Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Rowan looked closely at the horses they passed. Like the mounts of the Clansmen escorting them, the animals were all of the highest quality – swift and strong.

  They reached the encampment and followed their escorts into a circle of round tents with peaked roofs. It was like a small town with streets winding between the distinctive tents. The smell of mead and roasting meat wafted toward them on smoke from cooking fires, and Rowan watched the people busy with various tasks. The clank of a hammer on anvil sounded nearby and large, lanky dogs with flopping ears charged around the tents chased by screeching long-haired children.

  Many of the people they passed looked curiously at them but soon resumed whatever they had been doing before the arrival of the strangers. This Mora’ Taith, shaman of the Horse Clans had seen fit to inform his people of the imminent arrival of Rowan and her friends. He was obviously certain that they would accept his invitation, or perhaps he simply knew they had and were on their way.

  Rowan swallowed, seized with a cold dread as she looked around. What if the nameless thing that hunted her was at work here? Sometimes she felt as though she could sense it, hovering just behind her, reaching for her with malice.

  A few children stopped their rough game of tag to point and dance about before tailing after the arriving party. They cast wary glances at the Clan Warriors guiding the companions as though expecting to be chased away at any moment. Rowan blinked, and shook away the sense of doom. There was no comparing these people to the thing that hunted her. This place did not hold that dread.

  The four men escorting them stopped and dismounted in the center of an open field between the tents. Another knot of warriors strode forward and briefly exchanged words with the escort. Rowan could not hear what was said.

  She swung down out of her saddle and stretched, then stepped forward with the rest of her friends to greet the men waiting for them.

  The new group of warriors was similar to those they had met out on the plain, except for the tallest man in the center who strode forward and looked them over sternly. In addition to his copper-disked armour, he wore a cloak made from an enormous bear skin and his long sandy hair was not tied back but fell loosely over the dark fur of his mantle.

  The man planted his large fists on his hips. “I am Brynar, Clan Chief of Shorna. You are?” His voice was gruff and low and his small grey eyes severe.

  Torrin tossed a small leather pouch out to the chief who caught it in his thick fingers and proceeded to untie it.

  “My name is Torrin, my friends and I seek passage across Horse Clan lands.”

  Brynar squinted at the contents of the pouch and brought it briefly to his nose to smell it. He nodded his approval.

  “We were told that Shorna’s Mora’ Taith wished to see us,” Torrin said.

  Brynar raised a hand. “Not you, Northman.” He jabbed a finger at Rowan. “The Mora’ Taith has been waiting for her.” He signalled to his men with a flick of his wrist and several of them stepped forward; one actually reached out to grab Rowan’s arm.

  Rowan stepped back, striking the man’s hand away. A metallic ringing filled the air as Torrin instantly drew his sword. The surrounding Clansmen stilled. Brynar’s face changed, the arrogance replaced by the look of a wary hunter.

  Bows were drawn, arrows nocked and aimed at Torrin’s chest. Nathel reached for his own weapon with the rest of the companions. Arynilas’ gold-fletched arrow sought the chief’s heart, on the verge of release.

  Torrin stepped close to Rowan and scowled at the man who had tried to touch her. The clansman rubbed at his forearm.

  “Is this how the Horse Clans honour a tribute?” Torrin’s voice was low and menacing.

  Brynar looked around through the circle of bristling weapons at his men. He took in the companions and the golden arrow held unwaveringly on his chest. Then he threw back his head and laughed loudly, with true humour. The Clansmen around him blinked in confusion for an instant and then lowered their weapons. “Indeed, Northman,” Brynar’s laughter coloured his words. “We seldom have well-intentioned visitors these days and we take the word of the Mora’ Taith very seriously.” He spread his arms and bowed his head slightly but kept his small eyes fastened on Torrin’s. “May we offer an escort for you and your friends to the tent of the Mora’ Taith?”

  Torrin sheathed his sword slowly. Rowan relaxed her grip on the pommel of her dagger and the others stowed weapons.

  “Lead the way, Chief Brynar,” she said evenly and stepped forward.

  They were led through the camp to a large circular tent with a horsehide flap hanging over the arched door. Brynar and two warriors went through the door first and Torrin followed them more slowly. As Rowan passed the entrance into the darkness beyond, she was hit with the sudden warmth of the interior. Instead of walking forward, Rowan stepped to the side; clear of the door but with her back to the wall. Torrin had done the same and his familiar bulk was a reassurance.

  Rowan began to make out the interior of the tent. Low benches strewn with soft animal hides sat around a sunken fire pit that smoked up into the ceiling and out through a flap that let in the only light. A tiny man sat on a raised platform on the far side of the fire, covered in a furred mantle. His eyes were completely covered in a pale grey film and his head was turned to look right at Rowan. Gooseflesh rose along her arms – she felt as though he was looking into the heart of her. The warm air of the tent became oppressive.

  A slender young woman who was sitting on the ground next to the old man stood and bade them to sit on the benches that circled the pit. She picked up a large jar warming by the fire and poured out bowls of mead, passing them out to Brynar, his men and the companions. She regarded each of them with silent interest.

  As she passed the drink to Rowan their fingers touched briefly and the girl smiled softly before returning to sit beside the old man.

  When the Mora’ Taith finally spoke, his rasping voice seemed to encompass far more strength and power than his frail body could contain. “So you have finally come to my fire, swordswoman. I see you clearly now.” A toothless smile spread across his crinkled face and he nodded to himself with a jerky movement.

  Rowan glanced to the young woman.

  The slender woman stirred and looked up at the old man. “I am my grandfather’s practical eyes, but he sees very well in other ways.”

  The old man leaned forward near the edge of his fur-covered platform, his opaque eyes fixed unerringly on Rowan. She swore she could hear the creaking of his bones. “You have been in my dreams often of late. I have watched you journey far and endure much hardship. You will face much more in time, but you will also find here what you could not find in your own homeland.”

  Rowan frowned; more cryptic riddles. The old man’s blind gaze was unnervingly like that of the Lady Therial; his prediction similar to the one the ancient crone had delivered.

  “I did not come here expecting it to be easy, Shaman, and I look only to fulfill my mission,” Rowan replied. Brynar stared at her from the other side of the tent.

  “Nevertheless, swordswoman, what you search for will be found here.”

  “Do you refer to the Slayer of the Wyoraith that we seek in Pellaris?” asked Rowan bluntly.

  The little man’s smile deepened for a moment. “Your quest here is but a beginning. It is meant to prepare you.”

  “Prepare me for what?”

  “I do not see the end of your path, swordswoman, only its beginning. What you search for is not what you think it is.”

  Before Rowan could ask him to clarify he turned to gaze sightlessly around the tent, when his eyes passed over Arynilas he nodded in greeting. “Be welcome, Shape Shifter. We have not seen your kind for many generations.” His grey eyes passed on to Dalemar and he paused for a long moment before continuing to Borlin and Nathel. Torrin’s scowl deepened as the old man’s scrutiny fell on him, challenging.

  The filmed eyes turned once more to Rowan. “There is one among you missing. Tell me, whe
re is your large black friend?”

  Rowan felt as if she had been struck and Nathel, sitting on Torrin’s other side, pulled in a breath in surprise.

  Torrin leaned forward abruptly. “What is your reason for summoning us, old man? Speak plainly and leave off with the hints and shocking revelations,” he growled.

  Brynar glared at Torrin and began to rise to his feet but before he could speak in reprimand the old man began to cackle in delight.

  Torrin drew back and looked piercingly at Rowan.

  The old man’s laughter drew to a coughing close. “Well said, Northman. You speak the truth, but leave an old man a few of his pleasures.” His next words held no trace of humour. “I have summoned you here to give you warning. The one you seek searches for you also. And I fear he is close.”

  Rowan’s skin went cold and she struggled to breathe, crushed under the terrible weight of the old Shaman’s eyes. “You—” she gasped as the dying screams of her kin sounded in her head. Blinded by a vision of ambushing, howling Raken, she reeled from the memory and reached out desperately for something, anything to cling to. A strong, warm hand gripped hers and brought her slowly back from the terror.

  Rowan opened her eyes to find Torrin staring at her with concern. She reluctantly pulled her hand from his and looked over at the Mora’ Taith. His blind eyes were fixed on her, as she knew they would be. He had something to do with the intensity of the memory.

  “You’ve seen what hunts me?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  The Mora’ Taith raised his hand to point northeast. The furs fell away from his skinny, twig-like arm. “He sits in shadow there, where the land lies always frozen. I do not see him clearly but he is strong, very strong. He has wintered a thousand years and he has spent much of that time waiting for the day when he will unleash darkness across the land. This I know for certain: that day will be upon us soon.”

  The summoner of the Wyoraith. Rowan’s chest hurt and she realized she was holding her breath.

  Dalemar spoke into the charged silence. “You are certain that he has lived for a thousand years?”

  The shaman turned to the Rith. “I am certain, Magic user.”

  “Is there anything specific that you can tell us about him?” asked Dalemar insistently.

  “You should know better than anyone, Rith, how the sight works,” rasped the Mora’ Taith. “I give to you only what I have been shown, the rest is for you to discover.” He turned his gaze on Rowan once more. “He will dog your steps and he will not give up. Like the wildcat on the scent of a newly dropped foal, he will not stop until you are his.”

  “Why does he hunt me?” Rowan was surprised to find her voice steady.

  “He hunts you because you will help him.”

  Rowan shook her head vehemently. “Never –”

  The Mora’ Taith held up his hand to stop her. “What I see is only his intent.” He reached down and picked up something small, which he passed to the young woman. She nodded her head and gracefully stood and walked to Rowan. The object she handed to Rowan was warm and smooth. It was a carved stone with a hole drilled through its center. Threaded through the hole was an intricate braid of knotted horsehair, tied with a string of stone beads. It was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand but Rowan found its weight too heavy for its size. She looked up at the shaman.

  “It is a protection stone, Swordswoman,” explained the Mora’ Taith. “I made it a year ago and when I first dreamt of you. Keep it always with you and the strength of the Horse Clans will become your own.”

  Rowan closed her fist around the stone. She sensed that this gift was not given lightly. “I thank you. For your warning and your gift,” she said gravely. “What did you mean, this quest is only the beginning?”

  The Mora’ Taith was silent for a while. “What I see of your fate, Swordswoman, is shadowed by the one who hunts you. All I know is that this is only the beginning. In the dark days to come may your horse be strong and your aim true.”

  That signalled the end to the audience. Brynar and his two warriors rose and began to usher the companions out of the tent.

  Torrin stood. “Why have you told us this, to what purpose do the Horse Clans help outsiders?”

  The Mora’ Taith’s voice sounded for the first time like a very old man’s. “Because the darkness ahead will cover us all.”

  The Flight

  Hathunor’s black bulk crouched near the campfire close to Rowan; the others cast smaller shadows against the hollow. The faint sound of water from the brook at the bottom of the shallow vale echoed around them.

  Dalemar finished filling his pipe, then passed the leather pouch to Borlin, who pressed weed into the bowl of his own pipe with thick fingers.

  The Rith leaned forward to light Borlin’s pipe, then his own, the white light of his power briefly illuminating their faces. “A thousand years,” he said to no one in particular.

  Standing on the other side of the fire, Torrin pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders. “Only Tynithians can live that long,” he said quietly.

  Rowan shivered and glanced at Arynilas. His steady silence led her to believe that even among his kind there were those who broke laws and custom. Still, she had trouble seeing a Tynithian at the root of what hunted her. She turned to Dalemar. “Is it possible that the one hunting me is using Riths to do his work? The tracking spell, the control of the Raken—those aren’t things a Tynithian would be able to do.”

  Dalemar’s pipe glowed in the darkness as he drew through it. He removed it from between his teeth and shook his head. “It is not a Tynithian, at least I don’t believe it to be. I’m afraid it is far worse. I’m afraid there is a Rith at the heart of this.”

  “But Riths only live for a few hundred years; three hundred and fifty is extremely long in the tooth for a Rith,” said Nathel. “You told us that yourself, Dalemar,”

  “Yes, yes, I did. You are correct, Nathel. A Rith has not lived beyond the age of three hundred and seventy in centuries. But a very long time ago, when Riths still lived and worked among the other races of Eryos, there were some who developed a way of extending life. In secret, a small group began to work certain spells, terrible spells. For almost eight hundred years they went undetected.” Dalemar closed his eyes for a moment. “For eight hundred years, countless victims fed the glutinous appetites of these monsters. When others of Rithkind discovered the spell-working, they strove to put a stop to it, believing the gain of immortality was not worth the moral depravity that Rithkind would sink to. It sparked a civil war.

  “When the first blow of the war was struck, it was done with magic and the ensuing battles raged for almost fifty years. A third of Rithkind was lost to the struggle. There was great destruction and many Riths cared little for the innocent bystanders that got in the way. Eventually those who wanted to end the spell-working were victorious and formed the new Rith high council. They declared the use of such knowledge anathema to all Rithkind. Any scrolls and books that pertained to the use of the spells were destroyed and laws were passed to forbid the practice of them. Anyone caught dabbling with the life-extending knowledge was sentenced to death.

  “Rithkind withdrew into the mountains in self-imposed isolation. The high council believed that keeping themselves separated from humans would keep such dreadful tragedies from recurring.” Dalemar put his pipe back into his mouth and stared into the flames.

  Rowan looked at her silent companions. “People have forgotten the Rith war and its cause haven’t they?”

  Torrin added another grass log to the fire and the light flared. “That the fifty years of battle between the Riths had in fact been largely for humanity’s sake? Yes, very few now know.”

  Arynilas sat forward. “Their deeds are not your own, Dalemar. We are, each of us, linked to the past in our own way, but it is a way that we must make for ourselves. To bear another’s shame for them only makes it more difficult for them to bear it themselves, even in memory. To remember a deed and stand
witness to the immorality of it so that we may learn from it does not mean that we must also feel guilt for the acts of our fathers.”

  Arynilas held Dalemar’s gaze until the Rith nodded in acceptance.

  Rowan held out her hands to the new warmth of the fire. “Dalemar, the spells to extend life – what was so terrible about them?”

  Dalemar looked at her and sighed. “The spells used humans, people who were killed in horrible, agonizing ways in order to give Riths that which was needed to extend life – another’s life essence.” Dread crawled across his face. “I fear that a Rith has resurrected this ancient knowledge and is using it now.”

  “Or perhaps never stopped using it,” added Torrin ominously.

  Gooseflesh prickled Rowan’s arms and back. In the silence even the sound of the nearby stream seemed muted. She looked up at Torrin and took a shaking breath. “Do you think that is the reason why whoever controls the Raken tried to take me alive in the wilds, instead of killing me?”

  Torrin balled his hands into fists.

  Arynilas nudged the grass log further into the fire. “Are you certain that this summoner of the Wyoraith, if he is indeed the one controlling the Raken, was trying to kill you before? When we fought the Trieton in the Wilds, I saw only blunt weapons aimed at you, Messenger.”

  “With the exception my battle to free Hathunor, I remember mostly clubs and cudgels but when we were ambushed near Dendor, my company was assailed with swords.” Rowan sighed and rubbed her temple. “There doesn’t seem to be any pattern.”

  “We’ve noted that the Draes are clumsy with weapons and Hathunor has told us they are not warriors. Perhaps they slipped up,” suggested Nathel.