Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Cerebus turned to the officer mounted beside him. “Ready the men for another attack.” The man saluted and wheeled his horse to gallop back along the line of waiting horsemen. It was time to relieve the Klyssen cavalry.

  Word was carried quickly through the ranks and the column began to trot down hill towards the enemy. Cerebus raised a gloved fist and the column split into five smaller units. He nodded to the officer riding beside him and the man raised a horn to his lips. A short blast knelled out and the units began the charge.

  Cerebus’s horse surged forward, well-trained to the sound of a charge. He adjusted his round shield and drew his sword. When he clapped the visor of his helmet down, his vision was reduced to a narrow horizontal slit. The units sped towards the enemy horde, spreading out in a five-pronged attack.

  Cerebus saw the Raken brace for the new onslaught; spear butts ground into the earth and weapons raised. He tightened his grip on his sword. The horses slammed into the Raken. Equine armour deflected most of the spears but a horse to the right screamed in pain. Wood splinters flew up, clattering against his chest. Raken crumpled under the charge as the horses crashed through their lines. The huge beasts were more than a match for men on foot but they could not stand against barrelling horses. They went down under the flying hooves. The small wedge of cavalry cut deep into the Raken and Cerebus sliced down at beasts that got too close.

  The din of battle was distant — roars and clashing weapons, Raken screams and men’s shouts. His own breath under his helmet was louder. The horse under him reared and clubbed an attacking Raken, hooves flailing. He gripped hard with his knees to keep his seat. Cerebus looked back to see the end of the cavalry hit the line. The widest part of the wedge ensured enough space for the retreat

  He spurred his horse, guiding the animal with his legs alone. A Raken club glanced off his side, denting the heavy armour. Cerebus turned to engage the beast but another horseman had assumed the task. A horn sounded — three short blasts that rang over the battlefield. The withdrawal. Around him men were turning their mounts and the column wheeled as one. They thundered back through the opening created by the charge.

  Cerebus lifted his visor, wiping at the sweat that seeped into his eyes. He scanned the battlefield. The other units were withdrawing leaving swaths of dead and injured Raken. A horse ran at the end of Cerebus’s unit without a rider and several horsemen sported fresh blood.

  As the last of the mounted allies cleared the horde, archers at the rear of the retreating coalition infantry sent up a volley of arrows. They fell like rain down among the Raken, killing more of the great beasts.

  Cerebus raised his fist and his officer raised the horn to signal another charge.

  It would be a hard flight to Pellaris.

  Ambush

  Rowan pulled her cloak tighter around herself as they rode through the early morning mist. The wet fog muffled the sound from the horses’ hooves and a few leaves fell silently to the ground around them. As trees loomed out of the mist ahead and disappeared from view behind, it felt to Rowan as if they were traveling in place, never making any progress. She shivered, imagining the Raken hunting her looming up suddenly like black trees.

  Closing her tired eyes, Rowan rested for a few paces. She had not slept well the night before. It had been much colder than the previous nights and her mind had not let her rest. The discussion with Hathunor had expounded upon things that she already knew of her giant friend but she also learned new things about him and his people. The questions of how he escaped being controlled like the Drae Raken, and why his kin were here were the hardest to let go of. Was there any significance to his freedom or was it simply by chance that he had avoided the fate of his little brothers?

  Hathunor was very intelligent. She had seen the way he could reason things out and his interaction with the rest of the group spoke volumes about his ability to read and understand people. He was sensitive enough to know when he made others uncomfortable. Rowan had been amazed and gratified to see how easily the big Saa Raken had disarmed the wariness of their new friends, putting them all at ease in his presence.

  But although he was friendly and loyal, Hathunor’s way of interacting with Rowan and the other companions was distinctly different. He happily answered questions when he was asked and if he needed to tell her something important he would, but he seemed to intuitively understand all of them and therefore had no need to talk to anyone.

  Rowan, accustomed to spending time alone, found it soothing not to fill space or time with idle talk or to relate stories of one’s past, or hopes for the future. She enjoyed her interaction with the companions and the familiar contact of people again but it was good to have the big Saa Raken’s steady quiet friendship in counterbalance.

  Hathunor lived entirely in the present. His past experiences were merely what had shaped him and aside from his quest to save his kin, the future was irrelevant. He struggled with the concept of future or years from now. He used the words today and tomorrow interchangeably. His present became the future as he lived it.

  Most people were tied down to their past and they carried it around with them like a big stone, dwelling continually on how heavy it was. She supposed it must be a part of why Hathunor was so calm, exuding a sense of peace despite his ferocious appearance. He never worried about what tomorrow might bring.

  Rowan gave a wry chuckle as she realized with amusement that she had not slept well the night before precisely because she had been dwelling on what was to come. She closed her eyes again and relaxed into the soothing motion of Roanus’s walk, letting go of questions and worries.

  After a while Rowan began to feel centered and calm and she silently thanked Hathunor for his wisdom.

  “How are you this morning?” Rowan opened her eyes and turned to find Dalemar riding beside her.

  “I am well, thank you. A little tired perhaps,” she replied.

  Dalemar nodded sagely, smooth eyebrows arching. “Thinking of Hathunor?”

  Rowan turned to him in surprise. “How did you know?”

  The Rith grinned. “I was doing the same thing myself. Didn’t catch a wink all night.”

  They rode in silence for a time until Dalemar pulled a small leather bound book from his belt pouch and flipped through its worn pages. “Rowan, when you told us of your mission after we fought the trieton, you mentioned an omen that was supposed to give a clue to how the summoning of the Wyoraith might be stopped, but you never actually spoke it.” Dalemar looked at her keenly. His gray eyes were almost the same colour as the pale mist around them. “What is the message the Seers gave you?”

  Rowan saw again the cliff-side fortress of Danum, its black stone walls cut from the volcanic rock. The narrow winding path was barely wide enough for a horse and cart. It snaked precariously up the side of the cliff from the rocky beach below. The cacophony of circling sea birds that nested in the crevasses beneath the solitary fortress filled the air and their white wings glinted in the first rays of the sun. Rowan had climbed that path alone at first light as she had been instructed. One and only one of the company is to come to us at dawn. You will know who it is to be. When she had rapped on the iron door that led through the rising black rock with the hilt of her dagger, the door had been unlocked and opened immediately. The man who opened the door smiled softly and bowed to her. “Rowan Mor Lanyar, you are expected.”

  Rowan blinked, realized Dalemar was still watching her. The message — it had not been spoken aloud since she had repeated it to her companions as they set sail. She had bid them all to memorize it so each would be able to carry it onward should they become separated or worse. Worse – perhaps the Seers had known all along that she would be the only one to survive the journey into Eryos.

  Rowan took a breath to dispel the shiver she felt. It surprised her how much she trusted these people. She made her decision. Nothing could be taken for granted and her journey north would be a dangerous one. Turning to look at the space between Roanus’s ears she uttere
d the words that had first been spoken to her within the black walls of Danum Fortress.

  “Look not only to strength or all will be lost for the foe is too great. The gateway must not be opened for ill intent. Bind the Stone with evil. Free the Stone with purity of heart. The path to salvation lies in the hands of the Slayer.”

  The mist swirled cold around them and the words seemed to fall dead into the wet greyness. Dalemar beside her was silent and when Rowan looked up and ahead, she found Torrin turned in his saddle, looking back at her. The fog obscured him but there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze.

  Dalemar, his brow furrowed in concentration, stroked a fingertip along the leather spine of the book he held. “What Stone does the message refer to?”

  Rowan shook her head. “I do not know. I asked the very same question of the Seers the morning I received the message and was told that in time I would come to know what I was meant to know.” She allowed some of the frustration she felt colour her words – so many unanswered questions.

  “Well, we can certainly search for reference to it in Pellaris’s library archives when we get there. I can think of many stones or gems that hold power or are used as receptacles and conduits to access power. Half of the Riths that I know use a stone of some kind.”

  Dalemar finished scribing the few lines Rowen had spoken, then tucked his book away. He sighed. “If I had thought to unravel some of our mystery, I was mistaken. There is barely enough in those few phases to give any sort of information. The only line that doesn’t have more than one possible meaning is the reference to the ‘Slayer’ and even then — salvation lies in the hands of the Slayer — is it a reference to something the Slayer holds or a responsibility that he will assume? The right answer might be in the literal understanding of the words, or it could have some deeper, hidden meaning. Are your Seers always so cryptic?”

  Rowan smiled. “In my experience, almost always. It must have something to do with the nature of the visions they see. Perhaps they cannot be more specific.”

  “Perhaps they choose not to be.”

  Rowan glanced over at the Rith. His smooth brow was furrowed in concentration. “Do you know to which ‘foe’ they are referring?”

  Rowan tightened her cloak again. “Until I had reached Eryos, I had always assumed that the foe was the Wyoraith. But it could be the Raken, the Wyoraith or the one who is trying to summon it.”

  Dalemar nodded and rode beside her in silence until he finally exhaled in exasperation and shook his head, his long blond hair flipping against his dark green coat. “There just isn’t enough information. I need a library.” He glanced regretfully at his saddlebags, bulging with the books he carried with him. “The few books I have are of absolutely no help with this problem. Words are often misinterpreted or their meanings change over time into something that is very different from what the word meant in an original root language. The dialect of Myris Dar has evolved separately from Eryos’s common tongue, and though it appears to be very similar in many ways there could well be words with meanings that have been lost here. Do the Seers of Danum have a reference library?”

  “I did see many books and scrolls while I was there and the capital on Myris Dar has a large library as well,” replied Rowan.

  “Is it possible that they consult artefacts or written references to this Slayer, or do you think the message they sent with you comes entirely from the visions?” asked Dalemar.

  Rowan thought for a moment, remembering the ancient stone room she had waited in and the cases of books and scrolls against the walls. There had been a very old sword hanging on one wall and Rowan had looked more closely at it than the books. “It is very possible that they used both to compose the message. I am sorry that I can’t be more helpful. It was not a question I thought to ask at the time.”

  Dalemar sighed, “Knowing would tell us how literally to interpret the message. But no matter, I am sure we will understand it in time.”

  “What about Arynilas?”

  “Hmm? What about him?”

  “Perhaps he knows about the Slayer and the Wyoraith. He is older than the rest of us, isn’t he?”

  “Yes quite. It is possible, but Tynithians do not concern themselves with human affairs and they have a different sense of time than the rest of us.”

  “How so?” Rowan looked ahead through the mist and glimpsed the black-haired Tynithian riding between the trees.

  “A hundred years can pass for a Tynithian, and he or she will have spent it doing one thing only, perfecting that activity. Years blend together for them. There is no reason to mark them because they will go on for over a thousand years.”

  Rowan frowned, she hadn’t though of it that way before. If you were that long-lived then time would not have the same weight, the same importance.

  “How old is he?” she asked.

  “Over four hundred, I believe.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Rowan tried to imagine what it would be like to live for four hundred years. The world around you would change but you would remain the same. Humans would be born, walk the face of Eryos and die as you endured. Kingdoms would rise and fall, wars would come and go, and the struggles of people would pass into history. She imagined that were she to live that long it would be easy to lose interest in those transient happenings and turn inward to your own kind. Either that or the pain of continually losing human friends would cause you to withdraw.

  The morning sun broke through the mist and the company was bathed in warm light. Rowan focused on the huge dark form of Hathunor as he paced at the head of their column.

  She was interrupted from her musing as a piercing howl erupted from the trees to their left. Hathunor became a dark blur as he turned and charged into the bush, toward the sound. He disappeared in an instant, leaving the rest of them in startled suspension.

  Rowan reached up to draw her sword from its harness, aware that the others were doing the same. The ringing sound of drawn blades faded quickly in the damp mist as the companions pulled into a tight ring, facing outward to the surrounding trees.

  Another howl sounded from within the trees. Rowan recognized Hathunor’s voice. It was his signal to run.

  “Was that Hathunor?” Arynilas asked from Rowan’s right.

  “Yes,” she turned to Torrin on her other side. “He asks us to flee.”

  “It’s an ambush,” growled Borlin.

  “We move. Now!” barked Torrin as he pulled his excited horse around. He slapped Roanus on the rump for emphasis, and Rowan’s big horse surged under her.

  The trees flew by to either side as the six mounted companions fled. Rowan heard Torrin curse and call to Nathel. Then he was beside her, his sword held low along his horse’s neck. Nathel spurred to the other side and Rowan was flanked. They passed through a small gully and had to spread out in single file.

  A Drae Raken appeared at the exit to the gully, black against the green. Arynilas loosed an arrow to clear the path. The Raken dropped to the ground but another took its place. Rowan glanced back and saw more Raken closing in behind. She pulled Roanus in from his headlong flight, hauling on the reins as her excited horse resisted. They would have to stand and fight.

  At that moment blackness flew at Rowan from the right. She had time only to register the huge Raken before it struck. Torrin shouted her name. The beast slammed into her, punching the air from her lungs. She felt her sword spin away. Warm breath blasted in her face and an animal snarl was all she heard as the force of the impact knocked her off Roanus to the stony ground below.

  The Raken landed on top of her, obliterating any sense she had left. Her vision swam and she was only dimly aware of the beast as it rolled off and began to drag her into the trees.

  Rowan’s sight came back gradually. What she saw was a fierce skirmish between the Raken and her friends. Torrin was battling ferociously, his sword flashing. Nathel was down, lying motionless on the ground. Borlin stood guard over him, slaying the Raken that got too near. Arynilas’s
bow hummed and Dalemar was sending fire from his fingertips.

  Rowan fought to stay conscious. She could barely hear the fighting – sound was lost to the pounding in her ears. She reached up, prying at the huge scaled hand that grasped her collar and hair, but her attempts were feeble. She was being dragged away from her companions.

  She fumbled desperately for her dagger. It finally came out to her insistent pulling and she raised it with the last of her strength.

  The Raken snarled as the blade sliced. Rowan was dropped abruptly. She looked up to see the beast aim a studded club at her. It descended so fast. Rolling aside as quickly as her groggy, weak limbs would allow, she felt the impact of the club as it landed with a thud on the ground beside her.

  Sound came crashing back — the clash and ring of steel, the shouts and roars and screams of the battle. There was no time to register how her friends were faring.

  The Raken tried to hit her once more. She rolled again, narrowly escaping another blow. Earth flew up as the club landed. She stumbled to her feet. Her knees buckled and she almost went down again.

  One of Arynilas’s arrows buried itself suddenly in the Raken’s chest — a bloom of gold on black. It stumbled back with a grunt. Red eyes refocused on her and it raised the club high again, but Rowan didn’t wait for it to take aim. She plunged her dagger into its throat. The Raken toppled backwards to the ground, muscular black limbs sprawling.

  She bent trembling to retrieve her blade. Head swimming, she turned to see the battle ending with most of her friends still standing. She took a step towards them and went down again, landing with a groan in the autumn leaves. She sat up and shook her head, trying to clear away the dizziness.