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

by Sandra Kopp

  Angyar shrugged. “Then we have no choice but to kill him.”

  The air cooled as the sun lowered itself behind a distant peak. The men ambled to their saddlebags and sat down to a welcome meal of dried venison and bread, washed down with fresh cold water from the little stream meandering through the woods beside them.

  Jovah tore off a bite of venison and thoughtfully studied the cage as he chewed. “You think you can lure cumah into that?”

  “No.” Angyar shook his head. “He is too cunning and will immediately sense the trap. We must pierce him with a dart, and when he lays down to sleep, drag him into the cage.” He paused to swallow. “He found game here once. I hope he returns, for I don’t want to drag him far.”

  Aron grunted. “Well. . .both we and the horses serve as bait.”

  Angyar smiled grimly. “I made plenty of darts. Fastened to a shaft, they will travel a good distance. One of us, however, must be ready with a regular arrow, in case. . .”

  “I will do that, and rest assured I will not miss,” Aron finished.

  Twilight enveloped the foothills. The men fitted twelve darts to shafts. Aron filled his quiver with arrows and picked up his bow.

  Angyar handed Jovah a tiny pouch. “Here is your toxin. Dip the tip of your dart into it before you shoot. Take care you don’t prick yourself.”

  Jovah nodded and, with a rueful grin, took the pouch. “Don’t need me sleeping on the job, eh?”

  Angyar grinned back. “Don’t want to have to drag a second carcass back to camp.” He clapped Jovah’s arm and picked up his bow and quiver. For a moment he hesitated, scarcely breathing as he scanned the foothills sweeping north to meet the lofty Alpenfel Mountains. The cooling air sang with cricket song; otherwise, nary a leaf stirred in the stillness. Angyar’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his bow tighter and raised it a little to point one end toward the mountains. Without a word, he started walking.

  Night closed in. One by one the stars appeared, shyly at first and then more boldly as the darkness deepened. The men crept to the edge of the wood and peered toward the mountains, listening and waiting. But the hours crawled by with only an occasional distant howl breaking the crickets’ relentless song. Once during the wee hours one of the horses snorted and, fueled by anticipation and apprehension, the men readied their arrows. Senses trained and honed over years of experience strained to detect the beast’s approach. But the night remained quiet, and as dawn lightened the eastern sky, their hopes waned. Angyar slumped against a tree, the lines in his weathered face etched deeper by despondency and fatigue. “It seems we watched in vain. Cumah did not hunt or has moved on.”

  “Yesterday he fed in daylight,” Aron pointed out. “If he ate his fill, he would not need to hunt last night and may return today.”

  “Which means one of us must watch while the others sleep.” Angyar sighed heavily and rubbed his stubbly chin. “I so hoped for a swift capture. Our quarry’s craftiness exceeds that of most animals. We must watch for and then seize the opportunity when it comes.”

  “I’m not tired. I’ll watch while you two rest,” Jovah offered.

  Angyar nodded his thanks. “Let’s have a bite first.”

  Silently they filed back to camp and, after a meal of jerky, goat cheese, and dry bread Angyar and Aron lay down to sleep.

  Day passed, and then the night. Cumah did not return. For three days they scoured the foothills between Rauwyar and Teptiel but, finding nothing, returned to their camp above Rauwyar, arriving during the afternoon of the fourth day. Angyar chafed, wondering whether he did right in coming back. Instinct had so decreed, but the ceaseless watching and dogged journey had sapped his strength and dulled his senses. The beast might have holed up in some cave or moved on, either east to the Mystic Mountains or west to the Nimbian villages above Ha-Ran-Fel. Angyar glanced skyward where a fat puffy cloud floated languidly across the blue sky. Where are you!?

  “Get some rest.” Aron dumped his satchel under a pine and plopped down beside it. Cupping his chin, he wearily studied the carefully-constructed cage still sitting empty on the other side of the glade.

  Angyar groaned as he sank to the ground beside his brother. “He appeared here so often. I swore we found his haunt.”

  “He knows we’re hunting him.” Aron pulled a piece of leathery jerky from his satchel and put it in his mouth. He chewed a few times and made a face. “I’m sick of this rawhide,” he muttered.

  Jovah propped his bow and quiver against another tree and sat down. “I sure could go for some fresh meat. Either of you up for a hunt?”

  A weary smile curled Angyar’s lips. He glanced at the sky. “I think we’d have better luck toward dusk. That’s maybe four hours away. We could all use the sleep.”

  Jovah shot a questioning look at Aron, who merely shook his head.

  “Wait until dusk,” Angyar advised. “I will go with you then and help carry your kill. And who knows—we may meet cumah.”

  “Aye, I am tired.” Jovah leaned back and closed his eyes. “All right, wake me when. . .” His words died away as fatigue overcame him. Angyar and Aron had already nodded off. Soon all three were sleeping soundly.

  A high-pitched hum invaded Jovah’s dreams and hovered around his right ear. Instinctively he brushed it away, but the noise returned and Jovah responded with a slap to his cheek that jarred him awake. He glanced wryly at the offending mosquito flattened against his palm and sat up.

  A sliver of sun peeped above the western horizon. Already the air had begun to cool. Aron’s snores still punctuated the stillness. Angyar sat propped against a nearly fir, regarding him slyly. “Was that a slap I heard? What are ye about, lad?”

  Jovah sniffed and extended his hand. “Skeeter.”

  “Ah.” Angyar took a deep breath, then rolled onto his elbow and reached over to poke his brother. “Aron. Up.”

  Aron groaned and settled back into his dreams but Angyar’s continued prodding brought him to.

  “The lad and I are going hunting. Be sharp, in case our hoped-for ally presents himself.” Angyar rose stiffly and swung his quiver over his shoulder. “If cumah shows, bring him down. One dart should do, but do not hesitate to use a second if he attacks.”

  “If he attacks, I’ll put a real arrow through him,” Aron huffed.

  Angyar shrugged. “Do what you must.” He picked up his bow and, with Jovah close behind, set off into the forest.

  “Prepared for cumah, too, I see.” Jovah noted the sheath filled with darts dangling from Angyar’s belt.

  “Always.” Angyar paused and peered up the mountainside. “Let’s get our deer.”

  They crept ahead, skirting an aspen grove and several downed pines as they traveled east into ever-deepening forest. Their buckskin boots padded softly on the mat of dry needles and duff carpeting the hard-packed earth and granite slabs enameled with yellow and rust-hued lichens. Each branch or frond in their way they silently brushed aside to avoid spooking any deer grazing on the other side. But after twenty minutes they had sighted no game and, exasperated and more than a little hungry, they turned north into the foothills.

  Twilight’s gloom settled over the forest. They had gone but a few yards when Jovah yelped in pain. At the same moment, Angyar felt the stinging thorns from a branch brushing his face. “Blackberries,” he whispered. “Big patch, as far as I can see.”

  “Yeah, who knows how far it goes,” Jovah whispered back. “What say we just push on through, save us some time?”

  “Aye, lets,” Angyar returned.

  Gritting their teeth, they plowed through the patch, then clambered over an embankment and proceeded up a gentle slope to the edge of the woods. Jovah forged ahead, peering intently as though he had spotted something. Just inside the tree line he stopped short and pointed to the side of an adjoining hill. “Look.”

  Angyar followed his gaze to the small doe grazing near a thicket halfway up the side. He nodded shortly, a silent signal for Jovah to make the kill.

&nbs
p; Jovah drew an arrow from his quiver, aimed and shot. The doe leaped and tried to run but crumpled immediately, blood spewing from the mortal strike to her neck. Shouting triumphantly, Jovah sprang from the woods and down the slope, jumping a broad wash at the bottom before racing up the opposite hill to his prize.

  Angyar ran after him but, lacking his companion’s youth and stamina, fell behind. He cleared the wash just as Jovah reached the doe.

  Jovah knelt to extract the arrow. “She’s a beaut,” he shouted.

  Angyar chuckled at the boy’s exuberance. “Good shot!”

  But a few steps up the hill the smile froze on his lips. Barely visible in the gathering dusk, a shaggy black form with a prominent hump was slinking down among the rocks higher up. Angyar gasped and quickened his pace. “Jovah!”

  Jovah’s head jerked toward him and then up at the big beast now emerging from the rocks some fifty feet away.

  Slowly, deliberately, the cumah approached. Its terrible growl rumbled through bared, razor-sharp fangs and the bristling fur made it appear even larger. With trembling fingers, Angyar opened his pouch of poison, pulled out a dart, and dipped the tip. Staring down the jaws of death, he put the missile to his bowstring and aimed. The cumah’s growl silenced, the curled-back lips relaxed a little, and it seemed to Angyar that something passed between them. To his right he glimpsed Jovah putting an arrow to his bowstring, taking aim. . .

  “NO!” Angyar’s cry startled Jovah, who involuntarily launched his arrow high and sent it sailing harmlessly over the cumah. Barking savagely, the beast spun toward Jovah and crouched, ready to spring.

  “Stop!” Angyar cried. “Cumah, do not hurt my friend!”

  With bated breath he watched the cumah shift its focus back to him. Its barks diminished to a low growl. Slowly it rose from its crouch and then glared back at Jovah.

  “Aren’t you going to shoot?” Jovah demanded.

  Angyar motioned him back. “Put down your weapon. Let cumah have the kill.”

  “What??”

  “Let. . .cumah. . .have the kill.”

  “You are mad!” Jovah lowered his weapon and, eyes glued to the cumah, backed slowly down the hill. The cumah watched his retreat, its growl softening as the distance between them increased. Finally, although its teeth remained bared, it ceased its growling and again switched its focus to Angyar.

  Angyar knelt, held up his dart, and then slipped it back into the sheath. He extended his hand, first to the cumah, and then to the doe. “For you, my friend.” He slowly rose, bowed shortly, and retreated down the hill.

  An incredulous Jovah awaited him at the wash. “I don’t believe this! We have cumah in our sights and you let him go? What were you doing, sacrificing to him? Has this beast become your god?”

  Angyar shook his head. “No. Cumah possesses intelligence beyond that of most creatures. He could have torn us both to pieces but did not. When first I beheld him those many weeks ago I sensed a bond forming between us.” He met Jovah’s stare and sighed. “Don’t you see? If we cage him, we become his captors and thus his enemies. If we show him friendship, he may respond in kind.”

  “You speak of him as though he were human. I say again, old man, you are mad.”

  “Perhaps, but I feel I have chosen a better course. While we have not seen cumah these past days I sense he has been observing us.”

  “Yes—as food,” Jovah snorted. “And now, despite both cumah and venison within our grasp, we have attained neither.”

  “We’ll hunt again tomorrow.” Angyar laid a hand on Jovah’s shoulder. “Jovah, what if we could regain Rauwyar without a single Wyar casualty? If we join the Rauths, we face fierce fighting and heavy losses. Worse yet, we bear a woman’s yoke, a witch who sold herself to Anhuapta. Nay, Jovah, I cannot abide that. Please grant an old man this one favor. Unless my intuition deceives me, we have nothing to fear from cumah.”

  Jovah twisted his mouth. “Instinct governs this beast. If he hungers and we’re the only meat in his sights we have much to fear.”

  “We shall see.” Angyar turned and started walking.

  By now night had fallen. They picked their way down the hill and into the forest, Jovah still fuming over his lost kill. Angyar remained silent, secure in his mind he had done the right thing. One more supper of tough jerky, he reasoned, constituted a small price for the rewards his action would reap.

  They arrived at camp to a welcome sight. Aron knelt by a fire, turning pieces of meat on a makeshift spit. The dancing flames illumined the carcass of a young stag hanging from a branch behind him. He glanced up as his companions approached, noted their disconsolate faces, and frowned. “Well. It seems I enjoyed better fortune than you.” He poked his fork into one of the pieces and grunted. “You wouldn’t have had to hunt at all. This fellow actually wandered into camp. I had only to aim and shoot.”

  Jovah snorted. “Aye. You indeed had better fortune.” He dropped his bow and quiver and plopped down near the fire.

  Aron glanced from Jovah to Angyar and back again. “You two have quarreled, I see. What about?”

  Jovah opened his mouth, but caught Angyar’s warning look and closed it again.

  “We found cumah,” Angyar told Aron, “and I have devised a better way to earn his trust.”

  Aron regarded him narrowly. “How so?” He stiffened then and gasped, nearly dropping the meat into the fire as he stared, wide-eyed, past Angyar. “Jovah, your bow! Quickly!”

  Before Jovah could react, Angyar spun around. The flickering flames reflected off a pair of glimmering red orbs peering through the inky shadows less than thirty feet away. Angyar threw up a restraining hand . “Wait!”

  The men froze as the cumah emerged into the light, gingerly bearing something the size of a man’s fist between its jaws. It padded toward them, stopping roughly ten feet from Angyar, and carefully laid the object down. It barked softly—almost gently, Angyar thought—and then just as quietly turned and melted back into the darkness.

  Bewildered, the trio rose and hastened to the spot, forming a circle around a fleshy lump lying amid the scattered duff. A tear rolled down Angyar’s cheek as he picked it up and cradled it in his palm. “The heart,” he whispered. “Cumah brought us the heart of the deer we gave him.” A reverent expression filled his face. “You see, Jovah. We can tame him. We can. . .”

  His voice broke, and he carried the heart back to camp.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dawn’s cool mist kissed Davon’s cheek. Shivering, he pulled his oilskin tighter to him and rolled onto his side. But sleep fled and after several minutes his eyelids fluttered open. Though darkness surrounded him, he sensed a faint lightening to the east, invisible as yet through the dense foliage, yet present nonetheless. The sun had begun its imperial march. Surmounting the austere peaks of the Mystic Mountains its warming rays would soon send night scurrying for cover, cowering as shadows among the grudging trees.

  Unless it rains—again. Why, each spring, must these forests become bogs? Davon moaned softly and closed his eyes again.

  A rough hand shook him awake. Charles’ urgent whisper broke the silence. “Davon! Wake up! The woodsmen and Little People have gathered and Marcos has given the order to move out—now.”

  “To where?” Davon did not remember dozing, but the skies above the Mystic Mountains now glowed pink as the sun prepared to rise. Groggily he sat up.

  “Barren-Fel. He hopes to gather enough food and hides to strengthen and clothe the people. . .” Charles paused and moistened his lips “. . .and then all of San-Leyon marches to war—against Nedra.” He peered into Davon’s face. “Have you a potion or powder—any remedy that might aid them?”

  “I can prepare potions to sustain and strengthen them from herbs we find along the way. But beyond that. . .” Davon scanned the bedraggled, emaciated assemblage clustered around Marcos. “Would that I could concoct food or summon the herds. I truly pity them.”

  “’Twould prove most useful, that’s sure.” Char
les smiled grimly. “But in the meantime, all we can do is take the forefront and hopefully bring down some game so they can conserve their energy.”

  Davon rose and slung his quiver over his shoulder. “I only hope the witch has not hidden the herds.”

  “A cursed development, to be sure. I thought she held some loyalty to her father, at least, but always wondered how she knew so well the affairs and layout of Rissling.”

  “She learned from Ryadok himself.” Davon grasped his satchel with one hand and his saddle with the other and trudged to his horse.

  Charles picked up his own saddle and fell in beside him. “If Nedra has concealed the herds, I hope you possess the skills to detect them.”

  “I can promise only my best effort.” Davon reached his horse and dropped the satchel. He brushed needles and bits of duff off Trevor’s dappled back and placed the saddle upon it. “I have no Arganian training and only Arris’ word that I show Arganian traits.” He tightened the cinch. “I wish Arris was here instead of—”

  “Did you not tell me Arris went to Barren-Fel?” Charles broke in.

  “Yes, but to the sorcerer’s castle.” Davon frowned. “Depending on what befalls him there, he may or may not be able to aid us.”

  “I trust your brother’s resourcefulness, as well as your abilities. You’ve proven your mettle before. I doubt not you will do so again.” Charles finished saddling his horse and patted her burnished wither. “Ah, Vitimihovna! Another noble quest for a noble steed!” He glanced at Davon and chuckled ruefully. “After our last adventure, however, I had hoped for a more placid life.”

  “As had I.” Davon paused as Marcos emerged from the crowd of woodsmen and strode toward them. “Look at them, Charles,” he said in a low voice. “Starved, disheartened. . .less than half enough horses to carry them. They can’t make this march.”

  “If they remain here, they die.” Charles turned to meet Marcos as the woodsman stepped up beside him.

  Marcos fixed Davon a piercing stare. “I pray your Nimbian presence brings us good fortune. We can afford nothing less.”