“Dalemar?” Nathel was beside them. Rowan reached out and found the healer’s outstretched hands and guided him to Dalemar’s other side. Nathel shouldered much of the Rith’s weight as they moved down the hill toward the edge of the spell. When they finally passed its boundary, Nathel and Dalemar winked into existence beside her and Rowan breathed a sigh of relief.
Dalemar was grey with exhaustion. They carried him away from the spell’s edge and gently lowered him to the ground.
As Rowan turned to look back at the hill, Arynilas appeared carrying her cloak. Had she pulled it off before the attack? “Thank you,” she said as he handed it to her.
Torrin appeared next, pulling a cluster of reins that fanned out behind him to suddenly become four horses. Borlin appeared shortly afterwards with the remaining two.
Rowan looked closely at Roanus. Her horse seemed uninjured from his fall. Borlin’s poor mare had four long claw marks on her left flank, though, and the Stoneman patted the bay horse consolingly as he inspected the wounds.
Nathel retrieved a waterskin and some food from his saddlebags and knelt down, offering them to Dalemar.
“We should move as far from here as we can, in case they return.” Torrin squatted in front of the exhausted Rith. “That was quite something, Dalemar. You saved our lives.” He reached out and grasped him by the shoulder.
“Nonsense, I didn’t do it, Hathunor did.”
“Hathunor could not have done it without your idea and magic, Rith Dalemar,” said Arynilas.
As Torrin rose his eyes met Rowan’s. There was unrestrained relief on his face. Even after the battles in the Wilds, she had not seen that expression on his face.
She looked around at the rest of her companions. The sickening realization that they had all been willing to die to protect her hit like a fist in the gut.
She turned away and went to see to her horse.
*
Dalemar soon recovered enough to mount, allowing them to move deeper into the great marsh. The ground softened and the wind died down within the expanse of twisting trees and shallow ponds.
Rowan noticed none of this. She rode in silence, her eyes locked ahead but not seeing. They were all safe for the time being, but she couldn’t seem to feel the relief of her companions. More Raken would come; they would try to reach her some other way. The deaths of her friends would be her fault, just as it had been her fault when her father had died.
She sighed. It was one thing to tell yourself there was nothing you could have done, to hear it said to you over and over, but it was quite another to truly believe it in your heart.
The day her father died flashed through her memory and this time she did not fight it, did not push it away. It settled around her like a dream. She had been afraid. Not yet tested in real battle. She knew she was not ready. Her mother knew it and so did her father. Still there had been little choice that searing hot day when the sparkling blue of the Eryos Ocean seemed to expand into the very air itself.
The marauding ships had somehow breached the ring defences of the Myrian fleet, enabling them to land in the small harbour of Heria. Rowan remembered how amazed she was that so many men could come from so few ships.
Her parents had kept her between them. Already she was beyond most with her sword; even then it had been a calling her family had taken seriously. Her brother, Andin, had done chores for her so she would have more time to practice. Her mother and father saved to send her to study under a master swordsman, until she could earn the honour that allowed her to train for her homeland.
The moment the pirate’s sword struck her father down in front of her, sending his blood spraying like rubies, she had known. As her mother screamed in rage, Rowan had known it was her fault. It had been meant for her, the sword that killed her father. He had stepped in front of it, given his life to spare hers.
It was his sacrifice that had driven her to train so relentlessly over the years, bringing her skill with the sword up to the highest levels, always seeking to improve and learn new things.
No one would ever need to step in front of a blade for her again.
*
The shadows around them deepened as the sun set. Rowan gradually pulled free of the dark power of that memory – a sinkhole of grief and guilt.
The companions began to search for a safe haven for the night. The idea of heading deeper into the marsh and placing more distance between themselves and the Raken was very tempting, but they needed rest more than reassurance.
Arynilas found a campsite within a dense thicket. They pushed their way through the scrubby trees, collecting burrs and dead leaves. A tiny clearing opened up showing the first glittering stars in the evening sky. There was enough room for a small camp and space to tether the horses.
The animals were exhausted. They stood together in the gathering dark, heads down, muzzles near the ground, eyes closing. Rowan went to see to them, still needing to be away from the others. Her fingers fumbled with the leather cinch on her saddle, and she bit down on her bottom lip. The knot finally loosened and she tugged at the strap.
She should have insisted on traveling alone through the wilds and Klyssen. The voice in her head named her for a fool; brave or not, she had condemned her companions. Now she was torn between wanting to protect them from her enemies and needing their help to get to King Cerebus.
She sensed movement and turned to find Torrin watching her.
“Something is wrong.” he said quietly.
Rowan pulled her saddle down to place it on the leaf-strewn ground. “I am fine.”
“Not good enough. I know something is bothering you.”
Rowan was surprised when the tears came. It had been a long time since she last cried. She tore open her saddlebag, her vision blurring.
Torrin strode forward and grasped her arm, turning her toward him, his expression concerned.
“I am fine,” said Rowan rubbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It is just the strain of battle.”
He shook his head, amusement flashing over his face. “I have seen you in battle. Most war-hardened men would be blubbering on their knees before you would crack. No, this is something different.”
Rowan sighed and tugged her arm free. “Stubborn man,” she whispered under her breath resuming her search for a brush. “I cannot bear the thought of any of you getting killed because of me. Like my fa – ” she could not say it.
“Like what?”
Rowan shook her head. “Because of this Erys-forsaken mission, you were all almost killed, and not just today. I don’t think I could live with myself if any of you died because of me. I should have continued on my own like I had wanted to when I first met you.”
“You would have died,” Torrin said flatly.
“Perhaps, but at least I wouldn’t have led you all into such danger.”
Torrin crossed his arms, scowling. “If you think you are responsible for the decision we made to see you to Pellaris, then you are greatly mistaken. The summons we were answering from King Cerebus was to come to his aid. You are his aid! Even if your mission was not so akin to our own, we would never have let you carry on alone with a Trieton of Raken on your heels.”
“At least you would have made it to Pellaris safely, without your lives at stake every step of the way.”
“And you think I’m stubborn!”
Rowan exhaled in exasperation.
“You feel guilt over the straits we find ourselves in,” he continued, “but that guilt is not for you to take. You have no right to hold yourself responsible for the decisions of grown men. We knew the risks, and I know that each of us would make the same choice again. Not to mention the fact that each of us cares for you and would never want to see you hurt.” He lowered his voice, adding menacingly, “And if you think to slip away and journey without our protection, know this: I will hunt you down and personally drag you back kicking and screaming.”
Rowan’s eyebrows rose at the undignified image.
&n
bsp; She scowled back at him. “Wishful thinking.”
“We shall see.”
Torrin turned his back and walked over to his big black horse.
Rowan watched him, realizing abruptly that much of her guilt had been replaced with anger. His touch was gentle and he spoke softly to the animal as he removed the saddle and began rubbing his sweat-encrusted coat.
Rowan turned back to Roanus and began to brush him. Much of what Torrin had said was true but it would not change the responsibility she would feel if any of them got hurt.
Her mother’s voice sounded in her head. You must not take so much on your shoulders, Cheria. There are always others to help carry the burden. It was his choice. Your father would not have wanted you to feel this way.
Guilt sat on her shoulders, but its weight was lessened. You couldn’t make people’s decisions for them, even to keep them safe.
When they had seen to the horses, Rowan finally gave in to her weariness. The air was cold and crisp and there was blessedly little wind. Borlin had built a merry fire and she craved its warmth. The surrounding thicket leaned in like crowding tree creatures protecting them with outstretched twig limbs and spindly fingers.
The Bog Lands
Torrin opened his eyes to a thick blanket of mist, muffling sound and concealing the world. The air was moist and thick and as he sat up his blanket fell heavily into his lap. His friends were indistinct humps around the dead fire and the horses had disappeared. All he could discern of the thicket surrounding them was the odd thrusting branch.
Arynilas appeared and strode to the fire. Torrin would have started had he not been so used to the Tynithian’s stealth.
“When did the mist rise?” he asked.
Arynilas squatted and began to relight the fire. “Before dawn.”
The rest of the companions were stirring now and Borlin’s exclamation came as if from far away. “How long till it burns off?”
“Not until the sun is high,” Arynilas answered. “It will be like this every morning now that the temperatures have dropped.”
Torrin rose and stretched his limbs, working the tightness out. Arynilas had the fire going quickly and Borlin began to make tea. Torrin packed his gear and went to see to the horses.
Rowan was with her big stallion, brushing him as he ate his grain ration. Torrin felt a powerful relief; he had half expected her to make good on her threat to leave them and try to travel alone. He knew what guilt could do to a person.
After a quick breakfast the company was in the saddle and wending their way through the mist, deeper into the twisting swamp.
A fly bit Torrin’s neck and he swatted at it. Black shook his head furiously, trying to dislodge the insects crawling into his ears, stamping a hoof in frustration. Torrin sincerely hoped the ear covers Borlin was working on for the horses would be finished soon. The poor animals were being driven mad by clouds of biting flies.
Arynilas turned back towards them and shook his head. Torrin frowned and waved the flies away from his face. He pulled on his reins and gave Black a leg to turn him around on the tight game trail.
“Another back track?” asked Rowan.
“Looks like it,” said Torrin.
Nathel groaned.
The horses began to pick a path carefully back through the squelching mud and hummocky moss. Another trail that looked deceptively clear had become impassable, narrowing into walls of tangled reeds and dark water. Although Arynilas knew the direction they needed to travel, finding clear paths was proving a challenge.
Thick reeds clustered along the trail, and small birds and animals skittered away as they passed. Torrin steered Black around a shallow pool of stagnant water, keeping him way from the edge. They had discovered that what looked like open, solid ground surrounding the pools were in fact mats of moss and grasses floating over viscous mud. Borlin’s mare still sported the mud from a plunge up to her belly earlier today.
Torrin pulled his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and urged his horse after the others. The sun was beginning to set now and they would need to find a campsite soon. The darkness would bring a relief from the bugs, but the maze of bogs transformed as the light faded into a haunted wasteland. Spooky stories about the bog lands were traded like currency among the children in Pellaris. Giant beasts as tall as houses were said to roam through the swamps and snakelike monsters lived in the dark water. One toe dipped in the fetid muck could doom an unwary traveler. As he looked over the endless expanse of twisted trees with their gnarled branches tricking the eye into seeing things that were not really there, Torrin could well understand where the stories came from.
Swatting at more flies and steering Black through the reeds, Torrin recalled the chilling tales told by the guards in the bailey of Pellaris keep about wraiths that would rise out of the swamp water at dusk and travel the marsh by night, killing all those they touched. A brave soul could be deceived into believing there was nothing to fear during the daylight, but when the sun sank below the horizon, the mist rose to link the living with the dead. Torrin rolled his shoulders and grimaced as he dug out another biter crawling beneath his collar. The truth was almost worse.
A flock of birds with bright plumage flushed up into the air to the right. Black startled in response and Torrin put a hand on the young horse’s neck to calm him. The birds wheeled about with a cacophony, before settling again in the twisting trees. Already they had seen an amazing number of birds: huge wading herons with knife-like bills for spearing fish; eagles and hawks and tiny jewel-like kingfishers. Bright blue-and-yellow ducks floated on some of the larger ponds and shiny black darters rested in the trees with their wings outstretched to dry in the sun. Torrin watched the birds as they chattered and flew. Stories about the marshes never mentioned the beauty of the wildlife.
Arynilas turned off the trail they were following to head into a thicket. The companions leaned low over their mounts as they pushed through the dense vegetation. Torrin caught a glimpse of Rowan’s tense expression in the dusk light. He had noticed her frequently casting back for a possible glimpse of Hathunor’s return. Of the Raken, they had seen nothing but he hoped that Hathunor had led his pursuers far away.
Torrin’s turn came to push through into the thicket. When he emerged from the clinging, scratching branches, he saw a clearing much like the previous night’s camp. He experienced a moment of disorientation, wondering if they were just blundering in circles.
The creeping pace of their progress was a source of frustration. After the open grassland of Klyssen Torrin felt as though they were standing still, with the world continuing on without them. They were all getting to rest though, and for that at least Torrin was thankful.
“What say you, Tor? Four or five more days to the border of Pellar?” Nathel came to where Torrin was sitting, oiling his broadsword in the light of their small fire. Each of them had to take extra care of their gear here. In the moist air, metal began to rust very quickly. Rowan and Borlin were sitting across the fire from Torrin performing the same task.
Torrin stretched his shoulder muscles. “Sounds right, providing we don’t have to retrace our steps too often.” Torrin accepted a mug of hot tea from Nathel before his brother settled next to him.
“How long do you reckon it would have taken us to go around the bogs?”
“Three weeks at least,” replied Torrin.
Nathel sighed. “Perhaps the Raken are hoping to set up ambush on the other side.”
The rest of the companions looked up from their various tasks of repairing gear and cleaning weapons, their hands stilled. Rowan frowned, Arynilas lifted one smooth eyebrow and Borlin removed his pipe from between his teeth, puffing out a curse with the smoke as he dropped the last pair of ear guards for the horses to the ground in disgust.
Dalemar cleared his throat. “If Hathunor has led the Raken on the merry chase I think he has, it will take them a good while to make it out of the bogs and get to the other side to meet us. Unless there are more that we
do not know of waiting to intercept us, we should be well ahead of the group tracking us.
“So we best be on our guard at the edge o’ the bogs,” said Borlin darkly.
“There are also the Raken besieging the city of Pellaris itself,” said Nathel.
Torrin shook his head. “Their focus will not be on us though.”
Rowan began to clean her sword once more. “In Balor, you said that there was a way into Pellaris around the siege?”
“Tunnels,” answered Nathel.
“Tunnels?”
Torrin nodded. “They run beneath the walls of the city and extend quite far into the surrounding forest. Depending on what the Raken movements are, we should be able to enter the city undetected.”
“How do you know of them?” Rowan asked.
“Tor and I discovered them when we were kids,” said Nathel with a grin. “Our father was a king’s man fairly high in King Cerebus’s favour and we had the run of the fortress when we were young. We discovered the tunnels one day down in the old quarter playing Dragons and Demons with some kids.” He chuckled. “We got ourselves into a lot of trouble in those days.”
Torrin glanced sideways at his brother. “You mean you got us into trouble. I was always trying to make sure you didn’t break your neck or crack open your fool’s head!”
Borlin’s guffaw sent the birds roosting in the surrounding trees scrambling for cover.
Torrin frowned, he hadn’t thought of his father in a long time. Ralor had been a career soldier in the Pellarian army – a man of great renown for his battle and leadership skills. He had risen through the ranks swiftly until he reached the king’s side, serving as captain of the King’s Guard. Ralor and Cerebus had become friends – a rare thing in palace hierarchy where a common born soldier and a king only crossed paths fleetingly. But they had recognized something in each other and relied upon one another like brothers.
Torrin’s father served Cerebus as captain and friend until he died in a border skirmish with a renegade Taborian warlord. Ralor had taken an arrow that had been meant for Cerebus. Torrin and Nathel were teenage boys when their father died. Their mother had passed on years earlier and the boys had no other relatives to look after them, so Cerebus had taken responsibility for Ralor’s sons. Torrin was old enough to look out for himself and Nathel but Cerebus had insisted that they stay at the keep in their father’s quarters as long as they wanted to.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 24
