The man who would have delivered her to Lok Myrr was dead before he hit the ground.
She turned from the body and Torrin met her gaze.
He saw Miroth’s death in those green eyes.
The Pass
Torrin studied the rock above, taking in the wide scree falls built up from centuries of tumbling stones spilling down into the tree line. Grey granite dominated but bright seams of red iron ran in striations across the surface. The setting sunlight was slowly receding up the mammoth stone walls, bathing the sheer cliffs in gold and leaving the companions in cool shadow on their horses below. Four days’ hard riding had brought them here – to the foot of the steep Krang Mountains. Now, they gazed upward in awe.
A glacial creek fell down from the heights and rushed past them. Black thrust his nose toward the water and Torrin released the reins so the horse could drink. He turned to look south along the slopes marching into the distance. They were still half a day’s ride from the pass.
Torrin sighed – it would be slow going from now on. The foothills had become increasingly rugged, forcing them to take longer than he had hoped to get here. Still, it was gorgeous country.
A hare flushed from beneath the shrubs along the creek, and Black jumped. Torrin gripped the stallion with his legs to keep his seat; the horse snorted loudly and turned to look at the offending rabbit.
Rowan laughed softly as the hare and horse squared off, before the former darted away.
“Well Tor, it has been a nice interlude,” said Nathel, guiding his horse into the water beside them. “But it looks like things are about to get tough.”
“Aye, we’ll be seein’ a bit’o snow soon I reck’n.” Borlin stepped down from his saddle to loosen his mare’s girth.
Torrin patted Black’s neck as the horse resumed his drink. He cast a look back at the landscape they had traveled through.
“You enjoyed the journey here, didn’t you?” Rowan had moved her horse closer.
Torrin glanced at her, smiling. “I’d like to come back here some day to explore it further.”
“It was good to forget for a while,” she said, looking west with him.
Torrin studied her face. If only we could just stay right here. He frowned, clearing his throat. “We’d best look for a suitable campsite. The temperature drops fast this high up.”
As he turned Black to the gravel bank, Torrin looked and could almost make out the valley they would head for tomorrow – a path to lead them up into the rock and timber fastness of the Krang Mountains.
A path to Miroth.
“There’s a likely spot just o’er the creek.” Torrin followed Borlin’s outstretched arm to a dense copse of trees located up-slope and commanding a good view.
“As good as anywhere,” he replied, and they splashed out of the creek and up the slope.
The last of the sun finally slipped below the horizon as they entered the thick stand of trees to set up camp. Within minutes Borlin had a merry fire going and water boiling for tea. Thanks to the mercenaries, they had acquired another packhorse and more supplies, though Borlin had shaken his head in disgust at all but a few of the dry goods.
Torrin pulled his saddle down from his horse and placed it on the ground with the rest of the gear. He untied the warm fleece mantle Cerebus had supplied and tossed it over his shoulder as he walked toward the fire with his saddlebags and bedroll. Rowan, already wrapped in a fleece, was seated on a log they had pulled closer to the heat. Torrin silently thanked the king for his foresight – extra blankets had been the last thing on his mind as they left Pellaris.
He stowed his gear next to Rowan and stole a kiss before going back to look after the horses. Borlin’s gruff voice carried across the quiet evening as he spun a tale of the mountain creatures found in the Black Hills.
“Large as hillsides, they are, and covered in white shaggy fur. Not a Stoneman among us was taller ’n its waist. Its skin was thicker ’n boiled leather — and claws! Ye should a seen its claws! Talons they were, wickedly curved, an’ I swear by me mother, I saw serrated edges.”
Nathel laughed. “You’ve got to be exaggerating just a little, Borlin.”
The Stoneman shook his head, short red beard bristling. “Nay lad, ’tis no tale, I saw it with me own eyes. Me sword bounced right off its damnable hide!”
Horses seen to, Torrin made his way back to the fire. As he settled himself, Rowan passed him a steaming cup of tea. She leaned forward to toss more wood on the blaze and her fleece slipped down. Torrin pulled it up for her, his hand lingering on her back.
“Are there any such creatures in the Krang Mountains?” asked Rowan.
Borlin nodded sagely. “Most assuredly, lass.”
“You’ve never even been into the Krangs, man!” scoffed Nathel.
Borlin puffed out his barrel chest and placed his hands on his hips. “I’ve been a far sight more places than ye ’ave, pup!”
Nathel just laughed harder, holding his hands up in submission.
Rowan laughed with him – a ringing sound that filled the night with pleasure. Torrin closed his eyes, savouring this rare occurrence.
The dream was coming to her every night, sometimes twice a night. Torrin slept close beside her in the cold darkness, ready to pull her tightly in his arms when she gasped awake in terror and pain. Holding her until her heart stopped pounding and her breathing slowed, his lips close to her ear, as he whispered calm reassurances that concealed how helplessness he felt.
They did not speak of it anymore; nothing could be done and Dalemar had exhausted what little knowledge he had, trying vainly to find a remedy. Refusing to give in, Rowan would drill with her sword each cold morning to warm her body and ease her mind, moving through the long days with a quiet resolve.
Torrin relaxed back against the log, drinking his tea. His companions were bedding down around the fire, transforming into fleecy humps – Borlin’s snores already emitted from one. Rowan leaned back into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. If only we could just stay right here.
*
Whiteness greeted Torrin when he woke the next morning. A thick blanket of snow covered everything – saddles, gear, rocks, shrubs and sleepers. He lifted the extra weight of the snow on the fleece up and Rowan yelped beside him as snow sprinkled down onto her neck. He peeled the fleece back and stood to shake it out, looking around at his stirring friends. “Best to just get going and eat breakfast in the saddle.”
“Or we could just sit in a pile of snow and shiver,” said Nathel with a frown as big wet flakes began to fall anew.
Borlin pulled out oiled canvas to cover the packhorses. “Come on lad, help me wi’ the beasties. Sooner we get it all packed the sooner we can ’ave a bite o’ breakfast.”
The ride toward the pass was slow and treacherous as they picked their way through the fresh snow. When they finally reached the wide valley that cut up into the wall of mountains, it was almost noon. The snow was still falling, and higher up the peaks were concealed in thick cloud.
Nathel shook the snow out of his eyes. “Perhaps we should wait and attempt the pass at dawn so we have a full day to travel it.”
“We cannot risk waiting any longer,” said Dalemar, “or higher up it may become impassable.” His horse bent down to rub frost-covered eyelashes against its front leg, then snorted, expelling white plums of breath upward.
“It will mean traveling down the other side in darkness,” said Nathel. “We will have to move slowly or seek shelter somewhere.”
“Aye, there may be caves we can find,” said Borlin.
Arynilas studied the shrouded peaks as though already seeking a trail. “I cannot see though cloud and mist, but there are other ways to detect dangers. We will eventually have to lead the horses on foot when the snow gets too deep, and possibly rope together so we don’t loose each other.”
The heavy snow deadened the sound around them, muffling the horses and muting their voices. Torrin followed the Tynithian’s gaze up t
he winding path that cut through the surrounding slopes. The forbidding peaks seemed to close over them like a warning. He looked at his friends – all of them were poised to walk through a doorway into uncertainty and possible death. It was a sensation they were very familiar with, but never before had so much been at stake. Torrin drew in a deep breath as he stared upward.
Arynilas and Hathunor stepped forward to lead the way. As they began to plod up the steep path, Torrin realized it was more like a narrow road. Parts of it were cut out of the stone, others built up with masonry to allow a horse and cart passage. He hoped the entire route through the pass was like this, giving them a chance at getting through in the dark.
Rowan, riding in front of him, turned in her saddle and looked back. The fleece mantle around her shoulders framed her face and there was snow in her hair. Torrin’s chest clenched, stunned once again by her beauty. He felt like he was seeing the world through someone else’s eyes – what grey darkness had covered his life before this.
They stared at each other for a moment. She said nothing but there was determination in her eyes – she was unsure about being the keeper, and none of them knew what they would face in Krang, but she would not turn back.
Torrin kissed his gloved fist, touched his forehead to salute her.
A memory surfaced then – a conversation between Rowan and Nathel as they traveled over the endless Klyssen plain. While she and his brother had practiced, Nathel asked if she was considered a master swordswoman in Myris Dar.
Rowan had paused and lowered her sword. “A true Master always wins his or her battles without fighting.”
This was one battle she would not need her sword for. She was strong – possibly the strongest person he’d ever known – but her strength was slowly being sapped and it frightened him to see it.
If Miroth knew Rowan was the keeper, perhaps he was sending her the nightmare to wear her down before she was finally brought to him. Despite his strength, power and long years, perhaps the Rith feared her. Was he still vulnerable to the keeper, even when he thought she was captured and under control?
The idea brought Torrin fragile hope and he prayed Rowan could resist the summoner’s power.
The thick cloud ceiling grew closer as they climbed higher into the pass. When they finally entered the swirling mists, all sense of time disappeared. The world shrank to the pale ribbon of the narrow, winding road – a slight path through a dull white landscape. Snow began to fall heavily and gusts of wind swirled the flakes around them, into eyes and mouths and down exposed necks.
Torrin pulled Black up as Rowan’s horse stopped ahead. She stepped down and Torrin followed suit. The snow was almost knee deep. He motioned for Dalemar and Nathel behind him to dismount and could just make out Borlin bringing up the rear. Torrin patted his exhausted horse and moved to walk in the furrow created by those ahead. He pulled his scarf up over his nose and rubbed at the ice on his lashes. Soon he was gasping for breath, his chest aching. Even with frequent stops to rest, Arynilas couldn’t keep up the pace indefinitely – Hathunor maybe but not the rest of them. It’s the altitude.
Torrin struggled through the snow past the horses which stood with heaving sides, to where the Tynithian squatted, resting. “How are you, my friend?” The light was fading and the temperature had dropped wickedly.
Arynilas looked up, his black hair dark against the whiteness around them, “Well enough.”
“Will you be able to lead us in the dark?”
The Tynithian nodded. “Yes but it will be slower yet and I will need to use the Fox’s wiles.”
Torrin handed Arynilas his water skin to drink his fill. “Keep those sharp eyes out for some shelter. Even if you and Hathunor can go on, the rest of us and the horses can’t.”
Torrin and Arynilas stood as Hathunor’s black form appeared out of the swirling white ahead. He seemed unaffected by the cold and snow but without the sun he would eventually run out of energy to break through the deep snow for them. Torrin looked back to see if the others were ready to continue.
Rowan’s face was pale behind the scarf she had pulled up.
He took a step toward her. “Are you alright?”
She nodded and looked past him. He turned to find the black fox standing before him. Arynilas wagged his fluffy tail before setting off with Hathunor, his nose to the Raken’s snow-churned path. Torrin retrieved Arynilas’s clothes and weapons and stowed them in the Tynithian’s saddlebags. Then he gathered the reins of Arynilas’ dun mare and coaxed her into the deep snow beside the path so Rowan could walk ahead. He picked up his own mount to follow; the two black pathfinders had almost disappeared ahead.
The temperature plummeted as the last light faded. Torrin pulled his hood down and rewound his scarf, leaving only a slit for his eyes. He scanned back frequently to make sure Nathel and the others were still there. Wind whistled and moaned loudly, driving the snow like daggers.
We must be close to the top of the pass.
If Arynilas didn’t find shelter soon, they would have to rely on Dalemar to conjure a shield to protect them from the elements. But to create and maintain a shield large enough for an extended period, the Rith would be taxed to his mortal limits – not to mention the message it might send to Miroth.
Rowan suddenly stopped in front of Torrin and he pulled up just before he walked into her horse’s hindquarters. She moved foreword again but to the left toward the steep rock looming out of the dark. He searched for his companions but could only barely make out Nathel.
“This way,” he called. He waited for Nathel to signal before turning to follow Rowan again.
They moved passed the rock face and the ground became uneven and sloped. Another cliff appeared and Torrin gasped in disbelief as Rowan vanished into its dark stone surface. When Torrin reached the wall he discovered that it was not as flat as it looked. A long cleft ran into the stone, narrowing to a split that burrowed deeper into the granite. The opening was just large enough to fit a horse through. He pulled on the reins and stepped into the cleft.
The darkness within was complete. Torrin reached out and found Roanus. “Rowan?”
“I’m here.”
Torrin moved along the side of her horse. Rowan gripped his hand but he could barely feel the pressure with his numb fingers. “We need to move the horses further in to make room for the others.” They pressed into the darkness, Torrin keeping hold of her hand.
Borlin finally entered, swearing as he fumbled around for his lanterns. Warm yellow light bloomed in the blackness as he lit them and they looked around in surprise at the very large cavern they stood in. The howling wind outside was muted to a whine and the drip of water came from somewhere in the shadowed recesses.
The horses tossed their heads and snorted in fear. Torrin pulled off the snow-matted cloth that he’d wrapped around his face and a powerful stench assailed him – a ripe animal smell of wet fur and dung. He scanned the cave, trying to pierce the dark corners.
Arynilas, bare skin gleaming in the lantern light, reached swiftly for his bow, nocked an arrow and aimed into the shadows at the far end of the cave.
There, against the wall of the cave, a huge form stirred, then padded forward into the light, blinking. It was the largest cave bear Torrin had ever seen. Baring yellow fangs at them, it roared with deafening sound in the confines of the cavern.
Arynilas pulled his bow taut, taking careful aim. “I tracked his scent to the cave opening, it was very faint but once I got close enough to the entrance, it was like a horn call. He has resided here for many years.” There was regret and respect in the Tynithian’s voice.
Hathunor reached out, placing a huge hand on Arynilas’s shoulder. Arynilas relaxed the string as the Saa Raken stepped in front of him. Hathunor beckoned Dalemar to come and the surprised Rith stepped forward to touch Hathunor’s back. Pale blue light glowed around his hand as he sent his power into the Raken.
Hathunor stood motionless and stared at the bear. The animal swayed b
ack and forth, head and muzzle pointed upwards, its small brown eyes fixed on Hathunor. The bear finally shook its great, shaggy head and turned its back on them, padding silently away, its back feet turned inward. Short tail bobbing, it disappeared into another cleft that Torrin hadn’t noticed, leaving only its strong smell behind.
Torrin sighed in relief and looked at Hathunor.
“Well, if you don’t mind the smell, it looks as if he’s willing to have house guests,” laughed Nathel into the stunned silence.
“Goodness,” murmured Dalemar as he withdrew his hand from the Raken’s back.
“Did you see how he did it?” Rowan asked Dalemar.
The Rith nodded excitedly. “Yes, but I don’t know if I can duplicate it. Honestly, I had never thought to use magic to communicate with animals!” He looked up at Hathunor. “Could you talk to the horses, calm them down?”
Hathunor grinned and Dalemar again placed his hand on the Raken. This time the Rith peered into the space between Hathunor and the horses. The animals relaxed, lowering their heads. Their wide eyes calmed and their tails swished as they shook the wet snow out of their manes.
Dalemar smiled widely. “It’s more of a sending of reassurance than actually communicating with them. That might come in handy some day.”
Despite the strong smell, the cave gave them welcome respite to tend the horses, warm up and dry out.
Exhausted, they bedded down alongside the fire. Torrin lay with Rowan relaxed against his chest. She was soon asleep with her long golden braid draped across his torso. Torrin was fairly certain the bear wouldn’t return during the night; Hathunor’s intervention had been surprising, but persuasive. None the less, Dalemar was taking first watch, speaking quietly with Hathunor.
Torrin frowned. Did the Black Rith know this much about the Raken he controlled? Somehow he doubted it.
Fear is Not My Master
Rowan ran – heart pounding, breath tearing in her throat. It was close, seeking, driving her onward into the winding corridors ahead. She knew she could not last much longer. Her chest seized, burning with pain, lungs pushed to their limit. If she stopped, it would catch her.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 48
