Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Fear – it was the key to the potency of the summoning. She had to be terrified.

  Miroth had taken the utmost care in constructing his sending for the girl, making sure it was not too strong to overcome her completely. Most of the subjects that he had worked this form of mind projection on eventually went insane as the dream took over their waking lives. She would be stronger than most, and able to keep madness at bay until the very end.

  He bared yellow teeth and clenched his jaw as saliva pooled in his mouth in anticipation. Several loose teeth shifted. Very shortly he would become the caretaker of her suffering. Let her be worthy of her fate.

  He cast his mind downward toward the cavern deep below the fortress. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the force within it swelled upward in anticipation of release. He sighed and came back to himself.

  Miroth had recognized the presence that dwelled beneath Lok Myrr long ago, when he had wrested possession of the fortress from the Krang Warlords. It was the place he had searched for so relentlessly. Finally, he could begin his true work in earnest. In their own crude way, even the Warlords had understood that great power slept beneath the fortress – attested to by the pointless but appropriate victims they had hurled into the chasm to appease it.

  Miroth had looked down into that pit of darkness with his heart racing, knowing that with the dormant inhabitant at his command, he would be able to reach the great heights for which he was destined. Since then all his energy had been channelled toward this end. Uncounted years had bled away like the lives he had taken to gain the power he needed to finally release what slept below – an eternal entity waiting for resurrection and release by a hand that could control and direct its vast power.

  Miroth hissed and drank down that last of his bitter tonic. Focus! There were still so many urgent tasks yet to be done, each as important as the next and demanding his undivided attention. He resumed his pacing.

  Two Raken stepped into the room. Sol slunk in after them, trying to hide behind their bulk. Miroth spoke to them, the harsh sound of their speech odd in his mouth as always. The beasts nodded once and turned without uttering a sound, almost trampling his stupid assistant in the process.

  Anger rose like bile to Miroth’s tongue. “I have been kept waiting, my attention taken from vital work.”

  Sol began to back away, stammering out an apology. “My Lord, th-the Raken w-were n-not at their post. I had to run down the –”

  Miroth motioned impatiently, cutting Sol off with a thread of power squeezed around the boy’s throat.

  “I do not have time for your excuses, idiot,” he spat. “Go with them! I want to know who trespasses in my fortress. Bring whoever it is to me alive.”

  Miroth released his hold and stalked towards his work, barely registering the boy scuttling from the room. The scroll on his desk was ancient, disintegrating even as he read it. It would be destroyed once he had memorized what was needed from it. Only a single phrase was left, but it had to be recited exactly or all the work for the Summoning would be in vain.

  There is no room for error.

  Dark Passage

  The shadowy corridors of Lok Myrr were cold, ominously still. Despite the chill, Torrin reached up to wipe sweat from his brow. Borlin’s small lantern cast a dim illumination in the blackness.

  A light bled out of the dark ahead – a torch smoking in the damp air. They were near the center of the huge fortress now. As they moved into the light Torrin looked back at his friends. Their expressions were set, wary. Rowan returned his gaze steadily.

  The plan was to find their way as quickly as possible to the east tower where Miroth would be behind his ward. What they would do when they found him… Torrin frowned; they had a few surprises for the Black Rith. Hathunor for one – Miroth might not know about the Saa Raken’s abilities to control magic. Surprise itself was also a weapon to be used. Rowan freed, and here of her own will was another.

  They came to a junction of corridors. Without slowing, Arynilas turned east and headed down the dim hallway to the left. A wavering torch was set far down its length.

  Hathunor growled. Torrin and the others stopped, listening. Ahead of them, they began to hear the faint tramp of many running feet.

  “What are the chances they are not looking for us?” asked Nathel.

  “Slim to none.” Torrin ground his teeth, looking at Rowan. “We will have to find another way to the east tower.”

  She nodded and turned back the way they had come, spell sword grasped in her right hand. Quickening their pace, they took the left passage at the junction – the next best route into the darkness. They had to move as far into Lok Myrr as possible; couldn’t waste precious time and energy engaging enemy Raken.

  They jogged through a corridor with doorways that yawned open darkly. Only a few were closed and one or two had light seeping from under the threshold. The bare rooms were depressing – servants’ quarters.

  Torrin skidded to a halt with his friends as an old man stepped out of a room directly ahead of them, his swinging lantern casting a swooping light across the stone walls. He froze as he saw them. Standing ghostlike, with his long white hair draggling over bony shoulders and parchment-pale skin illuminated from below, he stared with round, milky eyes. Torrin wondered if he was blind. Then it dawned on him – this was a man from the west, like the ones that laboured on the ships he and Nathel had watched in Pellaris’s harbour as children. He had never seen a Westman this close.

  Arynilas drew his bow, aiming to silence the pallid man before he could shout warning. But the Westman quailed back from them and cast himself upon the stone floor, covering his head. His lantern sputtered to darkness as it rolled to a stop near Torrin’s feet.

  “Wait!” Torrin bent swiftly over the frightened man, grasping his skinny shoulders. “How do we find Miroth’s tower?”

  The man began to sob, squeezing his eyes shut.

  Torrin modified his tone. “We will not harm you. All we want to know is how to get to the Lord of Lok Myrr.”

  The man’s toothless mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “Will you show us the way?” asked Rowan urgently beside Torrin. The Westman’s pale eyes opened, rolled over to Rowan, and he nodded weakly.

  Torrin lifted him from the floor and set him back on his feet, motioning forward. “Lead.”

  The old Westman stumbled a few steps in the direction they had been going, but it was quickly apparent that he was too old to travel at their pace. After getting a few stammered instructions out of him, they bundled him into an empty room and continued onward.

  Soon another hallway branched off toward the left, heading east. It led to a set of spiral stairs; they began to climb. Hathunor stopped and Torrin pulled up sharply to avoid running into him. The Saa Raken pointed up the stairway. “Hathunor sense Draes.”

  “How many?” Torrin asked.

  Hathunor tilted his head. “Hathunor cannot tell. Little Brothers feel faint.”

  Torrin looked down the stairs at his companions.

  “Me thinks we’ll no make it further wi’out a fight,” Borlin said quietly, hefting his short sword.

  Nathel looked down a step at Dalemar. “Any element of surprise we had is gone. Miroth knows we are here now. Why not hide us with magic like you and Hathunor did in the Boglands?”

  Dalemar shook his head. “Miroth would be able to locate us through the magic we would be wrapped in.”

  “Yes but the goal is to reach Miroth with as little fighting as possible. If we can evade the Raken to get close enough to take out the Black Rith, then we should try it,” said Nathel.

  “Don’t forget how difficult that spell was on Dalemar,” said Rowan. “We will need Dalemar at full strength when we confront Miroth.”

  Torrin ground his sword tip on the stair. “I agree. Dalemar, you must conserve your strength for when it matters most. Use magic only when necessary; the less information we give Miroth the better.”

  Hathunor motioned to the ot
hers.

  Torrin took the steps two at a time until he reached the curve near the opening at the top, then flattened himself against the wall as the rest of the companions followed. Arynilas darted out of the opening and instantly blended into the shadows on the other side. Borlin shuttered his lantern, leaving Hathunor’s glowing eyes as the only light.

  They could hear the sound of the approaching Raken now – a large group. Torrin risked a peek through the stairwell entry, and cursed silently under his breath. Twelve Raken were striding through the passageway towards them with several torches. They looked different somehow. It took Torrin a moment to realize they had no crests and their shoulder spines were blunt. They were also very small – Torrin and Nathel’s size, in contrast to the bigger Drae escorting them.

  Hathunor spoke in a low rumble. “No kill these Little Brothers. They are cubs. They should not be here. This terrible fate for little ones.”

  Torrin stared up at Hathunor. In the oncoming torchlight, every fang glinted in a snarl the likes of which Torrin had never seen.

  He looked quickly back out the door. These Raken were children!

  “What should we do, Hathunor?” Rowan asked in a whisper.

  The giant Raken swung his huge head to look at the companions, and then he focused on Dalemar. “Power, give Hathunor a little magic.”

  The young Drae Raken were almost upon them. Dalemar did not hesitate, reaching out for Hathunor. Blue light flared in the darkness and Hathunor stepped through the doorway, stretching out his hand.

  The little Drae Raken stopped, staring up at their giant kinsman, but stood for only a moment before collapsing to the stone floor. The full-grown Drae stood unaffected and Arynilas released his arrow. A clean kill – the big Drae collapsed dead among the smaller Raken.

  One of the young Draes closest to the doorway reached out. Hathunor swiftly crouched over him and they spoke in the strange gravel-slide Raken tongue. The small Raken closed his eyes and Hathunor gently laid his great hand upon the little one’s chest.

  Hathunor stood, clenching his clawed hands, and threw back his great head, venting forth a ferocious snarl. The sound of it echoed down the corridors and into the shadows beyond.

  Dalemar stepped forward, studying the forms of the young Raken. “What is it, Hathunor? What angers you so?”

  Hathunor’s voice was filled with sorrow. “Miroth enslaves Sisters.”

  Torrin stepped through the door with Rowan and the rest of the companions to stand next to the Rith and the Saa Raken. He looked down at the still forms of the young Raken – they did look like children.

  “Did ye put them t’ sleep?” asked Borlin.

  Hathunor nodded. “Young ones not strong enough to withstand sleep spell.”

  “How does Miroth force such young Raken to do his bidding?” asked Rowan. Borlin lifted the shutter on his lantern, augmenting the sputtering torches, and they saw the dreadful answer. The young Raken were covered in fresh wounds, long thin cuts and welts criss-crossed their bodies like stitching on a quilt – whip marks.

  Hathunor stood looking down rumbling softly in despair. Nathel reached up and grasped the Saa Raken’s arm. “We will find them, Hathunor, your Sisters. We will find them and free them.” His voice hardened. “We will free them all somehow.

  Weary Dawn

  Cerebus’s sword was heavy in his hand. The burning in his shoulder and arm was excruciating and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. His fingers slipped on the hilt of his sword; he readjusted his grip. His leg was numb where blood leaked from a long claw gash.

  Another ladder clattered against the stone wall, then another. Black Raken swarmed over the wall into the recently cleared space. He moved forward to help force them back. The men were exhausted – Raken were being repelled more and more slowly and the extra time allowed the enemy to cause greater damage. Bodies littered the battlements and blood made the footing treacherous.

  A woman appeared beside him. Her short sword cut at a Raken flank. The beast screamed and spun to attack. The woman retreated, sword awkwardly raised before her. There was fear in her eyes but also determination. Cerebus was shocked when he realized how young she was – perhaps only sixteen.

  Dear Erys!

  Intercepting the Raken, he took the blow meant for her on his shield. His left arm shuddered and he gritted his teeth as he thrust the shield upward and spun, slamming his sword through the beast’s chest.

  The young woman was there again, thrusting her sword into the black, scaled skin as the beast fell. She wrenched her sword free and turned to face the wall as the next Raken scrambled over it. She cast a quick look at Cerebus; he nodded to her. Her beautiful young face lit up as she realized who he was.

  Cerebus killed the next Raken as it landed on the battlements, and the young woman picked up the pole to push the ladder back. It hardly moved; he grabbed the pole behind her and heaved, grunting with the effort. The ladder slowly moved away from the wall, then fell backward quickly as gravity took over.

  Cerebus stood, gasping, looking along the wall for more Raken. It was clear for the moment. In the pale dawn light, he saw more and more women among the men. They wore miss-matched light armour. Many held bows, firing down at the the swarm of Raken on the ladders. Others fought with short swords and small shields like the girl beside him.

  Cerebus saw Preven along the wall and hailed him. The General wore a blood-soaked bandage around his head under his helm. Cerebus moved to meet him, taking the brief reprieve to shake out his sword arm.

  “I thought I told you to keep the women away from the front line,” he said.

  “No choice, Sire. We would have been overrun without them.” Preven wiped sweat from his eyes. “As it is, I turned them away twice, but more and more came; some with kitchen knives and hatchets. I have been trying to arm them with the light armour but…” He shrugged.

  Cerebus sighed. “Yes, you are right. They might not have skill in battle but their determination is making up for lack of experience.”

  Rowan of Myris Dar had inspired much in the people of Pellar.

  It was just as well, thought Cerebus wearily; they needed as much help as they could get. “Any word on the cavalry and reinforcements promised from Klyssen and Tabor?”

  “No, Sire. it looks as though they will get here too late, if at all.”

  Cerebus looked along the battlements. The Raken had been assaulting the walls now for five hours. The early morning light painted the sky above in pale pink – an echo of the blood washing the stones.

  The army of Pellar was taking heavy casualties; the city was now evacuated to the keep. Those on the walls were dying as they tired. But there was nothing to be done for it, no one to relieve them.

  New scaling ladders cracked against the wall where they had cleared them.

  Cerebus closed his eyes – all they could do was keep fighting. Try to hold the walls as long as possible before retreating to make a final stand at the keep.

  He hefted his sword and shield and stepped forward to face the next wave. Preven and the young woman stepped with him.

  Escape

  Galen waited impatiently in the dark tunnel entrance. He he hated being this deep underground. He could picture the flurry of activity in the marbled halls of the Temple, but the silence down this deep was complete. Galen could well imagine how that stillness had been broken when the tunnel had been used earlier by the party going in search of the Myrian woman. At the time he had been moving through the Temple’s secret corridors with the remaining High Commission members and a few priests for escort, carrying torches and provisions.

  He looked back through the small opening into the dim basement vault. Several priests were praying silently to the Goddess for her protection. Galen’s prayers were not to Erys, but to the execution of well-laid plans.

  The sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet and Galen stepped out of the tunnel in time to see two priests dressed as castle guardsmen enter the basement vault, followed by a
third figure.

  “Thank the sweet Goddess, Patriarch N’Avarin! We have been so worried,” said one of the priests as the High Commission members moved forward to surround the three arrivals.

  The guardsmen-priests turned to close the door and bar it, revealing the thin, scarecrow figure they had been escorting. Tihir N’Avarin’s usual austere appearance was marred by a dirty face and scraggly hair. The borrowed layman’s clothes he wore were crumpled and soiled. His dark eyes were sunk deep into his skull and they burned with a feverish intensity.

  Galen stepped forward to greet the Patriarch. “I am so sorry for your ordeal, Patriarch. It must have been dreadful for you.”

  N’Avarin’s expression in the torchlight flashed briefly with anger before he covered it. “It is good to see you, Chancellor Galen. I understand that I have you to thank as the architect of my emancipation from Cerebus’s dungeon. It was not a pleasant experience, but with Erys’ help, I have endured it. You have my lasting gratitude for your tireless work on behalf of the Priesthood.”

  “It was my duty, Patriarch, one I did happily. I am just glad that you are safely delivered to us,” said Galen blandly, motioned for the priests to gather the torches and gear. “It is time that we leave, Patriarch, provided that you are up for the journey. Horses will be waiting at the other end to take us safely away until such time as we can return to our beloved city.”

  “If there is even going to be a city to return to,” said Commission member Pothiern darkly. He fussed with the Scepter of Erys where it was hidden under his black robes. Galen frowned. He was regretting entrusting him with its safety.

  One of the priests disguised as a guard came to his side and reported quietly. “The King and all the army are upon the walls. They will not last much longer.”