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

by Sandra Kopp

  For several minutes he stood with head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer. Feeling strengthened, he looked up, and with renewed tenacity mounted his horse and urged him forward. The roan gelding jogged easily through the bowl and up the slope. Hans set his jaw. Through the valley of the shadow of death. . .right into its slavering jaws.

  Soon they reached a bulging hard-packed base, the center of which swelled into the broad gray dome marking their destination. Hans dismounted and unstrapped a leather satchel from the saddle. He rubbed the horse’s neck and whispered, “Wait here for me, Parsius, but come quickly should I call.”

  Parsius nuzzled Hans’ shoulder. Hans gave the horse a final pat and then, with Shadow on one shoulder and his satchel slung over the other, slipped around the dome.

  The jagged points of Fang Mountain’s twin spires reared skyward, eerily black against a flaming orange cloud. Hans ducked into a cluster of pines hugging the mountain’s flank just below the dome. Eyes watched; he felt them, although he saw no one. Phantom voices whispered among the trees in a language he did not understand. His brow glistened with sweat. Little time remained; he must confirm the castle’s existence and then get off this mountain before nightfall. Heart pounding, Hans raced through the woods.

  The ground began a gentle descent and the pines thinned until only a handful dotted the hillside. Hans sprinted to a big fir a few steps beyond the pine copse and peered around it. Numbing chills raced down his spine.

  Far below, a lush green meadow, in the middle of which flowed a pleasant stream, graced a broad oval valley separating Firendoom from Fang Mountain. Between Fang Mountain’s saw-toothed spires, blood-red against the flaming sky, stood a massive, iridescent castle of pure quartz. Seven spires of varying heights stabbed at the heavens. A white flag bearing the likeness of a shepherd’s staff floated from atop the highest tower.

  With bated breath Hans ran his tongue across his parched lips. I must tell Arris. . .But before he could act, an explosive serpentine hiss erupted from amid the spires and evaporated into the mountaintops. Hans gasped and ducked behind the tree. His trembling fingers fumbled through the satchel for the scrap of parchment, an ink pouch, and the stub of a quill brought for this purpose. He scribbled a hasty note, tucked it into the tube fastened to Shadow’s leg, and secured the cap.

  “Go now!” he whispered, and gave the bird a little toss. Shadow streaked skyward and out of sight. Panting, Hans pasted himself against the tree away from the castle’s view. Why do you stand here, man? a voice within him cried. Run!

  SSSSSSSsssssssss! The serpent’s hiss swept down the canyons like a shrieking wind. At the same moment Hans felt the sensation of ropes tightening around his upper arms, and then invisible bonds held his arms to his sides; however, his legs remained unbound and he propelled himself forward, struggling to free his arms as he lurched up the hill. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed an indistinct form gliding alongside a short distance away. Liquidly translucent, it shimmered eerily in the gathering dusk. Over and over it vanished and reappeared, closing in with each emergence. Hans’ breath came in gulps and gasps. Heart hammering and head pounding, he spurred himself on, but the very air felt like thick goo that impeded his breathing, entangled his steps, and held him fast. He tried to whistle for Parsius but could not form his tightened lips to do so, tried to call but managed only a strangled squawk. Near the dome’s base his spectral pursuer appeared again, barely an arm’s length away. Hans gaped at a leering skull-like face pulsating like a reflection in a rippling pond. A long bony arm reached for him. Smoke-like fingers clawed at his arm.

  Thunder crashed as the world exploded with blinding red light. Hans’ bonds fell away. His pursuer shrieked and burst into pieces, expelling a blast of wind that knocked Hans to his knees. Grunting, Hans tried to stand but his knees seemed rooted to the ground. A strange buzzing filled his ears.

  A hooded figure materialized amid the shimmering haze surrounding him and slowly and deliberately approached, one hand extended as if to help him rise. Dazed and confused, Hans extended his own hand. A soothing caress floated up his arm to his cheek, enveloping him with such comfort and peace as he had never experienced. Relief flooded over him and for a moment he relaxed. But consolation turned to terror when the hand holding his turned icy. Hans stiffened, gaping as a searing jolt traveled up his arm and sent fiery, wrenching spasms racing throughout his body. Screaming in agony, he plunged into paralyzing darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angyar crested the hill and reined his horse in. The late afternoon sun warmed his back and intensified the sweet fragrance exuded by the sea of blossoms surrounding him. To his left, grass-carpeted foothills teeming with springtime wildflowers rolled north to meet the towering Alpenfel Mountains. To his right, they sloped gently into the lush Rauwyar Valley.

  Rauwyar. The womb of Barren-Fel. The old man turned his wistful gaze south, trying to swallow the lump rising in his throat. For centuries this fertile basin had offered, not only refuge, but life to Rauths and Wyars alike. Its rich soils nourished crops and herds. Icy streams tumbled from the Alpenfels and meandered the valley’s lush meadows, slaking thirsts and reviving spirits. Lovely lakes teemed with fish. On Sundays the people worshiped among the sacred stones atop Mayoren Knoll in the north or at Fels Grove in the south. Health and peace abounded.

  Now the sun-washed valley stretched before him, golden-hued in ethereal light, inviting, tantalizing, but forbidden. Twenty years ago Liedoran forces overran and seized these sacred lands, pushing Barren-Fel’s citizens deep into the forest to eke a meager existence however they could. Any who resisted died. Those hoping to remain in the valley by offering themselves in servitude to the Liedorans were driven out, some to exile, others to face execution as traitors to their tribes.

  Angyar remembered happier days when Wyar yurts and herds dotted these verdant pastures and the Rauths tended bountiful fields on the valley’s south end. Now fences fettered the land and stark stone houses rose like monuments above bare circles burned into once unbroken meadow. Piers rimming the lakes marred their pristine beauty.

  A tear trickled down his cheek. “Sacrilege! Poncheks!” Fury tautened Angyar’s weathered face as he spat the words. Liedor would pay for raping his beloved home. At Angyar’s command the Wyar hordes would rout the invaders, throw down these stones, and burn the hedgerows. They would rip out the fences and set the land free.

  “This task requires much time, much toil—and much blood,” he whispered. “But so be it! Rauwyar belongs to Barren-Fel!” His voice rose, trembling with emotion. “Here was I born. Here will I live out my remaining years—and here will I die. By my very life, I swear it!”

  Angyar blew out an explosive breath and urged his horse forward, absently fingering the thin scroll tucked inside his jacket as he crossed the gentle swells toward a stand of evergreens atop a higher hill to the northeast. The scroll, delivered to him by a raven the previous day, bore a cryptic and intriguing summons which identified its author only as The Shepherdess.

  “‘Shepherdess,’ she calls herself,” he muttered. “Well, we shall see what the witch has to say.” He trotted to the trees and reined his horse in. An eerie stillness hung over the place. Angyar saw no one, but sensed another’s presence. His horse champed her bit and shifted nervously. Angyar simply waited.

  “Welcome, my brother.” A woman’s low throaty voice emanated from the grove, floating on the fresh spring air like a soothing lullaby. “You have proven yourself a noble guardian of your people, a proud leader of the Wyar race. To such belong honor and great reward.”

  Angyar cocked his head, one eye narrowed as he stared into the trees. “Come out of the shadows, woodsman’s daughter. Or will the daylight crumble your lovely frame into dust?”

  Soft footsteps padded across dried duff. Gentle laughter melded with the breeze, and then a delicate hand parted the branches, revealing a tall, lithe woman clothed in a long buckskin skirt and tunic adorned with fringes on both sides
and at the bottom. Her luxuriant brown hair hung in two thick braids tumbling over her breasts to her waist. A quiver of arrows hung from her shoulder and she carried a bow in her right hand. Her olive complexion was smooth and flawless. Her wide dark eyes regarded him tenderly, and an alluring smile curved her full lips as she emerged to stand before him.

  “Look upon me and behold no mere woodsman’s daughter.” She paused for a moment and then laughed. “You speak your mind well, my brother. I admire that.”

  “I would not be called your brother,” Angyar returned evenly. “I perceive you possess much power—not from above, but from the hole of the snake. I am no kin of that.”

  “Because of his injuries my father Arronmyl granted me power to rule; otherwise, I possess none. No one controls me.” She wryly twisted her mouth to one side before continuing, “You might ask my husband, if you can find him.”

  “Where is your husband, daughter of Arronmyl?”

  Her face fell. “For a time we shared the same mission: Reconciling Barren-Fel to the rest of Epthelion while peacefully recovering her lost territory. As the daughter of a chief I ruled in my father’s name. Born and bred in the wilderness, I speak its language and understand its ways. Barren-Fel became my home and the Rauths my countrymen. But my husband, saturated by the greed of the land that spawned him or perhaps afraid that Liedor will resist returning the land, withdrew his support. Instead, he assumed a conqueror’s role and tried to force Liedor’s ways on people who could neither comprehend nor abide them. He tried to mold me into his idea of a suitable mate. I could never be the weak, submissive slave he demands and so he has forsaken me. Likely he returned to his own country seeking a compliant damsel.”

  Angyar grunted. “And your brother?”

  “Marcos rules San-Leyon.” The Shepherdess sighed and moistened her lips. “I saw your pain—nay, your outrage as you contemplated Rauwyar. You share our vision. Liedor holds our sacred valley. We need Rauwyar to sustain us. Without it, we must either scratch a living from soils too poor to support crops or beg food from the thieves who plundered us. Every other kingdom has been restored. Why not ours?”

  “Indeed. Why not ours?” Angyar regarded her narrowly. “But I would join Nedra, daughter of Arronmyl—not the Serpent’s puppet, regardless of how beautiful, benevolent, or benign she appears.”

  For a moment she studied him silently, reproach and disappointment mingled on her face. “You still do not believe me and thus you misjudge me,” she said finally. “Regardless of what you believe, I am neither sorceress nor deceiver. For well over a year I have lived among the Rauths and shared their struggles. All that time they have faithfully observed the terms dictated by the kings who defeated them, only to be beaten down time and again. It must stop. As for the sorcerers. . .” Her eyes glistened and in a voice fraught with emotion she continued, “They arise from the Arganians. Arris Marchant, that noble tower of integrity, has proven himself nothing but an arrogant swaggerer and a liar. His High Arganian sister harangues me endlessly, trying through me to effect further harm upon Barren-Fel—and in the background I hear his voice! Yes! Despite his words, Arris Marchant never forsook the Dark Arts, but has become twice the warlock Ryadok ever was.”

  She met Angyar’s stare. “You wish not to believe me, yet show no surprise. But know this: One night as his sister spoke to me I heard Arris’ voice calling her away to minister to a woman whose husband had beaten her. Did Arris’ sister reside in Teptiel at that time, or could he have traveled that night to Aerie and returned with her before the woman expired? I think not!”

  Cold sweat glistened on Angyar’s forehead. “No,” he whispered. “Angelika dwells in the cliffs. Arris did not go to her, for I can attest that on that night he never left Teptiel.”

  “If he lost his Arganian power after marrying the queen of the Horse Lords, from whom has he now attained it? I own no such power nor do I desire it. Nedra, daughter of Arronmyl, solicits your aid because our people deserve restitution. The Rauths stand ready to fight. If the Wyars join us, we can drive the invaders from Rauwyar. That is all I ask.” Her countenance softened, becoming pleading and even demure as she searched Angyar’s face. “What say you? Will you join us?”

  Angyar stared at the ground, his lips tight. He risked much but could never accomplish what he hoped to alone. He had faced temptation before without yielding. But now the Serpent hovered overhead, enticing, alluring. Angyar must summon all his strength to resist. Should he fail he forfeited his life; if not, he would regain Rauwyar for his people.

  Nedra waited. Angyar drew an uneven breath and nodded. “I will join you. But—” He looked her full in the face—“only on the condition that I direct this endeavor. Swear to it and I will join you; otherwise—” He made a slashing motion with his hand and shook his head.

  For a moment she simply stared. Then, “I confess I lack your experience, and thus value your opinions and advice. However, you seemed uncertain, and since I rule Barren-Fel. . .”

  “Having lived many years among Liedorans I know their tactics, along with their strengths and weaknesses,” Angyar broke in. “They fear no battle and will fight to the death. You interpret as uncertainty my recognition that we must execute this endeavor carefully. If we war against them, we affirm Barren-Fel’s reputation as brutish and irrational, and all Epthelion will rise to their aid.” His voice softened. “As I beheld the valley I, too, thought the invaders must die. But their blood must not corrupt such sacred land. I would employ trickery to drive them out, never to return.”

  A mocking smile curled Nedra’s lips. “Trickery? Or witchcraft? What is witchcraft, if not trickery? Take care you do not deceive yourself, my brother.”

  Angyar remained stone-faced. “My wits and knowledge of our enemy will defeat them, not demonic power that the giver of that power will employ to destroy us after we serve his purpose. You are sadly misguided, Nedra. A fine line separates the two sometimes, but trickery requires no witchcraft. I will not sell my soul. I pray you have not sold yours.”

  “No.” Nedra soberly shook her head. “My soul stands secure.” She bowed shortly. “Very well, Angyar. I acquiesce to your terms. As you have said so shall it be. I would ask, however, that you advise me in advance what you propose to do.”

  “I shall.” Angyar nodded toward the mountains behind them. “I will move my people and herds into yonder mountains, little by little so the invaders believe we merely graze our flocks. As I lay my plans I will send you word.”

  “Good.” Nedra raised her bow. “Now go in peace, my brother. I shall await your return.”

  Angyar touched a hand to his hat. “Peace to you and your people. We shall meet again soon.”

  Nedra watched as he rode away. As he disappeared over the hill her eyes gleamed blood-red and her lips writhed into an ugly sneer, exposing a long canine tooth sharpened to a point. “Ponchek!” she snarled and darted into the trees.

  Angyar rode toward the setting sun, contemplating the consequences of what he had just done. He had entered, not an agreement, but an entanglement from which only the endeavor’s completion or his death could free him.

  Death will not free you. The words resounded through his brain like a gong. You made a pact with the devil, believing you hold the upper hand when, in fact, you may have played into his. What trickery will you employ, herdsman, to hold the sorceress and her master at bay? She will never submit to your authority, although for now she pretends that she has. Take heed that you be not devoured.

  Angyar’s mouth went dry as he considered that he faced, not a mortal maiden, but a ruthless witch empowered by a demon. And while Arris Marchant had once proven a stalwart ally, his recent demeanor bespoke allegiance to the darker powers. Arris indeed appeared arrogant, over-confident, and often spoke so enigmatically that even his brother could not understand him.

  “In that regard the sorceress spoke truth. I cannot trust Arris Marchant.” Abruptly Angyar caught himself. “But what prattle is this? Already
I have faced Anhuapta alone and emerged with more honor than the Arganian did. Somehow I will acquire the means to accomplish what I told that wench I would.” Impulsively he slapped his thigh. “Ho, Patuka! We’ve work to do. Run!” Patuka broke into a gallop and Angyar squared his shoulders, invigorated with renewed determination.

  The lengthening shadows pooled into one as the sun dropped behind the distant hills, staining the heavens with dusky hues of pink, purple, and gold. An owl hooted and crickets began to sing, their high-pitched chirps growing and fading as Angyar passed. He turned his focus to the hills. Evening’s approach would bring cougars, wolves, and bears out of their lairs, and recently Wyar herders had reported a new predator—a monstrous shaggy wolf-like beast possessing the speed, cunning, and agility of a cougar. Cumah, they called it. Since few had actually seen the brute, Angyar doubted their accounts. Darkness combined with loneliness and fertile imaginations often combined to produce fantastic but unreal images. And yet, he mused, a remnant of Ryadok’s mutants might remain, one or two of which might be captured and harnessed for a specific task.

  Cumah—if it exists—might supply the trickery I need!

  With bated breath, Angyar slowed his horse and scanned the foothills. The herdsmen’s accounts placed the creature in the area through which he now traveled; but after several minutes and nearly a mile he saw and heard nothing. Patuka walked placidly along, unperturbed.

  Angyar shrugged. “Aw, well. This beast might hole up until midnight, it may have moved on, or it may not even exist. Young boys tell tales, and Ramsha’s boys, in particular, enjoy scaring their fellows.”