“Yes, we passed its walls some time ago. I feel only parkland above,” said the Tynithian.
Torrin swore. “It must stretch further into the surrounding hills than the other tunnel.” He stepped forward again and pulled on Black’s reins. Let this end so the hunt can begin, he thought desperately. The darkness was stuffy and dense and Torrin felt as though he was breathing water, drowning in shadows. Rowan was being taken further and further away at a swift pace.
A rumble from Hathunor sounded through the blackness ahead – an end. Torrin jogged forward pulling his horse. His lantern illuminated an entrance like the one they went through in the temple. Hathunor looked down at Torrin; his expression, lit from below, was nightmarish. Together they pushed on the door and felt a sudden breeze of cool, fresh air. Torrin sucked in a deep breath in relief and they pushed harder. The metal squealed and the door opened enough for them to bring the horses out. “Can you check outside, Hathunor?” asked Torrin. “I want to know what we are walking into.”
Hathunor rumbled and slipped into the night. A moment later her was back. “Hathunor sense no others.”
They filed out and gathered a short distance from the entrance. Torrin looked up at the twin moons and starry sky; it was good to be above ground. Even the horses tossed their heads and snorted in pleasure.
“Well at least the tunnel has taken us far away from Pellaris and the Raken army,” said Dalemar. “There should be little worry of being detected this far out.”
“Here!” Arynilas, who had stepped further away, came back to the horses and began to shed his clothes.
“Have you found the trail?” Torrin walked to the Tynithian.
“About fifteen men, mounted and moving in single file. Their trail is saturated. It will be easy to follow.” Arynilas stuffed his cloths into his saddlebag and began to shift.
“Stay close to Borlin’s lantern so we can follow you,” said Torrin.
The fox yipped and then disappeared – a black shadow against a black night.
Torrin hastily tightened his cinch and swung into the saddle. The trail left by Rowan’s captors led due east from the tunnel entrance, straight towards Krang.
Borlin’s lantern bobbed through the darkness. It lit the ground in a small circle as he swept it back and forth in slow arcs to keep the black shadow that was Arynilas in sight. Despite Torrin’s frustration, they were making good time with Arynilas following the scent.
Torrin pulled his eyes away from the lit trail to let his night vision return. He stretched his cramped shoulders and rubbed his gritty eyes. There were maybe two hours now until dawn, and he longed for the light of day when they could follow the trail rapidly. He glanced ahead to the distant horizon beyond the teeth of the Krang Mountains where dawn glowed like a beacon. The sky glittered with stars in the midnight blue and the cold air carried the hint of snow. He hoped Rowan was warm enough.
Torrin had no doubt they would catch up to the men who had taken her. Freeing her was all that mattered now, but then what? He had some vague notion of assassinating the Black Rith but until they located him and could see what they faced, there was really no way to plan.
The light had increased imperceptibly, and the surrounding trees and rolling hills of Pellar were now visible as dark shadows. They were at least seven hours behind the men they tracked. It might take a full day to make up the distance.
Torrin willed the dawn to come faster.
Part III
Painful Awakenings
Pain – the world slid between blackness and a swirling, sickening jumble. A wash of sound slipped forward and then receded: a creaking and jingling; a muffled voice; laughter. The blackness was a relief but the pain always returned. It flared suddenly – hard, jagged and razor edged. The surface of the world was close. Sounds became clear: jingling tack, creaking leather, the thud of hooves. A Bird called and the air was cool.
Rowan regained consciousness with a sickening lurch. The sounds were smothered beneath the pounding, searing pain that lanced across the side of her head. Her face felt swollen and hot; blood beat in her temples. Her shoulders and wrists were on fire, the joints pulled into strained angles.
She opened her eyes and the ground rushed by, her long braid hung swaying. Nausea swept over her and she closed her eyes, clamping her jaw shut, fighting as the blackness came for her once more.
Focus. Where am I?
The thought was groggy, slow.
She tried to move and the pain in her arms punched through the pounding in her head. She gasped and felt the blackness move closer.
A horse, I am on a horse.
Re-opening her eyes slowly, Rowan steeled herself against the sweeping nausea. Turning her head caused the pain in her skull to increase, and tears sprang to her eyes. Through them, she saw a line of horsemen spread out ahead of the horse she was tied to. She counted seven before she had to close her eyes and wait for the rolling sickness to subside. To the rear were at least ten more, spread out single file, wending through a forest in cool greyness. Was it dusk or dawn? Rowan thought hard – A bird call. Dawn.
She closed her eyes again, straining to remember. The scenes of the desperate battle in the square flashed through her mind: too many to fight; the touch of Nathel’s back against her own suddenly vanishing and her friends down; panic; the final blow to the side of her head. What had happened to Nathel and Borlin and Hathunor?
I am being taken to Krang. A shiver ran up her back. How far from Pellaris had they brought her? How much time had passed while she lay like a sack on the back of a horse? She pulled herself away from why Miroth wanted her. I am not there yet, she thought grimly. I have to get away from these men.
Even if she could get loose, she doubted she was in any condition to run or fight. Testing her bonds sent ripples of pain along her arms, and she couldn’t stifle her groan.
“She’s awake!” yelled someone from behind in a rough voice.
The column halted. Saddles creaked and spurs jingled as riders dismounted. A man walked into view but all Rowan saw was a pair of thick legs covered in grease-stained leather. A large, dirty hand reached for her braid, grasped it and coiled the hair around thick fingers before yanking upwards.
Rowan gasped as pain lanced through her head and neck. The man’s fearsome face swam into her vision. He was completely bald with a long, white scar cutting down across his brow and through his eye, puckering the lid. The eye itself was completely white.
“Get her watered and fed.” His breath reeked with of sour wine, and his voice was raspy and low as though his vocal cords were damaged.
He released her, and someone grasped her legs and hauled. Her chest scraped across the saddle and she noted thankfully that she still wore her leather breastplate. As the world tilted back upright, she almost blacked out again.
When her feet touched the ground, her legs collapsed and she went down with a grunt. Laughter came from the surrounding men. Rowan took deep breaths, waited for the pain and nausea to subside. They were tending to horses and finding food – sprawling in the dew-drenched grass to gnaw on hunks of bread and dried meat.
Some of them sported cuts and gashes hastily tended. One man unstopped a waterskin and squatted in front of her, pouring as much of it over her as into her mouth. He was missing his front teeth and had a broken nose with purple bruises spreading to his eyes, and she remembered suddenly – it had been the pommel of her sword that had smashed his face. She smiled grimly through the pounding in her head, regretting it immediately as the man snarled, backhanding her across the jaw. The blow blasted her head sideways, flaring new pain in her head. He reached out and grabbed her roughly by the collar of her leather breastplate, shaking her.
The men around her laughed again. “You show ’er, Gil. Teach the bitch a lesson fer breakn’ yer nose.”
“Oi, save some fer me!”
The rasping voice ended the men’s laughter, and they fell back, suddenly finding something of supreme interest elsewhere. The man hol
ding her was clouted on the back of the head and Rowan fell backward as she was released.
As her blurred vision cleared, she looked up to the scarred face of their leader. “The package is to be delivered undamaged or payment will not be made in full.” His raw voice carried clearly in the early morning, and she noted the criss-cross of more scars covering his bare arms. He saw her appraisal and bent down. “Best not be thinking of escape or causing any more trouble, lovely, or you’ll lose what privileges you have. I’ve no problem with keeping you unconscious and slung over the back of a horse all the way to Lok Myrr.” A grin split his face and several gold teeth flashed.
“How long have I been unconscious?” Rowan’s voice came out a thick whisper. Her jaw hurt and her throat was raw.
Scarface smiled again, his white eye eerie. Ignoring her question, he turned away to spit into the grass. “Mount up!”
The men scrambled to their feet and made ready to leave. Rowan was hauled to her feet and supported her as her legs buckled again. The ropes around her ankles were sliced and the cords at her wrists untied. Blood rushed into her fingers, warming them, and she gritted her teeth in agony as they pulled her hands forward and retied them in front. She was lifted up onto the horse, her tied hands lashed tightly to the high pommel of the saddle.
The column began to move again as the morning sun crested the horizon.
Teeth gritted, Rowan tried in vain to free her hands. She was as weak as a newborn kitten. There is time, she thought. It was a long way to Krang. She would gather her strength and wait for an opportunity.
*
Rowan opened her aching eyes and looked up at the sun – still only midday. Sweet Erys it felt like forever. Her mouth was parched and the nausea came in rolling waves. Her horse stumbled and a new burst of pain exploded through her stupor. Please, let them stop. She swayed in the saddle and longed for rest. A cold wind gusted and Rowan shivered – apart from her leather cuirass and various armour pieces, only one layer of cloth protected her. She sucked in a breath of the chilly air. Maybe it would clear her head a little. The column traveled through foothills with copses of deciduous trees clustered against their slopes. Hawks circled above, an occasional cry piercing the silence. Burning circled her wrists and blood had dried from the rope cuts. Rowan tried to flex her fingers but her hands were numb. She winced and closed her eyes.
A whistle sounded and her horse halted with the column. Two men came forward and untied her from the saddle. Rowan held her breath as they pulled her roughly down and dumped her on the ground. They tossed a waterskin next to her and she struggled to sit up so she could reach it. With her hands tied in front of her, at least she would be able to drink on her own. Gasping at the pain in her hands, she attempted to unstop the skin with near-useless fingers. Finally, she got it open and drank as much as she could. A man approached and pulled it from her grasp before she was done. He thrust a piece of hard, dried meat into her hands. Rowan looked at the meat and her stomach heaved. She swallowed hard, fumbling to tuck it away for later into her breastplate. Exhausted, she collapsed back onto the ground and closed her eyes, concentrated on relaxing every muscle while taking deep, steadying breaths. After a moment, the sickening spin of the world stilled and the pain in her head eased.
She awoke with a man holding her in a vice-like grip while he applied a sticky, stinging paste to her head wound. He released her and stood back; behind him, Scarface watched with his glaring white eye. They roused her roughly to her feet, lifting her to be re-tied to the saddle. Rowan steeled herself as the thudding pain and dizzy spiralling returned.
The afternoon waned; the column stopped again and Rowan woke from a doze. The two men walked up on either side of her horse from behind – they were not going to underestimate her. Rowan frowned; it would make escape more difficult. Once again she was untied and pulled from the horse.
Scarface came over and squatted down in front of her. He reached out and grasped her chin, turning her head to look at the wound. Rowan pulled away from him, her head spinning. “My condition has not changed. Rest assured you will likely get your full payment.”
He smiled, gold teeth flashing. Reaching out, he laced his fingers through the hair at the back of her head and wrenched her towards him. His lips brushed her cheek. “The terms of payment are for undamaged merchandise,” he whispered. “Nothing was said about spoiling the wares in other ways. It’s a long way to Lok Myrr, sweetness.” His whisper was surprisingly free of the rasping that marred his speaking voice.
Rowan stilled as his grimy fingers trailed down her neck. He licked her ear and she suppressed the urge to strike him. With her hands tied in front, she could still inflict serious injury but it would only get her another beating. Wait – a chance will present itself.
Instead she whispered back, “You will come to regret that touch, taken without my permission – and when you die with my sword in your belly, you will remember this moment.”
He drew back, surprise flickering over his face. Then he leaned forward and kissed her roughly.
Rowan stiffened against the onslaught – the foul taste of his mouth, his teeth scraping against hers. He broke off with an arrogant grin and thrust her back down into the grass. Standing, he licked his lips and looked around at his mercenaries. “Very nice.” There were chuckles and snickers from the men.
Rowan lay still, ignoring them and focusing on calming her pounding heart. She willed herself to relax as frightening possibilities ran unchecked through her mind.
All too soon it was time to move on again. Someone kicked her leg, and before she could sit up by herself they grabbed her, lashing her tightly to the saddle once again. As the column began to move east, Rowan tested her bonds. The rope tying her to the saddle was a little looser than usual – only a little.
The column crested a small rise, and a deep valley spread out below with a huge river flowing through it. The broad expanse of water had carved out a steep canyon to the left as it sped on its way towards the Eryos Ocean. Evergreen trees carpeted the high shoulders of the canyon, their tops just catching the last of the slanting sun. She remembered the map in Cerebus’s study with the blue line inked out as it made its twisting way from the great marshland. It was the Pellar River – there was no other large river between Pellaris and Krang.
The line of horsemen began the descent to the river below. The swirling current of water was fast but shallow enough for the horses to cross where the river spread out before the narrows of the canyon. Rowan worked at the ropes holding her to the saddle. Clearer than she had felt all day, she turned again to look at the canyon where the water disappeared. In the evening light, the shadow of the canyon concealed the course of the river and it was hard to say how rough it was. The seed of a plan formed. I will never outrun them but maybe, just maybe –.
The first few riders entered the dark, swift waters and began to work their way out into the main current. The horses were shoulder deep by the time they were halfway across. The men in front of Rowan heeled their mounts down the steep bank. Ignoring the searing pain in her wrists, she pulled harder at the ropes binding her. When her horse balked at the water, dancing sideways along the bank, it almost unseated the man holding its lead line.
Two men from behind rode up on either side of her. They cursed at her spooked horse, slapping its rump. The animal suddenly launched itself out into the fast current. Rowan gasped as the ropes tore at her wrists but they gave a little. Cold water splashed up at her and she tested the lashings again.
The two men flanking her kicked their horses into the water to keep their positions. She waited until her horse was halfway across, watching the current sweep by under its belly until it rose to cover her feet and shins. This should be fast enough – it had to be.
Rowan took a deep breath. She wrenched at the ropes, clenching her teeth against the pain and pulled back to stretch the lashing as far as they would go. Then she twisted her hands forward to drag herself free of the saddle pommel. Most of the
rope came away but the end was still wrapped and she had to wind her tied hands around and around the pommel to free the rest.
The men riding beside and ahead were focused on the water in front of their horses. But a sharp cry came from behind and they jerked their heads up, turning to look. The man on her right made a grab for her just as the last loop came free. Rowan leaned away from him and then swung her hands with fingers laced into a double fist. She hit him in the jaw and his head snapped back, unbalancing him so he had to scrabble at his saddle to keep from being dumped in the river.
The man on her other side clamped a hand around her upper arm. Rowan swept her arms up and around in a circle, binding his thumb. He cursed and released his grip; then tried for another. She kicked him savagely in the ribs.
Head pounding with the exertion, dulling the shouts and commotion around her, Rowan spun to assess her chances. The men behind were plunging their skittish horses into the river amid plumes of spraying water. Ahead of her, men along the line struggled to get their mounts turned. A horse slipped in the fast current and went down, dousing its rider and getting swept downstream several paces before finding its feet. Scarface had wrenched his horse around and was splashing back towards her, screaming orders and cursing his men.
Kicking her right leg over her horse’s neck, she jumped into the river. The shock of the freezing water sucked the air from her lungs and she gasped in a ragged breath; her legs and arms went numb. She passed under the neck of the horse beside her. Its rider reached down but the water swept her from his grasp. Rowan stuck her feet out in front of her, kicking her legs to keep her head above water. Her hands, still tied, floated in front of her and she struggled to free them. She risked a glance back. The river had already taken her far downstream. Scarface was waving his arm and shouting; men were jumping into the water after her but their metal armour and chain-mail sucked them under the surface.
Rowan turned to face the river ahead. The steep walls of the canyon were approaching fast and the river’s current was growing rougher. Cold water washed over her face; her boots had filled and she struggled to keep her head above the churning surface. Her right leg glanced off a stone beneath the water, spinning her around. As she kicked frantically to turn herself forward again, another wave splashed over her and she swallowed water, coughing.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 44