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

by Sandra Kopp

  “Nedra’s gone,” Benno panted.

  “What? You who watched—didn’t you see her?” Arronmyl glared at the first watchmen.

  “We saw and heard nothing, sir; and I promise you none of us slept,” one of the other woodsmen answered.

  “I know she moves like a shadow. We must find her.” Arronmyl strode into the camp and roused his men.

  Charles raced to Hans, his throat tight as he considered Nedra might have received a secret summons in the night. “Nedra’s missing. We’re going to look for her. Stay here in case she returns. Perhaps she’ll seek you, being the two of you share somewhat of a bond.”

  Hans blinked. “We share a bond? Methinks she’s bonded to Arris and left to join him!”

  “I doubt that.” Charles ran to the group now rallied around Arronmyl.

  “Spread out, but within earshot of one another,” Arronmyl instructed. “Stay sharp. We don’t know what direction she took or whether she left of her own accord. Now let’s move!”

  Swiftly and silently they darted into the woods. Benno, followed by Charles, ran to the trail and turned west. “Nedra!” he called hoarsely over the claps of thunder. “Nedra! Answer if you hear me!”

  Charles left the path and ran through the trees alongside it. “Nedra!”

  The minutes passed. The rained poured down. Great sheets of lightning ignited the sky, illuminating the forest as bright as day. Endless crashes of thunder shook the earth as the men zigzagged back and forth, searching and calling.

  Curse the luck! Charles raged. Ryadok, if you have taken her. . .

  He leapt back onto the path and nearly collided with Benno, who had run out of the trees on the other side.

  “Anything?” Benno called.

  “No!”

  “I think we lost the others. Let’s go to that bend there. If we don’t see her, we’ll turn back.”

  They charged forward and had traveled but a short distance when a rain-soaked figure appeared before them, running as fast as the slickened trail allowed. Another flash revealed Nedra, carrying her bow. “I heard the noise of combat in my dreams, and then an unseen voice drew me here,” she gasped. “An enemy force attacks Marcos!”

  “Where?” Benno demanded.

  Nedra pointed down the trail behind her. “Not far beyond this bend.”

  Benno caught her arm, but Nedra pulled free. “Summon Father! I will help my brother. Charles, come with me!”

  “I fight for my people!” Benno bellowed. “Charles summons help!”

  “I’ll return as quickly as I can.” Charles turned and sprinted toward the camp.

  Soon the entire band had mounted and raced after Charles down the trail. Even before they reached the fighting, they heard the clash of steel and cries of pain and triumph and urged their floundering steeds on harder.

  Charles rose in the stirrups and pointed to the bend ahead. “There!” he shouted, and led them around the corner and into the glade where a fierce battle raged. Through the flashes of lightning, swords gleamed, streaking arrows looked like shooting stars, and struggling figures resembled eerie specters in the electric light.

  “Sons of Arronmyl, stand away!” Arronmyl roared, and plunged into the enemy ranks. Taken by surprise, several foes fell in the slippery mud, and the horses trampled them. Others succumbed to sword, spear and arrow, but not before they had slain two horses and a woodsman. Marcos and those with him killed several more and sent the others scampering into the trees, where the horsemen cut them down.

  Dawn broke as the last of Ryadok’s soldiers fell. The woodsmen walked among the corpses, searching for their dead and wounded. Sadly, more than thirty of the two hundred men Marcos had brought with him perished and seventeen lay injured. An arrow protruded from Marcos’ shoulder.

  Charles and Nedra distributed the Nimbian powder and tended their wounds. To Charles’ relief, the two maidens left at Kapras Rock had arrived alive and unhurt. Arronmyl noted with dismay that they alone rode horses. The rest of Marcos’ company had walked the entire way.

  “No one would sell us horses,” Marcos told him. “We found the Rauth village deserted, and the peasants on the outer farms drove us away even when we told them we had come only to hunt game. They accepted nothing we had to offer. Troops ambushed us in the woods between the meadowland and Kapras Rock. The forty of us badly hurt had to turn back. A dozen were killed.”

  “And the enemy?”

  “We might have killed twenty before they ran off.” With his good arm Marcos gestured toward the bodies strewn about the ground. “I think these were among those first attackers.”

  “You must rest,” Charles told him gravely.

  Marcos adamantly shook his head. “We can’t. Ryadok knows we’re here, and now amasses all of his forces against us. I also believe we’re very close to a stronghold.”

  “A breedery,” Nedra said softly, staring into the distance. “But not for Baugonril.”

  “So he knows we’ve come,” Charles murmured. “Hans, how many pack horses have we now?”

  Hans sighed deeply as he thought. “Maybe thirty. I don’t know.”

  “That suffices the wounded.” Charles regarded the two dead horses and sadly shook his head. “Tragic loss, for we sorely need them. But Marcos is right, we cannot delay. Help the wounded onto what horses remain. Then we march.”

  Hans and Charles, with Nedra between them, headed the long column now winding east. Arronmyl and Marcos rode behind them. In an effort to protect the footmen from a rear assault, Benno and a dozen other mounted woodsmen followed last.

  “How far to the settlement?” Charles asked Nedra.

  “We should arrive before nightfall.”

  “What do you know about it?” Hans pressed.

  “It will take every man we have, and more, to subdue it.”

  “This help you spoke of—”

  Nedra glowered. “I’ve said too much already.”

  Hans stared ahead. “I don’t suppose now it will do us any good to discuss this in terms of hunting,” he said finally, and Nedra shook her head.

  CASTLE RYADOK

  Arris plunged his hands into the icy water, bracing himself against its chill as he vigorously scrubbed his face. Dawn had broken as he prepared to break camp on the south bank of the Singing River less than a mile from its confluence with the Mystic River.

  A few steps downstream, Barada pawed the river’s edge and then plunged in his nose to drink. Arris smiled. At least the horse would not have to swim, for the waters ran only ankle deep.

  He sobered as he considered the path before him. Ryadok’s castle should sit no more than three miles away, but Arris would find every step of those miles treacherous, steep, and heavily forested. Once there, he must enter the castle undetected and grope his way through night-black corridors while evading legions of guards as well as Ryadok himself.

  Arris rose and walked to the tree under which he had laid his saddle and satchels. He opened the bag containing his powders and drew out a small green pouch filled with sea-green powder. For a moment he hesitated, absently tossing the pouch in his hand.

  “I cannot rely on potions,” he murmured. “Should I lose them, I would have to rely on my own strength. I should force myself to do so now.” He cast his eyes heavenward. “But I face Ryadok, and these will help me defeat him. I will use them while I have them.”

  Dropping his gaze again, he took out a small pinch and placed it on his tongue, closing his eyes as he savored its honeyed sweetness. When next he opened them, he found all of his faculties heightened. The rushing of the river became louder, the lightening air brighter, and scents and odors he had not noticed before filled his nostrils.

  He built a small fire and proceeded to roast the brace of conies he had killed and cleaned earlier. This might well be the last fresh meat he tasted for a while, he thought as he impaled the meat on a stick and carefully placed it in the forks of two other sticks pushed into the ground on either side of the fire.

 
; Arris washed again and sat back. A beautiful morning had put to flight the terrible storm weathered the night before. Huddled under his oilskin watching its fury, he could not help but remember that long-ago flight to the Inn of the Wayward Heart. That night had spawned an awakening within him, the hatching of a thousand different emotions pulling him to dizzying heights of elation one minute and plunging him into abysmal depression the next. Those sensations should have faded forever, slain like the proverbial dragon when he left Nimbia. Yet even now they burned so vividly that his nostrils tingled. . .

  Arris started. One of his conies had erupted into flames. Quickly he beat out the fire, shaking his head as he regarded the blackened flesh. Food and time so short—and he wasted both daydreaming!

  Most of his breakfast had been spared, however. He ate quickly, kicked out the fire, then packed his things and saddled Barada. Minutes later they crossed the river and entered the densest, blackest forest in all of Epthelion. Deep within its bowels the sorcerer kings of ages past had built the forbidding, pitch-black stronghold now claimed by Ryadok.

  Until now Arris had traversed only the foothills of the Mystic Mountains. Here, however, began the arduous climb up heavily forested, rock-strewn mountainsides to the treeline. On the other side he would find the castle perched upon a great gray rock. The towering Alpenfels would serve as its rear guard and the mystery-shrouded Mystics its left flank.

  The slope steepened as he entered the forest. Arris dismounted and, leading Barada, zigzagged across the face of the mountain, stopping no longer than necessary to catch his breath.

  “May I never see another tree for the rest of my life after I leave this cursed place,” he muttered as he wiped his brow. A ludicrous wish, but after endless hours spent fighting his way up steep slopes through murky gloom, he longed for sunlight and open space.

  Another hour passed. Arris looked up into a patch of blue sky. His spirits soared. The summit must lie very near. For a moment he stood still, chest heaving as he gathered wind for the last few steps; then, clicking his tongue, he pulled his tired mount forward.

  Soon he crested the mountain. The forest had thinned considerably, yet still provided ample cover. At length he entered a large glade and noted with joy the bare cliffs of the Alpenfels looming before him.

  A twinge of homesickness tugged his heartstrings. “Think well of me, Father. . .Mother,” he murmured. “I haven’t forgotten my heritage or the trust you placed in me. I will not disgrace you. I will not fail.”

  He found a large rock and sat down to savor the view. All remained quiet and strangely peaceful. Though too distant for him to hear, he knew those stern cliffs thundered with a thousand waterfalls—the very symphony which had lulled him to sleep many summer nights in his father’s house.

  How could Ryadok, he wondered, turn his back on those ethereal peaks robed in sunlight, rainbows, and billowing clouds? How could he exchange beauty for ugliness, light for shadow, or fresh, bracing air for rancid dankness?

  Ryadok’s identity remained a mystery, for two Arganians had fallen from the Highest Order and their names were never revealed. The mystics did know, however, that the pair’s pride in their gifts and their lust for power had driven them both insane and cost one his life.

  Arris had his suspicions. “It will be interesting,” he mused. “If Ryadok is who I believe he is, Merewyn and I share a common bond.” He smiled to himself. What stories they might exchange when this ended!

  But his dream still haunted him, leaving him heartsick and lonely.

  Arris opened his satchel. In addition to sharpening the senses, the green powder bolstered strength and courage. He would need every ounce to face the sorcerer king. He took another pinch and closed his eyes, relishing the invigorating warmth now coursing through him. Elation washed over him. His limbs felt hard and strong. His mind cleared. He was ready.

  Barada grazed peacefully beside him. Arris rose, gathered the reins and gently coaxed the velvety nose out of the grass. “Enough, Barada. You can feed later.”

  He mounted and urged the stallion northeast, keeping well inside the trees as he peered ahead for his first glimpse of Castle Ryadok. Twenty minutes later, the ground dipped to form a broad bowl-shaped depression before gently climbing again. The air cooled noticeably. Arris shivered and pulled his coat tighter around him. The scarcity of trees to the north now forced him to take a more easterly route. But, unwilling to miss his goal, he occasionally rode to the treeline to check his position.

  After a mile, the slope steepened. Moist dark earth gave way to smooth gray rock. Arris tingled with anticipation. This had to be the dome on which the castle sat! He dismounted and dropped the reins. “Stand, Barada,” he commanded and, keeping low, stole to the top. A short distance away, almost invisible against the dark forest, stood Castle Ryadok. Arris breathed a prayer of thanks and glanced around. The heavy forest blanketing the mountainside would conceal his approach—at least from human eyes.

  He hurried to the stallion, quickly mounted, and trotted along the hillside into the woods. Once within the shadows, he turned north and slowed Barada to a walk. He felt no evident threat, yet his throat tightened as if gripped by a cold hand. He rode another mile before stopping to dismount.

  “Here I leave you, my friend,” he whispered. “Wait for me, and come quickly if I call.” He knotted the reins loosely over the horse’s neck and untied his satchel of potions. This he hung over his shoulder, along with his bow and quiver. “Nu e non, Barada,” he whispered slipped into the forest.

  Arris had walked perhaps a quarter mile when he heard a shout. A chorus of voices rang out in response. Arris dove into some bushes. The first voice shouted again, and again the chorus answered. As the performance continued, Arris surmised either a changing of the guard or a drill was in progress. Emerging cautiously, he crept to the edge of the forest.

  Castle Ryadok loomed like a lowering thunderhead, so close Arris felt he could touch it. It sat upon a gray stone table high above the ground, a monstrous, hulking structure built entirely of grainy black rock. Arris made out few windows, but instinctively knew that myriad murder holes punctured those forbidding walls. A pepperbox turret soared above the battlements on each corner. Red banners emblazoned with coiled black hooded serpents—mouths agape and fangs bared—floated atop the turrets. The courtyard teemed with troops smartly executing their hourly drills with impeccable precision, and armored knights honed their skills in the expansive tiltyard.

  A broad moat encircled the rock. A well-traveled road led to the drawbridge, now raised and heavily guarded. The road ran straight to the rock, where it seemed to disappear, but closer inspection revealed a narrow groove winding up the side to the castle’s main gate.

  That daunted enough; but the gargantuan, serpentine creatures slithering in the moat’s greasy waters posed the greater threat. Scaly heads reared high, issuing monstrous growls, roars and hisses from cavernous mouths filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Powerful jaws snapped shut with the force of a steel trap before the beasts submerged again.

  Arris slumped against a tree. He would not swim the moat, and those creatures could easily capsize, or even eat, a small craft. He might simply lull the guards to sleep with a chant—but he must first persuade them to lower the drawbridge, and Ryadok likely had enchanted them beyond Arris’ power to break.

  But how to get across? Arris sat up and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

  Thundering hooves approached from behind. A ram’s horn sounded, and a trumpet from the drawbridge answered. Gears clanked, chains rattled, and planks groaned in response to a shouted order. The heavy bridge shuddered and began a laborious descent.

  Arris darted through the trees and crouched behind a blackberry thicket as the cohort galloped past. Rising again, he hastened forward to a well-traveled road. Keeping to the shadows, he followed it around a bend to the top of the hill. The forest thinned to a scattering of trees at the crest, opening to a grass-covered slope leading to the castle. Evi
dently Ryadok had cleared this hillside to afford an unobstructed view of the road, which curved in a gentle “S” directly to the drawbridge. Already the horsemen had crossed. The bridge moaned upward once more.

  Arris slipped into the undergrowth and crept along the road away from the castle. In order to gain entry, he must find travelers and by some means appropriate both a disguise and passage across the moat.

  Fortune soon smiled upon him. Five men leading ten heavily-laden horses approached. All wore hooded brown capes and carried bows and quivers. Arris noted the last man’s scowl. He alone had pulled his hood tightly over his head, and took no part in his companions’ banter.

  Arris crouched behind a tree. The group had almost reached him.

  “Come, Mieter,” the front man coaxed. “Put off your hood and your sour face and join the fun. Think of it! Soon we’ll roll in treasure, compliments of Lord Ryadok for our service to his mighty cause.”

  Mieter grumbled and spat.

  “Aah,” the first man said. “You’re insulted and demand an apology. Laren, apologize to Mieter for your brazen stupidity.”

  The third man in line chewed slowly as he stared ahead. “Quasha,” he snorted and stepping to the outside, turned, and spat a brown stream in Mieter’s direction.

  “Much better,” the first man roared. “See, Mieter, Laren has apologized. Now we can all be friends again.” He laughed louder, and all joined in, except Mieter, whose scowl deepened.

  Arris held his breath as the line filed past. A few steps beyond him, Mieter threw down the leads of his two horses. “I have to go in the trees,” he growled.

  “Catch up when you’re done,” the lead man returned.

  Arris’ eyes shone. Unbelievable fortune! He opened his satchel and retrieved his pouch of sleeping powder.

  Mieter slouched off the road, fumbling with his breeches as he turned his back toward the place where Arris hid. Arris wasted no time. He poured some of the powder into his hand and, slipping up behind Mieter, clapped the hand over the hunter’s mouth and nose. Mieter gasped, but before he could even struggle he slumped, unconscious, to the ground.