Path of the Stonebreaker

Chapter 123

The Old Paths

A part of Rowan knew he was dreaming, but the part that longed for it to be real clung stubbornly to the lie. His father moved ahead of him through the woods, never quite out of sight. He looked just as Rowan remembered him. Strange, that. How many years has it been? The reality that Rowan’s subconscious constructed was one in which his father hadn’t died, merely existing somewhere in the background of his life. The old man moved like no time had passed at all, as if this had always been the way—him leading, Rowan following.

“The rak had it trapped, you say?” Taran’s voice drifted back over his shoulder, gruff and familiar.

“Aye,” Rowan answered, pride bubbling up, “but I freed it.”

“Good lad.” Taran pushed further into the underbrush without breaking stride. “My father told me plenty about the ferrax. Majestic creatures, he said. Kind, too, in their way. There’s always been a bond between our people and them. I remember my great-uncle swearing a ferrax saved him once, led him out of the mountains when the frost was biting hard enough to kill.”

“I think you told me that before,” Rowan muttered, his voice faint, unsure. The dream was shifting, becoming slippery.

“’Course I did. I taught you everything I knew ‘bout these woods.”

Taught. Yes, Taran had taught his boys well—the ways of the woods, how to track without being tracked, how to move like a shadow beneath the trees. Unseen, unheard. Rowan would always love his father for that, no matter the lies that had come after. Lies that clung to the old man like a stain, one Rowan couldn’t scrub clean, not even here, in this false place that he’d created in his own mind.

He blinked. Somehow, he’d lost sight of his father. Taran had slipped into the trees, gone in a breath.

“Father?” Rowan hissed, turning in every direction. “Father?” His voice cracked, rising with panic.

Then a flash of red and gold.

Rowan spun, but the shape was moving faster than his eyes could track it. It swirled around him. And he knew. Rowan felt it before he saw it—the ferrax. In a heartbeat, the red-gold blur solidified, and there it was, towering over him. Its snarling face leaned down towards his, mere paces away from Rowan’s own, like a massive and menacing mountain lion. But its eyes... its eyes betrayed its wisdom… and its curiosity.

***

The first thing Rowan noticed was the sway beneath him, a gentle, rhythmic motion. He was also cold, despite being covered with a blanket. There was a fiercely cold wind that sent a shiver through his aching limbs. It all felt… familiar.

The sound of scraping ice against the underside of the raft, the muted creak of wood strained by the cold—he knew these sounds. He blinked, eyelids heavy, and tried to focus through the fog clouding his mind. The ice-raft swayed again, rocking him like an uneasy cradle.

Just to his right, sat a figure wrapped in a fur cloak, face obscured by a wind-tossled hood. The figure turned, revealing Daegan’s sharp gaze, staring out over the ice. Rowan blinked again, trying to shake the disorientation.

"Dessie?" Rowan's voice came out rough, barely a rasp. "Where... where are we?" It was too weak for Daegan to hear over the wind.

The world around Rowan was still blurred, everything distorted by his muddled thoughts. Everything felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too calm. His mind reached back, fumbling through fragments of memory. They were en-route to Twin Garde, weren’t they? No… no that was the last time. He’d woken like this before when they’d been heading for Twin Garde. His body had been just as battered then. But that had been weeks ago, hadn’t it?

Twin Garde. The battle.

The tower flashed in his mind, the explosion, the roar of fire swallowing the sky as the stones crumbled, and he—flying through the air, weightless for a heartbeat before everything went dark.

Rowan tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest made sure he stayed down.

“The rak camp…” Rowan muttered. Their dark alien faces. The chains. His breath hitched as a clearer memory surfaced, sick and sharp. I was… a captive, wasn’t I? He remembered Captain Grest and his quickly failed escape attempt.

“You’re awake again,” Daegan grinned down at him, though there was a weariness in his eyes. “Yaref was right. Sorry in advance, he told me to get this down you when you woke up.”

He leaned in, tipping a flask to Rowan’s cracked lips. The water hit his tongue like salvation, though it carried the sharp tang of herbs that made him wince. Still, Rowan drank. Felt like he hadn’t had a drop in weeks.

“Supposed to help with the pain,” Daegan said, settling back as Rowan gulped it down. “Your body’s been working overtime to patch itself up the last few days.”

Rowan’s voice came out a hoarse croak. “The camp? The rak...”

“They’re dead. All of them.” Daegan’s grin flickered, turning grim. “We’ve had this talk a few times already, so try not to worry about it right now. Get some rest, yeah?”

“I’m feeling a lot stronger,” Rowan wheezed, his voice betraying his words. More memories were flooding back now—flashes of the battle at the rak camp, the old healer from Twin Garde, the healing surge. The ferrax he’d freed.

He forced himself upright, the world spinning as he did. Over the edge of the ice-raft, the frozen expanse of the Nortara Sheet stretched endlessly. The wind and the groaning of the ice under the raft’s runners the only sounds.

There was a handful of others on the raft. The Aeth—Ardy—was driving it. Some other soldiers from Twin Garde he recognised that had been captives with him. There was one younger looking lad with bandages covering half his face. The group was smaller than it should have been. A lot smaller.

“Where are the others?” Rowan’s voice was tight with concern. “Tanlor? Cru?”

Daegan’s jaw clenched. “We lost four of the prisoners in the fight... another to his wounds.” He jerked his head towards the ice, where another raft skimmed behind them, barely visible in the pale light. “Tanlor and Cru are on that one. The rest are with them.”

"Where... where are we headed?"

"Westmark."

Rowan gave a slight nod, swallowing down the ache that flared up with every breath.

“Been a long time since I’ve been that way.”

"Seems like you’ve been all over Rubane," Daegan said.

“Hah,” Rowan let out a dry chuckle that hurt more than it should have. “Not quite, but the road contracts take you far. Never gone much further east than Rubastre, though.”

Daegan faltered, and Rowan noticed. Rowan, even in his state, could sense the question he was hesitant to ask. In the short time he’d known the man, he’d learned Daegan wasn’t one to hold back his thoughts, so the pause was loud in itself.

"What is it?" Rowan prodded.

Daegan’s eyes flicked to him, unsure. "If... if I were to go home... to Reldon... would you come with me?"

"Is that what you’re planning? After Westmark?"

“I don’t know,” Daegan admitted, his voice quieter now. “These rakmen… I didn’t realise how brutal they really are.”

“Aye.” Rowan nodded.

"I don't know what I’m doing, Rowan." Daegan’s voice wavered, contrasting to the man who had been so sure of himself just moments ago. "I’ve always drifted through, doing the least I could, happy enough with that. I’m not even sure going home is the best thing for me. It was Landryn’s bloodshedders that came for me. I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t even know what's there for me. All I know is I don’t want to be pushed around any longer. These past few weeks... I’ve felt more alive than I ever have. I feel... strong."

“That’s because you are strong,” Rowan said without any hesitation.

"I'm getting there..." Daegan muttered, Rowan only now noticed that Daegan was holding a strange dagger in his hands. His eyes were on it now. It was a strange thing of red crystal.

Rowan frowned, shifting to sit up a little more. “What is that thing?”

Daegan turned it in his hand, the crystalline blade catching the dim light. “I don’t really know. It’s what the rak chief used when they attacked Twin Garde—stopped the runewielders cold. The blade looks mostly to be bloodstone, but there’s this clear gemstone running through the centre of the blade, see?”

Rowan’s face darkened, the dagger was interesting but the assault on Twin Garde was what really played on his mind. “The attack on Twin Garde... that was the strongest, most coordinated assault I’ve ever seen from rakmen. We’ve never seen them fight like that before.”

"Since, either," Daegan agreed quietly.

Rowan glanced back at the weapon. "How many camps did you lot take down before finding us?"

"Seven," Daegan replied. “The camp you were being kept was the biggest. All the others? No more than a dozen of them. And those ones didn’t fight like the rakmen that were in Twin Garde.”

“Strike forces,” Rowan murmured. “They’re using their strongest fighters to crush the outposts, leaving the weaker ones to catch up.”

Daegan gave a nod. “That’s what Tanlor thinks too.”

“How far are we from Westmark?” Rowan asked.

“Ardy reckons we’ll make it by nightfall,” Daegan answered, raising his voice to cut through the wind. “Right, Ardy?”

The Aeth man didn’t bother turning around, just flicked a glance at the darkening horizon. “Don’t like the look of them clouds,” he called back. “If a snowfall’s coming, we’ll need to hunker down for the night.”

Daegan shook his head, his tone firm. “Keep pressing ahead. If the snows come, we’ll stop.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Ardy spat the last word like it tasted foul, dripping with barely-concealed disdain.

Rowan frowned, curiosity piqued. “What’s up with him?”

Daegan waved it off, his expression hardening. “It’s nothing. Just Ardy being Ardy.”

Ardy might have been a drunk and wastrel, but he knew the Nortara Ice Sheet. The sky darkened throughout the afternoon, heavy clouds rolling in like a blanket smothering the last light of day. When the first flakes of snow were seen whipping sideways with the wind, Daegan cursed under his breath. “Ardy!” he shouted over the howl. “Time to camp.”

The Aeth man grunted in reply, already steering the iceraft into position. There was no shelter this far out into the ice. They would need to make do with the shelter of the iceraft itself. With practised movements, Ardy and group of Twin Garde soldier—Daegan assisting too—worked together to haul the first raft up onto its side, the smooth, curved base creating a makeshift wall against the wind. Rowan, watching from the sidelines, felt his muscles ache as if offering to help would break him in half.

The second raft pulled up not far away, they dragged it alongside the first, forming a crude but effective shelter. With the wind blocked off, the space between the rafts was surprisingly still. Yaref and the others quickly set to work laying down blankets on the ice. THe young lad with the burns—Puck, as he’d been introduced to Rowan—had a fire going in moments, it seemed his recent injuries had put any fear in him of the flames.

The snowfall thickened, fat flakes swirling in the diminishing light, but inside their little bubble, the makeshift camp felt almost cosy, if such a word could be used for a night spent on an icy wasteland.

Rowan wrapped himself in blanket, he wanted to help with the camp setup but he was still wounded. He knew his efforts would only cause more problem down the line. Tanlor had come to check on him, his brother giving some brief words before calling Yaref over. Tanlor then went to speak with Daegan.

“The pain is receding, yes?” Yaref asked.

“Aye,” Rowan grunted, shifting where he sat. “You’ve done good work, healer. I’m in your debt.”

“Debt? Bah,” Yaref waved a hand, dismissive, talking a seat next to the fire. “What nonsense. A debt’s owed for deeds of weight, not for tending wounds. You fight, bleed for folk like me. Least I can do is keep you stitched up.”

“You’ve got skill,” Rowan admitted, glancing at the old man, short grey hair and beard, scruffy from the days of travel and fighting. “How’d you end up in Twin Garde, of all places?”

“Someone has to,” Yaref shrugged, poking at the fire with a stick. “Might as well be someone who knows what they are doing, yes?”

“You’re not Rubanian, are you?”

“I was born in Athlin,” Yaref nodded, “Port Novic, you know it, yes?”

“Can’t say I’ve been, but I know the name. You must’ve some tale to land here, though.”

Yaref’s eyes flicked to Rowan’s, a moment of hesitation. “You’ve children, Sir Shrydan?”

“Rowan,” he corrected, “and aye, two boys.”

“Rowan, then,” Yaref continued, his voice taking on a distant quality. “My children live in Nordock now, they are grown, one is even a knight in service to Duke Rivers. I am very proud of each of them, yes. I raised them with my wife—rest her soul, in a town called Merrick. It was a small town, but just too far east of Nordock, and too far north of Garronforn.”

“The Balfold,” Rowan muttered, catching the hint of where this was going.

Yaref nodded, staring into the fire, his face tight with old grief. “Rakmen burned it. Almost everyone dead before the combined forces of Rivers and Garron came. Weeks too late.” His voice trailed off, and Rowan didn’t press. He’d little intention to push the old man into digging up painful memories, although Rowan suspected there was still more to it. The skill Yaref showed as a healer was more than that of a small village healer. That kind of skill didn’t come from patching up farmers.

“You are seeming stronger,” Yaref determined, “tomorrow I will do one last healing with the bloodstone. Wounds that get infected like yours, they heal poorly even with runewielding, yes? You will always carry the scar, and might find the shadow of it’s pain rearing as the years go by. I a sorry for this, but there is not much else I can do.”

“You’ve done more than enough, healer.”

“Yaref,” the old man corrected him, then shifted topic. “So, we can see the Rakmen are pushing south again, yes?”

“From the sounds of it. The Aryle outpost’s likely fallen already. I think Daegan’s plan is sound. If we reach Westmark, we might be able to convince the Commander there to fall back to Bluewater Wall. If it still stands, we can make a proper stand there until reinforcements arrive.”

“Bluewater Wall,” Yaref muttered, “the last real defense. Beyond that, it’s just towns. Villages. Honest folk, trying to scratch out a living.”

“Aye,” Rowan growled, voice hard. “And the rak’ll burn through them like kindling.”

Yaref nodded. “We can’t let that happen.”

“And we won’t.”

With effort, Yaref rose from his position to check on his other patients. He would have much left to do before he could rest tonight.

Rowan settled back into watching the camp around him. A tough bunch, no doubt about it. The Twin Garde men had been fighting rakmen for years, had been some of the few that had survived the slaughter at the outpost. Seasoned, scarred, and still standing. He’d fought alongside worse men, that was for certain. Then there was Tanlor—his brother had always been a blade that didn’t dull. Rowan wasn’t one to boast, but he was honest enough with himself to admit the Shrydan brothers together were a formidable pair.

And then there was the beastman. The thing he’d half-convinced himself was a fevered dream. It stayed a bit far off from the rest, but still within the shelter of the rafts. It was an oddity, Daegan had mentioned that he’d thought it’d slip away into the wilds after they’d taken down the biggest rak camp, but it hadn’t. It was here, continuing to travel east with them.

The beastman wore little more than tattered scraps of cloth, the rest of him covered in thick, dark grey fur with bands of lighter, almost white, tracing patterns across his frame. It reminded Rowan of the tiger paintings in his cousin’s castle, all sleek and dangerous.

Odd thing. Rowan wasn’t sure if he should feel safer with it nearby or more on edge. Probably both.

Strangely, Rowan felt something eerily familiar, like the presence of the ferrax. Daegan had been quick to point out that the ocelix was as clever as any of them, claiming it spoke Old Esterin—an ancient tongue Rowan barely recognised, let alone understood. Very strange.

Rowan’s father had once spun tales of mountain lions that walked on two legs, said to prowl the high passes of the mountains. Fanciful stories, he’d always thought. I guess I was wrong on that one, father.