Arynilas regarded her seriously. “Some things are not meant to be questioned, Messenger. Sometimes the reasons behind the way things are do not matter. It is only the truth that is important. From the start, your quest had the weight of great events hinging upon it.” He shrugged. “What will be; will be. It is the way of all things.”
Hathunor, seated next to Nathel, smiled a broad, toothy smile. He believed in her regardless of whom or what she was. She couldn’t help but smile back.
Her chest ached as she looked around at her friends. They had helped her get to Pellaris to deliver her message. They believed that she was the keeper they were looking for – accepted it as though someone had told them the sky was blue.
I don’t want to let them down.
If she was the keeper, it would at least help to explain the strange dream.
Torrin’s voice cut through her musings. “What is it?”
Rowan stirred. “Maybe it is why I am having the dream. It is more than just a nightmare. The paralyzing fear of it and the pain I feel afterward is too real.”
Torrin’s face darkened, a deep frown shadowed his blue eyes. “Miroth thinks you are on your way to Lok Myrr tied up as a neat package for him to do with as he wants. You’ll get there, but on my life it will not be as he expects.”
Rowan shivered in spite of the warmth from the fire. Keeper or not, they were going after Miroth and all that entailed. But what do I do once we are there? “I don’t even know what the Wyoraith is; let alone how to stop it.”
“You will know what to do when the time comes.” Torrin said softly. “We will all be with you. You will not go into Lok Myrr alone.”
“Perhaps that is why the Seers never told me, if indeed they even knew,” said Rowan. “Maybe more than the keeper is needed to stop the Wyoraith.”
In the silence that followed this statement, Borlin barked a laugh. He ran a thick finger down the blade of his short sword. “Ye might have someth’n there, lass. I’ve been spoil’n for a good fight for some time now.”
Nathel grinned and slapped his thigh. “Well said, Borlin!”
Rowan shook her head – the crazy fools.
Torrin watched her as Nathel and Borlin traded boasts over expected glory. His expression held a hint of the worry he must be feeling. It would be hard for him to see her in any danger. He nodded – they would be fighting together for all of Eryos.
Dalemar trickled a little power into his pipe to relight it. “At least we have one possible answer to why Miroth wants Rowan enough to send men into Pellaris for her.”
“I assumed it was because he knew she was the slayer or keeper and could stop him,” said Nathel.
“Perhaps, but I have a suspicion there is more to it than that,” said Dalemar.
Torrin frowned, leaning forward; his glance took in Dalemar and then Rowan. “If he knew she was the keeper, why would he want to bring her closer, alive, to Lok Myrr? Why not try to kill her?”
“The Summoner would not be interested in doing such a thing unless there was good reason for it,” said Arynilas. “We have seen little purposeless action from him.” He was tending his bow and his slim hands moved deftly over the weapon.
“I’d stake my life on it having something to do with the summoning of the Wyoraith,” said Torrin.
Dalemar nodded. “As the slayer, it is true there would be no logical explanation to risk bringing her to Lok Myrr. But as the keeper, it makes a lot more sense. Think about it. The word keeper connotes someone who has control or power over something.” Dalemar blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Or someone who is charged with protecting something. It could be that Miroth cannot summon the Wyoraith on his own, that he needs her to help him somehow.”
“Bah! I’ve known Stonemen who’ve gone to as much trouble o’er revenge. Who’s to say the Black Rith is interested in anyth’n more than that?”
Torrin turned to look at Borlin. “It is true; we cannot discount that his reasons might be purely personal.”
Rowan shivered again. If that were the case, she couldn’t imagine what she had done to warrant such action. She frowned – it was no help to worry about the unknowable. “What of Lok Myrr? What do we know of it?”
“None of us have been to Krang –” began Dalemar.
“I have been there,” said Arynilas.
They all turned to look at the Tynithian in surprise.
“I guess if you live for hundreds of years, you have time to explore the world,” chuckled Nathel.
“What do you remember, Arynilas?” asked Torrin.
“I was there during the summer months, on a ship that plied the waters off the rugged coast. It was many seasons ago and I visited a few of the accessible harbours. Krang is far from a hospitable place. The people I came across were downtrodden; frightened of strangers and even more frightened of the lawless brigands that travel the inland roads. The entire realm was covered in steep mountains and the settlements were very isolated. Of Lok Myrr itself, I have no knowledge.”
Dalemar reached into his saddlebags, rummaging around until he pulled out a folded parchment. As he opened it, Rowan recognized the map from the king’s study. Dalemar held it out before him and frowned down at it. “Krang is indeed completely covered in mountains. They are rugged and high. There is but one pass through them from Pellar into the interior. It is located about five days’ hard ride south and east. The pass is high but we should still have time to get through before it is packed with snow. The late warm weather this autumn has ensured that it will be open.”
Torrin sipped his tea. “We have a little information on Lok Myrr itself from Cerebus’s first envoy. They made it to its gates, but were turned away without entry. They described the fortress as impenetrable, with walls fifty span high and great towers rising from the corners. It is situated northeast of the pass in a narrow, barren valley.”
“We have to assume that the approach through that valley can be seen from the fortress itself,” said Nathel.
Borlin dropped another log onto the dying fire, sending up sparks. “And the road that leads te it is likely watched.”
Torrin swirled the remaining dregs in his cup. “Cerebus said the men in that first envoy were not experienced officers. There was a diplomat from the council and city guilds, a messenger from the king himself, and several mid-ranking castle guardsmen to serve as escort. It is more than likely they overlooked something, and saw with inexperienced eyes only the size of the walls in front of them. We will have to wait until we reach the approach to Lok Myrr before deciding how to proceed. Stealth and surprise are going to be our strengths but we must assume that the way into Krang is watched and that Miroth might know we are coming.” He looked at Rowan. “We will somehow have to get you inside the fortress so you can do what you need to do.”
Rowan laughed without humour. “What ever that may be.”
Darkness had gathered in the dense trees around them and the trunks creaked as they swayed gently in the wind. Torrin stood. “Let’s get some sleep; we have a long ride ahead of us and the remaining mercenaries are out there somewhere, still looking for Rowan. We should keep double watch.”
Rowan wrapped her cloak around herself and made her way to where the horses were tethered. She hadn’t seen Roanus since Pellaris. Her big horse nickered as she approached, dipping his head. His muzzle was soft as she cupped her palm under it, feeling his warm breath. His whiskers tickled her hand and she stroked his forehead. “Hello my big fellow. It’s good to see you.” He shifted his weight, rested one hind hoof and shook his long silvery mane.
Rowan turned as Torrin came towards her. “I have something else for you,” he said, walking to the gear where he pulled a cloth-wrapped object from his saddlebags. As the fabric was pulled away, Rowan drew in her breath. They had found her dagger as well.
She took it in her hand, tracing the Mor Lanyar insignia with her fingertip in the darkness. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I had hoped it was not lost.”
“Us
e it well, Rowan of Myris Dar,” he murmured. “Use it well.” Then he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. The stars overhead began to glitter and for a while the world and its troubles receded.
An Account Settled
Torrin woke to a muffled shout and an explosion of movement beside him. He bolted upright, prepared to engage attackers, but all was still.
A soft sob of despair sounded beside him and he turned to see Rowan sitting up and clutching her chest, tears glistening on her cheeks in the silvery moonlight. Arynilas, who had been keeping watch, was on his feet beside her, a look of concern on his face.
Torrin shifted closer to Rowan and took her face in his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. He whispered gently to her – trying to call her back from the horror. Slowly, her eyes focused on him, and she blinked.
“Torrin?”
“I’m here. You are safe; it was just a dream. Everything is fine.”
Rowan shuddered and collapsed toward him, hugging him fiercely. He pulled the blankets up over them and held her as she wept silently against his chest.
How could you save someone from the demons that haunt from within? The question struck him with intense irony as his own ghosts rose to mind. The answer was simple. You couldn’t – they had to save themselves.
Torrin stayed awake until the sky began to lighten, listening to the slow rhythm of Rowan’s breathing long after she had fallen back to sleep. He hardly dared to believe that she was safe and curled in his arms. The pale morning light slowly revealed her smooth cheek and the arch of her brow. He longed to see those green eyes but didn’t want to wake her. Their camp stirred and Torrin got his wish as Rowan woke and gazed at him. He traced a finger down her cheek and she smiled, but her tired eyes told a different story.
*
The sun was touching the treetops as Torrin swung into his saddle. Black tossed his head and danced sideways, kicking the remains of the breakfast fire, which steamed into the cold morning air. Torrin guided the eager horse out of the ashes and glanced around at his companions as they mounted.
Rowan adjusted her saddlebags and pulled her cloak closed against the chilly air. She was recovered from her injuries, thanks to Dalemar’s talents, and her strength was rapidly returning. Her green eyes were calm as she glanced up – no evidence now of the terrifying way she had woken in the night.
Torrin’s breath steamed in the sun as he exhaled. There was little warmth this morning and he had been glad last night for the sheepskins that Cerebus had sent with them. The horses looked woolly with their winter coats growing in. There would be snow any day now.
They guided their horses through the tangle of trees and bare shrubs, which sheltered the camp. Torrin pulled Black in at the edge, and scanned the rolling foothills spread out before them. Since crossing the Pellar River yesterday morning they had seen no sign of the mercenaries, but they were still out there somewhere, hunting Rowan. A cold rain had obliterated any trail the seven remaining men might have left.
They traveled eastward at an easy pace toward the distant wall of the Krang Mountains. Torrin led them through the winding valley bottoms of the foothills, keeping any silhouettes they might create against the slate coloured sky to a minimum. Gradually, more dark evergreens clustered among the bare branches of the deciduous woods as the parkland was replaced by denser forest. The land rose steadily towards the shoulders of the mountains. They saw deer moving through the landscape and a reddish fox, but only the winter birds were left in the north.
The companions stopped by a swift creek as the sun rose high, and passed around a cold meal. Ice still coated the reeds at the waterline, but the horses were glad of the cold water and stood, fetlock deep, slaking their thirst.
Torrin sat next to Rowan on a fallen log, and handed her a piece of flat bread and dried meat. She had been very quiet all morning and didn’t speak now as she accepted the food and began to eat slowly. He had seen it many times – battle stillness.
The afternoon wore on as they continued to ride eastward, slowly approaching the ominous barrier of grey stone on the horizon.
Torrin shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare. Arynilas and Hathunor were moving back down the slope of the hill ahead. Torrin reined in his horse to wait with the others as the two scouts reached the bottom and closed the short distance. The Tynithian’s face was calm, but he moved with a purposeful intent – they had found something.
Arynilas stopped beside his dun coloured mare. “Men are at the end of the next valley, set up for an ambush.”
“Our friends?” Torrin asked.
Arynilas nodded and Torrin looked over at Rowan. Her green eyes were very bright as she returned his gaze
“We’ll circle around; surprise them from the rear,” he said, glancing at Arynilas again. “Unless they’ve posted a rear watch?”
“No.”
Torrin smiled grimly. “Even odds… They shouldn’t pose much of a problem.” He turned to Rowan. “Will you save any for us?”
“There is only one I want,” she replied quietly.
His friends wore dark expressions.
“Split up; circle wide; signal when you are in position.” Torrin turned Black around and set his heels to the horse. The companions split – Hathunor guiding Borlin, Nathel and Dalemar south and Arynilas with Torrin and Rowan turning north.
*
Torrin dismounted and crept forward with Rowan and Arynilas at his side. They crawled silently forward on elbows until they could peer through the dense shrub at the scene below. He shook his head in disgust. The mercenaries stood exposed, hiding behind a thicket of trees – all eyes watching the approaching valley and the ambush they believed they were setting. They had two archers but they would not match Arynilas and Dalemar – nor Hathunor for that matter.
Torrin heard the bird-whistle signal off through the trees to his left. He glanced back down through the screen of foliage to the men below. They had not stirred at the call. He put his fingers in his mouth and returned the birdcall quietly, then counted to ten while he silently drew his sword.
Rowan reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Scarface is for me.” She looked fiercer than he’d ever seen her, even more beautiful for it.
Torrin wanted to argue but he wouldn’t get far – it was her privilege. He glanced down at the mercenaries again, found the leader and took stock of him. He was big, muscle-bound and carried command easily.
Arynilas set an arrow to his bowstring. Torrin whistled once more with higher pitch, and the three of them rose and moved through the cover. Breaking into a run they charged down the slope. There was a blur of motion to the left – Borlin and Nathel stormed from their concealment with Hathunor, a huge black streak outstripping them all, hurtling towards the men below.
Three men spun around with shouts. The rest turned, cursing and fumbling with weapons, trying to free them in time. One of the enemy archers took aim at Hathunor, but Arynilas let fly his own arrow. It punched into the man, dropping him like a stone. The second archer shot his arrow but a fine ribbon of blue Rith fire incinerated the missile before it hit the Raken.
Hathunor bowled into the remaining archer and another man, smashing them to the ground, his long claws rending and tearing. Their screams cut off abruptly, throats ripped out.
Torrin reached the enemy with his sword held high as Rowan pelted past, further into the fray. The mercenary he met swung low at his stomach. He parried the swing and drove his sword through the man’s chest. Planting a foot on the body and wrenching his blade free, he turned swiftly to meet the next opponent. Disappointment welled up when the man he turned to face was neither bald nor scarred.
He yelled and charged, his sword sweeping down at Torrin. Ducking low, Torrin sliced the man’s chest, stepping past as his assailant crumpled forward with a screech of pain.
The battle was finished, almost. Nathel killed one man and Hathunor two others, Torrin took two and Arynilas one. That left only one. Torrin turned and fo
und Rowan circling with the mercenary. Scarface.
The man was even bigger than he had looked from above, about Torrin’s height but more heavily set. His broadsword swung with the formidable force of his bull-like shoulders. A network of white scars criss-crossed his face and he was blind in one eye.
Keeping his sword out, Torrin stood tensely as the two faced off. Scarface was furious, using his weight and strength against Rowan with little success. The mercenary swung, aiming at Rowan’s side with enough force to fell a small tree. Rowan refused to meet his blow head on and he paid for his mistake with blood.
Realizing he was not going to win this fight, the mercenary swore at her in a rasping ruin of a voice. “Cowardly bitch. Stand and fight! Or do you need your useless friends to finish the job? They couldn’t save you before, could they? Have you decided to fight for yourself this time? Little girls shouldn’t play with swords if they are afraid to put them to their proper use.”
Torrin clenched his fists, gripping his sword, but stayed where he was. He would enjoy killing this man, but death at the hands of a woman half his size would bring the brute far more pain than any Torrin could inflict.
Nathel stepped forward, broadsword in hand. Torrin grasped his brother’s arm, shaking his head.
A small, calm smile appeared on Rowan’s face. Now fully enraged, Scarface screamed and charged at her. Rowan met his heavy over-handed blow full on and the clang of metal shivered through the trees. Torrin gasped in a breath, trying to follow the flicker of her curved blade as she redirected it.
The mercenary looked down at his chest in surprise, dropping his sword as his arm went limp.
Rowan had slid her sword perfectly between his shoulder guard and breastplate. Blood seeped from beneath the plates. She leaned forward, still gripping her imbedded sword, and whispered something. Scarface looked down at Rowan, his face blanching to match his eye as he sank to his knees. She pulled her sword free as he toppled backwards.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 47
