by Sandra Kopp
Already Myamina teemed with horsemen rallying to Aethelion’s call. Zithri and Merewyn raced to the barn, saddled and mounted their steeds, and followed Hamiel into the throng of warriors amassing near Myamina’s base. Breaths steamed in the frigid air. Horsehair tassels waved from helmets atop grim, woolen-caped figures bearing spears, swords, and archery gear.
Merewyn watched breathlessly as King Ruelon, wearing his armor and a heavy green cape, led his column down to join them. A stern frown furrowed his weathered brow. For a fleeting moment after he reached them, he fixed his gaze upon her, and she drew a nervous breath as she looked back, wondering what this day would bring and how many of them would return.
Ruelon waited as the host, some one thousand strong, assembled. His white stallion pawed the ground as he gravely scanned each face. “Warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel! Invaders have attacked our brothers at Abbajon. We ride to their defense, to preserve and protect their honor and ours. Show our enemies no mercy, for they’ll show none to us.” He raised his sword high. “Death to oppression!”
As one the warriors drew and raised their swords. “Death to oppression!” they cried.
King Ruelon shouted again, “Death to the oppressors!”
“Death to the oppressors!”
“Victory to Ha-Ran-Fel!”
“To Ha-Ran-Fel victory!” The answering shout reverberated to the very mountaintops.
“We ride!” The king sheathed his sword, and as his stallion sprang forward, the horns issued the call to battle. Aethelion rode among the ranks, shouting orders and encouragement. Ahead of them, a thin column of smoke flattened itself upon the wind, the last gasps from the beacon’s dying flame.
They swept out of the foothills and onto the frosty steppe. Already relentless gales had flattened the lifeless grass and now tousled the forlorn junipers dotting the barren landscape. Morning’s gray light and a misty fog lent a ghostly aura to the desolate expanse. Merewyn stayed close to Zithri, grateful for the heavy woolen cape enveloping her like a tent and shielding her from the biting cold. Her throat felt dry, her stomach weak, but she squared her shoulders and mustered her courage. The long anticipated moment had arrived. She was ready. Under her, Windrunner pranced smartly, head high, nostrils flaring, ears erect, eager for the battle ahead.
The village of Abbajon lay some thirty miles due south, over half the distance between Tagenryd and the Wind River. With luck they would reach it by early afternoon.
Shortly past noon, they arrived and found the village intact; however, a furious battle had erupted at Ptarmania, a tiny settlement on the banks of the Wind River. Three-quarters of Abbajon’s fighting men had ridden to their aid. The rest remained to defend their village.
“Defenders of Abbajon, stay here,” the king commanded. “Tagenryd will crush these blackguards.” He raised his hand. “Forward!”
Already the warriors saw the smoke of doomed Ptarmania. They could not save the village, but hopefully could prevent the invaders from reaching Abbajon.
Riding hard, they quickly covered the ground and soon reached the fighting. Corpses, many wearing the green dragon of Lucius Mordarius, littered the ground. A sizeable enemy force galloped amid the burning huts and engaged the defenders on Ptarmania’s perimeter. Across the river, at least a hundred more horsemen pounded toward them. Mordarius’ green dragon graced the banners borne by the front rank.
Ruelon divided his host into three companies: one under himself, the second under Aethelion, and the third under Hamiel. Ruelon and Aethelion would advance, pincer-like, toward the village. Hamiel’s force would head to a nearby rise and stop the approaching army.
Staying close to Zithri, Merewyn followed Hamiel’s group to the top of the rise.
“Form a line,” Hamiel commanded. The company obeyed.
“Shoot the horses,” Zithri told Merewyn. “Afterward we can swiftly dispatch their riders.”
Merewyn nodded, blinking back stinging tears with frosty eyelashes. She repositioned her hood to better shield her face and took her bow.
“Ready arrows!” Hamiel shouted.
Fitting arrows to bowstrings, the troop trained them on the approaching army. The drumming hoofbeats sounded like a gathering storm.
“Hold!” Hamiel raised his arm. Merewyn’s breath came in short gasps. She chafed under the strain of unendurable waiting, desperately hoping her arrow would not slip.
Hamiel brought his arm down hard. “Fire!” he shouted.
A cloud of arrows sailed across the river. The front line of horses crumpled, pitching their riders headlong onto the frozen earth. Curses and howls rose above the wailing wind. The defenders loosed another volley, bringing down most of the second line.
“We’ve got them!” Hamiel shouted. “Fire at will!”
The invaders answered with a volley of their own. Hamiel ordered his company forward. Shooting arrows as fast as their bow arms would respond, they zigzagged down the rise in erratic patterns that made them elusive targets. Across the river, beleaguered soldiers stiffened or threw up their hands, uttering death cries as each Ha-Ran-Fel arrow found its mark. By the time the defenders reached the bottom, they had killed nearly half of the enemy horses and most of their riders. The mounted soldiers still remaining turned and fled, leaving thirty on foot to fend for themselves.
Hamiel called Zithri, Merewyn and five other warriors aside. “Zithri, take these six and go after the stragglers. The rest of you, follow me.” Hamiel spun his horse around and followed hard after the retreating host.
“Forward!” Zithri shouted. “We’ll give these rats our warmest Ha-Ran-Fel welcome!”
Shooting arrow after arrow, they charged to the river’s edge. The soldiers on the other side scampered about, taking whatever cover they could find among the scattered rocks and brush. One stood and aimed an arrow straight at Merewyn. Automatically she pressed her left knee against Windrunner’s side. The horse obediently veered that direction, and the arrow sang past Merewyn’s right ear. She steered Windrunner to the right as her left hand flew to her quiver. Swiftly, smoothly, she fitted the arrow to the bowstring and let it fly. The arrow pierced the soldier’s throat and, with a shriek he went down. Within minutes all thirty lay motionless, staring sightlessly at the brooding sky.
Zithri waved her bow. “To the village!”
They tore to Ptarmania, where King Ruelon and Aethelion had already decimated most of Mordarius’ remaining army. A defiant few, however, proved as formidable as the Horse Lords. Zithri brandished her sword and unflinchingly rode into the fray. Merewyn winced as the head of an enemy soldier flew off his shoulders and fell to the ground. Sucking in a shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and drew her sword.
“Hold!” Hamiel galloped to her. “It’s over. Let them finish it.”
Merewyn relaxed and returned the sword to its scabbard. “What of the soldiers across the river?”
“We killed them on the riverbank.”
They watched as one, two, five more of Mordarius’ green dragons met their end on the blade of a Ha-Ran-Fel sword. Merewyn felt lighter, as if with each enemy death a weight lifted off her shoulders.
But these are my countrymen! The thought gnawed at her brain. Deceived by a lying, ruthless. . .No! Mordarius tells them what they want to hear and promises to give them whatever they desire. They plundered and murdered their own people. They are not deceived—just blinded by their own greed! Now they get their due reward. Merewyn set her jaw.
Hamiel leaned forward, peering through the smoke and flames. “Some treachery’s afoot. Wait here.” He spurred his horse into the melee.
An enemy captain burst through the haze and bolted across the plain north of the village. King Ruelon rode hard after, his charger’s frosty mane and tail flowing like liquid snow upon the wind.
Two enemy soldiers raced past Merewyn to join the chase. Filled with rage, Merewyn spun Windrunner around and tore after them. The soldiers circled, taking a perpendicular course toward Ruelon. One drew his bow. T
he other raised his spear. The enemy captain had slowed, and Merewyn saw him ready his hauchaut—a short lance sharpened to a needle point on both ends. A favorite ploy of the Valhalean soldier, the flight took a pace that allowed his pursuer to overtake him. Then, using a straight-armed, underhanded motion, he snapped his arm back, driving the point directly into, and often through, the pursuer’s belly.
The spearman hoisted his weapon. Swiftly Merewyn whipped out an arrow and shot it into his neck, sending him tumbling to the ground. The spear flying from his hand struck the archer’s horse. The startled animal slid, half turned, and stopped with its side facing Merewyn. Snarling, the archer went for his sword. Merewyn dug her heels into Windrunner’s sides and thundered toward him. His eyes widened, and he threw himself to the ground as Windrunner floated over his horse in a graceful arc.
Before Windrunner alit, Merewyn shot an arrow into the enemy captain’s neck below his right ear. Cursing furiously, he dropped his hauchaut and fell, convulsing, to the ground. King Ruelon galloped up and with a stroke of his sword ended the captain’s agony.
Merewyn turned to engage the archer, but Hamiel had already dispatched him and now pursued another. Heaving a sigh, Merewyn rode back to the king. Ruelon’s stern features softened as she approached. Merewyn dismounted and dropped to one knee. Ruelon stepped forward and tapped her on the shoulder. “Arise, warrior of Ha-Ran-Fel.”
Merewyn looked up through misting eyes. “My lord.”
Ruelon smiled and, taking her hand, lifted her up. He sobered then, and for a long moment gazed at her without speaking. Merewyn could not interpret his expression, but knew somehow that she had earned not only a place in his ranks, but his deepest respect.
A spark ignited within her, flaming into such overwhelming devotion that it left her giddy. Merewyn would not have interpreted it as love. She desired only to serve and protect the man who had welcomed an outcast and given her hope, direction, and a family.
She scarcely noticed the rising storm, or the occasional ice crystal bouncing off her face. She scarcely noticed the cold at all. Here, in the warmth of Ruelon’s presence, winter lost some of its bitterness and the wind some of its bite. Only two people existed in the world at that moment: the mighty warrior king and the humble maiden from Valhalea.
A small band with Zithri at their head rode toward them. Zithri raised her bow in salute, dismounted and dropped to one knee. “It is over,” she said. “You have triumphed, my lord.”
“It is over indeed,” Ruelon responded, “and the victory belongs to all of us. All of you, without exception, have proven yourselves worthy warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel. I am proud.” To Merewyn he continued, “I will never forget what you have done this day.” He squinted then at the western sky. “The sun sets and a storm arises. Let’s return to the village.”
Ptarmania, only a quarter-mile away, looked less desolate now. Supply trains from Tagenryd and Abbajon had arrived, bringing welcome food and shelter. A cluster of yurts now stood on the northwest side of the ruined village, arranged in circles of five set together close enough to shelter their occupants’ horses.
Merewyn eyed the heap of burning bodies on the eastern outskirts with grim satisfaction. How fitting, she thought, that with their own fires the invaders had lighted their funeral pyre.
Sadly, some forty warriors from Tagenryd had also died, along with nearly half of Ptarmania’s troops. A weeping crowd gathered around King Ruelon as he entered the village. The king, Zithri and Merewyn dismounted, and Ruelon moved among the mourners, speaking words of comfort and stopping here and there to squeeze a hand or pat a shoulder. He led the crowd to the yurts and turned to face them. “People of Ha-Ran-Fel, gather round me.”
Aethelion blew a long blast on his horn. The crowd quieted and drew closer. Attalia, Ruelon’s daughter, had arrived with the supply train and now stood beside her father.
“Our brothers have provided food and shelter,” Ruelon said. “We’ll rest tonight and tomorrow see to our dead. Afterward, we’ll return home. People of Ptarmania, you may abide at Abbajon or continue with us to Tagenryd. Whatever your choice, we will care for you and in the spring help you rebuild your village and plant your crops.” He paused. “We’ve endured this before. Our life as a people has not ended. We’ll continue to fight—to the last man, if we must. But we will never bow to the tyrant from the east—and much less to his puppet from the south!”
A deafening shout greeted his words. From every quarter the horns sounded. Merewyn wanted to laugh as she added her voice to the tumult and raised her sword high. The Horse Lords held Lucius Mordarius, a god in his own eyes, in such contempt that they never mentioned him by name, but simply referred to him as Ryadok’s puppet.
Ruelon dismissed the crowd, and they quickly dispersed to the yurts.
Someone touched Merewyn’s arm. She turned. Attalia, dressed in a heavy hooded green cloak, stood before her. “My father told me you saved his life today. I am grateful.”
Merewyn bowed shortly. “As long as I draw breath, I will defend King Ruelon and his people, my lady.”
Attalia stared at her hard. “I welcome your presence. We need your sword and the determination behind the hand wielding it.” She paused. “My father bids you join us tonight, and I welcome you also.”
Merewyn bowed again. “Thank you, my lady.”
Attalia led her into a circle of five large yurts near the middle of the temporary settlement. A boy who looked no older than twelve years of age poured a generous measure of oats into a feedbag and offered it to Windrunner, who eagerly plunged into it. “Kaschi will see to your horse.” Attalia beckoned to the lad, who took the reins from Merewyn and led Windrunner to a sheltered area within the circle where other horses of the elite, including the king’s stallion, were being tended.
“In here.” Attalia opened the flap to the largest yurt, stooped and entered. Merewyn caught the flap before it closed and stepped in after her.
A welcoming fire in the middle warmed the yurt’s interior, and the savory aroma of roasting venison roused the taste buds. King Ruelon, flanked by Aethelion and Hamiel, sat on piles of skins around the fire. Seven of Aethelion’s most valiant warriors sat to his right. Zithri sat at Hamiel’s left. The slightest trace of a smile curved her lips as she gazed at Merewyn, who smiled faintly in return and dropped to one knee before Ruelon.
“You have already paid homage. Come, sit with your friends.” The king waved her to a spot beside Zithri.
“Thank you, my lord.” Merewyn rose and took the place indicated. Attalia brought her a mug of ale, and Merewyn smiled her thanks as she took it.
The king soberly regarded the assemblage. “This day, a sad but also proud day, the puppet from the south sent an army to crush us, but we crushed them instead. Many among us also died. But for every one of us slain, we killed thirty of them, leaving none alive. A greater war and fiercer battles will yet come, but we will continually strengthen ourselves and fight more valiantly than ever.” He raised his mug. “We drink to our honored dead. They will never be forgotten, neither have they died in vain.”
The company raised their mugs. “To our honored dead!”
Merewyn sipped gingerly at first, closing her eyes as the bitter liquid flowed across her tongue and down her throat. But it slaked her thirst and revived her spirits, and soon she drank with relish.
Attalia brought more ale. Four attendants, three bearing platters heaped with roasted venison, cheese and parched corn, and one carrying a stack of empty plates, filed in and knelt before the king. Ruelon took a plate and filled it. “For Merewyn.” Ruelon nodded toward Merewyn as he handed the plate to Hamiel to pass down.
“Thank you, my lord.” Merewyn’s eyes glistened as she took it.
Ruelon filled another plate for himself, after which the attendants served the rest of the company.
The men talked quietly among themselves as they ate. Zithri remained strangely subdued and Merewyn, attributing this to the day’s events, held her pe
ace and concentrated on her venison and cheese. Eager to rest, she ate quickly and settled back, so exhausted she could scarcely stay awake.
“Come.” Zithri scooted to another pile of skins near the wall. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”
Merewyn crawled over beside her.
For several minutes, Zithri lay silent. Finally she said, “I’ve grown used to you, Merewyn Havalseth.”
The gravity of her tone distressed Merewyn. “And I to you, as my teacher, my mentor—and my friend.”
“Yes, I am all of those, and will always be. But now you advance to a higher calling.”
“I know no higher calling than to fight by your side. I’m content to remain where I am.”
Zithri’s face softened. “We shall see,” she whispered.
KING RUELON’S PROPOSAL
Three days later the weary party reached the rolling hills surrounding Tagenryd. The wind and snows had stopped, and as they topped a hill the brooding clouds parted. The sun peeked through, and for a moment the Grand Palace glowed softly in the pale light above a tower of frothy fog.
Kaschi, the orphan who cared for the royal horses during the journey, rode behind Merewyn. “Is that Tagenryd?” he asked, peering around her.
Merewyn nodded. “Yes. We’re home.”
“Where will I stay?”
“The king has a place for you, never fear.”
Zithri rode up beside them. “You’ll stay with us, for now you become a warrior.”
“A warrior,” Kaschi repeated breathlessly.
He is only a boy, Merewyn thought. But Ruelon needed warriors for the battles ahead. Aethelion had already decreed that any man or strong lad able to wield a sword must prepare to fight. Ryadok would return with vengeance—unless Charles Bordner and his allies could find and destroy him.
And I will finish Lucius Mordarius. Merewyn squared her shoulders. She had earned her place in a valiant host. King Ruelon would count among his warriors none braver or more skilled than she. And someday in eternity she would stand tall in the midst of all who had fought and died. Her voice would echo across the ages with those of Ruelon and Aethelion, Hamiel and Zithri—and Charles, Arris, Hans, and Davon.
