A great, black, monstrous shape was bent low over the woman. Torrin could just make out the jutting crest on the creature’s head and back in the pale moonlight. It had its huge arm extended and was reaching towards the woman’s face.
Torrin yanked his sword free of its scabbard, the metallic ring mingling with the warning he shouted to the others.
Borlin spun around and cursed loudly. He tugged his sword free and began to run towards the intruder. Torrin himself was already halfway towards the creature.
It reared up to its full height and Torrin almost stumbled in amazement at its size. It was enormous. It was even bigger than the Raken they had fought before entering the Wilds. Torrin doubted he stood as high as its black scaled chest. He clamped his teeth shut and hefted his broadsword.
The huge creature spun, lightning quick, and launched itself into the darkness of the surrounding trees. Torrin stopped when he reached the woman. Dalemar, Nathel and Arynilas were all up and out of their blankets. Except for the Rith, they had weapons in hand.
Torrin turned to Arynilas. “Can you see it?”
“No, it has already disappeared. It is much faster than the other Raken we have encountered.”
“What was it doing?” asked Nathel.
Torrin shook his head; the same question had been on his mind. “I don’t know but it was interested in her.”
They all looked down at the woman on the ground. Nathel bent close to inspect her. “She appears to be fine. The creature must not have had time to hurt her.”
“What makes you so sure it wanted to hurt her?” Arynilas asked quietly.
Torrin and the others turned to look at the Tynithian. It was difficult to see his expression in the dark.
They knew next to nothing about these Raken creatures; they could not discount anything. “He’s right,” said Torrin. “It had time to kill her or even to abduct her if that had been its intent.” He hissed in anger. “It got right into the camp before we detected it. It was almost as quiet as you are, Arynilas.”
“Did you see how big it was?” asked Dalemar.
“Aye, it was far bigger than any Raken we ’ave seen so far,” stated Borlin.
“Yes, but it was definitely Raken. I saw that much,” said Nathel from where he was checking the woman.
“Aye, that it was lad. That it was,” echoed Borlin.
The remainder of the night passed tensely. The companions slept little for fear of the creature stealing into the camp again. Torrin was angry with himself for allowing it to get passed his watch. The way the huge creature moved, he knew it could have hurt the injured woman if it had wanted to. There were now even more questions he wanted to ask their new traveling companion.
*
The next morning Nathel found that the woman’s fever had passed and she was sleeping restfully. He dosed her again with winoth root and Borlin made a fine gruel that they were able to feed her carefully with a spoon.
Nathel’s compassion for the sick and injured never ceased to amaze Torrin. His brother would attach himself to complete strangers who needed healing, exhausting himself to bring them back to health. Torrin was often struck by the irony that his brother’s other great talent lay in inflicting with his sword some of the same injuries that he strove to cure.
Nathel had never taken to the sword as completely as Torrin had. His skill was still impressive, and he used his weapons with a calm efficiency born of necessity, but Torrin suspected that his brother experienced none of the cathartic release that Torrin had always felt when his sword was in his hands.
Nathel was a clown and a rascal at heart whose ability to heal others had as much to do with his jokes and laughter than his herbs and medic’s skill. But despite his younger brother’s pranks and Torrin’s frequent urge to throttle him, Nathel was absolutely loyal. An unshakable bond held them together that went beyond the love of brothers. Nathel had been the only one able to bring Torrin back from where he had been lost seven years ago. At the time, the last thing Torrin had wanted was to be found, but Nathel had refused to give up; refused to allow his older brother to disappear forever into his own private oblivion. They never spoke of it, but Torrin would be dead if not for Nathel.
The companions traveled slowly through the trees and rock-strewn gullies of the Wilds as the sun slid across the sky. The day was bright and clear. They were entering a more rugged section of the Wilds. Craggy tors of exposed rock covered with twisted trees rose to either side as they moved through the narrow clefts. The occasional rockslide sounded above as small game flushed from hiding at their passage.
Hawks circled above – a pair that Torrin had been watching for over an hour. Their speeding shadows swept over the sunlit ground around them, reaching a jutting cliff wall and racing up its rough surface at a sharp angle. Torrin relaxed in his saddle and sighed. He loved the quiet peace of the Wilds and he could well understand why the Tynithian race once chose to dwell in its guarded forests.
The woman in their midst had slept quietly all day, her exhausted body trying to recuperate through sleep. Nathel still rode with her in his arms. He expected her to wake soon and they all anticipated the meeting. Torrin frowned, pulled from his reverie. He was impatient to have his questions answered and he was lying to himself if the thought of seeing those green eyes again was not part of the reason he wanted her to wake.
A piercing howl erupted from the woods to their right.
Torrin reached for his sword and looked to Arynilas. The Tynithian was scanning the surrounding forest with bow drawn and a golden fletched arrow nocked. He glanced over at Torrin, shaking his head.
The howl ripped through the air again, closer this time. The horses twitched their ears and Torrin’s young stallion spooked to the left.
Torrin thought he could hear the faint echo of returning howls, pitched higher, in the far distance. He glanced around at the terrain, assessing it as he pressed his knee to the side of his horse and shifted his weight to move it back to the path. They were in a small clearing surrounded by the denser forest. A rocky hill rose on their left, its top covered with trees and moss. Aside from the hill there was little hope of defending the clearing if they were outnumbered.
Again the howl erupted but it was behind them now. “Let’s move!” called Torrin. The companions spurred their horses forward and plunged into the trees. When they heard the howl again, it was further behind them, much further than they had moved in the short time since hearing it last – it was traveling away from them.
Torrin pulled his horse up to maneuver around a large patch of the poisonous blue-flowered vine. He slowed to a trot. The horses were excited by the howls, and Torrin reached down to soothe his big black mount.
They heard the howl again, along with its answering echoes, further away still. If Torrin had to make a guess, he would say that the Raken they had heard first was the one that had been following them. He shook his head, running a hand through his short dark hair, frowning. It made no sense.
“What is going on?” Nathel put voice to the question.
“Is it just me, or did the closer Raken lead the others away?” asked Dalemar.
“It is not just you, Rith. I also believe that is what happened,” said Arynilas.
“Let’s keep moving. The more distance we put between ourselves and the Raken the better,” said Torrin. “We know how fast these creatures can move.”
They began to move once again through the trees. By unspoken agreement Arynilas fell behind to take up the rear and keep watch on the path behind.
As always the Tynithian’s demeanour was unruffled. Torrin wondered if it was because Arynilas was so much older than the rest of them or whether his calm, like his keen senses of sight and hearing, was a trait shared by all his people. Torrin had seen other Tynithians but Arynilas was the only one he had ever gotten to know.
They traveled steadily throughout the rest of the afternoon, picking their way slowly through the difficult terrain. They heard no more sign of pursu
it. Near the end of the day they passed a small vale with a rising stone cliff. A cleft cut into the rock face at the top of a small hillock. It was a defensible place to camp but the need to replenish their water outweighed other considerations. Torrin was loath to leave the place behind but the horses hadn’t had a proper drink for over a day.
A few leagues further they came across a small clearing with a tumbling creek falling out of the hills to the west. The sun was setting as they set up a small camp in the lee of a hillside. Borlin lit a small fire, concealed by boulders, and proceeded to prepare a meal. Nathel saw to his patient as Dalemar rifled through his saddlebags in search of a book which, once found, he reluctantly set aside to gather firewood. Arynilas and Torrin took the horses to the creek for water. The thirsty animals drank deeply for a long time.
Torrin stood listening as they sucked water in, puzzling over the events of the day. He sighed and wiped a hand over his face, feeling his whiskers. Time to shave. In the warm weather, Torrin hated having a beard. Sweat trickled through it and it became unbearably hot and itchy. He glanced at Arynilas, who was loosening cinches and undoing tack. He sometimes envied the Tynithian his smooth-skinned, hairless face.
“What do you make of today, my friend?” asked Torrin.
Arynilas turned to face him, one arching brow raised. “I believe the answers lie with our lovely guest. The large Raken following us is linked to her somehow.” The horses were almost finished drinking. Arynilas reached for the nearest waterskin and knelt lightly to refill it upstream from the horses.
Torrin took his own waterskin from his saddle horn, uncorked it and crouched down to refill it with cold, clear water.
Arynilas had the right of it. There was something strange going on and it was tied to the woman. He glanced back toward the camp. The sun had set now, casting an orange glow in the west. Borlin’s fire was well concealed and created little smoke. In Torrin’s experience most mysteries had simple explanations but somehow he doubted that was the case here.
When they returned to the small camp, they found Dalemar attempting to read in the failing light. Torrin looked closely at him. The Rith was slowly losing his confidence. His skills in magic wielding had not improved in quite some time and his failures were leaving their mark. Unlike the rest of his race, his progress in developing was slow. He was still trying to learn things that much younger Riths had already mastered. Dalemar had vast potential for a Rith; they all knew it. Each had witnessed his power on occasions when he was able to access it, but sometimes it seemed as though the young Rith, usually positive, was fighting to keep despair at bay. Torrin had no idea how to help him. He knew little about Dalemar’s power, except that it was different from that of other Riths. There was no one the young Rith could turn to for advice. Although the companions could offer him their support and friendship, none of them had magical abilities except for Arynilas, and his magic, linked only to his shape shifting, had nothing in common with Rith magic.
Torrin searched through his saddlebags for his cleaning cloth and sat down beside the small fire to clean and oil his sword. The blade hadn’t been used in a while but force of habit kept it cleaned and oiled daily. He glanced across to Nathel who was checking the woman’s wound.
“How is she doing?” asked Torrin.
Nathel looked up, a grin on his face. “The next time she has to take a dose of winoth root, she will be awake to savour its lovely flavour.”
Torrin chuckled and eyed the woman’s sword where it lay next to her, strapped to her saddlebags. “Just make sure she can’t reach that blade when you give her the tea, or you take the chance of losing your life.”
Torrin looked up as Borlin handed him a hot cup of tea. He put aside his cleaning cloth and accepted the drink, thanking the Stoneman.
“This brew won't get me ’ead sliced off. I’m fairly certain the lass ’ll prefer mine to yours, Nathel,” said Borlin.
Nathel’s blond eyebrows rose in mock surprise, his boyish face completely guileless. “You don’t like my special tea? How ungrateful of you, considering it’s done such wonders for you in the past.”
Borlin scowled. “Ye ’ave nerve, lad. I’ll say that for ye.”
Nathel echoed Torrin’s chuckle. “There will be plenty left over once the woman has had her share, Borlin. You are welcome to it; I know what refined tastes you Stonemen have.”
Borlin turned his back on the insult with a growl and went back to his pot on the fire.
“One day you will receive the flat of his sword over your head, Nathel,” said Dalemar without looking up from his book. He had his long hair tucked behind one pointed ear and the rest of the pale strands fell like a screen on the other side of his head, pooling on the page of his book. He wore a slight smile and had one slim eyebrow arched upward. “Ah, thank you Borlin.” The Rith reached up to receive the proffered cup, his index finger marking his place in the book as he closed it. Torrin rethought his earlier assessment of the Rith’s spirits.
Arynilas appeared and took tea also. He lowered himself smoothly onto his customary cross-legged position. Taking a sip, his tilted eyes wandered over the group. His black hair was pulled off his face in its usual manner, the top half tied behind his head to fall in with the rest. The Tynithian rarely spoke unless he had something significant to say.
“Hey! Don’t I get one too?” asked Nathel.
Borlin ignored him completely and Nathel rose to his feet, dusting his hands on his thighs and sighing theatrically as he went to pour himself a cup.
Torrin sighed with exasperation; his brother would forever be fourteen years old. He glanced over to the sleeping woman. Her face was turned towards them as though listening to the conversation but he could see her chest rise and fall slowly in sleep. Why would a huge Raken be interested in her? The creature had not looked as though it was about to hurt her — quite the opposite, it had looked as though it was about to gently touch her face. Implausible, he knew, but the impression would not leave him.
New Friends
Torrin took first watch. He had sent Borlin to his blankets halfway through their watch when it was clear the Stoneman was having great difficulty staying awake. They all were tired from keeping double watch for two days. They had seen nothing of the strange Raken visitor since the howls in the forest that day.
Torrin glanced up to the stars. His watch was half over now and Bashelar was just beginning to rise over the treetops. The night had remained warm and bats were flitting overhead – black against the moon and starlight.
A sound behind him made him turn to look back at the camp. His companions were indistinct humps in the darkness. The sound had come from the woman.
Torrin watched as she stirred from sleep. She sat up and looked quickly around. Flexing her shoulder, she gave a soft exclamation, feeling the arrow wound with her fingertips. She looked again carefully at the sleeping forms of his friends.
Finding her sword and breastplate among her belongings beside her, she put them on, slipping the baldric over her head and settling it across her chest; each motion fluid and effortless. She stood, unsteady on her feet. He began to call out but stopped himself when she slipped silently away from his companions. She moved through the darkness and he saw her shadow stop at the big grey horse. The animal nickered softly and Torrin thought he could make out a few murmured words. Then she left the horse and moved on into the trees at the edge of the small clearing.
He watched and waited, but it was several minutes before he detected a shadow moving back out of the trees. She had come back out into the clearing nearer to him, fifty paces or so from where she had entered. This was a surprise.
She stopped when she realized that he was there. Bashelar, the second moon had risen now and Torrin could see her clearly.
She watched him warily.
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.
She inclined her head and touched her shoulder. “I should thank your healer. He has done a remarkable job. I have never seen a w
ound heal so fast.”
Torrin glanced back at his sleeping companions. “You must thank two of my friends. My brother Nathel has tended you and Rith Dalemar preformed a surprising trick of his own.”
Her gaze turned shrewd. “Three men, a Rith, and a Tynithian. You keep interesting company.”
Torrin extended his hand out toward her. “My name is Torrin. I am glad we were able to aid you.”
She stepped forward and grasped his hand. Hers was slim and lost in his, but her grip was firm and he could feel sword calluses on her palm. “I thank you, Torrin, for your aid. My name is Rowan.”
She released his hand and looked toward the camp. “I am afraid you and your friends will come to regret your generosity. You must go your own way come dawn.”
Torrin raised his eyebrows, surprised by her forthrightness. “Why?”
She looked up at him, asking instead a question of her own. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Two days.”
She drew in her breath and let it out slowly, looking around at the surrounding trees. “That long? You and your companions tended me for that long? We are no longer in the place where I first met you. You have been traveling with me?”
Torrin nodded. “My brother takes his calling as healer seriously, if nothing else. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Which direction?”
Torrin frowned. “What?”
“Which direction have you been traveling?” She asked, suddenly anxious.
“North.”
She relaxed with a small exhalation of breath. Torrin leaned forward, looking down at her. “Now answer my question.”
She paused as if deciding something, sighed and shook her head. Starlight gleamed in her pale hair and reflected from the silver pommel of the sword over her shoulder. “You will be in danger as long as you remain close to me.”
“We are quite used to danger,” he said. “Speak plainly.”
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 5