Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Sol heaved in a great breath and clenched his fists. His chest ached. Something long forgotten in his fear-tainted existence swelled in him, bringing heat to his face. It rose into his throat, choking him. He began to tremble, but his shaking was no longer from terror. Sol felt a strength that amazed him. His tears dried on his cheeks and his teeth clamped together in sudden resolve.

  No more. He hadn’t had the courage to help Pernic, but maybe it was not too late to help this woman.

  He reached down to where he had dropped the keys and curled his fingers around the cold iron ring. Sol looked back at his Master, consumed by the magic he was working. He looked at the woman writhing on the altar.

  Sol darted towards one of the bridges. It was left of the one they had crossed to get to the island pinnacle. He glanced back only when he was halfway across the span. The fog had completely disappeared into the woman now and the Master was standing over her with his back to Sol, oblivious to all else but his terrible work. Sol felt something wet in his hand and looked down to find blood seeping from his fist. He was gripping the keys so hard they had cut into his palm.

  A Lesson for the Teacher

  The moment Rowan felt the dense fog enter her body, she knew it – it was a part of who she was, had always been a part of who she was. It pulsed through her like her own blood. Her muscles hardened and flexed, arching her back as the power was pulled ever faster into her. There was heat at her throat and burning fire coursed through her. She gasped in air, could not feel the sensation of her own body. There was no longer any separation between her and the vast power of the Wyoraith whistling violently through her.

  Rowan understood then what it meant to be the Keeper of this earthbound power. She understood how important it was to keep it from being used for evil purpose.

  As the last of the Wyoraith was absorbed into her, Miroth loom over her. His face was painted with excited triumph. He reached down and picked up the second blood-filled bowl and brought it to his lips. His black eyes never left hers as he swallowed. Rowan shuddered in understanding – the Wyoraith would be drawn to her blood as he consumed it.

  He pulled the bowl away from his mouth. Blood dribbled down his chin and ran into the creases and folds of loose flesh under his jaw. His eyes closed for a moment in pleasure as he savoured the taste. Then he drank once more, but didn’t swallow. Instead he arched backward and spat up into the air above them – a fine spray of red. His staff glowed as the mist of blood reached its apex. It hung there, a scarlet cloud – above where Rowan was tied.

  Once again Miroth spoke words of magic to summon the Wyoraith and the roiling, seething power within her began to rush outwards once more. Rowan gritted her teeth as it scoured through her and up to the suspended blood. Her body shook and as the last vestige of it spilled forth, she lay bereft.

  Miroth filled his lungs and dropped his chin until it almost touched his chest. His eyes slid closed and for a third time he began to chant. This time, his speech was laced with all the blackness of his heart.

  Rowan cringed with revulsion as his voice mounted. The greyness of the Wyoraith contracted and she watched in despair as its color began to change.

  Deeper and heavier came Miroth’s voice, soaked with a terrible malevolence. The Wyoraith began to revolve as it darkened. Rowan was helpless to stop the energy above her from transforming. It began to absorb and reflect all the evil that was Miroth.

  Waves of nausea washed over her. The Wyoraith was swirling faster and faster, becoming a roiling blackness that sucked heat and life from the cavern. She could feel it all. The Wyoraith was linked to Miroth’s emotions – a thousand years of hatred that had festered in darkness, growing and twisting into madness and an insatiable lust for vengeance was now swirling like a hurricane through the Wyoraith, tainting its essence. She felt the Black Rith’s unbridled scorn for all life and his terrible need to control it. Miroth’s own personality, his true nature – the Rith he had been when he was young – was but a faint glimmer of sanity lost in a sea of anger, pain and an overwhelming desire to inflict suffering and agony on others.

  Rowan’s fear of Miroth the Rith paled when compared with the dread she held for his creation. With the enormous power of the Wyoraith under his control, the Black Rith would reign supreme.

  The presence now swirling above was beyond evil, it was the antithesis of life, hammering at her. Rowan groaned in loathing as the taint now within the Wyoraith oozed through her own body. It fed on her fear, taking from her all that she held dear. She desperately wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

  Fear is not my master…Rowan clung to the mantra.

  And then she felt it – an island of calm in the storm. There was a small aspect of the Wyoraith that hadn’t been completely consumed by Miroth. Rowan folded her will around it; protected that tiny spark of rightness within the morass of corruption. She willed it to strengthen, to stand against the wickedness of the Black Rith. She fed it, pouring her love for Torrin, her friends and homeland into it; felt it respond and grow. She gave it her own courage, her own will to fight for what was right. Her father’s face came to her and her mother and brother. She fed the Wyoraith her love for them.

  She was its Keeper and she would keep it safe and uncorrupted.

  The Wyoraith was almost touching Miroth now. The spinning vortex at its center had extended down over his head. Miroth lifted his face to it and reached out his hand to caress his creation. He drew back suddenly from the contact.

  “There is something wrong,” he said in shock. “It is not as it should be! It is not complete – not nearly powerful enough. Not fully mine.”

  Rowan clenched her teeth and focused harder on the Wyoraith.

  Miroth looked at her, his dark eyes filled with wrath. “What have you done, Myrian?”

  Rowan gasped – a flash of comprehension. The dream Miroth sent her was meant to instil fear. As the Keeper, she could influence the summoning. Her fear was intended to make Miroth’s conquering of her and the Wyoraith absolute. For the summoning to work properly, she had to be terrified. But she was afraid – only not as afraid as she would have been without the dream to teach her to control that fear.

  Satisfaction settled over her, calming her further. She fed that calm to the Wyoraith; it lightened a shade. Miroth had prepared her well but not for the task he expected.

  Rage etched across his skeletal face. He was breathing heavily, a wild, mad look in his eyes. “You have ruined the spell, marred the summoning.”

  Rowan looked up at him with defiance. “It is you who taught me to master my fear, Rith. You should be proud of me. I have learned your lesson well.”

  Miroth hissed at her with clenched teeth. He grabbed the dagger, his hand shaking with fury. “We will see how afraid you can be, Myrian. There is still time to correct some of the damage before the rest of the sacrifice is needed. You will see that pain can be a teacher as well.” Spit flew from his mouth, landing on her bare skin, burning her.

  He reached down, bony fingers sliding across her stomach; long nails scratching. The blade of the knife touched her and she gasped – it was like ice. Slowly he drew a line down her middle with the flat of the blade. Then he pivoted it up until the tip bit into her lower abdomen.

  “Now you will suffer.” The tip of the knife pressed harder and Rowan braced herself against the coming pain.

  A loud blast shook the room. Miroth whirled to see what was happening, the knife still in his hand. Dust sifted down from above. Rowan lifted her head, straining to see. Another blast jolted the chamber, sending a tumble of rock from the cavern ceiling to land on the Raken standing guard at the entrance.

  A crackle of blue fire; the flash of an arrow; the sound of clashing steel in the passage beyond the entrance.

  Torrin.

  Miroth shrieked in rage and levelled his staff at the door. A bolt of liquid green fire blasted from the tip. It exploded into the Raken guards indiscriminately.

  Rowan saw Torrin then, fighting f
uriously to get through the Raken; his great sword flashing blue in the Rithfire. Hope surged through her.

  Miroth aimed his staff again, directly at Torrin. Rowan screamed out a warning; the green Rithfire flashed. Torrin saw it too late, even as he began to move, to duck – he couldn’t avoid it.

  Time slowed, a moment, an instant suspended. Rowan watched helplessly with perfect clarity as Nathel stepped in front of his brother, shielding him. Miroth’s bolt hit Nathel squarely in the chest. He was blasted backward to slam into the stone wall, collapsing to the floor.

  Battle in the Great Cavern

  “No!” screamed Torrin. He lunged under the Raken blades to where Nathel lay against the wall; lifted his head into his lap.

  “Nathel! Oh sweet Erys, no. Nathel!”

  His brother slowly opened his eyes. His chest was burned and blackened, his chainmail and armour destroyed and hanging in tatters with bits of metal and leather fused into the terrible wound. Nathel’s shallow breath was laboured and he shuddered in pain.

  “Nathel?” Torrin registered his companions form in a defensive ring around them; saw Dalemar as he turned to confront the Black Rith, sending blue fire streaming outward from his hands towards the hated figure. Saw Rowan, lashed to the stone beside Miroth. He registered all this in an instant, as though there were two of him – one watching his friends, wanting desperately to get to the woman he loved and to kill the enemy who had done this to them. The other, holding his brother, the only family he had in this world, whose life was slipping away.

  Torrin looked at Dalemar, hoping beyond hope that the Rith would be able to heal his brother; save him before it was too late, but knew when he saw Dalemar battling with Miroth that the young Rith would die the moment he tried to disengage himself.

  “Tor,” breathed Nathel. Torrin bent close to hear. “I couldn’t let it happen again,” Nathel coughed weakly, trying to get air into his ruined lungs. “Couldn’t live with the thought… of you losing her like Emma.” He closed his eyes.

  “Nathel!” Torrin no longer heard the tumult surrounding them; was straining only to catch his brother’s words.

  Nathel opened his eyes and gazed up at Torrin. “Go to her. Save her, Tor. She needs you – I love you, brother…” Nathel’s eyes closed and did not open again.

  Torrin hugged his brother’s body to him, his chest aching and grief rising like a tide. Go to her. Save her, Tor…

  Tears blurring his vision, he let Nathel gently down and took up his sword. He clenched his teeth and stood to face Miroth and his beasts.

  Dalemar was locked in desperate struggle with the Black Rith. Blue fire from his outstretched fingers connected to Miroth’s eerie green, creating a pulsing column. It crackled and snapped, splintering away in threads of light. The green fire was pushing back Dalemar’s blue. The young Rith stood shaking, teeth bared in effort and hands flowing with fire.

  Arynilas was out of arrows, his flashing knives cutting into the Raken around them. Torrin helped Borlin in pushing a Raken over the edge.

  A blur of movement to the left caught Torrin’s eye. Hathunor came barrelling through the arch at the next entrance into the great chamber. The huge Saa Raken slid to a stop, his great head swivelling to take in the scene. Then he launched himself across the bridge and even at a distance Torrin could see the the snarl on his face.

  A small figure stumbled into the chamber after the Saa Raken – a lanky boy with a ring of keys in his fist.

  Hathunor reached the center pinnacle; then he stepped into the Rithfire.

  When the giant Raken stepped into the stream of magic it winked out behind him and Dalemar sagged to the floor. Miroth’s eyes widened in surprise and then fear.

  Hathunor faced Miroth, capturing the Black Rith’s magic, and absorbing it into his great black body. He turned his head and looked back toward the desperate battle at the cavern entrance and cast out a long arm. Green light flared from his clawed hand – a pure green, cleaned of Miroth’s vile taint. It shot towards the Drae Raken, piercing them like lightning.

  Torrin arrested the swing of his sword, watching warily as Miroth’s Raken were transfixed, backs arched and arms thrown wide. The sound of magic hummed throughout the cavern and the light it cast bleached the shadows.

  The flow from Hathunor ceased and the light flickered and faded around the Drae Raken. The beasts staggered as they were released. Torrin backed away but kept his sword up as they looked around in confusion – waking from a terrible dream.

  As one, they dropped their weapons with a clatter and turned to watch Hathunor as he fought their oppressor.

  Torrin launched himself forward, jumping over fallen bodies, dodging past the Drae Raken. He sprinted over the bridge, past Hathunor and Miroth. He reached Rowan, staked out on the slab; saw blood glistening on her bare stomach; relief in her eyes.

  Slashing his sword down at each corner, Torrin severed the ropes binding her. He pulled her up into his arms and lifted her clear of the hard stone. She was shaking.

  Miroth screamed then. He reached up toward the swirling black vortex above him. The Rithfire that connected him to Hathunor arced upward into the Wyoraith, where a section of the streaming magic touched it. Hathunor roared in pain. Then he was thrown backward, landing heavily and unmoving near the edge of the abyss.

  The Black Rith, looking shaken, turned towards them. His expression of fatigue resolved into burning hatred.

  A Warrior’s Sword

  Rowan watched as Miroth aimed the tip of his staff directly at Torrin. She shoved Torrin as hard as she could; he went with the force, diving behind the stone slab just as rancid green fire lanced through the space he had been.

  Rowan glanced up at the dark mass of the Wyoraith swirling over Miroth. An icy cold radiating from it now. Large coils of it snaked down through the air, circling the Black Rith, twirling around and through him, drawing his attention.

  Rowan inched closer – the dagger he had used on her was only a few paces away. She gathered herself to dive for it, hoping to get to Miroth before he could react. But he looked back at her and she froze.

  His eyes were strange – the power of the Wyoraith clouded them. “It is time, Keeper.” His staff glowed brightly. “We must complete the summoning.”

  “Rowan!” Torrin threw something towards her. It glittered in the green light – a long flash of metal. Her sword. Rowan lunged forward, caught the hilt, then spun.

  “Dyrn Mythian Irnis Mor Ranith!” she shouted. The sword leapt in her hands, humming. Miroth shot deadly Rithfire at her; she dodged, barely avoiding it. Pain lanced across her skin with the searing heat of it.

  Then her sword connected, but it wasn’t Miroth it hit. A yellow-tinted shield of magic had sprung up between the Black Rith and her sword. Rowan’s arm shuddered with the impact. The humming of her sword increased when it connected with the shielding, becoming a high-pitched whine.

  Miroth glared at her from behind the safety of his magic.

  Rowan drew her blade across the transparent surface of the shield. The humming increased in pitch again; a piercing whistle overlaid the thrumming now.

  The shield gave a little.

  Miroth glanced down at her sword in apprehension.

  Rowan gritted her teeth and pressed harder. The sword’s song increased again, hurting her ears and the shield gave a little more. Amid the screaming din of the battling magic, Rowan felt her sword finally slip through the barrier. She shifted her weight and lunged forward with all her strength, pivoting the blade so it would stab through the small opening.

  The Black Rith crumpled forward as the razor-sharp spell sword took him in the chest. The shield flickered and died. Miroth dropped his staff with a clatter and the poisonous green light snuffed out.

  The black tendrils around Miroth recoiled, pulling away from him. They snaked back up to the swirling Wyoraith above.

  “No!” Miroth screamed as the Wyoraith withdrew.

  He staggered forward and latched onto Rowan
. His skeletal hands were surprisingly strong. They stumbled toward the edge of the pinnacle. She wrenched at her blade, still trapped in Miroth’s flesh, but he clung tighter to her, carrying them to the edge.

  Rowan heard Torrin shout her name. It was too late, she felt herself slip, pulled down to the ground and over the edge into the blackness below.

  To Catch a Falling Hero

  “Rowan!” Torrin shouted in horror as she was pulled over the edge into the chasm by the Black Rith.

  He launched himself forward, diving. Threw his arms out; his sword spun away. He landed on his stomach and skidded across the ground. His head and shoulders crested the rim of the abyss and were suspended over the edge; his arm stretching, straining, fingers reaching.

  An eternity passed in that moment, then he caught Rowan by the wrist.

  The sudden weight wrenched at his shoulder, threatening to pull him over the edge as well. The fingers of his other hand and toes griped the ridges and cracks of the ground, barely holding. Rowan swung down and slammed against the wall of the pinnacle with a groan. Miroth still clung to her.

  Torrin couldn’t pull them both up with one arm. Rowan looked up at him – she knew it as well. He was slowly sliding over the edge.

  He felt weight then on his legs. His friends were gripping his feet. The inexorable sliding ceased.

  Rowan let go of her sword, still buried in Miroth’s torso. She struck the Rith with her free fist, then her elbow, but he clung frantically to her.

  Torrin turned his head and closed his eyes, willing his straining muscles to hold on. When he opened his eyes, he saw a golden dagger lying on the floor next to his free hand – Miroth’s dagger. He glanced back to Borlin and Arynilas, holding his feet, then chanced it. He let go of his tenuous hold and grabbed the knife. He called out to Rowan and tossed it over the edge.