Behind Sir Karlo rode Perun and his ruffians. They veered away from Petor’s dead form and galloped at Yury. They howled as they held their sabers high. They laughed and jeered. Their steeds snorted in grim battle rage.
Yury bellowed and his eyes rolled in his head. He drank air in great heaving gasps. His knuckles whitened and his face turned an awful shade of crimson. He sprang at the horsemen as they thundered upon him. Like some insane war god gone mad, Yury swung, ducked, pivoted, hewed, side-stepped to the left, chopped, rolled under the hooves of a stallion, leaped to his feet and hacked with all his might. It was a scene out a singer’s tales. Yury slew the horsemen and gutted their mounts before they knew that the gates of Hell had opened to receive them.
Ivan stopped in shock. Sir Karlo rode away from Yury and then dismounted.
“I wield Night!” shouted Yury.
Then Ivan saw two things at once. The gaunt watched from nearby high up in a pine, and Karlo strode to do battle with Yury.
“Yury,” whispered the gaunt.
Yury blinked, lowering the mighty battle-blade.
“Yury, look out!” shouted Ivan.
Sir Karlo snarled, leaping at Yury. Yury snarled, too, lifting his battle-blade and hacking. Ivan expected Sir Karlo to be sliced in two—the way Yury had just slain the others. Incredibly, Sir Karlo’s sword clinked against the battle-blade. One, two, three blows, they traded sword strokes that caused sparks to fly.
“You wield Night,” Sir Karlo said tightly.
‘Die!” shouted Yury. He hewed again.
Sir Karlo neatly blocked the blow.
“I’ll kill you!” Yury roared.
Sir Karlo twisted his wrist in a clever move, deflecting the huge battle-blade. Then he cut Yury across the chest.
Yury blinked in surprise.
“The death of a thousand cuts,” panted Sir Karlo, “or enough to let the gaunt enter you, at least.”
Yury howled in renewed rage, swinging. It didn’t matter. Sir Karlo skipped back and parried, parried again, then cut Yury across the arm.
“A thousand cuts,” said Sir Karlo. He grinned evilly.
The gaunt laughed from up in the trees.
Ivan knew there was only one thing he could do. He lifted the Dragon Horn and pealed out a loud blast. The gaunt screamed. The sound continued as Ivan blew with all the air in his lungs. The gaunt finally fled, unable to bear the horn. And the blast did something to Yury—it stole his battle madness.
“Ivan?” Yury asked.
Sir Karlo snarled and stepped forward to attack. Then he grunted as a blue beam pushed him back and back again, away from Yury.
Ivan turned. Nadia stood just inside the clearing, her wand held high. Then she collapsed. Yury, too, sank to his knees. He was exhausted.
Sir Karlo shook his head. He also was groggy.
Ivan knew this was his moment. He wasn’t a warrior, not like any of the others. He was a dog trainer who had found a strange and wonderful horn. He was the Lord of Hounds. He was a hunter, and he would deal with Sir Karlo as he would deal with a dangerous, man-eating bear. Fairness had nothing to do with it.
“Stribog,” he said.
The dog was at his side. Together, they charged Karlo.
Karlo looked up. “Yes, you and I, dog trainer, it is time I taught you manners.” He brought up his sword.
Ivan slowed. Stribog paced him, his hackles high. The knight advanced a step. He breathed heavily, and his chest smoked where Nadia’s spell had hit him. Ivan readied the warspear to cast. One good throw and it would all be over.
“You die today,” said Karlo.
Ivan said nothing, because you don’t talk to bears. That would be stupid, and worse than stupid, foolish.
Stribog flanked the knight.
Sir Karlo glanced at Stribog, then Ivan. His pale features were slack, tired, but grim. “You have one cast, dog trainer. Then I kill your dog.”
Ivan faked a throw. Karlo made to parry with his sword. Ivan laughed, knowing that mockery would make the knight enraged. Karlo swore a vile oath and his eyes narrowed. Then he charged Ivan. Stribog growled as he ran after the knight. Sir Karlo whirled around and hacked. Ivan heaved the warspear. It flew true, and bit deep into Sir Karlo’s back. The knight groaned, stumbling. Then Stribog was upon him.
-33-
It was a somber occasion, even though it was a happy event. Wives, mothers and fathers still mourned the deaths of the farmers and the farmers’ sons. And the noble death of Sir Petor—and his brave stand and sacrifice—all the people of Belgorod Holding mourned his passing. Such a shock, a bloodletting, and to know that storm wolves, beastly riders and evil knights dared to invade their land—it was on the lips of everyone.
Runners had been sent to Lord Mikulas. And a sleigh-team was even now being readied for a trip to the king. The travelers would hand back the royal writ and give an account of Sir Karlo’s passing. There could be trouble in that. Therefore, Master Volok would go, together with Magda.
Storm wolves, beastly riders, evil knights, and the gaunt of a terrible and ancient Old One, Vlad Blackheart, all these things and more were true. No one had seen the gaunt since that awful day, but he was out there, somewhere.
It was a somber occasion today, but a happy event. People thronged in Belgorod Hall. They wore their best finery. From all around they’d come, many to see the three strange and very different youths. Nadia stood tall and serene by the fireplace. She wore a white dress and held a carved wand of wood. With the wand, while summoning up last reserves she hadn’t known where there, she’d blasted Sir Karlo with a pure force of magic. Her face showed serenity, that she was seemingly at peace, but within her heart… She spoke less than before, and always looked directly at a person in an unnerving manner. Here, people realized, was a shaper of great promise.
The hall hushed. Young Yury Belgorod, in a blue jacket and dark pants, with leather boots and golden spurs that jangled as he walked, moved before his father. A huge black battle-blade hung on his belt. It was a monstrous sword, with a long hilt for two hands to clutch and topped by a sinister ruby. Yury never parted with his blade, not even to bathe. He, like Nadia, was changed, different then before. He no longer limped, nor did the left side of his face sag as it used to. Hard muscles rippled under his jacket, and his visage had turned grim, more like a veteran warrior. Some of the good folk whispered that he was fey, given now to outbursts of rage. Other people noted his laughter, that it was louder, more sinister than before, and how he keenly watched the shadows, especially at twilight.
“Yury Belgorod,” his father said.
Everyone fell silent.
“For you valor in defense of your friends and our fair land, I grant you the boon of your choice.”
People held their breath. What would Yury ask for? Many noted Master Volok’s red eyes, and how his skin sagged—he neither ate nor slept as much as he used to, not since Petor’s death.
“My boon I leave to thee,” Yury said.
Master Volok nodded. “Kneel then, Squire Yury.”
Yury bent on one knee.
Master Volok drew his sword. Yury bowed his head. Lady Belgorod and Magda watched with wide eyes. Nadia’s features never changed, although she clutched her wand more tightly. Feodor, leaning on crutches, grinned from ear to ear.
“For you valor,” said Volok, “I dub thee Sir Yury Belgorod, Knight of Great Moravia and servant to Hosar, the Lord of Light.”
The tip of Master Volok’s sword touched Yury’s right shoulder, then his left.
“Arise, Sir Knight.”
Yury rose.
The people cheered, clapping wildly.
A huge smile stretched itself onto Yury’s face. He laughed strongly like a knight.
In the back, by the door, Ivan nodded to himself. Yury at last had his dream. He was a knight of Great Moravia. He waved to Yury. Yury waved back, even though pretty maidens surrounded him. Ivan opened the door and slipped outside. Stribog, Vesna and many other hound
s leapt to their feet. Ivan grinned at them. They barked as they rushed toward him, trying to put their heads under his hands.
Then Ivan raced to the woods to hunt. He wouldn’t rest or make merry until he slew the gaunt. He touched the Dragon Horn slapping at his side. He was the Lord of Hounds. Then he and his hounds entered the woods and began to trek in earnest.
The End
To the Reader: I hope you’ve enjoyed The Dragon Horn. If you would like to see the story continue, I encourage you to write a review. Let me know how you feel and let others know what to expect.
If you enjoyed The Dragon Horn, you might also enjoy another Alternate Europe novel: The Doomfarers of Erin. Read on for an exciting excerpt.
Novels by Vaughn Heppner
The Ark Chronicles:
People of the Ark
People of the Flood
People of Babel
People of the Tower
Lost Civilizations:
Giants
Leviathan
The Tree of Life
Gog
Behemoth
The Lod Saga
The Doom Star Series:
Star Soldier
Bio-Weapon
Battle Pod
Cyborg Assault
Planet Wrecker
Alternate Europe:
Assassin of the Damned
The Doomfarers of Erin
The Assassin of Carthage
The Dragon Horn
Other Novels:
The Great Pagan Army
The Sword of Carthage
The Rogue Knight
Invasion: Alaska
Strontium-90
The Doomfarers of Erin
FOREWORD
Alternate Earths have alternate histories. Near the Year 1000 in the forests of Russia, a man rediscovered a tome of the lost Hyperboreans. Using the spell-book, he practiced the sorcery of Old Father Night and sought the aid of the Moon Lady. It changed much.
1147 on our Earth was the beginning of the Second Crusade. In DOOMFARERS OF ERIN, the knights of England, France and Germany went doomfaring into the cold pine forests of Muscovy. The stone castles of the Sword Brothers in Livonia and Lithuania marked the boundary between the lands of Darkness and those of Light.
In that place, Ireland was called Erin and England was referred to as Albion. The precise landscape of Erin was different from our Ireland, and its history bloodier. It was a time of tragedy, as one from Muscovy secretly arrived in Erin. He searched for the crypt of the greatest and darkest of the ancient Hyperboreans—the sorcerer who lived a millennium ago in a warm Greenland.
CHAPTER ONE
Swan’s cell was blackness and stench. It was misery and sickness. As she lay on a damp cot, her skin burned with fever. In her delirium and pain, she called upon Hosar, the Lord of Light.
For a time, nothing happened. Then a strange speck oozed from the ceiling, as if it had taken time journeying this far underground. The speck twinkled like a star on a pitch-black night, and it brightened, shining a ray on Swan’s clammy skin. A foul vapor trickled past her bleeding lips, the vapor increasing each time she exhaled. The ray blazed as if with wrath. Like a snake, the vapor twisted and retreated into her mouth. The speck of light followed the vapor, and the cell became dark again except for a red glow from Swan’s cheeks. She whimpered. She twitched upon damp straw. Then ashy smoke puffed from her mouth as if from a charred house, and she lost her wretched wheeze.
More occurred as Swan’s bleeding lips scabbed in an instant and then grew soft. The sickly hue of her skin became pinkish. Then the speck of light floated from her mouth and soon hovered near the ceiling, although its brightness had diminished. Swan cried out, using a long forgotten language.
The speck blazed with light.
Swan moaned in her feverish sleep, and she began to dream strangely. She dreamed she was a mote of light floating through the subterranean ceiling, leaving her wretched prison cell. As the mote, she passed through stone and dirt and then through a castle. She soared into the air and sped at a passing crow of unusual size. As the mote, she entered the crow.
In this dreamy state or vision, Swam peered out of the crow’s eyes. She became the crow and felt the working of breast and wing muscles and the exhilarating rush of air. Oh, this was like no dream she’d ever had before. It felt real. The flock flew above trees snarled with spidery moss, the trees mired around slimy ponds from which floated fetid odors. They flew toward the bloated orange sun that sank into the horizon.
Swan forced the crow to look around, and through its eyes, she spied an ancient keep of old stones choked with ivy and moss. In the keep’s depths is where they held her body prisoner. A limp flag hung from a broken tower, the lightning-shattered tower seeming more ruin than functioning castle.
Swan cawed in alarm, for she sensed evil, something that had just awakened. It saw her! It stirred, and a smoky dart, a spiritual javelin, flew from the castle and at her. As the crow, she veered wildly, and the bird lost its smooth beat and tumbled out of the formation. The evil manifestation brushed Swan. Like a filthy coating of oil, it soiled her. She no longer felt exhilaration at flying, although the crow regained its beat and flapped hard, rejoining the flock. The feeling of freedom had vanished from Swan, as had the comfort of an otherworldly benevolence. She felt trapped now within the crow, and the sense of foreboding grew until it became a grim certainty that she was about to witness a wicked thing.
Other flocks joined theirs, a grand summoning of crows. Each flock glided toward a swampy clearing. Each flock flew to an assigned hangman tree, the crows alighting onto the twisted, mossy branches. Out of the crow’s eyes, Swan noticed that the flocks peered—
A vile compulsion drew Swan’s gaze. She fought it, hating this overtaking of her will. She soon weakened and stared at a lonely shack. Recognition came, more from repute than ever having seen it before. The shack’s boards were filthy, warped and old. It only had a single door, and smoke trickled out of a hole in the roof. There were no windows. Around the shack, leaning against it, were piles of carefully stacked old branches. The door opened with an eerie creak and out shuffled a humped-shouldered man wearing a sooty cap and coat. He knelt, raised a hatchet and chopped branches. He was the local charcoal-maker, and soon he carted wood into the shed, closing the door with a bang.
Bushes rustled then and Swan knew loathing and horror. A creature with long hairy arms and brutish shoulders shambled toward the shed. It had inhuman features, a snout full of yellowed fangs and—Swan wanted to caw and caw and caw. She tried to scream, but that dreadful compulsion that had originally reached out of the castle yet controlled her. She recognized the creature, or enough of his twisted features to know that once he had been Kerold the Carpenter, strangely vanished seven months ago. What evil had taken hold of his soul and turned him into that? Poor Kerold, he had been a simple man yet always greedy for coin, always ready to believe the worst of anyone.
Before the creature that had once been Kerold the Carpenter reached the shed, the door rattled. The creature made a soft hooting noise, picked up a branch and rushed forward with obvious malice.
Out stepped the charcoal-maker. He raised his head, grunted, hesitated—perhaps in profound shock—and then reached for his belted hatchet. By then it was too late. With a terrible thud, the branch struck him between the eyes and the charcoal-maker collapsed onto the ground. The creature hooted and danced with his bowed, shorter than human legs. He also continued to thump the inert body. Then the creature bounded into the shack. Loud bumps and noises began from within. In seconds smoke billowed out of the roof-hole.
A shriek sounded. The creature shot out of the shed, his fur ablaze. He screamed, tripped, rolled several times and thereby put out the flames. For a moment he lay on the ground, panting. Then he looked up at the silent, watching crows. The thing that had once been Kerold the Carpenter scrambled upright. He hunched his head and shambled away in the direction of the castle.
Smoke
poured out of the shack until flames licked the open door. That roasted the charcoal-maker and caused a wicked stench.
Still the crows kept silent. They watched as here and there a black bird ruffled its feathers. Soon orange flames roared. Sparks whirled into the twilight. Wherever they landed, the sparks guttered out with a hiss because of the damp soil. The shed burned as its flames blackened the branch-piles around it, until they too blazed into crackling life. Finally, with a crash of red-glowing wood and a geyser of sparks, the shack fell inward. The blaze grew again, briefly, and then weakened until the spent, charred wood flaked into glowing embers.
It was then the crows stirred. Swan felt the compulsion and although she tried, she couldn’t resist it, nor could she leave this nightmare. Her loathing for the evil under the castle grew, as did her terror of it.
With the rustle of hundreds of wings, the flocks swooped upon the destruction. They landed on hot ashes, and against all sense of self-preservation, they pecked at the embers. Each bird grasped a fiery coal and then exploded into flight. Ten, twenty, thirty crows flew away at a time. The rush of air fanned their embers, yet if anything, they tightened their hold.
Swan nearly fainted at the red-hot agony. She grew nauseated as her beak smoldered. The flocks were like a living stream, beads of fire in the night. Swan wanted to shriek, to caw, to dive into the dark waters below, but that evil force kept her holding onto the ember.
Soon the crows swooped upon a nighttime village, a shabby housing of swamp dwellers. Each hut had a reed roof. A limping watchman with a lantern and hound patrolled the lanes. The first crows winged for the shrine of Hosar, a large hut fronted with a tall post and a spike hammered in it. Like a spent comet, the lead crow thumped upon the shrine’s roof. The bird wiggled its beak, stuffed the ember into straw and broke the coal apart. The ember guttered and died. The next coal brought by the second crow caught with a curl of smoke.
The Dragon Horn Page 24
