Shouts and cheers went up around him. Men renewed their fighting – the Pellarian army found new strength as flagging spirits rose.
Cerebus stepped forward to defend Pellaris’s walls. The girl and General Preven were with him.
The Summoner
Miroth meticulously tested the edge of the dagger. Satisfied, he placed it reverently in its velvet-lined case, closed the lid on the carved wooden box and threaded the small ornate bolt through the closure holes. He motioned for Sol to pack it in the chest.
It was the last of the items Miroth needed for the summoning. He looked around the interior of his study; the hours he had spent here melted away into the dim past. Once the Wyoraith was free and under his control, he would set forth from here to finally claim his true place.
He reached for his staff and caressed its smooth surface, fingers stroking wood almost as old as he was. The sapling had been green the day that he had cut it down to carve into his focus. Over the years, the wood had slowly turned black as he drew his power through it. It had become an extension of his own body and, despite its brittle age, he was still attached to it. The ravages of time had done far worse to his flesh, but he had kept himself alive for this day.
Miroth swept from the room. Reaching the cold corridor, he spoke a command to his Raken, then strode down the passageway without checking to see if they, or Sol, straining under the weight of the chest, followed.
Footsteps matching the beating of his heart, the Black Rith moved with a singular purpose fused now with the energy pulsing in the cavern below the fortress. His entire body vibrated with excitement. The power from the Soul-taking spell he had worked up in the tower coursed through him. It had been regrettably rushed and when the man died, Miroth had been unable to receive the full force of the death release. He had enough to complete the task ahead, though, and that was all that mattered.
His thoughts turned to the woman in the dungeon. The Myrian was perfect. That short time before his Raken had overwhelmed her and the warriors was enough to tell him all he needed to know. That final verification of who she was before the Summoning would not be necessary. He was looking forward to meeting her up close, looking into her eyes, and feeling the gateway to the Wyoraith through her.
Miroth turned down a short corridor leading to the main stair into the dungeons. He flared his staff to illuminated the way more clearly and began to descend.
Terrible Purpose Revealed
Torrin traced the edges of the door for the fifth time – looking for any cracks, any weakness. It was no use. The darkness was so complete the companions had to grope along the walls to explore their prison. They searched every inch of it, running hands over the tightly fitted stone walls. Even the ceiling was scoured, with Rowan boosted up onto Torrin’s shoulders.
He sighed and dropped his hands, turning back to face the room he could not see. “Anything Nathel?” His bother had been examining Dalemar as best he could in the dark.
“No, he is still out, but I can find no blood or wounds, so that is something.”
“Anyone know how long we have been in here?” Torrin had the impression that many hours had slid by in the darkness. He caught himself reaching for his sword; felt naked without it.
“I believe two hours have passed,” said Arynilas.
Torrin rubbed his face. Miroth would come for them soon. Unless Dalemar woke, they would be defenceless.
Torrin felt a light touch on his arm. He turned towards it as it slid down his arm; a hand nestled into his – Rowan. He reached out to gather her to his chest. She embraced him strongly in return and they stood together in the darkness.
“Hisst!” Arynilas whispered. “They come.”
The tramp of many feet sounded faintly, growing louder until it stopped outside the door. A jingle of keys clanked against the lock and the metal squealed.
Torrin backed away from the door, pulling Rowan with him. It ground open slowly, flooding the stone cell with torchlight. The companions squinted in the brightness and Torrin scanned the room to find everyone but Dalemar standing tensely.
Five Drae Raken entered, bristling with weapons. More crowded in the corridor outside. Torrin’s heart sank.
Rowan squeezed his hand and he looked down at her. She nodded grimly – whatever they faced, they would face it together. His heart pounded faster in his chest. Erys he loved her!
He turned to see the Black Rith step into the room, ebony staff clutched in a bony hand, deep-set eyes searing each of them in turn with cruel intent, scowling as his gaze lingered on Dalemar’s unconscious form. Miroth saved Rowan for last. A slow, sinister smile stretched his withered lips as he looked her over as a slaver would his property. Torrin clenched his fists and stepped in front of her; Nathel was with him.
Miroth refocused on the two men blocking his view and Torrin felt a physical impact from the dark gaze.
“Fools,” hissed the Black Rith. “You think you can protect her from me?” He raised his staff and levelled it at the brothers. Its tip began to glow a florid yellow-green and Torrin tensed.
Before Miroth loosed his magic, Rowan pushed between him and Nathel to stand in front of them with her head held high. “Stop. It is me you want.”
Miroth lowered his staff. “True.” His black eyes scanned them once more. “You will all be kept for useful purpose later.” The Black Rith took a step toward Rowan, finishing his appraisal of her. He took his time – dark eyes wandering over her, studying her clothes and armour, her face and hair.
Rowan stood firm. “What have you done with Hathunor?”
“Is that what you call it? Your pet Raken?” Miroth narrowed his eyes. “I assure you it is quite safe. I am grateful for the opportunity to study it further. I will take more time with it later. The few that I have had the pleasure of working with have died quite early in the experimentation process.” He watched Rowan intently for a reaction, his vindictive expression hardening into hatred. “You have cost me much in resources.” He glanced toward the nearest Raken. “All that energy spent trying to bring you here and you show up entirely on your own.” His rasping chuckle was mirthless, and when he spoke next, his voice rustled around the stone cell like a spectral wind. “Time is running short now, Keeper. We have much work to do, you and I.”
Torrin closed his eyes. Sweet Erys, he knows she is the Keeper. He silently cursed himself for a fool; he had brought her straight to the enemy.
Miroth laughed once more. “You seem surprised, yes? I sent them to wait for you in Dendor and in other ports. I had agents and Raken waiting for months before your arrival.” Miroth leaned toward Rowan and dropped his voice so that Torrin had to strain to hear. “It is a shame that your countrymen – the two who survived the journey here from where you were ambushed, had to die so slowly in order for me to learn that neither of them were the one that I sought.”
Rowan flinched as through she had been struck, but she kept her head up.
“I discovered, much to my delight, that Myrians have considerably more endurance for pain than the people of Eryos. But what I was looking for was not to be found with them, or the bodies of the rest of your brave company.”
The Black Rith watched Rowan with satisfaction as she stared at him in mute horror. Then he noticed something at her throat and reached out with his desiccated hand. Rowan turned her head away as he traced traced a finger down her neck like a lover. Shaking with suppressed rage, Torrin took a deep, steadying breath and willed himself to stay calm. Miroth’s fingers hooked the leather cord near her collar, and he drew the green amulet from beneath her breastplate, rolling the stone between his fingertips before releasing it. He tapped the leaf-like insignia that decorated her shoulder guard. “I knew the Keeper was a Myrian coming to Eryos, I just needed to find the right one.”
The Black Rith turned away. Rowan sagged against Torrin and he slipped a supporting hand under her arm. The Raken closed in.
Rowan’s long braid suddenly slid up and around her neck of its own
accord, twisting tightly. She reached up reflexively but couldn’t get her fingers under it. Torrin took hold of the end of the braid, trying to pry it from her throat; it would not budge. She could still breathe – but barely. The black Rith was ensuring that she was under control.
Miroth looked back at her. “You have eluded me for a long time. But perhaps this is as it should be. The Keeper should come willingly to release her charge, yes?”
He approached Dalemar and looked down upon his fellow Rith with contempt. The tip of his staff flared as he lowered it over Dalemar’s chest.
“He is no threat to you.” Rowan said quickly. “He lost his staff in the fighting. Your Raken did not think to bring an old piece of willow with them when they took our weapons. He is young and helpless without it.”
Miroth regarded her for a moment. “Perhaps it will be a small gift to you in return for what you will give me. You see the Wyoraith needs a soul to guide its way into this world, but not just any soul – the Keeper herself must relinquish her control to the Summoner. You will make a perfect sacrifice.”
“Erys take you!” Torrin snarled, launching himself at the Black Rith.
Rowan whirled, planted her palms on his chest before he could be impaled by the Raken.
“No, Torrin.” He pulled his glare away from Miroth to look down at her. Tears stood in her green eyes. “Please,” she begged. “He will kill you without a thought, and I cannot face what is to come if you die now.”
“We will all die anyway.” The tears spilled down her cheeks and Torrin wiped them away.
“Please wait,” she spoke very quietly. “There may still be a chance.” She glanced meaningfully to Dalemar. Torrin closed his eyes, sighing.
Miroth spoke to the Raken, and the Draes grabbed Rowan.
“I love you,” she whispered as they pulled her from his grasp. She stretched out a hand towards him; Torrin reached for it. Their fingertips brushed, then she was gone, swallowed by the towering, black scaled bodies.
I love you….
Not this. Please – a familiar curtain of madness descended over him. Torrin sobbed, lunging after her. Nathel shouted his name, grabbed at his arm but he shook it off. The Raken turned to meet him with a flurry of blows, knocking him down. Somehow he avoided the spears and regained his feet to assault the slamming door. He was only dimly aware of the others beside him trying to keep the door from closing. The light snuffed out and Torrin was left hammering at the thick iron.
“Rowan!” he screamed, hoping she could hear him. “Hold on Rowan! I will find you!”
He slammed himself into the door, pounded on it and kicked it as hard as he could. It stood unmoved – a testament to his powerlessness.
When Emma and his girls were murdered, he had been lost along with them. Not again. Never again. The blinding rage slowly lifted and Torrin subsided, panting with his forehead pressed against the cold door.
Sweet Erys protect her. Please give me the strength to save her before that demon can hurt her!
His breathing slowed; the rage and frustration overcome to reveal an unwavering purpose. He turned away from the door to grope in the dark for Dalemar.
The Offering
Rowan was swept along the dark corridor, her feet lifted clear of the floor. Tears streamed down her face as the last of Torrin’s shouts receded. Miroth paced ahead, his scarlet and black robes flickering in and out of her vision between the black bodies.
Despair yawned, a pit before her. Only the hope that Dalemar could be roused to free Torrin and the others kept her from that endless fall. She couldn’t see the path they were taking. There were doorways, locked iron grills. They paused for a moment, Rowan dimly registered the grinding of stone and then they were moving again.
The corridor began to slant downward; the walls were less finished. Water seeped down the rough stone and cool air flowed up from the way ahead. The sickly green light from Miroth’s staff lit the way and torches held by the Raken guttered. The choking smoke curled up toward the low stone ceiling.
Blackness ahead, blackness behind.
Her arms hurt where the Raken gripped her tightly. Her pounding heart shook her entire frame and her chest began to burn as if Miroth’s terrible light was already searing into her. The terror of the dream reached out for her – she was trapped, running from the dreadful fire. She began to lose herself to spiralling fear. It beat down on her, stealing reason, stealing thought. Her frantic mind could find no escape.
They had failed, failed utterly. They could not stop Miroth, and they had given him the very thing he needed to complete the summoning of the Wyoraith. Her. That was why he had hunted her so relentlessly; he needed her to help him bring about the downfall of Eryos, of everything. She had come here hoping to slay Miroth; instead she would be hastening his dominion over the land.
She sobbed, tried to fill her lungs against the crushing weight. How could we have been so foolish? How could the Seers not have foreseen this?
The corridor walls vanished, replaced by blackness. The glow of Miroth’s staff flared. A huge round room was revealed, its circular walls dimly lit and the ceiling vaulting upward into shadows.
Rowan’s breath stilled in her constricted chest – horrible recognition bloomed.
This was the end.
In her dream she was never able to escape beyond this point. Dread settled over her. She had died here over and over in bitter pain and paralyzing fear. Rowan clamped her teeth shut, fighting the impulse to scream. Panic rose like bile in her throat.
Soft laughter echoed around the vast space. Miroth turned to look curiously at her, his eyes burning her almost as much as the Rithfire in her nightmares. He said nothing, simply nodding his head.
Miroth had sent her the dream and there was something that he wanted from her in return. She didn’t know what it was but she vowed never to give it to him. She could not give in to the terror. For the sake of her friends who had risked everything for her, she could not fail in this. It was such a small thing compared with what was about to happen to her but it was the only thing she could give them now.
Rowan closed her eyes; shut out Miroth, the Raken and the vast chamber around her. 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. I control my fear. It will no longer govern me. Like a stone thrown in still water…
Rowan’s breathing began to slow and the pain in her chest eased a little. With the calming words running through her mind, she opened her eyes.
This is not the dream.
The Raken brought her forward and without the haze of panic, she noticed the chamber was actually quite different from the one in her nightmares. It was much larger and there were three openings into the vast space. The cavern in her dreams had a great pit in the center of it but what she saw in the middle here was a rising pinnacle with a flat top that thrust up from the darkness of a chasm that surrounded it like a moat. Each of the three entries into the cavern led to a bridge that was suspended across. Miroth strode over the nearest bridge to the center pinnacle, where a young man stood waiting for him.
As the Raken holding her followed Miroth across, Rowan focused on the chasm. The depth was unfathomable as it descended into purest black. Even the light from Miroth’s staff illuminated only a short distance down the sides of the abyss. She felt a presence emanating from its depths, palpable in the cool, damp air. There were no words to describe the power and force in that presence. It raised the hair on the back of her neck, closed her throat, and yet it had a familiarity that was calming even in the depth of her fear.
A great, raised stone slab stood in the center island, with four large iron rings set in the corners. Its surface was worn and stained and Rowan knew why.
Miroth, standing at the edge of the chasm, raised his arm, indicating the slab. She shook her head; panic thumped her heart. She struggled madly, twisting and heaving against the Raken. It wa
s useless – she was a blade of grass caught between stones.
The Raken lifted Rowan, placed her upon the stone, twisted the rope around her wrists and ankles and pulled it through the iron rings. Metal clanked loudly as the rope was cinched tight, straining her muscles and tendons. She couldn’t move.
Her breath coming in shallow gasps, Rowan sought calm again; found it slowly. As she rolled her head from side to side, trying to see, she became aware of a deep pulsing in her body that came from deep in the chasm. It throbbed with the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Miroth was there then, standing over her, gaunt features lit by his staff. “I have waited a long time for this, Keeper.” He beckoned to someone behind her and Rowan tilted her head back. The young man – a boy really – stepped forward with stark fear molding his features. He avoided her gaze, holding an ornate dagger out to Miroth with shaking fingers.
The Black Rith took the weapon and dismissed the boy impatiently. He held the knife above her, then slid it under the straps of her leather breastplate and began to slice. She was jostled with the force of the blade until it cut through the hard leather. When he had cut all the straps, Miroth tossed the protective garment aside.
His eyes traveled her prone length. Then he sliced open her shirt with the dagger, exposing her belly and small clothes. Rowan strained against the rope, felt it cut into her wrists. Miroth traced a line down her bare stomach with his cold finger. Rowan squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering. He cackled softly. “Patience, my love. You make it much harder on yourself by struggling, yes? You were destined for this day.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Rowan focused inward, seeking calm in the fear mantra and the pulsing coming from the earth below. If she was truly the Keeper of the Wyoraith, then its power was also hers. She reached for it, opened herself and let its pulsing fill her.
The knife touched her stomach. Cold metal on hot flesh – then Miroth cut.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 54
