Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1)

by Kindrie Grove

  Despite the noisy room, Rowan heard her words distinctly from across the table.

  “Erys bless you,” she said in a high voice. “I have prayed to the Sweet Goddess all these years for the chance to see you again, just once, so that I may thank you. She has seen fit to grant me that wish before I die.” A smile crinkled the woman’s lined face and tears leaked from her eyes. “My granddaughter lives. She has grown into a lovely young woman and has married a good man. She will have a child in the spring. She has not forgotten, but she has survived.” The old woman released her grip on her walking stick and reached out to touch Torrin’s chest. “The loss you suffered that day was balanced in part by the lives of those you saved. We have not forgotten you in our prayers. May the Goddess bless you and bring happiness to your life.” She reached up to touch Torrin’s face before turning to leave.

  Torrin stood for a moment, his hand still extended to where the old woman had grasped it. He stepped forward and gently took her arm to help her from the inn.

  Rowan’s eyebrows lifted in wonder as Torrin led the tiny woman protectively from the noisy common room. When she turned back, tears were standing in Nathel’s pale blue eyes and her questions stilled on her tongue. The rest of her friends were silent and grave.

  Torrin returned with his calm restored. He met Rowan’s gaze briefly but offered no explanation.

  The next visitor to their table was the senior officer who had been watching them earlier with Lorn. Although similarly polished, his demeanour was confident rather than cocky.

  “You must forgive my young lieutenant; he is rather inexperienced yet but he has the makings of a good officer. His rash enthusiasm is something I hope time will temper.” He spoke in a deep voice and though he looked at all the companions, his words were for Torrin.

  Torrin nodded to an empty chair, asking the man to join them. As the officer took a seat, Rowan leaned forward and said, “Do not underestimate your man, sir. He is not as inexperienced as he appears.”

  The officer looked at her in surprise and then a slow smile crept across his face. “My name is Ganor Welan.” His eyes took in all their various weapons, lingering the longest on Rowan’s sword. “Forgive me but your party is hard to miss among the simple folk of Klyssen.”

  “It is good to meet you Captain Welan,” said Torrin. Rowan glanced at the horizontal stripes on the shoulders of Welan’s uniform and made a mental note. “My name is Torrin, my companions and I are just passing through.”

  Welan nodded thoughtfully, his gaze traveling around the table. “On your way to Pellar? To answer a summons?”

  “We will do what we can,” Torrin said.

  The captain turned to look pointedly at Rowan. “We? Surely not all of you? My lady, Pellar is not the best place to travel at the moment, even with an armed escort.”

  Rowan returned his gaze steadily. “I thank you for your concern, Captain, but believe me when I say, Pellar is our destination.”

  He glanced down to her hands, clasped loosely in front of her on the table – noted the sword calluses. He looked back up at her face, his grey eyes studying her with an eyebrow lifted. He nodded and turned to look back at Torrin. “Mercenaries are not often welcome in Klyssen, especially in this little town. Let us just say it has an unfortunate history when it comes to the subject.”

  Torrin scowled suddenly and Rowan was shocked to see the anger in his face after the calm indifference. Nathel’s glance darted between Welan and his brother.

  When Torrin spoke his voice was very low. “We are people of honour, Captain. Your implication is an insult to us all.”

  Their eyes locked across the table and the seconds passed. The Captain broke eye contact and leaned back in his chair. He pulled out a pipe, filled it and lit the bowl with the small oil lamp on the table. He took a puff and looked around at the companions. “The Raken beasts are beginning to come across the boarder from Pellar. Be on your guard as you head north. We have had a few reports from the scattered outposts, but the numbers are not solid.”

  Rowan scanned the common room of the inn. They might have had to fight these men, had Welan decided they were not welcome in his country.

  “What do you hear of Pellaris and King Cerebus? Is the city truly under siege?” she asked.

  Welan turned to look at her. “It is, my Lady. I have only just heard myself but I do know that the host of Raken before its gate is vast. If you go to offer aid to Cerebus, you will not likely get into the city.”

  Torrin leaned forward, “If the King of Klyssen were to send more cavalry to aid Pellar, how many could he spare?”

  Welan shook his head. “Another fifteen hundred perhaps, but that is for King Daesis to decide should a call for aid be issued. I only go where I am sent, do what I must.”

  Torrin nodded. “Have you engaged any of the Raken yet?”

  “No, though we have heard rumours. Most of my men tend not to believe such wild tales.”

  “And you?” asked Nathel.

  “I do not discount anything I have not seen with my own eyes.”

  “If you have a choice, don’t engage any more than your own number; even then it will be a hard fight,” said Torrin quietly.

  Welan’s gaze sharpened. “You have fought them, then.” He looked again around the table at the others. They nodded.

  “More than we would have liked,” said Nathel.

  “They are fast and extremely large,” warned Torrin. “Do not let them breach your guard. Cavalry units will fair better than infantry.”

  “They can hear over great distance,” added Dalemar.

  “And we suspect they can outrun horses over long distance,” said Rowan.

  Welan sat and carefully absorbed all the companions had to tell him about the nature of Raken. His pipe forgotten, his gray eyes watched each speaker intently and he asked a few pointed questions.

  When they had finished, Welan placed his cold pipe in his coat pocket and rose from his chair. “It is late. We likely all have an early start in the morning. My men and I will be heading northwest to the border. I’d offer to escort your group but I imagine you’ll be taking the most direct route to Pellar. I thank you for the information; you’ve given me much to think about. I will be sending a runner back to King Daesis with this new information. I think this Raken invasion is more serious than most people believe. I wish you luck and speed on your journey.” He bowed courteously to Rowan and nodded to the rest of them before turning from their table and leaving them in thoughtful silence.

  Hauntings from the Past

  The sun beat down on the bone-dry street of the small town. A hot, dry wind swirled the dust. Torrin could hardly see through the tears in his eyes. He strained to look at Emma as she screamed incoherently; bent down in the dust over two small bodies – their daughters. The man standing above her was looking down at the fruit of his labour, methodically cleaning a bloody dagger.

  Torrin wrenched and heaved against the rough ropes tying his wrists behind his back. Warm blood slid over his hands. A knee was planted heavily between his shoulders. More weight was on his legs. All his straining and fighting was in vain – he could barely move.

  He looked at his little girls; their small, sweet faces were peacefully asleep. He could almost convince himself of it except for the red stains spreading through their dresses where the dagger had plunged into their small chests. The man above them continued to clean that dagger, watching with satisfaction as Torrin struggled.

  “Erys no! Please, not my little ones.” Torrin choked on the dust.

  The man who had killed them tucked his dagger into his belt, listening coldly to Torrin’s sobs. He walked slowly around Torrin’s keening wife and crouched down in front of a broadsword. Torrin’s sword.

  “Hold his head up.” The man rasped to his four companions holding Torrin down. “I want him to see this.” A slow snarl spread on the man’s dirty face, he was missing one of his front teeth. He reached forward and grasped the hilt of Torrin’s swo
rd, dragging it toward him through the dirt, his gaze fixed on Torrin. When the blade was closer he hefted it, pretending an interest in the weapon’s weight and balance. Encouragement and laughter drifted from the surrounding audience. Murderers and thieves they were to the last.

  Torrin struggled, a terrible rage engulfed him and his vision bled red with it. The remaining bandits were spread out in the empty street, watching their leader exact his revenge for the seven men Torrin had killed. Torrin envisioned these monsters dead, just like their murdering companions he’d already killed. As surely as they stood over him and his family now, they would be dead, all of them by his hands. He would see to it. He clung to that knowledge and it fed him.

  A hand grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back. Torrin strained with all his might, felt the sudden burning of a vein bursting in his left eye. The leader was behind Emma now. She was oblivious to the danger. Her long auburn hair was undone, hanging like a curtain around her face. Nothing existed for her but her daughters.

  “Please!” Torrin begged, his voice hoarse from the sharp angle of his head. “Please don’t do this! Take my life! I give it to you freely! Please don’t kill her. Emma!”

  The man raised Torrin’s sword, a snarl on his face. “You killed my brother, you bastard, and I will take your family for it!”

  The blade flashed in the bright sun. Emma’s keening was ended abruptly, and Torrin began to scream.

  He woke suddenly in the dark, sweat-drenched and breathing in ragged gasps, his heart pounded in his chest. He reached with shaking fingers, fumbled in the dark for his water skin and took a long drink. It did nothing to quench the dryness in his throat.

  It had been a long time since he’d had the dream and it left his chest tight and his body spent. He glanced around the dark loft where they were sleeping. The forms of his friends were nestled comfortably in the hay. Borlin, as always, was snoring softly. Torrin’s screams must have been only in his dream. Water plunked softly into the hay as it dripped from cracks in the barn roof but it was nothing to the sound of rain hammering on the roof boards above.

  “Are you well, Tor?” asked his brother’s voice behind him.

  Torrin turned and saw Nathel sitting on a bale of hay near the opening of the loft, wet blackness beyond. It was still some time until dawn. Nathel was standing second to last watch.

  Torrin got up slowly and moved quietly to where his brother was sitting. He found an old bucket, set it upside down and took a seat. “Just a dream.”

  Nathel looked at him closely. “Ghosts?”

  Torrin sighed. “I had hoped these people wouldn’t recognize me. It’s been seven years.” The last vestige of the dream finally and thankfully began to fade.

  “That day was not something anyone could soon forget, Tor. You underestimate the impact you had on these people. It was a terrible thing but they would have lost everything if it weren’t for you. People place the hope of the future in their children. Those young village girls you saved kept a nightmare from becoming an utter tragedy.” Nathel scratched his face and looked tentatively at Torrin. “You also killed the men who committed the crimes. You exacted justice for the people of Balor, and for Emma and your daughters.”

  Torrin sighed again and leaned back against the corner of the opening, his head turned to look down on the dark street below. The old woman at the inn had wished him happiness but Torrin had long since accepted the joylessness of his life. In a way he welcomed it – it was recompense for his guilt.

  Returning to Balor was harder than he thought possible. Torrin took another deep breath to steady his swirling emotions, surprised at finding himself willing to talk about it. “It didn’t ease the pain.”

  “I don’t think it was meant to, brother.”

  Torrin glanced at Nathel’s face in the dimness. His brother was the only one who understood the devastation that day caused.

  Torrin could still see the surprise on the faces of the men who had killed his family. It had taken him five long days to track them down once he had recovered enough from the savage beating they had given him; leaving him for dead in the dusty street.

  Those terrible days had passed in a haze of grief and pain. He had attacked the bandits in their camp while they slept, with the spoils of their raid on Balor strewn about them. His sword wreaking vengeance, Torrin had completely surrendered to his wrath. The faces of Emma and his daughters Deana and Arial had driven him like a lash.

  The bandits had kidnapped six young women and girls from the village for their amusement. In the bloody aftermath Torrin had heard their sobs and followed the sound to find them huddled together in a filthy tent. It had taken him half an hour to coax the terrified victims out and convince them he would not harm them.

  He barely remembered getting the girls back to their homes and worried families in Balor. After that Torrin had wandered in a fog of madness, unable and unwilling to deal with the pain and guilt of his family’s deaths. When Nathel had finally found him months later, living almost like a wild animal, Torrin had hardly recognized his brother. Nathel had brought him back from his self-imposed exile, healing his body and mind enough for Torrin to function again.

  Torrin had flatly refused to return with Nathel to Pellaris though, and his brother, unwilling to let Torrin disappear again, had stayed with him.

  Torrin looked down the dark street through the rain to the bulk of the inn, unchanged from that day long ago. “I never thanked you for telling Emma’s parents for me.”

  Nathel shrugged, “You would have done it if you’d been able.”

  The silence stretched between them for a while as they scanned the night outside. At length Torrin broke the silence. “Time for my watch. You should get some sleep.”

  Nathel nodded and rose from his seat. Before he left to find his blankets he placed a hand on Torrin’s shoulder, squeezing. “It will not haunt you forever, Tor. One day you will move past it.”

  Torrin glanced up at his brother. He wished he had Nathel’s faith. He turned away to watch the street outside with the company of ghosts to occupy him.

  An Unexpected Friend

  The morning dawned clear. The sun shone brightly across the saturated landscape, but the ever-present wind blew cold from the north. Torrin was pleased to discover the blacksmith true to his word and their horses all soundly re-shod. They paid the man for his work and made ready to leave.

  As they saddled their mounts the smith walked over to Rowan, who was tying her saddlebags onto her saddle. Roanus stood quietly while she worked, resting a rear leg and swishing his tail. Rowan turned as the blacksmith tentatively caught her attention.

  Torrin pulled up on his cinch strap and watched over his horse’s back.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” said the smith. “I couldn’t help noticing that the sword you carry looks to be of the finest craftsmanship. I was wondering if I might be permitted to see it?”

  Rowan’s guarded expression softened and she smiled at the silver haired man. She reached up behind her shoulder, grasped the pommel of her humming sword and pulled it free of the scabbard, holding it out, hilt first.

  The smith’s face lit up in delight as he held the slim sword. He gently traced the length of the blade with his fingers, and he peered closely at the scrolling words inscribed into the metal. He rested the sword horizontally, just under the guard, nodding to himself at its perfect balance. Tipping the hilt up, he looked carefully down the length of the sword, watching the light play across the blade’s folded surface.

  The blacksmith sighed with pleasure and nodded respectfully to Rowan as he handed it back. “I thank you, Miss. That is truly a worthy blade. I’ve never seen a Myrian sword but it is everything I imagined it to be.”

  Torrin blinked, not sure if he had heard the man correctly. He looked at Rowan for her reaction. Her eyes widened and an expression of delight spread across her beautiful face.

  “It brings gladness to my heart to see a Myrian walk the land of Klyssen again,” said the
blacksmith. “I wasn’t sure when I saw you yesterday but now I know for certain.”

  Rowan reached out and caught his sleeve as he turned away. “Please, can you tell me how you know of my people?”

  The man smiled widely and bid them to follow. He led them to the back of the barn where a large wooden door opened into a clean private residence. The smell of herbs and beeswax welcomed them as they stepped into his simple home. The smith strode to an old iron chest set against the far wall of the main room. Its hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. From under a blanket he withdrew a round, cloth-wrapped object. As the soft covering was removed Torrin caught the glint of metal. It was a beautiful light shield, decorated with designs similar to Rowan’s armour.

  Rowan gasped and reached out to touch it. The outer edge of the shield was etched with interweaving designs and from the center, curved lines arched out, spiralling to the outer band. Her voice was full of awe. “This shield bears the name of Mor Lanyar.”

  “What?” Torrin looked at Rowan in shock. She turned to look up at him, her eyes wide, then back at the shield. Nathel and Borlin let out surprised exclamations and moved in closer for a better look. Dalemar’s eyebrows rose in amazement and even Arynilas looked astonished.

  The smith looked around at them all in puzzlement. “You know what the designs mean?”

  Rowan nodded. “It is ancient Myrian script and it spells the dame name of a Myrian house.” Her fingers traced the engraved center of the shield. It was identical to the curling script that ran down the blade of her sword. “My name is Mor Lanyar.”

  The blacksmith’s eyes grew round. “Truly?” he breathed.

  “Yes.” Rowan gaze was fixed on the shield. “Where did you get this? It is very old.”

  The smith scratched his silver beard. “It has been in my family for generations. My great, great grandfather received it from his father and so on. I have no idea how long ago, but it was given to one of my forefathers by a Myrian woman who was traveling through Eryos. She had needed aid and received it from a blacksmith, my ancestor. In return for his help the Myrian gave him this shield. When I was a child, my father would tell me the stories told to his ancestor by the Myrian woman – stories about Myris Dar and its people. When I saw your leatherwork and sword, Miss, I was certain you were from the fabled isle. If your name is what is inscribed on the shield, then unbelievable as it may seem, it was your ancestor the shield belonged to. I should be honoured to have you accept it as a gift. It rightfully belongs to you.”