Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Rowan nodded. “We have been isolated for a very long time. The legend is still very much alive among my people, but the Seers know a slightly different tale. They believe the Wyoraith is not an entity unto itself, but a tool. An immensely powerful tool – a force of magic that could destroy the world if someone with ill intent learns to control it. The legend of evil comes from past intent to use the Wyoraith for harm. The Seers of Danum have prophesied the returning of the Wyoraith for centuries, but there was never any clue as to when it might happen. Until now.

  “I was part of a small company that set out from Myris Dar by ship and sailed to the port city of Dendor. We were to make for this northern city to warn its king or steward. We traveled the Eryos Ocean for weeks, but when we reached Dendor, the Raken were waiting for us. They ambushed us along the road only an hour inland from the city. I have no explanation for how they knew we would be there or why they were trying to kill us. I can only assume that they were sent to keep the message from reaching Kathorn. We lost most of our small company. The Raken killed and dragged them away. My cousin Dell and I were the only ones to escape the ambush. Dell died a week later from his wounds.” She paused, her face reflecting her despair.

  Torrin flicked his eyes to his brother. This then was the memory they had witnessed while Rowan was in the clutches of fever.

  “I have been hunted ever since. Hathunor is the only reason I have made it this far,” she finished with a resigned tone.

  Torrin stirred and sat forward. “The city you describe can be none other than Pellaris, the capital of Pellar.”

  Rowan’s green eyes widened and he thought she might have sighed in relief. “How far is it from here?”

  Torrin scratched his whiskers. “It is far – four weeks journey at least.”

  “If you had to get to Pellaris in haste, why not sail north around Krang? I imagine that the storm season would not have been in full force at the time of your sailing. Your ship likely would have made it through and it would be easier than traveling over land,” asked Nathel.

  “We had acquired passage on a trading ship, and that was as far as the captain was willing to take us. Also, the Seers of Danum were adamant that we sail to the port of Dendor and then travel north overland. I have no idea why and the Seers would give no answer when asked to explain themselves,” said Rowan.

  “Why Pellaris, and why now?” asked Dalemar.

  “The Seers foresaw a great attack on a grand city of stone perched upon high sea cliffs while Bashelar hides in the shadow of her older sister. The Wyoraith will arise on the night that Bashelar is eclipsed, and with the attack will come darkness to last an age. Also — and perhaps the most important reason — it is where the last slayer of the Wyoraith was found.”

  “Slayer of the Wyoraith?” Nathel asked.

  Rowan nodded. “Perhaps a thousand years ago, no one knows for sure, a man was born in the ancient city of Kathorn. He grew up to become the Slayer of the Wyoraith. History has not recorded his name and the Seers know only that he was descended from a Slayer before him. The Seers believe a new Slayer will be found in Kathorn —Pellaris — though I do not know where.

  “The Seers tell that if the world is to prevent the summoning of the Wyoraith for evil purpose, then the one who seeks to control it must be stopped. However, if the Wyoraith is successfully brought forth into this world and harnessed, its master will become invincible and Eryos will fall and be destroyed. This Slayer is charged with protecting the Wyoraith from that evil intent.

  “The Seers deemed it time for Myris Dar to rejoin the rest of Eryos. To that end, my small party was sent to re-establish contact with the kingdoms of Eryos, principally the kingdom that was once part of the Kathornin Empire, which from what you tell me is Pellar. But I am now the only one left of that party.” Rowan finished, her gaze downcast as she stared into the fire.

  Torrin shifted on the log and looked around the circle of his companions, studying their grave faces. As he met the eyes of each one, he received a nod to the unspoken question.

  They had been traveling to answer the summons from King Cerebus, unsure of what role they would play in turning back the invasion of Raken, if indeed they would reach Pellaris in time to help at all. If what Rowan told them was true and the Raken attacks foretold the unleashing of an even greater doom — the Wyoraith — upon the world, then King Cerebus, Pellar and all of Eryos were in grave danger.

  If they did not reach Pellaris in time to warn King Cerebus, he might not be able to act. As to the rest, Torrin hoped the answer to this mystery of the Wyoraith lay somewhere within the northern capital.

  He studied at the woman Erys had placed in their path and wondered again at the impossibility of it. The fact that she had survived thus far spoke volumes about her character, but he believed she needed help to complete her mission. The journey to Pellaris was long and hard, even without Raken trietons tracking her.

  He also knew his friends and not one of them would leave a woman to fend for herself, regardless of the skill she had with a blade and the aid she seemed to command from a renegade Raken beast.

  Torrin picked up his broad sword, from where it rested beside him after cleaning. He slid the blade into its scabbard with a metal hiss and looked Rowan in the eye. “We will see you safely to Pellaris.”

  She looked around at the others and began to shake her head, but Torrin held up his hand to stall her.

  “We were on our way there before we came across you, to answer a summons from King Cerebus. Our destinations are the same. The Raken patrols are increasing. It would be foolish for us not to travel together.”

  After a short pause, Rowan agreed. “I would be honoured to travel with you then, but I have one condition.”

  Torrin almost smiled. Why was he not surprised? This woman was quite unlike any he had ever met. “And what would that be?”

  “Hathunor. He must come with me.”

  Torrin narrowed his eyes; he had been expecting the request. “He may come with us. Who knows, we might learn a great deal from him about his kind. But heed my words – if he betrays us in any way, I will kill him.”

  Rowan gazed silently at him and Torrin was struck again by the green of her eyes. He had the distinct impression that she was sizing him up, looking for weaknesses. He was surprised to find it made him uneasy.

  “So be it,” she replied finally.

  Dalemar cleared his throat and Torrin pulled his gaze from Rowan’s challenging stare.

  The Rith’s smooth brow was furrowed. “I think the eclipse of Bashelar will occur this fall. I cannot be totally accurate without the proper charts. If it is true and the summoning of the Wyoraith is coming, then we may not have much time.”

  Torrin suppressed a sudden shiver and rose to his feet. “Then let us be away. We still have a fair afternoon for travel and should be able to make good distance.”

  Hathunor

  Rowan mounted her big grey horse and rode to the edge of the trees. The others waited at the campsite for her. She sat astride Roanus for a minute or so, waiting. Her shoulder still throbbed but the bleeding had stopped. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a large, dark form emerge from the trees to her left. She turned as Hathunor strode toward her.

  “Hello, my friend, are you well?” she asked.

  “Well,” came the reply from deep in the throat, like heavy stones grinding together. As he approached, his glowing red eyes turned from her to look warily at the group behind her.

  “They are good people, Hathunor, and will not harm you. They have offered to help me get to Kathorn. They know it as Pellaris and they were heading there when they found us.”

  The red eyes focused back on Rowan, and the heavy brow ridges above them drew down in concentration as Hathunor translated her speech. Rowan had abandoned attempts at trying to understand his language. The clicks and burrs of his speech were unpronounceable, with no relation to any other language she had heard. Hathunor, though, was learning the common tongue of
Eryos quickly, a testament to his intelligence. “No harm?”

  Rowan nodded

  “No harm Rowan?” The frown on Hathunor’s face turned into a snarl and the image of the attacking Raken from the morning flashed through her mind. Hathunor’s black-scaled face was surprisingly mobile; she didn’t think she’d seen his full range of expression yet. As his brief snarl faded, the smooth scales of his skin glittered in the sun.

  “They have aided me greatly, Hathunor. Look, my wound is almost healed.” She pulled back part of the bandage that Nathel had applied to stop the renewed bleeding.

  Hathunor peered at her shoulder and an expression that Rowan recognized as a smile spread across his frightening face. He nodded once and his huge, clawed hand came up to touch her arm gently. “Hathunor not want Rowan hurt.”

  Rowan covered the giant hand with her own. His scaled skin was warm and soft like fine leather. “Come and meet our new friends, though it sounds as though you have already met them, judging by the alarm you caused the other night.”

  A sound like gravel sliding downhill welled from Hathunor’s throat. His red eyes gleamed with humour and his lips pulled back to reveal sharp ivory teeth.

  The light breeze rustled his furred crest, beginning at the top of his forehead running down his broad back. It was the only part of him other than his red eyes that wasn’t black. Glowing a warm chestnut in the sun, the hairs of the crest were coarse, like a horse’s mane that didn’t grow long enough to fall down. His wide shoulders sported spiny ridges and knobs that protected the shoulder joints. The muscles of his arms were huge. When they flexed, tendons and sinew stood out under the smooth scales. His hip girdle was also protected by bony protrusions and the scales broadened over his belly. His legs were long and muscled like his tree-trunk arms and his lower legs had another joint above the ankle, which gave him a hock below the knee. He walked on his toes, which had long curving claws.

  Rowan turned her horse and they began to walk back to the others. The huge Raken pacing beside her was taller than she was sitting on Roanus.

  When they reached the campsite, Rowan introduced Hathunor to the five companions. As each was named, he brought a huge fist to his dark, scaled chest and bowed his massive head. He received tentative nods in return. Then Hathunor spread his arms wide, and stated in his deep, gravel voice. “You help Rowan, you Hathunor’s friend.”

  Torrin shook his head in wonder, a slow, reluctant smile spreading across his face. “You are welcome, Hathunor.”

  Rowan smiled at the expressions of disbelief and wonder on the faces of such self-possessed men.

  As the sun reached its zenith and began to descend through a clear early autumn sky, the group of seven left the abandoned campsite and made their way north through the surrounding trees. They rode at a steady pace for the rest of the afternoon, each turned inward – the addition of two new members to the group had changed the dynamics within the companionship considerably. None of the companions completely trusted the huge Raken in their midst and Rowan was the mirror opposite of the women of Eryos.

  Rowan pressed her heal against Roanus, shifting him around a fallen log. She glanced at the men riding ahead of her – they were wary, uneasy. She turned to Hathunor, striding beside her. “Will you scout ahead, my friend?”

  He nodded and flashed her a knowing smile full of sharp teeth, then loped ahead to disappear into the trees.

  The others watched him go but then their attention switched to her. She shook her head in amusement as she caught them looking at her. Arynilas seemed to be the only one unruffled by her presence. It was not the first time she had received such attention in Eryos, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  When she and her small company had landed in Dendor, happy to be off the ship and spending the night at a portside inn, they had been openly stared at. She and the two other women in their party had received the most scrutiny. Rowan thought at first it was because their clothing and appearance was foreign but as they had walked through the narrow streets of the city, she had become increasingly aware that the women of Dendor didn’t carry swords. Upon leaving the city, she had received the exact same reaction from the farmers and villagers in the rest of Lor Danith.

  She supposed now was no different. These companions, with the exception of Arynilas, had probably never seen a female warrior. Some local Lor Danion men had even gone out of their way to have sport with her, interpreting her clothes and openly carried weapon as a challenge of sorts. It had infuriated her – a needless waste of energy and time. She’d had to defend herself from such challenges, trying to defeat her opponents without killing or wounding them seriously. One fool had been so enraged at his defeat by a woman that he had sent his three friends after her as well. He had succeeded only in getting them all injured.

  The women she had met had been coldly disapproving, a reaction that had puzzled her considerably. How could people be so closed and unfriendly? When Myrians met strangers, they treated them with respect and interest. Travelers were always offered food and water, even lodging. Rowan supposed it was foolish of her to have expected the same on the mainland. She had thought about it often and had come to the conclusion that Myrians, with their well-practiced martial skills, were simply not afraid of strangers. If you couldn’t defend yourself, it would be natural to feel uncomfortable, even afraid, around people that you didn’t know and trust.

  The only people Rowan had met so far who were curious and friendly had been young girls and boys in Lor Danith but she was rarely given the opportunity to enjoy their company. Parents would snatch their children away, scowling at her when they realized she was the person their children were grinning at.

  Her clothes had bothered people as much as her sword. She was spat at, named as a whore for showing her legs, even though they were covered in her leather leggings. Men propositioned her frequently, assuming she was selling herself. Despite the hot summer season, she had purchased a long cloak to hide her legs and some of her weaponry. She had rejected the idea of buying a dress to blend in, refusing to handicap herself with the impractical ground-length skirts fashionable in Lor Danith. Besides, it was impossible to hide the sword pommel over her shoulder, even if she had dressed as other women.

  In the end, she had taken to staying away from settlements. Her demeanour had changed by necessity, her open-minded curiosity curbed, becoming aloof and solitary. For her own safety and others, she had kept contact with people to a minimum.

  Rowan frowned. This was not the way it was supposed to have been. The journey through Eryos should have been shared with her fellow Myrians. She had looked forward with excitement to meeting new cultures and races. Instead she had been running for her life – unfriendly faces everywhere she turned.

  She studied the five companions; they seemed surprisingly accepting of her. As a group, they were themselves unique. Rowan had not seen Tynithians or Riths until now in Eryos. It had been her secret hope that she might meet the fabled races.

  Myris Dar was closed to most foreign people but Tynithians, who travel the oceans often, had always been welcome on the protected isle. Rowan had been taught early on that the Twilight People inspired the artistry Myrians strove to incorporate into every aspect of life. Although Rowan had seen a few Tynithian visitors to Myris Dar during her lifetime, she could not claim to have known any.

  She looked at Arynilas, riding ahead. She had been surprised by his small size. She could almost look him directly in his wise, timeless eyes, yet he looked no older than she did. She had to keep reminding herself that he was likely hundreds of years old. The tilt to his sapphire eyes and the refined bone structure of his features were easy to mark as Tynithian and his onyx-black hair and dark arching eyebrows gave him a striking appearance. His clothing was mostly soft leather — greens and browns — and he had the most unnerving ability to blend into the surrounding landscape. Even with his dark hair she found herself surprised to suddenly see him move from an unexpected place. His movements were qui
ck and fluid and Rowan suspected that his athletic abilities far outstripped those of the others. She knew Tynithians were shape shifters, and she was curious about Arynilas’s animal form.

  Legends told that the Tynithians were named the Twilight People because Erys created them during the first night of her self-imposed exile in Eryos to hide from Raithyn. To amuse her, the Tynithians had formed themselves into animals, keeping her sorrow at bay.

  Rowan watched her companions as much as they studied her, taking in their features and dress, weapons, voices and movements. Her shoulder still throbbed and she absently rubbed the surrounding muscle to ease the ache; massaging an injury shortened the time it took to heal. She concentrated her attention back on the other companions to take her mind off the pain.

  Stonemen rarely traveled the oceans so their reputation was gleaned from stories and rumour alone. Even though the stocky men seldom traveled the seas, their trade goods did. Rowan’s family owned a rare Stoneman blue glazed pottery urn. It was her favourite thing in her mother’s kitchen. The blue glaze was a secret known only to the Stonemen and it was one of the most sought after items on the rare trade ships allowed into Myrian waters. Stonemen were exceptional stone carvers as well. They had quite literally built the stone city of the Riths, modeling it after their own stone forts and towns perched in the heights of the Black Hills.

  Of the Stonemen themselves, Rowan knew very little. Borlin was almost the complete opposite of Arynilas. Where the Tynithian was slim and graceful, Borlin was broad and stocky. His square face with its straight nose and bristly red beard exuded stubborn resilience. His soft brown eyes were kind and apt to twinkle and she enjoyed listening to his lilting voice. He was quick to laugh and bantered constantly with Nathel.

  The sadness she had glimpsed in his eyes earlier was a puzzle and she wondered what his story was.

  He stood almost a head shorter than she did but was more than twice as wide. Rowan was willing to wager that Borlin was stronger than both Torrin and Nathel combined. The Stoneman’s bones were thick and his hands resembled those of a blacksmith. His clothes consisted of worn brown leathers and silver buckles. Under his leather vest and jacket, he wore a creamy shirt that peeked out from the darker colors, giving him a dapper look. She looked forward to getting to know him better.