Under a Warrior's Moon

by C. L. Scheel

  This story copyright 2001 by Christine Scheel. Published by Hard Shell Word Factory.

  8946 Loberg Rd.

  Amherst Junction, WI 54407

  http://www.hardshell.com

  Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.

  eBook ISBN: 0-7599-1399-4

  Cover art copyright 2001, Jay Degn

  All rights reserved.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  * * *

  My heartfelt thanks to Alison Degn for her friendship

  and her loyal support throughout this entire undertaking.

  To Jay Degn for his artistic expertise

  and his uncanny ability to “see” what I have imagined.

  To Jane Toombs, for insisting I “send it in.”

  To Robert and Erik.

  My own true warriors.

  And for S. E. R.

  * * *

  Prologue

  FOR FIVE DAYS, Cherneth rode toward the west, toward the four-towered keep of Gorendt with the hope of securing himself a position in the forces of Prince Kazan. It was well known that Kazan's legions were the best on this side of the great Adrex and a befitting place for an Odun warrior such as himself.

  The father-shaman had begrudgingly released him of his tribebond now that the last of his kin was dead. Having never taken a concubine--tempting as that was--and his only brother, having fallen less than one moonturn ago fighting against the Huons, Cherneth knew he must leave his people.

  He nudged his hardy black and white horse down the rocky embankment that rose above the East Sherehn River. From the high vantage point, he spotted a small clump of trees that would do well as a campsite. The sun rapidly edged the western skies, just showing over the crown of the mighty Adrex Mountains. Soon, the snows would come and he knew he must not take too long in his journey.

  He did not know Gorendt--the few Oduns who had seen it and its great keep were the old ones, battle-scarred warriors who spent their long lives fighting the fierce Huons, the Qualani, or on occasion, the well-armed and well-trained Gorendtians. The old ones were full of praise and fine words for them.

  "Worthy enemies," said one, nodding wisely. "Their a'kenns are strong within them."

  "My a'kenn is the red elk, The-One-Who-Wanders. I also wander as the red elk and fight as bravely. These men of Gorendt will need a warrior such as myself," Cherneth boasted.

  But the father-shaman shook his head slowly. "The tribes of Gorendt are not like us. They no longer follow the herds of breok or ride with the mothersun. They live in towers where you cannot see the sky. And you must also beware the warriors of the `Fa."

  Cherneth snorted at the warning. "The Leashed Ones! They have no a'kenns; their souls are empty."

  The old ones agreed with the father-shaman. The Leashed Ones were unworthy, but they were cunning. They knew all the Ways of the Odun.

  But Cherneth had been determined. He sold all his horses, save for the painted horse--his favorite. The horse would bring good luck to his a'kenn. He even asked the father-shaman to make a charm of protection for the horse.

  He made his preparations the night before he left--making sure all the fletchings in his quiver of arrows were in perfect condition and that his knives were sharp. He shaved his head to make certain the mothersun would find him. Cherneth did not say goodbye to anyone, but left when the mothersun was just rising to watch them.

  The journey had been uneventful and now as he approached the swift-running Sherehn, he gave thanks to his a'kenn for its protection.

  Hobbling the painted horse, he allowed it to graze on the last of the summer grasses and then made a small fire to prepare his own meal. Cherneth did not understand the old ones and their worries. He had seen no one--hadn't even smelled the flesh-eaters.

  Cherneth bit into the succulent rabbit. The old ones were as fretful as women. They even worried about Talesians! Ha! Talesians were ghosts now. No one had seen them for nearly three hundred turns of the mothersun.

  Still the old ones had cautioned him: "You will give ground to the Talesians, Cherneth. Their a'kenns are powerful, more than the Gorendtians. Their blood is fierce and they die without fear. Even the Leashed Ones think twice before confronting them. Be warned."

  Again, Cherneth shook his head at their advice. He was not afraid of Talesians either.

  The sturdy paint suddenly lifted its head, catching an unfamiliar scent of something or someone approaching the camp. Cherneth never ignored the horse's warnings and immediately dropped the rabbit and pulled the long knife from his belt.

  He waited, tense and alert, hearing nothing, but like the horse, he lifted his head, sniffing the air. He could smell nothing either, but felt the hairs rise on the backs of arms. Cherneth knew something was out there, just beyond the rim of his camp. He strained to hear a sound, any sound, but all he could hear was the faint rushing of the Sherehn. Glancing at the horse, he watched the animal's eyes and ears focus toward the river. Its nostrils flared softly as it whickered in friendly greeting to another of its kind.

  Cherneth had no time to turn to see what the horse was watching. He suddenly felt something cold and hard pressed firmly to the back of his neck, preventing him from standing or turning. He heard the faint rattling of chain mail and the chink of spurs. From nowhere, five forms stepped from the gloom into the firelight. Cherneth felt his blood turn cold and sluggish. There was no mistaking the dark gray and blood-red surcoats covering their glittering black mail. Each of them held a long, metal staff--one end topped with the head of some fantastic beast, mouth opened with the tongue slavering over razor sharp teeth. The other end, the foot of the staff was hollow and aimed directly at him. Fleetingly, he wondered if the head of the beast was their a'kenn.

  A voice behind him spoke: "An Odun! We were lucky this time. I am weary of stinking Qualani. Do not move, plainsman. Not until you are told. Drop the knife."

  Cherneth hesitated. His blood cried out to fight. To yield to these collared dogs would be the most terrible disgrace. He clutched the knife and whirled to strike the man behind him, but he never came near his mark. Blinding, excruciating pain seared through his skull, down his spine and into the very bones of his hands. He dropped the knife from senseless fingers.

  "You are brave, but foolish, Odun," the calm voice went on. "The Reverend `Fa gives high merit to the courageous, but you must save your courage for her divine will."

  Cherneth was unable a single muscle--the pain bound him to his knees, immobilized him before his tormentors. His breath came in short, aching gasps. He tried to stand, to fight the agonizing hold on him, but with each struggle no matter how small, the pain rose even higher.

  "The more you struggle, the worse it will get and if you struggle too hard, it will kill you."

  The pain was nearly unendurable. It paralyzed him even to the point where he could not speak or cry out. Again, he tried to struggle and the pain soared in his skull. He felt the hot trickle of blood from his nostrils.

  "Do not try again, or you will die," the voice warned.

  Helplessly Cherneth watched the five in front of him lower their staffs and obliterate the signs of his campsite. They buried the fire and flung the remains of the rabbit toward the river. One of them saddled the painted horse and another took his longbow, the arrows, and the rest of his weapons and disappeared into the brush. They returned shortly, each leading a dark-colored horse, saddled and harnessed in black.

  Abruptly Cherneth felt the pain ease, but he had no strength or w
ill to fight them. Something long and white, a tasseled rope of some kind was wound around his throat and snugged tight. The pain stopped only to be replaced with...nothing. Cherneth felt at once aware of all that was happening to him, but powerless and empty. He had no will to fight, not even the slightest wish to defy them. It was as if he had been drained of every desire, every thought--as empty as a dried-up waterskin. Vaguely, Cherneth felt his hands being bound behind him, then was dragged across the campsite and forced onto his horse.

  His captors took up the reins and led him away, toward the north. Cherneth knew there were mountains to the north--mountains that contained something terrible.

  If he could only remember....

  Chapter 1

  "TO: MY LORD High Prince and Ter-Rey of Talesia and

  All The Eastern Lands and Tribes of the Dominion--

  The Sunturn being 3570--The Sixteenth of the Moon's Phasing

  The Tenth Turn of My Lord's Reign

  May Verlian Give You Grace

  Sovereign Lord:

  I would not trouble Your Highness in such a bold manner, however, this letter brings grave news that cannot wait. Ten days ago, through information received from agents, we have learned that the Princess Alea, daughter to Prince Kazan of Gorendt, was abducted by a band of common roadwilds and taken captive to Sherehn Keep--now a ruin, as you know. Their leader, Reddess, has demanded five thousand talins in gold for her release or she will be killed.

  It is well known that this troublemaker, Reddess, and his men number no more than thirty or forty. It is also our conclusion that Reddess is secretly in league with Prince Kazan to falsely accuse Riehl of this kidnapping and to use it as an excuse to declare war. Already, we have received threats from the prince that if his daughter is harmed, he will move his armies against us.

  As Your Highness is well aware, Prince Kazan wishes his son Alor, who is also Alea's twin, to ascend Riehl's Falcon Throne, regardless of the fact that he has no legitimate claim.

  We, of Riehl's Council, are outraged by Kazan's scurrilous accusations. They are entirely false. We ask for Your Highness' intervention on our behalf and to abort Kazan's perfidious scheme to incite war, an action that clearly violates your own decree.

  The Council has striven to govern Riehl according to the laws of the Dominion without the guiding hand or leadership of our own good Prince Murliff--who recently was taken from us and Summoned by the Goddess Verlian--may She keep him.

  The matter being fully disclosed to you, we await your Will. Your Obedient Subject,

  Bordun De'Tai, First Councilor

  of the Council Circle at Riehl Keep."

  The scribe cleared his throat then rolled up the meticulously rewritten copy and watched as his companion, the Councilor De'Tai, readjust the fur collar of his tunic and settle himself into the cushions of the high-wheeled coach.

  "Thank you for refreshing my memory Za'Rus. I thank the blessed Goddess His Highness has received that letter. I hope the Council is satisfied!"

  Za'Rus readjusted his own somber-hued tunic with white, frail-looking hands and cast him a worried look. "You think the session did not go well, Councilor? If I may say so, the Council seemed gratified and relieved."

  The councilor made a slight disparaging noise in his throat. "You mean by the response we received from His Highness? I only pray Verlian, his warriors will come in time. He did promise they would come quickly. Read his message again, Za'Rus."

  The scribe eased a handsome portable writing desk from its case and then pulled out the document, careful not to disturb the seal of black wax and dark red ribbons that bore the Ter-Rey's insignia.

  "Shall I read all of it, Your Grace?"

  De'Tai sighed and settled back deeper into the cushions. "No, just the pertinent section."

  Za'Rus cleared his throat again and held the document a little closer to the window so he could read the bold black writing.

  "Let me see. `...have received your letter ...aware and concerned...` Ah, yes. Here it is. `...I am sending a detachment of my most trusted warriors to inspect Riehl and the situation. They are under my direct authority to observe, to obtain information, to advise, and to take whatever measures necessary to secure and defend my Will' ..."

  De'Tai held up his hand, signaling the scribe to stop. "That's the part: `to take whatever measures necessary...' Prince D'Assuriel may hold absolute authority over our wretched skins, but he and his most-favored warriors are still Talesian barbarians."

  "Councilor, that was over three hundred sunturns ago! His Highness is a highly knowledgeable, learned man, hardly to be put into the same classification as his ancestors. I must disagree with you. I believe he understands our desperate situation perfectly."

  Councilor De'Tai smiled at him. "You speak like a diplomat Za'Rus. Riehl should have you as its First Councilor, not me. I wish I could share your optimism, but I am afraid I am the old dog here. Trusting Talesians is difficult for me, but then, I had little choice. Asking the Ter-Rey, Prince D'Assuriel, for help was not my idea but that of the Council Circle." Councilor De'Tai sighed again. "Why did Murliff have to die now, with no living children, no heirs?"

  "There is the princess, Your Grace, his granddaughter," Za'Rus interjected softly. He placed his slim fingertips together, making a pale temple before his thin mouth. "She is the last legitimate heir."

  "The Princess Kitarisa?" De'Tai snorted derisively. "That animal Kazan, who is the poorest excuse for a father and a prince for that matter, would sooner see her dead than be allowed to return and rule Riehl. Besides, you know my feelings about the granddaughter. We have no way of knowing how she has been influenced by Kazan. She may have become just as corrupt. No, Kazan wants his whelp, that whoreson Alor or the girl, his twin Alea, to rule. By the Divine Goddess I will never see that happen!"

  "I do not think Prince D'Assuriel will allow that to happen either. I am sure he is well-aware of Kazan's petty schemes -- he does not trust him either."

  "Perhaps, but His Highness has never journeyed to this side of the Adrex. If he chooses to intervene for us now, he has chosen a peculiar time to become involved in the affairs of his Eastern holdings."

  Za'Rus studied his troubled companion, hoping to find some words of comfort. De'Tai deserved high marks for his well-known tact and balanced approach to most political situations, but Za'Rus also understood his vehemence concerning Prince Kazan's self-indulgent and utterly worthless son. The very idea of a Gorendtian sitting on the Falcon Throne gave him shudders of revulsion.

  They both felt the coach shift as the restless horses shuffled and chaffed against the harness, eager to be off. De'Tai rapped on the ceiling. The driver called to the team and the coach surged forward. Both of them grabbed for a strap to steady themselves.

  Za'Rus pondered De'Tai's words. The Talesian courier and his guard had arrived that very morning from the west, over the North Pass of the Adrex from Daeamon Keep. It had been difficult, even for the fearless Talesians. Attacks from Wrathmen and roadwilds were a constant worry. The northern route also took them precariously close to Qualani lands, and there was always the threat of the flesh-eating marglims.

  Za'Rus watched his eminent companion lean back against the cushions to try and afford himself some semblance of sleep. The good man was exhausted from the long day's work; the endless discussions, the worry, and responsibilities of his high office all weighing down upon him--an impossibly heavy yoke for one man.

  Za'Rus returned the valuable document to the desk and then pulled out fresh paper and hardquill. He needed to write down the highlights of Councilor De'Tai's discussions before he summarized his extensive notes. The rest of the Council would each need a copy of the proceedings and there was much to transcribe. In the end, however, nothing would be conclusive until they heard from the Ter-Rey himself.

  Riehl's Prince Murliff had died widowed. His only daughter, Princess Liestra, Prince Kazan's first wife, was now dead too, and their daughter, the Princess Kitarisa had been lost t
o Riehl since her birth, buried in the complexities of Kazan's court intrigues. She was the last rightful heir and their only hope, but convincing Kazan to let her return to rule Riehl would be near to impossible. Kazan had lofty plans for the son of his dancing girl.

  Courteous entreaties had been rebuffed, soundly renounced. The difficulty opened up endless unpleasant outcomes. To resist Kazan's wishes would undoubtedly bring on war. If the council pushed the issue, demanding Kitarisa's return as rightful heir, that too could bring on war and Riehl was no match for the well-armed Gorendtians. If they went to war, both sides would be breaking the High Prince's Will--the absolute rule of peace. No one, not even the headstrong Kazan, would be foolish enough to provoke the High Prince, the Ter-Rey.

  Za'Rus involuntarily shuddered at the thought. Three hundred turns of the sun had not dimmed the memory of Talesian brutality. The old texts spared no detail concerning their carnage and their cruelties. Had time truly changed them? In spite of his reassurances to De'Tai, Za'Rus felt a chilling stab of uncertainty lance up his spine.

  He offered the Goddess, the Blessed Verlian, a brief prayer: No war with the Talesians.

  By Your blood, Divine Goddess, spare us from the swords of the Talesians!

  THE DAWN BROKE weak and cold, the sun barely showing through the gray haze of the low clouds. A big horse, gray as the dawn itself, stamped impatiently and blew streams of warm vapor from its flared nostrils, eager to be off. The day had begun and it was time for battle.

  The man on its back spoke one curt word to check the horse--he was not ready to leave until he had seen everything from his high vantage point overlooking the listless river below and the immense, crumbling keep built where the river divided and flowed around it. He needed more time to study it, to evaluate its vulnerability and judge distances for their approach. The others would be awaiting his decisions.