Rowan cast a glance back and her heart jumped into her throat. “They are behind us as well.” Another group of ten castle guards, all impostors, blocked the street entrance. They were trapped. The approaching guards to the front were only a hundred paces away.
Nathel nodded to the huge fountain in the middle of the square. “We might be able to defend that.”
Without another word they altered course for the circular pool of water. A huge stone statue of a knight on horseback rose up out of the center and cast a long shadow over the space before the fountain. The stone knight gazed sternly down at them without pity.
Rowan, Nathel, Borlin and Hathunor reached the fountain and drew their weapons, backs to the statue. Hathunor let out a menacing growl.
“Erys but I wish we had Torrin and Arynilas with us,” said Nathel quietly.
Rowan closed her eyes. Torrin.
The guards reached the fountain and spread out to surround them. They were rough looking men, much like the two who had attacked Rowan in her room.
One guard stepped forward. “There is no need for bloodshed.” His eyes flicked to Hathunor. “Rowan of Myris Dar is under arrest for crimes against the crown,” he said with a snarl. His eyes traveled over the group until he was looking at Rowan. “If you come quietly, we will spare your friends.”
Nathel laugh sharply. “Go back and tell Miroth he will have to try harder than this. Rowan is going nowhere with you.” There was dead seriousness in his voice.
The man grinned, showing crooked teeth. “You’re a little out numbered, big man, even with the beast.” His eyes darted again to Hathunor, then back to Rowan as he folded his arms and cocked his hip arrogantly. “It’s your choice, lovely. You come quietly or they die.”
Rowan looked up at Nathel. He was scowling, his pale blue eyes wrathful. Her heart wrenched – he looked just like Torrin. “Don’t you surrender yourself for us, Rowan. Don’t you dare!”
“Aye, Lass,” Borlin growled. “The lad speaks truth.” He clapped his short sword against his round shield and glared at the enemy. “Come on then, ye toad swill!”
The leader spat on the ground. “Wrong answer.” He signalled and the posing guards charged.
Rowan whispered the name of her sword and it jumped to life in her hand. Hathunor became a black streak as he launched himself at their attackers. He bowled into them taking four of them down to the ground. The men around him hacked at his exposed back and flanks. He spun on them and they stumbled back in alarm. Hathunor swiped the weapons from their hands; knocked them senseless or ripped out their throats.
Rowan met a burly man in a uniform too small for him. She parried his sloppy thrust, slicing upward with her sword. He screamed. Blood sprayed across her face.
Two more came. Between the moving bodies, she saw her friends dealing with three or more attackers each.
Her heart pounded in her chest; sweat slicked her palm and she clenched her blade tighter. One man attempted to wrap his arms around her, pin her. She deflected his arm with her sword and smashed the pommel into his face. He stumbled back, his broken nose gushing blood.
The ten from the square entrance arrived then, crowding in. There were too many. She was pushed back, expending all energy on just protecting herself.
She saw Nathel take a short blade in the side. He grunted with pain and sent his own sword slashing through the man’s collarbone. Borlin was bloodied as well, struggling to wield his weapons in the press of bodies. There were men behind them now, wading through the shallow water of the fountain. They were swarmed.
Rowan was clouted on the side of the head. Her vision swam black for an instant but she never stopped moving her sword. She felt it slice into something, smelled sour breath as it was exhaled into her face. When her vision cleared, a man was dropping to the ground in front of her. She leaped back as he tried to wrap his arms around her knees.
Her back collided with something solid and she glanced back. It was Nathel, fighting desperately. He bled from a dozen shallow cuts and the deep wound in his side.
Her attackers were trying to disarm her or knock her out. Miroth wanted her alive – her companions were not so lucky.
Nathel grunted again behind her. He grasped her baldric and pulled her back close to him. Borlin was down bleeding on the flagstones but he was too far away to protect. She couldn’t see Hathunor anymore. If she left Nathel’s side they would lose what little advantage they had left.
It was so hard to swing her sword in the press. A cudgel flew at her head. She dodged, raising her sword to deflect it. It glanced off her shoulder and she ground her teeth against sudden pain. There were at least ten men around her now.
She could no longer feel Nathel at her back.
Panic rose in her chest. She fought it like she fought the men. On this day when blood is to be shed, let this sword be true, let this arm be strong in the defence of my land, my people and myself. On this day when blood is to be… The words rose unbidden and she clung to them.
Her sword humming and whirling around her, she fought a losing battle. She was cracked again on the side of the head. Pain sheared along her scalp and the sunlit square dimmed. Her hands lost all strength. Her sword clattered to the paving stones. The dagger was ripped from her grasp.
The alarm bells rang from the wall, but their sound was faint and fading.
Torrin, I’m sorry. She was roughly lifted as the world went black.
The Raken Master
Miroth withdrew from the mind of the Raken, leaving behind the walls of Pellaris as his army withdrew once more. The disorientation, the odd stretching sensation as his mind sped back towards his own body left his head swimming. Bonding to the Raken beasts was always an unsettling experience. He focused on his goals for a moment until the peculiar feral awareness passed. He had almost expended too much energy.
The limits of his mortal body continued to be a source of burning frustration. Even with fifteen hundred years of toiling and knowledge, there were still boundaries he could not cross, things he could not do. The time would come, though, when he would finally cross those boundaries to the realm of perfection – fatigue and weakness never to plague him again.
What would his teachers think of him now? A familiar wrath seeped through his veins, offering strength for his purpose. Images of Tirynus rose unbidden from the far-off depths of memory. The beauty of its tiered streets of carved stone and the breathtaking views from its mountainous heights inspired a mix of longing and vengeance.
The faces of his teachers swam forward over the images of his countless victims. They had screamed for mercy in the end too. Miroth had granted none, just as he had been granted none as their pupil. They had sensed in him a strength that would one day outstrip their own and had conspired to break him, grinding him into the stones beneath their feet. The dusty tombs of Tirynus now contained their disintegrated bones, while he had gone on to surpass their most envious expectations. And when he escaped the Rith war trials, he took the forbidden knowledge with him.
Soul Taking – the ancient, forgotten art that Miroth alone now possessed. Over the centuries he had perfected his skill, growing in power and refining his techniques. Living longer than any Rith in history, Miroth was immortality itself.
The great Rith city in the Timor Mountains represented all that he hated and all that he would possess. He would raze the Rithspake to the ground when he returned. The place where they had pronounced judgment upon him would be rubble. He would see every last stone of it destroyed and the names of his accusers wiped from the granite monuments. He would sit upon a throne of the sorrows and agonies of his enemies and be free in the knowledge that none would sit higher.
Miroth sighed and reached out to close the shutters, plunging the circular room into restful darkness. The mountain air was cold but at least there was no wind today to scour away his warmth. He turned to face the giant hearth’s crackling fire that glowed on the furniture and contents of the study. Miroth stood embracing the heat, stretching his lo
ng-fingered hands out towards the flames. He curled them into fists and the sharp fingernails bit into his palms.
Time – he’d had so much of it, had mastered it in ways no other had; yet it seemed now to be bleeding through his hands.
He turned and reached across his desk to pick up the scroll. Unrolling the cracking parchment, he held it up to the firelight, careful not to let it get too close to the flames. The ancient writing was spidery against the translucent surface.
The star charts he had collected over the years gave only hints of the precise timing required for the summoning, until he had found this one scroll. A scroll which contained almost everything he had been searching for – he just needed time to decipher it. But now he was running out of time.
He returned to his desk, pulled an ancient book towards him and gently laid the scroll down beside it. His old bones creaked as he stooped down to scan the text in the dim light. He glanced at the candle next to him; the tip of his staff glowed ominously from where it leaned against the desk as the candle lit up.
Many layers of complex spell casting would have to be accomplished. Each and every layer had to be in its exact time and sequence to allow the summoning to work and to bind the Wyoraith to his purpose. If one thing was missing, or something miscalculated, it would fail.
Time – it was moving too fast. He could feel the ancient power beneath Lok Myrr growing, stirring like a slumbering beast ready to awaken. But it had to be properly chained and fettered before it could be allowed to come to life.
Taken
Torrin didn’t listen to the rest of what the young soldier had to say before he was running. Chest pumping, long legs eating up the cobblestone streets, his breath came in short gasps as he raced up the winding road towards the keep.
“They were dressed as castle guardsman – were able to get close enough without raising suspicion – Rowan was taken – his friends seriously injured” The words seared through him as he ran, burning. He pushed himself faster.
Arynilas ran lightly at his side. Torrin had forgotten the Tynithian until he had caught up. He forgot his fatigue from the battle on the walls. He forgot reason. There was only Rowan – Sweet Erys, no.
The time it took to run the distance between the city walls and the citadel felt like an eternity. Torrin was covered in sweat and his lungs aching by the time they got there. Preven was waiting for him in the castle foyer. The general held up his hands, making absurd calming gestures.
“What happened, where are they?” Torrin gasped out the words. “Where is Rowan?”
“Every available man is searching the city as we speak,” said Preven. “We will find her. As for your brother and friends, they have been taken to the infirmary. Torrin, your brother is in bad shape.”
Torrin turned to Arynilas. “Find Dalemar.”
The Tynithian nodded and sprang away.
Torrin left the general and began to run again. His mind was numb, only one thought was coherent – I should have been there.
I should have been there.
The keep’s infirmary on the lower level did not take long to reach; he gagged at the odour as he entered the room. Cots containing Pellar’s wounded lined the large vaulted room. Narrow aisles were left between the rows to allow healers to tend the casualties. Torrin scanned the room, hardly seeing the soldiers with terrible battle wounds. Then he found what he was looking for – his brother and friends laying still, unmoving. Torrin couldn’t tell if they were unconscious or asleep. Hathunor had been placed on the floor; no cot was big enough for the Saa Raken. Fresh bandages had been applied to their many wounds. A bloom of blood seeped through the pristine white of the cloth wrapping around Nathel’s bare chest.
Cerebus and Elana were both there. The queen looked tired and weak but determined. A part of Torrin noted that if Elana was awake, Cerebus might know whom the traitor was.
With mounting dread, he moved silently forward. It seemed as though he walked through water and couldn’t make his limbs move faster. When he reached Nathel, he knelt at his brother’s side, grasping the hand that was almost identical to his own, squeezing gently. Nathel opened his eyes slowly. His face was pale, his arms and chest were criss-crossed with shallow wounds. He rolled his head across the pillow to look at Torrin and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Tor. I couldn’t protect her – there were too many. Forgive me.”
Torrin’s throat clenched. He dropped his head to Nathel’s shoulder, breathing deeply to steady himself. When he could, he looked back up. There were tears in Nathel’s blue eyes.
Torrin squeezed Nathel’s hand again. “There is nothing to forgive, brother. I know you would have given your life for her and I will always be grateful to you. I should have been there. It should have been me.” Torrin began to shake. He gripped Nathel’s hand tighter. “I never told her, Nathel. I never told her how much I love her. Erys forgive me, she doesn’t know.” Anguish closed his throat and the room began to fade in a haze.
Nathel’s insistent grip pulled him back. “Tor,” he murmured, “she knows. She knows how you feel.”
Torrin shut his eyes. He could hope.
A familiar wrath began to burn through the painful band around his chest. But this time it was controlled and calculated, not tainted with madness. He clung to his rising fury and it gave him strength, purpose.
Torrin released Nathel’s hand and stood. He turned to Elana, seated on a stool alongside the cot, the king standing behind her, their faces stricken with grief. “How long since they took her?” Torrin’s voice was calm, steady. He would find her.
“About an hour. Torrin, I’m so sorry…” began Cerebus.
Torrin shook his head. “Miroth wants her alive. They’re taking her to him.”
Elana brought a slim hand to her mouth, horrified. “What for?”
“We don’t know yet. All we know is that he wants her for something. Did anyone see which way they took her?”
Cerebus shook his head. “People fled the square as soon as the fighting started. When the castle guard got to the scene, the battle had ended. Rowan was gone and Nathel and your friends were in bad shape.”
Torrin frowned. “Are there any tunnels out of the city from the square? Anything close by they could have used to escape the city?”
Cerebus began to shake his head then narrowed his eyes. “The Temple of Erys. If there was an escape route anywhere, it would be there.”
Nathel clutched at Torrin’s hand. “Tihir N’Avarin…” He squeezed his eyes shut against sudden pain. “He was there – left the guards before they attacked us.”
Torrin’s pulse quickened. Tihir N’Avarin – he would kill the man if he could, but not until he’d dragged a full confession from him. He leaned forward and gently kissed his brother’s forehead. Nathel was cold. Torrin reached down and gently pulled the blanket up to cover him. He glanced at Borlin and Hathunor; both were still unconscious but didn’t look too seriously injured. He released Nathel’s hand and looked up at the king.
“I’m going after N’Avarin. If you want it to be official, send Preven with me and some guards; otherwise I’m going to take matters into my own hands.” It was no way to speak to his king, but he was beyond caring.
Cerebus lifted a hand. “Torrin, wait, there is more that you should know.” He looked down at Elana. “Chancellor Galen is the traitor.”
Torrin blinked. Old Galen was the last person Torrin would have suspected. “Are you certain?”
The king nodded. “It appears he was the one who made the copy of the bailey key used by the men who attacked Rowan in her room.” Cerebus shook his head and heaved a sigh, looking at the queen again, “And we think he attacked Elana.”
Torrin looked down at the queen. “I am sorry, Your Majesty.” He took a deep breath and let anger for her abuse add fuel to his wrath.
“He has not been found anywhere within the keep,” continued Cerebus. “He is a man of habit, or at least I thought so. He would never stray far without letting me know.
If he was not guilty, why would he disappear?” Cerebus sighed in bewilderment. “I just wish I knew.”
“What about N’Avarin? He was seen with the men who took Rowan.”
Cerebus nodded. “We believe there was a concealed relationship between Galen and N’Avarin.”
“Then they must be found and persuaded to share their intentions,” said Torrin blackly.
The king looked hard at Torrin, then turned to the nearest guardsman. “Assemble a squad of castle guards. Have them wait for us by the keep entrance.” The man saluted and dashed out.
Cerebus turned back to Torrin. “We will solve this together.”
Torrin looked at Nathel who nodded. Then he bowed to the queen. “Please, my lady, will you look after them until Dalemar arrives?”
Elana patted Nathel on the shoulder. “Be assured, Torrin, they will receive the best care.”
With the king of Pellar at his side, Torrin made for the door. At last his fury was given direction.
The Slayer
Afternoon sun slanted through the open doors of the keep’s vaulted entry. Torrin and King Cerebus strode down the steps to where the guardsmen were gathered before the huge doors. Red and gold uniforms filled the hall – it looked as though every member of the castle guard stood assembled. Cerebus stopped to speak to General Preven. They could not all go and leave the keep undefended.
Torrin paced impatiently. He turned back toward the door just as Dalemar came flying through. The Rith’s long green coat flapped behind him and his face was painted with excitement. He ran up to Torrin, breathing hard. “I’ve found it!”
“Found what? Did Arynilas find you?”
Dalemar frowned in puzzlement. “Arynilas? Why no, was he looking for me?” Before Torrin could answer, he rushed on. “I’ve finally found it, the reference to the slayer! Well to be precise, it’s the keeper not the slayer but I know who it is!”
Torrin’s eyebrows rose; he had completely forgotten. “The man from Pellar? The Wyoraith Slayer, you know who it is?”
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 42
