Torrin had grown up groomed to take Ralor's place at the king’s side and when Ralor died, Cerebus had turned to Torrin, hoping to find in him a man like his father had been. Torrin was young but he had proven himself capable and in time he surpassed even his father’s skills. When Torrin was only twenty, King Cerebus placed him in command of the elite King’s Guard, a position that Torrin kept until he married the lovely daughter of a prominent member of the healers’ guild. King Cerebus blessed the union and promoted Torrin to commander at arms for the Pelarian army.
But after the terrible events of that day in Balor, going back to Pellaris and carrying on with the life he had led was unthinkable. He could never have faced the people he knew – the people who had known and loved Emma and his daughters. It was far easier to face the unknown life of a mercenary, surrounded by men who didn’t know him or his past. He was just another sword arm, another soldier for hire.
Gradually he and his brother garnered a reputation among the men they fought with, a reputation based not on Torrin’s past but on his skill as a warrior and his ability to lead men in battle. Few soldiers and mercenaries fighting in the Ren wars hadn’t heard of the big northern brothers who brought death to the enemy. And when they met Arynilas and Borlin that reputation grew even further.
Torrin studied his brother who was stretched out staring into the fire. He marvelled that Nathel had left his life in Pellaris, following Torrin into his own private hell. Nathel was everything that Torrin was not. Before Torrin had lost his wife and daughters, there had been many similarities between them, but the pain of the last seven years had scoured away the light-hearted man Torrin had been, leaving only a hardened, battle-scarred shell full of grief and bitterness – his guilt refused to let him heal.
And so Nathel, a rogue at heart, had developed more of the traits that Torrin had lost, living fully for both of them. He laughed and joked when his brother could not, was quick to smile when Torrin had forgotten what a smile felt like on his face. There was nothing Torrin wouldn’t do for his brother. He knew he could never repay Nathel for his loyalty so when Cerebus’s summons had reached them in the south, Torrin had decided to return to Pellar for his brother.
Torrin sheathed his sword and took up his cooling tea. Nathel was looking forward to returning to the northern city. But seven years was a long time. People changed; places changed. He hoped his brother wouldn’t be disappointed.
Torrin rubbed a hand down his face. He was dreading the return.
Movement across from him caught his eye. Rowan put away her gear and stood, bending over the fire to pour herself a last cup of tea. Her long braid swung forward over her shoulder, its golden strands glinting in the firelight. She was absorbed in her own thoughts and the pensive expression on her face made her look even more beautiful in the light of the fire.
They finished the last of their tea and began to roll themselves into their blankets around the dying fire. Torrin closed his eyes; felt the stillness the bog lands like a weighted heaviness – the calm before the storm. Out beyond the glowing fire and the sleeping forms of his friends, battles were being fought for the kingdom of his birth and although he no longer considered Pellar his home, he couldn’t help but feel old loyalties stir.
Arorans and Tynithians
Rowan woke the next morning to the cold grey of the perpetual morning mist. She rolled out of her blankets to find Borlin already stooped over a small fire, preparing breakfast. After packing her gear away into her saddlebags, she made her way to the fire. A cluster of pots sat above the fire on a grate. She lifted the corner of one lid to peek at the contents and a billow of steam escaped.
Borlin growled at her. “Ye’ll let all the steam out, an breakfast ‘l be ruined. I’ll tell ye lass, never interrupt a Stoneman and ‘is cookin.”
Rowan laughed and raised her hands in submission. “As you say Borlin, but it’s hard to resist when it smells so good.”
The Stoneman puffed up his chest and handed her a steaming cup of tea.
“Thank you.” Rowan wrapped her hands around the hot cup, enjoying the warmth that spread through her cold fingers.
“You’re welcome, Lass. I’d not like to see you starve.”
Rowan grinned into her cup. Borlin believed he was the only one among them who claimed any skill in cooking. Rowan was disinclined to alter that opinion. The culinary arts of Myris Dar were taught to most children, but the lure of the practice yard made her time spent in the kitchen grudging at best.
Borlin seemed to have an inexhaustible store of ingredients hidden away in his voluminous saddlebags. Indeed, they had eaten remarkably well for travelers. Borlin collected herbs and spices from every place they traveled. A special box containing packets of the different flavours was one of his prized possessions.
Rowan almost jumped when Torrin and Nathel materialized from the direction of the horses, and she greeted her companions as they gathered around the fire.
After breakfast they broke camp and saddled up. Borlin went around instructing them on how to attach the ear socks he had made for the horses. Roanus shook his head in irritation as Rowan tied the last cord to his bridle cheek strap. He settled quickly though, seeming to understand that the alternative was far worse.
Rowan mounted up and the companions pushed their way through the thicket, back out onto the game trail. If it weren’t for Arynilas and his unerring sense of direction, Rowan wouldn’t have known which way to go in eerie white. The ghostly calls of birds sounded around them as they began to wend through the reeds. The horses’ hoof beats resounded with dull thuds and even the jingle of tack was hard to hear. Rowan turned in her saddle to look behind at Borlin – already indistinct directly behind her. Another five days Nathel and Torrin had said. She was not looking forward to more Raken on the other side, but she would be happy to see the end of this expanse of marsh and its biting insects. The bird life was the only thing she would miss. She sighed and tuned forward again – it reminded her so strongly of home.
The morning passed as they threaded their way through the twisting trees and tall marsh grass. Rowan’s thoughts turned to Hathunor. Her giant friend was out there alone somewhere in this vast morass. The more time that passed without Hathunor’s return the more worried Rowan became. She envisioned his scaled skin covered in wounds and blood. She saw him lying dead in the waters of the bogs, having somehow been caught and overwhelmed by the Drae Raken that pursued him. She strove to dispel such dark images from her thoughts by reciting the message she carried. It ran through her mind again and again. The words lost their meaning, becoming a string of sounds in her head.
It wasn’t until Nathel’s horse stopped in front of her and she had to rein in, that she realized how lost in thought she had been. Arynilas spoke quietly from the mist ahead, but his voice carried to her. “Something comes. It is large!”
The companions gathered into a defensive circle, and Rowan reached up and drew her sword. The ring of weapons leaving scabbards was muted by the mist.
After a few moments Rowan heard the sound of movement ahead through the screen of trees. But it was the vibrations in the ground that told her something huge was approaching.
Roanus tossed his head, ears flicking uncertainly. Rowan placed a hand on his neck to calm him. The sounds became louder – the blowing of a great breath was clearly audible.
The mist ahead of them darkened as a huge shape loomed over the trees. Rowan gasped and Nathel whistled in wonder. A gigantic beast materialized out of the swirling fog. Seeing the companions, it stopped. The beast looked at them carefully, its small eyes passing over each one. Rowan held her breath, staring in wonder.
It looked as though Erys had taken different animals and combined them to create this behemoth. Its short tan hide was covered with dark vertical stripes; the huge head held on its short, massive neck sported an elongated snout, which was busy chewing the marsh grass that dangled from its mouth. The creature’s legs were long and its three-toed feet wide. Its tai
l, which ended in a horsehair-like tuft, swung continuously from side to side, brushing away the annoyance of insects.
The beast snorted and the horses spooked at the percussive sound. Then the enormous creature turned away and continued into the fog, fading back into the grey of myth as though it had never existed.
“What in the name of Erys was that?” asked Nathel in the silence.
Dalemar opened his mouth, but it was Arynilas who spoke. “It was an Aroran, a creature that used to roam across Eryos. They have dwindled to a few pockets of inaccessible land where they cannot be hunted. Most people have forgotten them – much like you, Messenger, and your homeland of Myris Dar.”
“An Aroran.” Borlin shook his head, dismounting and opening his saddlebag. The mist was dissipating, and a relatively dry hummock nearby provided an opportunity for a respite and a midday meal.
Rowan saw to Roanus, then sought the Tynithian. “Have you seen Arorans before?”
“Many hundreds of years ago they were found all across Eryos. When I was a child I once saw them move in a great herd over the land, but even then there were not as many as there had been.”
“How long ago was that?” Rowan asked.
“Four hundred and sixty human years I believe.”
“And how long was your childhood?” Rowan wondered if she was being impolite, but Arynilas’s tilted eyes twinkled.
“A Tynithian is no longer considered a child once he or she has passed their hundredth human year.”
Rowan’s eyes widened. “Are you are still considered young for a Tynithian?”
“Fairly. I am still before my middle century. I would be considered about 30 in human terms.”
Rowan looked down at the wedge of cheese and dried meat still uneaten in her hand as she tried to imagine having a childhood that lasted a century. Her own scant years seemed less than a blink in comparison.
As if Arynilas had heard this thought, he said, “To have a thousand years to live a life is also to give up that which shorter lived people hold dear – time. Each precious moment of life is no longer noted and savoured. I believe we lose as much as we gain.”
“Humans loose reverence for life far more easily than you think, Arynilas,” Torrin said quietly. He lay stretched out and propped on one elbow, listening to their conversation as he carved off bits of dried apple. Arynilas looked over at Torrin, his gemlike eyes holding a knowing look.
He looked back at Rowan and then pointed to the marshes around them. “Do you not feel it here, in this place?”
“Feel what,” asked Rowan.
“A suspension of time,” answered Torrin for the Tynithian.
“I thought you might be able to feel it,” said Arynilas.
Rowan glanced between them. “It does feel different here, heavier, as if we are standing still.”
Arynilas nodded. “It is how I feel when I take the shape of the fox. This place forces us to be in a moment suspended. To be in a place of stillness.”
“Like Hathunor,” said Rowan. “I have noticed that he does not dwell on the future or the past.”
“He is like a Rith Piryon, a master at time travel.” Dalemar came to sit beside them. “The Piryons are a small closed sect of Rith society that believes the passage of time is only a concept in our minds, a way to link seemingly separate events. Piryons claim to be able to travel through time because they see all of history as one point that can be accessed in a suspended moment which is continuously this moment.” Dalemar shook his head. “Most Riths do not completely understand the Piryons and their abilities, but I do see some of their philosophy embodied in Hathunor.”
Rowan thought again of the black fox, remembering its dark shadow during a full moon night. She wondered what it must feel like to take such a shape. “When do Tynithians learn to shape shift?”
Arynilas looked squarely back at Rowan. “My people search for their animal form during the first few hundred years of their lives. I was very young when my other self found me; only one hundred and fifty. Some Tynithians search for three hundred years.”
“The fox found you?” Rowan asked.
Arynilas nodded, black hair swinging forward, and Rowan saw in her mind the waving tail of the fox. “We are all searching for our true selves. Sometimes when we meet another person we find a part of that self in them. Tynithians also search for that self in animals. It is why we live in Dan Tynell, the Great Green Hall – to surround ourselves with the creatures of Erys so that we might meet the one we are looking for. So that it might find us.”
“Are you saying that the fox and you are actually separate beings that are somehow joined?” asked Rowan.
“No. We are the same. The search for our animal self is a spiritual one. A journey within that takes us far further than any physical path that we might travel.”
Rowan frowned. “Is it true that some Tynithians choose to live only in their animal form?”
“It is rare but it does happen. When we become our other selves, we access a different world from this one. We are still a part of this one, but our perceptions are altered such that we see things we cannot normally see. When I take my other form, the fox changes me. My traits are still there but they become superseded by the fox and what he sees. The same is true of this form – the fox is still in me but my Tynithian traits are stronger. Those of my people who choose to exist completely in animal form are lost to those of us who do not. They forget the Tynithian in them and can no longer return to that form.”
Rowan nodded. Arynilas’s superior senses, his tracking ability and physical agility were from his fox, then. “What do you see, when you become the fox?”
Arynilas studied her with his dark sapphire eyes, his expression grave. “I see that which these eyes cannot. The magic plane.” Arynilas turned to Dalemar. “The place where Rith kind access their power. It is all around us but we do not see it. Dalemar will one day be able to see it completely.”
Dalemar, listening as he smoked his pipe, nodded his head. “Now I see only glimpses of it, and only when I spell-cast.”
Rowan looked back at Arynilas, “Why then do you not take the shape of the fox more often if it is possible to see such wondrous things?”
“Because it is dangerous to do so. The fox, though part of my true self, is more powerful than I. He lives by instinct and primal need. To exist too long in that form is to risk loosing myself to him.”
Rowan nodded. “You are closely connected to Erys.”
Arynilas tilted his head. “Yes.”
“We have so much to learn from you,” Rowan said quietly.
“The opposite is also true.” A faint smile pulled at the corners of Arynilas’s mouth and Rowan realized that was precisely why Arynilas chose to travel with Torrin and his companions.
“Most Tynithians believe there is little to learn from the other races of Eryos,” Arynilas said. “I have decided otherwise.”
Torrin gave a short, cynical bark of laughter. “So that is your reason for following a madman and his foolish friends across Eryos?”
“Friendship is also the reason, and a life debt.”
Torrin sobered. “You’ve repaid that debt a thousand fold, Arynilas. I would gladly follow you, my friend.”
Arynilas shook his head. “Some are meant to lead.”
Returning through Mist
Rowan rode behind Dalemar through the swirling white mist, his form already indistinct in the short distance between them. Ahead of the Rith, Torrin was little more than a dark mass. The fog this morning was the thickest they had yet encountered. The only link between the companions was the rider in front and behind.
They periodically moved through pockets of clearer air and took the opportunity to check and make sure everyone was together. Twice now they had needed to stop and call out to each other.
Rowan was soaked. The air was so laden with moisture that it settled into her clothing and hair. She was cold and hoped they would stop soon. The birdcalls around them were muffled
and Rowan had no idea how far the morning had progressed.
Then a whistle came from behind – a bird not of the marshes. Rowan turned quickly to look back. Borlin, riding behind her was pulling his short sword from its scabbard, craning around to peer into the thick whiteness behind.
Nathel had rear guard. Hooves pounded dully from behind and the dark bulk of man and horse appeared. Nathel had his sword drawn.
Torrin, Dalemar and Arynilas loomed to Rowan’s right, having turned their horses around and moved back down the trail.
“What is it?” Torrin’s voice was quiet.
“We are being followed,” replied Nathel.
“Did you see who?”
Nathel shook his head. “Whoever it is, they are close.”
Metal rang through the air as as Torrin drew his broadsword. Rowan reached up over her shoulder, fingers grasping the cold hilt of her blade. They gathered in a tight semi-circle facing back the way they had come.
Roanus perked his ears forward, listening. His head came up. Rowan strained to hear and see through the fog. Twice she thought she saw something moving only to realize that the mist was to blame, uncovering trees and shrubs creating darker shadows through the white.
Her companions were leaning forward in their saddles, tense with anticipation. Arynilas raised his bow and aimed.
Rowan heard something, a foot squelching in mud perhaps. The Tynithian held his bow steady, waiting.
Then, out of the fog a big dark form materialized, pitch black against the white. A staccato rumble carried to them.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 25