She caught the spinning hilt and, in one quick movement, sliced the blade across the Black Rith’s throat. She dropped the dagger, took the hilt of her sword again and heaved on it.
Miroth’s nerveless fingers finally released their grip. He slid from her sword and fell into the blackness of the abyss.
Torrin heaved Rowan up, the muscles of his arm burning. When she could reach, she shoved her sword up onto the island’s top and slipped her free hand around his neck. Her feet scuffed at the sheer side of the pinnacle, and then she was finally up and over the edge.
The black, rotating mass hovering above them had slowed its spin. It began to lighten, the darkness and evil infused into the Wyoraith by the Black Rith could no longer adhere and it returned to a muted grey. Miroth’s evil released was condensing into a black ball, shrinking in upon itself, smaller and smaller. A silent concussion reverberated throughout the great cavern.
Then it exploded.
Torrin threw himself down and over Rowan. The air around them swirled, gusts pulling at their clothing and hair like a gale. A groaning shook the foundation of the rock.
When it was over, Torrin pushed up to look at Rowan under him. Her fingers shook as she touched his face then she clasped her arms around him, pulling him back down. He crushed her to him with relief.
Battle’s End
Cerebus was fighting somewhere in the streets of Pellaris. The renewed hope created by the arrival of reinforcements from Klyssen and Tabor had faded. The broken Pellarian army, scattered throughout the city, battled in tight groups, sheltering against buildings or retreating into the houses to make valiant stands at doorways.
Cerebus growled under his breath. He should have let Torrin kill the Patriarch in the temple. Galen, if he was ever found, would hang for treason.
Cerebus’s exhausted mind wandered from the dark street – wondered what had happened to the brothers and their companions. He had hardly thought of them in the days after Torrin had left in search of the Myrian woman, the Messenger, the Slayer, or was it the Keeper? He shook his fogged head. Rowan had made quite an impression in Pellaris. Cerebus could see why Torrin loved her.
He had not expected to see the sons of Ralor again. Seven years was a long time, and after the horrible news of Torrin’s family, Cerebus had given up any hope of welcoming him home again. He remembered their father with great love and respect. Torrin was just like him – Cerebus had been surprised by just how much.
He hoped they were safe now… It was a fool’s errand – setting off into the icy land of Krang, but Cerebus believed in his heart what they were going to attempt was the only way Pellar would survive. A part of him had longed to go with them – to take the battle to Miroth himself, but a King’s place was with his people.
A knot of Raken came streaming through the gap between the two buildings ahead; black shadows against the night. Only the gleaming on their black scales from the torches lying on the cobbles revealed them.
Cerebus shook his head. Focus.
He brought his sword up in front of his face but his arm, black with blood, didn’t look like his own. His hand was stuck to the hilt with dried gore. His armour was gone; he had no memory of discarding it.
Cerebus refocused his attention as a soldier went down in front of him. Slicing at the Raken, he hauled the man out of reach of the sharp claws.
Red eyes burning, the Raken launched itself at him. Cerebus raised his sword, wishing he still had his shield. He stepped to the side, barely avoiding steel. The Raken spun; Cerebus stumbled backward, almost went down.
The beast lunged. Cerebus braced himself. He no longer had the strength to fight, to move beyond its reach.
But the Raken didn’t strike. Instead it fell to its knees, its great black body arching backward.
Cerebus stepped forward to press the unexpected advantage.
The creature opened its mouth and an ear-splitting roar erupted forth, stopping Cerebus in his tracks. All the Raken were down, their heads thrown back, bodies stiff. He wanted to cover his ears but couldn’t raise his arms. The howling ended but continued to reverberate through the street.
Looking around in confusion, the Raken climbed to its feet. The creature’s red eyes, which a moment before had glared with a mindless ferocity, blinked in surprise – looking remarkably like Hathunor.
The men in the street stood stunned, too exhausted to do more than watch in astonishment. The beasts looked down at the weapons in their hands and dropped them, clanking and clattering on the cobblestones.
The Raken before Cerebus looked appraisingly at him for a moment, then turned to its nearest kin. It spoke. Cerebus was surprised to hear a precise and measured speech filled with clicks and burrs and guttural sounds.
Then the Raken turned in unison and melted away into the darkness.
Cerebus swayed. He looked around at the battle devastation and body-strewn street.
They are leaving. He was supposed to feel relief – or something.
The man down on the ground beside him groaned. Cerebus dropped the tip of his sword to the ground, grating it on the cobbles and leaned down to see to the soldier.
“Sire?” An uncertain voice sounded behind him.
Cerebus turned. “Send men to the keep, I want to know what damage there is and if the queen is safe.”
The soldier saluted. “What of the Raken, sire?”
Cerebus wiped a hand wearily down his face; it came away covered in blood. “It is over. For now, it is over. Find the General; there is much to be done.”
As the soldier limped away, the only thing that kept Cerebus from curling up on the street in the guttering torchlight was the wounded man in front of him and worry for his wife.
A Brother’s Lament
The wind died from the explosion of Miroth’s taint. Rowan wept at the relief on Torrin’s face as he lifted himself off her. She reached up and pulled him back down, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his brow. He held her tightly, his warm breath on her neck a salve.
When he drew back she asked softly, dreading the answer. “Nathel?”
Unshed tears stood in his eyes; he shook his head. He got slowly to his feet, pulling her up with him and they stood looking around the dim cavern. The Wyoraith was still suspended above them. Miroth’s legacy – the foulness he had poured into the summoning, fell like black ash, drifting down on them and slowly into the chasm after the dead Rith.
Borlin and Arynilas, crouching over the gigantic form of Hathunor, looked up as they approached.
“He is alive and I can find no wounds.” said Arynilas. “He is simply unconscious.”
Torrin nodded mutely.
Rowan began to shiver as they started across the bridge. Torrin wrapped his arm protectively around her and she leaned into him with relief.
They crossed the chasm to where Dalemar sat next to Nathel. The Rith was shaking his head, rocking back and forth over the dead warrior. He looked up, tears streaming down his face, his hands clasped at Nathel’s temples. “Forgive me, Torrin, I was too late. There was nothing I could do. He was already gone –”
A tremor passed through Torrin and Rowan tightened her arm around his waist.
“I know,” Torrin said in a constricted voice. “Hathunor still needs your help, my friend.”
Dalemar nodded, but didn’t move.
Arynilas and Borlin came to stand behind him, the Stoneman weeping silently. Rowan reached down and squeezed Dalemar’s shoulder, her own tears wet on her face. She pulled in a ragged breath as profound sorrow for Nathel’s sacrifice and Dalemar’s struggle to save the fallen warrior flooded through her. It moved from deep in her core and welled outward beyond the boundaries of her body.
The Wyoraith flowed through her once more, but it was smooth and calm. It passed out through her hand and into Dalemar. The Rith stiffened as it moved through him. Brilliant white filled her vision and peace swelled with it – so unlike the hatred and cruelty of Miroth.
“What?” Borlin exclaimed in surprise.
The Wyoraith settled into Nathel through Dalemar’s hands, still clasped to the sides of his head, but there was nothing for it to connect with. It simply emptied into the dead warrior.
The whiteness faded as the last of the power left her and Rowan’s strength went with it. Her knees buckled and her vision swam.
Torrin was there, lowering her to the ground. “Borlin, your water-skin.”
Rowan took a swallow of cool water and, when she could see clearly again, she looked at the others. Their expressions were wondering and hopeful.
“What happened?” Torrin’s voice was laced with expectation.
Dalemar was staring at Rowan. “That was the Wyoraith, wasn’t it?”
Rowan nodded and looked up, knowing that the formless grey mist was gone. “What did you see?”
“We couldn’a see, lass, for the brilliance of the light,” said Borlin.
Arynilas was watching the still form of Nathel. “It surrounded all three of you – the purest white.”
Dalemar and Torrin leaned over Nathel, checking for signs of life. They waited, hoping; praying to Erys for a miracle.
After a while the Rith leaned back on his heals and sadly shook his head. “Whatever happened has had no effect on him.”
“Come, Dalemar,” said Arynilas softly. “Let us see to Hathunor.”
Dalemar, bone weary from his battle with Miroth, accepted the Tynithian’s help and he, Arynilas, and Borlin returned to the pinnacle to revive the great Raken.
*
Torrin wiped at the tears on his face but they wouldn’t stop. His hand shook as he reached out to touch his brother’s forehead. He took Nathel’s sword-callused hand – the healer’s hand – and brought it to his lips. His brother’s face was peaceful and Torrin kept imagining him waking up, but the dreadful wound in his chest forbade any hope. Torrin wanted to cover it but wouldn’t dishonour Nathel’s bravery and sacrifice.
Rowan reached up and undid the leather cord of the small amulet she wore. The green stone was luminescent as she placed it in Nathel’s other hand, wrapping the leather around his palm and closing it in his fist. She placed his hand over his heart and left her own clasped over it. “For your bravery and unwavering strength in the fight for freedom, I honour you, Nathel son of Ralor. Your valour will not be forgotten. Irinis vaen Mor Lanyar – the house of Mor Lanyar honours you.”
Torrin stared at his brother’s face. He felt strangely calm. Grief welled in his chest but instead of fighting it, turning away and ignoring it, he embraced it. He had not fully faced the death of his family until he was forced to choose between the pain and guilt consuming him or Rowan. His brother’s death, his sacrifice, completed something. It brought Torrin full circle to redemption. He sighed, closing his eyes. Nathel was a part of him, he could feel his brother’s presence – grinning at him. Don’t you see Tor, what else could I have done but give you this?
The great cavern was very still. Miroth’s Raken were gone, but their weapons littered the floor. Torrin heard footsteps behind and turned to see his friends stepping off the suspended bridge. He was relieved to see Hathunor looming behind the others. Rowan went to embrace the great Saa Raken and he rumbled softly as she disappeared within his trunk-like arms. The young boy – the one with the keys who had freed Hathunor – was still there. He was timid, but it took bravery to defy Miroth.
Nathel had made a promise to Hathunor. Torrin beckoned to the boy. “What is your name, lad?”
“S-Sol, sir. My name is Sol.” The boy’s wide eyes strayed to Hathunor and Rowan before returning to Torrin.
“This is my brother, Sol. He gave his life so that we could slay Miroth. Without your help in releasing Hathunor, we might not have succeeded. You have our thanks.”
Sol flushed and looked at his feet.
“My brother made a promise to free the captive Raken here. Are there female Raken kept here, Sol?”
The boy nodded wretchedly. “Yes, down in the breeding cells. I can take you there.” Sol looked up at Hathunor. “I am very s-sorry for what Master Miroth did.”
Hathunor reached out a huge hand and gently patted Sol’s skinny shoulder.
Torrin turned from the others and crouched beside Nathel. He lifted him gently to a sitting position and slid his other arm under his brother’s legs.
Borlin and Arynilas stepped forward to help.
“No.” Torrin shook his head. “I will carry him.”
Borlin nodded and picked up Nathel’s sword and shield. Arynilas handed Rowan her armour breastplate, collected from the pinnacle where Miroth had discarded it.
Tears wet his face as Torrin carried Nathel up the sloping corridor with his companions following. Rowan paced beside him, her hand on the small of his back. Relief and pain washed over him in waves.
One saved, one lost.
Sol led them past the dreadful torture chamber and through the guardroom. Hathunor lifted the remains of the twisted iron door out of the way. They went past the cell where Miroth had locked them and down a series of dark tunnels until they reached a row of cages set with iron bars. Torrin gagged on the stench of the Raken imprisonment and Rowan covered her mouth. He stood against the wall in appalled silence, cradling Nathel in his arms, as Hathunor and the others opened the cages. Five female Raken had been held there; for how long, Torrin couldn’t guess. They were in poor shape – the conditions of their confinement would have killed humans. Their emaciated forms were covered in sores, red eyes sunk deep under their spiny brow ridges. Hathunor treated them like a reverent son, his voice pitched low as he spoke to them in the Raken tongue.
When they reached the bailey, the night was cold and clear with stars twinkling overhead. A bedraggled line of people stood waiting, many of them white-haired and pale-eyed like the man they had seen in the servants’ quarters. Almost all had their meagre belongings strapped to their backs.
Torrin glanced at Sol. “They are leaving?”
The boy nodded. “They were the Master’s slaves.”
“They must have known Miroth was dead when the Raken deserted,” said Rowan quietly.
Borlin shook his head. “Like spirits the Raken are, te jus’ melt away.”
As the companions passed slowly down the line of people, they received nods from each of them. A pale young man led a horse out of the stable with a stretcher tied to the stirrups of the saddle.
Torrin, shaking with fatigue, stepped forward and laid Nathel upon it. Rowan was there, helping to fold Nathel’s arms across his chest, and Borlin and Arynilas laid his weapons down with him.
They turned when they reached the windswept gates and looked up at the hulking darkness of Lok Myrr. Much of the sinister, repulsive quality of the fortress was gone, leaving it merely ugly and unsavoury.
Sol, who had opened the gate with help from the other slaves, wrapped a ragged knit scarf tighter around his skinny neck and bowed. “Thank you for freeing us from the Master.” Tears shone in his brown eyes. “I have sisters, but I didn’t think I would get to see them again.”
Rowan stepped forward and kissed him gently on each cheek. “Thank you for your help, Sol. I hope you find your way back to your family.”
Torrin closed his tired eyes, remembering a similar token of thanks on a balcony in Pellaris.
Pulling on the reins of the horse, Torrin stepped out onto the pale ribbon of road stretching into the dark valley. Rowan, walking alongside him, slipped her hand into his. They had a way to travel to reach the place where they left their horses and gear.
Erys he was tired, but the thought of walking – just walking, without having to fight; without the bleak prospect of an impossible mission looming over them was such a gift.
He looked at Rowan. She would no longer be tracked and hunted; no longer be tormented by Miroth’s nightmare. He squeezed her hand and pulled her closer. She looked up at him and nestled in as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. It was over.
Sweet Erys, it is over.
*
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Rowan stepped back as Torrin placed the last stone on the Nathel’s grave. She pulled her cloak tighter against the cold night. The jagged Krang Mountains were black shadows around them in the stony vale, and the great Northern Hunter slanting across the heavens was gradually disappearing in the coming dawn. Torrin stood and bowed his head.
Borlin came from the packs with a blue glazed bottle. “’Tis not much, but I’ve bin sav’in it.” He passed it to Torrin and patted his shoulder.
Torrin accepted the bottle and uncorked it. He hesitated, then took a sip. “To Nathel.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, brother.” Stepping forward he poured a little on the stones of the grave.
Rowan accepted the bottle from him and took a sip. It was sweet and burned a little as it slid down her throat. “To Nathel. Thank you my friend.” She poured a little out for him and passed the bottle to Dalemar.
The companions took turns saluting a fallen comrade. Rowan took a deep breath as fresh tears slid down her cheeks. It was done, but they had paid a dear price. She looked at Torrin – pain was written across his face as he listened to the farewells. In another time and place she would have believed Nathel’s death and Torrin’s grief her fault. Guilt would have kept her from the people she loved.
Nathel rested now with his sword, shield, and his healer’s satchel. There was a gift from each of them – a piece of blue ribbon drawn from a secret pocket next to Torrin’s heart, the last and only remnant of a lost life; a carved Stoneman dagger; a golden-fletched arrow; a small leather-bound notebook; a lock of coarse, reddish Raken hair; and a small green stone amulet carved with a leaf-like emblem.
Light from the rising sun touched the top of the mountains, bringing a new day. It was a strange feeling to see the sunrise with the prospect of no Miroth.
They stood as the sun rose, saying farewell to a comrade, a friend and a brother.
Aftermath
Elana ran down the steps of the keep, ignoring the calls of the soldiers following doggedly at her heels. They were determined not to let her go unescorted into the city. She navigated the steps to the square, weaving around the bodies. The fighting had been desperate here; the castle guard had just barely kept the Raken at bay. It was over but the toll was dreadful.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 57