Galen nodded, imagining the chaos along the battlements. There would be no hope now for Cerebus. He turned to Pothiern. “Do not worry yourself over the fate of Pellaris, brother. The city has seen far worse in its history and its stone walls have endured. When we return, there will be a new beginning for Pellar under the guidance of the Priesthood of Erys. Now let us move; we have a long way to travel.”
An Unexpected Turn
Sol ran as fast as he could down the long corridor. The sound of his breath and the slap of his feet on the stone echoed loudly. His lungs were burning.
She was here! He knew the Master was expecting her but not this way. Sol had been trailing along behind the Raken when he found Zeben in the servant’s quarters. The old man was shaking, tears leaking from his pale eyes, as he told Sol in a cracked whisper about the strange people he had seen.
The Master was going to be very angry. Sol’s heart lurched in his chest. He passed the Raken guarding the huge wooden door to Miroth’s tower and pushed the thick portal open wide. He moved through the first room with all its lovely furnishings and tried unsuccessfully to slow his breathing.
Miroth looked up when he entered and Sol bowed.
“Well?” the Master’s voice was angry, impatient.
“Master Miroth, she is here, the Myrian is here!”
Miroth rose to his feet, a sudden smile stretching his papery skin; Sol glanced away from the yellow teeth, the cold eyes.
“Good...” The word was drawn out in an audible whisper.
Sol shook his head, desperate to be clear. Fear made his tongue dry as the smile left Miroth’s face and his terrible stare bored into Sol. “No Master, she is not here as you expected. She is with men and… and an enormous tame Raken. They are fighting in the corridors below!”
“What of the mercenaries bringing her here?” the words crackled through the air. Sol quailed in dread; he had no answer to give.
Miroth seized his long wooden staff and swept around his desk, robes billowing. The air on Sol’s face from the Rith’s passage made him shudder; he hunched away but followed as quickly as he dared on his master’s heels. He would be punished for not being within easy reach.
When Miroth reached the Raken guards outside the door, he spoke in their harsh guttural language. The two Raken turned and loped away down the corridor, their clawed feet clicking over the stones.
Miroth spun on Sol. The tip of his staff flared suddenly, sickly green. Sol was blasted back against the wall and held there. His head cracked on stone and his vision dimmed. When he could see again, Miroth was standing directly in front of him, his burning eyes only inches from Sol’s face. Sol tried to turn his head away but couldn’t move. His feet were a pace above the floor. Panic rose in his chest to suffocate him.
“You will begin to make the final preparations for me. See that there are no mistakes.” The cold sinister voice burst through his skull and excruciating pain followed it.
Miroth turned away, and Sol was released to fall in a heap. In a haze of painful dizziness, face pressed against the stone floor, he watched the swishing black hem of his Master’s red robes recede down the corridor after the Raken guards.
Inside the Belly of the Beast
The sound of Raken howls erupted from close behind. Rowan looked over her shoulder at the doorway they had just come through, expecting to see their black forms spill from it. The large vaulted chamber they raced through intensified the sound, echoing it from all directions. Howls sounded distantly ahead of them now as well.
The Raken were closing in on them.
They ran, weaving through tables and benches – a mess hall. Rowan had an incongruous vision of people sitting eating, talking in hushed voices. Even under Miroth’s heavy hand, life went on.
At the head of the group, Hathunor altered direction and sprinted to the right. They followed wordlessly. It had been perhaps twenty minutes since they had encountered the child-Raken and Hathunor had been leading them through the dim corridors, keeping them just ahead of his kin.
Rowan pulled in a big breath, side stepping an over-turned chair. Frustration beat in her chest along with her heart. They were no closer to the Summoner – getting pushed further away from the east tower. Arynilas could sense the moons pointing them unerringly eastward. But more often than not, they were not free to choose that direction.
We are running in circles.
Lok Myrr was vast and multileveled. Corridors ran in every direction as though different architects had not consulted one other. There was little regard for design or symmetry; the passageways were graceless. A mad tangle of string – and they were scrambling through the hollow threads.
The sun must be rising outside.
She glanced up at Torrin running beside her, blood-spattered, his dark hair wet with sweat and his expression grave.
Hathunor loped forward ahead of them with determination, his crested head down. An arched door loomed ahead and Hathunor led them through it. The sounds of pursuit diminished. Rowan’s mouth was dry. She reached up and wiped the sweat from her forehead; her sword still hummed in her right hand.
The mission was failing. Miroth was still an unattainable ghost – like his presence in her dream, a barely glimpsed foe that she would never get close enough to fight.
Rowan shook her head. Don’t think, just move.
Hathunor barked a warning as they came to a meeting of corridors. Raken pursuit was loud again; Rowan and the others slowed. Hathunor headed right and they followed – away from the east tower. Away from Miroth.
“They close!” called Arynilas.
Rowan turn – there were about twenty Raken running down the same corridor on the other side of the junction.
“Stop,” called Torrin. “We cannot outrun them.”
As one they formed up to face the enemy. The hallway was narrow – a few could defend it, providing no Raken came from behind.
“Come, Hathunor, let us see if we can even the odds,” said Dalemar, stepping toward the charging Raken. He raised his arms, pointing down the corridor at them. Hathunor stepped with him.
Rowan felt sudden heat as something whooshed past from the other direction, ruffling her hair. She frowned, trying to understand what was happening – Dalemar hadn’t released magic yet. He was struck violently from behind by an unseen force; snapping his head back and sending him sprawling on the stone floor. He lay crumpled and unmoving.
Rowan turned in horror – the corridor that had been empty only a moment ago, now held the object of their hunt. A wan yellow-green light illuminated a figure clothed in long robes, striding toward them.
Miroth.
Rowan gasped and took an involuntary step backward, squeezing her eyes shut. She bumped into something solid – Torrin. He gazed down at her, his blue eyes resolute. It gave her strength. She looked back at the Black Rith coming toward them. More Raken followed Miroth – many more. They blackened the space behind him, a boiling mass of spikes and stiff crests jutting toward the low ceiling.
Miroth wanted her for something; he wanted her alive and uninjured. If she could make it to him before the Raken closed in….
Rowan lifted her humming blade up before her. “On this day when blood is to be shed, let this sword be true, let this arm be strong in the defence of my land, my people and myself.” The litany rolled off her tongue, calming her.
Torrin hefted his sword. “We are with you.”
She looked up at him and back at the others. “May your blades be true, my friends.”
“And yours, Messenger,” said Arynilas, drawing his bow and firing.
“Aye, let it be done!” Borlin rapped his short sword against his small shield.
Rowan drew her dagger from her hip and spun it into her hand. She launched herself down the corridor.
This was the reason she was here, the reason she had left her homeland and traveled so far into an unknown land.
It was time to end it.
She ran and Torrin and Nathel ra
n with her, flanking her, barely a step behind. Borlin and Hathunor brought up the rear; the big Saa Raken had Dalemar’s limp form clutched under his arm. Arynilas trailed behind, sending the last of his arrows into the chasing Raken.
The features of Miroth’s face became clearer; his eyes were set deep within shadowed sockets, bald head reflecting the light as he stalked towards them. Crimson robes swished about his feet. Even from this distance she could feel his gaze burning into her. He carried a long staff, its tip glowing the ugly colour of her nightmares.
Miroth stopped and, without taking his eyes off Rowan, issued a command over his shoulder to the Raken. His minions leapt forward and streamed around him, water past a stone.
No, I have to reach him!
The distance closed quickly between them and Miroth’s Raken. They came together, crashing waves of steel and flesh. Rowan heard shouting – realized it was her own voice. Torrin and Nathel slammed into the Raken, their broadswords cleaving and hacking in the tight space. Hathunor launched past them, scything into the Draes.
Rowan looked desperately for Miroth – a wall of huge, black bodies filled her vision. The Raken tried to grab her, disarm her. She kept her sword whirling before her. It caught arms, hands, fingers. Beside her Torrin and Nathel fought desperately.
Borlin and Arynilas faced back, meeting the Raken from behind; they were caught in a black, scaled vice. She ducked under Nathel’s backswing, felt her elbow jab into Borlin’s back.
The sound was deafening – Rowan knew the sword in her hand was still humming by the vibrations. Stinging sweat seeped into her eyes; she gasped in breaths.
A Raken clawed Torrin’s chest, long gouges down his breastplate. She was knocked forward – Borlin had been shoved backwards and collided with her. As he regained his footing he had the presence of mind to latch onto her and yank her back upright.
The Raken had weapons, but they were careful not to use them on her. Her friends were not so lucky.
Hathunor’s growls and roars sounded from somewhere in the press of black bodies. A club slammed into Nathel’s side; he grunted, stumbling to one knee. Rowan sliced at the Raken, defending Nathel while he regained his feet. Rowan’s throat was raw, her lungs burning. Her sword arm was tiring; blood and sweat hampered her grip. The floor was slick now with splattered gore.
Something struck her leg. A Raken had lunged low while her attention was on Nathel. Rowan kicked out hard, catching the Raken in the face. She brought up her sword, swivelling the grip, and plunged it down between the spiky, black shoulders.
Her sword stuck in bone. It wouldn’t come free as more Raken came for her. Torrin was there, defending her with his great sword. Rowan wrenched as hard as she could, finally freeing the blade as Borlin and Arynilas pressed harder into them from behind. She almost tripped on Dalemar, lying unconscious against the wall between them.
Miroth was nowhere in sight – their small chance was passed. It would only be a matter of time before they were overcome. Then a blow made it past her guard; pain bloomed in her side and she stumbled, slipping in the blood. Torrin snatched her back up before she could fall.
No! We cannot fail! Rowan railed against the despair rising in her heart. She fought harder, ignoring her fatigue. Sword humming, dagger slicing, she wove pain and death through the Raken before her.
A dark shape loomed above them suddenly – a Drae Raken scrambling over the shoulders of its kin, spiked crest brushing the ceiling. It leapt at them, a black streak.
They raised their swords, impaling the creature as it fell on them, but its weight and momentum was enough to carry them to the floor with it. Rowan was pinned, her blade buried deep in the creature’s side and the hilt jabbing painfully into her ribs – she could not free it. Grunting, thrashing; muffled sound. She heaved but couldn’t budge the Raken atop her; she could hardly breathe.
“Rowan!” Torrin’s voice was strained.
“I’m here,” she called. More weight landed on her, forcing the remaining air from her lungs. Her vision began to dim. All she could perceive was a thin strip along the floor. Clawed Raken feet filled the space. She could see nothing of Torrin or the rest of her friends.
The weight crushing her was nothing compared with the pain in her heart.
They had failed.
As she was losing consciousness, the weight on her was lifted. Rough hands grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her. Then she was hoisted up over a Raken’s shoulder and spikes bit into her waist. She struggled, straining to see the others – caught sight of Torrin and Nathel briefly between the black bodies. They were on their feet at least. The Raken clamped down hard. She stilled. Time to save her strength, take stock.
They were marched through the endless corridors of Lok Myrr. The Raken took them down stairways and descending passageways – always downward. Rowan’s head began to pound with the blood rushing to it. The memory of being tied over a horse outside Pellaris flashed through her mind. She glimpsed her sword, and those of her friends, in Raken hands behind her.
“Dyrn Mithian Irnis Mor Lanyar,” she whispered. The Raken carrying her sword lifted it and looked curiously at it when the hum ceased.
Finally, they stopped before a rough iron-bound door in a cramped corridor. They were so deep within the fortress now that Rowan swore she could feel the groaning of tons of rock pressing down on them. The Raken carrying their confiscated weapons had gone, disappearing ahead down the narrow corridor.
Of Miroth, there was no sign.
The door squealed as it was opened and its thick bottom ground against the stone floor. She was lifted from the Raken carrying her and thrown into blackness. Pain flared through her shoulder when she hit the floor. Someone else landed behind her with a soft grunt – Arynilas.
Rowan twisted around to look at the doorway. Torchlight bled over the stone floor at its opening. She saw Nathel shoved forward by the Raken into the darkness and then Torrin, blood dripping down his face.
Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, Rowan scrambled up. Dalemar was tossed in next and Torrin and Nathel barely caught him before he hit the hard floor. Borlin finally stumbled through, cursing eloquently.
The door slammed shut, plunging them all into blackness.
Hathunor was missing.
Betrayal
The sun had reached its zenith in the clear blue sky when Cerebus ordered the retreat to Pellaris Keep. The lines of the Pellarian army were no longer holding the Raken at bay.
Cerebus fought next to General Preven, refusing to leave with the first wave of soldiers heading back up into the city.
The young woman also fought by their side, favouring a broken arm where she had been hit with a Raken club. It was not her sword arm, she had explained, when Cerebus bade her to retreat behind the line. She was untrained but had courage and knew instinctively to get in close, make a strike and get out again as fast as possible.
Cerebus bled from a long gash on his arm and his thigh oozed from a stab wound. He had to continuously wipe at another cut over his left eye to keep his vision clear. Sweat slid into the wounds, stinging. Cerebus welcomed it – it kept him sharp.
The soldier beside him went down, whether from a slip on the gory stones or a wound, Cerebus didn’t know. Another man stepped forward to take his place, but only here, where their king fought.
Cerebus looked along the battlements. Now when men fell, no one took up their place. The Raken were getting through in ever-increasing numbers. They had broken through the outer gate and the beasts were now working at the heavy portcullis. The murder holes in the ceiling of the tunnel had been put to good use, but there were no longer enough soldiers to man both walls and gate.
“My Lord! My Lord!” Cerebus turned to see a young soldier run up the steps from the gate below.
“What is it?”
“The Raken are within the city, Sire. They are coming towards the walls in great numbers.” The young man’s voice wavered in panic.
Cerebus looked again alon
g the walls. “Where? Where are they getting in?”
“They are coming out of the Temple of Erys, my Lord, scores of them.”
Cerebus’s blood ran cold. The Priesthood.
He looked back up toward the Keep. A black tide of Raken was washing down the main avenue toward the gate.
His heart sank. The city can never hope to stand now. The army was cut off. It would be over soon.
Preven cursed, his grey eyes filled with disbelief.
A short blast from a Klyssen horn sounded down behind the wall, and hooves clattered over stone. Cerebus tore his gaze from the Raken in the city, looking toward the sound. It was Captain Kreagan – the Klyssen cavalry rushed into view between the battlements and the buildings. They wheeled tightly and launched a charge up the main avenue at the Raken from the Temple.
Cerebus was jostled from behind and turned his attention back to the knot of battling men surrounding him. He would have to leave the Raken coming from the traitorous Priesthood’s Temple in Kreagan’s hands
“Sound the second stage retreat, General.” Cerebus lifted his sword again, his arm like lead.
Elana. He would never see her again, never touch her or hear her joyful laugher.
In the bright noonday sun, Cerebus saw something flash – in the distance, across the trampled field before the city, at the edge of the trees. Slowly his tired mind grasped what he was seeing – armoured men on horseback. He blinked, wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes and looked harder. They were still there, forming up for a charge at the Raken army’s rear.
Preven was lifting the horn to his mouth to give the retreat order.
Cerebus grabbed his arm. “Wait, Preven look!” He pointed to the distant army, all his fear and weariness lifting. The ally reinforcements – they had made it.
There were thousands of them. He recognized the green and white of Klyssen and the yellow of Tabor. The long awaited aid had finally arrived and the clear call of a horn drifted to his ears on the wind as he watched his allies charge into the Raken army from behind.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 53