Dark Lords of Epthelion Trilogy:Warrior Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel, A Dark Moon Rises, Castle of Blood

by Sandra Kopp

  Merewyn regarded him warily, wondering at this abrupt change in his manner.

  “You needn’t fear. I perceive we share a mutual opinion concerning Valhalea’s civil affairs. You’re no ordinary slave. Your speech indicates an educated and well-bred lady.” He patted the rock beside him. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

  Merewyn slowly sidled over and sat down, as far from him as possible.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “What does it matter?”

  “Maybe much; maybe only a little; maybe nothing at all.” The stranger shrugged and stared into the distance a moment before turning back to her. “I tell you truthfully I am no informer, neither do I deliver runaway slaves to their masters. Your state is deplorable. I perceive you have good reason to flee. Perhaps I can help.”

  “There’s no help for me.”

  “You said Mordarius beheaded your father. You’re of the old nobility, then?”

  Merewyn opened her mouth but caught herself and said nothing.

  “I assure you: what you tell me remains between us.”

  Merewyn’s lips tightened. She stared down at her feet.

  The stranger sighed softly. “My name is Charles Bordner. I’m a trader from Nimbia, although I grew up in Tashbuth, just west of here.” He smiled. “There. You know my name. Tell me yours.”

  “Merewyn Havalseth.”

  The stranger’s smile faded. He stared at the ground in front of him. “Your father was Jonah Havalseth.”

  Merewyn stiffened. “You knew him?”

  Charles nodded. “I did. He was a good man, known and respected by many throughout Epthelion. Even King Ruelon of Ha-Ran-Fel deemed him trustworthy. Did you know that Ruelon offered your father a post in his court?”

  Merewyn shook her head. “My mother wouldn’t hear of him, given his savagery. Father told me some things privately, but nothing about a post.”

  “The Horse Lords are a singular breed, despising most outsiders. Your father, however, earned their deepest respect.” Charles paused and clicked his tongue. “I am deeply distressed he died so brutally.” He looked at Merewyn again. “Why did Mordarius spare you?”

  Merewyn turned away and wiped a tear from her eye. “To torment me. After he killed my parents I threw a knife at him, hoping to pierce his stony heart, but pierced his hand instead. He beat me, shaved my head and consigned me to slavery.”

  Charles stared ahead, saying nothing.

  Merewyn shifted uneasily. “Have your friends gone to Mordarius?”

  “No. They’re but a short space away. They’ll say nothing of our meeting to anyone.”

  “Then why did they speak of taking me back? The big one sounded especially brutal.”

  Charles smiled dryly. “I’m sure you realize, Miss Havalseth, the gravity of stealing a man’s horse and the severity of the punishment for this crime. For all our talk, we would not have hanged you, neither would we have dragged you before Mordarius. However, few men behave as benevolently as we. We merely hoped to frighten you enough to discourage you from ever stealing another. And. . .” Amusement and regret showed in his smile. “. . .Hans, in particular, likes to have a bit of fun.”

  “Nothing can frighten a person to whom the worst has already happened.”

  “But you were frightened.”

  “I couldn’t bear the sneering faces of my father’s murderers hovering over me while I die at their hands. And concerning your friend’s. . .bit of fun. . .” Merewyn sniffed.

  “I apologize for all of us. We should have considered your situation.”

  The sun topped the jagged peaks of the Mystic Mountains to the east and spilled its radiant beams into the glade, which steamed in the warming air. A distant meadowlark warbled and another answered, carelessly casting its lilting melody into the incense of rising mist. Towering firs and pines—the silent sentinels of the forest that had guarded this primeval world for centuries—stood watch around them. Merewyn could not help but believe they protected her now.

  “I truly regret taking your horse. I was desperate.”

  “Had I been in your place, I would have done the same.” Charles drew a long breath and pursed his lips. “I can’t take you with me but I do wish to help. During the course of our—”

  The red-haired man galloped into the glade. “Charles—what’s this? A girl?”

  “Yes. Now—what news?”

  “Riders approach.”

  Charles tensed. “How many?”

  “Ten, perhaps fifteen.”

  Merewyn paled. “Mordarius!”

  “Hans, rejoin the others,” Charles instructed. “Disperse and pretend to be searching for me. Meet the soldiers, but say nothing of the girl. We pursued a horse and became separated. Go quickly!”

  Hans nodded and rode away.

  Charles grabbed Merewyn’s arm and, leading his two horses, ran for the trees at the opposite side of the glade. “This way. Hurry!”

  They raced into the woods as the sound of hoofbeats grew louder. Branches whipped their faces as they plowed through trees and bushes and stumbled over rocks and roots on the uneven terrain.

  Suddenly the ground gave way to a steep embankment. Merewyn cried out as she lost her footing and fell headlong to the bottom. Swiftly Charles tied the horses and slid down the embankment to her. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  Merewyn nodded, biting her lip to stop it from quivering.

  “A bit bruised though, I’ll wager.” Charles glanced around. His eyes lighted on a hollow in the embankment where the soil had partially washed out from under the roots of a large tree. “Quick! In here. These roots will give you cover. And no matter what happens, stay here. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.”

  Trembling, Merewyn obeyed. Charles hastened to the embankment and paused. “I promise you, Merewyn Havalseth, we will protect you.” With a reassuring smile, he turned and scrambled to the top, then mounted his horse and, leading the bay, rode back to his companions.

  As he neared the glade, he heard voices and circled around to enter the clearing from the direction opposite the one he and Merewyn had taken. Twelve well-armored and heavily-armed soldiers surrounded his companions. Stunned, he thought, twelve men sent to capture a mere slip of a girl!

  Hans waved. “Ah! There he comes. Hey! I see you found your horse.”

  Charles nodded, grateful for the bits of branches and leaves stuck in his hair and on his clothes, for they lent credence to the story he intended to tell.

  “Where’s the filthy wench?” a brutish voice growled.

  Charles shook his head. “The horse had no rider.” He nodded toward the bay. “Skittish beast. She led me on a merry chase, but I finally caught her near the mountains.” Charles sighed heavily as he looked down at his soiled clothing.

  “Rather odd,” the soldier sneered. “A horse running from its master? Not very well trained, if you ask me.”

  “I’ve not had her very long,” Charles returned. “I bought her in Barren-Fel. Maybe she tried to go home.”

  The soldier grunted.

  “At any rate,” Charles continued, “I have her back and consider the matter closed.”

  “The matter’s far from closed, mate,” the soldier snarled. “She’s a madwoman. Attacked one of Atwall’s finest citizens and publicly cursed Lord Mordarius to his face. We’ll find her, and when we do, Master Mehr will be justly compensated and His Lordship appeased.” Raising his hand, he bellowed, “Fan out, men! We’ll search every inch of these stinking mountains if we have to.”

  They melted into the trees, traveling northeast—precisely the direction Charles hoped they would go.

  “Pleasant chap,” Hans remarked with a grin.

  Charles smiled grimly and waited until the soldiers’ voices and the sound of their hoofbeats died away. “We haven’t much time. We must get that girl out of Valhalea. Her father was Jonah Havalseth. You remember, Hans—he helped your father and mine out of Barren-Fel to safety during the last war.�
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  “Aye, he saved many a lad during those dark days,” Hans murmured.

  “We can do nothing for him now, but we can save his daughter.” Charles stole a quick glance around and jerked his head toward the southwest. “This way.”

  They hastened through the forest to the embankment and the hollow where Merewyn waited. At his call she emerged, but tensed as she beheld his companions.

  “It’s all right, Merewyn,” Charles told her. “These are my friends: Hans Ogilvie of Liedor, and Arris and Davon Marchant of Nimbia.”

  The men nodded politely and touched their hats. Hans Ogilvie was a large man, tall and stout with a full red beard and reddish hair down to his shoulders. Merewyn noticed immediately his jovial round face and emerald eyes which, despite his earlier talk of hanging her, now regarded her kindly. She guessed Arris and Davon Marchant to be brothers, they so resembled one another, both tall and lanky with sandy hair.

  Arris gazed at her quizzically, head cocked. Merewyn’s insides churned. His probing stare seemed to penetrate her very soul, discerning every thought and rendering her vulnerable. Yet his face radiated heartfelt compassion. Something stirred within her and, conscious of her dirty, disheveled appearance, she dropped her head and turned away.

  “Let’s take you first to safety, and then you can attend to other needs,” Charles said gently. “Presently we’ve more serious obstacles to contend with—twelve, that we know of—and there may be more.” He stared at her intently. “You’ve acquired quite a reputation with Valhalea’s esteemed potentate for him to hunt you so aggressively.”

  “I’ve simply told him to his ugly face exactly what he is.”

  “You’ve a stout heart. Now we’ve got to smuggle you out. But how?”

  “I had hoped to reach the pier and hide on a cattle boat.”

  “Too risky now,” Davon said. “Those piers will be heavily guarded and every boat searched.”

  “Aye,” Charles agreed. “We may have a better chance at Brackenlea.”

  The men continued talking. Merewyn studied their surroundings. They stood in a deep gully that, as it stretched eastward, disappeared into blackness as if into a cavernous throat. Gateway to Titan Pass, her father had called it. The narrow, precipitous gash wound through steep, densely-wooded mountains straight into San-Leyon. Loose rock, exposed tree roots and plunging hillsides made this pass virtually impassable by horseback. Though a treacherous route, ample coverage from trees and rocks should enable her to reach San-Leyon undetected.

  “Merewyn?” Charles’ voice brought her back.

  “I could follow this gulch into San-Leyon.”

  “You’ll find no safety there,” Charles returned.

  “If the soldiers follow, the woodsmen would doubtless consider them invaders and fight.”

  “The woodsmen’s arrows will find you as surely as they find your pursuers. They’ll not welcome a fugitive. No, Merewyn. We’ll take you to Liedor.”

  “And quickly,” Hans broke in. “Those soldiers know we tricked them. They’ll be back.”

  “You’re right.” Charles picked up Merewyn and swung her onto the bay’s back. He mounted his ebony charger and reached for the bay’s reins. “We’ll ride back to the road. It’s risky, but I have an idea. Merewyn, stay low.” Leading the bay, Charles urged his horse forward. His companions fell in behind him.

  For nearly an hour, the horses picked their way over rocks and roots and around trees and thickets. Merewyn lay forward on the mare’s neck, taking comfort in the warm moistness under the thick mane, calmed somewhat by the gentle undulating gait. But, she wondered, should Mordarius’ soldiers overtake them, would these men—despite their kindness and gallant words—simply hand her over in exchange for their own freedom? They owed her no loyalty. During Atwall’s fall, she had witnessed more than a few families and friends turn against one another.

  The little band pushed on, eyes and ears strained for any sound or motion. Only the occasional chatter of a chipmunk or the rustle of leaves could be heard. The mid-morning sun filtered through emerald windows into this woodland cathedral, melting away the darkness and filling the forest with golden rays. A fragrant breeze stirred the branches.

  At the edge of the forest, Charles lifted his hand and stopped. They had reached the old post road running from Atwall to the southern border town of Primeva. “Here we are,” he said quietly.

  Hans shot Charles a dubious look. “You don’t mean to take this into Atwall.”

  “Not all of us,” Charles answered. “Davon and I will ride back with the bay and pick up her saddle, along with the two grays and our goods and wagon. You and Arris take Merewyn to the Inn of the Wayward Heart and obtain two rooms under assumed names. Keep to the forest. Hide Merewyn before you enter the inn. We’ll smuggle her in later.”

  Putting a hand on his hip, he turned to Merewyn. “Now, young maiden, we part company for a time. You’ll have to give up your mount, but I’m sure one of these chaps will make room for you.”

  Merewyn dismounted, but hesitated.

  “We’ve not much time,” Charles urged.

  Reluctantly Merewyn reached for the hand Hans offered, but froze, her arm poised in midair. Before anyone could move, she gasped and bolted into the trees. Charles opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Arris caught his arm. “Wait!”

  They slipped into the woods. Charles dismounted and edged forward to peer down the road.

  Four soldiers on swift chargers emerged from the forest a short distance away and stood in the road, engaged in a spirited discussion. One gestured south and then west. Charles strained to listen but could not make out their words. As he watched, the group spurred their horses forward and thundered down the road directly toward them.

  Keeping low, Charles slipped back to his companions. “Draw your daggers,” he said, “but do nothing unless they attack. We may not stand much chance, but we can whittle some of their thick hides off before we fall.”

  To their immense relief, the soldiers galloped past without a glance in their direction.

  “Whew!” Hans shoved his dagger back into its sheath and gave it a pat. “I like a good fight, but prefer a more even match. I’ve not the reach with this knife that those lads have with swords and spears.”

  “Right. Well, fate has smiled upon us this time.” Charles peered about. “Merewyn?”

  Merewyn emerged from behind a large pine.

  “Ah. There you are. Go with these chaps. They’ll look after you.” He froze. One of the soldiers who had ridden past shouted to his comrades, and now approaching hoofbeats drummed the ground.

  “They’re coming back!” Charles cried. “Run!”

  THE FLIGHT

  The mid-afternoon air hung dank and heavy. Charles tightened the bay’s cinch and cast a wary eye at the glowering clouds piling high in the west. Over an hour had passed since Davon’s departure to the Old Town to retrieve two horses and a cart left with a friend. He should have returned long before now.

  Charles lowered the stirrup and stole a quick glance toward the road. He had better prepare for the worst. Several townsfolk had seen four men pursue Merewyn Havalseth into the woods—yet only two returned with the stolen horse. What, they must wonder, had become of the other two men and Merewyn?

  “Looks like ill weather for traveling.” Roderick Mehr, freshly-shaven and wearing clean clothes for a change, appeared in the stable doorway.

  “Aye.” Charles checked the black horse’s cinch. “But I’ve some wares that I’m trading for wool down in Primeva, and it won’t be available long. We’d have been there by now but for this morning’s incident.”

  Mehr’s face hardened. “I gather they’ve still not caught the little witch.” He paused, and Charles felt those pig-like eyes boring through him. “Now, where could she be? Hard for me to believe these magnificent steeds of yours couldn’t catch her.”

  Charles shrugged. “I’ve no idea. We found only the horse.” He placed his rolled-up blanket behind the sad
dle and tied it. “With more pressing matters to attend to, we wasted no time looking for the thief.”

  Mehr grunted. “Just as well. She’ll probably die out there anyway—although I would have welcomed the chance to break her neck.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Where’re your friends?”

  Charles struggled to curb his annoyance. “Two went on to Primeva; the other is getting our wagon and wares. I say,” he continued with feigned gaiety, “would your wife like some good purple cloth? I have some in the wagon. We’re taking it to Primeva to exchange for wool, but can certainly spare a bolt.” Noting the scowl now clouding Mehr’s face, he hurriedly finished, “A gesture of our good will for your—”

  “Gold, Mr. Bordner. You pay me in gold.”

  “Of course, but. . .” Charles stopped. Davon, without the wagon and horses, had rounded the corner and now galloped up the lane toward them.

  Davon reined in beside Charles. “A wheel’s broken,” he said quietly. “Gowen took the wagon to the plaza because some people wanted the purple cloth. Something spooked the horses and Gowen couldn’t hold them. One wheel went into a hole. He’s fixing it now, but there will be no traveling with it tonight.”

  “Well,” Charles returned, “let’s go back and lend a hand.” He mounted the bay, pulled out his purse and counted out three gold coins, which he handed down to Mehr. “Here you are. Thank you, sir, and good day.” He rode away, leading the black horse.

  “Good day,” Davon echoed, and set off after Charles.

  Neither man spoke until they had entered the main street.

  “Rotten luck,” Davon said.

  “Perhaps not,” Charles answered. “We can travel faster without the wagon, and should those clouds pour rain. . .” He lowered his voice. “However, we have nowhere now to hide our charge.”

  He straightened and nodded to a passing horseman. Besides themselves and the other rider, only a handful of carts rumbled over the cobblestone streets.

  “Whew,” he said. “This air feels strange—like heavy mist.”