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

by Sandra Kopp

  “And leave Arronmyl alone?” Charles returned. “Half of his men are dead. And remember, he came on our behalf.”

  “Ach, we didn’t drag him up here. He came on his own,” Hans shot back.

  “True, but—”

  Hans nodded toward Benno. “And he’s a bloomin’ weasel. Always looking, but not looking, listening, but not listening—if you catch my drift.”

  “What will you tell them if I go?” Davon asked.

  “The truth,” Charles returned.

  Benno inched closer. The three companions fell silent. When their conversation did not resume, Benno abruptly rose and stalked away to join Arronmyl.

  “Someone’s miffed,” Hans observed.

  Charles nodded shortly. “I’ll deal with it. In the meantime. . .” He clapped Davon on the shoulder. “Godspeed, my friend, and farewell. I know we’ll meet again.”

  “Aye, lad.” Hans gripped Davon’s hand for a long moment. “Look out for yourself—and for that brother of yours.”

  “I will.” Davon reached into his pocket then and retrieved a small green pouch, which he handed to Charles. “Arris left this for you. When you are tired and need to be watchful, or wounded and hurting, take out a pinch and put it on your tongue. It will dissolve quickly and give you strength while assuaging pain.” He smiled. “I would take it with a little water, though. The taste, while not unpleasant, I find rather sharp.”

  “Such a gracious and much-needed gift,” Charles said softly. “Thank you.”

  “You should have enough there until our return.” Davon paused. “I have something else for you, too.” He reached into another pocket and produced a red pouch twice the size of the green one. “Do not take this yourselves. Hide it from the others, lest they consume it by mistake. I know little of its composition or purpose but. . .”

  Davon’s eyes searched Charles’ face as he slowly passed the pouch to him. Its deep red color resembled fresh blood, and the hand that Charles held out to receive it instinctively closed.

  “You will need it,” Davon urged, and Charles reluctantly opened his hand again. “When and how you use it I cannot say. My brother felt that, when the time came, you would know. I believe, too, that you will. Now I must go.”

  “Thank you again.” Charles tucked the red bag into an inside coat pocket and gestured to the pile on the ground. “Take some armor.”

  Davon shook his head. “I cannot move in that Barren-Fel sheathing. Never fear, I’ll be careful.” He nodded to his companions. “Farewell.” Without another word he strode to his horse.

  Hans watched as he mounted and rode away. “Those Nimbian lads are brave, I’ll give them that.”

  “Indeed. I only hope that Arris can—” Charles broke off.

  “I know, lad.” Hans returned to the soldier he had been stripping.

  “Right.” Charles held his breath a moment and then turned to meet Arronmyl, who walked toward them, anger settled into every wrinkle on his weathered face.

  THE WARRIOR KING

  “Merewyn.”

  Angelika’s gentle voice broke the stillness. Merewyn’s eyelids fluttered but did not open.

  “Merewyn!” Angelika’s voice came again, no less gently but with greater urgency. “Come, time to awaken. You have visitors.”

  “Visitors?” The fog in her brain slowly lifted. Merewyn opened her eyes. Through the sunlight pouring into the room, she saw Angelika smiling down at her. “Who would come to see me?”

  Even as she spoke Merewyn noticed Angelika had not come alone. Two figures—the taller one clad in the armor of Ha-Ran-Fel, the other in a tunic and robe—stood directly behind her. Swords and daggers hung at their sides. A long tassel streamed from the spiked helmet tucked under the armored man’s arm. As Merewyn’s eyes traveled to his face she could not suppress a gasp. The tanned and rugged features, the penetrating dark eyes, and the powerful frame belonged to the strange warrior she had envisioned just days earlier!

  “I fear our visit is premature. Nevertheless, we wish to convey our respects and gratitude.”

  The man in the tunic, much older than his companion, spoke with a deep and resonant voice that immediately aroused something—Merewyn knew not what—within her. A faint blush crept into her cheeks as she turned her attention to him.

  No one needed to tell her this was Ruelon. Although shorter than his companion, he stood tall and proud and emanated both profound wisdom and savage power. Golden hair streaked with silver fell to his shoulders. Deep lines creased his brow and accentuated his mustachioed lip and bearded chin. He regarded her kindly, yet guardedly.

  “Merewyn, I present to you Ruelon, king of Ha-Ran-Fel, and his nephew, Aethelion, Chief Captain of the host.” Angelika extended a hand toward Merewyn. “My lords, this is Merewyn.”

  “My lords.” Merewyn struggled to sit up, but Ruelon motioned her down.

  “You need not rise. We come to thank you for your heroic service to Ha-Ran-Fel.”

  “What service?” Merewyn asked.

  “You drew an indomitable foe away from the people at Stanslav, enabling their escape and acquiring for Aethelion and his warriors the time needed to overcome and slay Ryadok’s beast.”

  For a long moment he regarded her silently. Inwardly she squirmed, ashamed now that her action had been intended to aid not Ruelon’s people, but mere images of Charles and Arris her fevered brain had placed at the scene. It did not help that Angelika, who also knew this, stared as intently at her as did Ruelon.

  “Few outsiders act on our behalf,” Ruelon said finally. “Our kingdom stands alone. That you so willingly sacrificed yourself means more to us than words can tell.”

  “We are indebted to you,” Aethelion told her gravely. “Without your aid, the monster would have devoured all the villagers and many warriors.”

  “How fare the men that Baugonril smote?” Merewyn asked.

  Aethelion exchanged a quick look with Ruelon. “Baugonril smote no one. I and Hamiel raced ahead of the host to put our lances into its throat. The beast turned on us, but then charged west, at what we did not know until later, when we found you.”

  His voice softened. “’Twas a very hot day with much dust and confusion. Given your distance from the battle you could not have seen clearly what transpired.”

  “And I felt ill besides. Thank you for taking pity on me.”

  “Baugonril turned from us as if pulled by a hook through its jaws,” Aethelion went on. “Even as we pursued, we saw you standing with your hands raised, holding a knife. We knew then the smell of your blood attracted the beast.” His eyes narrowed. “I ask you, though: who are you? What brought you to our land?”

  Merewyn swallowed. “I came to enlist your aid, my lords. My father, Jonah Havalseth, once served Your Greatness.”

  A mixture of shock and recognition filled Ruelon’s face. “Havalseth! You are—”

  “Merewyn Havalseth, Jonah’s daughter. He is dead, cut down by Lucius Mordarius in his own house. Mordarius also killed my mother and enslaved me until a few weeks ago when, aided by Charles Bordner and his companions, I escaped Atwall and fled to Garris.”

  The king drew up a chair and sat down, staring at her so intensely that she trembled. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, you do resemble him.” He hung his head. “Jonah Havalseth—slain. Such a worthy man in every way. Both wise and brave.”

  He looked at Merewyn again. “I grieve with you, Merewyn, for I know no finer man than your father.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Your father and I fought the sorcerer king, Wietliss, many years ago, when we were but youths. We fought many such wars, until your father met the lady Tania Markland and abandoned his mercenary ways. Such a beautiful woman. No one blamed him for leaving us. And you, Merewyn, are every whit as beautiful.”

  “You’re very kind, my lord.”

  “Not kind. I speak the truth.” Ruelon paused. “Where is Charles Bordner?”

  “He and his company have gone to San-
Leyon. During our flight, we heard Baugonril’s cry in the east. They went to hunt it.”

  “So the monster has been loosed.” Ruelon drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. “And soon Ryadok and his puppet will move.”

  “Charles Bordner will not stop in San-Leyon.” Angelika glanced from Aethelion to Ruelon. “My brothers ride with him. They will enter Barren-Fel to strike at Ryadok himself.” Hope filled her eyes. “If they can reach him, perhaps—”

  “I mean no disrespect to your brothers,” Aethelion snapped. “Both possess nobility and skill. But Ryadok is no ordinary sorcerer. Even unguarded, his castle proves almost impenetrable. And it will take more than a handful of men chasing Baugonril through the trees to stave off war.”

  “You’re right.” Ruelon rose abruptly and turned to his nephew. “Bordner and those with him are cunning. Perhaps they can trouble Ryadok enough to frustrate his plans, but we can’t depend on that. We must prepare.”

  “My lord!” Merewyn sat up. “I beg you—let me ride with you.”

  Aethelion scowled. “You are Valhalean. You know nothing of war. The battlefield is no place for the untrained.”

  “I can be trained. I’m strong and I want to fight. My murdered parents cry to me from their graves!”

  A troubled frown clouded Ruelon’s face. Beside him Aethelion vehemently shook his head.

  “I can fight,” Merewyn insisted. “I may lack strength to throw a lance or spear, but I can learn to wield a sword and shoot an arrow. I already know how to ride. Your men need take no thought for me. I’ll look after myself.”

  “I doubt not your courage or even your ability,” Aethelion returned. “But leave matters of war to men. Besides, I sense in you great anger and lust for vengeance which, if unrestrained, endanger one’s own comrades.”

  “Please,” Merewyn implored. “I do not speak from mindless rage or a reckless desire for vengeance at any cost. I want justice first and a lasting peace afterward, not only for myself, but for my people—indeed, for all of Epthelion. I know the tyrant Mordarius, and perhaps what I know can help you defeat him.”

  Aethelion protested again, but Merewyn persisted, “I speak for the liberation of my homeland and the defense of yours!”

  Aethelion sighed. “You have spirit, Merewyn Havalseth; I will give you that. But I maintain that an untrained woman has no place on a battlefield.”

  “You have already suffered much, Merewyn. Why would you now place yourself in such danger?” Ruelon asked.

  “Why do you go to war, Sire?” she countered. “For whom and for what do you fight? Is it not for the people and the land you love? For the freedom to live unoppressed? Why should men alone have the privilege of defending—“

  “It is no privilege,” Aethelion snapped. “We fight because we must!”

  “And I, too, must fight,” Merewyn cried. “I was there amid the rebellion! Atwall crumbled around me. A heartless tyrant severed my father’s head from his body before my eyes! I saw my family stripped of everything, including our honor and good name.”

  She fell silent as Ruelon held up a hand. The frown disappeared, replaced by a look of quiet admiration. The warrior king spoke quietly, almost thoughtfully. “We follow a tradition of women accompanying their men to the encampment on the eve of battle. Many do not stop there, but take up their weapons and ride with us into the fray. I have seen with my own eyes that they wield sword and bow as well as any man.” He looked at Merewyn and cocked his head. “I have no doubt you could do as well.”

  “Then you will let me go?” Her voice trembled with emotion.

  Aethelion glanced from his uncle to the floor, his face taut.

  “I am honored to welcome you to Ha-Ran-Fel, Merewyn Havalseth,” Ruelon said finally. “As one strong of heart and will, I believe you can help me rekindle hope in my people once more. I think, too, that you will find peace in our land. When your strength returns, I shall place you with warriors who will train you.”

  A tear trickled down Merewyn’s cheek. “Thank you!”

  Two weeks later, King Ruelon escorted Merewyn up the stone steps to the Grand Palace. As she passed through the massive oak doors, she stared in awe, for all accounts she had ever heard of Ha-Ran-Fel painted a picture of barren savagery, with none of the royal trappings before her now. Rich tapestries depicting fierce battles and glorious victories hung throughout, and mounted between, the weapons of war—skillfully-crafted swords, shields, bows, and spears—and great racks of antlers from the mighty stags killed by Ruelon during his many hunts.

  Ruelon’s throne, crafted of beautifully carved oak overlaid with gold, stood on a dais at one end of the expansive judgment hall. Forest-green velvet covered the cushions of its back, seat, and arms. Rows of benches lined both sides of the aisle leading from the double doors to the throne. Merewyn admired the image of a defiant warlord astride his steed carved into the wall above the throne. His eyes flashed and his open mouth bellowed a mute challenge as he wielded his sword. Two great battleaxes, their handles crossed, hung below the image.

  Thirty-five of Aethelion’s elite, clothed in loose dark breeches and red or green tunics embroidered with gold thread, had gathered in the hall and now fell silent, their dark eyes fixed upon Merewyn as she followed Ruelon to the first bench and stopped.

  King Ruelon mounted the dais and turned to face the assembly. His deep voice filled the hall. “Loyal subjects and friends, today we welcome the daughter of one of our most beloved and courageous allies, Jonah Havalseth, who rescued the captives of the Dark Lord during the last great war and came to our aid with men and arms when all others forsook us.” He held out his hand to Merewyn. “Welcome, Merewyn Havalseth.”

  “Welcome, Merewyn,” the collective shout rang out, and Merewyn blushed as she advanced and knelt to kiss Ruelon’s hand.

  “Merewyn joins us in the fight against the Witch King Ryadok and his puppet, by whose hand her father died.” Ruelon took Merewyn’s hand and gently lifted her to her feet. “You shall be trained by one of our best: Zithri, wife of Hamiel, a fine warrior in her own right. Heed well her instruction. She will prepare you to meet the most formidable foe.”

  He turned his gaze to Hamiel and the indomitable-looking woman beside him. “Hamiel and Zithri, I place this maiden in your charge. Train her well, for I know she will prove herself a most worthy ally.”

  Hamiel bowed. “We are honored, my king.”

  Ruelon acknowledged with a nod. “Go then. Let us all use wisely what little time remains before our enemy moves.”

  Merewyn bowed to the king and turned to her mentors. A heavy scowl had hardened Zithri’s face.

  MARCOS’ RETURN

  Dusk fell, and then the night. The weary party left the trail to make camp. Arronmyl directed that four keep watch—one covering each direction—for three-hour shifts.

  Charles took the first, along with Benno and two other woodsmen. Hans would have joined him, but Charles thought it wise to take separate shifts.

  “So one of us always has an eye on them, I’ll wager.” Hans settled into his rough bed amid a nest of ferns. Clearly Charles’ confidence in the woodsmen had ebbed, and the morning’s incident with Nedra and later with Benno had left Hans himself wondering. Yet Arronmyl now seemed to accept that the Marchants had left, not to join Ryadok, but to fight him on a different front. At this point, Hans felt too tired to care and soon fell asleep.

  Refreshed and alert from the Nimbian powder, Charles positioned himself on the east side of the camp, facing the direction the supply train had traveled. Any searchers would likely advance from there, and Charles meant to detect them before they discovered him.

  The three other watchmen took their posts. Charles approached and offered Davon’s pouch. “A pinch of this will dispel all weariness. It tastes a bit peppery, but that washes away with water.”

  Benno alone declined. Noting, however, his companions’ increased vigor, he cautiously accepted a tiny nip.

  Night fell brisk
and clear. A sliver of moon hung low in the southern sky, barely visible off and on as it picked its way among jagged mountaintops. A handful of stars winked shyly through the branches. But toward the end of the watch, ghostly gray fingers from gathering storm clouds clawed at the feeble lights. The heavy air smelled of rain. Charles sighed. The already saturated ground would become a bog.

  Thunder rumbled as he rose to wake Hans. The three hours of his watch had passed quickly enough, but despite the quickening influence of Arris’ powder, Charles felt ready to sleep. He knelt beside Hans and shook him awake.

  “My turn already?” Hans mumbled. A flash of lightning split the sky and he closed his eyes against its glare. “And now it has to rain!”

  “Here. Have a nip of this.” Charles passed him the pouch.

  “Ach! The Nimbian angel dust. Will it keep me dry?” Hans sat up and drowsily took a pinch. He placed the powder on his tongue, winced, then pulled out his waterskin and took a long drink.

  Belching loudly, Hans closed the waterskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How could Davon tell us this did not taste bad?”

  “Come now, it’s not unpleasant. And no, it won’t keep you dry, but it will make you feel wonderful otherwise!” Charles chuckled as he took back the pouch and rose to distribute it to the woodsmen now taking their posts. The rain had begun by the time he reached Arronmyl, situated on the south side nearest the trail.

  “We’re in for a miserable night.” Arronmyl glanced up as another bolt wove a delicate pattern into the clouds. “The wind will bring some trees down, with this wet ground.”

  “Surely the mountains offer some protection.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Canyons suck the wind in one end and blow it all the harder out the other. And who knows whether the witch-king himself brewed this storm.”

  Charles winced inwardly as the rising wind moaned plaintively through the tossing boughs.

  “Get some rest. We’ll—” Arronmyl turned as Benno breathlessly ran up.