by Sandra Kopp
March arrived. Playful breezes flitted across the greening steppes. A dozen Ptarmanians, eager to rebuild, appeared before the king who, together with Merewyn, held court in the Grand Palace. Their spokesman, a tall man dressed in tan breeches and tunic and with a sword strapped to his waist, advanced from the group and bowed. “Most noble king, we thank you for your generous provision this past winter, without which we would have perished. But the snows have passed, the days grow warm, and the soil retains enough moisture to sustain a crop. We would burden you no longer. With your kind permission we will return to Ptarmania, rebuild our village, and till our fields.”
King Ruelon rose. “Go, with my blessing—but not alone. I shall assemble a troop to accompany you.” He turned to Aethelion, who stood to the left of the Ptarmanians. “Summon thirty of the elite. I and Merewyn shall also go and use this opportunity to patrol the country. While we’ve heard no rumblings from the east as yet, war could arise more swiftly than a summer storm.” Ruelon turned his attention to the Ptarmanians again. “Return to your places and make ready. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”
The Ptarmanians bowed and filed out.
Aethelion approached. “Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you remain at Tagenryd?”
“From the midst of the kingdom I can more quickly meet any threat, whether from south or east. I’ll not wait for the enemy to strike, nor will they surprise us again. Once we’ve secured Ptarmania and seen the building under way, we’ll return to Tagenryd for supplies and more warriors. Then we journey south, ready for battle.
“Take your riders and patrol the eastern border. That concerns me most. I have sent Elund south with word to Ludhov and Amiel to watch for the puppet. I doubt he’ll move without Ryadok to pull his strings, but who can tell?”
“Yes, my lord.” Aethelion bowed, clapping an arm to his breastplate.
Approaching dawn stained the horizon with hues of pink and gold. Some three hundred villagers of Ptarmania bustled about, chattering excitedly as they loaded carts and harnessed horses near Myamina’s base. Atop Myamina, the thirty warriors gathered, armed and mounted, outside the Grand Palace to await the king. Aethelion rode up, leading Ruelon’s white charger.
A flaming arc peeped over the horizon as Ruelon strode through the palace’s double doors and down the steps to his horse. He mounted and surveyed his troops, stopping his sweeping gaze upon Windrunner who, with Merewyn astride, trotted toward him.
Ruelon smiled and held out his hand. Merewyn stopped beside him and took it. “How proud and how fortunate I am with you at my side.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“I’m the proud and fortunate one,” she returned, “for never, since my father, have I known a man so noble and worthy of my love and devotion as you.”
“Beautiful words from my beautiful queen.” Ruelon released Merewyn’s hand. “But come. Our Ptarmanian friends grow impatient.” He faced his troops. “Move out!” he called, and urged his horse forward. Merewyn and Windrunner fell in beside him, and together they led the warriors down Myamina’s flank.
A shout went up as the king approached. To Merewyn’s delight, Hamiel and Zithri, astride their horses, emerged from the crowd to join the party.
Ruelon raised his hand. “A glad day, for the people of Ptarmania return home!” Again the people shouted. Ruelon turned and signaled to the hornsman to sound the departure, and as those rich mellow tones floated over the foothills, the company moved out. Merewyn could think of no sweeter song than that of the horns of Ha-Ran-Fel. The sun rose higher, bathing the awakening landscape in radiant light. A gentle breeze tousled the horses’ manes.
Merewyn took a deep breath and held it a moment to savor the sweet air, then released it and smiled at Ruelon. “Surely such a lovely day heralds good omens.”
“Perhaps; but spring has come too soon. Winter never returned after January’s thaw, and what little snow fell lacked moisture. By summer our pastures will burn and we’ll have to seek grass elsewhere.” Ruelon scanned the rolling hills, already green with succulent grass, tumbling into the steppe. “Years like this usually spawn the Borea-Morbidum—the Death Winds. We can little afford that.”
“What are these Death Winds?” Merewyn asked. “Father spoke of them once. He must have experienced one while he lived here, for such storms never visited Atwall. Are they really so deadly?”
Ruelon nodded shortly. “The winds arise from the burning sands deep in the Forbidden Desert, far outside of Epthelion, with neither forest shade nor mountain snows to cool their wrath. They gather the fiery air into themselves until, maddened by unbearable heat, they take their fevered rampage to the north and east, shunning the mountains of Valhalea in favor of our steppes. In summer, with dry grass and fires easily kindled, such winds bring total destruction to our land.”
The king shifted in his saddle and gazed into the distance, his face troubled. “The air rarely quiets in Ha-Ran-Fel, but in the brooding shadow of the Death Winds the usual winds are silenced, with not so much as a breeze. You feel your breath dragged from you. Even shade offers no relief. Suddenly the southwestern horizon turns yellow and then brown. A great churning cloud fills the sky that seems to pull the very earth up into it. Almost before you can move, the storm overtakes you with the scorching heat of a giant furnace. When finally it passes, every living thing touched has died.”
Merewyn stared at him, stunned. “From what?”
“The wind does not burn as fire would, but carries intolerable heat. Grass and crops lay flattened. Leaves hang limp and blackened. Everything wilts. One hopes the cool of night will revive some fields, at least. But morning reveals bare trees, ruined crops, and corpses and carcasses torn and twisted by agonizing death throes.”
“And nothing can stop them,” Merewyn murmured.
“Nothing.” The king gazed toward the southwest. “They’ve not cursed us these past three years, but. . .” He forced a smile and reached over to pat her hand.
“But,” Merewyn finished, “we may find that the Death Winds fight for us.”
An endless stream of carts and horsemen snaked across the awakening steppe toward the glistening waters of the Wind River. Scores from Tagenryd and Abbajon had joined the Ptarmanians, bringing food, clothing, blankets, tools, seeds, and skins. The Ptarmanians who wintered at Tagenryd had fashioned long poles from trees hewn in the foothills, and these they brought to form the framework for yurts. Voices, laughter and the sound of hammers and saws replaced death’s grim silence. An air of gaiety pervaded as homes and barns took shape and new life sprang from the ashes. The herds of antelope had returned, and several warriors occupied themselves hunting while their comrades helped build or patrolled the countryside.
Three days passed. All remained quiet. Deeming it unnecessary to remain longer, King Ruelon left instructions with his warriors and departed early the following morning with Merewyn, Hamiel, and Zithri to view the area between Ptarmania and the eastern border, after which they would turn north to meet Aethelion’s band.
The heavy dew glistening in the morning sun transformed the steppe into a glittering carpet. The sun climbed into the cloudless sky, and soon its gentle warmth dispelled the damp and chill.
They had traveled some distance when Hamiel pointed to a large antelope herd bounding toward the mountains. “A good day for hunting, my lord.”
King Ruelon nodded. “We’ll do that before returning home. I relish fresh venison.” He sighed. “We’ll need large stores of meat to carry us through summer’s drought. I fear quite a severe one this year.”
“Me, too.” Hamiel watched the last of the herd disappear into the foothills. “I hope our venison stops before it reaches Nimbia. The mystics can fashion food out of air. We, however, lack that skill.”
“Aethelion will turn them back ere they leave our borders.”
“The Nimbian mystics should use their craft to destroy Ryadok before he destroys Epthelion,” Zithri said. “Only then would they render a worthy servic
e.” She scowled ahead, refusing to meet Merewyn’s eyes.
“Ryadok is a cunning adversary, more so than any tyrant before him,” Ruelon said. “The mystics must guard how they weave their spells.” He paused to scan the northern hills. “I particularly want to know if Aethelion finds signs of Baugonril. One haunted the mountains beyond Stanslav last summer. If another exists, it may also find its way there. I hoped to hear from Fortius concerning his hunt last fall; yet his silence speaks louder than any messenger. The serpent has crawled deep into some hole, out of reach.”
“What of the puppet?” Hamiel asked. “Will it dare strike again without the puppet master?”
Ruelon turned to Merewyn. “You know of whom we speak, my love. What say you?”
“He is arrogant, proud, and eager to show himself reliant upon no one,” Merewyn answered. “He yearns for power greater than Ryadok’s. I assure you, after last winter’s defeat, he did not lick his wounds for long, but immediately began rebuilding. He treats his own people as ruthlessly as he does his enemies, so no one dares oppose or disobey him. The people follow him blindly. I believe he will move soon, with or without Ryadok.”
“I believe so, too.” Ruelon smiled. “Not all cower before him, however. I know one who defied him. She rides at my right hand, and will bind him with his own strings before plunging her sword through his heart!”
Merewyn smiled back. “As you have said, so will I do.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “But you will do greater, my lord.”
The smile faded from Ruelon’s lips. A faraway look came into his eyes, and he stared ahead, saying nothing.
Arris stood beneath the willows behind Greene’s Willow Inn, listening to the quiet rush of the Ashgard River sweeping by. The choppy waters sparkled in the midmorning sun. On a grassy mound to his right stood the wooden bench where Merewyn and Charles Bordner had said their farewells the year before. Sighing wistfully, he trudged to the bench and sat down. Spring had come early. Already the Ashgard swelled with the runoff of rapidly melting snows. Hans’ arm had long since mended and King Fortius’ spies returned to Langhorn reporting that Castle Ryadok remained desolate. Except for peasant farmers and a scattering of shepherds and hunters, they had seen no one. No breederies and no armies, whether of men or beasts, had been found. Valhalea, too, stayed quiet. Perhaps, Fortius reasoned, they had beaten the tyrants, after all.
Yes, it has been quiet—too quiet. Arris folded his hands and leaned forward, staring into the restless waves. Talk to me. Tell me what news from your sisters, the Singing and the Mystic Rivers. What news of their master, the Dark Lord Ryadok?
But the mighty Ashgard haughtily held her peace and hurried on.
The witch-king’s strength has returned. The coming horrors will far exceed any of the past.
“There you are.” Davon’s voice rose above the rushing water.
Arris turned and smiled faintly. “Yes. Here I am.”
Davon sat down beside him. “You have that look about you, brother.”
Arris’ smile broadened. He shook his head.
“Don’t tell me. . .you were talking to the river.” Davon regarded his brother with wry amusement.
“And she tells me nothing.”
Davon sobered. “What do you make of the reports from Langhorn?”
Arris stared ahead, his face clouding. “We are being duped, I fear. Not by Fortius, but by Ryadok.”
“They say the castle remains empty, which means nothing.” Davon shrugged. “He’s rebuilding in the mountains.”
Arris sighed. “I’m an empath and healer, not a diviner, not military minded, not even a mature Arganian. I cannot discern Ryadok’s location or occupation. Sometimes I catch snatches of—” He caught his breath and slowly straightened. “I must prepare potions for our return to Barren-Fel. The required herbs grow wild in the woods and fields. Come, help me gather them.”
Arris rose, and as they hastened to the stable, he asked, “Where are Charles and Hans?”
“In the village with Edwin,” Davon answered.
“Just as well.” Arris quickened his pace.
“What about weapons?”
“We’ll not need them.”
They hurried to the stable and quickly saddled their horses. “You sure about the weapons?” Davon asked as they mounted.
“Yes.”
They galloped across the rolling hills along the river about two miles, stopping at a wooded mound amid the pasturelands. Arris tossed Davon an old leather pouch and a cloth bag before swinging off his horse. “Gather some balsamroot and leatherflower—in bloom, if you can find any. Chop both plants up together as fine as you can. We’ll spread them to dry at the inn.”
Davon nodded, dismounted, and then meandered toward the trees, stopping here and there to inspect or pull up a plant before moving on.
Arris waited until Davon had moved some distance away. Darting to the river, he carefully picked his way among the stones and piles of debris along its bank. “Oi!” he muttered. “Queen Ashgard will overflow her banks unless the weather cools. Edwin Greene may soon have a time of it!” For a moment he stood, transfixed by the swirling waves. A soft breeze rose from the east, and something in that seemingly innocent breath of air drew him from the river to a rocky, scrub-covered rise in the field east of the copse. Three huge granite boulders stood in its midst. Arris scrambled to the top of one of them and scanned the northeastern sky, clear and devoid of even so much as a bird. But he felt a sensation, a blurred consciousness of inky blackness, fluid and foul, weak as yet but rapidly gaining strength. Something wicked—invisible and unfettered—rode the very wind.
Arris went cold. “Ryadok! You mocked us before—and now we’ve waited too long!” He slid to the ground and ran, not stopping until he reached the horses.
Davon had half filled the bag and now chopped another handful. Arris leapt onto Barada’s back, gathered up Trevor’s reins and galloped to his brother. Davon looked up, alarmed at the urgency on Arris’ face.
“Bring what you have and mount your horse! Hurry!” Arris tossed Trevor’s reins to Davon, who stuffed his unchopped plants into the satchel and quickly mounted.
They raced to Greene’s Willow Inn. Arris swung off Barada’s back and darted inside, where he found Emily preparing lunch.
“Has Edwin returned?” Arris panted.
“No, but he should soon. What happened?”
Before Arris could respond, Davon appeared in the doorway. “They just rode up.”
“Good. We must talk.” Arris turned and nearly collided with Davon as he rushed to the door.
Davon let him pass and followed after. “I perceive we should have taken our weapons.”
Arris shook his head. “No, Davon. No weapon can kill what threatens us now!”
RETURN TO CASTLE RYADOK
“I must return to Castle Ryadok—alone. In the meantime, assemble every able-bodied man and lad you can find and prepare to defend your borders. Take great care, for Baugonril now rides the winds.” Arris sternly regarded the men seated around Edwin Greene’s table. Charles, Hans, Davon, Edwin, and The Fox sat stone-faced and silent.
“But Fortius’ spies found nothing” Edwin blurted. “The land remains quiet and the castle empty.”
“Not for long. I go to welcome the sorcerer home.”
“I’ll go with you,” Davon said.
Emphatically Arris shook his head. “We can’t risk Ryadok taking us both. I rely on your aid should things go ill.” He turned to Hans and Charles. “You must gather the woodsmen. Nedra will prove most interesting.”
“Do you trust her?” Charles asked pointedly.
Arris opened his mouth, but hesitated. “She proved herself loyal at Rissling, but be careful.” He smiled then and rose. “All will be well. When I reach the castle, I’ll send Barada to Davon with everything needed to find me. Godspeed and farewell.”
Hans regarded Arris through narrowed eyes. “For someone who but days ago deemed himself inadequa
te, you’ve grown very confident.”
Arris coolly returned his gaze. “I am. I know exactly what to do.”
The sun had settled into the distant trees when Arris crested the hill overlooking Castle Ryadok. Barada snorted nervously. His neck arched high, and his normally smooth gait had become choppy and tense. Arris affectionately tousled his steed’s mane and reined to a stop.
Enough daylight remained to see distinctly the castle and grounds. Arris dismounted and, leaving Barada in the shelter of the forest, crept forward for a better look. He saw the raised drawbridge, dry moat, and empty courtyards. The banners emblazoned with Ryadok’s hooded serpent hung limp and lifeless in the deathly calm.
Arris knelt and rested his chin on one hand. What could this mean? The moat empty? No soldiers? I suspect a trap; or perhaps a spell protects the castle.
He crawled back into the trees and slowly stood. Barada nudged him urgently as if to warn him they must flee.
Arris stroked the stallion’s neck and spoke softly. “I know this sorcerer, Barada, and stand ready to meet him. You, however, must not fall into his hands.” He buried his face in Barada’s mane and for several minutes murmured in the Nimbian tongue. Barada cocked his head to one side as if listening intently. Finally Arris looked up. “Return now to Davon. I’ll need you both ere long.” He knotted the reins around Barada’s neck and removed his saddlebags, blanket and oilskin. His sword, dagger, bow, and quiver, buckled on in Garris, had never left his body.
Barada hung his head and reluctantly trotted into the trees. Now very much alone, Arris felt a lump rise in his throat. Yet for the sake of the land and the people he loved he had come. He would not turn back. He slung his bags over his shoulder and set off down the hill. No one challenged his approach. He heard not a sound and saw no one. Not so much as a blade of grass stirred.
