by Sandra Kopp
Arris smiled. “They do not. The previous owner had money.”
The party rode on, never taking their eyes off the estate. Arris noted the long barn and paddocks extending north past the rear of the house and the herd of cattle grazing on the lush hillside to the east. Upon reaching the house, they dismounted and Merewyn turned to Arris, her eyes bright. “I think we’re home.”
A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “I think so, too.”
They stood hand in hand, enraptured by the scene before them. Acres of rich grass rippled and waved in the warm wind, rolling gradually to a small pond in the meadow where the cattle grazed. An errant gust lifted Merewyn’s hair. Arris caught his breath. Pulling her to him, he covered her mouth with his.
Finally Davon cleared his throat. “I say, don’t you two want to see the house?”
Reluctantly they drew apart and turned to meet Davon’s teasing smile. “Of course.” Arris laughed and, keeping an arm around Merewyn, followed his brother to the door.
The elder Marchants had entered already and awaited them inside, entranced by the elegant woodwork, rich trappings, and massive stone fireplace in the greatroom. A broad snowstone staircase curved gracefully to the right as it rose. Large windows in all four walls afforded unobstructed views in every direction.
Mrs. Marchant laid her hand on Merewyn’s shoulder. “I think you’ll be very happy here.” She drew Merewyn away to discuss furnishings while the men addressed weightier matters.
Two weeks later, Arris and Merewyn settled into their new home. Merewyn heartily embraced her role as Arris’ wife, greeting each new day with a prayer of thanks to God, who had granted her such blessing. A year later she presented Arris with a fine son.
Davon married a maiden of Teptiel and joined his new father-in-law in ranching. The elder Marchants built a home across the meadow from Arris’ estate. Only Angelika remained in Aerie.
Edwin and Emily Greene rebuilt Greene’s Willow Inn, and every year the four companions—Charles Bordner, Hans Ogilvie, and Arris and Davon Marchant—along with their families and Bertrand the Fox, gathered to commemorate the happy day when the tyrants fell and peace returned to Epthelion.
THE END
A DARK MOON RISES
Being the second part of
Dark Lords of Epthelion
CHAPTER ONE
Teptiel, April
At midnight on a moonless night the Serpent hovered over the sleeping foothills, his blood-red gaze riveted on the tiny hamlet nestled amid the rolling hills. Behind him, the mighty Alpenfel Mountains thrust jagged peaks through a cloudy mantle to pierce the starlit sky, their brooding silence broken only by the wheezing hisses of the Serpent’s labored breathing.
The Serpent smiled sardonically. Foolish mortals! Their arrogance amused him. They deemed themselves heroes. Yet the true heroes had perished in battle while most of these cowards trembled in mountain caves. Sleek, fat, and consumed by greed, they now lusted for wealth and the blood of the innocent, selling their souls to attain their desire.
Obliging slaves of the demonic host! The Serpent sniffed. His breathing deepened then, grating and sighing as he sucked and expelled the frosty air. He sought, not these paltry swaggerers, but the Nimbian with the brown left eye and green right eye whose searing memory sent an ice-cold rush through the Serpent’s writhing coils. His lips curled back as he released a snarl that echoed through the canyons and spewed venomous rain on the ground below.
Where is he?
The Serpent scanned the landscape, his scaly head bobbing gently from side to side as he drifted ahead. He circled the village, turned northeast and stopped. A long hiss whistled through his teeth as he reared his head back and spread his magnificent hood. On a verdant hillside several miles distant lay a grand estate, its crowning glory the spacious house built of the snow-white stone favored by Nimbians. Red eyes glinting and fangs dripping venom, the Serpent glided toward it.
Arris Marchant. The only Arganian to enter the Black Realm and return unscathed with his sanity and integrity intact. The only man able to slay Ryadok, greatest of all the sorcerer kings, embodied by the Serpent himself and deemed immortal! And afterward this troubler had routed the Serpent and reduced his castle and kingdom to rubble.
But Marchant made a fatal mistake. For the love of a woman—the famous and beautiful Warrior Queen of Ha-Ran-Fel—he had renounced his Arganian commission, making himself as vulnerable as any other man.
The Serpent reached the estate and drifted to a stop, narrowly regarding the house below. How peacefully the Nimbian slept, with his precious warrior queen enfolded in his arms! How sweet his dreams since the Serpent’s defeat!
Ah, but evil never dies! I shall possess you, Arris Marchant. The chains that bound you in Ryadok’s dungeon shall seem as nothing compared to my bonds. However, you will not consider them bonds. Indeed, you shall embrace and cherish them as tools benefiting those you love. But many will die on your account and those you know and love will despise you as a charlatan and a murderer. And when you discover the truth and attempt your escape. . .ah, such sweet revenge will be mine! So have I spoken; so shall it be.
The Serpent drew in his hood and glided away. His raspy hisses grew fainter, finally evaporating as he crossed the mountaintops, and silence settled into the foothills once more.
Dawn’s first rays stained the horizon as Arris topped the hill. He reined his horse in, studied the red-streaked sky, and frowned. “An ill omen, Barada,” he murmured, stroking his charger’s neck.
The chestnut stallion tossed his head. Arris turned and stared down at his estate, still enshrouded in shadow, his probing gaze searching every aspect of trees, barn, paddock, and house. Someone had watched during the night. A malevolent entity invaded his dreams, filling his subconsciousness with hollow whispers. Even now its odor lingered, an unsettling mixture of smoke and sulfur, so faint that only those possessing finely-honed senses would notice.
The fighting has stopped, but the evil that spawned it remains.
Images of his harrowing escape from Castle Ryadok flooded Arris’ memory. Prone and winded, he laid on the stony ground below the tower from which he had jumped. A serpentine face glared down from the top tower window, its lips twisted into a grotesque sneer. The terrible mouth opened as the creature reared back and then plunged toward him. Somehow Arris summoned his ebbing strength and rolled aside just before the creature slammed into the ground only inches away.
Anhuapta!
Beads of sweat glistened on Arris’ forehead. He steadied his breathing, trying to calm his pounding heart. “I knew the creature did not die, but refused to remain an Arganian and risk sharing Ryadok’s fate.” He squared his shoulders. “Though I no longer possess mystical power, I am not helpless. Throughout the ages men of character have prevailed over Anhuapta, as will I. Teptiel teems with such men. I do not stand alone.”
Arris surveyed the tranquil countryside and, despite his foreboding, relaxed. The emerald hills rolled out before him, while to the north the towering Alpenfel Mountains stood guard. A soft wind teased his tawny hair. Cheery meadowlarks filled his ears with song. Honorable men now ruled the land and in Nimbia the Arganian mystics guarded the Corridor, that transcendental portal through which the Serpent must pass to enter the world of men. Yes, hard times would come. But each new dawn brought renewed hope, and the light of day illumined a bountiful land teeming with life and beauty beyond imagination.
A resounding boom broke the stillness. Peals of thunder echoed through the canyons and reverberated among the austere peaks. Arris turned his startled gaze to the Alpenfels, now glowing crimson in the morning sun. Mitrovnia, the tallest peak before him, had shrugged off an icy layer, and now jagged shards spilled down the cliffs, disintegrating into filmy mist that floated up to settle on the mountain’s brawny shoulders again.
A sharp crack followed the abating thunder. Puffy clouds erupted just below the summit on Mitrovnia’s east side. Arris watched, transfixed,
as pieces of glacier the size of cottages plunged two thousand feet and exploded on the mountain’s unforgiving flanks. The canyons rang as shattered debris tumbled into ravines or continued down the mountainside.
Finally the mountains stilled. A dying rumble rolled off a distant peak and evaporated into silence. Arris smiled. “Ah, Barada,” he murmured. “How that sound stirs me! As a youth in Aerie I heard it often, yet never witnessed the cause because I dwelt above it.”
Barada sighed heavily and champed his bit, pawing the ground with a powerful foreleg.
Arris chuckled. “I know. To you it’s just noise.” He reached forward and absently tousled the stallion’s mane, his gaze still riveted on the mountains. “Bear with me, my friend, as I savor this moment ere it passes forever.”
Before he finished speaking a shrill whistle drew his attention to the four Wyars tending his cattle on the hill behind him. Barada neighed in response and, at Arris’ urging, set off at a brisk trot.
A bright-eyed young man riding a striking black and white pony rode to meet him. He wore the loose blue breeches, tan tunic, and wide-brimmed straw hat of the Wyar herders. A red kerchief encircled his neck. A long dagger was strapped to his belt, a coiled rope to his saddle. He smiled broadly. “Morning, Mr. Arris.”
“Morning, Baen.” Arris nodded toward the reddened sky. “What do you make of that?”
Baen followed Arris’ gaze and soberly shook his head. “Not good.”
“Approaching storm?”
Baen pursed his lips. “Maybe. Something happened last night. What, I don’t know.” He glanced around at the cattle. “Cows got restless around midnight but none of us saw anything. No bears, wolves, or cats. Not even tracks. After a while cows settle down again.” Baen shrugged.
“Hmph.” Arris shrugged, too. “Well, keep an eye out.” He smiled then. “Are you going to the gathering in a couple of weeks?”
Baen laughed shortly and shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Arris. I’m no good around women and these Liedoran girls probably wouldn’t like me, anyway. Be different if more Wyars would come, but—”
His smile vanished and he stopped, his widened eyes riveted on the mountains behind them. Arris turned. A chill shuddered down his spine. The sun had risen higher and the mountains exchanged their crimson hues for snowy white. A malefic shadow resembling the head of a hooded serpent crept across the gleaming cliffs, stopping when it reached Mitrovnia’s broad face. Two glistening blood-red eyes appeared in the shadow, narrowing into menacing slits as the mouth gaped open.
“Hovia!” Arris scanned the heavens. Two puffy clouds, neither resembling a snake, hung benignly in the azure sky and with bated breath he faced the mountain again. The dreadful mouth had closed and as the eyes faded, the monstrous visage regarded him with a look of unmistakable smugness. An ominous whisper filled the canyons as the shadow separated into inky pools and trickled down the mountainsides.
Arris found his voice first. “You’re right,” he whispered. “Not good.”
CHAPTER TWO
Garris, May
In southern Liedor along the north bank of the Ashgard River the town of Garris stirred to life. Having buried their dead and rebuilt their town, the industrious folk now reclaimed their lives. A fortunate few, their homes, businesses and loved ones still intact, simply went on as before, while the majority eked out a meager living any way they could.
The good people of Garris aided one another on the condition that, except if elderly or severely disabled, the beneficiary went to work and in due time contributed back to the general good. Only one person had ever failed in this regard, a ne’er-do-well lad who preferred drink over all else, ignored the magistrate’s warning to amend his ways, and promptly received a beating and a ride out of town on a pole.
Yet even he fared better than the one wartime casualty who would never be healed, redeemed or forgiven: The settlers from Barren-Fel, that dark and forbidding land whose black womb had produced sorcerer kings evil beyond comprehension. Even those who arrived in Liedor before the war and fought on her side against the tyrant suffered suspicion and ostracism.
On this particular day, however, the sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, bestowing abundant blessings to all below. Prosperity Way, Garris’ main thoroughfare, teemed with activity. Carriages and wagons laden with food, hay and other supplies rumbled down the cobblestone street between brand new frame buildings that included a fabric store, apothecary shop, and an expansive mercantile offering everything from food to hardware. Primroses, violets and petunias spilling from storefront flowerboxes scented the warming air and pleased the eye with festive hues. Women carrying covered baskets and wearing crisp white bonnets and gaily colored frocks herded their youngsters in and out of shops. Groups of townsmen conversed on the street corners. Running feet drummed the boardwalks as laughing children raced to Mrs. Beall’s confectionary shop.
Nineteen-year-old Melinda Greene threaded her way through the milling crowd. Slender and green-eyed, her long auburn hair bouncing in time to her springy gait, she seemed always in a hurry. Her infectious smile, however, masked profound grief that, even after a year, weighed her down like a sodden cloak. She should be Mistress Thomas Hammond now. But Ryadok’s massive war machine had claimed his life, along with her father’s, leaving Melinda and her mother destitute.
A throng of squealing children jostled her as they raced past. “Good heavens! Take it easy.” Melinda stared after them, but a familiar figure emerging from the fabric shop drew her attention there. Melinda brightened. Waving cheerily, she called, “Aunt Emily!”
Emily Greene pulled the shop door closed and waved back. Her plump, pleasant face broke into a broad smile as Melinda ran to join her. “Good morning, Melinda! What brings you here?”
“I’m going to the butcher.” Melinda jingled the coins in her pocket. “Mother made some extra money sewing a gown for Mistress Allen. We’re going to eat tonight!” She pointed to the bolt of cloth in Emily’s arms. “What are you making?”
“Drapes,” Emily proclaimed. “Greene’s Willow Inn has risen from the ashes and will receive guests once more. That is, as soon as I can get these done,” she finished with a laugh.
“I am so happy to see that beautiful inn on the banks of the Ashgard again. I cried when it burned.” Melinda’s face fell. “Almost as hard as I cried for Thomas.” She wiped her eyes and chuckled ruefully. “How foolish. Almost a year and still I grieve.”
“Not foolish at all.” Emily wrapped a comforting arm around Melinda’s shoulders. “That war left few men. Thomas Hammond and your father were two of the finest. Your uncle and I grieve with you.”
A barrage of insults and jeers erupted from across the street. Emily paused and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “More trouble.”
Melinda turned. Four men standing abreast on the board walk accosted a tall, slender dark-haired girl of about seventeen. “Walk in the street, Rauth,” one of them snarled. “Filthy traitor!”
The girl stood her ground. “I am no traitor,” she returned evenly. “We are Liedoran. My brother died fighting Ryadok at Langhorn.”
The man spat, spewing a brownish stream onto the girl’s blouse. “Your ma’s a stinking Rauth and so are you. Go back where you belong, sow, and take your sow mother with you!”
He seized the girl and shoved her into the street. Thrown off balance, she staggered a couple of steps before falling to her hands and knees on the hard stone. The men howled with laughter. The girl grimaced but retained her composure.
“Enough!” Emily shouted and, followed by Melinda, ran as fast as her laden arms and chubby frame allowed.
The men snickered as she wheezed to a stop in front of them. “Oh, we’re in for it now,” one taunted.
“Indeed you are, churl!” Emily scolded. “You should all be ashamed! Four strapping men against a defenseless, innocent girl! She’s done nothing wrong. I know her family. They’re loyal citizens and finer people than any of you! H
er brother died for this land. What have you done?”
By now a small crowd had gathered. One of the perpetrators tried to stare Emily down, but under her unflinching gaze and unnerved by the daunting stares and rebukes from some of the bystanders, he muttered and slouched away. Two of his companions followed silently. The fourth whistled obscenely at the girl before sauntering after them. One by one the townspeople drifted away. “You really should move on, miss,” one of them told the girl as he passed. “Your kind have no place here.”
“Oh, off with ye, all of you! Louts!” Emily plopped her cloth into Melinda’s arms, helped the girl to her feet, and briskly brushed the dirt off her soiled skirt. “My goodness! Luwanna Frye, you don’t deserve such treatment.”
“I’m getting quite used to it, Mrs. Greene.” Luwanna paused to accept the handkerchief Emily offered and smiled her thanks as she wiped her hands and blouse. “Thank you for stepping in. I fear that pushing me wasn’t enough; they would have inflicted more harm but for you.”
“What’s to be done?” Emily moaned.
“The Lady Ashgard leaves for Teptiel tomorrow evening. I have already paid my passage and intend to sail with her.”
Emily blinked. “Teptiel? There’s hardly anything left there.”
“I hear from my cousin the town’s been rebuilt and many Wyars have returned.” Luwanna blinked back a tear. “I have no future here. At least there I will be among my own kind.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Emily sighed. “What say your parents?”
“What can they say? They know what I endure but can do nothing. Both agree I should go. If all goes well for me they may sell their farm and join me there.”
“And Garris will lose a fine family. Oh, Luwanna! I wish things could be different.” Emily hugged her. “However, you’ve probably made the right decision. I wish you my very best, and may God be with you.”
