by Sandra Kopp
A birdlike shriek erupted from Luke McNeil’s throat. Davon and his companions dove for cover as their attackers loosed a volley of arrows. One of the missiles lodged in Aron’s arm. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it out, whipped it to his bowstring, and shot it into Luke McNeil’s heart.
Wry amusement crossed the lad’s face. He nonchalantly pulled the arrow from his chest and held it up, slowly turning as if displaying a prize to the group now gathered in a semicircle behind him. His companions burst into laughter, but Davon discerned the hellish growls amid their glee.
Abruptly the laughter stopped. Angyar caught his breath and nudged Davon. “They have sold their souls. They are no longer mortal, but demons in human form!”
With bated breath, they watched the sheriff and the McNeils transform: Their facial skin tightened, turned sallow, and shrank until only bare bone remained; their eyes and noses shriveled to hollow sockets, reducing their visages to leering death masks, although the rest of their bodies remained flesh.
“What do we do?” Jovah croaked.
Davon set his jaw and drew his sword. The Wyars gripped clubs and daggers. Raising a collective shout, they ran to meet the line of demons now racing toward them.
Arris vigorously shook his head, trying to gather his wits. He stood inside a long gray tube dimly illumined by a yellowish glow, the sides of which swirled around him like raging waters. As his eyes adjusted to the pale light, he ascertained he was still inside the funnel which, while rotating fiercely, had become deathly silent and now lay horizontally. Arris glanced down and caught his breath. The sweeping column beneath his feet should have sent him flying, yet its surface felt as firm as stone. Feeling dizzy, he closed his eyes.
Don’t look at the walls! Arris swallowed hard and opened his eyes. Fixing his focus on the vortex’s calm center, he cautiously moved forward.
Have I entered the Corridor?
Through the haze he caught a faint metallic glimmer. Arris drew closer and recognized the hilt of his sword protruding out of the churning floor. His pulse quickened as he hurried to it. Reaching down, he curled his fingers around the weapon.
Like a malevolent troll, Erik Tanner loomed before him. Hate-filled eyes smoldered in a head that hung almost below his shoulders. The revolting stench of burning feathers made Arris want to retch, but he stood firm and readied his sword.
“All right, Tanner. Let’s settle this now.”
Erik’s thin lips parted, revealing razor-sharp fangs. His eyes glowed yellow and then turned black. Pressing his arms tightly to his sides, he imploded, his six-foot frame reduced to little more than half its size. Five gnarled and blackened bones protruded from each sleeve of his black hooded robe. His face dissolved into an inky void.
Arris gaped. Erik Tanner attacked Hans!
Flaming eyes erupted within the hood. “You dared deceive the master,” a deep voice growled and then, with a piercing shriek, the creature sprang. Arris braced himself, waiting until it was nearly upon him before swinging his sword. The creature darted aside and then ricocheted back and forth off the corridor’s sides, clawing Arris with taloned fingers each time it passed. Within minutes rivers of blood and sweat streamed down Arris’ face and neck. His body burned as if afire, and for a moment he considered what torment Eldor Rand must have endured in his final moments. His breathing grew labored; he felt himself fainting. Gasping, he mustered his waning strength and swung harder, but the wily creature evaded each blow while inflicting more wounds. Arris staggered. Unbearable agony drove him to his knees.
Hot rancid breath hit him full in the face. Arris glimpsed the flaming eyes and then felt searing fangs buried in his throat. He cried out, jerking and convulsing as he tried to push the creature off him. He suddenly felt as if his body had erupted into flames and with a howl of rage, turned his sword perpendicular to the ground and drove it sideways. The creature gurgled, stiffened, and then pulled free. Its ringing laughter filled the funnel as Arris fell, face down, onto the cold hard stone.
Davon grunted as Tom McNeil’s blade met his. For a moment they remained locked; then, with a sudden circular motion, Davon wrenched free and sent McNeil’s sword flying. Davon lunged, but his wily opponent sidestepped, snapped up his weapon, and charged. Whipping, slashing, and thrusting, McNeil’s blade moved like lightning. Davon parried, but barely, for McNeil’s swiftly-moving sword now rendered Davon’s strikes little more than glancing blows.
Four against a dozen—and one of us an unskilled lad! Davon glanced to his left where Jovah, knife in one hand and club in the other, maneuvered awkwardly between two McNeils. Backing slowly, Davon made his way toward him, but Luke McNeil and two of his brothers leaped in to join their father, forcing Davon’s full attention to his own plight.
To his right, Angyar and Aron engaged the sheriff and the remaining McNeils. Angyar jumped aside in time to evade a sword thrust and then swung his club with all his might, striking one McNeil in the head. Stunned, McNeil reeled and fell. He tried to rise but Angyar struck him again, this time breaking his head open. McNeil went down, convulsed, and lay still.
A leonine roar erupted from Jim McNeil’s throat. Angyar and Aron rallied around Jovah as the clan closed in. The death of his kin had momentarily distracted Tom McNeil and, seizing his chance, Davon drove his sword into McNeil’s throat. McNeil gurgled and growled. Davon wrenched his blade free and swung, taking McNeil’s head off his shoulders. Luke caught his father’s head before it hit the ground and, to Davon’s horror, placed it back on his shoulders. Tom McNeil gave his head a shake and then, eyes smoldering, raised his sword and lunged at Davon.
Davon leaped, whirled, and danced, parrying wildly to ward off the onslaught of four frenzied McNeil’s. “The heads!” he screamed. “We have to crush their heads!” He dodged just in time to evade Luke’s thrust, but the move placed him in the path of Tom’s blade and he gasped as the cruel steel sliced into his forearm.
“Jovah! Bazanach! Bazanach!” Angyar shouted.
Jovah jumped out of the fray and yanked a leather sling out of his pocket. Shielded by his companions, he darted about, gathering rocks and slinging them at their attackers’ heads. He quickly brought down four, and as each one fell, Angyar or Aron moved in to crush the head.
Soon six lay dead, but the remaining demons each fought with the strength of ten. Thirty minutes passed. Aron also employed a sling, often hitting a foe who eluded Jovah’s shot. Davon, still wielding his sword, wheezed and gasped as he tried to push through the pain and fatigue. His wounded arm throbbed mercilessly and he felt his lungs would burst.
Behind him Angyar barked, “Davon! Down!”
Davon spun around. A rock the size of a man’s fist hurtled toward his face. He dropped to the ground and as he did so, Luke and Tom McNeil both swung their swords, decapitating each other. Each scrambled to recover their head, but Aron and Jovah rushed in, Jovah kicking Luke’s head away before Luke could grab it. Luke clawed and kicked. Raising his club, Aron pounded the demon head. When it refused to break Angyar rushed in and dashed it to pieces with a single blow.
Jovah felled another demon while Aron dispatched Tom McNeil. Davon decapitated two more, which Angyar and Aron finished with their clubs.
Finally only one remained. Davon stared, aghast, as the sheriff’s fleshly visage slowly returned. With pleading eyes, Sheriff Reid fell to his knees before the somber group closing in around him. “Please, mercy.”
“You have sold your soul and can never return to the world of men,” Angyar countered.
The sheriff’s face fell. “I know. But I was forced.”
“How?” Davon asked.
“I killed a man when I was young. Eli Rand protected me.”
“And now you have killed many more.” This from Angyar.
The sheriff swallowed. “I beg you, before you strike, allow me to ask God’s forgiveness.”
“Did you allow Pharen and Bennie to likewise make their peace?” Angyar asked.
The sheriff’s lo
wer lip trembled. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. A silent signal passed from Angyar to Jovah. Jovah raised his club. Gritting his teeth and with a strength Davon thought impossible for a lad so young, Jovah brought his club down.
Angyar wrapped the makeshift bandage around Davon’s forearm and tied it. “There. That will last until you get home.”
Davon nodded. “Thank you. But first we have to find Arris.”
“We find him.” Angyar turned and spoke to Aron and Jovah in the Wyar tongue. Aron frowned as he studied the ground before him. He straightened suddenly and set off across the field toward the southeast. His companions followed.
A rocky knoll rose from the field a short distance away. Something about that seemingly benign terrain made Davon quicken his pace. Foreboding seized him, and he sprinted ahead of the others to its crest. The Wyars heard his anguished wail. They hurried to the knoll where a sobbing Davon knelt beside his brother’s bloody sword.
Entombed in darkness, Arris writhed in a molten sea. Each tortured breath filled his lungs with fire. Ryadok’s taunting voice echoed over and over through the chambers of his mind: I’m not dead, Cousin; you are!
Arris threw himself onto his back, pounding the floor on either side of him as he vented his torment in a bitter sob. “Merewyn! Merewyn! My beloved, my wife! Merewyn!” Choking spasms wracked his body. Arris gasped and raised himself on one elbow. “Mah ‘tu ani!”
His strength fled. Arris collapsed, his head striking unforgiving stone. A soothing breeze caressed his sweat-soaked face. Beneath him the surface undulated gently, wafting him along like a quiet stream. Chest heaving, Arris lolled his head to one side. Cooling balm washed over his torrid body, dousing the flames and mollifying his seared nerves. Arris closed his eyes and let himself drift.
A sliver of light dawned to his left. Arris’ eyelids fluttered open. Through a dreamy haze he saw the black outline of a door. Brilliant light poured through the cracks around its top and sides. The door creaked open, and white light flooded the chamber, revealing a tall, slender figure bearing a staff.
Baldimora stood before him. Arris marveled at his expression, for never had he seen such warmth on his mentor’s face. The Arganian master glided to Arris’ side and passed tender fingertips over his face.
“You amaze me, Arris Marchant. Even as a mortal you bested the demon. In your deepest despair you place your loved ones’ welfare above your own. Noble indeed, as King Euratio said.”
“Bested a demon?” Arris whispered. “Hardly. He left me in flames and departed laughing.”
“In flames?” Baldimora raised his brows. “With poison, yes. In flames, no. Now you know what your red-bearded friend experienced as he came to your house.”
“I am not burned?”
Baldimora smiled as he shook his head. “You are swollen, but our balm will draw that out. Ere long you’ll bear no scars to boast of.”
Arris moistened his lips. “You said I bested the demon. He fled, laughing, apparently unhurt.”
“Your sword pierced him mortally. He laughed because he glimpsed his master and thought himself safe. As so often happens, however, Anhuapta let him die.”
“Does Anhuapta lack the power to save?”
“No. Anhuapta toys with man. He revels in their misery.” Baldimora sighed. “I have never done so before but, Arris Marchant, I grant you power, although not in full measure. I return to you empathic power and the power to heal. Rest now. Regain your strength, for you will need it when you return home.”
“My family is well?” Arris asked, but fell asleep before Baldimora could answer.
A cool hand brushed his forehead. Arris opened his eyes to find Angelika smiling down at him. He smiled back. “Now I know that all is well.”
“Indeed, brother.” A little smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “For a while, though, your survival appeared uncertain.”
“Hmpf.” Arris’ shoulders shook against the pillows propping him up. He stared down a moment and then looked at Angelika. “What accident befell you in the Corridor? Were you badly hurt? I pressed Baldimora for answers but received none.”
“Anhuapta mustered his forces against us. Something overpowered me as I spoke to Nedra, rendered me unconscious and, for a time, unable to communicate telepathically. I suffered no physical harm.” A troubled expression crossed her face. “Nedra, I fear, has chosen her own path. No one deceives her. She knows her own mind and will do what she thinks necessary to attain what she wants. Hans has discovered this and now must do what he deems necessary to—” Angelika averted her gaze—“to survive.”
“I feared it would come to this.” Arris fell silent. After a moment a curious smile lit his face. He sat up straighter. “Is that Timnafnah Falls I hear?”
“Yes.” Angelika rose and crossed the room. She opened the window, allowing the thunderous roar of Aerie’s mightiest waterfall into the chamber.
“Ahh.” Elated, Arris rose and joined his sister at the open window. Together they watched the majestic plume, clothed in mist and rainbows, tumbling down the snow-white cliff. “I have so missed this,” Arris whispered. “As much as I treasure my beautiful new home, nothing moves me as does this.”
“You can return,” Angelika whispered back. “Baldimora will accept you. You have only to speak to him.”
Arris caught his breath. “I have—”
He paused as a soft feminine voice drifted in from the corridor, gradually fading as the speaker moved on.
“I know,” Angelika finished for him. “You have one duty in Teptiel yet to fulfill.” Smiling, she tucked her hand in Arris’ arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Late October
Arris leaned against the paddock fence, watching as Angyar and three other Wyars herded the last of the cattle through the gate and into the dell where they would be sheltered and fed through the long winter. Already the Alpenfel Mountains sported new robes of glistening white snow, and the brisk wind carried a frosty bite, a forewarning of long frigid months ahead. The fields had yielded well, producing enough hay to fill the haymows and a small open shed erected for the purpose.
The investigation into the fire on the Rand estate had produced no definite cause. The council buried the bodies of Eli, Eldor, and Marna three days later, but only the remaining McNeils and Della Tanner attended. That the Schiffs did not, surprised Arris. Maybe, he reasoned, the elder Schiff had suspected all along that Eldor Rand had killed his son.
Angyar swung off his horse and closed the gate. He said something to his companions in the Wyar tongue and then, leading his horse, walked to Arris. “If you have nothing more today I send the men home.”Arris shook his head. “Let them go.”
Angyar turned and signaled to the men, who waved to Arris and rode away.
“They be back every day to feed. You have good hay, Mr. Arris, enough to take you through the winter.” Angyar cocked his head. “You all right now, Mr. Arris? No more sickness from the fight?”
“I’m all right. The Arganians purged the poison from me.” Arris hesitated. “Angyar, I wonder if we might talk a bit. Something you said about Eldor puzzles me.”
Angyar nodded. “Yes?”
“Let’s sit for a minute.” Arris led him past the paddock to a wooden bench outside the barn’s back door and sat down. Angyar sat beside him and leaned back, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands folded on his stomach as he regarded Arris through half-closed eyes.
“You told me once Eldor Rand was a Wyar matter,” Arris said. “What did you mean?”
“Wyars handle their own affairs, whether it concerns caring for a needy family or settling a dispute.”
“How does that pertain to Rand?”
“His mother was my sister.” Angyar noted Arris’ stunned expression and smiled grimly. “How could this happen, you wonder? From his youth Eli Rand was a wild man, taking whoever and whatever he wanted. My sister was a beautiful woman. Eli saw her in town one evening, wooed and wined her, and when she wa
s drunk—” Angyar raised his brows and shrugged—“you know. Then he left. Liesel came home, thinking she’s in love and getting married. Eli would come for her, she told us but, of course, he never did.
“Not long after, Liesel found herself with child. Me and my brothers went to talk to Eli. Eli told us we were crazy, he’d had no part of a Wyar woman. But we had with us a leather belt engraved with his name that, in his drunkenness, he’d left with Liesel. When I pulled that out, Eli turned whiter than snow. He claimed then somebody must have stolen that belt and given it to Liesel, but I shut his lying mouth with my fist. We told him, ‘You either do right by our sister or we hang you here right now.’” Angyar sniffed. “Gallant Eli decided to do right.” He twisted his mouth to one side and shook his head. “You know, he’d never even asked Liesel her name.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Arris returned. “What happened to Liesel?”
“She married Eli and they lived quite well. But Eldor brought her hard labor, and she died after giving birth. We thought Eli’d give up the baby, but he doted on that child. Loved him like—” Angyar waved a hand. “The first year or so Eli latched onto one woman after another to nurse Eldor. Every time one wanted marriage he’d throw her out and find another.
“As soon as Eldor could walk, Eli unloaded the women altogether, except for once in a while when he felt nature’s urge. He raised Eldor alone, teaching him that he was better than anyone, and that he was not a Wyar. Eli treated women and Wyars like slaves, and his son did worse.” Angyar sighed. “As Eldor’s uncle, I tried to step in but Eli threatened to kill anyone who interfered. He’d joined with the McNeils and old man Tanner, Erik’s father. Ruthless cutthroats all. No one wanted trouble with them. If you angered one, someone dear to you died. Tanner, I think, sold his soul, as did his son. A more evil man I’ve never met. But his death—” Angyar shuddered. “Very terrible. Those who saw his face believed he saw hell even as he left this life to enter it.”
