by Sandra Kopp
“What a strange, ugly moon.” Sigard reined in beside him.
“The color of blood.” Aethelion jerked his head toward the crest of a nearby rise. “From there we can watch all directions. Look sharp, all of you. We know not what this night holds.”
With Aethelion leading, the company rode to the hilltop and formed a circle, backs to the center and facing outward. The wind had calmed. The moon climbed higher, its rusty hue gradually lightening to silver with the height. A clammy mist rose out of the river. The Horse Lords waited.
Aethelion, his gaze fixed eastward, caught his breath. An inky cloud resembling a closed fist marred the moon’s previously unlined surface. “What is this?”
A distant howl rose and fell.
Sigard pointed up the river. “A ship.”
Breathlessly they watched the pitch-black vessel advancing through the ghostly light.
“Ready your weapons,” Aethelion commanded.
Sigard gasped. “Look at the moon!”
The entire company gaped, transfixed, as the great fist opened, uncurling grotesque fingers that clawed at the earth and then hung for a moment, motionless, before slowly transforming into a shimmering phosphorescent pool churning up from the ground. A boar-like head with flaming eyes and a gaping mouth slavering fire loomed before them. The ground quaked.
“I hear the thunder of an army but see only this beast hanging there; yet see how it grows!” Sigard exclaimed.
“Baugonril! And it’s not just hanging—it’s charging straight at us!” Aethelion shouted. “Fire!”
Swift as lightning, five hundred hands fitted arrows to bowstrings and let them fly. The volley coursed directly at the raging beast but struck nothing solid and harmlessly passed through. A deafening, otherworldly roar shattered the stillness, and then billowing balls of fire hurtled toward them.
“Our weapons are useless,” Aethelion cried. “Ride, all of you! Keep it busy while I look for a weak spot.”
They swept down the rise and along the river, riding in erratic patterns to confuse their attacker. Baugonril turned neither right nor left. The rumbling grew louder. The hulking form closed in, its fluidly-rippling muscles propelling it forward more swiftly and powerfully than any steed.
Aethelion charged ahead and raised his lance, eyes riveted to a spot below the bottom-most flame where he hoped the throat would be. His skin prickled in the searing heat. He drew back his arm, ready to strike, but something slammed one side of his chest. Aethelion gasped. A downward glance revealed the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. A sea of soldiers wearing the serpent’s crest rushed at him. Aethelion dodged to the left and rode at the monster, deftly evading a ball of fire before hurling his lance.
Unfazed, Baugonril descended upon another rider and swallowed him whole. Aethelion pursued as the beast plowed ahead, but enemy soldiers hemmed him in and he drew his sword and fought for his life. Slashing and thrusting, he killed several but the enemy seemed only to multiply. They poured from the ship in droves, brandishing weapons. Baugonril darted about, alternately devouring and incinerating the Horse Lords and their steeds.
“They’re too many. We’ve got to get out,” Aethelion called to Sigard, who fought nearby.
Sigard nodded and then jerked and stiffened, his face frozen in a vacant stare, blood streaming from his mouth.
Cursing, Aethelion slammed his fist into the face of a soldier in his path, then raced to his fallen friend and ran his blade through the slayer’s throat.
“Out! Everybody out!” he shouted and then stared, hypnotized, at a shimmering wall of fire hovering directly in front of him. Rough hands threw him to the ground, barely in time to evade the fireball hurtling past just a few feet above them.
“Let’s go!”
A comrade pulled Aethelion to his feet. The hornsman sounded the retreat, and those Horse Lords still alive raced for the river.
Twenty miles south, just east of Rischaud, Ruelon and Merewyn watched the moon’s ascent. Its rusty aura stained the night sky, a portent of impending horror. The world lay eerily silent, as if all of the nocturnal denizens had either hidden or fled. No one in the camp of the Horse Lords slept. They stood beside their horses, armed and ready, their collective gaze fixed on the bloody sky.
An hour crawled by. The rising wind sighed through the branches of a nearby juniper. Merewyn moistened her lips and edged closer to Ruelon, who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and held her close. She snuggled to him, drawing comfort from his steady heartbeat and the memory of his rousing speech the night before.
For several moments they stood thus, saying nothing. Finally Ruelon pulled in a breath and let it out. “I feel our enemy’s approach.” He squeezed Merewyn’s shoulders and released her. Reluctantly she stepped away. “Are you ready, my queen?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord.” In these, potentially the last, hours of her life she should have been terrified; yet Merewyn felt strangely calm.
The wind stilled. Ruelon opened his mouth as if to speak, but stopped at the sound of distant thunder. A mile away, a smoky cloud drifted skyward to meet the tarnished moonlight. The plain before it seemed to boil and churn as a veritable sea of tossing horns swept toward them. It sounded like a stampeding herd. Bawls, bleats, howls and squeals mingled with the pounding of heavy hooves. The horde drew closer, and through the pale light the Horse Lords saw that they ran on two legs rather than four, and that the horns protruded through steel helmets.
The air reeked of dung and sulfur. An inky phosphorescent mass rippled out before the herd, rapidly covering ground. As it closed in, its terrible eyes and mouth exploded into flames.
“Ryadok! Sound the attack!” Ruelon shouted. Ere the battle horns blew, the warriors leapt upon their steeds and rallied around their king. “Charge!” Ruelon bellowed, and the horses raced forward, smashing head-on into the enemy host.
The world became a blur of dust, arrows and flying steel. Swiftly surrounded, the Horse Lords hacked, slashed and stabbed to no avail. They saw no human among their foes—only merciless, unrelenting demons possessing the heads of bulls, goats, wolves and pigs wearing armor impenetrable by spear or sword. Baugonril plowed into the melee, devouring and incinerating.
“Aim for the neck and under the arm, if you can see it,” someone shouted as an enemy soldier fell. “Their armor’s weak there.”
“Fall to the outside and ready arrows,” Ruelon commanded. “We’ll close them in and take them down.”
The warriors turned their steeds and tried to ride out of the mob, but Ryadok’s beasts stayed beside them. Windrunner darted and dodged, narrowly evading the slashing blades around her. Horned helmets swarmed in on every side. In the roiling throng one could scarcely distinguish friend from foe. A great bovine head reared up in front of Merewyn and she released an arrow, driving it into his eye. Then, her arrows spent, she drew her sword and hacked at the mob around her. Every fallen enemy refueled her fury; Ruelon’s shouted orders bolstered her courage. Windrunner lunged and kicked, knocking several of the shorter beasts to the ground and trampling them. Merewyn gave the horse her head, using her free hand to recover whatever arrows she could find while wielding her sword with the other.
Ahead of her, two Ha-Ran-Fel warriors battled a trio of goat-men. Merewyn plunged her sword into the throat of a beast and then, her path cleared, raced toward them. A searing, blazing ball streaked past, engulfing both warriors and one of their assailants. Windrunner shied, nearly unseating Merewyn, who gaped in horror as her countrymen thrashed amid the flames. An inky shadow circled, hovered a moment, and alit.
I’ve got to kill it!
Merewyn turned Windrunner and raced toward the monster, now hunched over a steed’s charred carcass. Liquid fire slavered from its curled lips as it turned its shaggy head toward her. Its slanted eyes flamed maniacally.
“Devil!” Merewyn cried. “Go back to Hell where you belong!”
She shot an arrow at the monster’s eye, but it harmlessly p
assed through. Baugonril’s black lips curled back even farther as he turned toward her. Razor-like fangs gleamed in the moonlight. A deep growl rumbled above the pounding hooves, rising to a roar that shook the ground.
Windrunner reared. Baugonril spewed a fiery ball straight at Merewyn. Windrunner sprang ahead and Merewyn lay along the horse’s side as the flaming missile just missed her and landed on one of Ryadok’s beasts. Fully engulfed, the tortured monster flailed and thrashed, igniting another beast before crumpling in a smoldering heap.
Baugonril crouched. Merewyn’s hand flew to her quiver but found it empty. Numbed by fear, she stared into the eyes of Hell itself.
Never look your enemy in the face, for with his eyes he can destroy you.
Merewyn bobbed her head to one side. An arrow flew passed her and into the neck of a nearby soldier. Merewyn galloped to him and, as he fell, yanked the arrow free and fitted it to her bowstring. Baugonril leapt high into the air. Fangs bared and claws extended, he sailed toward her.
The world around her blurred. Merewyn trained the arrow toward Baugonril’s throat, but the beast appeared liquid now, its throat widening and narrowing and never in the same place. Zithri’s words came back to her: Never hesitate, Merewyn. Never freeze. Do something! Guessing as best she could the throat’s location, Merewyn released the arrow. It flew low, striking the inside of the beast’s left thigh.
With an ear-splitting shriek, Baugonril slammed to the ground. His head whipped back and forth as he snarled and foamed. He tried to stand, but his paralyzed hindquarters would not respond. Roaring, the crazed monster buried his teeth into one of Ryadok’s soldiers, flung him aside, and then snatched up another. His inky hindquarters burst into flames and the monster exploded into a raging inferno that incinerated several soldiers nearby.
Ruelon shouted. Merewyn turned and saw yet another swarm surging up from the southwest. Her arrows spent, she retrieved what she could from the scattered corpses and galloped toward her husband. But the battle closed in around her and, unable to reach him, she stood her ground and fought.
For a while it seemed that Ruelon would prevail. Time and again the enemy fell back. Ruelon rallied his warriors. Ryadok’s numbers waned.
But the enemy waves poured in, and with approaching dawn, the shouts of the Horse Lords grew fainter amid the cries and clashing blades. Something hard hit Merewyn’s back and sucked out her breath. She tried to breathe but managed only small gasps and grunts. I am dead, she thought, and plunged into darkness.
Something bristly brushed her feverish cheek. Merewyn moaned and tried to move, but unbearable pain wracked her body. Every bone felt broken and she lay still, wishing whoever hovered over her would thrust her through and end her torment. Velvety lips nuzzled her ear and then her neck. A horse nickered softly.
Merewyn rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. Windrunner lay down beside her and nudged her cheek. Gritting her teeth against the searing pain, Merewyn mustered her strength and crawled into the saddle, clinging to the horse’s mane as Windrunner hoisted herself to her feet.
“My faithful Windrunner.” Merewyn could scarcely talk. “Take me to the king.”
Windrunner stepped out, and as they crossed the corpse-littered plain, Merewyn’s heart sank. Familiar faces stared vacantly through the cold gray light. Some appeared to slumber peacefully. Others grimaced in agony.
“Ohhhh!” Merewyn’s anguished soul poured out its misery. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks. Feeling dizzy, she closed her eyes, wishing only to distance herself from this place of death. Windrunner walked on, her head bobbing lightly as she deftly stepped over and around the dead.
Gradually the faintness passed. Merewyn’s senses cleared. She opened her eyes and recognized Aethelion, Elund, Hamiel, and Zithri amid a small group a short way ahead. Zithri saw her first and alerted Hamiel and Aethelion. Together they raced to Merewyn.
“My queen!” Aethelion reached up and helped her dismount.
Zithri alit and rushed to her side. “You’re hurt, my lady.”
“No worse than any of you. Where is the king?”
“We don’t know.” Aethelion grimly surveyed the field. “Ryadok decimated our forces last night, both here and on the river.”
“How many of your five hundred remain?” Merewyn asked.
“Less than a hundred. As yet we have no final tally.”
“And the enemy?”
“We drove them back after Baugonril fell, but they’ll return in numbers beyond our strength to withstand.”
“Baugonril. . .slain?” Merewyn’s memory had clouded.
“Yes.” Aethelion frowned. “How, I don’t know. The carcass burned, leaving nothing to examine. When we engaged him at the river we made what should have been mortal strikes with every weapon we had, to no avail.” His frown deepened. “I would give my best horse to know what killed this one.”
“So it can be killed.” With great effort, Merewyn remounted and turned Windrunner toward the battlefield. “However, we must first see to our wounded and find the king.”
The sun slowly rose, gouging the sky with blood-red shafts before hiding itself behind a curtain of somber gray clouds. The Horse Lords wandered among the carnage, hoping against hope that some among their warriors lying there yet breathed.
They found only death. Over half of the valiant warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel had fallen, and the company could only guess what percentage of the enemy now littered their land. Many wore the crest of Ryadok, but even more Lucius Mordarius’ green dragon.
The roughly four hundred remaining warriors fanned out to search for their wounded, strip the enemy corpses, and kill any foe still alive. Merewyn searched for Ruelon, refusing to believe what she already knew. Aethelion, Elund, Hamiel, and Zithri still lived. Surely, she reasoned, God had spared Ruelon as well.
But hope quickly waned. Ruelon neither answered her calls nor rode to meet her.
And then she saw him, lying beside his beloved charger, his sword impaling an enemy’s throat, his ashen face turned to the sky. Red streaks trickled down his side from the bloody pool on his breastplate, and another from one corner of his mouth. For a moment it seemed he looked at her, and she thought he would speak. But his vacant blue eyes stared past her; his strong voice forever stilled. Never again would he hold her close and soothe her in the night. Never again would he whisper words of tender love.
“My lord.” Swallowing hard, Merewyn knelt beside him and tenderly stroked his cheek. The world blurred around her. “Beloved husband. . .do not leave me.” But she knew that he already had, and now the tears came fast and hot. Merewyn collapsed on his chest, sobbing.
They buried Ruelon in the Tombs of the Great, a network of sealed sepulchers hollowed out of Warriors’ Hill, north of Myamina.
“King Ruelon walked the paths of his fathers in valor and might,” Benuel told the assemblage. “He lived and died with honor, defending his people and land. He took many enemies with him, and now goes to his fathers, a mighty company who has taken him to themselves and endowed him with all the glory and might due him.”
Benuel’s gaze fell upon Merewyn. His face softened. “Our beloved queen stood by him to the end. We grieve with you, Merewyn Aram-Turien. But know that our king would not have died any other way, nor would he begrudge you your life. We free you to go where you will as your crown passes to Ruelon’s heir, his daughter Attalia.”
“I wish no crown for myself,” Merewyn answered. “But I would yet ride with the proud warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel. The worm from the south has taken yet another person I love. I swear, he shall pay with his own life. I will see to it!”
Someone in the crowd spoke. “And how will you accomplish that? So few of you have returned! With Ryadok and his puppet, death invaded our land. They have decimated our numbers and destroyed our defenses.”
“Nimbia sent reinforcements, who helped drive them back,” Hamiel countered.
“But the tyrants will return!” someone else cried. “Then what will
we do? Will Nimbia always ride to our aid? And will enough of them come this time to assure victory?”
Merewyn rose and strode to Benuel’s side. “Who speaks sacrilege at the king’s burial?”
“It’s not sacrilege—it’s the truth,” a warrior returned.
“Don’t you remember King Ruelon’s words on the eve of battle?” Merewyn challenged. “He foresaw that many would fall in the face of Ryadok’s devilry. But he also foresaw that some among us will find in our hearts the way to destroy this evil. From these will victory spring. Those who fall will enter the light of heaven, and those who live will see a new day of freedom and peace. They will multiply and grow mightier than any who lived before! King Ruelon spoke those words. Did none of you hear him? Has Ha-Ran-Fel lost all courage? Our king gave us a promise, and I cling to it!
“No, we cannot defeat our enemies in a frontal assault—but we can defeat them by trickery—and by turning the land itself against them. We’ll be gnats in their ears and hornets in their backsides.
“We had a mild winter and an early spring. Summer will bring drought. Our grass and crops will wither. Ha-Ran-Fel’s winds blow ceaselessly. Send the children, their mothers and the elderly along with their substance west of the Elgar River. Leave nothing behind. Then let the tyrants come with their armies. It takes but a few of us to set the fires that will surround and incinerate them.”
“Yes.” Aethelion stood. “Yes! Gather everyone to the west, for the winds will take the fires east. We’ll watch for the snake and the dragon and welcome them very warmly indeed!”
“And meanwhile burn our own homes and our pastures,” came another voice.
“Valhalea and Liedor offer grass in abundance, and much empty land,” Merewyn said. “After we destroy our enemies, we will winter there. If our survival requires a return to the old ways, so be it!”
