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

by Sandra Kopp

  Baugonril’s roar became an ear-splitting scream. He plummeted to earth, and in his death throes spewed a yellowish liquid, filling the air with caustic stench.

  “Stay back!” Merewyn shouted. “Don’t let its poison touch you.”

  Aethelion trotted toward her.

  “Wait until the beast lies still,” Merewyn repeated. “Do not touch its issue, for it’s deadly poison.”

  “Aye,” Aethelion answered. “However, I must see where your arrow hit, for you discovered a vulnerable spot. We’ve little time. The beast is melting.” He dismounted and, under Merewyn’s anxious eye, cautiously approached.

  Baugonril lay motionless in a fizzing, steaming heap. Aethelion circled behind it, stopping his nose against the stink as he studied the remains.

  Finally he returned. “The left flank appears to be solid flesh, whereas the parts we normally deem vital—the head, throat and heart—resemble vapor.” He gave Merewyn a quizzical look. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” she returned. “’Twas a chance shot.”

  “But we know now.” Aethelion’s eyes swept over the company. “Inside the left flank, for sure—and perhaps the right one as well.”

  “Aim for the left,” Merewyn said. “We know that’s weak.”

  Aethelion nodded. “Where next, my queen?”

  She gazed southward. “To Valhalea.”

  The great horned owl glided silently over the Ashgard River toward Atwall’s Imperial Palace. A tall figure on one balcony extended his arm and the bird soared to it, mighty wings beating the purple twilight as it alit. Lucius Mordarius bent his elbow to bring the bird before him, and as he stared into the yellow eyes, his smug expression changed to anger mixed with fear.

  “Twelve thousand hand-picked men—dead at the hand of a ragtag band of savages!? Baugonril led; why did he not incinerate them?” Mordarius stared deeper into the owl’s eyes. “Slain? By the queen of the Horse Lords? Impossible! Ruelon’s queen died years ago. Ha-Ran-Fel has no queen.” The owl blinked. Mordarius caught his breath. “Ruelon took to wife the daughter of a former ally—a Valhalean named Havalseth! And now she marches on Valhalea!”

  Mordarius dropped his arm so abruptly the owl lost its grip but recovered before hitting the ground and awkwardly fluttered to a nearby wall. Mordarius whirled and, cursing wildly, stormed inside, ignoring for the moment the dark wet stain on his shoe. A furious yank on the scarlet cord near his throne summoned two guards.

  “Bring me Roderick Mehr!”

  Twenty minutes later, the shaken stable master knelt before him.

  “You let Merewyn Havalseth escape!”

  “She’s a witch of the foulest kind, my lord. Attacked my privates, she did!”

  “A mere girl slipped between your fingers.”

  “The devil empowers her!”

  Mordarius’ eyes glowed red as he raised his sword. Mehr blubbered and cowered, arms raised in a futile plea for mercy. A swoop of the blade sent his head and one hand flying.

  Mordarius waved a contemptuous hand at Mehr’s twitching corpse. “Get that out of my sight,” he commanded, and four guards scrambled to comply.

  Mordarius turned to four others standing nearby. “Assemble the Night Legion!”

  He stalked outside to the outer court, where fifty battle-hardened mercenaries tumbled into ranks and stiffened to attention. Mordarius stopped before them. Closing his eyes, he threw back his head and lifted his arms. “Mighty dragon, let thy power suffuse me!” he thundered.

  A rushing wind filled the courtyard, tousling hair and beards and whipping capes about the stock-still forms. Mordarius stood ramrod straight, breathing deeply, his fingers curled like claws. The Night Legion seemed to liquefy, then transformed into enormous, grotesque vultures. Mordarius himself became a small black bat, his leathery wings unfurled toward the heavens.

  The transformation complete, Mordarius fluttered away. As the Night Legion followed, he fastened himself to the leader for the long flight into Ha-Ran-Fel.

  THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS

  Arris raced along the corridor to the throne room. The searing heat that had seized him at his conversion had turned to biting cold, and he felt as if ice water, rather than blood, coursed through his veins. He moved with unaccustomed fluidity, his visual acuity sharpened such that he needed no torch to penetrate the inky darkness.

  He reached the corridor stairs and sprang effortlessly to the top. The crystalline staircase rose before him, and without so much as a sideways glance, he bolted toward it. An evil hiss broke the stillness. Arris dropped to the floor as the monstrous serpent sailed overhead and landed in a malevolent heap of coils before him. The head lowered to look Arris in the face. Red eyes glittered. A forked tongue flicked in and out between bared fangs dripping venom. The massive hood extended wider than a man could spread his arms. As Arris gazed upon his nemesis, he caught the faintest vestige of what had once been Aurelius Marchant.

  “So, Cousin, you’ve been completely consumed.”

  The head reared back. Arris leaped aside and drew his sword, barely evading a stream of venom. Caustic vapor filled his nostrils. He darted behind the staircase, but with lightning speed the head met him at the other side and spat another poison stream, which Arris again eluded.

  “Cousin, where is the kingdom you promised me, and Leila in all her purity? Give them to me, if you can! I am your flesh and blood, am I not?”

  The head streaked toward him. Arris pivoted and brought his sword down hard, hacking off the scaly nose. Ryadok hissed and reared back.

  “Shall I dance for you, Cousin? Or sing? Would you rather I cried? Or shall I roast my own brother alive for your amusement? Shall I roast myself? Nay, by the looks of you now methinks I shall ascend your throne while you entertain me!”

  The terrible mouth opened wider. Ryadok’s malefic hiss transformed into the anguished wail of a soul in torment. He threw back his head and spewed a venomous geyser that splattered the ceiling and rained down upon his twisting form.

  Defiantly Arris stepped out and flung his arms open. “No? Then tell me, almighty one! What is your pleasure? I am at your command, subservient to your every whim!”

  Ryadok responded with a barrage of lightning-like strikes. Arris darted and dodged, barely evading the deadly fangs. But the exertion drained him. Within minutes his body ran with sweat. His arms weakened from the weight of his sword. As he raised a hand to wipe his dripping brow, Ryadok struck. Arris pivoted, but the creature’s scaly neck scraped against him and sent him sprawling.

  Arris rolled over and braced for the deathblow, but instead saw the creature’s body hugging the floor, its fangs lodged between two stones. Arris scrambled to his feet and swung, but before the blade reached its mark, Ryadok wrenched free. He whipped around, knocking Arris onto his back and sending the sword clattering across the stone floor.

  Hissing and spitting, Ryadok struck again. Arris threw himself aside, but a fang grazed his left thigh, tearing the skin. Gritting his teeth against the burning pain, he rolled onto his back again and with both legs leveled kick after kick at Ryadok’s lunging head. His chest tightened, and he knew he had but moments before the paralyzing poison rendered him helpless.

  Arris’ left leg numbed. Wheezing, he drove his right foot into Ryadok’s eye. Ryadok reared back and exhaled a caustic cloud. Blinded, Arris threw himself onto his stomach and crawled toward his sword, some ten feet away. Uncontrollable tears cleansed his eyes somewhat, but his breathing had become labored and his right leg unresponsive. His groping hand found his sword, but as he closed his fingers around its hilt, his strength fled. He fell on his face and lay still.

  Ryadok hovered over him, red eyes gleaming. He threw back his head, arced to his full height, and emitted a shriek that shook the room.

  Arris fought to collect his wits. His body felt leaden; his lungs seemed filled with dust. His arms splayed out beside him, limp and useless. His overtaxed heart struggled for every beat.

 
I. . .must. . .not. . .die!

  Baldimora’s face appeared before him. Come out of the darkness, Marchant, out of the Serpent’s realm, for I cannot help you there, and he will not save you. Draw on your remaining strength and use the power yet available to you. Arganian, you know what you must do, so do it and live.

  Baldimora’s image faded.

  Arris concentrated on his pounding heart, silently mouthing an Arganian chant to calm it. He visualized his lungs clearing and his limbs regaining their strength. While only illusion, he could claim it as reality for a few brief moments and hopefully endure until he could kill Ryadok and ingest the Nimbian healing powder.

  O lani a precia. Mae hael effer. Evil must not prevail. Epthelion must breathe free. For all I love and cherish I summon my strength to complete the task to which I am called.

  Ryadok plunged for the death strike.

  “Awani tir machadach!” Arris shouted and leapt to his feet.

  As if in a dream, he watched the coils unwind behind the head hurtling toward him. Arris dashed around the staircase, and in his fury Ryadok slammed his head into the other side of it with such force the structure cracked and began to crumble.

  Arris vaulted back around, raised his sword high, and with a single stroke took off Ryadok’s head. The decapitated coils twisted and writhed; the severed head, eyes blazing and jaws snapping, bounced and gyrated. It suddenly flew straight at Arris, only to be crushed beneath the collapsing rubble.

  Gasping, Arris backed across the room, rifling through one pocket for his healing powder before his strength failed for good. Somehow his trembling fingers found the pouch, and he pulled it open and poured the contents into his mouth. His breathing eased and the numbness in his limbs abated. The dizziness evaporated, and with a sigh of relief, he returned the pouch to his pocket.

  He heard a sharp crack as the floor in front of him opened. Arris turned and fled to the corridor, half tumbling down the stone steps in his haste to escape. The entire castle quaked. Moans and cries reverberated through the empty halls. He found the corridor leading to the window through which he had first entered and raced to it, only to find the window closed fast. Yanking out his sword, Arris leveled its point at the glass. Nothing happened.

  A gentle voice like the rustle of wind-blown leaves whispered, “Serve me and live!”

  A hooded shadow swayed on the wall before Arris, who hesitated but a moment. “Then I choose to die!”

  With a strangled cry, he threw himself through the glass, barely catching himself on the ledge outside. Hand over hand, he groped his way down the rough stones, finally falling the last few feet to the ground.

  For several seconds, he lay stunned. The Serpent stared down at him. Its mouth opened wide. It drew back and then, like a thunderbolt, streaked directly for him. Arris threw himself aside, managing to stumble away as the Serpent drove itself into the ground.

  Faster than he had ever run in his life, Arris raced across the yard where, enveloped by a fog of dust and the mist spouted by the flailing moat creatures, the soldiers of Castle Ryadok furiously battled each other. Blood-drunk and maddened, they shouted and cursed, bludgeoned and stabbed. Skulls cracked. Decapitated heads rolled away from twitching corpses. Swords streaming blood plunged into chest after chest. Castle Ryadok rumbled and shook. Great cracks opened in its foundation and walls. Arris felled the guards at the drawbridge, released the mechanism, and lithely evading the flying blades, streaked for the bridge as it groaned downward.

  He bolted across just as Barada thundered down the hill toward him. As the horse galloped up Arris caught the pommel and swung onto his back, circled around and tore up the hill to the party now gathered at the top. Charles, Hans, Angelika, and the woodsmen advanced to meet him. Elated, he reined in beside Charles and alit.

  “Arris!” Tears streamed down Angelika’s face as she ran to him.

  Arris clasped her close, and for several seconds they murmured to each other in the Nimbian tongue. He finally released her and glanced around. “Where’s Davon?”

  “Here.” Davon stepped forward into his brother’s embrace.

  After a long moment Arris patted his brother’s shoulder and stepped back. “Ryadok is dead, and finding no one to inhabit, his master has returned to the Abyss. The evil holding the castle together has departed, and now it crumbles. But the danger remains. Self-serving generals in Ryadok’s ranks seek power for themselves. We must ride west to meet them.”

  Hans patted his sword. “I’m ready.”

  Through night’s welcome chill the Horse Lords rode, undaunted by the task before them. Their enemy’s strength and numbers mattered not, for all preferred death over life in bondage, and already they had decimated a host far superior to their own with no loss to themselves.

  Thus far their approach went unchallenged. But in the wee hours of morning the horses grew restless. Something approached, cloaked by the darkness of the new moon.

  Windrunner trotted ahead, nostrils flared as she sniffed the wind. She suddenly snorted and slid to a stop, ears stiffly erect as she stared at the horizon. Merewyn caught her breath and readied her bow. The warriors reined in beside her.

  Aethelion lifted a hand. “Listen. The wind speaks.”

  A faint fluttering reached their ears, rising steadily to the unmistakable sound of beating wings.

  “Birds—incredibly large ones. But I can’t see them!” Hamiel’s fingers tightened around his lance as he strained to see. “I’ll wager, though, they’re flying straight at us.”

  “Ow! Something scratched me!” One of the warriors thrust out his lance, but furiously flapping wings carried the creature beyond his reach.

  Shrill screams shattered the silence. The night air came alive as a bevy of gargantuan birds swooped in. Diving and soaring, they deftly evaded spears and arrows while raking faces with razor-sharp talons and pelting helmets with their beaks. Desperately the warriors drew their swords and swung them around over their heads. A bird shrieked as Zithri severed its leg and others screamed as more swords found their marks.

  Sensing movement in front of her, Merewyn shot an arrow. A heavy body slammed to the ground.

  Windrunner jumped aside. Mighty wings pummeled Merewyn’s face. A beak tore at her hair, but a stroke of her blade sent its head flying. As she raised her arm to swing again, her hand hit something small and soft. The chattering creature flew at her face, but she doubled her free fist and delivered a solid punch that knocked it away.

  A horn blew. A long, shrill screech preceded the sound of furious flapping as the birds retreated. The sky sang with the swoosh of myriad arrows, and like great hailstones, the bodies fell until only a scattered few remained to fly away.

  The Horse Lords lowered their weapons.

  “Who comes to our aid?” Aethelion called.

  “Euratio of Nimbia,” came the response, and ranks of horsemen emerged through the darkness to join the warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel. The Nimbians rode smartly in straight lines, heads high and facing forward, each horse prancing in step with the others. The soldiers’ armor, along with the horses’ trappings, emitted a pale blue glow the Nimbians could extinguish at will, but which now radiated peace and good will.

  Some twenty feet from the Horse Lords they stopped. Euratio rode forward and saluted Merewyn. “Queen Merewyn Aram-Turien, my condolences for the loss of your husband. No finer man or nobler king ever walked this earth.”

  Merewyn dipped her head. “Thank you, my lord. My heartfelt gratitude for your timely arrival.”

  “What were those things?” Hamiel asked. “Never have I seen such birds.”

  “Nor will you likely again,” Euratio responded. “I believe morning’s light will reveal not the bodies of birds but of men transformed through witchcraft. The warlock, I fear, has escaped but we shall flush him from his lair and mete to him his due reward.”

  “You’re right.” Hamiel had dismounted and now knelt beside one of the bodies. “This is indeed a man, and he wears Mordarius’
crest.”

  “As does this one,” came from another warrior a few feet away.

  “Good.” Euratio nodded. “Mordarius employs witchcraft, but the Arganians among us will detect his devices. He will not escape.”

  “From my heart I thank you.” Merewyn hesitated. “How fares Tagenryd?”

  “Safe, my lady. Together with Elund, we destroyed a formidable host from the east ere it reached the city. I left a contingent to aid him and sent another east to meet whatever remains of Ryadok’s force.”

  “And now. . .” Euratio raised his sword. “We ride to Valhalea!”

  One hundred warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel and eighty thousand Nimbians swept across the Antelope Plains into the Valhalean forest. They rode to the Sumerian Plain some twenty miles north of Atwall where, King Euratio sensed, Lucius Mordarius would amass his troops.

  Two days later they reached the rolling hills at the edge of the forest overlooking the plain. Euratio signaled the company to stop and called Merewyn to him.

  “Lucius Mordarius will not appear in his natural form. He will take the shape of something else, whether of man or beast I cannot tell.”

  Merewyn nodded and stroked Windrunner’s neck. “I think I will know,” she said softly.

  The king regarded her a moment. “I think you will, too.” Glancing at the group of Arganians chanting softly nearby, he continued, “They will shield us from Mordarius’ eyes tonight while we sleep. Tomorrow we ride forth to meet him.”

  Merewyn lifted her eyes to the setting sun. “I would ask but one thing of you.”

  “Name it, my lady.”

  “Mordarius belongs to me.”

  Euratio nodded. “So be it.”

  Evening’s shadow covered the land. Merewyn wandered through the ancient trees, contemplating what lay ahead. Near the edge of a glade she stopped, absently fingering the tiny pouch King Euratio had given her. Its contents, the king had told her, would sharpen her senses, allowing her to better discern the sorcerer’s devices.