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

by Sandra Kopp

  “What are ye doing, lad?” Hans exclaimed, and with Charles on his heels, raced to Davon.

  Davon stared back through glassy eyes. “I know how to get into the castle. Barada will take me.”

  “Davon!” Charles cocked his head, regarding him narrowly. “He’s in some kind of trance,” he whispered to Hans. “Ryadok still wants him and now employs witchcraft to compel him to come.” He stepped forward and snatched the reins from Davon, who responded with a stunning blow to Charles’ jaw. Charles staggered back, aghast at the hate in Davon’s eyes.

  Davon seized back the reins and tried to mount, but Hans caught and held him in an iron grip. Davon struggled and kicked, but his strength fled and he collapsed, limp and helpless in Hans’ arms. Hans picked him up and carried him to camp. Charles followed with the horses. Nedra helped Hans put Davon to bed while Charles spoke with Marcos and Arronmyl.

  “Ryadok’s still after him.” Charles handed the horses off to Marcos and spat out a mouthful of blood.

  Arronmyl clicked his tongue. “Minutes ago he hadn’t strength to sit up. Now he knocks your teeth loose.”

  “He won’t do that again.” Hans, still kneeling beside Davon, looked up. Grief twisted his rugged face. “He’s dead.”

  Charles tried to speak but no words came. Stunned, he knelt beside Davon, who lay motionless, his vacant stare fixed on Hans’ face. Charles felt for a pulse but found none. He bowed his head, resting it in his hand as his lips moved soundlessly.

  Arronmyl sighed. “Sadly, it happens.” He signaled to one of the woodsmen standing nearby. “We’ll bury the lad here. After the war his kin can move him home.”

  Nedra pressed two fingers to Davon’s throat. “No. He’s still alive—barely.” She withdrew her hand and sat back. “Hans and I will ride to the castle with Barada. I’ll try to reach Arris as we travel. I know we can find him.”

  Charles nodded slowly. “You’re Davon’s only chance. Godspeed, both of you.”

  Hastily Hans and Nedra saddled Parsius, the palomino and Barada. Charles, Arronmyl and Marcos accompanied them to the river.

  “You’ll find the way steep, rocky, and treacherous,” Arronmyl warned. “Rely on your instincts, daughter, for you’ve naught else to guide you. The trees hide the stars.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Nedra promised.

  The pair mounted. With Hans leading Barada, they headed for the river, but scarcely had Barada’s front feet touched the water when he snorted and balked.

  “Come on!” Hans wound Barada’s reins around his wrist and pulled harder, but the stallion dug in and refused to budge.

  Marcos pointed toward the opposite bank. “A horse and rider cross the river. There. Can you see?”

  Hans stared. “Ryadok’s emissary, no doubt,” he muttered. “Let’s wait until we know the matter.”

  They retreated into the trees, their eyes fixed on the hooded rider now visible in the river’s midst. Marcos and Arronmyl readied their arrows.

  “Wait,” Nedra whispered. “I don’t think this is an enemy.”

  “Perhaps not. But until we’re sure. . .” Marcos took aim.

  The rider reached the shore and stopped. A woman’s soft voice called, “Hello?”

  “That accent.” Charles emerged through the trees. “Who speaks?”

  “Charles Bordner? Is Davon Marchant with you?”

  Charles walked toward her. “We’re already acquainted with Ryadok’s trickery. You may be yet another lackey. Step down from your horse and remove your hood.”

  “I comply, sir.” The woman dismounted and pulled back her hood. “I fear in this darkness you cannot see me plainly. I assure you, I do not serve Ryadok and intend you no harm. If you saw my face you would know I pose no threat. Please, I desperately need Davon’s help!”

  Without a word, Charles took her arm and led her to the camp. She went without struggling, and by their campfire’s flickering light Charles beheld a familiar face. “Angelika?”

  “Yes! Is Davon here?”

  Charles hesitated. “He suffered grave injuries some days ago.”

  Angelika searched his face. “Take me to him. If even a flicker of life remains, I can save him.”

  Hans and Charles conducted her to Davon’s blanketed form, prostrate beside a tiny campfire in the center of a small clearing. Raina and Tabitha hovered over him, but Davon, indifferent to their presence, stared at the sky through fixed, unblinking eyes.

  “Thank you. I will care for him now.” Angelika bowed shortly.

  Raina and Tabitha rose and returned her bow before stepping away. Angelika knelt beside her brother and gently pressed his throat. “Had Ryadok captured him, his torment would have exceeded even this.” Angelika cast her cloak aside, reached into her tunic pocket and produced a bag filled with smaller pouches. From these she concocted a mixture that, with Hans’ help, she made Davon drink. Almost instantly his color returned and his eyes cleared.

  Angelika rose and turned to Charles. “Surely you wonder whence I came and why I sought you. I learned of my brothers’ whereabouts from a Valhalean maiden I nursed to health at Tagenryd. Knowing my brothers would enter Barren-Fel, I infiltrated Castle Ryadok when the sorcerer fled.”

  Charles gasped. “Do you speak of Merewyn Havalseth?”

  “Yes. She helped to save Stanslav and now rides with Ruelon.”

  Charles and Hans gaped as Angelika continued, “I desperately need Davon strong and able to stand with me on Arris’ behalf, or against him if we arrive too late.”

  Charles caught her arm. “What about Arris?”

  She dropped her voice. “He has called upon himself the spirit of the Black Arts. I fear for him, Charles, and for us, for he now possesses as much power as Ryadok and swaggers freely about the castle. He has become every bit as dangerous—and perhaps just as evil.”

  BURNING OUT THE DRAGON

  June

  Merewyn, flanked by Aethelion, Elund, Hamiel, and Zithri, watched the last villagers ford the Elgar River. “Are there any more?”

  “No, my queen,” Aethelion answered. “The land has emptied. You may now proceed as you see fit.”

  “What about the people in the southlands?”

  “Ludhov sent them across the Nomadic at Arstad two months ago,” Hamiel answered.

  “And Amiel?”

  “Dead, my lady, along with his entire company.”

  Merewyn pursed her lips. “How many men remain?”

  “Perhaps five hundred elite,” Aethelion answered.

  “Elund and I have four hundred between us,” Hamiel added.

  “And Ludhov may have a hundred,” Elund said. “But a band of Lesser Nimbians also ride with him, enabling him to hold back the puppet’s troops not occupying Liedor.”

  “Not for long,” Aethelion said. “Given Ruelon’s death and our heavy losses, the tyrants no longer consider us a threat. They have crushed Liedor and the Valhalean rebels and will trample us again on their way to Nimbia.”

  Merewyn frowned. “In this heat, with no rain, the steppes will soon dry. We can only hope they do not move until then.”

  She turned Windrunner to face them. “We’ll save what villages we can, but if they must be sacrificed to defeat the puppet, so be it. I will stop at nothing to kill him. There can be no peace while he lives. But I would spare as many warriors as possible. Rather than engage them face to face, we will simply let the tyrant hordes march in. When the winds turn favorable, we’ll burn the steppe around them. Aethelion, you and Hamiel cover the north and center. I shall travel south with Elund, for I intend to look the puppet in the face.”

  Aethelion shifted in his saddle and placed a hand on his hip. “What do you intend to do, my queen?”

  “I will ride into Valhalea to spy out the puppet and kindle the burning in the midst of his camp.”

  “Then might I propose a change in command. Let Elund cover the north and Ludhov the center. Hamiel, Zithri, and I will accompany you. Elund can defend Tagenryd and pro
tect Attalia. Besides, smoke in Valhalea will draw all attention to us.”

  “Very well. Muster one hundred warriors. We ride at dawn.”

  Plumes of smoke rose to the east as they passed Abbajon.

  “Teptiel burns,” Aethelion said grimly. “Within two days, the enemy will reach our border.”

  “And Elund stands alone.” Merewyn frowned. “We cannot leave him.” She reined in Windrunner. “You must turn back. I will continue to Valhalea alone.”

  Zithri rode up beside her. “Not alone.”

  “We two will ride with you,” Hamiel said.

  “They need you here.” Merewyn sighed and wiped a hand across her brow. A hot southwest wind intensified the heat of an already blazing sun.

  Aethelion pointed to a smoky haze in the southeast. “Other fires now burn. Ryadok has formed a wall across Liedor. You said, Queen Merewyn, that it takes but a few to light the fires needed to consume our enemies. I believe we stand a better chance scattered across the land in bands that will take months for the enemy to hunt down, rather than huddled into one host they can dispatch all at once. Elund and Ludhov know what to do. I say we all continue together.”

  Merewyn nodded and urged Windrunner forward.

  But by midafternoon the party stopped, unable to continue in the stifling heat.

  “Is there no water anywhere?” Merewyn’s burning eyes scanned the steppe, now shimmering with torrid waves.

  “There’s a well at Haresh,” Hamiel answered, “but that takes us many miles east. The horses can’t go on. Let’s wait for nightfall and then ride to the Nomadic. The horses can make it that far.”

  They unsaddled their mounts and sat on the ground, using their oilskins as shields against the merciless sun. Windrunner lay down beside Merewyn, and she stretched her oilskin to shade the mare’s head.

  At dusk they rose and continued their journey. Though the sun had retired, the wind did not cool. I feel the Forbidden Desert. The Borea-Morbidum cannot be far behind. Merewyn only hoped they would soon reach the river.

  Just before midnight they heard the lapping waves and gave their eager steeds their heads. The horses tore to the river and plunged in without slowing. Merewyn raised her arms and fell in, reveling in the water’s coolness. They drank their fill before clambering up the bank on the other side.

  “Let’s eat.” Aethelion pulled the saddle off his horse and laid it aside. Merewyn noted his furrowed brow.

  Merewyn unsaddled Windrunner and joined Aethelion as he sat chewing a piece of jerky. “We should be well into the Antelope Plains by sunup,” she said.

  Aethelion’s frown deepened as he chewed. “I don’t think we should go any further. A great evil stalks us, and it hides in the night.”

  The group rose before dawn, refreshed and alert. The wind had cooled, and lilting birdsong warbled across the steppe. One by one the stars melted into the lightening sky. The sun flamed up, flooding the earth with golden beams. The tall grass rippled, wavelike across the broad expanse. The warriors filled their waterskins and gave their steeds a final drink before setting out.

  By midmorning, the oppressive heat had returned. Merewyn stared at two riders approaching from nearby Rishaud.

  “What news?” she asked when they met.

  “Ludhov sends warning that an army amasses in Valhalea less than a mile from the border. They appear to be well over a thousand, mostly foot soldiers. He expects they will march tonight.”

  Aethelion nodded. “Ludhov knows what to do, and we shall do our part as well.”

  “Have you any new orders for him, my lady?”

  Merewyn shook her head. “No. Proceed as planned.”

  “Very good. Farewell.” The messengers clapped their arms to their chests and rode away.

  Aethelion shot her a sideways glance. “We’ll dispose of one obstacle to your ride into Valhalea, my queen. When the army marches we’ll set the fires.”

  Merewyn sighed. “The steppe remains green.”

  “It will still burn. Let’s turn west. The wind in our faces will help ward off the heat.”

  “I would go south a little farther and stop them before they come too far.”

  But as they passed Rishaud, the winds died. Their proud steeds hung their heads in the blistering heat. The warriors chafed under leather and metal.

  Merewyn stopped to squint through the shimmering waves at an eerie haze rising ominously to the southwest. It thickened and turned sickly yellow.

  “Borea-Morbidum! The Death Winds,” Aethelion cried. “To the river! It’s our only chance.”

  Turning about, they rode as fast as their fainting steeds could gallop. Even as they entered the water, they saw the churning funnel take shape and begin to move. A high-pitched howl filled the air, rapidly changing to a deep-throated roar as the storm approached.

  In the withers-deep water at the middle of the river the warriors fell from their saddles and pulled their horses down until they had submerged all but their heads. Merewyn clung to Windrunner, trying to anchor herself against the current. She looked to the west and stifled a scream as the boiling gray wall raged toward them.

  “Get down!” Aethelion yelled above the shrieking wind.

  The party ducked below the tossing waves. Between long stretches under water and quick gulps of stiflingly hot air, Merewyn felt her lungs would burst. The river around her heaved and foamed.

  It seemed an eternity ere the awful shrieks subsided and the river resumed its unhurried flow. The dust settled, and the usual Ha-Ran-Fel winds wafted across the steppe. The party labored up the riverbank, weighted down by soaked clothing and water-filled quivers. Merewyn stared in disbelief at the grass, flattened and swirled into curious circular patterns. Handfuls of shriveled leaves hung forlornly from scattered shrubs. One side of a nearby juniper lay on the ground, while the side left standing swayed drunkenly in the wind.

  Aethelion surveyed the ravaged landscape. “Have no fear, my queen. Tomorrow this will surely burn.”

  North of the Nomadic River, they turned west to the low juniper and granite-dotted hills serving as their vantage point. The air had cooled, and a stiff west wind tousled the lifeless grass.

  The hundred warriors fanned out among the rocks and trees, spacing themselves perhaps a hundred feet apart in a line stretching south. Aethelion, Merewyn, Hamiel, and Zithri concealed themselves atop the northernmost hill. From amid the junipers they watched their foes advance, an innumerable horde spilling out across the steppe like a menacing black pool.

  Hamiel sniffed. “There are at least a thousand there.”

  Aethelion peered through the branches. “I would say ten thousand, advanced within a quarter-mile of us.”

  Windrunner shifted her weight. Merewyn noted the crackle of powder-dry grass and the wind sighing through the branches overhead. She smiled. Using flaming arrows, her company would burn the sector between the army and the Nomadic River, while Ludhov and his band burned the Antelope Plains. With relatively few comrades she would destroy ten thousand in a sweeping conflagration.

  Zithri dismounted and gathered a bundle of sticks together in the center of a large flat rock. Retrieving her flint, she knelt beside the bundle, awaiting Aethelion’s signal.

  Smoke rose from the south. A line of orange erupted along the western boundary.

  “Ludhov has begun. The last of them must have passed.”

  Aethelion whistled. Zithri lit her bundle. The line of warriors crept out of the trees and rocks and into the grass. Kneeling, they formed handfuls of tinder-dry vegetation into piles and struck their flints. Little puffs of smoke curled upward as tongues of fire ignited first the piles and then the surrounding vegetation. The warriors stepped back, and as Merewyn had hoped, the winds drove the fires east, merging them into a towering holocaust racing toward the hapless invaders. High-pitched screams and shrieks rose above the roaring flames as men thrashed and writhed amid fiery whirlwinds. Several soldiers in the front ranks managed to elude the flames and now bolt
ed to the river.

  “Let none escape,” Merewyn cried and, lighting an arrow in the fire Zithri had kindled, shot it into the grass between Mordarius’ panicked army and the river. Aethelion, Hamiel and Zithri followed suit, and soon a second inferno engulfed Mordarius’ front ranks. In mere minutes the once-proud army became a collection of charred and twisted forms scattered across the ashes.

  Merewyn wiped a grimy hand across her sweaty brow. “Lucius Mordarius, if any kind of man at all, you would have marched at the head of your troops rather than hide in your palace inside some woman’s skirts, as doubtless you do.” She turned and spat.

  Zithri and Hamiel knelt before her. “Well done, my queen,” Hamiel said.

  Merewyn waved a hand. “Rise, both of you. Considering all you’ve done for me, I should kneel before you.”

  The words had scarcely left her mouth when Windrunner snorted and whirled toward the southeast. Merewyn noted the patch of thickening air. “Baugonril! Hamiel, sound the alarm!”

  Hamiel blew a long blast. The warriors leapt onto their horses. A hot wind reeking of sulfur hit Merewyn full in the face. The air above her darkened.

  “Merewyn, get out of there!” Hamiel shouted.

  Instinctively she lay forward, pasting herself along Windrunner’s body as savage jaws snapped shut above her. Windrunner shied sideways, and Merewyn tightened her legs around the horse’s sides as she readied her bow.

  The warriors rallied around her, shooting arrows that passed harmlessly through Baugonril’s head and chest. They galloped in erratic patterns, shouting and waving in an attempt to draw the beast away from Merewyn.

  Merewyn turned out of the melee and, with Baugonril at her back, raced across the ashes. Mind-numbing howls shook the ground. Searing air blasted her back. From the corner of her eye she saw Aethelion galloping along her left side. They crisscrossed back and forth, keeping low to their horses’ necks as Baugonril snapped, first at one, and then the other.

  Suddenly the beast soared high into the air, arced, and dove straight at Aethelion. Merewyn stopped Windrunner, whipped out an arrow, and let it fly. The shot went low, striking Baugonril’s underside near the left leg.