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

by Sandra Kopp

  “So shall we do.” Aethelion faced the assembly, his hand raised. “I submit that Merewyn Aram-Turien remain queen until we drive our enemies into the ground, and then let Attalia begin her reign in peace. What say you?”

  Attalia rose and pointed at Merewyn. “Will Ha-Ran-Fel’s victory come by this outsider? Shall she claim our glory? I am Ruelon’s daughter and heir to his throne. I would take my rightful place upon it now and purge the evil from our land!”

  “The throne is yours if you truly wish it,” Merewyn said. “But I know this enemy and his devices. He employs the foulest witchcraft to wantonly kill all in his path. I have trained my senses to ascertain its manifestations. I was your father’s wife. Let me honor his memory—”

  “I would honor my father by routing the puppet myself.” Attalia’s eyes flashed.

  Aethelion spoke. “And should you die in battle Ruelon’s line would end. Merewyn has produced no heir. Only you can bear royal seed, ensuring that descendants of Ha-Ran-Fel’s mightiest king will forever occupy his throne.”

  Attalia drew herself to her full height and stared down at Merewyn. “True. Our queen remains childless.”

  “Let the seasoned warriors finish this,” Aethelion continued. “The puppet will die. The outsiders will return home and you shall lead the people into the new era your father promised.”

  Attalia nodded. Aethelion again faced the assembly and raised his hand. “What say you, people of Ha-Ran-Fel?”

  They answered as one. “Long live Merewyn Aram-Turien, Warrior Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel!”

  NEW LORD OF DARKNESS

  Icy water slapped him full in the face. Arris spluttered and coughed.

  So began every day in this endless nightmare: shocked into consciousness, never knowing whether he would find himself chained to the wall or strapped to the table, or whether Ryadok came kindly or filled with wrath. Arris had lost all sense of time. Every breath brought suffocating agony.

  He curled a finger and felt rough stone. His pounding head and tingling feet told him he hung upside down on the wall. Ryadok’s mocking laugh pierced his buzzing brain.

  “Cousin, awake!” Ryadok peered into his face. His rancid breath filled Arris’ nostrils. Arris closed his eyes and moved his lips in a silent chant.

  “Insolent fool!” Ryadok drew back and slapped him.

  Arris opened his eyes but showed neither expression nor emotion.

  Ryadok seized a handful of Arris’ matted hair. “Your silence sickens me. I will make you talk, or laugh, or cry, or sing and dance if I wish! I can make you do anything. You’re but a puppet, subservient to my every whim.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “You doubt me? Well, you shall be my entertainment tonight!”

  He shoved Arris’ head into the wall and released him. “I’ve been more than patient, fair one. I repent offering you power or a throne. You have determined your fate. You shall dance as you die—after you watch your brother roast to death.”

  Arris’ breath came in gulps and gasps. His heart pounded such that he felt his head would explode.

  Ryadok straightened and smiled. “Ah, the Arganian is aroused, but powerless to act. I assure you, I will have Davon tonight, trussed and helpless, completely at my mercy—just like his older brother.” He stroked Arris’ cheek, regarding him coolly.

  “I will kill you first!” Arris snarled.

  “Will you?” Ryadok cooed. “How, my fiery friend? You seem to forget your own sorry state.”

  Ryadok dropped his hand and turned aside, and through the smoky light Arris glimpsed his sword in its scabbard on the table, along with his bow and quiver. The sorcerer murmured into his cupped hands, producing a glowing, translucent pink ball which he extended toward his captive. “This summons seals both your fates. My roc shall bring Davon, and tonight we shall all enjoy a bit of sport—except perhaps you, dear cousin—but you can do nothing to stop it.”

  Arris’ blood roared in his ears. Arganian reason caved in to pure hate. Roaring, he opened wide his right hand and focused blazing eyes on his sword. The hilt spun toward him. The sword pulled free of its scabbard and flew to his hand. Gathering his strength, Arris wrested his arms free, curled his body upward, and swiped the sword across the chains binding his ankles. The bonds fell away, and he somersaulted off the wall and landed on his feet. Sword raised, he spun around and saw for the first time the serpentine coils where Ryadok’s legs should have been. Scaly flaps extending past either side of his head resembled a hood; otherwise, from his waist to his head, the sorcerer still remained a man.

  Amusement, shock, and surprise intermingled on Ryadok’s face. A little smile tugged the corners of his mouth, revealing two small fangs. Arris lunged, ready to drive his blade through the sorcerer’s heart, but with a blinding flash Ryadok vanished.

  Arris lowered his arm and breathed deeply, reveling in this new power. He, a mere novice, had tapped the secret Arganian Black Arts—dangerous territory, Baldimora had warned, for even those of the Highest Order. Poised at the edge of a spiritual precipice, he should be terrified!

  But, oh! What awesome might possessed him, what overwhelming strength and limitless potential! What euphoria! Now he understood why Aurelius Marchant had forsaken light for darkness, and good for evil. Wearied by life’s disappointments and the Order’s stifling rules, and yearning to soar to boundless heights, he had broken free to reign supreme and to bend the world to his will. Arris had only to kneel and swear allegiance to the giver of that power to possess it for all eternity.

  But first he had a score to settle.

  “So—Cousin! We shall finish this later.” Arris strapped on his scabbard and grabbed his bow and quiver. Giddy with delight, he leveled the point of his sword toward the door. It burst open, and he shoved the weapon into its scabbard and walked out, laughing.

  A few steps away, a hooded figure concealed itself in the shadowed doorway. Arris took no notice as he sauntered past.

  The figure peered after him. A single tear glistened in the torchlight. Arris! What have you done?

  “What an ugly heap!” Hans scowled at Kapras Rock, which glowered back from across the meadow. The party had reached the edge of the forest surrounding it and stopped to rest. “Patience, Hans. You’ll not have to look at it long.” Charles glanced around as Benno and Arronmyl slipped through the shadows nearby. To patrol more ground and watch for danger, the woodsmen and Little People had separated into smaller groups and spread themselves throughout the forest, using bird calls and squirrel chatter to communicate.

  “It’s been too quiet since that border skirmish,” Hans went on. “No soldiers, no beasts. . .”

  “And no Baugonril,” Charles finished. “I suspect most of the troops scattered across Epthelion or around the castle.” He turned to Davon. “Concerning Baugonril, what have you learned?

  “Nothing yet.” Davon tensed. “Listen!”

  From somewhere above came a noise like sheets flapping in a strong wind.

  “Wings. Like those of the bird Arris killed.” Davon searched the sky, but unable to make anything out through the trees, he edged toward the meadow for a better look.

  Charles grasped his arm. “Stay back!”

  Arronmyl signaled to the men around him. “Spread out. Bring the thing down the minute it shows itself. Send word to the Little People.”

  Squirrel chatter passed along the ranks. The sky darkened. Turbulence from massive wing beats tossed the treetops.

  “Where is it?” Hans shouted.

  “It must be right above us.” Arronmyl shot an arrow into a dark patch directly overhead. A shriek rose above the flapping wings. Some of the trees around them bent and then snapped as the behemoth descended.

  “It comes for you, Davon!” Nedra cried.

  “Run!” Charles shouted.

  Davon leapt onto Trevor’s back, but cruel talons caught him up and carried him across the meadow.

  “Aaaaaaaa’ll kill him!” Hans spurred Parsius forward. Trevor bolted after them. The
woodsmen and Little People aimed their weapons, but the gigantic gray bird flew so erratically that they feared to shoot lest they hit Davon.

  Hans stood in the stirrups and shot an arrow. The bird dipped and then rose, straight into the missile’s path. One wing folded, and a burst of loosened feathers hung suspended above the screaming behemoth as it floundered, flapped, and finally fell, plummeting several feet before righting itself. The bird resumed a lumbering flight, but its inability to maneuver now made it an easy target and Hans shot again, this time impaling the head. With Davon’s legs flailing helplessly below it, the dying creature plunged into a thicket. Hans charged in after them, and for several moments the grass and branches churned and tossed. A dusty cloud rose then slowly settled as the monster’s death throes ceased.

  Charles, the woodsmen, and the Little People sprinted to them. In the shadows near a small glade, they found a twisted heap of feathers. The creature’s severed head lay nearby. Several feet away, Davon lay motionless. Hans knelt beside him, using strips of Davon’s torn shirt to stanch the blood gushing from a gouge in Davon’s left shoulder. “It’s bad,” Hans said as Charles ran up. “Those claws dug mighty deep.”

  “It had my arms first,” Davon whispered brokenly. “It almost dropped me, but grabbed harder and tore my shoulder.”

  Nedra ran up. “I’ll see to him.” She knelt beside Davon, and as she examined the wound, she paled and caught her breath. “Raina, bring the thongs from my saddlebag, and also the pouch.”

  “You’ll need to cauterize that,” Arronmyl said gravely.

  “No.” Davon drew a shaky breath and motioned weakly toward Trevor, who stood next to Parsius. “There’s a red pouch in my satchel. Bring it to me.”

  Charles raced to the horse, untied the satchel from the saddle, and brought it to Davon. Davon sat up, and with trembling fingers retrieved the pouch from the satchel. “Some water, please,” he whispered, and Charles produced his waterskin.

  “Uncover the wound,” Davon instructed Hans, who immediately complied. Chest heaving, Davon sat still for a moment. Sweat poured from his pain-twisted face as he prepared for the impending ordeal.

  “Davon,” Charles said gently, “what do we do now?”

  Davon sucked in a breath. “Bring me a stick. . .or a leather strap. . .anything I can bite down on.”

  Nedra whispered to Elvia, who ran into the trees and returned with Nedra’s quirt, which Nedra took and handed to Davon.

  Nodding his thanks, Davon shifted onto his knees and motioned Hans and Charles closer. “One of you hold my arms tight. The other pour some of this powder into the wound, and then some water. Whoever’s holding me, don’t let go.”

  “I gather this is going to hurt,” Hans muttered.

  Davon’s head jerked up and down. He placed the quirt between his teeth and held up the pouch, nodding once to signal he was ready.

  Charles and Hans exchanged glances. Hans positioned himself in front of Davon and clamped his hands around Davon’s wrists. Charles reluctantly took the pouch, scooted to Davon’s left side, and carefully positioned it above the wound.

  “Now!” Davon cried, and Charles shook the bag until the powder flowed.

  Davon’s head snapped back. He grimaced and cried. Charles doused the shoulder, his own face twisting with the agony of Davon’s torment. The wound bubbled, fizzed, and foamed. Davon’s already ashen face paled even more as, crying and convulsing, he sank his teeth into the thick leather. Suddenly he went ramrod straight and then limp.

  Hans gently lowered him to the ground. Nedra and Raina moved in to dress the wound.

  Hans rose and stepped aside with Charles and Arronmyl. “I shouldn’t have shot the thing.”

  “And where would Davon be now?” Charles countered. “Chained up in Ryadok’s dungeon suffering far worse than he did just now.”

  “Aye.” Hans glanced back at Davon and nodded grimly. “But a foolhardy thing I did. Now Ryadok knows at least I’m here.”

  “Ryadok knows about all of us.” This from Arronmyl. “That bird targeted Davon, and Ryadok’ll be furious he lost both.”

  “He should have his hands full with Arris, though, shouldn’t he?” Hans asked.

  Charles looked down. “If Arris still lives.”

  Davon lay comatose until well into the following day. Charles, Hans, and Nedra and her companions hovered over him, anxiously watching his every breath. About midmorning, his eyelids fluttered and he moaned softly.

  Hans sat down beside him. “How are ye, lad?”

  Davon nodded shortly, took a few deep breaths and whispered, “I know how to kill Baugonril.”

  “How?” Hans leaned closer and motioned to Charles.

  “He has a vulnerable vessel on the inside of his left thigh. If pierced, his fluids will spill out and he’ll die. But the spot is difficult to reach. It lies in the fold where the thigh joins his underside. Do not let the fluid touch you, lest you also die.”

  “Inside the thigh,” Hans breathed.

  “Left thigh. You’ll not find it on the right.” Davon’s eyelids fluttered and closed.

  Charles moistened his lips and exchanged glances with Hans. “What else do you know, Davon?” he asked gently.

  Davon’s head lolled from side to side. A tear rolled down his cheek. “I cannot say.” His eyes widened. “Soldiers come. We must flee.”

  “It’s time we moved anyway,” Hans growled. “That bird’s beginning to stink.”

  Reptilian scales scraped the crystalline pedestal as Ryadok wound his way to his throne. Upon reaching it, he coiled his long extremity around its base, bending at the waist to lower his torso onto the seat. Sighing wearily, he leaned back and rested his arms on the velvet cushions.

  “You’ve weakened, Aurelius,” hissed the Presence behind the throne.

  “I have not weakened. I am Ryadok!”

  “You delighted too much in your cousin’s torment. Now he walks free.”

  “He’s free with my consent. I still control him. I shall also slay the vermin that killed my roc, and recover my prize. You will have your sport tonight.” Ryadok sighed impatiently. “And I would return to my own form, and you to the shape of a man, as agreed.”

  The Presence’s breath came in hisses and sighs. “Give me the Arganian and his brother, and I shall give you your true form.”

  MARCH TO THE CASTLE

  “I can go no further.” Chalk-white and shaking, Davon slid off Trevor’s back and collapsed. Charles and Nedra dismounted and raced to his side.

  Nedra knelt and felt his cheek. “You’re so cold,” she whispered. “Do you hurt?”

  Davon shook his head. “No. Just. . .very tired.

  “You lost too much blood,” Charles said gravely. He glanced at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon, and we’re but steps from the Singing River. We’ll camp here tonight.” He sighed. “I only wish I knew what to do for you, Davon.”

  “Nothing you can do.” Davon rolled onto his side and cradled his head on his arm. “Just let me rest.”

  Hans walked up carrying Davon’s satchel, blanket, and oilskin. “We can try to make you comfortable, at least.” He arranged the items into a makeshift bed into which Davon gratefully settled.

  Raina brought a waterskin, and while she ministered to Davon, Hans drew Charles aside to the riverbank. “I’ll watch first, for I’ll not sleep, anyway.” Hans scratched his chin and stared dolefully at the restless waves.

  “Stop blaming yourself,” Charles said. “Ryadok injured Davon—not you. As soon as we reach the castle we’ll. . .” He looked down. “I don’t know what, but we’ll figure something out. At least we’ve met no more soldiers or beasts.” He clapped Hans on the shoulder. “Let’s rejoin Marcos and Arronmyl.”

  Hans nodded and followed Charles to the camp.

  Marcos and Arronmyl came to meet them. “That young Nimbian won’t be going any farther.” Arronmyl jerked his head toward Davon, now moaning and out of his head with fever.

  Charle
s paled and wiped his mouth. “He gives us powders and potions for our ills, but has nothing for himself.”

  “Were it not for the blood loss he might recover.” Arronmyl paused. “Raina and Tabitha will stay and look after him. We’ve another day’s journey to Castle Ryadok. Nedra will find us a way in. But we can do nothing for your friend except hope we speedily find his brother.”

  Charles nodded shortly, his lips taut. He looked around then for Hans, but the burly redhead had disappeared.

  “I think he’s gone to the river,” Arronmyl told him.

  Dusk had turned to night. A sliver of moon and myriad stars winked down at the glistening water. Hans stood on the shore, hands in his pockets. Charles stopped beside him and quietly cleared his throat.

  Without turning around, Hans spoke. “I remember when I met those two. I’d never seen a Nimbian before. I thought them from another world, and yet found them amiable and friendly—not at all like I’d heard. Considering what we’ve encountered and all they’ve done for us, I deemed them immortal.”

  “Davon’s not dead yet.” But foreboding seized Charles and he gulped, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “Arronmyl’s leaving his maidens to care for him. In the meantime, we’ve got to find Arris.”

  “I’m thinking I’ll go on.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Aye.” Hans sighed and kicked at the ground. A small rock bounced across the shore and into the river.

  Charles shook his head. “Hans, you’ll not help Davon by killing yourself.”

  Hans turned, his face filled with fury. Waving a hand toward the camp, he hissed, “Do you think these will be able to conquer Ryadok? No! Even with tens of thousands more we cannot! Arris senses things. If I’m near enough to the castle, he may detect my thoughts and know his brother’s dy—”

  He froze, his eyes riveted to the trees behind Charles. Charles turned. Davon, looking more dead than alive, tottered onto the shore with Trevor and Barada in tow.