Miroth turned his mind to the King of Pellar as he awaited his returning spell. The Myrian girl was bringing a message to Cerebus but Miroth would make certain he was not free to act upon it. Once the Wyoraith was free, Miroth would no longer be subject to the restrictions of his flesh. Pellaris would fall and the south and west would follow. And then the Rith city in the Timor Mountains. He allowed himself the tiniest feeling of triumph at that last thought.
Yet doubt flickered – a ribbon of unease thrashing whip-like through his mind. He had already miscalculated where the Myrian was concerned. It was a mistake that could have cost him everything.
He needed her in hand. Miroth felt the truth of it throughout his entire being, the knowledge vibrated in his chest like his own power. She was the right one.
An eddy of cold wind blasted into his face. Miroth narrowed his eyes as he watched the last of the sun slip below the ring of mountains. He focused on the future and a slow smile stretched across his pale face, pulling tight across yellow teeth.
A hint of something teased his mind and brought him back to the present. He cast his thoughts out to find his returning spell skimming over the mountains from the west. It was barely cohesive. When he had sifted through the information it brought, his smile widened.
“I see you, Myrian,” he whispered.
With the last of his strength he cast his mind again out over the mountains, seeking the one he wanted. The Raken he had bonded with was not far from where he had expected to find him. He implanted his instructions in the beast’s mind and then withdrew.
The mind link was a useful tool but the Raken had proven harder to bond with than he had expected. He was still searching for a way to bond with more than one creature at a time without the two beasts sharing each other’s thoughts as well. They became too difficult to control when they were linked together. It worried him, but it could be regulated, and soon it would no longer matter.
The regrettable part of the bond was the effect it had on him when the Raken he was linked with died while he was present in its mind. It had taken Miroth four days to recover.
Rage flashed through him. It settled in the pit of his stomach, a hot coil that eased the cold in his limbs. The Myrian had much to atone for. Physical pain was of no consequence; it was the lost time that angered him.
He turned his back on the cold dusk and motioned impatiently for the boy to close the shutters. Sol scurried forward, his brown eyes turned fearfully to the man bound to the table in the center of the room. This was the first time Miroth had allowed Sol up into the tower; the first time the boy had witnessed the complex spell casting that gave Miroth his strength and long life.
Miroth approached the table, glad to be once again within the warmth of the room. Weariness threaded through his body and he leaned heavily on the edge of the table, oblivious to the blood that soaked into his red robes. The death Miroth was spell casting with was approaching.
He looked down at the dying man bound before him. Fear and anger clearly shone out through the haze of pain in the man’s eyes. Miroth was pleased and a little surprised to find the anger still there. It would color the spell with a distinct flavour and add to its power. The important task now was to insure that a subject embraced death willingly and with gratitude, thus irrevocably attaching the spell’s release to the spell caster.
Miroth studied the many complex weaves of his spell, calculating. He must extract as much as possible from this one. The man’s breath came in shallow gasps; he was unable to draw full breath with his lungs exposed to the air. It really was quite remarkable what the human body could endure before death finally came.
Shaman of the Horse Clans
Torrin poured the last of his tea into the dead fire. The rising sun was a small span above the flat horizon and about to disappear into the low cloud cover. It was likely all they would see of it for the day. He bent over his gear, stowed the cup and tied the straps of his saddlebags. A loud crack accompanied by Dalemar’s excited exclamation sounded to the left and Torrin looked up.
The Rith was watching carefully as Hathunor directed his magic in a rope thin blast of Rith fire. It lanced into the distance where stones had been set up, blasting into them with an explosion of rock shards and dust. Torrin straightened and watched as Dalemar refined his attempt after Hathunor. It was a perfect copy of Hathunor’s blast and the great Raken grinned in encouragement as Dalemar struck the remaining rocks. Torrin had never seen Dalemar direct Rith fire with that kind of accuracy. The trial and terror seemed to have passed, thought Torrin with relief as he reached down to heave up his gear. Dalemar had figured out how to copy Hathunor’s examples perfectly.
As Torrin walked toward the horses he watched Hathunor direct Dalemar’s own magic back at him while the Rith blocked it.
“Would you like me to move that for you, Torrin?” asked Dalemar, his voice sounding as though he spoke from right beside him.
Dalemar now worked his magic to move his own saddle and bags to where the horses were being loaded. Dalemar grinned at him with enthusiasm.
Torrin shook his head and pointed with his chin. “Help Borlin.”
The Stoneman crossed his thick arms and scowled at Torrin. “Do ye see me needin any help?”
Nathel snickered. “Strength doesn’t count for much, Borlin, when you can’t reach the top of your horse’s back.”
Torrin ignored the ensuing insults and lifted his own saddle up onto his horse’s back. The more time that passed without sign of their pursuers the more Torrin’s unease increased. He tightened the cinch and Black turned to look back at him. Torrin gave him a pat on the nose and then heaved once more on the strap. There was little point worrying – it was a soldier’s pragmatic view. An endless litany of “what ifs” was always a commander’s burden. When you started fretting too much about what might happen, about what could go wrong, you opened the door to doubt and that’s when you lost your nerve. A little doubt was a good thing; it kept you sharp and humble. But too much was paralyzing.
He picked up his saddlebags and settled them in place and glanced across at Rowan. She was saddling her own horse with her head down, concentrating on the task.
Torrin frowned and looked back at his own work. He couldn’t seem to follow his own rules. Thoughts of harm befalling Rowan tormented him. He became quick to react to the slightest danger and his loss of control in Balor’s market caused him to rein himself in even tighter. Last night he had woken suddenly with his dead wife’s scream in his head, only to realize with dread that it had been Rowan’s voice he’d heard, not Emma’s.
His need to get her safely to Pellaris drove him through his waking hours. Though he cursed himself for a fool for thinking a besieged city offered any more protection.
Somewhere deep down, where he seldom looked, he feared he would never be able to keep her safe.
*
Rowan pulled the loose hair that had been teased out of her braid away from her eyes. Her fingertips were rough and dry. Dirt had ground into the crevasses of her skin, creating a fine spidery web over her fingerprints. The oil that she used to clean her weapons was the only thing that kept the skin of her hands from becoming painfully cracked.
Torrin’s saddle creaked beside her and she glanced over as he leaned back to reach into his saddlebags.
“Riders.” said Arynilas suddenly from ahead, “On the horizon to the northeast.”
Whatever Torrin had been searching for was forgotten as he swivelled around to look in the direction the Tynithian indicated. “The Horse Clans,” Torrin murmured to no one in particular.
Rowan studied the four small dark dots in the distance: men on horseback. She could make out nothing more.
“Dalemar.” Torrin turned to look behind them at the Rith. “Do you or Borlin have any pipe tobacco to spare?”
“Aye,” said Borlin from Rowan’s other side as he guided his mare closer to them, “I’ve a spare pouch at’ll do.” The stoneman patted the chest pocket of his under-
vest.
Rowan looked over at Torrin, raising an eyebrow. “Pipe tobacco?”
Torrin’s glance flicked away from the riders on the horizon for a moment to look at her. “Tribute. In return for crossing Horse Clan lands. If they do not receive tribute from travelers, they will likely exact a more expensive payment in the form of horseflesh.”
“They’ll steal the horses?” Rowan asked.
Torrin smiled grimly. “They will try. The young men will. Horses are about the only thing of value to them.”
“But they will take a small pouch of tobacco instead of a valuable horse?”
Torrin shook his head. “The tribute is only a token, a sign of respect; it has nothing to do with worth. It is an acknowledgement of their right to these lands. It must be something small and useful, easily carried. A Horse Clansman would be greatly insulted by a tribute that most other men consider valuable – they have no interest in trinkets or coin. Horses and the training, tending and breeding of them is the only thing important to them. A man’s worth is measured in horseflesh, not gold. They honour mounted skill in battle with bow and spear and a man is awarded the same status as his horse. The lives of the Horse Clans are moulded completely around their steeds. They look for omens in foaling cycles and mare’s milk, and the death of a horse is considered great misfortune, especially if it dies because of a man’s folly.”
Hathunor looked up at Rowan from the crouch he had assumed when Arynilas had spotted the horsemen. His red eyes were bright. “Hathunor wait and follow at distance. Will come if you need Hathunor.” He cast a baleful glare at the distant men, then staying low on all fours, he moved back toward the rim of a shallow depression keeping the group between him and the distant riders. Rowan watched his swift progress and was surprised to see him disappear completely in only a few moments.
The companions spurred their horses forward once more, angling their course to meet the waiting horsemen. The wind increased as they closed the distance, lifting cloaks and whipping the horses’ manes.
The four mounted men resolved into fierce looking warriors with spears braced in their stirrups. Their armour was made of thick leather, tanned red and ornamented with small copper disks. Their clothes were made of a softer leather. All four had long sandy-coloured hair which they wore tied behind their heads like tails. Horsehair tassels, lifted sideways in the wind, were tied to the tips of their spears. Each man had a re-curved bow strapped to his back and a short sword at his hip.
Torrin, riding ahead of the rest of the companions, pulled his horse in when they were twenty paces from the warriors. Rowan, Dalemar and Borlin drew up beside him on the right and Nathel and Arynilas stopped on his left. The two parties regarded each other in silence.
Finally, the man in the middle of the group moved his horse forward a few steps and nodded his head formally. “You ride Horse Clan lands.”
“We offer tribute to ride across Clan Lands,” replied Torrin calmly.
“The Mora’ Taith of Clan Shorna is waiting for you. He sent us south to watch for your coming.”
Rowan blinked and glanced sideways in surprise at Torrin. He sat very still, a frown on his face. “You have been waiting for us specifically?” he asked.
The guard grinned insolently. His eyes caught and wandered with interest over Rowan’s big grey stallion. “The Mora’ Taith of Shorna is the most powerful shaman among the Horse Clans. You are either blessed or extremely unlucky for him to mark you so.” The horsemen behind him laughed.
A cold tickle ran up Rowan’s back and across her shoulders. She kept her face still. Torrin and Nathel were tense, their expressions guarded and wary.
“Has the Mora’ Taith been waiting for us for a long time?” asked Torrin.
The man shrugged, his eyes still fixed on Roanus, appraising his chest and girth, his hooves and legs. “Who can tell what lives in the heart of a shaman? We were sent to watch for you three days ago.” The warrior sighed and tore his gaze from the horse. “My name is Jari and these are my brothers.”
“How far are we from your Clanhold?” asked Torrin.
“A full day and a half’s ride, your horses look as if they are swift enough to keep up. We will make good time.” Jari’s tone was just shy of contempt.
“What say ye, lad? I’ve never met me a Mora’ Taith,” said Borlin boldly.
Nathel chuckled, but his eyes on the mounted warriors in front of them were still measuring.
Torrin looked at Dalemar and Arynilas; he received silent nods from both. When his gaze met Rowan’s, she said quietly, “Better to know than to wonder.”
Torrin turned back to Jari. “Lead the way then, my friend. We should not keep your Mora’ Taith waiting.”
Jari barked out an unintelligible command and the three horsemen behind him launched forward, two circled around behind the companions and the third fell in with Jari as he wheeled his sorrel horse around and led the way through the long grass.
Rowan turned as Torrin heeled his horse close to her and spoke softly. “Be wary of what you say. The Horse Clans are proud and fiercely independent; they hold allegiance to no one. We cannot be certain if their Shaman wishes us good or ill.”
“Or neither,” Rowan replied.
Torrin said nothing but he eased his sword in its scabbard.
The pace set by the Horse Clan warriors was fast but no faster than Rowan and her friends had driven themselves over the previous weeks. Jari and his brothers spoke little as they journeyed and Borlin’s attempts to draw them into conversation largely failed. It left the Stoneman’s usually jovial manner with a surly edge.
Although Rowan was pointedly ignored, her horse sparked much interest. They talked loudly amongst themselves, gesturing with much shaking of their heads. The language they spoke was coloured with a bit of the common tongue of Eryos and Rowan understood a few words but nothing else.
Finally, after hours of riding, Jari guided his sorrel horse toward Rowan, giving Arynilas and Dalemar a wide berth and a furtive glance. He nodded respectfully to her but instead of addressing her, he directed his question at Torrin in the common tongue. “We have a small wager that affects the stud services of my brother Kylor’s horse. It concerns the lineage of this stallion.” He indicated Roanus.
Torrin looked at Jari for a moment, his eyes weighed the man. “If you have a question about her horse, you should ask Rowan; she is not wed.”
Rowan watched then in amazement as the warrior’s bearing toward her changed instantly. He turned to look her directly in the eye for the first time and a wide smile lit up his face. “I wonder please if you could settle a debate my brothers and I are having about the lineage of your beautiful stallion?”
“Roanus traces his sires back for almost three hundred years in the Myrian studbooks.” Rowan watched Jari’s expression change from surprise to awe.
Then it was her turn to be surprised when Jari nodded sagely. “We have not seen a Myrian horse before but they are listed in our record scrolls. The description of them is quite accurate, based on what I see in your horse. I thank you. I believe I have just won the wager. What is his full name, please?”
“Roanus D’ Enyain. Enyain D’ Emius is his sire’s name,” replied Rowan.
Jari repeated the name as he gazed at her horse. “A most noble title.” He spurred his horse over to his brothers where he told them with excited animation.
Rowan looked at Torrin and he answered her question before she could ask it. “It is considered extremely offensive to look at and speak with a married woman. Most Horse Clansmen will assume a woman is married rather than risk insulting a husband. I’m surprised that these Clansmen are observing the custom with foreigners. They don’t care enough one way or another about folks who are not Clan to worry about insulting them.” Torrin glanced down at Roanus. “Perhaps he’s the reason they are treating you with such respect.”
When the sun set, the wind dropped with the temperature and they were given respite from its driving force. By
unspoken agreement the four Clansmen stopped in a shallow depression and began to set up a simple camp. They cared for their horses before any human comfort was sought, watering them with their own waterskins and checking hooves and legs thoroughly.
Dalemar slowly walked through the swale, with his head cocked. The clansmen watched him surreptitiously as he stopped and crouched down to touch the ground at his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment and Rowan could see the faint blue glow around his hand in the fading twilight.
Then Roanus whickered in interest and the other horses began to nose forward toward the Rith. Rowan walked her big gray over to where he could drink from the runnel of spring water that Dalemar had called to the surface. The four Clansmen edged closer to see, their mouths falling open in wonder as the rest of the companions brought their mounts forward to drink.
Dalemar winked at them. “Bring your horses before I release the water.” The Clansmen traded wary glances. “It is spring water from deep in the ground. It is clean and pure and quite safe,” said Dalemar. They tentatively led their horses forward, but tasted the water themselves, before allowing their animals to drink.
Afterward, they shared some of their food with him and nodded to him whenever he was near. But they still could not be engaged in conversation.
Rowan was woken in the darkness by a hand on her shoulder. She could barely make out Torrin above her. “Time to go,” he said quietly.
Rowan would have liked to stay curled under her warm blankets, but the camp around her was stirring to life. She sat up and began to pack her gear.
The companions and their escort were in the saddle and traveling again toward the Clanhold before the sun rose. Rowan watched the last of the stars fade as the morning sun crested the horizon. She ate in the saddle with the others. By late morning Arynilas spotted smoke in the distance – a smudge against the low cloud. They soon began to see small and large herds of horses grazing on the surrounding plain. Without exception, mounted and armed Clansmen guarded the herds.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 21