Rowan shook her head. “I thank you, sir, but I could never take that which was bestowed in gratitude. It belongs to you. I ask only that you remember Myris Dar and that the name Mor Lanyar means friend to you.” She offered her hand to the blacksmith. “My name is Rowan Mor Lanyar and it is an honour to meet you.”
The man clasped her hand, enthralled. “Reagon Smith. The honor is mine, my lady Rowan.”
Reagon had just met the Emissary of Myris Dar.
Torrin reached out next to shake the man’s hand. Reagon tore his eyes away from Rowan to greet Torrin. The rest of the companions properly introduced themselves as well.
“Please,” said Reagon, “let me offer you a cup of tea. I am a widower and my home lacks a woman’s touch but I can at least serve you some little comfort before you leave.”
Torrin sat down with the others and looked across at Rowan who was listening to Reagon as he placed out cups and teapot. “I have kept the shield tucked away because Bess didn’t care for it. She said it was not a thing for inside a home, clashing with the flowers and such.” The smith smiled wistfully.
Torrin realized he had no idea if Rowan liked flowers or lace or if she desired the pretty things that most women enjoyed. She wore no jewelry except a simple necklace that featured a smooth but asymmetrical green stone, which was inscribed with the same emblem that decorated her sword. If he were to give her something it would more than likely be a weapon, or a piece of armour. He almost laughed; then noticed Rowan was returning his gaze. Her green eyes were curious and Torrin took a swallow of tea to dispel his strange turn of mind.
“You and your family have taken great care of the shield. It is in remarkable condition,” said Rowan. “I’d say it is in good hands.”
Reagon beamed as they finished the last of the tea and rose from the table.
As they were stepping back into the barn from Reagon’s quarters, the smith handed Torrin the coins he had charged them for his farrier services. Torrin tried to hand them back. “You did good work, Reagon, you should be paid for it.”
The smith shook his head emphatically. “If Rowan will not take her family shield, I cannot take your silver. It is the way of friendship.”
Torrin nodded and tucked away the silver. “I won’t likely return to Balor, but if I do, I will look you up.”
Reagon looked searchingly at Torrin. “I wasn’t here seven years ago when bandits massacred many of the people of Balor and kidnapped the village girls,” he said quietly, “but I understand from the stable man that it was you who righted the wrong and gave justice to Balor along with the return of its children.”
Torrin took a deep breath and let the pain wash over him. The urge to push past the man was powerful, but he looked the smith in the eye. “Understand Reagon, what I did was for my wife and daughters. I had no notion of justice for the town. I was fuelled only by wrath and vengeance.”
“Yes, but you did what the people of Balor could not and it granted them peace, even if you could not find it for yourself. I wish you good fortune, Torrin.”
Peace.
The word reverberated through Torrin like a taunt. He closed his eyes for a moment. He nodded to Reagon, then strode into the barn and took up Black’s reins, leading the horse outside to where his companions were mounting up.
The bright morning sun was in stark contrast to the blackness he had been sunk in for the last few days. He climbed into the saddle and guided Black around a large puddle in the muddy street. Torrin focused on the gate at the end of the street and let the buildings of the little town pass unmarked. There was no need to remember Balor – its single street and cluster of houses would forever be seared into his memory.
Northward
As the sun rose over the plains of Klyssen, the companions rode northward at a brisk pace, their breath white in the crisp autumn air. Torrin glanced back. Balor had faded into the distance and he began to relax. Then he caught himself watching Rowan. Facing forward, he gritted his teeth, focusing on the horizon.
The company of women was fleeting for soldiers and mercenaries and that suited Torrin fine. Emma and their daughters were a fragile dream from a lifetime lost and gone; since then, the rare occasions when he’d shared his bed always ended in a brief and unemotional farewell as dawn paled the sky. He never looked for more. Resigned to his loss, he was as content as he would ever be.
He frowned. Until Rowan – she pulled his gaze to her; her voice drew him; his pulse quickened at her touch. She was a danger best avoided. Were it not for his duty to get her and her message to Cerebus…
A dark shape rose up on his right and he reined up, reaching for his sword. Hathunor loped toward them, his fierce smile stretched wide to show sharp teeth. Torrin sheathed his sword as the great beast wrapped his arms around Rowan. She grinned up at him, dishevelled from his embrace. “Hathunor!”
*
The companions rode at an easy pace through the flattened grass, the sodden ground squelching under their horses’s hooves. Rowan closed her eyes and lifted her face to the clear sky, relishing the sun’s warmth, happy to be dry for a change.
She was still stunned at the idea that one of her relatives could have been here before her. Although she had never heard of a distant aunt or grandmother traveling to Eryos, she supposed it could have happened.
The shield was in remarkably good shape for its age. It had been well tended and protected from the air over time. It was quite possibly as old as her spell sword.
Rowan shifted in the saddle and felt the familiar, reassuring weight of her sword against her back. Her spell sword was different from regular weapons. The spell bound to it protected the sword from damage, making it difficult to know how old it actually was. There was no one left now on Myris Dar who knew how the blade was made and Rowan had yet to come across other examples of Myrian spell swords. It might be that her sword was the only one left to her people.
The name Mor Lanyar itself was centuries old. Rowan glanced down at the leather vembraces her brother Andin had made for her, following the flowing Myrian script etched into them. Names in Myris Dar did not die out easily. Women kept their own names when they married. Each new generation of daughters secured the survival of the names of their mothers, in the same way the names of sons perpetuated the names of their fathers. It was one of the hallmarks of equitable society that Myrians took great pride in.
The name on the shield was scribed in ancient Myrian, which dated it at over a thousand years old. Though the name itself was no guarantee that a Mor Lanyar was ever here with it. The shield could very well have been stolen or passed outside the family as a gift or payment for services. There was no way to know for sure, but she liked Reagon and his shy way. It made her happy to know that someone here knew of her home and that she might be walking in the footsteps of a distant ancestor.
The wind was beginning to blow again and Rowan sighed with resignation and reached back to untie her cloak from behind her saddle. Torrin rode ahead of her, his broad back relaxed, one hand resting on his thigh. His dark hair ruffled in the wind and she knew his blue eyes would be constantly scanning the distant horizon for Raken, ever vigilant.
Once she had buckled the clasp of her cloak, Rowan glanced across at Nathel. She touched her leg to Roanus, urging the big grey horse to move sideways until she was right beside Nathel and his mount.
Nathel looked over at her and smirked. He twitched his reins, moving his horse around a large rodent hole in the ground.
Rowan launched right in. “I need you to tell me what happened to Torrin. Why he was so uncomfortable in Balor and why he keeps himself so closed.”
Nathel’s head snapped up and he glanced around. “That is Torrin’s story to tell,” he replied bluntly.
Rowan sighed sardonically. “You know he won’t tell me.”
Nathel cast Rowan an accusing look and shook his head firmly. Rowan gave no ground and Nathel finally heaved a sigh and glanced ahead to his brother. He turned to look at her. “I t
ell you this only because it might help him move beyond his past, but he will not be happy about it.”
Nathel quietly recounted the reason Torrin had left Pellar and become a mercenary. Listening in dismay, her gaze fastened on Torrin’s back as she heard the last of the terrible story, Rowan finally and dreadfully understood.
*
Torrin rode near the front of the group of companions. The melody of an old song threaded sporadically through his thoughts and he concentrated on silencing it.
To his far right, Hathunor stopped mid-stride and looked up at the sky. Torrin stopped his horse and followed the Raken’s gaze. Thin wisps of cloud were scudding by. There was nothing to see except a pair of hawks wheeling far above. Hathunor turned to look expectantly at Dalemar, who was also gazing skyward.
Dalemar shuddered suddenly. “I can feel it also.”
“What is it?” Torrin heeled his horse closer to the Rith.
“A spell of some kind.” Dalemar tilted his head this way and that.
Torrin strained his ears and heard nothing but the wind.
“It is a very powerful spell for me to be able to feel it.” Dalemar drew in his breath and stiffened in his saddle. “I think it’s a tracking spell! And it is moving very quickly!”
“Can you tell what its target is?” Torrin asked.
Dalemar shook his head. “Not from this distance, but it would be wise to take precautions.” He glanced around at the surrounding land and pointed at a shallow depression in the ground twenty yards to the left. “Take cover in that hollow. Quickly!”
Dalemar spurred his horse towards the dip and the others followed close on his heels. He bade them all dismount and then he turned to Hathunor. “I may need your help my friend. I have not attempted this on such a large scale before.”
Hathunor nodded and strode to the Rith’s side.
“Is there anything we can do to help, Dalemar?” asked Rowan anxiously.
“No, you must stay within the circle once I have erected the shield. And do not touch it.” Dalemar closed his eyes and raised his arms above his head. For a moment only the wind disturbed the silence. Then a crackling blue light erupted from his out-stretched fingertips. It spread upwards and began to cascade to the ground. Torrin watched as the blue shield filled itself out around them. He remembered the last time Dalemar had preformed this spell, creating a magic umbrella to protect them when they had been caught out in the open during a raging hail storm. The fist-sized balls of ice had shattered upon contact with the shield, keeping them and their horses safe from the storm. The shield’s creation had been through sheer luck then.
Now they stood within a circular dome of transparent blue. The wind was cut off abruptly, and in the silence the breathing of the horses was loud.
Dalemar opened his eyes and lowered his hands, happily inspecting his work. “I certainly couldn’t have done that a few months ago!”
Hathunor was staring in wonder at the blue shield around them, and Dalemar was pleased to have come up with something new for him to see
“Won’t the tracking spell be able to detect the magic of the shield?” asked Rowan.
“It would, except I believe I have inverted the spell so that it can only be detected from within. I saw Hathunor do something similar once. The only concern I have is that the tracking spell might have already detected us before I could erect the shield. If I could feel it, there is a good chance it could also feel us and has already sent its findings back to its creator.”
“Ye canna tell who the maker be?” asked Borlin.
“No,” said Dalemar. “I know there are several Riths that sit on the high council that are capable of creating such a spell, but if there is a way of detecting the spell caster’s identity, I do not know of it. The magic felt stretched, if that makes any sense, as though it had come from very far away. I also cannot be certain that the spell was sent to find us.” He sighed in frustration. “If only I had more experience, I’d know for sure.”
Torrin looked around at the faces of his companions. “We must presume that this tracking spell was intended to find the Messenger. We should also assume that it has found her. If whoever sent it also controls the Raken, then the beasts will be looking for us here.” He turned to Rowan. “There are five days of travel left between here and the bog lands, and I would not like to be caught out in the open. Speed might be our only chance.”
“Agreed,” said Rowan.
“A race it is,” growled Borlin as he loosened the cinch of his saddle for his mare. Arynilas pulled a bag of grain out of his saddlebags to feed the horses.
Torrin also began to loosen his own cinch so his young horse could rest without restriction. He glanced up over his saddle to find Rowan looking at him. She lowered her eyes quickly but not before he read something odd in her gaze. He glanced at Nathel; he, too, lowered his head and turned away.
Torrin frowned and studied his brother. Then he understood – Nathel had told Rowan about Emma. Torrin shook his head in disgust.
They stood in the quiet of the protective dome as the minutes crept past. Torrin threw his arm over his saddle to lean some of his weight on Black. The young horse eyed him and shook his mane, then dropped his head to crop at the long grass, his soft muzzle seeking the youngest and sweetest shoots.
Arynilas, Nathel and Borlin sat down to relax and Rowan busied herself with finding some food in her saddlebags. Hathunor crouched down on his haunches and watched the blue flickering of the dome. Dalemar stood in concentration to keep his spell from disintegrating. The temperature inside the dome gradually increased as the sun beat down without the cold wind to steal away the heat. The companions began to remove their outer cloaks and coats.
After half an hour, Dalemar deemed it safe to remove the shield. It shimmered, fading slowly, and the wind began to scour them again.
As the others remounted, Torrin led his horse to where Rowan was tightening the cinch of her saddle. He stopped and leaned down towards her. She turned to look up at him and he locked gazes with her. “I do not want your pity, Rowan,” he said very quietly. “Save it for those who need it.”
Her eyes widened and she glanced quickly toward Nathel. Her cheeks flushed, but when she looked back at him her gaze was steady. She nodded and turned to put her foot in her stirrup.
Nathel watched their exchange from horseback, his expression a mix of guilt and defiance. Torrin cast him a withering glance and turned to mount his horse. He spurred the animal into motion, striking north once again.
Spell Casting
Miroth stood looking to the west. From this height, in the uppermost room of the great east tower of Lok Myrr, it was possible to see for miles. The surrounding peaks of the great Krang Mountains never lost their ice fields even in summer and the white snow glinted diamond-like in the late sun. The clear mountain air was cold and held the scent of coming snow. A ragged line of mongrel mountain people trudged away from the fortress on the westward road towards their distant hovels, pleased no doubt with their trifling acquisitions from the market held graciously once a month for their benefit in the bailey of the keep.
Cold wind swirled through the open window, banging the wooden shutters against the ancient stone of the tower. Neither the stunning view nor the wretched people of Krang held any interest for Miroth. He was eager to close the window and return to the work waiting in the large room behind him. There was much that he was immune to. The slow march of years had given him time to perfect control over many things but cold he still could not ignore.
Miroth hissed with impatience. There was a man in the room behind him that was almost ready for the final stage of the spell Miroth was working. If he did not return to him soon, the labor of the previous hours would be wasted.
The young ones who fought made the best conduits, the life force in them being strong, and the results always more powerful. Young women, he had discovered long ago, gave the best release. But he had to take what he could find in this sparsely populated land.
Rumour had leaked out and now the superstitious mountain peasants kept their daughters away from the fortress.
A groan sounded softly from the darkness behind him. Miroth’s chest contracted with anticipation but he resisted the urge to turn away from the window. His tracking spell would be coming any moment and traveling such distance would need his guidance to hold together. With any luck it will have found what he was searching for.
Miroth scanned the horizon again, searching. The Raken runners were swift but time was growing short. The beasts’ limitations were infuriating after the long years it had taken him to bring enough of them here, to breed them and bend them to his will. He refocused his thoughts on the distant horizon and leaned on the window ledge.
Miroth heard Sol adding a log to the fire. He felt a sudden surge of irritation at the thought of his assistant – if one could even call him that. The little fool bungled the simplest tasks but Miroth didn’t have the time to find someone to replace him. Miroth glanced sideways as the boy returned to his place to cower. Sol would not even offer much in death, thought Miroth sourly – the boy’s weak will would taint any spell.
Miroth’s late assistant, Darion, had assured him that the boy would one day make a fine assistant, but Darion was only a human. He had served for almost seventy years and then died at a most inconvenient time. Darion’s skills were sorely needed now and Miroth had to take precious time from his work to do tasks that had been securely left to his old assistant. True, the man had been ancient by human standards, but a tiny part of Miroth was disappointed that Darion would never see the great heights achieved by his Master.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 20
