A wall loomed out of the blackness, lit from behind her by the eerie greenish light. Rowan knew what was coming. She stumbled to a halt against the wall, gasping, sweat drenched.
She turned her head to the right, nothing but rough-hewn rock. Her fingers clutched at the stone before her, panic rising.
Something was different. To the left the wall continued into the darkness, the corridor hadn’t ended. The passage had turned.
Rowan willed her exhausted body to move. She ran on. The light hunted her. Suddenly the walls were gone and she pitched headlong into complete blackness. The floor was all that she could feel.
Dread beat at her. It was in front of her now as well as behind. She stumbled wildly ahead, tripping and landing heavily on the cold stone. She sobbed, struggling to her feet, and ran blindly forward, arms outstretched.
She ran into stone, elbows cracking against the surface and she barely kept from striking her forehead. She reached outward feeling for an edge. There was nothing.
Rowan turned around. The light bled through an arched opening behind her – a doorway she had run through. Fear clouded her mind. Her legs went weak and the light pulsed toward her.
No.
Rowan ground her teeth, forcing herself to stand. She reached up for her sword –knew she would not find it.
Death expanded out from the light, rushing for her. She couldn’t move as it came. Rowan closed her eyes. Fear is not my master. I control my fear. It will no longer govern me. Like a stone thrown in still water, the ripples will wash over me and leave only calm. Fear is not my master.
She willed herself to move, diving sideways as the light came for her.
It hit the wall where she had stood, splashing outward, sizzling across the surface. The space was illuminated for a blazing instant and she saw an enormous cavern. Rowan rolled, stumbling to her feet but her legs gave way and she sprawled across the floor. Blackness fell once more but the light was coming again.
Despair rose in her throat. It was too hard. She climbed wearily to her knees. The light expanded. She finally gained her feet and stood tremulously just as she was hit in the chest. The light tore into her, shuddering through her entire body and burning the flesh from her bones. She screamed and began to fall into endlessness.
Rowan struggled awake, trying to draw breath around the pain in her chest, blind to everything but the fear. She clenched her teeth, tasted blood in her mouth – she had bitten her tongue.
Something touched her face and a deep voice softly spoke her name – Torrin. His concerned face swam into focus, along with the dimly lit cave and sleeping figures of her friends.
Rowan took a deep breath, closing her eyes in relief as Torrin gathered her into his arms – waiting as the searing pain in her chest eased and invoking the meditations Dalemar had taught her. She and the Rith had spoken at length about being conscious while dreaming – knowing you were dreaming while it was happening. Even if Miroth was controlling the dream, it was still a dream and Dalemar reasoned that she should be able to control at least some aspects of it.
Why? Why was Miroth sending the dream?
This time the nightmare was different. I chanted the fear litany in the dream!
She twisted in Torrin’s arms so she could look at him. “I fought back this time. I tried to at least. I haven’t been able to do that before.” She touched his face, wanting to reassure the worry in his eyes but her fingers shook.
Torrin held her hand and kissed her fingertips. “You are stronger than anyone I have ever known, Rowan. He will not overcome you.”
Rowan rested her head on his chest. “It was still terrifying and real, but I think I knew it was a dream this time. I finally felt like I had a little control.”
Rowan realized she had something hard clutched in her other hand. Opening her fist, she found the circular talisman that Clan Shorna’s Mor’A Taith had given her. The polished stone was hot, as though it had been set beside the fire.
It is a protection stone, swordswoman. Keep it always with you and the strength of the Horse Clans will become your own.
Into Krang
Rowan took a deep breath as she stepped out of the cave. The early morning air was clear and crisp – a relief from the foul-smelling cavern. They had not seen or heard from their reluctant host during the night, but were ready to travel with first light.
The snow had ceased falling in the hours before dawn and lay deep outside the cave entrance. A pale orange glow from the sun beyond the rim of mountains to the east washed into the dark blue of the sky. They waded through the snow to where they had left the road and stood looking down into the steep valley below.
“All down hill from here – well, almost,” said Nathel lightly.
Torrin stepped up beside her, smiling with reassurance and pointing. “There is the summit.” It stood like a beacon with the barest hint of the winding path to show the way.
Hathunor strode through the deep snow with ease and they followed in his hip-deep wake. The snow was heavy and wet, sticking to the horses’ shod feet in large clumps. They stopped frequently to pick away the balls of snow before it compacted into ice and caused the animals to slip or strain tendons in their legs. As the sun rose and the temperature warmed, their stops became less frequent. Making good progress, they reached the summit by mid-morning.
Rowan rubbed her tired eyes and scanned the view toward the interior of Krang. Clouds still nestled in the valley below, but here the sun glittered on the snow around them with glaring intensity. The crystalline peaks of the vast mountain range spread out before them. There was a calm stillness to the landscape under its blanket of white; snow sat like huge mushroom caps on all the treetops, sifting silently down and falling like silken veils in the light breeze. Shifting her attention back to the valley, she sought a route through the sharp outcroppings of rock and snow-filled crevasses below.
Nathel whistled beside her. “No wonder Miroth has been undetected here for so long. Who in their right mind would venture into that maze?”
“Well we all know ye don’t ’ave a right mind,” chuckled Borlin, “So I guess ye would. We’re just along to save yer flea bit’n hide.”
“How about some food Borlin?” said Torrin darkly from behind them. Pre-empting more banter.
Borlin cast a concerned look at Rowan. “Aye. T’would do us good.”
Rowan sighed and closed her eyes against the glaring light, leaning against Roanus’s neck. She had been visited by the dream twice during the night and had awoken exhausted.
Torrin gripped her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. The look of concern on his face made her wince. “I am just tired, Torrin. Please do not worry.”
“Come and sit down.”
Her nose and cheeks were cold but her body was warm under the heavy fleece. Her breath misted white before her, its moisture crystallizing on her face as she followed him.
Rowan sat down on the fleece he had laid out. “You know, despite how exhausted I feel, I am also hopeful.”
Torrin stood looking down at her. “The dreams last night? You said they were different.”
“Yes, though I still don’t understand it, I feel as though I have made some small progress.” It was like a glimmer of light in the darkness spreading before her. “I think the dream is a sending, a message of sorts.” Rowan shook her head, frowning. “I can’t explain it. I just know the closer we get to Lok Myrr, the more it will haunt me.”
“So you think it will get worse?” He crouched before her, his eyes intense.
“Yes, but I can fight it now. I know I can and that sense of hope, however small, has been with me all morning.”
Torrin reached out, caressing her cheek with warm fingers. “Then you fight him, Rowan, fight him like I know you can – and we will guard your back. You must tell Dalemar of your progress. He may be able to help further now.”
Rowan swallowed and nodded. Torrin bent forward and kissed her forehead before standing to help with the hor
ses. She leaned back against the packs and closed her eyes again. Whether the dream sent by Miroth was a warning or simply a strategy to weaken her before she got to him made no difference. She felt almost as though it represented a hidden part of her – something she had never touched before. In her relentless drive to be one with the sword, she had never realized that the need to fight her own battles, without exception, was an unattainable aim. The world was not that simple.
There is no shame in needing help.
Rowan took in a shuddering breath – tears close to the surface.
I understand now.
Her father had offered his help – his life, not out of obligation or disappointment in her, but rather, because he loved her.
The land of Eryos had tested her to her limits and many times she had needed help to survive. That help had been given freely by these friends around her and by those she met in Pellaris. Rowan opened her eyes to watch her companions, here at the top of the bright snow-covered pass, and shook her head in wonder. Blinded by her pride and disappointment in herself for having needed that help, she had missed the full gift of it.
For certain I will need their help again.
Sweet Erys, please keep them all safe.
*
The air warmed further as they descended, and melting water dripped into the snow, forming tiny, blue holes in the flawless surface. A few animal tracks criss-crossed the white expanse – a testament to the life hidden beneath winter’s cover.
From these heights they could see two valleys running off at angles from the bottom of the pass. One went southeast toward the distant coast of Krang; the other followed a long line of mountains that marched northeast into the mysterious center of the realm – leading them to Lok Myrr and Miroth.
Rowan drew in a deep breath and let it out. Based on Cerebus’ map, it would take them three or four days to reach Lok Myrr from the pass. There were no other details on the simple chart, other than the location of the fortress they sought. Nothing was known with certainty, Rowan thought grimly. It hasn’t been since I accepted this mission and left my homeland.
What would the Seers of Danum say now? For the sake of her friends she hoped they had chosen wisely in sending her to Eryos.
The winding road narrowed and Rowan peered down at the sheer drop that fell dizzyingly away to the right. She gripped her legs tighter around her horse and gave silent thanks they had found shelter last night and not continued in the dark.
Back toward the summit, glinting in the afternoon sun, a vast glacier was now visible on the mountain across from the pass. It supplied water to the river in the valley below and as they traveled lower, Rowan could see its milky flashes through the crowding trees as it rushed past.
The path finally widened and Torrin rode forward and reined in beside her. He looked at her critically then twisted in the saddle to call back to the others. “Let’s rest here for a while.” He pulled out his water skin and passed it over to her.
Rowan accepted it and pulled the stopper to drink. The water was sweet and cool – snow melt from earlier that day. She surveyed the endless march of jagged peaks. The cloud cover from earlier had lifted and she could see far down the valley.
“The mountains seemed so much smaller from above,” she said.
Torrin stepped down from his horse, glancing up the valley as he untied the flap on his saddle bag. “Only the Great Timor Mountains are higher.”
Rowan swung down and loosened her saddle cinch for Roanus. She looked back up the pass and leaned against her big horse. Torrin ducked under Black’s neck and came to stand beside her. He handed her some dried bread and a hunk of cheese. While she took a bite, he opened a small leather pouch full of nuts and spilled some out into her palm. The others gathered and Torrin passed what food he had out among them.
“Are there are people living here, in the mountains?” asked Rowan.
“Yes,” said Arynilas, “although they are few and far between. Small pockets of people live along the valley bottoms where they raise goats or hunt and trap.”
“’Tis a mean life in this rugged country, an’ no mistake,” said Borlin with a shake of his head. “Sun sets early an’ summer months are brief. ’Tis a realm where news is slow te travel an’ movement nigh impossible durin’ the winter.”
“A perfect place for the Black Rith to entrench himself,” said Nathel darkly.
Arynilas dusted crumbs from his slender hands. “Warlords ruled Krang until a few hundred years ago. They warred against each other over the vast territories, and exacted tribute from the scattered people.”
Dalemar nodded in agreement. “Miroth must have wrested power from them when he took Lok Myrr. It is likely that the people of Krang were relieved by the relative stability brought by the succession, and quietly accepted Miroth’s rule.”
Nathel snorted. “The Black Rith would be a ruthless ruler, taking whatever he wants and brutally suppressing opposition.”
“If he stays isolated in his fortress, like a spider in a web, chances are many of the folk have rarely had to deal with the terror he instils,” said Torrin grimly as he stowed away the food in his saddlebags.
Rowan frowned. “Surely there are stories, rumors of his evil.” She sighed then. I am experiencing first-hand just how the Black Rith uses terror.
Torrin re-cinched her saddle and gave her a leg up. He squeezed her knee and gazed up at her. Rowan caught her breath as, for an instant the terrible fear for her safety and his helpless rage against an unseen enemy flashed through his eyes. He masked it quickly before turning away.
He has his own nightmares.
The Interior Within and Without
Rowan started awake, sweat-drenched, shivering with cold. She curled herself into a tight ball around the burning pain in her chest. Wind tugged on her loose hair and she burrowed deeper into the fleece and blankets piled on top of her until only the crown of her head was exposed to the cold gusts.
Torrin had not woken. His warm back lay pressed against hers. She must have awoken from the dream without a violent outburst. The pain that followed her from sleep did not seem quite so acute either, but perhaps she was only becoming desensitized to it.
Once again, the dream had been different. Her sword had been there this time – its cool metallic touch like an oasis in a desert. The ring of the blade as it slid free of the scabbard had sounded so real. She frowned. Her scabbard was made of leather. What would make me hear a ringing when I drew my sword? The unlikely event that the slim sword could defend her against the horrible light did nothing to dispel the feeling of power and strength she received from the presence of the weapon.
Dreams were often symbolic, Dalemar had told her. The sword in her hand was an emblem of protection – she took solace from it.
The fear litany was still spinning through her mind like wisps of smoke from a doused fire. Fear is not my master; I will control my fear. The pain eased, and her fear faded with the last of the calming words as she drifted once more to sleep.
For the remainder of the night, her slumber was untroubled, touched by nothing more than the need to keep warm in the cold.
*
They drew steadily closer to Lok Myrr over the next cold, clear days. The ill-kept road they traveled guided them through shaded gullies and rock-strewn ridges. Krang’s interior was considerably drier than the mountain pass they had struggled through, cold and parched with the frigid breath of a land that never truly thawed.
About two days out they began to see scattered settlements of low, round stone buildings covered with sod roofs. Wood smoke curled up from jutting chimneys and mixed livestock, in rough wooden enclosures, bawled in the cold air. The dense forest of the lower slopes of the pass had thinned and the valleys they rode through now were barren and craggy. Meagre plots of fallow ground – a testament to hopeful farmers – dotted the land around the huddled dwellings.
They encountered only a few people, careworn and weathered beyond their years, who offered br
ief nods with eyes averted from the well-armed warriors riding along the path to Lok Myrr. The questions they had tried to ask of the small, wiry men had been met with fear and suspicion. The folk hurried on, shaking their heads, hands up in submission. The few women and children they saw fled at the sight of the companions.
The road slowly lifted in elevation and the temperature chilled further. Herds of wild sheep, with huge curling horns that swept back almost as far as their rumps, traversed narrow trails high on the bald slopes. There was little gazing for the horses, and they were forced to use their stores of grain.
Rowan sat cross-legged on her fleece with her eyes closed, focusing on the cold wind and taking deep breaths. She conjured the image of the passages of her nightmare and the dreadful light that pursued her. She imagined reaching up to find her sword and holding an ancient Myrian shield for protection – felt the concussion of the light as it struck the shield and scattered outward harmlessly. Rowan sighed and opened her eyes. Now the dream was coming almost every time she fell asleep, and despite the fear it still induced, she had finally been able to take greater control of her actions within it. The last few times the dream had come she had been able to awaken herself before she was hit with the searing fire and sent into nothingness.
These changes she believed were possible because she was slowly learning to control her fear: where it had paralyzed her before, now she could master it enough to take action. Indeed, when she was not so afraid, the nightmare seemed to lose its power over her and she could wake from it.
Could Miroth sense her coming? Was he increasing the sending because she was getting close, or because she was no longer as afraid?
Rowan pulled her cloak tighter around her and watched her companions setting up camp. Torrin looked at her and she waved in reassurance. She smiled wearily – their caring concern and help was welcome now.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 49
