Riths were a race Rowan knew almost nothing about. Her great grandfather was said to have known a great Rith but no one in her family had been able to tell her anything more. As a child she had heard wondrous tales of the Rith city high on the slopes of the great Timor Mountains — a city carved from the living stone, where magic was used to do all the chores she had to complete by hand. She had never really believed the stories she had been told but seeing the way Dalemar had fought with Rith fire this morning had made her rethink her scepticism. She understood now why he didn’t carry a weapon.
Dalemar, riding directly ahead of her, was medium height and slim. He wore a long, green leather coat that was split in the back for riding and his pale blond hair lay loosely down his back. He kept his hair pulled back off his smooth face and she could see his pointed ears when he turned his head. His features fell somewhere between Tynithians and men. He was larger boned than Arynilas and his eyes didn’t tilt upwards, but Rowan thought he resembled Tynithians more than men. He had beautiful pale grey eyes and blond eyebrows, which were his most expressive feature, moving constantly as he spoke. His saddlebags appeared to be stuffed with books, which he sometimes read as he rode. He was friendly and open and Rowan had taken an instant liking to him.
Then there were Torrin and Nathel – so different from the small, olive-skinned, dark eyed people of Lor Danith she had encountered. They were tall with broad shoulders, fair skin and blue eyes. Nathel in particular looked northern. His short, sandy hair was curly, and his pale blue eyes, under their blond brows, held laughter more than anything else. Rowan drew in a sharp breath as a wave of homesickness washed over her. He reminded her strikingly of her younger brother Andin.
They were an impressive pair with straight noses, high cheekbones and similar builds. Their large hands were almost identical — the same knuckles, thumbs and fingertips.
But the similarity ended there. Where Nathel was open and gregarious with a ready wit and a smile, Torrin was closed and reserved. His dark brows and intense blue eyes were intimidating. He was friendly enough she supposed but seemed to offer nothing of himself to anyone.
He was a natural leader, a man who could put thought into action in an instant but aware enough of others to look for direction when he knew they could give it. It was a puzzle to find a Tynithian and a Rith following a man. She got the impression that Dalemar was quite young. Arynilas must possess by far the greatest experience among them, and yet he looked to Torrin for direction.
Rowan studied him as he rode ahead of her on his big black horse. There were strong, quick currents beneath Torrin’s calm surface – of that she was certain.
Judging from the way the five companions interacted, they had been traveling together for a long time. The battle this morning had revealed this, if nothing else. An unspoken unity, the ability to anticipate each other’s needs and act accordingly, these were traits of some of the longest acquainted and renowned fighting units on Myris Dar.
These people were very good fighters, each showing an ease and expertise with his chosen weapon. They knew each other’s minds as well – had not even discussed the decision to see her to Pellaris this morning.
They were a tight-knit group of mercenaries, judging from the lack of uniform or resemblance. Aside from the brothers, they most assuredly all came from different lands. There was an interesting story to be told here and she looked forward to hearing it.
Getting Acquainted
When the sun began to set, they made a sparse camp in a small clearing with a fast-flowing stream cutting through it. After the horses were watered and cared for, the companions gathered around a small fire to eat a hot meal.
Rowan spread her sleeping roll down in front of a downed log by the fire. She scanned the surrounding trees, wondering what had become of Hathunor. Then she spotted him at the creek, crouched low to drink his fill and wash his limbs. The companions eyed him as he moved among them toward Rowan. He nodded to each and in return was rewarded by tentative acknowledgments. Rowan smiled, it wouldn’t take long for them to begin to see him as she did.
Hathunor settled down in front of where she sat with a bowl of remarkably good stew in her hands. “Hathunor sense no others.”
Rowan could feel the low rumble of his voice vibrate through her chest. She looked up at him. “You must be hungry my friend; come, have some food.”
Borlin, who had prepared the meal, brought over a steaming bowl and held it out to Hathunor. “I don’t know what ye eat but ye are welcome to our fare,” he said gruffly.
Hathunor rose quickly to his feet and Borlin stepped back, craning his neck to look up at the Raken. Hathunor accepted the food carefully and bowed his enormous head, rumbling a distinct thank you before dropping to sit next to Rowan.
Borlin blinked in surprise before shaking his head and returning to the fire.
Rowan grinned in delight. No, it wouldn’t take long at all.
The sun set and cool evening air stirred as twilight descended over the clearing. Hathunor left them again after he had eaten, his black form disappearing quickly into the gathering gloom. Rowan took out a rag from her saddlebags and began to oil her sword.
Torrin approached and sat down next to her. “How is your shoulder?” he asked as he settled himself. His face conveyed nothing but polite concern.
She inclined her head. “It is well, thanks to your brother and Dalemar.”
He watched silently as she worked the soft oily rag over her blade.
She knew there were questions they both wanted to ask. Torrin seemed content to wait so she spoke hers first. “Tell me about your companions? How is it such a diverse group travels together?”
Torrin cocked his head, shrugging one shoulder. “We have been together for a while. I suppose we take for granted the mix of our races. We are well known in certain circles and are rarely asked about how we all met.”
“You are a mercenary company.” It was not a question and Torrin glanced at her before nodding.
Rowan pointed her chin towards Dalemar who sat across the fire from them. “I have never met a Rith. Do they not always carry a staff?”
“Yes,” replied Torrin, “but Dalemar is not much like other Riths.”
“How so?”
“His potential is thought by some to be boundless, that he might one day be the most powerful Rith in a thousand years. But only if he can learn to master his gifts.”
Rowan’s eyebrows shot up and she looked at the Rith, who was buried in a leather bound book, his smooth brow furrowed in concentration. His face was difficult to see in the growing darkness. He looked much like a young man of twenty-five, but Rowan knew Riths, like Tynithians, could live to be several hundred years old. They were said to wear long flowing robes. Dalemar, however, wore clothing much the same as the others with the exception of his long dark green coat. Having never in fact seen a Rith before, Rowan wondered if what little she knew of them was correct. “Why doesn’t he use a staff?”
Torrin looked across at the Rith. “At a very young age he discovered that he could channel his power directly without the aide of a focus.”
“A focus? Like the staff?”
“Yes. Riths use an object of some kind to focus their power. It is quite often a staff but doesn’t have to be. It is a way to train young Riths to control their magical abilities when they begin to manifest. Otherwise a young Rith can become dangerous and unpredictable. Terrible accidents have happened in the past, or so Dalemar has told me, where young Riths trying to control their newfound powers have killed themselves as well as those around them. Strict laws were passed long ago to protect against such use of power without the aid of a focus to control a Rith’s magic. The focus acts like a sort of buffer to diffuse the potency of the magic. Once young Riths master their new powers, the use of a focus is no longer needed, but most find it has become an integral part of the process by then. The Council of Riths has not tried to change the practice because it helps to regulate the use of magic.�
��
Rowan eyed her blade critically, then resumed polishing. “But all Riths can wield magic without a focus?”
“Yes, but Rithkind lives in a densely populated city in the Timor Mountains. They have regulated the use of magic by necessity to keep order. Dalemar’s innate ability to channel magic without a focus was essentially breaking the Rith laws of magic use. It frightened the council of Riths. Others didn’t approve of a non-traditional approach.”
Torrin leaned forward to add another few branches to the fire. “Dalemar was forced to use a focus object. As a result, his progress stopped. He became frustrated and decided to strike out on his own, believing that he could learn better on his own terms. He left the Rith city of Tirynus and spent a long time traveling from one outside group of Riths to another, looking for someone who could teach him. He found only frustration.
“All those who had been willing to teach him had no idea how to instruct him without the use of a focus. He wandered aimlessly for a long time, learning his craft through trial and error. We found him sheltering in a ruined fort during a winter storm. He was in poor shape. Nathel cared for him and convinced him to join us and we have enjoyed his company since. He is older than any of us save Arynilas, but still young for a Rith.”
Rowan looked across at Dalemar. He had lit a pipe and was squinting at his book through a wreath of smoke.
“Tell me of the rest of your companions; where did you meet them?” Rowan finished with her sword, re-sheathed it and took up her dagger to repeat the process.
Torrin stared at the fire. “We’ve been together a long time – been through enough to know each other very well. Nathel and I met Arynilas in the Ren wars. He was fighting with a company of Tynithians that was slaughtered by a Ren ambush. Arynilas was the last one left alive when we came across him. He had the entire squad of enemy pinned down behind a rock outcrop with his bow. A single warrior against twenty-five.” Torrin shook his head in admiration, lost in the memory.
Rowan found the slight Tynithian speaking quietly to Nathel while fletching arrows for his bow, his nimble fingers working with speed.
“I have little knowledge of the rest of Eryos, but I thought Tynithians didn’t concern themselves in the affairs of men. Yet you met him in a war, where his company was fighting men?”
“It is rare, but sometimes if circumstances warrant, they will come out of Dan Tynell. Tynithians are fierce in the defence of their forest realm. The whole of southern Eryos was embroiled in the fighting. The Ren warlords sought to take new territory and they expanded outward like raging floodwaters. They even tried to take the Black Hills but it was a mistake that marked the beginning of their downfall. It is less than wise to anger Stonemen.”
Rowan glanced over at the Stoneman. “And Borlin?”
Torrin clasped his hands in front of him with his elbows on his knees. “We met Borlin in the same wars. Stonemen are ferocious fighters, and the small company he was with during the three years the wars lasted became quite renowned. Borlin’s sire is the lord of Drenwin, which lies in the eastern portion of the Black Hills.” Torrin pointed vaguely towards the south. “His father arranged a marriage for Borlin, a tradition common among Stonemen, but Borlin had already found his partner. Unfortunately, his father vehemently disapproved of the match, for his chosen was a Lor Danion woman. They ordered him home, but he refused. His sire declared Borlin an oath-breaker and banished him from Drenwin. Nathel, Arynilas and I found ourselves campaigning with him to keep the Warlords contained inside the borders of Ren. We fought for Lor Danith mostly, hired to train and help their militia. When the outward expansion of the Ren Wars was halted, chaos ensued as the coalition of warlords disintegrated and turned upon each other. We worked for a time for one warlord who it seemed would be able to bring peace to Ren, gathering all the tribes under a single banner. But it was not to be.”
Rowan looked at the broad-shouldered Stoneman as he tended to the horses. She turned back to Torrin, who was staring into the fire again. “Borlin’s chosen, what happened to her?”
Torrin sighed, and turned to look at her. “She died of the plague. Erys took her not six months after they pledged to each other.”
Rowan shivered in understanding – Borlin had lost his people and his love. She felt Torrin watching her and turned to meet his gaze. “And what of you and Nathel? You are not from the south. How is it you both ended up fighting in Ren?”
Torrin shook his head and his expression changed, becoming guarded and cool. His answer, when it came, was dismissive. “We were young and blinded by the glory of adventure.” He nodded toward her sword on the ground. “Tell me about your humming sword. It is a beautiful weapon.”
Rowan halted the rag upon the blade of her dagger – she had long since finished cleaning it. Picking up the sword in its tooled scabbard, she handed it to Torrin. He took it gently from her and pulled it clear of the leather. It looked like a toy in his large hands.
“It is a spell sword,” she said.
Torrin looked at her, raised his eyebrows, then looked down at the weapon. “It has a magical spell set upon it?”
“In a sense,” Rowan replied. “It is an art form that is lost to my people now, but from what I understand, the spell is bound to a spell sword in the forging of it, and will last as long as the sword does. It is an ordinary sword until the spell words are spoken. As the humming increases, so does the sharpness. The humming creates an edge keener than anything known. This sword has been in my family for generations, passed down from mother to daughter.”
Torrin looked up again from his examination. “It was made specifically for a woman?”
Rowan nodded. “Indeed. On Myris Dar both men and women are trained to the sword from a very young age. We are also trained in hand-to-hand fighting. The sword comes first, though, because the fundamental forms are the same for both. In my homeland, men use swords not unlike your great broadsword in size, but they are slightly curved and only single edged. A woman’s sword must be balanced for her because she often has less size and strength than a man. What women lack in strength and size, they quite often make up for in speed and agility. Girls are taught a different form of fighting that emphasizes redirection of force instead of meeting it blow for blow. Thus woman can fight men in battle without being at a disadvantage.”
Torrin nodded in understanding. “Your people must be formidable fighters if everyone can handle a sword as you can.”
Rowan shook her head. “Not all Myrians can fight with equal skill, but all are trained to some extent. I am one of a few Myrians chosen to follow the way of the sword to its highest level.”
“There are different levels?”
She tucked away her rag. “Yes, there are many different forms taught, and many different masters to teach them. I have trained under twenty masters. Each taught a different form with a different weapon. I stayed with some masters for up to two years at a time, others for a few weeks. Different people have different abilities. To place a sword in the hands of a student who has the potential to become a master archer, and force her or him to develop sword fighting skills instead, does not make for a satisfied warrior — or a great warrior who has reached their full potential.
“It is like Dalemar and his unique ability,” continued Rowan. “On Myris Dar, unique abilities are fostered and developed. A student who shows aptitude for spear or bow is encouraged to follow that training as far as they are willing. That is not to say such a student would be trained only in the spear or bow to the exclusion of all else, but that weapon is certainly what the student would focus upon.”
“You are versed in more than the sword?” Torrin glanced at the dagger still in her hand.
“Certainly; I have trained in most weapons, and many weaponless forms as well. I can use almost any weapon on hand if I need to.” She eyed the long pommel of his heavy broadsword. “Providing, that is, that I can lift it,” she amended with a grin.
Torrin rubbed his chin. “But the sword is you
r first choice?”
“Yes, sword and dagger are what I like the best.”
“Hmm, I saw how you used your sword and dagger today. Your technique has similarities to the way Arynilas uses his two blades.”
She nodded. Having noted the Tynithian’s fighting style. “I have many questions for him and hope for the opportunity to ask.”
As Torrin began to slide her sword back into its sheath, he stopped and studied it again. He traced a thick finger down the incised script on the blade. “This writing – what does it mean?”
Rowan was impressed. Most people, even Myrians, mistook the flowing script for pure design. “It is an ancient form of Myrian, a text no longer used today. It scribes the name of Mor Lanyar. My mother’s name, my name.”
Torrin looked up at her in surprise. “You do not take your father’s name?”
Rowan swallowed back a surge of familiar grief at the mention of her father. She shook her head. “Girls take their mother’s name and boys their father’s.”
“And is your dagger also magical?”
Rowan reversed her grip on it and handed it to him hilt first. “No, it only looks the same. It was commissioned by my mother as a gift for me when my training was complete. But although my formal training is finished, I will never stop being a student. I look forward to learning more here in Eryos.”
“How old are you, Rowan?” His question caught her off guard. She turned and regarded him silently for a moment.
“I am six and twenty. Why do you ask?”
Torrin’s eyes widened. “You are older than Nathel. The same age as —” Rowan waited but he did not finish. He handed the dagger back to her and turned back to the fire, his face unreadable.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 9