Taking up her waterskin, she rinsed her mouth and stood up carefully. Borlin arrived with a cold breakfast of dried meat and cheese, “How’s th’ pain this morn, lass?”
Rowan smiled ruefully at him as she gratefully accepted the food. She took a bite and watched him walk back to where Torrin and Nathel were saddling the horses. Arynilas was standing watch at the rim of the hill, casting back towards the forest for any sign of Raken.
Shivering, she drew her cloak tighter and cast the hood up as she walked slowly over to the Rith and the huge Saa Raken.
He smiled at Rowan, a flash of jagged teeth.
“I’m glad to see you are well, my friend,” she said, grinning at him.
Hathunor’s smile widened until she could see every sharp tooth in his mouth.
“The other Raken?” she asked.
His expression fell. “Little brothers dead,” he rumbled flatly.
Dalemar leapt to his feet. “Hathunor doesn’t remember what happened last night, but he says that all of the Saa Raken have the ability to absorb and use magic!” Hathunor nodded his great head, shaggy crest waving in the wind.
“Truly?” Rowan frowned. Careful not to flex the muscles around her bruised ribs, she sat down to listen to their conversation and eat her breakfast. “But what of the Draes? Its magic that controls them, isn’t it? If they had this ability, they should be able to resist or stop it somehow.”
Hathunor shook his head. “No Draes capture magic.”
The rest of the companions gathered around. Rowan noticed Nathel’s forehead looked much like her ribs. She glanced at Torrin and saw that he had found time to mend the slice in his leathers where the Raken blade had cut through to his shoulder.
Dalemar resumed his seat next to Hathunor. “The Draes’ ability to harness and use magic must be latent.” The Rith tapped his chin with a fingertip.
Hathunor grunted an affirmative and Rowan looked up at him. “Hathunor, how did your people develop this ability?” she asked.
The Raken shrugged his huge shoulders. “It always so.”
“Are there people in your land, Hathunor, who can conjure magic?” asked Dalemar.
Hathunor shook his head. “No one make magic like Dalemar.”
The Rith frowned in puzzlement. “Then what would it be for? An ability such as this seldom develops without a reason.”
Hathunor smiled, ivory fangs flashing. “Good reason.”
“Hey? What do you mean, Hathunor?” asked the Rith.
“Hathunor’s home magic in land.” The Raken cast his arms wide. Borlin had to jump backward to avoid getting whacked in the chest. “In stones, water, sky.”
Dalemar eyes widened. “Your people channel magic from the land itself?”
Hathunor nodded.
“But your ability is passive. It can only be used when magic flows into you. That would mean magic must flow freely in your land without anyone directing it!” Dalemar’s face was positively alight with this new revelation.
“Only some places magic strong enough use. Flow like great river. Many Raken live near, use magic.”
“What do you do with the magic, Hathunor?” asked Nathel.
Hathunor tilted his enormous head. “Shape.”
Nathel looked at Dalemar, then back at Hathunor, frowning. “Shape what?”
“All,” rumbled Hathunor.
“Do you mean to say that magic is used for everything?” asked Dalemar.
“All,” repeated Hathunor, nodding.
“But you said that magic only flows strongly enough in some places. How can you use it for everything?” asked Dalemar.
Hathunor frowned in concentration, then his expression brightened, teeth flashing. “Send magic.”
Rowan looked at Dalemar for better understanding. Judging from the looks on the faces of the rest of the companions, the Rith was the only one who completely understood this conversation.
Comprehension dawned on his face. “Sweet Erys!” he breathed. “You channel it over distance?”
Hathunor nodded, shaggy crest waving. “Send magic where need.”
“How many Raken can use the magic channelled over distance?” asked Dalemar intently.
“As many as need,” replied Hathunor.
“Doesn’t the magic dwindle with so many drawing on it?”
Hathunor frowned. “Magic stay strong.”
Dalemar leaned toward the Raken. “You don’t lose even a little bit?”
“No lose magic. Lathic send far; use magic; give to others; send on next Lathic.”
“Lathic?” Rowan peered up at him.
Hathunor turned to look down at her and nodded solemnly. “Lathic strongest Cren lore-keeper.”
“So there are certain Raken able to control and wield more magic than others?” Dalemar shook his head in wonder. “Never have I heard of magic being used this way. Riths can channel magic together but it is very difficult and only a few can sustain the link once it is formed. Some of the magic always has to be used for maintaining the link. I’ve never heard of Riths being able to link and channel over a great expanse. They have to see each other to form the link. If I understand Hathunor correctly, his people can channel magic between themselves in great numbers and over great distance. It’s remarkable.”
“Then the Cren Raken can use magic as well,” said Torrin.
Hathunor nodded. “Cren great shapers, lore-Keepers. Saa use magic heal, defend, send message, small. Not like Cren. Cren great magic shapers.”
Rowan tried to picture this complex relationship between the various Raken, their land, and the magic. “Hathunor, if Saa and Cren Raken can channel and use magic so easily and for so many things, why are the Drae and Grol Raken unable to use magic? How is it possible for them to live if magic is used for everything?”
Hathunor’s red gaze turned to her. “Drae and Grol need Saa and Cren. Saa and Cren need Drae and Grol.”
“Need each other for what?” Torrin asked.
“Drae and Grol need Saa and Cren to use magic, shape for little brothers. Saa and Cren need Drae and Grol get magic. Make.”
Torrin frowned, shaking his head. “But you said Drae and Grol Raken couldn’t use magic.”
“Little brothers no use magic. Make magic.” Hathunor concentrated, searching for the right word. “Find magic, change for Saa and Cren.”
Arynilas turned from scanning the distant forest, his sapphire eyes intent on Hathunor. “Drae and Grol Raken somehow harvest magic for Saa and Cren Raken to use?”
Hathunor nodded. “Change. Give Saa and Cren. Saa and Cren use for little brothers.”
“So Saa and Cren Raken can’t use magic without Drae and Grol Raken to help?” asked Torrin, a frown drawing his dark brows downward.
Hathunor nodded again.
Dalemar shook his head in wonder. “It is a completely symbiotic relationship. Drae and Grol cannot survive without Saa and Cren Raken nor Saa and Cren without Drae and Grol.”
Hathunor flashed a smile.
“Couldn’ a be a tad bit precarious if one side o’ the partnership is lost?” asked Borlin.
Hathunor sat up straighter and curled a hand into a fist, placing it on his chest. “Saa protect little brothers. Defend. Keep safe. Cren wise, lead. Drae and Grol sustain all.”
“It’s like a superior fighting force,” said Torrin thoughtfully. “There are generals and captains to make decisions; elite forces, like cavalry to protect the main army; and the infantry, without which it wouldn’t be an army.”
“Bees,” murmured Arynilas. The companions turned to look at the Tynithian as the wind swirled around the hilltop. “Have you ever watched a bee hive make honey? There is a queen, who is looked after by workers who are in turn protected by soldiers that keep the hive safe.”
Rowan raised her eyebrows and shook her head in respect for her large companion as the complexity of Raken society sunk in
“Hathunor, can you still feel the magic from your own land?” asked Dalemar.
“Is there magic in this land for you to use?” asked Nathel.
Hathunor held up a hand, thumb and fingers close as if holding a pebble. “Little magic here, some places stronger. But no little brothers help Hathunor use.”
“But you can use my magic.” concluded Dalemar.
Hathunor’s toothy smile appeared. “Rith Dalemar strong. Big magic.”
“But I cannot access my magic consistently and because it comes from me, I will eventually get tired out,” replied Dalemar.
“One day learn get magic from land. Come through, not from, Rith Dalemar.”
Dalemar gazed at the giant Saa Raken as though the very contemplation of such a thing took his breath away.
Torrin cleared his throat and Rowan looked up to find a grim expression on his face. “If it isn’t possible for the Draes to use magic, how in Erys’ name are they to be freed?”
Hathunor growled, a deep, resonant sound from his chest. No one had an answer.
Across the Plains
Rowan exhaled in to the cold air and stilled her mind. She turned inward and concentrated on the feel of the ground beneath her feet and the tension of the muscles in her legs. Pivoting on her right foot, she kicked her left through the air at chest height. She slashed a straight-fingered hand upward toward an imaginary opponent, then swiftly redirected with an elbow to where the opponent’s temple would be.
The arrow wound pulled and she felt a small ache but it was almost healed.
Nathel walked toward her with his morning tea in hand and stopped to watch for a moment. “You’ve forgotten your sword,” he teased her.
“Not so,” she replied, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “There is much that can be done without a weapon in your hands. The hands themselves become the weapon.”
Interest piqued, the rest of the companions gathered around.
“Would you care to demonstrate?” asked Nathel with a grin.
“Would you care to volunteer?” Rowan raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to come closer.
Nathel raised his hand before him. “I’m not walking into that one!” He looked at the others. “You try, Tor. You might learn to use that weapon of yours as a sword instead of as a bread knife.”
Rowan supressed laugh as Torrin reacted to the jest with a rare show of levity, rolling his eyes skyward.
She turned to face him. “Try to reach me with your sword.”
Torrin sobered and shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You will not hurt me,” replied Rowan confidently.
Again Torrin shook his head.
Rowan sighed. She would not get anywhere like this. “Then come with your bare hands, try to strike me.” He hesitated again and she hissed in frustration, “I am not made of glass! Come!”
Torrin raised his fist and aimed a punch – only to find that she was no longer where he was aiming. She dodged forward at an angle so that his extended arm was directly beside her and grabbed his wrist. Using the momentum of his swing against him, she hauled him off balance. When he stepped forward to keep his feet, she stopped pulling and pushed instead, using her leg to trip him. He landed in the dewy grass with a grunt.
Nathel’s laughter rang out and Rowan turned, pointing at him. “Your turn.”
Nathel started to refuse but Borlin shoved him forward, making Nathel spill his remaining tea. “Ye’ve got te learn to take yer medicine, lad,” chuckled the Stoneman.
Torrin watched closely as his brother was flung to the ground. She reached down to help Nathel up as he grumbled about getting tossed around by someone half his size. Borlin snickered in the background.
When she turned, Torrin was standing before her, waiting to try again. She nodded to him and he stepped forward, hands up. He refused to over-extend himself this time. His first try had been desultory – he was incredibly skilled with a sword and by extension his instincts for hand-to-hand fighting were honed as well. His ability was more than just learned skill. Torrin moved in a way that made him one with his weapon. If he had trained on Myris Dar, she was certain that he could have achieved the highest ranks. With his sword, he would be considered a master.
When it came, his attempt to hit her was quick and tight with little wasted effort. As his punch came toward her face, Rowan brought her elbow up and to the inside of his line. Her movement effortlessly redirected his force to glance harmlessly past her shoulder. As soon as Torrin felt his punch going off the mark, he launched his left hand in an attempt to catch her from the other side. Rowan ducked low under his arm and went for his belly, striking with the heel of her hand in the hollow just below his chest. She then darted up and aimed for the side of his head with her open palm. He pulled back out of the way and brought up his hands to protect his face. The moment he did, she landed her knee into his ribs.
He stepped back, shaking his head ruefully and rubbing his side.
Rowan pointed at her feet, shins, knees, elbows, knuckles, fingertips, the heel of her hand and the crown of her head. “These are my weapons.”
“Aye, so ye fight dirty eh, lass?” chided Borlin.
Rowan shook her head. “Would you trust an opponent to be fair? If you drop your sword in a battle, will the man you’re fighting stop to let you pick it up again?”
There were nods of agreement.
“I have seen you all do this in battle,” she said. “Whether you are conscious of it or not, you use your entire body to fight, not just your swords. Borlin, I have seen you use your targe like a weapon to compliment your short sword; and Nathel, your shield is also used for more than shielding. Torrin, I have seen you use your long legs to advantage, kicking an opponent when your sword was busy elsewhere. When you get hit once or twice the lesson is learned and you adapt your skills accordingly. We each have traits that are unique to us. Just because you have a sword in your hand, does not mean that you can’t or shouldn’t use your fist as well.”
“Would you be as confident when your opponent swings his sword at your head and you have nothing to meet his attack but your bare hands?” asked Nathel, without his usual smirk.
“I would quite possibly have the advantage, providing that I can get close enough. My opponent would underestimate the danger that I represent. He would be over-confident and not on guard for the kind of damage that I could inflict. My place of comfort in weaponless fighting is in tight. Your opponent cannot swing a sword in close quarters. The same rules apply. The sword is the extension of the fist – you avoid the fist and move in close under the guard. You use your strengths to your advantage whenever possible. I cannot hope to match Torrin force for force.” She stepped forward and grasped him by the wrist to pull him off balance. It was like trying to move a horse. “But if he is already moving towards me, it is not hard to redirect his own energy and use it against him.”
“Thus the grass breakfast,” grinned Nathel.
Borlin snorted loudly, “Maybe I should start cook’n ye grass in the morn, lad. Perhaps it’ll improve yer fight’n skills.”
Nathel refused to take the bait. He looked over at Borlin in mock surprise. “I had no idea grass was an ingredient in your recipe book?” He winked blithely at Rowan.
The Stoneman smirked maliciously. “Seein ye tossed on yer head was mighty satisfying. Just shake yer head over the pot an ye will ha all the grass ye need fer yer meal.”
Torrin’s attention shifted toward the sun in the eastern sky. “We’re wasting daylight,” he said flatly, eyeing his brother and the Stoneman.
The exchange of colourful insults continued as the companions began to drift away to saddle their horses and load the gear. Rowan turned from picking up her sword in its baldric to find Arynilas still there.
His tilted eyes twinkled in the morning sun. “I would like to offer you my service in your practice as a drilling partner. Your fighting style is similar to that of my people. Perhaps we can
learn something from one another.”
It would be an honour, Arynilas.” Rowan settled her blade over her shoulder. “I think I will be doing most of the learning, though.”
His smooth face was unreadable as they went to join the others in preparation of another day’s travel.
The rolling plains of Klyssen unfolded endless as they traveled northward. Rowan looked up at the position of the sun. It felt like they had been traveling for hours but the morning was still young. She closed her eyes and listened to the swishing of the knee-high grass as the horses walked. The golden horizon line was still there –branded into her vision. They were making good speed but she felt as though they were standing still. Each day passing blended into the next as the landscape they moved through remained utterly the same.
Rowan’s cloak whipped open and she struggled to wrap it closely around her to keep out the tormenting wind.
Nathel chuckled darkly next to her. “That’s thirteen by my count.”
Rowan frowned. “You are keeping track? I am wishing for a coat like Dalemar’s at this point!” She was used to the wind on Myris Dar, but the moisture-laden breezes of her homeland were born in the warm currents of the Southern Eryos Ocean. The wind on the Klyssen plain was fierce and violent. It blasted them in wailing gusts and swirled constantly, cold and unrelenting, snatching words away, scattering thoughts and pulling at hair and clothing.
“You are experiencing the worst of it now as the autumn rains move over the plains,” explained Nathel, “but it usually blows to some degree all year round.”
“I am longing for the dense woods of the Wilds,” said Rowan, throwing and dark look at the scudding clouds overhead. A few days had dawned with relative calm, offering a blessed relief, but inevitably as the sun rose into the vast sky, the wind would once more begin to blow.
Rowan stretched in the saddle and felt only slight twinges now along her ribs and shoulder. Her injured pride from the near miss with the Raken was taking far longer to ease. The morning drills at least were giving her a way to sharpen her skills. It was a practice she had not followed since leaving the decks of the trading ship that brought her to Eryos and its solid, grounding constancy was a relief.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 15
