by Sandra Kopp
DARK LORDS
OF
EPTHELION
VOLUME 1: WARRIOR QUEEN OF HA-RAN-FEL
VOLUME 2: A DARK MOON RISES
VOLUME 3: CASTLE OF BLOOD
SANDRA KOPP
Contents
WARRIOR QUEEN OF HA-RAN-FEL
PROLOGUE
THE FALL OF ATWALL
THE COMMISSION
THE SLAVE GIRL
THE FLIGHT
AT THE INN OF THE WAYWARD HEART
A NARROW ESCAPE
LIEDOR
A PLAN AND A PARTING
JOURNEY TO TEPTIEL
THE WILDS OF HA-RAN-FEL
STANSLAV
TAGENRYD
THE SEARCH FOR BAUGONRIL
BAUGONRIL!
EVIL STALKS THE NIGHT
THE WOODSMEN OF SAN-LEYON
CLEANING OUT A DRAGON’S NEST
NEDRA
IN THE REALM OF DARKNESS
THE CONFRONTATION
JOURNEY TO KAPRAS ROCK
THE FIRST BATTALION
THE WARRIOR KING
MARCOS’ RETURN
CASTLE RYADOK
MARCH TO A DRAGON’S NEST
INVASION OF RISSLING
THE FALL OF RISSLING
THE BEAST IN THE DUNGEON
WARRIOR IN TRAINING
RAIDERS FROM THE SOUTH
KING RUELON’S PROPOSAL
WARRIOR QUEEN OF HA-RAN-FEL
THE GATHERING STORM
RETURN TO CASTLE RYADOK
ON THE EVE OF BATTLE
THE PRISONER
RED DAWN AND NIGHT FURY
NEW LORD OF DARKNESS
MARCH TO THE CASTLE
BURNING OUT THE DRAGON
THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS
A NEW BEGINNING
A DARK MOON RISES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
CASTLE OF BLOOD
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
WARRIOR QUEEN OF HA-RAN-FEL
Being the first part of
Dark Lords of Epthelion
PROLOGUE
October
The full moon ascended slowly over the Mystic Mountains to gaze serenely upon the deep forests of Barren-Fel. Its orange beams lighted the four towers of Castle Ryadok, crouched like a beast upon its granite perch. Rising higher, it hovered a moment to peep through the window of one tower, spilling eerie light across the stone floor and illuminating the circle painted in the very middle of the round room.
A tall figure in a stiff-collared robe stood in the center of the circle, coolly regarding the figure kneeling at his feet. A curious blue mist hovered above his left shoulder. His right hand held an ebony staff entwined with the likenesses of four hooded serpents, each facing a different direction. Their bared fangs and blood-red eyes glinted in the pale light.
“Lucius Mordarius. You deem yourself worthy to be called a prince of Epthelion after the Order of Ryadok.” The deep voice sounded calm, almost soothing.
The kneeling figure did not look up. “I do, my lord.”
“You think yourself able to do what I require of you, to obey my every command without question.” The voice rose, its resonance filling the chamber. “Do you swear allegiance to your lord, an allegiance broken upon pain of death?”
“I am able, my lord. I do swear my allegiance, on pain of death.”
“Take care, apprentice. Your uncle possessed great integrity, commanding reverence and respect throughout Epthelion. He raised you as his own son. Might his influence cloud your judgment, perhaps turn you against us, making you a traitor to The Cause?”
Mordarius’ shoulders rose and fell as he sucked in a breath and blew it out again. Through gritted teeth, he growled, “My dear uncle, that great man of God, forced his revolting doctrine down my throat until I vomited it back at him in disgust! His influence drove me to embrace The Cause.”
“Indeed?”
“I have already amassed an army. They have renounced the king and pledged loyalty to me. All is ready; in but a single night I could give you Valhalea!” Mordarius began to look up, but a swiftly-descending snake’s head thumped him back into submission. “My lord Ryadok, I swear upon my very life that I shall not betray The Cause. I swear it!”
“You are ambitious—and greedy.”
“I would not usurp your throne, Great One. I do not covet that.”
He heard Ryadok sigh, felt his steel blue eyes boring through the top of his head like flaming swords. Mordarius’ heart pounded, and he struggled to keep his breathing even. His knees, pressed hard to the stone floor, throbbed mercilessly. He longed to shift to a more comfortable position but dared not move. Despite the coldness of the room, beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. The unbearable silence seemed to last an eternity.
Finally Ryadok clicked his tongue. “I hold you to your oath, Lucius Mordarius. Should you betray me, I will require your life. I do not install you in my Order, however. You have yet to prove yourself truly worthy.”
“Have I not already, my lord?”
Again the snake’s head descended. A razor-sharp fang grazed Mordarius’ left ear. Inwardly he cursed but did not flinch.
Ryadok stood silent, his staff poised above Mordarius’ head. “I give you power, Lucius Mordarius—but not in full measure.”
“My lord!”
“Go!”
Ryadok disappeared in a blinding blue flash. A swirling, howling wind arose, filling the chamber and pulling Mordarius off the floor. The hapless warlock cried out as the vortex carried him through the window and deposited him well beyond the moat.
For a moment he lay stunned, staring up at the indifferent moon.
“You speak of betrayal, Ryadok,” he rasped. “Have you not betrayed me? I. . .who have served—” He choked. Searing pain raced from his brain to the ends of his toes.
Several agonizing minutes later, his breath returned. Groaning, he rolled to one side and crawled to his feet. He would return from when
ce he came—to Valhalea, the glittering Gem of Epthelion, and home of his uncle, Prelate Jonah Havalseth. Valhalea would soon be his. And Ryadok would see what his uncle’s influence had wrought.
PART I
RISE OF THE
DRAGON
THE FALL OF ATWALL
Early the following April
Twilight had fallen when Prelate Jonah Havalseth strode past the Atwall marketplace toward home. A tall man with a high forehead, unlined face, and thinning white hair, he bore a quiet dignity and exuded both authority and kindness. His deep wisdom and diplomatic skills had served him well in life, affording him not only the post of prelate, but a commission as councilor to King Nicholas himself.
The cool air smelled of fried fish and scones, garlic and vinegar. Throngs of squealing children raced among the booths, pushing their way through the milling crowd. A torrent of defamatory taunts met a glassware vendor’s shouted warning. A nearby purveyor of sweetmeats berated the parents of the child caught with his hand in her basket while they pretended not to notice.
Jonah’s stomach rumbled. A piece of fried fish would have tasted delicious, but his favorite meal of slow-roasted beef awaited him at home. Whistling, he quickened his pace and soon reached the broad avenue leading home.
The lamplighters had begun their work. By nightfall the city would rival the starlit sky with a brilliant carpet tucked amid the rolling terrain.
Atwall, chief city of Valhalea, was a beautiful and thriving metropolis of some eighty thousand people made wealthy by the brisk industrial, agricultural, lumber and livestock trades. Despite its seamier elements, the city possessed more of what was right than what was wrong, at least in Jonah’s mind.
The wide boulevard ran south past the Central Plaza and through the business district, finally ending at Valhalea’s imperial palace atop King’s Hill. The street leading to his home branched off the boulevard not far from the plaza and ascended a low hill where, for a short space, one could enjoy sweeping views of the city, including the palace and the two bridges spanning the Ashgard River in graceful arcs on either end of the business district.
On the corner just off the boulevard, a young woman played her lute. Its haunting strains captivated Jonah. He paused a moment to listen, dropped two coins into the basket at her side and continued on.
He took little notice at first of the pudgy little man in the loose brown robe leaning on the cobblestone fence a few steps up. But as he approached, something made Jonah slow his pace and follow the stranger’s gaze to the hilltop. The palace’s alabaster towers glowed rust-red in the last rays of the dying sun.
“How fitting,” the stranger murmured. “Already the castle bleeds.”
Jonah stopped. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
The stranger turned his head and squinted up at Jonah, then offered a tight, unpleasant smile. “Nothin,’ governor.”
He ambled away, leaving Jonah feeling suddenly cold.
They heard the screams shortly after eleven. Jonah, followed by his wife, Tania, rushed downstairs. Their daughter stood in front of a drawing room window, one hand poised to pull aside the heavy drape.
“Merewyn! Get away from there,” Jonah ordered.
Merewyn’s head whipped around. “What’s happening, Papa?”
“I don’t know.” Jonah pulled his wife and daughter to him and held them close. “Perhaps the witch-king has decided to march.”
“’Tis your wicked nephew,” Tania whispered brokenly. “Would God he had died with—”
“Do not speak wickedness, Tania,” her husband interrupted. “God can yet deliver us, if He chooses—if not, we shall glorify Him with our deaths.”
Running footsteps drummed the ground. Glass shattered. A woman’s shrill screams filled the night.
Jonah released his wife and daughter. “Take the horses and flee to Primeva. I’ll come when I can.”
Heavy boots stormed up the front steps. Rough fists pounded the oak door. Guttural voices demanded entrance.
“We’ll not leave you, Papa!” Merewyn cried.
Jonah laid his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and looked earnestly into her eyes. “I’m depending on you to take care of your mother, Princess,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you there. Now go.” Jonah quickly kissed her cheek.
“Papa!”
“Go!”
He gave her a push and Merewyn ran—not outside, but to the butcher block on the little table in the kitchen. Seizing the biggest knife, she stole back to the main hall. Tania, pale and trembling, had crouched outside the foyer door. Merewyn crept over and knelt beside her.
Jonah Havalseth calmly opened the front door and waited, saying nothing as he regarded the ruffians with quiet reproof. A burly soldier put the point of his sword to Jonah’s throat. Jonah neither blinked nor flinched. “Former Prelate Jonah Havalseth, you are hereby ordered to relinquish your house to the Deputy of His Most Royal Eminence, the Honorable and Majestic Lucius Mordarius! Gather whatever you need and come with us!”
Jonah’s gaze traveled slowly down the speaker’s frame and up again. “Is this how the Honorable and Majestic Lucius Mordarius rewards the uncle who, when he was orphaned, raised him as his own son?”
“Silence your insubordinate tongue, knave, lest I cut it out of your mouth!” The soldier pushed his sword tighter to Jonah’s throat. A trickle of blood flowed from where the point pierced the skin.
“Come, there’s no need for such abuse.” Lucius Mordarius picked his way through the mob. The soldier reluctantly lowered his blade and withdrew while Mordarius stood before his uncle.
The sight of him repulsed Merewyn. Mordarius possessed neither honor nor majesty, and looked ridiculous. His towering, too-thin frame stood ramrod straight. His dark eyes glittered maniacally. The high, stiff collar of his heavy black cape, along with his black hair, angular features, and pointed beard gave him the appearance of a gigantic bat. He should have been hanging upside down in some cave.
“I ask you again,” Jonah said evenly, “is this your gratitude to those who cared for you when death took your parents and left you desolate?”
Mordarius smiled. “My dear uncle! In my gratitude I ensure you won’t suffer.”
Cold steel sang through the air. Merewyn heard her mother scream, but could utter nothing through her own tight throat. She heard a sickening crack as bone struck stone—and then Jonah Havalseth’s severed head rocked gently in a widening crimson pool beside his crumpled, twitching body. Another shriek from Tania stopped abruptly as she fell senseless to the floor.
Soldiers spilled into the house. Mordarius strolled among them, his bloody blade raised as he arrogantly surveyed the paneled walls and marble staircase.
“Murderer!” Merewyn leapt to her feet and raised the knife. “Traitor!” The light from the candelabra reflected off the blade as she hurled the weapon at Mordarius’ heart. Mordarius sidestepped. His sword clattered to the floor as the knife arced low and impaled his hand below the base of his thumb. Howling, he clutched his injured limb and leveled a searing gaze at Merewyn.
Two soldiers seized her. One slapped her repeatedly with the back of his hand. The force of his blows whipped her head from side to side, but she clenched her teeth and kept silent. The blows stopped, and Merewyn stared into her cousin’s rage-contorted face. His breath, reeking of garlic and tobacco, almost made her vomit.
Grimacing, Mordarius pulled the knife from his hand and held it to her face. “You treacherous little witch!”
“Let me finish her.” The soldier who had struck her grabbed Merewyn’s hair and yanked her head back.
“No.” Mordarius’ voice dropped to a whisper. Eyes half-closed, he gazed down his long nose and slowly, almost sensuously, stroked her cheek with the bloody blade. “I have something more fitting in mind.” His face hardened. “Bring her!”
With Merewyn struggling between them, the soldiers followed Mordarius outside. Around them, panicked citizens ran amok, pushing, shoving
and trampling each other. Rebel forces poured through the cobblestone streets, smashing windows, looting homes and setting them ablaze, and dragging the dazed and screaming occupants outside.
A handful of citizens fought back. Merewyn watched in horror as soldiers knocked them to the ground and beat them senseless before thrusting them through with sword or spear. Some they decapitated and kicked their severed heads back and forth as they spilled out of one street and down another.
When they reached the square, Mordarius stopped. “Now, my pampered little cousin, let’s see how pretty you look when I’m through with you.”
He slapped her and then signaled to the soldiers who held her. Merewyn, her face swollen, bruised and bloodied, was thrown to her knees and held there while Mordarius sheared her long golden locks—the ultimate disgrace to an Atwall maiden, for it branded her a whore. She fixed smoldering eyes on his leering face, not letting herself see the luxuriant tresses scattered about the cold stones, or feel the chilly night air on her nearly-bald scalp.
Mordarius’ grin widened. Pointing down at Merewyn, he glanced around the circle of soldiers and shouted, “Who wants her?”
Raucous guffaws greeted his query. One of the soldiers spat.
Mordarius clicked his tongue and pitifully shook his head. “Poor sweet thing,” he crooned. “Who shall keep you warm tonight? No one wants you. Well, then—straight to the stables you go! Citizen Mehr!”
A pudgy little man in a loose brown robe waddled out of the crowd.
“Here! Ride this little mare if you wish and then put her to work!” Mordarius jerked his head toward Merewyn. The two soldiers yanked her to her feet and pitched her into Mehr’s arms.
Mehr shoved her away. “Bloody and bald as a bloomin’ baby!” He snorted and brushed something off one sleeve. “Does nothing for me.”
“Do what you want with it then. It’s no concern of mine.” Mordarius raised his sword. “Come, men; there’s more to be done tonight!” Turning on his heel, he strutted off into the darkness.
A fleeting shadow sailed over the dark forests of Barren-Fel. Powerful wings beat the air as the great horned owl soared high above the battlements of Castle Ryadok. For a moment she hovered, wings stretched out upon the winds; then, swift as an arrow, she swooped down and alit upon Ryadok’s waiting arm. Yellow eyes met steel blue as Ryadok bent his elbow and brought the owl before him.
