by Sandra Kopp
“Brace yourselves!” Marcos shouted, and the woodsmen hurtled into the rapids.
Cries of pain rose above the water’s roar as their bodies slammed the merciless rocks. Marcos felt an electric jolt as one impacted the shaft still stuck in his shoulder. Instinctively he held up his arms to shield his head, but the pummeling continued from all directions, each blow like a club or a knife to every part of his body. Finally, exhausted and beaten beyond endurance, he pulled his arms tight to his sides and prayed for a swift death.
They shot past the rocks and entered a long chute, the river’s final seconds before it plunged to its grave some three hundred feet below the surface. Marcos gaped as the yawning chasm came into view. Summoning his remaining strength, he clawed and kicked in a desperate attempt to escape, but the deafening thunder from the approaching waterfall made him want to faint. The river churned and boiled, reaching such velocity he felt himself flying. . .
A sudden sense of peace engulfed him. For a moment he seemed suspended. A delicate misty rainbow floated up around him as he stared, fascinated, at the wall of white water before him.
And then he realized the awful truth: He was falling into Hell itself. The river had executed Nedra’s bidding and now swept him and his fellows to their deaths. Flailing and screaming, he plummeted into the gaping maw of Gonor Canyon.
CHAPTER THREE
Davon moaned and rolled onto his back, turning his head to gaze through the bedroom window. The full moon, unusually orange for this time of year, hung low in the eastern sky, casting ghostly beams that danced across the curtains floating on the warm evening breeze.
He should have relished such a night and would have, were his dear Felicia lying beside him now. But a difficult pregnancy constrained her to the healing house in Aerie until the child’s birth some eight weeks away. Davon ached for her presence, but preferred this temporary separation over enduring the rest of his life without her.
The curtains billowed and swelled as a chilly gust roared through the lindens and into the room. Shivering, Davon prodded himself out of bed, padded to the window and closed it, then paused for a moment to savor the scene outside. His barn stood across the yard, its wide frame and peaked loft silhouetted against the starlit sky. Several feet to the right the lindens swayed and groaned in the rising wind. A hazy orange halo encircled the moon, which cast webs of apprehension over Davon as it stared back at him from its astral perch. Wispy clouds floated across the glowing orb, and then a larger, thicker one that enshrouded it altogether. Davon sighed and returned to bed.
As he stared into the darkness Felicia’s sweet face took shape in his mind: Her radiant countenance, sparkling blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when she laughed, and soft, well-shaped lips. Such happy times they enjoyed together! Welcome peace settled over him, and amid memories of a ride into the foothills, he drifted into slumber.
He dreamt he and Felicia sat on a blue blanket beneath a huge oak in a meadow, a sumptuous picnic lunch spread before them. They were laughing, but in the background Davon discerned an ominous rumble, faint at first, like the distant thunder of an approaching storm. Even as its volume increased Felicia took no notice, but Davon recognized the rhythmic pounding of a horse’s hooves advancing at breakneck speed. Although invisible, he sensed it almost upon them. . .
Felicia! Run!
Her countenance, so glowing and sweet, did not change. From what, my dearest? I see no danger—only us.
Davon leaped to push her out of the way, but immediately found himself alone, standing in an open field in the dead of night. The scene glowed eerily orange in the light of an enormous full moon. A howling wind whipped his hair and churned up roiling clouds of dust. The hoofbeats drummed their ominous approach, but still he saw no horse.
A man’s anguished bellow rose above the gale, and amid the slurred gibberish that followed Davon thought he heard his name. Powdery grit stung his eyes and made them water. Blinking rapidly, he wiped the tears away but the dust swirled ever thicker before him, tightening into a massive whirlwind through which he made out a horse’s reddish hindquarters. The beast whirled to face him and Davon glimpsed an unruly mop of red hair partially covering a maniacal and vaguely familiar face. The creature thrashed in agony as the whirlwind tightened around him, obscuring him from Davon’s view.
“Who are you?” Davon cried, extending his hand. A pair of hooves struck out from the cloud, narrowly missing his head, and then followed a tortured cry that shook him to his very core.
The creature galloped away. The gale calmed. The whirlwind wobbled, finally disintegrating into a languid fog that settled across the field.
Davon awoke with a gasp. Horror seized him. Dirty and disheveled, he stood in his field, his right arm extended, staring east as a horse’s rapidly-departing hoofbeats died away.
The sun had barely cleared the eastern hills when Davon, astride his dapple-gray gelding and armed with his bow and sword, pounded up the red dirt road toward his brother’s estate in the foothills. A hastily-packed bag of clothing hung from his saddle. The shock of his dream becoming reality had left him shaken and distraught. Even now he feared a backward glance would reveal the tormented rider closing in behind him.
Davon leaned forward. “Faster, Trevor. I need all the speed you can give me.”
Trevor flattened his ears and surged ahead, his swift hooves churning up a billowing wake that floated off the road and dissipated over the adjoining fields. After a short distance they crested a low hill. Arris, riding Barada, had just topped the same hill from the opposite side and now thundered toward them. Davon reined in, noting as Arris approached that he also carried his weapons and had strapped the long knapsack he used for extra clothing behind his saddle.
Arris reined in beside him. “I had a feeling I’d best rise early to catch you,” Davon told him. He waved a hand toward the knapsack and continued, “You appear to be leaving.”
“Good morning. Aye, troubling news from the east.” Arris eyed him quizzically. “You seem troubled yourself. Does Felicia’s health concern you?”
“Of course, but. . .” Davon broke off and looked askance. “More troubling is a dream I had that I’m not so sure really was a dream.” He looked at his brother again. “You’ve more pressing matters. I’ll not burden you with mine.”
“’Tis no burden. Tell me,” Arris returned, and listened intently to Davon’s account. For some time after Davon finished he sat silent, lips pursed as he stared at the ground.
“What do you think?” Davon pressed when Arris made no response.
Arris hesitated. “You may have had a vision,” he said finally, “Or—” he looked up at Davon—“you actually may have encountered this creature.”
“You consider this a single creature, rather than a horse and rider?”
“Who or what you saw I cannot say. I know only that Anhuapta has arisen and now wreaks havoc upon people who might deter him. Evidently both of us received insight concerning impending events or some that have already occurred. I must travel to Barren-Fel. Where your course leads has not been shown me.” Arris smiled ruefully. “I am only happy Merewyn accompanied Felicia. That puts her and Jonah out of harm’s way. And while you may not think so now, Felicia’s absence may prove equally fortunate.”
“This dream, coupled with our separation, leaves me too agitated to remain home. My herdsmen will care for the place. Might I travel at least part of the way with you?”
Arris nodded. “I welcome your company; and you have already prepared for a journey, too, I see. Good, for who knows what awaits us.” He clicked his tongue and Barada stepped out. Davon fell in beside him.
For several minutes neither spoke. Davon chafed, groping for something to say. He longed for news of his wife as well as a more satisfactory explanation of his curious dream. If Arris’ Arganian powers had returned, surely he could provide both. And what prompted Arris’ journey to Barren-Fel?
Finally Arris spoke. “This creature you described:
According to some Wyars, peasants in Barren-Fel have caught glimpses of something similar, but only from behind. No one has seen its full form. They’ve seen neither the head nor any part of a man. Yet all report the same frenzied approach, the anguished cries and garbled words. They call it the Red Horse.”
Davon caught his breath. “What do you know of it? A remnant of Ryadok?”
Arris shook his head. “An unnatural creature, but not immortal and nothing conjured by Ryadok. I believe it the product of some spell.”
“Does this ‘Red Horse’ prompt your journey?”
Arris nodded slowly. “In part.” He paused. “You remember that Nedra abandoned Hans.”
Davon grimaced. “I can scarcely bear to hear her name.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Arris frowned. “Before Hans returned to Rama-Rauth, he told me of rumors the sorcerer’s castle was rebuilding itself and that he intended to verify their validity. Ten days ago I dispatched Shadow to bring me word. Hans’ reply described a castle of fire. I believe he saw a castle of blood.
“Three days ago I again sent Shadow to Barren-Fel. Last night he returned, uttering a call that told me he could not find Hans.”
Davon paled. “I suspect devilry on Nedra’s part.”
“Undoubtedly.” Arris fell silent and for a moment stared up at the foothills ahead of them. Davon shot him a questioning look and Arris pointed at three horsemen galloping along the trail. “That’s Angyar’s buckskin, Patuka. I would guess that Aron and probably Jovah journey with him.” He looked over at Davon. “Rauths and Wyars alike ache to regain Rauwyar. Angyar, in particular, holds that valley dear. I suspect he enacts some plan.”
“Do we follow?” Davon queried.
Arris shook his head. “No.”
Davon moistened his lips. “I would see that castle of blood.”
“Your sword arm’s agile as ever, I’ll wager,” Arris returned. “Let’s go.”
He leaned forward and Barada broke into a gallop. Davon kept pace beside his brother and as they rode, the exhilaration of another quest chased away his trepidation. Now he wielded some control, for surely he would meet his nocturnal visitor and discover its mission and identity.
Their steeds’ strong legs devoured the miles. Two hours later the brothers reached the Nomadic River and stopped to let the horses drink.
Arris nodded toward the mountains. “We’ll cut north to where we can ford the Ashgard while she’s still small.” Davon made no response and Arris shot him a puzzled glance. “Davon?”
Davon stared, transfixed, at the river. His sudden gasp alarmed Arris, who leapt off Barada and raced to Davon’s side. “Davon! What’s wrong?”
Davon had entered another realm. Daylight and Liedor’s rolling hills had vanished. Drenched in mist, he stood on a slippery precipice staring through twilight gloom into an inky abyss. A few feet below, a roaring, roiling river plunged to the canyon floor. Crashing thunder filled his ears, along with screams too terrible to bear. The cacophony rose to such volume he felt his brain would burst. Nauseating dizziness seized him and he could not keep his feet. Davon fought to balance himself but felt as though pushed from behind and, with a strangled cry, fell into the crushing cascade.
Silence enveloped him as he slammed into something hard. Amid the gritty mud caking his mouth and throat he tasted blood. Warm mire bound his limbs and weighed upon his chest so heavily he could neither move nor breathe.
“Davon! Davon!”
He heard Arris’ voice, felt someone shaking him. Davon forced his eyes open. A broad sunlit glen stretched before him. . .
“For heaven’s sake, man, wake up!”
Wheezing, coughing and spluttering, Davon slowly regained his senses. He lay on the riverbank with Arris kneeling beside him, slapping his cheeks and calling to him to respond.
“Praise heaven!” Relief flooded Arris’ face when Davon moaned and came to. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” Davon gasped. “Another vision, I believe.” With Arris’ help, he sat up and then cast a rueful glance at Trevor. “It seems I toppled off my horse.”
“You went ramrod straight and then fell as if thrown down. Are you all right?”
“A bit sore but. . .I felt I was drowning. So real. . .I should be spewing mud and water.”
“Definitely your fall left you winded—and you might easily have broken something. Here, let me see.”
Davon sniffed. “It felt as though I landed on rock.” He carefully flexed his arms and legs while Arris gently pressed his rib cage. “My limbs still work. I’m fit enough, unless you find something broken.”
“Your ribs appear sound, and since you made no outcry while I examined you I’ll assume that they are.” Arris cocked his head. “You mentioned a vision. Did it relate to the Red Horse?”
“Not unless he fell into Gonor Canyon,” Davon returned and then poured out his tale. “And just before I awoke,” he finished, “I caught but a fleeting glimpse of a glade beside a hill running with streams of water.”
“Hill. . .streaming water,” Arris murmured. “Angelika once referenced a weeping hill in the woodsmen’s realm and men who barely escaped with their lives.” He sat back. “Your vision concerns tragedy in San-Leyon.” He sighed then and regarded his brother through half-closed eyes. “You possess Arganian traits, Davon.”
Davon mumbled and shook his head, then drew his legs to his chest and laid his head on his knees.
“You’ve displayed them before, while Ryadok reigned. I am glad, for I truly believe this threat requires two Arganians here, rather than one.”
“What do I do?” Davon asked quietly.
“Clearly you are summoned to San-Leyon, as I have been summoned to Barren-Fel. However, you must not enter Barren-Fel. I will go with you to Langhorn and see you safely aboard a ship to Garris. From there you can continue into San-Leyon.” Arris paused. “Stay for a night at Greene’s Willow Inn. Perhaps Edwin can muster a company to travel with you.”
Davon raised his head and smiled weakly. “I relished a quest.”
“And now you have one.” Arris clapped Davon on the shoulder. “Let’s go on, if you are ready.”
Davon nodded.
“Good lad.” Arris helped Davon to his feet. Mounting their horses, the brothers set off once more.
“Did you see them?” Angyar glanced from Aron to Jovah and back again. “The Arganian and his brother. They ride to the castle, I’ll wager.”
The trio sat under a grove of pines bordering the Ashgard River which, at this point high in the foothills near the river’s source, was little more than a wide brook. The horses had drank their fill and now grazed nearby.
Aron reached a cupped hand into the brook, drew out some water, and slurped it down. He wiped his mouth and leaned against a tree, calmly returning Angyar’s stare. “Is that a bad thing? He rides to meet the Serpent, as he did before. And his brother rides with him. Do you think so little of him,” he continued when Angyar did not answer, “that you believe he has taken the Serpent’s side? He—”
A shrill scream cut off his words. Branches cracked and snapped in the undergrowth behind them, as if thrashed by a gigantic beast. Another scream, and then the thicket erupted into a chilling barrage of snarls, growls, barks, and squeals.
The men jumped to their feet, but their horses had bolted into the trees, neighing in terror.
“Patuka! Maracca! Bat-Karr!” The men called to their mounts, to no avail. The panicked hoofbeats died away, drowned out by the brutal cacophony growing ever louder.
Armed only with their boches, the men scrambled for a thicket and crouched down, drawing their weapons as they peered through the foliage. A short distance away, patches of bush and fern whipped wildly. A wild boar burst out, followed by a cumah’s shaggy head and powerful, outstretched forelegs. The boar darted and dodged, but the cumah’s razor-sharp claws raked its back and dug in. Blood streamed down the boar’s sides. Its knees buckled and it fell, chin first, in th
e dirt. The cumah leapt upon the boar’s back and sank savage fangs into its neck, silencing its squeals.
Scarcely breathing, the men watched it eat. Angyar crept forward, staring in fascination as the cumah tore off long strips of flesh and gulped them down, almost without chewing. In minutes it had reduced the boar to bloodied bones. With a menacing growl, the cumah clamped its jaws around the boar’s spine and carried it into the forest.
Aron stared, incredulous. “That was Baugonril in the flesh!”
“Yes.” A knowing smile curled Angyar’s mouth. “Now come. Let’s find our horses before the beast hungers again.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Dusk fell as the Lady Ashgard docked at Garris. Davon stood at the rail, fondly regarding the familiar town. A lump rose in his throat as he remembered the meetings and partings in this place and saw in his mind the faces of friends he would probably never see again.
Swallowing hard, he turned from the rail. No sadness, he chided himself. Tonight he would enjoy the company of friends, provided Edwin Greene still had a vacancy. The newly-built Greene’s Willow Inn, famous for its serene setting, warm hospitality, and delectable food had become Garris’ most popular and filled up quickly. Davon might have to room above one of the boisterous alehouses lining the pier.
The Lady Ashgard’s crew lowered the gangplank and the passengers disembarked. Davon retrieved Trevor and set off for the inn. As he passed through the business district, he spied the wooden cleaver engraved with “Shaw’s Meats” hanging in front of the butcher shop and wondered whether the proprietor had overcome his infatuation with Melinda Greene and found another. At that moment the door opened and a gruff old man with a broom in his hand stepped out. Davon noted his blood-spattered apron, rough gray beard, and bushy brows knitted together into a bristling hedge above his smoldering eyes. They exchanged glances, and as the butcher’s scowl deepened Davon sensed his anger. How sad, he thought, and touched a hand to his forehead in greeting as he rode by. Sam Shaw ignored the gesture and turned away to sweep the board walk.
