Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  No doorways into the fortress yet. The portal, when they found it, would be small, easily defended by only a few.

  The huge east tower loomed above them as they warily moved toward it. Dalemar stopped and spread his arms. “Hold!” he whispered. He stepped forward carefully and leaned toward something unseen. They waited tensely; Arynilas, his bow loosely drawn, watched behind them.

  Slowly Dalemar backed away from whatever he had been examining. He shook his head, whispering, “It’s a warding spell... a very powerful one. It encircles the entire east tower. This is where Miroth spends most of his time. I am certain of it. I cannot break through it and if I tried, he would know immediately. We will have to turn back and find entry into the north tower instead. Miroth will likely be able to sense me using magic this close, so I must avoid giving us away too soon. We will have to rely on our other skills for now.”

  Torrin cursed quietly. Rowan rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath, willing herself to relax. She cast a look up at the soaring stones of Miroth’s tower. The faintest hint of light emanated from one of the high openings, and in her mind’s eye she saw Miroth, up in his lair with his black thoughts and blacker heart, plotting his foul deeds.

  Her grip on her sword tightened. She took an involuntary step toward the tower.

  A hand on her arm stopped her and Rowan turned to see Torrin, his face obscured by darkness. He shook his head. “Save it for the right battle, Keeper,” he whispered intensely.

  Rowan looked back up at the east tower.

  I will meet you, Black Rith. And when I do it will be on my terms.

  Resolve settled over her like another suit of armour. She turned her back on the tower and Miroth, moving swiftly back the way they had come.

  The Walls of Pellaris

  Cerebus looked up as the young soldier came pelting into the room, sweat-soaked and panting. “The Raken, my lord! They attack the city walls.”

  Cerebus nodded and rose wearily from his desk. “Call for my squire quickly.”

  The soldier gave a short bow and then spun around, running from the room.

  Cerebus strode after him, pulling his determination around him. Sweet Erys but I’m tired... he had not slept more than a few hours in the last days. The frequency of the Raken attacks had increased and Pellaris’s resources were stretched to the breaking point. It was becoming harder and harder to push back the assaults.

  As he left the room, he saw his squire come running down the corridor toward him, silver armour rattling over the lad’s shoulder and glinting in the candle light. Cerebus no longer removed his under padding. He continued walking as his squire helped him settle the breastplate and shoulder pieces in place, the young man dancing along beside him. Gorget, brassards, vembraces—by the time he reached the bailey, he was almost fully dressed in armour. A castle guard had his horse ready to take him down to the walls.

  One of General Preven’s lieutenants waited with a small escort, torches held to light the night. Cerebus nodded to the man and mounted up. Glancing up to the wide walkway above the bailey, he saluted Elana; her pale hand returned the gesture. He spun his horse and clattered out the gate, his escort following after.

  His wife had been tireless in keeping the city running during the siege. He owed her more than he could ever repay. His time had been taken up entirely by tactics, supplies, arms and soldiery. While he had been so consumed, Elana had seen to the day-to-day responsibilities. Disputes still needed to be settled and criminals tried, food stores to be distributed to the remaining population of the city, wounded to be treated. Grief-stricken wives, parents and children of lost soldiers needed solace. The queen had worked as hard as he had, and slept as little over the last weeks.

  As they drew closer to the walls, Cerebus heard the ring and clash of steel, the roar of battle. The Raken had made it to the top of the wall again. He spurred his horse faster. Pulling up short of the wide steps that led up to the battlements above the gate, Cerebus jumped down and looked for Preven. He found him in a knot of desperate fighting above the gates, the General’s bronze plated armour flashing among the red and gold and black of soldiers and Raken.

  As Cerebus started up the stairs, a deep pounding shook the battlements. He looked quickly to the gate; the great wood and iron doors still held. Even if the Raken made it through the gates, they would still have to come through the tunnel and the huge iron portcullis. Above the tunnel, murder holes riddled the ceiling; soldiers stood ready to rain arrows and hot oil down on their trapped foe

  Reaching the top of the stairs he surveyed the scene. The Raken were mounting the battlements on ladders all along the wall. Most were killed or sent back over to fall among their kin but there was no end to them. They came on and on, a swarm of giant black ants from an agitated nest. The cold wind whipped at the tripod torches along the wall, sending sparks skyward into the night and casting eerie light over struggling men and beasts.

  A trebuchet whumphed to the left but Cerebus spared only a glance at the burning missile as it launched out over the Raken. He moved forward, sword drawn, and shouted over the noise to Preven.

  The General extricated himself from the fighting to join the king. He was blood spattered and heaving, sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. “They are advancing much stronger than before, my lord,” he rasped. “If this assault does not abate, our forces will crumble.”

  “It is as we feared, then. Miroth must be close to his goal.” Cerebus moved to the edge of the wall and peered down through a crenel. A sea of black boiled before the city, blending into the darkness. “How long can we hold before we need to withdraw to the keep?”

  Preven leaned close to Cerebus’s ear. “At this intensity the men will tire quickly... no more than a few hours, my king.”

  Cerebus nodded. “Order the evacuation of the city. Have the last of the supplies taken up to the keep.”

  Cerebus strode into the nearest battle. Shouting salutes and flashing smiles, his soldiers redoubled their efforts, beating the Raken back, sending the ladders tumbling from the wall. Cerebus moved on to the next fight, his sword covered in dark Raken blood.

  Into the Demon’s Lair

  Torrin ran with his friends through the dark band of shadow under the huge north tower. He slowed as they rounded the curved base of the tower, searching for a doorway into the fortress. All was dark above them. Only the faint glowing candlelight bleeding from a window halfway up the east tower provided evidence of the life within – Miroth’s lair. He cast a glance back at Rowan but couldn’t see her expression in the dark.

  The bulk of Lok Myrr was becoming visible against the lightening sky.

  Please let us find a way in to this Erys-forsaken place.

  Hathunor, moving silently through the shadows beside Torrin, growled softly and halted. Torrin looked up at him – his huge head swung from side to side. There was nowhere to hide here; the battlements were narrow with the tower swelling outwards from the walls of the fortress. Hathunor stilled and turned to face the way ahead. Torrin stepped back behind his huge form, shielding himself along with his companions, who stood braced against the wall of the tower with their weapons drawn. He tightened his grip on his sword – maybe if all they saw was another Raken…

  Around the curved wall came not two but five Raken guards, walking in a tight cluster. They continued onward, and Torrin held his breath.

  The lead Raken stopped and threw out his arms. He cocked his head and stared at Hathunor. A moment passed, then he barked a guttural command to the others, reaching for the horn slung across his broad chest.

  The thrum of a bowstring sounded almost at Torrin’s ear, and he twitched his head to the side reflexively. With a quiet thump, the arrow struck its mark in the heart of the Raken trying to give warning. The creature toppled backwards amid the confused guards. Growls and roars erupted and they rushed forward.

  Hathunor launched himself at them, whirling among the smaller Drae Raken. Torrin ran forward with his sword h
igh, wincing at the sudden sound of metal clanging against metal.

  Raken hearing was good. It would only be a matter of time before more guards were upon them.

  The fight was fierce and short. Arynilas stood clear and sent arrow after arrow into the Raken. Torrin met one Raken, ducking sideways to avoid a heavy club. He swung his sword and cut deep, letting his momentum carry him past. Howling, the Raken shied from the sword but shot out a clawed hand. Talons raked across Torrin’s leather shoulder guard, grabbed hold and heaved, throwing Torrin backward. He slammed into the wall of the tower with force, barely keeping his head from bouncing off the stone. Twisting violently, he broke the Raken’s grip and sliced upward with his sword, catching the Raken in the heart. The creature collapsed at his feet.

  He swiveled. Rowan leapt to one side as the remaining Raken brought its massive club down, crunching it against the battlements where she’d stood. She stabbed up ward through its heart and it toppled slowly off the battlements. They heard the sickening thud of the body landing on the stones below.

  Rowan’s sword hummed; Torrin scanned the battlements, listening...

  Arynilas retrieved his golden fletched arrows, sliding them back into his quiver, and the others heaved the bodies of the Raken to where the first had fallen below.

  The clouds parted and bright moon light shone on the battlement. Torrin

  looked up, frowning in confusion. Bashelar and Raelys were almost side by side in the sky, a pair of glowing eyes. Cold dread tingled up his back. By this time tomorrow night, Raelys would be tucked behind the blue surface of Bashelar. The eclipse.

  Rowan gasped. “When the little moon is hidden behind the larger…”

  His friends stood gazing up as the clouds once more began to cover the moons.

  Torrin shook himself. “Let’s move!” he hissed.

  They rounded the last curve of the tower, and there was the dim outline of a door concealed in the shadow of the joining angle. Torrin reached out to test the handle doubtfully. It was locked. Hathunor stepped forward and leaned his considerable weight against the iron-clad door; it groaned and shuddered, but would not open.

  Torrin clenched his teeth in frustration. We should have been deep inside the fortress by now.

  The door’s smooth, riveted surface fit tightly into the stone wall, offering not so much as a keyhole.

  Dalemar laid a hand on Torrin’s shoulder and spoke softly into his ear. “We will have to hope that a little trickle of magic will not be detected by Miroth.”

  Torrin nodded; more Raken would come at any moment, drawn to the sound of the fighting. Miroth will know we are here soon if he doesn’t already. He tried to shake the sinking feeling that their mission was failing before it had truly begun.

  Dalemar moved forward and pressed the palm of his hand against the handle. Blue light flared faintly around his hand. After a faint click, the door squealed as it swung outward, revealing pitch blackness within.

  “Erys! That is unpleasant,” said Nathel, inhaling the stale odour from within. “A lantern would be good now, Borlin.”

  “Light it inside.” Torrin hefted his sword, trying to watch both directions at once.

  One by one, the companions crossed into the dreaded darkness. Rowan hung back as though stopped by an unseen force. Her expression made his heart clench – it was exactly how she looked when she woke from the nightmare.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready, Keeper?”

  She turned back to face the door. “I am,” she said and stepped forward.

  With a last look up and down the battlements, Torrin plunged into the unknown labyrinth of Lok Myrr fortress after Rowan.

  Intruders

  Miroth raised his head suddenly from his work, looking across the room at the rich tapestry without seeing it. Magic had just been used within the fortress. It had been a bare trickle, but he had felt it just the same. He frowned; he had not noted the Raken pass through his ward for quite some time.

  He hissed in irritation. The work before him had consumed him, leaving little room for anything else. He had barely noted the presence of the boy standing motionless in the corner of the room, head down, eyes on the carpet.

  “Bring me the Raken guards from the door!” snapped Miroth. “Move!”

  Sol jumped and fled the room.

  Who would have the impudence to try entering Lok Myrr? A glimmer of worry tainted Miroth’s thoughts. He stood, back muscles aching in protest. With his long robes swirling, he began to pace.

  Miroth hadn’t been in contact with other Riths for almost five hundred years, and he was certain none would be bold enough to come without invitation in the middle of the night. Perhaps Cerebus had found a way to send an attacking force. Miroth shook his head. No army could approach the walls of Lok Myrr without being seen.

  Where are my beasts? Miroth’s irritation grew deeper. He had no time for this! His attention was already divided enough. As he strode past his desk, he cast a longing eye at his work, then noticed the cup of tonic that Sol had brought – he still hadn’t touched it. Miroth’s hand shook as he picked up the goblet. He bumped an ancient scroll and it rolled off the edge to land amid the books stacked around the carved legs of the table. He left it where it fell.

  Inhaling the sharp tang of herbs, he brought the cup to his lips. He hated the brew but it did work – rebuilding his strength quickly. He went to stand in front of the roaring fire, basking in the heat. After taking another mouthful of the bitter infusion, he placed the goblet on the stone mantle. He gripped the fire-warmed stones to steady himself and cast his mind out briefly to the bonded beast he had in Pellar. He held the contact only long enough to see his army of Raken swarming over the walls of Pellaris. Yes, good.

  He returned quickly, sagging against the mantle, and reached for the goblet. The shaking was worse. No matter – there was a man above in the uppermost room of the tower waiting to give his life for his master’s cause.

  Miroth stared fixedly into the flames and felt a pull of yearning, an itch to feel the power that would come from the slow ebbing of life. Very soon now, the essence that he took from each death would not bleed away like the life that had given it. Soon he would have the strength to keep pushing the Raken onward. They would not stop their assault on Pellaris this time.

  The ancient Soul-takers were mere apprentices compared to the heights he had reached with the magic. Through his own ingenuity and talents, he had discovered the complex and subtle variations of the art.

  Certain emotions, when fostered at the moment of death, added different flavours to a casting – different traits that when combined in specific ways could give the soul-taker what he needed to achieve his goals. The emotion of anger gave power but little stamina; happiness created quickness of thought; sadness gave the ability to see with clarity; and fear, fear gave the longest lasting effects of strength.

  Some emotions were very difficult to achieve during the final moments of life and the nuanced blending that came from a mix of different emotions could be extremely fulfilling. Miroth had worked for centuries meticulously cataloguing and testing the effects of the different combinations. Fear and anger was by far the most successful and useful combination he had found. The two emotions, when experienced at the moment of death in the exact mixture of almost equal amounts, allowed a soul-taker to gain long lasting strength and power. Power that augmented his own to a great degree, enabling him to perform feats that far outstripped what he would otherwise be capable of.

  But that particular blending offered little in the way of exhilaration or pleasure. Once, many years ago, Miroth had been able to achieve the emotion of love at the moment of release. Not just love for life or family; his victim had experienced a profound love for him as she died. It had left him weeping on the floor in ecstasy.

  Miroth sighed So much more was possible. There were always more layers to be peeled back, deeper depths to be sounded through skin and blood, muscle and bone at the moment when life
, in all its variations, crossed over the threshold to death.

  Miroth’s mastery of the lost skill of soul-taking had made the task of deciphering the Summoning spell far easier. Although the spell needed to summon the Wyoraith was incredibly complex, there were similarities between its structure and the spells at which Miroth was adept. As the Soul-taking spells were constructed and the power was woven to build upon itself until it vibrated with its own life, so too did the Summoning spell build and mount to its climax. The weaving needed to summon the Wyoraith was like a vast lake compared with the ponds in which Miroth worked to soul-take, but a lake only required more time to fill.

  Miroth forced himself to sip from the goblet again. He glared at the door. Where was Sol and the Raken?

  Like his soul-taking work, emotion would be very important during the summoning, not just the victim’s but his own as well. He had discovered that the Wyoraith would resonate with the intention of the Summoner. If he was not fully committed to the task at hand and clear in his purpose, the Wyoraith would be less potent – or, worse, a useless tool.

  Miroth pulled in a harsh breath. His ancient heart shuddered erratically as cold panic bled through his chest. I cannot fail.

  The Myrian woman was close; he had felt her drawing nearer over the last days. The gift he had been sending her, paired with the conditions of her journey, would be doing its work well by now. Miroth had been explicit in his instructions to the Priesthood of Erys. The men selected for the task of escorting the Messenger were to be brutal in their treatment of her, but were never to cross the line. The expectation of real violence needed to be an ever-present companion for her.