Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Pulling her dagger from its sheath, she rooted through her saddlebags for a cleaning rag and oil. Borlin, as usual, was making the evening meal. Dalemar was seated on the ground across from her, pipe clenched between his teeth and his nose in a book. Arynilas sat beside him fashioning arrows. Torrin lay stretched out and propped on one elbow, a cup of tea in his hand and his eyes fastened on the fire.

  Nathel strode across to Rowan from the tethered horses, his healing satchel in hand. He stood before her unlacing the leather ties. “I need to have a look at that shoulder.”

  “It is fine, Nathel. I do not need you to look at it. It heals well and there is only a little soreness and stiffness. You have done a fine job with it, I thank you.” Rowan soaked some oil through the cloth and began to rub her blade.

  Nathel frowned down at her and began to argue, but Borlin cut him off. “Oh, ahes’n three ’orned goat’s blood, Nathel! Leave the lass alone! Here ye are, Luv, a nice ’ot cuppa tea.” Borlin moved toward her, blowing on the contents of the cup in his hands.

  Nathel’s frown deepened and he turned on the Stoneman, looking down at him. “I’ve a sense that my healing is a tad more important than your tea, Borlin!”

  Borlin growled, his ruddy face flushing deeper in anger.

  Rowan couldn’t help herself. She snorted loudly in amusement. The two turned to look at her in surprise, and suddenly irritation got the better of her. She drove her dagger into the ground and threw her cleaning rag down in disgust. Standing, she faced them. “It’s comforting to know that you both care, but enough is enough!”

  Borlin stared in stunned silence, but Nathel opened his mouth. She cut him off before he could speak. “Have you two stopped to listen to yourselves? Sweet Erys! You sound like a pair of mother hens clucking over a chick!”

  Rowan heard Torrin’s dry chuckle and turned to look at him, her scowl deepening. “You are not much better!”

  His eyebrows lifted, but at least he had the decency to stop laughing.

  “You three act as though I’m capable of little more than riding a horse!”

  She looked back up at Nathel and took a step towards him. He leaned away from her, a wary look on his face. “I am perfectly able to light a fire; in fact, I’ve had a lot of practice at it, and I can also carry a bucket!” She turned to confront Borlin. “I’m also very good at saddling my own horse. I’m taller than you are for Erys’s sake!” Then she scowled at Torrin, “And you! I am hardly a useless maiden incapable of lifting my own saddlebags, mending my armour or making decisions.”

  Rowan took a deep breath. She held her hands out toward them, making them into fists. “If these hands are capable of wielding a sword in battle, do you really believe that they wouldn’t also be capable of helping with camp chores?” She dropped her hands to her side and looked them in the eyes. “I know women have a different role here but I’m not from this land. I do not always need or want your help. I ask you to respect that.”

  Finished, she looked around at the faces of her companions. Nathel was frowning down at the satchel in his hands. Borlin was looking sheepishly at the ground, his toe tracing a line in the dirt. Dalemar sat watching her, his pipe halfway to his mouth, book forgotten. Torrin watched her too, an off-kilter cup still in hand. Only Arynilas seemed uninterested in what had just been said. His fingers and attention were still on his arrows but a slight smile had slipped onto his face.

  The frustration that had been welling up over the last few days was suddenly spent, and Rowan struggled not to laugh at their ridiculous expressions. She sighed, she couldn’t expect them to change a lifetime of habit in little more than a week, but it was about time they began to try. She turned away and leaned down to retrieve her dagger.

  She heard Nathel step up behind her. “I still want to look at that shoulder.”

  Rowan shook her head in submission. If there was one thing the brothers had in common besides their size, it was stubbornness. She turned to look up at him. “Very well, but it is no longer necessary.”

  “We’ll see.” With a boyish smirk he began to unwrap his satchel.

  Rowan caught sight of Borlin, still standing with her tea in hand. “Borlin, how about that cup of tea? You’ll not keep it hot by staring at it.”

  The Stoneman chuckled, stepping forward.

  “Thank you, my friend,” she said.

  Borlin winked, handing her the cup.

  Once Nathel had seen to her shoulder, Rowan settled down against the log to enjoy her tea. The companions were quiet tonight – her outburst most likely had something to do with their mood. Hathunor lay a few feet from her, his bulk curled up and his red eyes closed. The image of a content cat sprang to mind and Rowan smiled at the incongruous impression.

  Arynilas had left the camp a short time before and slipped silently into the darkness. It had taken Rowan a while to notice his absence. Her eyes were beginning to close and she tried to summon the energy to pull out her bedroll. As she sat in half sleep, a movement caught her attention. Forcing her eyes to open wider, she turned to see a large black fox trotting into the camp. Rowan looked around at her companions. Torrin was the only one still awake.

  The fox trotted across to Rowan and sat on its haunches before her, its pink tongue lolling and its large ears pricked forward. Rowan kept still to avoid frightening the visitor away. The black fox looked her directly in the eyes, then jumped and spun in the air, bushy tail wagging. It raced out of the camp, rolling its head at Torrin on its way past. As its black fur blended into the surrounding shadow, Rowan was left wondering if she had actually experienced the strange encounter.

  She looked over at Torrin. He was watching her expectantly.

  Rowan turned again to where the fox had vanished, and noticed Arynilas’s bow and long knives leaning against the stone he had occupied earlier. She drew in a sudden breath and looked at Torrin with wide eyes. “Arynilas –”

  Torrin nodded. “You are fortunate. He does not reveal his other self lightly.”

  Rowan peered into the darkness around the camp. Now that she knew, she found it hard to believe that she had not recognized him. The fox was as much Arynilas as the form she normally saw. She turned back to Torrin, questions crowding her mind. She was no longer tired.

  “Does he change often?” she asked.

  Torrin shook his head and looked up at the full moon of Bashelar overhead. “The moons call to him. The Twilight People worship the moons for Erys. They honour her sisters with their animal form to remind Raelys and Bashelar that Erys is not alone here in Eryos.”

  The solemn response quelled her remaining questions. Rowan looked up at the red moon in its fullness. Its light was bright and clear against the starlight. Raelys was just a glimmer of light low in the sky, hidden by the treetops.

  A strange glow began to wink in the trees. Rowan frowned and looked harder. “Torrin, what is that?”

  Torrin followed her out stretched hand. “That is as much responsible for keeping people out of the Wilds as Erys’s Bane. There are beetles that live in the canopy, which once a month glow in response to the full moons. They are found in Dan Tynell as well. Arynilas told me that a few are collected each full moon and placed in special glass spheres to celebrate and honour Erys’s sisters.”

  Rowan watched in wonder as more and more lights began to glow in the trees. Her thoughts turned to a black fox moving through the dark shadows of the forest around them.

  The Command Tent

  King Cerebus slumped into the camp chair and tossed his gloves on the table before him. They landed on the corner of a large map of Pellar, which lay unfurled and weighted down at the corners by various objects: stones, books, a goblet. He wiped his hand across his face wearily and scanned the grim faces of the men seated around the table. Cerebus had slept little in the last three days and he was having trouble thinking clearly.

  General Preven reported the details of the strategic withdrawal Cerebus had ordered last night. Yesterday had seen the worst fighting
yet. They had lost almost a third of the army to the Raken. Many more would not make it past sunset today. Morale was low and it was becoming more and more difficult to lift the spirits of the men.

  Cerebus found it hard to fathom how the prosperous and powerful kingdom of Pellar could be in such dire straights. They had been fighting desperately for weeks against the Raken invasion, and they had been defeated in nine out of the twelve encounters. Cerebus had initially been successful at riding out and eliminating the small groups of the beasts attacking towns and farmsteads. Then the scouting parties had come fleeing back to the outposts with reports of an overwhelming force heading northwest towards the capital city of Pellaris. The coalition forces Cerebus had managed to gather to meet the invasion had been gradually and unrelentingly pushed back towards the capital. Almost three thousand men had answered his summons from the surrounding realms of Tabor and Klyssen. Even mercenaries from as far away as Lor Danith had recently arrived but it had not been enough. The Raken were too strong and too many and they fought with a frightening ferocity.

  “The Klyssen cavalry has had the most success against the Raken so far. They can keep the casualties down during our retreat,” said Kreagan. “The Raken do not seem inclined to rest on their victory but are pressing their advantage.” The horse marshal of the Klyssen Cavalry sat across from Cerebus, his horsehair-plumed helmet and worn leather gauntlets on the table before him. He was a stern man but very good at what he did. Cerebus had included his own cavalry units under Kreagan’s command.

  The Klyssen were superb horsemen. They fought from horseback like most soldiers fought from the ground; their well-bred horses trained to maneuver to complex leg commands so the cavalry had their hands free to use their long swords and shields to devastating effect.

  Tight formation and precision allowed the cavalry units to cut like a knife into enemy ranks, disrupting their dense lines and creating chaos. The fifteen hundred mounted warriors that Kreagan had brought with him from Klyssen had kept the coalition army from being completely overwhelmed by the Raken.

  General Preven, to Kreagan’s left, nodded his head in agreement. “It will take time to move so many back to a defensive position within the city; not to mention the supplies. We must protect the supplies or there will not be enough provisions for a drawn out siege. The wells within the city will supply fresh water indefinitely but food will be scarce.”

  Cerebus sighed. “So it comes down to a siege.” Not since Cerebus’s grandfather Lendar sat the throne had the city of Pellaris been besieged. Then it had been an army of Taborians, consisting more of foreign mercenaries than men from Tabor, led by Roth the Mighty — the self-styled ruler of what was then lower Tabor — into the rash and foolish attempt to take Pellar’s capital city. A city with a reputation for having never been sacked. It had been taken under previous names of course, but history was always written by the victors. It was considered bad luck to keep the old name of a vanquished city. As Pellaris, a city built on the ruins of others, it had never had its walls breached.

  Walls, which to their credit, were almost twenty paces deep, surrounded by a moat to the south and guarded in the north by the highest cliffs on the northern coastline. The city was indeed formidable, but Cerebus had never been so arrogant as to believe that it could never fall.

  Cerebus’s father had been a boy, much the same age as Cerebus’s young heir, Daelyn, when Roth the Mighty assaulted Pellaris. The stories about his father and grandfather fighting together along the walls to repel the attack had become legend. They had succeeded. Pellar had remained unvanquished and his father, Doren, son of Lendar, had begun that day to write his own story within the pages of Pellar’s history.

  Cerebus was raised as his father had been raised, and his grandfather before him. He had learned war and statecraft well, but he always believed strength and pride could be as much a liability for a king as an asset. Cerebus envisioned a different future than his father and grandfather, one where war and the protection of sovereign lands weren’t the only endeavours for a king. He believed in a wider world where neighbouring kingdoms could be trusted to hold to oaths and treaties made. Where people under a stable reign could flourish and achieve greatness.

  Cerebus wasn’t foolish enough to think that such a world could be accomplished without bloodshed. There would always be bullies — nations or men who would take advantage of weakness — but he hoped that one day Eryos could become the peaceful realm of his dreams.

  That was part of the reason he had sent Daelyn to Tabor; it was important for a future king to know his neighbours. This war, this invasion, was like no other seen in Pellar. He knew in his heart that darker days lay ahead. His nephew and heir was safe in Tabor, a blessing Cerebus had clung to in the frustration and heartache of the past few days.

  Frowning, Cerebus reined his thoughts in and focused on the matter at hand.

  “The city is well fortified. It will hold, my lord,” said Preven. The general was an unshakable optimist. His belief in the eventual victory of the coalition had been only slightly eroded over the past weeks.

  Chancellor Galen, who had been consulting a large leather book in his lap, cleared his throat. “The stores of Pellaris are abundant, my lord. The harvest was successfully brought into the city and many of the refugees have had time to gather and bring their own provisions. There will be enough for a month, maybe a little more.” Galen had been chancellor when Cerebus’s father sat the throne. His neatly trimmed white beard and hair lent him the air of a distinguished grandfather, but today his long years weighed heavily upon him. Cerebus made a mental note to send Galen ahead to the city where he could rest.

  The walls of the small tent billowed in a gust of wind, and the light from the morning sky peeped through the door as the tent flaps blew inward. Cerebus rose and poured himself a cup of strong Drenic from a steaming jug left at a side table. It was one of the only luxuries he afforded himself during this war. There was now a limited supply of the Taborian leaves and it would not be replenished any time soon. He took a sip and savoured the spiced taste.

  The tent flaps moved again as a young messenger entered and bowed to Cerebus. The young man looked exhausted, and Cerebus bade him take a seat and handed him his own steaming cup.

  The young messenger took the cup gratefully and Cerebus waited for him to drink. “The Raken horde advances on the outpost positions my lord. They are moving fast. Field Marshall Tern sent me to tell you he has the defensive line set and ready to engage the foe.”

  Cerebus looked to Horse Marshall Kreagan, who stood briskly and donned his helmet and gloves. “The cavalry will give the infantry time to disengage and retreat.”

  “Good. Don’t engage them full on; hit and run tactics,” said Cerebus.

  Kreagan nodded.

  Cerebus turned to General Preven. “Sound the retreat, General. I’ll not lose any more men to these monsters today.”

  The general saluted and the two officers left the tent. Cerebus turned to the young messenger. “Have my horse readied, lad. I will ride with the cavalry today.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The young man took a last swig from his cup and quickly followed the others from the tent.

  Cerebus made to leave as well but Galen stopped him. “Are you sure it is wise to put yourself in harm’s way, my king? They will do well enough without you.”

  Cerebus looked into the eyes of his chancellor. “Not today, Galen. Today the troops will see their king defending them.”

  Galen sighed in resignation, nodding his head and moving aside. “Erys go with you, my Lord.”

  Cerebus walked out of the tent to his waiting horse.

  Of Raken

  Six days had passed since the companions had met Rowan and they had neither seen nor heard Raken since the bloody battle at the cleft. Torrin reined in his young black horse to a walk. The game trail they followed was too narrow and twisting for much more. The horse shook his long dark mane and snorted in frustration.

  The
horse was fairly new to Torrin and he still hadn’t thought of a name for him. He had settled on simply calling him Black. His previous horse had been killed by highway bandits; arrow shot from under him. He had been furious about the loss and had made certain personally that the thieves never attacked anyone else. Flyer had been a great horse and was extremely well trained. Torrin had raised him from a spindly foal into a proud battle mount. He’d even made some coin on stud fee over the years from the impressive dun stallion.

  Torrin had hopes that this young horse could be as great but it would take time for them to get to know and trust one another. He reached out and laid his palm against Black’s neck. The glossy hide was smooth and warm under his hand. Black twitched an ear back toward Torrin and his prancing steps lulled to a slower walk.

  The path ahead opened into a small clearing and Torrin could now see more than just Nathel’s back directly in front of him. Hathunor, who had been stalking at the point of the group ahead of Arynilas, stopped suddenly and scanned the trees ahead. The others pulled their mounts to a halt and Torrin reined Black in. The young horse laid his ears flat and glared back at Borlin’s mare, who had shoved her nose forward to nip at his rump. Torrin doubted Black would kick, but heeled the stallion over to make certain he couldn’t.

  Hathunor stepped out to the side of the trail and lifted his muzzle to the air, his huge head cocked to the side. He turned suddenly back toward the companions and Torrin could see the red glint of his eyes. The Raken paced smoothly to Rowan and rumbled something, then turned and loped off into the trees, his black body disappearing instantly.

  Rowan beckoned to Torrin. The late afternoon sun glinted on her hair and sword pommel as she twisted in the saddle to scan the path ahead.

  Torrin touched his heels to Black and the horse surged forward.

  “Raken. Hathunor has gone to see how many,” She said as he drew close.