She clenched her teeth against the sudden pain. It was a shallow wound, but she could feel warm blood sliding down her side. Miroth put down the knife and held his hand out over her, palm down. His staff flared. Blood from Rowan’s belly began to drip upwards, bead after bead until it became a stream of viscous red, where it collected just below his hand, swirling in a tight liquid ball.
The young man stepped forward with two golden bowls. He held first one and then the other under the blood. It splattered as it dripped into the vessels.
Miroth took the first bowl and walked to the edge of the chasm. He began to chant with the bowl held out before him. The words were strange, guttural, almost like the Raken tongue but deeper and more earthbound. The pitch of his voice was low and Rowan could feel the power beneath them responding to it.
She lifted her head, scanning the room – there was almost a full Trieton of Raken positioned by the entrance they had come in through. They stood impassively, awaiting their master’s command.
Miroth’s voice echoed around the circular chamber, bouncing off the hard stone walls, louder and louder until the words were shouted. His staff flared brilliantly. Rowan squinted in the sudden light; could see the arched dome of the ceiling high above. Holding her breath, she rolled her head over to watch the Black Rith. The bowl had lifted above his hands and begun to rotate. His voice reached a crescendo and abruptly ceased, leaving echoes in the silence.
The bowl, and its offering, hurtled downward into darkness.
Sacrifice
Cerebus stumbled in exhaustion. The knot of tired men around him tightened as he regained his balance. The young woman at his side darted forward to slice at an exposed, scaled leg. She held her broken arm protectively against her chest. Cerebus couldn’t believe she was still on her feet. She was young and quick. It was what had saved her thus far.
He could no longer see how the battle fared outside the walls. He was fighting in the square before the shattered gates, amongst the tattered remnants of the Pellarian army. The Raken out side the walls had turned back to face the attacking Klyssen and Taborian reinforcements, causing the assault on the battlements to slow and then cease.
But the Raken streaming into the city from the Temple of Erys were more than a match for the beleaguered defenders. Cerebus had not seen Preven for over an hour. He had no idea where the General was or if he was even alive. Kreagan and his cavalry had cleared many of the streets but the Raken were everywhere within the city now. Insects burrowing into rotten wood, they roamed in groups through the streets and alleys, attacking suddenly from unexpected places.
The low evening sun highlighted the upper levels of the citadel, glinting on windowpanes and the copper domes.
Erys please protect the Keep.
He dodged sideways to avoid a descending club, his mind snapping back to the battle. The weapon missed him but the man beside him didn’t see the strike. It hit him squarely in the side of the head, sending his helmet flying. Cerebus heard the crunch of breaking bones; could do little but watch as the doomed soldier slumped to the ground.
Both Cerebus and the young woman attacked the Raken as its club-stroke carried it off balance. The beast screamed as two swords plunged into its chest.
Cerebus wrenched his sword free of the falling body barely in time to defend himself from another Raken. He almost lost the grip on his sword as he parried the downward stroke of its scimitar. Cerebus sliced diagonally across the beast’s chest. Another broadsword was driven into the Raken from behind, splattering blood over him. He couldn’t see who had wielded the weapon.
Cerebus turned and saw the young woman struggling to draw her short sword from the chest of the Raken they had killed together. He stepped forward and took hold of the hilt to help her remove it.
He was looking into her eyes as the blade slid free. Her sudden change of expression warned him, and Cerebus spun to see a long spear blade jabbing towards his chest; he couldn’t get his sword up in time. In a blur of ivory fangs and red eyes, the Raken thrust.
He twisted, turning his torso – presenting a narrower target. He lost his footing and felt the spear glance off his breastplate as he fell to the cobblestones. The Raken snarled in frustration and yanked the spear back to thrust again.
Cerebus was on his back; couldn’t get to his feet in time. His sword was somehow pinned under his own leg. He tried to pull it free.
Movement flashed above – long blond hair flying loose. Then the Raken screamed in pain, even as its spear thrust found its mark. The beast slowly toppled backward with a short sword buried in its throat.
The young woman stumbled and then fell backward into Cerebus as he was struggling to his feet. The spear, meant for him, was sunk deep in her chest.
Cerebus caught her and wrapped his arms around her, one hand clutching the shaft of the spear to keep it from causing further damage.
Her head rolled back and she looked up into his face, a small but proud smile on her lips. She weakly reached out and clutched at his hand. Cerebus released his grip on the spear and took her hand. He squeezed it gently and his tears fell on her forehead.
She died quickly.
Cerebus almost didn’t get up again.
The men fighting around him needed him, needed his leadership, but he needed the young woman before him – needed her to live, to grow old with a family, with children and grandchildren; needed her not to have sacrificed herself for him. He had never in his life felt so unworthy.
Placing her gently on the ground, he drew the spear blade from her body. She looked so young with her eyes closed, that smile still on her beautiful face – a face that would burn in his memory to his dying day.
He didn’t even know her name.
Hope
Torrin paced in the blackness – exactly ten steps from the iron door to opposite wall. He counted, focusing on his steps; anything but what Miroth was doing to Rowan. The images came flashing into the darkness.
It felt like they had been trapped in here for hours. It had been only minutes but every second was an eternity. He reached the door again and turned, one, two, three...
His companions had been silent, waiting. Only Nathel could be heard trying to rouse Dalemar. Rowan’s quick words had saved his life and given them the only hope they had of escaping to rescue her.
A groan sounded in the dark. Torrin turned quickly towards it.
“What – where?” A light bloomed and Dalemar’s face was illuminated in the glow from a small ball of flame, hovering in his palm. Torrin rushed to gather with his friends around the light.
“How do you feel?” asked Nathel.
“I have a blinding headache, but I think I am fine.”
“Can you get us out of this room? Miroth has taken Rowan.” Torrin’s impatience coloured his words.
“Dear Erys!” Dalemar grimaced and scrambled to his feet with Nathel’s help. “Get me to the door please.”
Torrin took one arm, Nathel his other. Dalemar’s face was set and angry as he laid a hand against the door. It shuddered, then exploded outward; twisted shards of iron flew into the corridor beyond. The four Raken guarding the door scattered in surprise. They turned to attack and Dalemar sent a blast of blue fire at them. It struck with a loud crackling, splashing the stone walls and ceiling with sizzling blue. The Raken collapsed in smoking heaps.
Torrin cleared the door and sprinted down the corridor, following the direction he had heard Miroth take Rowan.
They came to another iron door. Torrin pressed his face to the small grate set in the top. Torches lit the room beyond and he felt another surge of hope; their weapons were laid out on a long table.
He stepped back as Dalemar reached him. The iron door was no trouble for the Rith, and they jumped over its twisted metal remains to get into the room.
Torrin found his sword and tossed Borlin his short sword and targe. The others quickly gathered up their weapons and belongings. Torrin cast around for Rowan’s blade. It wasn’t there. The
re were a few other swords though and he looked around for one that was small and lightweight for her to wield. Then a thought occurred….
“Dyrn Mithian Irnis Mor Lanyar.”
Nathel turned to look as a muted humming sounded behind them. Torrin followed the sound. It was coming from a long, tooled wooden box, sitting on a shelf. He reached up and pulled it down. The box was locked. Miroth had noted the value of the weapon.
Torrin set it on the table and smashed open the lock with the hilt of his sword.
As he flipped the wooden lid back, the humming sounded clearly in the room. He took up the sword, spoke the words to quiet it and slipped it under his sword belt.
There was only one other exit from the room – an unlocked door leading to a dark, downward-sloping corridor. Torrin set a hard pace as they followed the passageway. The next iron door stood open, and they ran through it into a large square room. As Dalemar’s light illuminated the contents of the room they stopped in horror and stood staring.
Three walls of the room were set with iron shackles, and several heavy wooden tables stood festooned with chains and thick riveted iron manacles. Black dried blood covered everything. On the fourth wall, like a collection of grizzly trophies, hung tools of torture.
“Sweet Blessed Erys!” whispered Nathel. “These chains are far too heavy for humans.”
Torrin looked more closely at the manacles.
“This is how ’e controls ’em, through torture?” asked Borlin.
“It likely only one of many forms of control that Miroth employs,” replied Dalemar with disgust.
“Dead end,” said Arynilas quietly.
Torrin cursed. “They didn’t come this way.” He clenched his fists – could not abide the thought of having to search through the maze of Lok Myrr’s dungeons, giving Miroth all the time he needed to have his way with Rowan.
He turned his back on the horrible sight of Raken torment and made quickly for the door, his hope fading. But Dalemar halted him.
“What is it?” Torrin turned back.
The Rith was moving towards the wall hung with torture implements, hands held out in front of him. “There is a space behind this wall.”
“You can feel a spell on the wall?”
“No, I can feel a draft, there is cool air moving through it.”
They each moved to the wall, examining it closely, shifting aside whips and pincers and dreadful-looking things they had never seen and didn’t want to see again.
“If it’s a door, I canna see no latch te work it,” said Borlin with disappointment.
Torrin hissed in frustration. “This is taking too long! Can’t you blast it, Dalemar?”
“I could but need to conserve what strength I’ve regained. We do not know what we will face beyond.”
“Aye and Miroth would feel it as well, if ’e hasn’t already felt the two doors. ’E’ll send ’is Raken afore we can get close enough te help the lass.”
“At least it would distract him from Rowan,” replied Nathel quietly.
Torrin frowned and looked at Nathel. His brother’s expression was painfully grave.
“Aie!” Arynilas leaned closer to the wall and reached behind a long branding iron to push a small incongruous stone. It slid deeper into the surrounding stones and they heard a series of sharp clicks within.
Torrin placed his palms on the wall and put his weight into it. With a grinding sound, the wall pivoted a few inches to the right, close to where Arynilas had found the trigger. The rest of them pushed and the wall pivoted further inward to reveal a dark tunnel beyond.
“This is it.” Torrin drew his sword; it rang as it cleared the scabbard and he launched himself into the darkness. Dalemar lit the way for them with a suspended ball of flame above his hand.
Enemy at the Door
Elana ran down the corridor towards the main entry of the keep. The castle staff had not lit torches as night fell. Loud booming sounded from the tall, carved wooden doors. Shouting filled the vaulted chamber ahead and when she reached the wide steps, she saw the castle guard frantically trying to shore up the main entrance with anything they could find.
Evacuees from the city were milling around in distress. Crying children clung to the skirts of frightened mothers, who tried in vain to calm them. Near the bottom of the staircase sat the elderly, with bundles of their quickly gathered belongings heaped in their laps. There were even a few animals including dogs and a goat.
Elana swept down the steps to the nearest guardsman. He was very young.
“Guard.”
He turned, and his face blanched in recognition. “My Lady, you must go to the upper levels! Somewhere safe.”
Elana ignored him. “Where is the Captain of the Guard?”
The young man shook his head. “He went down to the battlements to help with the evacuation hours ago.”
“Then who is in charge?”
The guard turned and pointed across the entry to another young man who was trying to help several others lift a long table to add to the barricade.
The great entry doors shuddered violently with another boom. The ornate iron grill that had been lowered just inside the doors would not hold for long after the Raken broke through the outer wooden portals.
Elana shook her head. This chaos was going to kill them. The guard was looking at the doors, panic on his face. She took hold of his arm and pulled him around to face her.
“Tell me who the oldest guard is left in the castle,” she said.
The young man blinked at her for a moment and Elana resisted the urge to shake him.
“Uh, Nate. Nate is the oldest but Blain has seniority.” He turned to look back at the doors as another boom sounded hollowly throughout the camber.
“Where is he, where is Nate?” Elana asked insistently.
The guard pointed off to the right, where a group of guards were bringing benches through a doorway from another room. An older man with silvering hair was directing them: Nate. Yes, Elana recognized him.
She turned back to the young guard. “What is your name?”
“Brec, my Lady.”
“Brec, I want you to get together a few guards and get these people out of here and up to the mess. Then I need you to recruit assistants to bring the wounded from the infirmary there as well. They will need help carrying the stretches.”
The guard hesitated for a moment and Elana’s voice cracked like a whip. “Now, Guardsman!”
The man bobbed a quick bow and then raced off.
Elana strode to Nate, calling his name, and she registered the same worry for her safety in his eyes. Before he could voice it, she spoke.
“Nate, you must take charge of the castle guards. There are no experienced officers left in the castle. Can you organize a defence if the Raken break through the doors?”
Nate surveyed the men trying to brace the huge doors. He ran a hand down his exhausted face and then nodded. “Yes, my Lady. I believe I know what needs to be done.”
“Good, see to it then. If the Raken win through, they must not get further than this entrance. Use archers. Position them at the top of the stairs to contain any that get past you.”
Nate looked at the staircase, nodding. He clapped a fist to his chest briskly. “It shall be done, my Lady. I must request that you remove yourself to the higher levels. The King, may Erys protect him, would never forgive us if anything –”
Elana held up a hand to cut him off. “Erys be with you, Nate.”
“And you, Queen Elana.”
But Elana was already turning to see to the people who were being led up the steps by Brec and his fellow guards.
Rebellion
Sol crouched on the ground, hunching his shoulders as his master’s voice echoed around the vast room. The weird chanting made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Sol gripped the keys in his hand – keys to the cells where the huge Raken and the Messenger’s friends were held. The Master had tossed the ring at Sol when they were no longer needed.
The Master wanted no unnecessary hindrance for his special work.
Sol looked over to where the woman was tied down to the stone altar. She was very beautiful and Sol felt sorry for the pain Miroth was causing her. It was wrong. Whatever his master was doing was wrong. Sol knew it, but he was afraid. He would be killed or worse if he tried to stop his master. He felt tears sliding down his cheeks.
Miroth’s chanting ended abruptly. There was a heavy silence broken only by the woman’s ragged breathing. Then the room shifted sickeningly. Sol fell forward and grazed his elbows on the hard rock of the island. He looked over to the chasm, dread rising in his chest. Miroth stood on the edge with his arms outstretched, his staff lit an eerie green.
A silent concussion rippled through Sol’s body. The room grew darker, as though the light and air had been sucked down into the blackness. Then there was wild laughter – Miroth’s laughter.
The wrongness of what his Master was doing made Sol’s skin crawl and itch. He wished for nothing but to be away from this horrible place, from whatever evil Miroth was working.
All around them, a grey, murky mist rose up from the abyss. It lifted high over the pinnacle and like a wave, curled inward, and poured down toward the altar at the center of the island.
Sol whimpered in fear. The fog began to murmur and as it gained momentum it whined and then wailed. When it hit the woman, her back arched up from the stone in distress. Sol watched in horror as the mist entered her. It seemed to absorb through her neck and chest and Sol thought he saw a faint green glow from where it penetrated. It was not the dreadful green of the Master’s staff, but a soft green like spring grass after rain. More and more the mist poured into her and Sol could not understand where it went. She was not big enough to contain it all.
Tears blurred his vision and he shook his head. Pernic’s face swam into his mind, along with the terrible things the Master had done to him. Sol knew Miroth would do the same to the lovely woman tied to the stone.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 55