Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  She assumed the conversation had been concluded. Torrin seemed suddenly withdrawn, absorbed in his own thoughts.

  “Your Raken friend,” he said suddenly. “What makes you so sure you can trust him?”

  “What makes you so sure you can trust Borlin, or Arynilas?” Rowan replied. “I have known Hathunor for a while now. There is no deceit in him.”

  “Why does he keep leaving?” asked Torrin. “It is odd.”

  “To be honest, he is staying out of sight so that you and your friends are not disturbed by his presence. He is probably somewhere close by keeping an eye on me.”

  Torrin looked at her incredulously, and then glanced around at the surrounding trees. “He is very protective of you, isn’t he?”

  Almost as though he had been listening to their conversation, Hathunor appeared out of the surrounding dark. He sank to his haunches on her other side. “Hathunor no leave Rowan now,” he rumbled.

  Torrin eyed him and then looked intently at Rowan. Hathunor was far more intelligent than his appearance suggested and his simple speech only lent to the false impression that he was slow-witted — something Torrin was grasping.

  The rest of the companions looked up from what they were doing to watch Hathunor as he settled himself comfortably. He returned their gazes steadily.

  Dalemar closed his book with a snap and rose to cross to the other side of the fire where he sat down next to Hathunor. He looked up at him. “Tell us about yourself, Hathunor. How long have you been in Eryos?”

  The huge Raken cocked his head slightly. “Hathunor is here thirty-three moons.”

  Dalemar’s eyebrows rose. “You have a remarkable grasp of our language for such a short time.”

  “Rowan teach Hathunor,” rumbled the Raken.

  Rowan chuckled. “What he fails to say is that I was hopeless at learning his language, so he has learned mine instead.”

  “You certainly gave us all a start the other night,” said Torrin. “We took you for an enemy.”

  Hathunor flashed Torrin a grimace. “Hathunor guard Rowan. Worried.”

  “I had asked him to keep out of sight until I could explain his presence to you all,” said Rowan, “but I never got the chance, so he stayed as close as he could.”

  Dalemar looked back up at the giant Raken. “He might have succeeded in remaining undetected were it not for Arynilas and his keen sight.”

  “Rowan said you can detect your Raken kin,” said Torrin. “How is that possible?”

  The rest of the companions gathered closer to hear the conversation.

  Hathunor reached up and tapped the side of his head. “Hear them.”

  “How close can they get before you hear them?” Torrin asked.

  Hathunor’s ridged brows drew together and a deep grunt escaped his throat. “Soon enough to run. Hathunor hear better than little brothers.”

  “Will they keep coming after Rowan?” asked Nathel.

  Hathunor growled. “Little brothers not follow hearts,” he shook his head sadly. “Hathunor think Little brothers keep coming.”

  “So whatever hunts the Messenger will not stop,” said Arynilas quietly.

  Rowan turned to look at the Tynithian; the title surprised her. “I have been tracked for far too long for whatever or whoever controls the Raken to stop now. I do not believe this morning’s fight was the end of it. I fear we have only earned a respite.”

  “Then the question we must ask is how long it will take them to find you again,” said Torrin grimly.

  A cool wind blew through their campsite, causing the flames of the fire to gutter. A log collapsed in a swirl of sparks.

  Rowan shivered. Suddenly, she felt very tired. Weeks of pushing herself to the limit had brought her no closer to her goal. She missed Lesiana and Dell, and dreaded having to tell Aunt Dea and Uncle Therious of her cousin’s death. Dell had been their only son.

  Nathel was looking closely at her. “You need to rest, Rowan, it will be a while before you are fully recovered. You must not overtax yourself.”

  Rowan sighed and nodded as she put away her dagger. “Wake me when it is my turn to stand watch.”

  Torrin shook his head. “You will not stand watch until your shoulder is fully healed.” Rowan began to protest, but one look at Torrin’s face in the firelight told her she would not get far. “If it is to heal quickly, you will need all the rest you can get,” he finished.

  Rowan frowned. She sincerely hoped her shoulder would heal swiftly because she wouldn’t stand for being told what to do for much longer. She pulled her blanket over herself. “As you say. Good night then.”

  “Good night Rowan,” came the quiet replies of her new companions.

  Hathunor was already curling his bulk up for sleep and Nathel, Borlin and Dalemar were pulling out their sleeping roles. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes was Torrin’s broad back as he strode out into the darkness to stand guard.

  Lok Myrr and the Master

  Sol hurried through the cold stone corridor, trying to calm his growing fear. The lantern shook in his hand, its feeble light swallowed by the dark spaces between the guttering wall sconces. At the end of the corridor, a great iron-clad door loomed out of the shadows with two huge Raken standing guard. Their frightening red eyes froze Sol’s feet. He tried to speak, but only a squeak emerged. Sol cleared his throat and began again. “Master Miroth wishes to see me.” His voice sounded small in his own ears.

  The guards moved to the sides of the door and shifted their attention beyond him. Sol let out his breath, relieved to no longer be the focus of their intense red gaze. He proceeded to the huge door and pushed. It swung smoothly and silently on its great hinges.

  The room beyond was in stark contrast to the bare corridor outside. The marble floors were covered in layers of rich red carpets. Intricate tapestries hung on the walls, covering the crude stones, and comfortable chairs and small tables were arranged around a crackling fire. But instead of soothing Sol’s fear, the warm atmosphere only served to heighten it.

  He made for another ornately carved door on the far side of the room. He knocked quietly and the door swung inward of its own accord. Sol shuttered in the cloying warmth. This room was just as lushly appointed, but made for work, not pleasure. It was lit only by the fire in the hearth and a single candle burning on a huge wooden table. It was afternoon, but the room’s only window was shuttered and sealed against the light and the cool mountain air. The surface of the table was covered with all manner of things, many of which Sol couldn’t identify. Scrolls and books were everywhere, even stacked on the floor around the ornately carved lions’ feet of the table legs.

  Sol’s attention wasn’t on the table. His eyes were riveted to the shadows behind it, where a figure sat in a huge throne-like chair. Sol bowed his head deferentially and awaited his master’s attention.

  “Have they found the Myrian?” The voice from the shadows was dry and raspy. Master Miroth had been angry for two days now, ever since Sol had found him on the floor of his study unconscious and with blood seeping from his nose and ears. Sol had been panicked, alternately hoping and fearing that the Master would never wake up.

  “I, I think….” Pain lanced through Sol’s head. He dropped to his knees, trying desperately to draw breath. All thought vanished and he forgot himself. Only pain existed. It drilled into his ears, drove spikes deep into his skull. His eyes burned and he feared his head might burst. Splinters of pain shot from the top of his head, down his back, traveling through his limbs to curl his fingers and toes in spasms of agony. He barely registered a thin wail, his own, as the world blackened toward oblivion.

  The pain left as suddenly as it had come, leaving Sol shaking, face down on the floor, retching out the meagre contents of his stomach. Throat burning, he wiped quickly at his face and scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

  “You are not here to think, child. You are here to carry out my orders.” The Master had not raised his voice but the sound reverberated around
the room, rustling through every corner, around the stacks of books and scrolls. “If you cannot do these simple tasks for me, I will find someone who can.”

  Sol had no trouble understanding what that meant, yet it seemed unlikely there was anyone in the fortress who could replace him. He had been the only possible replacement for old Darion: it was logical to replace the assistant with the assistant’s servant boy. Old Darion had been in his nineties, older than any one Sol had ever known, excepting of course the Master. Darion had been the Master’s assistant for most of his life and had told Sol stories of traveling to the ends of the known world with Master Miroth, even beyond the great Timor Mountains – though Sol suspected that that wasn’t even possible.

  Sol had only been at Lok Myrr for four years and he was still cleaning Darion’s workroom and turning down the old man’s sheets to put the warming stone under the blankets when Darion died. Sol felt grievously out of his depth; he often imagined himself as a tiny fly caught in the sticky strands of Master Miroth’s great web. If he struggled too much, he would attract attention from the spider and get eaten.

  Now the Master expected Sol to perform the same tasks that Darion had. Unfortunately, the Master was less than pleased with Sol’s abilities. Sol felt very unfairly judged, but speaking out against his mistreatment was inviting the worst punishment.

  “I ask you again, boy, has the Myrian been located yet?”

  Sol wrenched his wandering thoughts back to the soft, frightening voice. “Forgive me Master, but she has not been found again. The new Raken you sent are still traveling to where she escaped.” Sol rubbed his sweating palms against his frayed pants, waiting for the pain to start once more.

  Initially Sol was very pleased to be able to relay the messages brought in by the Raken runners, but he increasingly feared his master’s reaction to the news. Oh, the Master was perfectly capable of finding things out for himself, Sol was almost certain. But Sol was also the only one in the fortress who knew how taxing it was for the Master to use his special powers to get that information. Sol had no idea how the Master’s magic worked but he saw first hand how weak the Master was afterwards.

  The rasping voice shuddered with suppressed anger. “A full trieton lost. It will take time to get another one that close again.” Sol blinked in confusion, unsure if the Master was speaking to him. He began to tremble as the silence stretched. Then the Master continued softly from the darkness behind the table. “She was extremely lucky. If it were not for her tame beast, I wouldn’t be wasting this precious time. I would very much like to know what that beast is doing here.” The Master looked up suddenly, and Sol backed up a step before he could still his feet.

  Sol still didn’t know what had caused the Master to become so ill two days ago, but he was willing to bet old Darrion’s shoes that it had something to do with this Myrian. Sol was curious about the Myrian. If the master was that interested in her then she had to be very important.

  The Master leaned forward into the light and Sol struggled not to recoil at the sight of the grizzled, bald head. Bags of loose flesh hung from the skeletal bones of the Master’s face. But it was the eyes that frightened him the most. They bore into him mercilessly and Sol felt as though they were sifting through the very essence of his soul.

  “What news is there of the King and his army? Are my Raken in place yet?”

  Sol swallowed and shifted from foot to foot. “King Cerebus and his allies are fleeing to Pellaris. The Raken will be in position soon Master.”

  “Good,” came a dry chuckle from the withered throat. Miroth’s intense gaze focused on Sol once more, and he cowered back. “Is there anything else?”

  “No Master, nothing,” squeaked Sol.

  “Then get out of my sight. I need to think.” The words were stated quietly, but they cracked like a whip inside Sol’s head.

  Sol skittered backward, head bent, trying in vain to control his trembling limbs. He all but ran through the outer sitting room to the cold corridor beyond.

  Bathtubs and Preconceptions

  As the days passed, the company traveled north through the rugged woodlands of the Wilds. The trees were clad in bright colors and they had to weave their way carefully to avoid any patches of the plant Rowan knew as Erys’s Bane.

  Torrin shaded his eyes from the bright sun as they moved through a small clearing. Nathel was ahead of him, riding next to Rowan. They were deep in discussion, Nathel asking her questions about Erys’s Bane.

  “Are there any remedies for its poison?”

  Rowan shook her head. “I am sorry. I know little of plant lore. The only remedy I’ve heard of is a root which, when crushed and applied to the affected areas, soothe the blisters somewhat.”

  Nathel nodded. “What does it look like?”

  Torrin scanned the trees ahead, only half listening. Hathunor had disappeared a while ago and not been back.

  “It sounds like tabica root,” said Nathel after Rowan’s description. “We know it well; it was my first thought for treatment.” Nathel shook his head. “I’ve found no way to cure the madness.”

  Movement to the right caught Torrin’s attention – a sandy coloured rabbit darted from cover, chased by a small fox. The quarry escaped and the fox stopped to watch them before trotting back into the trees. The bird song was muted; many had flown further south for the winter. Arynilas had brought down a few of the tiny deer they flushed out of hiding with his bow. The fresh meat allowed them to save their dry provisions for the days ahead. They would soon reach the vast plains of Klyssen. The journey across would be long. In the endless sea of grass, game would have ample time to distance itself from hunters.

  Torrin rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at the cloudless sky. It would take about a month to reach Pellaris. The plains of Klyssen would take almost two weeks to cross with the open grassland offering little cover. Torrin frowned and resumed his scan of the trees. He was very disturbed by the possibility of Raken tracking them across the open plains of Klyssen. Speed would be their only defence.

  The twisting marshland beyond that marked the boarder between Klyssen and Pellar would offer more cover, but they would be much slowed. The marshes, a distance of only ten leagues in width, would take them almost a week to traverse. Once they were free of the Boglands, travel would become swift again. The rolling parkland of Pellar, which surrounded the city of Pellaris itself, would offer good cover with enough open land for movement.

  In Klyssen there were villages and walled towns where they could stay along the way to replenish supplies. He glanced ahead to where Rowan rode on her big grey, her long braid hanging down her back. It was taking some getting use to having a woman among them. He had noticed the others also having trouble adjusting. They would automatically do things for her, assuming that she would need help or didn’t know. If she began to light the fire for the camp, Nathel would take the flint from her hands, telling her to rest; Borlin would hasten to lift her saddle before she could get her hands on it. And Torrin caught himself once taking the leather punch from her hand to mend her armour for her, assuming that she didn’t know how. She had thanked him for his offer but firmly taken the tool back and resumed her work, obviously more than capable. Torrin told himself it was because she was still wounded but he had to admit that perhaps it was just an excuse to justify previously unchallenged customs.

  The companions were torn. She was obviously a skilled warrior and they had all seen what she could do with a sword but she was also a woman and women needed protecting, didn’t they? They needed men to do certain things for them. Arynilas and Dalemar watched the antics with growing amusement.

  Torrin exhaled and shook his head. Rowan seemed remarkably unruffled by it all. He had a feeling she was getting frustrated with them but she hadn’t uttered a sharp word.

  He cast a quick glance over the rest of his company. The five companions had been in the Wilds for quite a while; they were all in need of a real bed and a good scrubbing.

  A
faint smile pulled at his mouth. He could still hear Emma scolding him for not procuring baths for her and the girls during a stop at the Balor Inn. Even the name of the innkeeper was burned into his memory. Mr. Trotle — a remarkably tall, thin man who defied the stereotype of an innkeeper. The smile faded abruptly from Torrin’s face. It was the last times he had seen his wife and daughters alive.

  An ache rose in his chest. It had been so long since that terrible day, but the pain of the memory was still strong and fresh. He expected it would always be that way – had given up hope of ever moving beyond it.

  Nathel’s knee nudged Torrin’s as he drew his mount closer. “Was that a smile I just saw, Tor? I though you had forgotten your face could make one of those. What were you thinking about?”

  Torrin awoke from his musing and looked across at his brother. “Bathtubs.”

  Nathel looked at him quizzically then scratched the few day’s growth of beard on his face. He shrugged and changed the subject. “I am looking forward to going back to Pellar, even though the circumstances of our return are dire. Still it will be good to walk the land of our people again. It has been a long time since we last saw it.”

  Torrin frowned and shook his head. “There is nothing left for me in Pellar, Nathel. I answer the summons out of duty and loyalty only, nothing more.”

  “Perhaps it is time to look for something more, Tor.”

  Torrin glanced at his brother in surprise, but Nathel was busy looking for something to eat in his saddlebags. Torrin sighed and looked ahead, his eyes catching on a long golden braid shining in the late afternoon sun.

  The Black Fox

  Rowan sat on a fallen tree trunk in the dusk light, resting after the long ride. The small clearing they had chosen for the night had stunned them with a display of amazing color — yellow fire had blazed around them as the sun had touched the turning leaves of the treetops before sinking beyond the horizon.