

  Torrin knew the answer to his next question before he asked it. His hackles rose as he spoke. “What have you seen?”

  “It is very large and pure black,” said the Tynithian.

  Torrin nodded, and took an involuntary glance behind him. They were being stalked by Raken. “Are you certain there is only one?”

  “I am certain, yes.”

  Nathel looked up from tending the woman. “Could you kill it with an arrow?”

  Arynilas shook his head. “The creature keeps just out of range.”

  Torrin clenched his fists in frustration and felt a growing measure of dread.

  Dalemar was frowning in concentration. “It does not fit with what we know of the Raken, if that is indeed what the creature is. They do not skulk and avoid confrontation, and we have never seen just one alone before.”

  No one had an answer. Borlin patted his short sword. “Just let the beastie try somethin.”

  Torrin rubbed his brow. “It is of little threat to five of us, provided that it does not catch us unaware and more of its kin don’t join it,” he said. “We know how fast these creatures are. It would do us little good to try hunting it down, especially in these dense trees. I can see no other alternative but to keep moving and be on our guard.”

  The rest of the companions nodded their agreement and Torrin looked down at his brother who was slowly administering water to the woman. “Are you ready to move?”

  Nathel sighed. “If we must.”

  Borlin reached down to help Nathel with his patient. She was deeply unconscious now, limp and relaxed. Her peaceful face belied the terror and intense pain from moments ago. Torrin could still see those impossible green eyes.

  An Uninvited Guest

  Torrin watched as the second moon of Eryos rose slowly in the sky. Bashelar was redder and smaller than Raelys. She was shy and rose into the night sky only after her larger sister was high in the heavens.

  It was said that the twin moons were once sisters to the goddess Erys but that the sun god, Raithyn, wanting Erys for himself and refusing to share her with her sisters, had transformed Raelys and Bashelar into barren moons. Angered and broken-hearted, Erys had
shunned Raithyn for his treachery, creating the world and the lands of Eryos to hide herself from his searching light. In her sorrow for the loss of her sisters, she created the Tynithians, the other races and all the creatures of Eryos to keep her company. Raithyn became so enraged at her rejection that his light blazed, burning so brightly that none of the creatures upon Eryos could look upon him without suffering blindness.

  It was an ancient tale, a story Torrin had been told as a child. But the bitterness of life had scoured away any faith he may have had in the world of gods and goddesses. Let the Priests of Erys believe what they liked. To Torrin they were only the sun and moons, nothing more. He relied on his sword.

  Torrin shifted his weight and scanned the shadows before him. He and Borlin were standing second watch together, each of them on opposite sides of the small camp. It was almost time to wake Arynilas and Nathel for their turn. It had been a slow day with frequent stops made to tend to the injured woman. Arynilas had only seen their stalker once more during the afternoon, a black shadow hiding from the light. Try as they had, Torrin and the rest of the companions had not been able to detect the creature.

  He scanned the surrounding shapes of trees again, straining for the slightest sound. He heard a faint rustle. It brought to mind the sound he heard last night on watch. But this time it came from behind him in the camp.

  His stomach clenched and his hackles rose. The sleeping companions could have made the sound — someone turning over or pulling a blanket across the dry grass. But Torrin dismissed the notion. His instincts told him otherwise.

  He grasped the hilt of his sword, testing it in the scabbard as he turned his head to look back at the camp. What he saw there caused him to tighten his grip on his sword and draw a sudden breath.