“We have always been a proud people,” continued Rowan, “but pride can lead to stubbornness, stubbornness to blind and thoughtless adherence to ideas that serve only to shackle us to our own demise. The beliefs of the ancient Myrians decreed that none should harm another. My ancestors were pacifists. Their faith held that harming another, even in self-defence, was a terrible wrong. They held strictly to that belief for centuries but as a result, they condemned themselves and worse, their children, to becoming victims of slavery and abuse.
“They endured one conqueror after another. It is a wonder that we ever survived as a people. Then one day, long ago, a Myrian decided to fight back. A young woman, named Yinnis, no longer able to bear the rape and pillage of our land, decided to take the fate of my people into her own hands.
“Yinnis’s mother was not Myrian by birth but came from the mainland to the west. No one knows for sure what her name was or her exact origins. It is known only that she had sailed to Myris Dar on one of the few friendly trading ships and eventually married a Myrian and had two daughters. This woman, Yinnis’s mother, is noted in Myrian history because she was a warrior and carried a beautiful but deadly sword.
“She was secretive and kept much to herself but when her daughters were old enough, she began to teach them her skills as a warrior. Her husband, Yinnis’s father, was a smith, a kind and generous man. He loved his foreign wife and her fierce warrior spirit. He knew her to be true and generous of heart and mind, but he could not reconcile her willingness to use deadly force when necessary. And so he had to make a choice because to live thus divided was breaking his heart. He chose his wife and family over his long held Myrian beliefs.
“He took to his smithy and forged swords for himself and his daughters. The family’s Myrian friends and neighbours disapproved and they were shunned by the folk of the Island. Despite that disapproval, Yinnis lived happily with her family for a time. She learned fighting skills and the ways of her mother’s people – to respect others and expect like in return but to protect one’s self and the innocent from those that mean to harm.
“Then one day the port where they lived was attacked by raiders – cruel men who came by ship, intent on conquest. The local people offered no resistance and were contemptuously herded into slave lines. Those who were too old or young were summarily executed.
“Yinnis and her family were the only ones to fight back. At first they commanded the element of surprise and were able to free the captives and kill many of the raiders. But they were only four against many and they were quickly overwhelmed. Standing together back to back they fought valiantly until one by one they were killed. All save Yinnis, who took her mother’s sword from her dying hands and somehow carved her way to freedom. Her skill with a sword was such that she beat all odds and fled to the hills with her life. She carried with her the weight and grief of her lost family.
“Little is known of Yinnis during the time that followed, but it is told that she moved inland ahead of the raiders, gathering with her those who would stand and fight for their freedom and convincing those who would not to flee. She left behind traps for the greedy men to fall into as they plundered and she used the island’s rugged terrain to her advantage.
“After centuries of belief in a way of life that could only be fully realized in a peaceful environment, Myrians began to listen to what Yinnis had to say. She urged Myrians to create and defend their own peace so that the way of life they so value would no longer be threatened. With her mother’s sword in hand, she set out to lead my people and to take our land back from our enemies. The history of Myris Dar was changed as she and others vowed never to let their peace go undefended again.
“The defence of Myris Dar and all Myrians has become the cornerstone of our culture, but the legacy of the ancient Myrians still flourishes within the hearts of my people. Despite our martial skills and focus, the culture of Myris Dar is rich in all things beautiful and fair. Respect for life and individuality is paramount.”
Rowan glanced over at Borlin and to her surprise unshed tears were standing in the Stoneman’s eyes.
“That be a worthy tale. If all people held those values, Eryos would indeed be a beautiful place,” he said softly.
“My father’s father speaks of Myris Dar as one of the fairest places in all of Eryos,” Arynilas said. “He believes the Myrian arts, crafts, their love of the individual and all things living make them brothers and sisters to Tynithians.”
“What is the island itself like?” asked Nathel, moving alongside her. “It must be warm that far south.”
“The summers are hot and dry and the winters are mild with soft rains and gentle winds. The island is home to many sleeping giants.”
“Giants?” said Borlin in disbelief.
Rowan grinned. “We think of them as such. Volcanoes – there are many but the four largest ones are known to Myrians as giants. They rumble in their sleep, shaking the slopes of their shoulders and the people who live on them. They belch out steam and heat once every hundred years or so and once in a long while they will leak forth red-hot tears. The coastline of the island is rugged and irregular and the northeast side, which doesn’t face the hottest gaze of the sun, is lush with dense forests and vegetation.”
“It sounds like a beautiful place,” said Dalemar, riding on Rowan’s other side. “I would love to visit the island one day.”
“You would all be welcome in my home,” said Rowan sincerely.
“And what of Yinnis? What ever happened to her?” asked Torrin from behind. Rowan turned but his eyes were on the horizon.
“Yinnis lived through the revolt and was a key figure helping to lead my people through many other battles for Myrian freedom. Eventually she founded the first High Council to see that what she had fought for was strengthened within the foundations of Myrian culture. She married and had children. When she was finished using her sword – her mother’s sword – she passed it into the hands of her eldest daughter, who in turn carried it in defence of Myris Dar.”
*
The dark clouds looming on the horizon finally shut out the light, leaving the vast plain in greyness. When the rain began to fall, it blasted into them in wind-whipped torrents and everyone was soaked to the skin within minutes.
Nathan spoke. “We are nearing the village of Balor.”
Pushing her sopping hood back, Rowan watched Torrin rein in alongside his brother. He shook the water from his head, rubbed a hand across his eyes, and stared at his brother. Steam rose from the horses, who waited patiently, heads down in the driving rain. “The weather will clear soon,” he said.
Nathel nodded. “There is another village four days beyond. Our supplies will hold till then, right?” He turned to Borlin.
The Stoneman spoke briskly from Rowan’s right. “Aye, we can manage.”
Torrin turned his horse away from them but his gaze met Rowan’s for an instant. She saw naked torment in his eyes.
Torrin put his heels to his mount and the horse surged forward through the sopping grass.
Rowan looked over at Hathunor. The big Saa Raken’s stiff crest was laid flat by the water and his red eyes darted warily between Torrin and the others. Peering into the gusting rain, Rowan studied the faces of her companions. She found them all closed, guarded.
Pulling her soaked hood back up, she set Roanus after the others.
*
Torrin turned in his saddle, looking away from the endless plain ahead and back at his companions. Rowan had pulled her horse up and was dismounting. The others stopped with her as she bent over to examine Roanus’s left front hoof.
Torrin turned Black and trotted back. “What is it?” he asked.
Rowan released the hoof and straightened, pushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes. “He has thrown a shoe. I don’t know how long ago.” She looked back the way they had come through the drenched landscape.
Torrin turned to Borlin, hoping. “Do you have any iron left?”
Borlin
eyed the big grey stallion’s large hooves and shook his head. “Nay, nothin’ as to fit ’is great feet.”
Torrin turned a scowl toward the east. He couldn’t see it but he could feel it like a pull on his soul: Balor. There were no farmsteads on this side of the town; the land was reserved for grazing livestock. Torrin had led the companions this way for just that reason. As a result though, there wouldn’t be any farmers willing to re-shoe the horse. He cursed under his breath. For an instant he was tempted to push on, but knew it was foolhardy to risk laming the horse. Torrin’s own horse needed new shoes badly as well. The iron had worn down to wafer thin strips.
His companions were watching him expectantly. Rowan’s expression was puzzled. Nathel was masking his concern well, but Torrin could see the tension in his face.
“We head for Balor then,” Torrin said grimly.
Rowan gave her grey horse a pat on the neck before remounting.
Torrin reined Black around and spurred towards the east. The cold grey clouds were a perfect reflection of his mood. It seemed he could not avoid Balor’s ghosts after all.
Hathunor was still striding along beside them and Torrin cursed again, angry with himself for the oversight. The huge Raken couldn’t come into town with them. He’d scare the wits out of the townsfolk and likely get the rest of them run out of the place.
Torrin reined Black in and turned to Hathunor. “I am sorry, Hathunor, but you cannot come with us into town. You must circle around and wait until we leave tomorrow morning. You can meet us on the other side of the town. If you come with us, you will frighten the people and it will go badly for all of us.”
Hathunor nodded sadly. “Hathunor understand.”
Rowan reached out and patted the Saa Raken on the arm in farewell and they continued onward, leaving their giant friend to head north.
Small herding sheds dotted the plain. As the town came into view on the horizon, Torrin was surprised to see a large wall surrounding the huddle of buildings that was Balor. Smoke rose from the mud brick chimneys, darker smudges against the grey sky.
Torrin studied the wall as they approached the gate at the southern edge of town. It was well constructed and thick, made from the same brick as the houses and buildings within. It only lacked the customary white wash that brightened the rest of Balor.
The rain stopped as they reached the gate. It was well guarded by a small barrack of Klyssen soldiers. Another surprise. The man in the gatehouse stepped out in front of them and Torrin counted four more soldiers along the wall with bows raised and arrows nocked.
“State your business in Balor.” The guard’s missing front teeth gave his speech an odd lisp.
“We are just passing through, friend. Looking for a warm bed, a hot meal and a farrier for the horses,” replied Torrin.
The guard’s pale grey eyes passed slowly over the companions. He looked suspiciously at Arynilas, and the Tynithian nodded politely in return. Torrin watched as the guard eyed Rowan. Amusement crept onto his unshaven face when he saw the pommel of her sword. He noticed Torrin watching and his expression soured. He spat into the mud. “Swords are not to be drawn within the walls. Any trouble and you’ll find yourselves hung from the gates.”
“Understood,” Torrin replied.
The guard grunted, stepping aside, and the companions proceeded under the gate.
*
Rowan looked around curiously as the companions passed into Balor. The main street had been churned to muck by horses. Rowan studied the Klyssen guards standing on the platforms to either side of the gate. They had set down their bows and were already turning to survey the surrounding plain. Their red plumed helmets and silver breastplates glinted even in the dull overcast light. Each had a large round shield slung over his back with a stylized head of a horse emblazoned in the center.
The town was small, little more than a village with a single inn, a large stable and a few small shops along a single main road. Ten or twelve houses clustered haphazardly around the main street. Some of the brick buildings looked close to collapse, tilting ominously over the street. Despite its ailing bones, the town had been painted a creamy white that lent it an air of freshness and pride.
When they arrived at the stable, they found the main corral filled with large, well-bred horses.
“A contingent of Klyssen cavalry came through ’is afternoon,” stated the stableman as he ushered them towards empty stalls at the back of the barn. “You’ll have to put ’em two to a stall.” They thanked the man and passed him some coins for the care of their horses and the storage of their goods.
“Is there a blacksmith available?” asked Torrin.
The stableman nodded and pushed his straggly hair out of his eyes. “Aye, smith is workin’ on the cavalry mounts. Oi, Reagon!” he shouted towards a side door.
Into the barn walked a large man with enormous arms and shoulders, silver hair and a short-cropped beard. He looked over their horses, whistling softly when he saw the state of their shoes. “Put a few leagues on these, have you?” Inspection finished, he smiled, his meaty hands brushing the dust from his leather apron. “I should be able to have them done for you by morning. You’re staying at the inn?”
Torrin nodded. “If there is any room.”
The blacksmith glanced at Torrin’s sword. “Might you need a whetting on that blade, as well?”
Rowan unbuckled the cinch strap of Roanus’s saddle and let it drop under his belly. She looked over her horse’s back and saw Torrin glance around at the rest of his companions, who were busy unsaddling the horses. “My thanks, smith,” he said quietly, “but the weapons are sharp enough.”
The man nodded pleasantly and left to go back to his work. The stableman lingered though, pretending to be busy while he cast intent looks at Torrin.
Before they left to cross the muddy road to the inn, the stableman finally spoke to Torrin. “Excuse me, Sir, but have I seen ye before? Yer face looks very familiar.”
Beside her, Torrin went stone still. With an utterly blank expression he replied to the stableman. “I believe you must be mistaken.”
Rowan studied the stableman briefly before turning to follow the others out of the barn. He had the look of a man who knew he had just been lied to and didn’t understand why.
*
Torrin collected coins from them all and dropped them into a pouch which he tucked through his belt. Borlin, delighted to discover they had arrived in Balor on a market day, scribbled instructions for supplies on a scrap of parchment for Torrin, Nathel and Rowan. Then he went off in search of news, ostensibly in the inn’s common room, with Dalemar and Arynilas in tow. Torrin shook his head – the last he saw of him, Borlin was already reaching into his vest pocket for his pipe weed.
People from the sparse surrounding settlements had arrived early to sell their wares. The small square in the center of town was bustling with modest activity. Many sellers were still there, though it was late afternoon.
Torrin, Nathel and Rowan threaded their way through the market stalls, avoiding the largest puddles. Water dripped from the covered awnings and the hawker’s voices, hoarse from yelling all day, called to them eagerly. The saddlebags over Nathel’s shoulder began to bulge with purchases. They were slowly working their way through Borlin’s list: salt, thread, dried meat and beans, flour and other dry goods as well as leather for repairing gear.
Torrin and his brother stopped at the words of a seller, espousing the delights of his confectionery wares. Torrin had been listening to Nathel’s growling stomach for a while and purchased three. When he looked up Rowan was no longer with them. He spotted her twenty paces ahead.
A man stood blocking her path, a wide smirk on his face as he spoke to her. She ignored him, turning her head to follow a second man, who stepped behind her. A third man got up from his seat on a barrel. All three were laughing at her.
Torrin’s world contracted to that small muddy section of street. Anger and dread rose in his chest so quickly that it stop
ped his breath. Before he knew what he was doing, his sword was ringing free of its scabbard. A hoarse shout choked his throat. His vision wavered and the world spun around him. A keening scream seared through his memory.
“Tor!”
Torrin pushed away the grip on his shoulder, twisting away from the restraint. He had to get there before they could hurt her.
“Torrin!” the voice punched through his sickly spinning world. An arm wrapped around his chest to halt his forward momentum. Torrin snarled with rage and spun to confront the men holding him down.
“Tor, it’s me, Nathel! For Erys sake, brother, calm yourself.”
Torrin blinked in confusion. He was standing facing Nathel with his sword raised. Nathel’s face was stark white and he reached up to grasp Torrin by the shoulders. “Seven years, Tor,” he whispered, looking Torrin hard in the eyes. “It was seven years ago.”
Torrin’s sword felt too heavy in his hand. He let the tip drop to the mud. He brought a shaking hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. If Nathel hadn’t been there, Torrin would have killed those men. He knew it for certain.
Torrin turned quickly to look back at Rowan. She stood very still as the three men around her continued to laugh and make jokes. Torrin turned and began to stride toward her. Nathel tried to grab his arm again but Torrin shrugged him off roughly.
“I’m fine, Nathel.” Torrin slammed his sword back down into its scabbard.
As he drew closer to Rowan and the three men, he caught a glimpse of her face in profile. He was surprised to see disappointed resignation rather than fear.
As the man from the barrel reached out to snatch at Rowan’s arm, the man behind her reached for her sword pommel, full of swagger, intent on taking it from her.
Neither man was able to touch her. Her hands and feet moved so quickly that Torrin wasn’t sure what he had seen. The brothers stopped in amazement.
The two men who had tried to touch Rowan were suddenly down on the muddy ground before the smile had left the first man’s face. He looked down at his companions in dismay — one hunched over, hands covering his mouth, trying vainly to stem the flow of blood from his nose; the other on his side, groaning. The remaining man cursed loudly and pulled a carving knife from his belt. He lunged at Rowan, his face contorted in anger.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 17
