by Sandra Kopp
“Dreadfully sorry, miss. City grows rowdy this time of year—Festival, you know.”
“I see.” So it had been in Atwall. During “festival” the city tossed propriety and morality to the wind. “Celebration” consisted of nothing more than gratifying one’s baser lusts. Now Atwall’s festivals had ceased, crushed beneath Lucius Mordarius’ iron fist.
“Have you anyone to meet you?” the gentleman asked. “Might I be of assistance?”
“Perhaps you can help me.” Merewyn clasped her hamper closer. “Where would I find the coach to Teptiel?”
“Teptiel, eh? It leaves from the Palisade tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”
“What is the Palisade?”
“The first hotel ever built in Langhorn. I believe I can still get you a room, and I can arrange your passage on the coach tonight. What’s your name?”
“Marion Greene.”
The gentleman doffed his hat. “A pleasure, Miss Greene. I’m William Russell. I will take you to the Palisade.” He motioned to the hamper. “Is this all you have?”
Merewyn nodded. “Yes.”
“Come along then.” Mr. Russell took the hamper from her and set off toward the white building so swiftly that Merewyn ran to keep up.
Inside, old odors of tobacco smoke and stale perfume overpowered the aromas of freshly brewed coffee and warm scones sitting on a tray near the door. A handful of people enjoyed refreshments at the tiny tables along one wall, while others berated a harried porter for carriage seats. Other porters escorted passengers to their transports or tried to keep order.
Never slowing their pace, Mr. Russell and Merewyn threaded their way through the milling crowd and haze of tobacco smoke to the opposite side where a black coach waited. Mr. Russell opened the door, helped Merewyn inside, and climbed in. He rapped on the outside of the coach door and the horses stepped out. Their hooves clip-clopped smartly on the cobblestone street.
“The coach departs at seven o’clock sharp and will deliver you directly to Flanders Inn in Teptiel. It waits for no one. If you miss it, ’twill be two days before the next one.”
He fell silent. Merewyn’s thoughts turned to her friends. What dangers awaited them in San-Leyon? What monster lurked in those forbidding forests? Even now the memory of its ravening howl made her shudder.
And what might Arris have said to her that late afternoon, had Charles not approached her first? Later, when Arris kissed her hand in farewell, he had whispered something in the Nimbian tongue: “Nuwanie ambalo freecia. Tuwanee, Merewyn, elskano minya. Farewell, Merewyn. I wish you health and long life and much happiness.” Although she did not understand Nimbian, Merewyn somehow sensed the words he spoke in the common language of Epthelion did not exactly translate the Nimbian phrase.
If only we’d had more time! I might have revealed my true intentions for this journey. He is more than mere man, for he sensed the treachery awaiting us at Donegal’s. He must be one of the Nimbian mystics that Father spoke about, as legendary as the Horse Lords.
He exudes kindness and sympathy. I should have said something; surely he would have understood! Perhaps he could have found another way for me, one that would not require this daunting journey.
“Here we are!” William Russell’s booming voice broke through her thoughts. Merewyn glanced out the window. A single streetlamp illuminated the front of the weather-beaten frame building. Its main floor windows glowed faintly behind a sea of rowdy passersby.
William Russell stepped out of the coach, helped Merewyn alight and led her inside. The subdued lantern glow hid the drabness somewhat, and the room buzzed with lively conversation. A thin dark-haired man sitting behind a desk at one side regarded the newcomers through steely hawk-like eyes and grunted in response to Mr. Russell’s greeting. A short exchange followed, after which Merewyn parted with one of her coins.
A careworn maid showed them to a small upstairs chamber furnished with a cot and a small table that held a wash basin and towel. The musty smell of old wood and stagnant air filling the hallway permeated this room as well, and Merewyn pulled aside the heavy green drapes to open the window.
William Russell glanced around. “I trust you find this satisfactory.”
“Yes.”
“Good!” Mr. Russell held out his hand. “Another coin for your passage tomorrow.”
“Of course.” The coin glinted briefly in the dim light as Merewyn dropped it into his outstretched palm.
“Thank you, Miss Greene. The maid will wake you at six o’clock sharp. Good night and good fortune to you.”
“Thank you.” Merewyn wanted to say more, but Mr. Russell abruptly left, and she slowly closed the door as the hollow echo of his retreating footsteps died away.
Merewyn sighed and sank down on the cot. It was as hard as the forest floor she had slept on days earlier, and every bit as cold.
She retired immediately. Morning would come too soon.
At exactly seven o’clock the following morning, the coach rumbled away from the Palisade to the ferry that would take it across the Ashgard River. Twenty minutes later it rolled off the ferry and onto the bumpy road to begin the dusty thirty-mile journey to Teptiel.
Merewyn gazed at endless swells of gently rolling hills, lush grass carpeting rich red soil, and groves of trees lining the riverbanks or huddled in the draws. The Alpenfel Mountains, ghostly white on the northern horizon, thrust jagged peaks into the azure sky. Merewyn scarcely noticed the beauty for the turmoil raging within her. Its tranquility mocked her, and she closed her eyes and slumped against the carriage door.
At twilight the coach topped the hill overlooking Teptiel. Merewyn made out a village very much like Garris, but as they rolled into town she noticed its roughness. The homes exuded a more rustic look, and pungent smells drifting into the coach indicated that some of the settlers did not clean up after their animals, as those of Garris had. Most yards boasted a big garden and an earthen oven, but few flowers adorned any home.
The coach rattled along the rutted dirt streets and stopped in front of a tall yellow frame building. Merewyn stepped out onto the board walk. Bold black letters proclaimed, “FLANDERS INN.” The coachman handed down Merewyn’s hamper, and she thanked him and entered the inn.
A jovial man with a plump round face crossed the room to meet her. “Welcome to Flanders! How may I assist you?”
“I need a room. Also, could you direct me to a blacksmith?”
“I have a lovely room upstairs that will suit you perfectly. And the smithy? Step outside, turn left and you’ll find him on the corner. Not far at all.”
Merewyn thanked him, paid for her room and took her hamper upstairs. Minutes later she emerged from the inn, her shoes making hollow thumps on the board walk as she proceeded toward a weathered frame structure at the corner. A blackened sign bearing the word ‘Smithy’ hung over the open doorway. The air rang with iron striking iron as a large, muscular man shaped a horseshoe on an anvil beside an open flame.
Merewyn drew a deep breath and stepped inside.
“I beg your pardon, sir. Might you have a horse to sell?”
Blacksmith Karl Petters wiped a brawny forearm across his dripping brow and scowled. “What’s that? A horse, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Four to eight years old, perhaps?”
Petters snorted. “Not in these parts. Folks here keep the best for themselves.” He laid the hammer aside and picked up a pair of tongs. “Your husband might have better luck procuring a decent mount—if he gets someone drunk first.”
“I have no husband.”
Petters picked up the horseshoe and plunged it into a pail of water. A short hiss accompanied a cloud of steam. Petters tossed the tongs onto his workbench. His scowl deepened. “Pshaw!”
“At least, not yet,” Merewyn continued. “Our families oppose our match. In order to marry, we must leave Langhorn. We’ve heard much about Teptiel, and I told my beloved I would come to view it and then return with my opinion. I arrived ye
sterday on the coach but need a horse for transportation here and then to take home to draw our wagon when we move.” Merewyn produced her purse. “Jonah gave me some money.”
Petters’ gruffness ebbed under her earnest and innocent stare. He planted a meaty fist on his hip and scratched his nose as he thought. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone now. Sometimes the Wyars bring in horses. They’re small, but good sturdy mounts, and fast. Some Wyars should show up at the gathering here tomorrow. You staying at Flanders?”
Merewyn nodded.
“Come back this time tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find.”
Merewyn frowned as she studied the sorrel pony contentedly munching oats from a wooden pail. Karl Petters, true to his word, had found some prospects. Three Merewyn had rejected at a glance. This one, however, might suffice.
A stocky Wyar named Braun Topyl stood beside the pony, stroking her burnished wither. “She’s a good horse,” he said in his thick Barren-Fel accent. “Bred in the foothills of Wyar, as good a herder as any dog, and one of the fastest I have. She can carry you for many miles and for many years to come.”
Merewyn thoughtfully clicked her tongue. Immediately the shaggy head lifted out of the bucket, ears flattened, and turned to look at her. Braun laughed. “See? Already she wants to go.”
The mare nonchalantly blew her nose and, with a shake of her head, returned to her oats.
Merewyn chuckled and stepped forward to run her hand along the pony’s side. The horse appeared sound enough for her journey, but entirely unfit as a warhorse. Unfortunately, Merewyn had few choices; no one parted with his best animals.
Petters sighed heavily. “A little past her prime, isn’t she?”
“She’s ten,” Braun affirmed. “But if the lady rides her, I think she will find the horse suitable.” He hesitated, then continued slowly, “If not, I could speak to my brother. He owns a young gelding but it is not very well trained.”
“I had hoped for one less than eight, but ten years will do. I would like to ride her,” Merewyn returned.
Braun smiled and went for the saddle.
The mare stepped out smartly as soon as Merewyn mounted. Head high, she trotted briskly, her coppery ears bobbing up and down through the bouncing mane. At the edge of town Merewyn reined in. “You’ll do nicely.” She turned the horse and galloped to the stable.
Braun Topyl asked only one gold coin for the mare and her tack. Merewyn agreed, grateful for the means to be on her way.
“You ride here, around Teptiel?” Braun asked.
Merewyn nodded. “And into the countryside a way.” She smiled. “I hear people from all over Epthelion come here. I’m anxious to meet a few of them.”
“From every place except San-Leyon and Ha-Ran-Fel,” Petters told her. He snorted contemptuously. “Ha-Ran-Fel! Drunken, brutal savages! And the women as bad as the men!”
“Is their reputation truly warranted?” Merewyn asked.
“They became almost civilized for a while,” Petters returned, “but they’ve returned to their old traditions. Not two weeks ago some sheep wandered off. The herder followed their tracks into Ha-Ran-Fel and never returned. Searchers found him in a sorry state. Skinned, he was. The savages probably made trappings from him.”
Merewyn’s heart plummeted.
“Be careful, miss,” Petters cautioned. “Don’t wander too far west.”
“Wander nowhere alone, especially at night,” Braun added gravely. “Baugonril roams these hills, searching for prey. Its howls fill the canyons.”
Merewyn caught her breath. “Baugonril?”
“The Dark Lord’s beast. Nothing slakes his thirst for blood. His noise and stink are unmistakable. You cannot see the monster in the dark, but know he lurks there. No horse can outrun him. From the pit of hell he comes. Already we have lost much cattle—and many people.”
Petters eyed her intently. “You best just stay around town.”
PART II
THE HORSE LORDS
THE WILDS OF HA-RAN-FEL
Merewyn shivered in the damp midnight air. She pulled her wrap tighter and huddled in the saddle, questioning the wisdom of this daunting venture. Alone, in the dead of night, she traveled to a hostile alien land with no expectation of welcome or of staying alive.
Skinned, he was. Petters’ words echoed hollowly in her mind.
Two bags acquired in Teptiel in exchange for her hamper lay across the mare’s hindquarters. The larger one held her dress, purse, and a blanket. In the smaller one she had packed bread, smoked meat, and cheese. A full waterskin hung from the saddle horn. Her only weapon—a dagger—was strapped to her waist.
Thick clouds hid the moon. Merewyn thought of the four companions who, though strangers, had treated her so kindly. Unbearable loneliness seized her as the mare trudged on beneath the starless sky. Each unhurried step bore her closer to mortal danger. But as night waned, anticipation replaced foreboding. A new day had dawned.
Morning at last put the darkness to flight. Merewyn found herself in an unfamiliar land. Whether she had entered Ha-Ran-Fel she did not know; but the wildness of this rocky, windswept terrain told her she must indeed have reached the haunt of the dreaded Horse Lords. Angular, rock-crowned hills replaced the fertile fields. Sparse, coarse grass and loose shale covered the hillsides. And this gray soil could never support the lush crops that thrived in neighboring Liedor.
Even the sky appeared ravaged. No puffy fat clouds lazed in these heavens. Merewyn saw only ragged mare’s tails torn and stretched by the merciless winds.
Perhaps this justifies the Horse Lords’ reputation, she mused. Only the most ruthless could survive such desolation. And how do they breed the finest steeds in Epthelion? What do they feed them?
She turned the horse down a steep incline leading to a cozy-looking pocket among the hills. The mare carefully picked her way to the bottom and stopped, glancing around as if bidding Merewyn to dismount and allow a tired old horse to rest a while. Merewyn looked into those soft brown eyes and felt truly sorry for her.
“I know you’re tired, but we need to find water first. Let’s climb this hill and see what’s on the other side.”
Merewyn shifted her weight and winced at the stiffness in her back and legs. Groaning, she awkwardly alit and for a moment clung to the saddle, steadying herself while her knotty muscles relaxed.
The distance proved greater than it first appeared. Merewyn doggedly trudged on, pacing herself to conserve her waning strength. Exhaustion weighed her down, but the exertion warmed her, making the chilly air feel not so brisk.
From the hilltop she saw the other side sloping gently into a shallow gulch. A succulent green ribbon wound among the sea of brown knolls.
“A stream! We’ll rest there.”
Obviously the horse already smelled water, for she nickered eagerly and started prancing. Merewyn quickly mounted and they raced to the bottom, where a babbling brook welcomed them. The horse slid to a stop and plunged her nose into the icy stream, sipping noisily.
Merewyn dismounted and unsaddled the horse, then sat down to enjoy a welcome repast—one piece each of the bread, meat, and cheese. The air grew warmer and a gentle breeze stirred the grass and kissed her cheeks.
By the time she finished, she could barely stifle her yawns. Merewyn saw no obvious threat, and felt she could rest securely. She brushed the crumbs off her dress, reached for her blanket and fell asleep before she even knew she had lain down.
Merewyn awoke with a start. Already the sun hung low in the sky, and she sat up, chiding herself for having slept so long. She had hoped to gain some distance during daylight and find a more secure campsite, but would hardly accomplish either now. At most, only four hours of daylight remained.
She gathered her things and saddled the mare. After loading her bags, she mounted and urged the horse up the side of the gulch. Keeping to higher terrain would enable her to better pick her path, but it would also expose her to unfriendly eyes. She
must beware.
Trotting steadily, the mare soon crested the hill. Merewyn scanned the horizon. She could not see the Alpenfels but judged by the sun’s position that she traveled north, exactly the direction she needed. Tomorrow she should see the jagged peaks marking the Nimbian border, where she would turn west to Tagenryd, Ha-Ran-Fel’s chief city and home of King Ruelon.
Succulent grass now covered the terrain. Elderberry and currant thickets abounded. Shelves of white and gray rock graced many of the hillsides or formed miniature fortresses on their tops. Generous stands of junipers amid these formations promised shelter and protection.
The hills leveled out into gentle swells. Evergreens filled the warm air with spicy fragrance. The mare’s smooth jog covered the miles and Merewyn relaxed, pleased with their progress.
But as the sun settled on the western horizon, a distant rumble rose to the north, crescendoing steadily into the drumming hoofbeats of rapidly approaching horses. The mare stopped and stood still, ears erect. Merewyn caught her breath. She saw nothing, but sensed with growing alarm that a host would soon top the hill in front of her.
Several large boulders dotted a hillside some hundred yards to her right. Four tall junipers in their midst afforded the only cover. Merewyn spun the mare around and dug her heels into her sides. The horse jumped ahead but immediately balked and whirled to face the direction of the approaching hooves.
Frantically Merewyn turned the horse toward the junipers again and brought the ends of the reins down hard across her rump, whipping her into a gallop. Only after they reached the shelter of the trees did she stop whipping the horse and pull her to a stop. The sweating mare snorted and trembled. Merewyn swung out of the saddle and crouched between a rock and tree just as the first wave of horsemen crested the hill. Cautiously she peeked around the rock. She gasped.
