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

by Sandra Kopp

  “It’s hopeless,” Charles panted as his sword felled another foe. “We’ve got to find shelter and quickly, before those other demons arrive.”

  “The river’s our only chance,” Davon wheezed as his own sword severed the legs off a bird that had veered away before his blade could reach its neck. Another swooped in and he grimaced, crying out as a cruel talon pierced his shoulder. “Blast it! These bloody things keep trying to grab me!”

  “They’re grabbing at all of us.” Charles cursed as he leveled a blow that sent one bird sprawling. Wings flapping, it righted itself and tried to fly, but Charles lunged forward and plunged his blade through its back.

  Grunting, Davon wrenched free and plunged his sword upward, straight into his attacker’s gut. Squawking and flapping, the monster fell, pinning Davon beneath its weight. Charles seized its throat and hurled it aside, cutting off its head before releasing his hold. More foes fell as arrows found their marks, but by now the bodies of several woodsmen and Little People also lay among the carnage.

  “Their numbers dwindle. Maybe we should make for the river before the howlers arrive,” Benno shouted.

  “Take the women and children and go!” Marcos shouted back.

  But already they heard the thundering cadence of heavy footsteps and the howls and snarls that heralded approaching death. Branches and shrubbery cracked and snapped, beaten into slivers by the monstrous horde thrashing through. They looked like men with wolves’ heads and possessed maniacal red eyes and coal-black bodies reeking of sulfur. All carried clubs, axes, or swords. For a moment they stood still, growling as they faced the hapless but defiant company. Demonic eyes narrowed into slits and then ear-splitting screams and streams of fire exploded from their terrible throats. Brandishing their weapons, they charged.

  “To the river!” Marcos bellowed and then ducked just in time to evade a fireball streaking toward his head.

  Within the circle, the more able-bodied herded the children and injured together, keeping them amid the furiously fighting company now backing toward the Lost River. Dozens, however, burned and blinded by the belching fires, fell without striking a blow. The winged demons returned in force and, unable to fight any longer, the defenders turned and fled, helping the stragglers as best they could, not slowing until the river’s current caught them up and swept them downstream.

  For what seemed like hours they fought for breath among the tossing waves, struggling to reach the opposite shore before entering the sweeping rapids that would plunge them into Gonor Canyon. They pulled against the raging current, grunting and gasping as they summoned the last of their waning strength.

  On the opposite shore a few yards ahead, starkly silhouetted against the starlit sky, stood a great tree. Charles glimpsed one branch hanging out over the water and, his courage renewed, swam for it, only to be pulled under by one of the Lost River’s infamous eddies. Panic seized him, but he rallied his strength and somehow pulled free. Moments later he collapsed on the shoreline’s sloping shelf and hauled himself out of the water. Marcos and Benno crawled out after him. Without stopping to rest, the trio climbed onto the branch and shinnied out over the water to lend a hand to those still fighting their way in.

  Hearing cries farther out, Charles and Marcos dove back in and found, amidst the current’s raging throes, Royce struggling to keep Malina afloat. They brought them to shore and then, after leaving them with the other survivors, swam out to aid two others. Ashore once more, they called out to anyone still in the river; but receiving no response and hearing no more cries, they set up a makeshift camp while numbering the survivors and counting their losses. Less than half of the woodsmen and Little People remained.

  Charles pushed through the company, scrutinizing each face as best he could in the murky night. Marcos, Benno, Royce, Myan. . .they had survived and he rejoiced to see them. But the face he sought most did not appear and his continued search brought only apprehension, then consternation and finally, terror.

  Where is Davon?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I’ve got to find him!” Charles put a hand to his pulsating forehead and found it sticky with blood. At the same time the feathered end of an arrow shaft hit him in the nose. Charles clutched it and pulled, only to find the head entangled in his jacket. Mercifully, the missile had penetrated the material but not his flesh. Carefully grasping the shaft below the barbed tip, Charles pulled it the rest of the way through and added it to his own arsenal.

  Around him the surviving woodsmen and Little People mourned their slain and missing while attending their own wounds as best they could. Less than half remained, and none had escaped uninjured. With no supplies and wary of lighting fires, they scavenged in the darkness for anything that might serve as medicine or a tool and used strips of clothing for bandages.

  Benno took Charles’ arm and guided him to a log where a woman of the Little People bandaged a woodsman’s leg. “You’re wounded. Sit. Moira will see to your head.”

  “It’s naught but a scratch. I must learn what happened to my friend.”

  “And where will you look?” came Marcos’ voice from beside him. “In the river? In the weeping hill? Among the Rauths? Where?”

  “It appears hopeless, I know.” Charles sighed. “If I knew he was dead—” He broke off, shaking his head. “But I don’t, and the thought of those beasts abusing him torments me beyond words.”

  “You intend to return to the Rauths then,” Benno prodded.

  Charles nodded and absently wiped his bloody hand on his pant leg.

  “How will you cross the river?” Marcos challenged. “Swim?”

  “I will travel along this side for a way and devise a plan as I go.” Charles’ forehead throbbed unmercifully. Suddenly nauseous, he turned aside and vomited.

  “You’re in no shape to—” Marcos began, but stopped when Royce, urging silence, pushed through the undergrowth beside them.

  “There’s lights along the river on the other side, swarms of them, and they’re coming into the water straight at us,” Royce whispered.

  “Torches?” Marcos whispered back.

  “No. Strange glows, soft, almost like mist. I’ve never seen anything like them. Even underwater they burn.”

  Charles sniffed. “Dare we hope for an ally?” But at that moment a chilly gust reeking of sulfur tossed the surrounding leaves and boughs.

  “They’re after us,” Charles gasped. “Those devils won’t quit till they’ve slain every one of us.”

  “Everyone, quiet!” Marcos hissed. “We’re being chased. Band together and let’s move.”

  Royce went immediately to spread word throughout the survivors. Marcos exchanged glances with Benno. “Only where can we go?” he muttered.

  “There is a border settlement in Liedor called Madmarose,” Charles answered. “If we can reach it, we should be safe.”

  “Then let’s head there,” Marcos returned. He pushed into the midst of his distraught people and in a hushed voice commanded, “Everyone, move and be quiet about it! Our lives depend on it. Not a sound, any of you! Now follow me.”

  Mustering their shattered courage, the company pushed into the forest. Moira pulled Charles down onto the log and swiftly bound a hastily-torn strip from her skirt around his bleeding head. As stealthily as they could manage, the company slipped through the trees and undergrowth, the abler supporting those more severely injured. Charles, Benno, and Royce, along with other men bearing lesser wounds, followed behind to fight off any pursuers who might catch up.

  A searing flash of blue-white light sizzled past and impacted a tree trunk, exploding into shards of fire and knocking several of the company to the ground. Terror brought them to their feet and they ran, dragging those unable to keep up.

  I’ve got to draw them away! Charles veered toward the south but a dozen of the Little People had already taken that direction, communicating with forest chatter as they traveled. “Go back!” one of them hissed at Charles. “You’ll only hinder us.” />
  “I can—” Charles began, but a thump of the gnome’s club across his leg cut him off.

  “Go back!” The gnome brandished his club, and the fierceness of his countenance told Charles he’d not hesitate to use it again.

  Charles slid to a standstill and held up a conciliatory hand. “All right. I’ll go back.”

  Curling his lip, the gnome turned and disappeared into the night.

  Another blinding bolt slammed into the tree beside Charles, sending an electric jolt throughout his body that knocked the wind from him and sent him sprawling. Fighting for air, Charles scrambled to his feet and stumbled after the fleeing woodsmen, darting and dodging among the trees to make himself a more difficult target. Gulping and gasping, he regained his breath and quickened his pace. Before long he overtook his companions.

  Several yards behind them ghostly blue and green glows about the height of a man’s shoulders zigzagged slowly among the trees. Charles strained to see the pursuers but now saw only a massive luminescence drawing steadily closer, eerily silent as it shortened the darkened distance between itself and the fleeing company. Charles’ heart plummeted. Surely their enemy had discovered them. He steeled himself for barrages of lightning bolts or arrows. The stench of sulfur intensified such that his eyes watered. He heard the gnomes’ distant chatter and thought he saw flames far to the south; yet the light continued its ominous course.

  Charles’ head still ached and the blood from his wound had matted his hair and formed a darkened crust below his bandage. His ears rang from bolt’s deafening crash. Now he felt his strength draining. The Little People’s ploy must have failed. Charles could run no further. Likely he would die; but he would meet this foe face to face. Jaw set, he turned and drew his sword.

  Something, however, had changed. The light seemed to stand still. Then, like a malevolent blazing pillar, it slowly rotated, becoming an inky mass lit on one side. It moved south, gaining speed while breaking into smaller individual glows weaving softly among the trees. With a quiet sigh, Charles sheathed his sword but maintained a vigilant watch as he set off after his companions.

  For the next two hours they pushed on, hungry, hurting, and exhausted. Some hobbled on makeshift crutches and splints fashioned from branches snatched up along the way. Others clung to poles being dragged behind their fellows. Still others stifled moans and cries as they limped along. Charles surged ahead to carry a young man whose badly twisted leg had given out.

  Another hour passed. The trees thinned and only a few dense patches of brush dotted the forest. Approaching footsteps sent hearts racing and hands flying to weapons; but a distinctive chittering signaled the return of the Little People who had thrown the enemy off their trail.

  The reunited company crossed a broad glade and again entered deep forest. Charles cast several backward glances in case the lights reappeared. Each revealed unbroken darkness, and each time he felt a little more weight lift off his shoulders.

  Relief, however, was short-lived. Hoofbeats reached their ears, heavy ones that carried the rhythmic thud! thud! thud! of horses approaching at a brisk trot. Setting the young man down, Charles yanked out his sword and dashed to the outside where a group of woodsmen had already gathered, arrows positioned to bowstrings and ready to fly.

  Charles caught his breath as he glimpsed two sleek, familiar forms gliding through the murk toward him.

  “Wait!” Staying low, he crept forward and then whistled softly. A soft nicker followed and then Vitimihovna and Trevor trotted to him. Charles nearly wept as he gathered the reins and returned to his companions, who lowered their weapons as he approached.

  “Do you know what this means?” Charles whispered. “Now we can transport the worst of the wounded, and Trevor will lead us to Davon as well!”

  “If he still lives,” Benno muttered.

  “I’ll not believe otherwise till I see his dead body.” Charles drew a shaky breath. “Come, help me fashion some gurneys. We’ll put two wounded on each horse, and the horses can pull the gurneys with those unable to ride or walk. Hurry!”

  “I’ll not take the time,” Marcos returned. “Myan’s people tricked our foes into believing we fled to Dewey Hollow but they may have discovered the ruse and turned this way again. Besides, it’s too dark to see anything, and Madmarose is no border town; it lies a fair distance inside Liedor. We’ve got to keep going.”

  “You are right,” Charles conceded with a sigh. “All right, let’s load whoever can ride and push on.”

  Swiftly they hoisted the young man Charles had carried and three others onto the horses. Others rallied back around those needing assistance in walking and the journey continued.

  Dawn’s cold light trickling through the dripping foliage brought little comfort to the miserable group slogging through the mud and duff. The forest reeked of decaying vegetation and corpse’s liver, a poisonous Barren-Fel mushroom that looked and smelled like rotting flesh. Charles’ heart sank as he regarded his bedraggled companions: Bloodied, muddied, starving, their wounds and broken limbs bound up with dirty rags torn from the clothes on their backs. How they needed Davon’s medicines! Davon himself—if still alive—might require medicine. Despite his resolve to remain stoic Charles could not stop the tears. Davon, where are you? What torment do you suffer now?

  A cry of pain brought him back. A few steps ahead a young woman crumpled to the ground. Between the people rushing to her aid, Charles saw the cruel shaft of an arrow protruding from her right thigh.

  “She can’t go on. None of us can.” A woodsman glanced around and cursed. “How far is this bloody ‘refuge,’ anyway?”

  “We shouldn’t be far from the border,” Benno returned, darting a glance at Charles. “But we can’t make Madmarose without food. Some of us haven’t eaten for days.”

  “Do we hunt?” the first woodsman demanded. “None of us have the strength.” He looked at the horses and Charles feared he would butcher one on the spot.

  “No. We need them.” Charles braced for a fight, knowing hunger could turn the staunchest allies into bitter enemies—and these people had starved for a long time.

  “Even if his horse can lead you to him, by the time you find your Nimbian friend most of us may be dead. He himself may already be dead! As for gurneys—” The woodsman snorted—“All of us need them. None can walk any farther. Can we build gurneys long enough for a hundred, and can the horses pull them?” The woodsman glared at Charles.

  Charles stood his ground. “One of you can ride with me to hunt. If we find neither game nor aid we will eat my horse.”

  “I already predict the results of your ‘hunt,’” the woodsman shouted. “You’ll find nothing!”

  “Enough! Emile, stop!” Marcos strode through the crowd and planted himself between Charles and his adversary. “Behave like a man, rather than a beast. And keep your voice low, lest our enemies be lurking about and overhear. We do what Charles said: Let him and one of us ride out and search for food.”

  “He’ll hide the bloody horses,” Emile protested.

  “No,” Charles told him. “We’ll make better time riding than walking, plus conserve our strength. If we find game, the horses can pack it back, rather than us have to carry it. One of you will be with me.” Charles unflinchingly returned Emile’s stare. “I’ll make good on my word. You’ll see.” But even as he spoke, Charles’ heart sank, for he valued Vitimihovna over any possession.

  Royce stepped up beside Charles and faced Emile. “Charles stood with us in the past; he stands with us now. I trust him.” Royce turned to Charles. “My injuries are slight. I will go with you.”

  Emile hung his head and turned away. Charles’ lips tightened as he looked at Royce, pale and so thin it seemed even a breeze could carry him away. Blood stained the sleeve on the lad’s right arm from elbow to wrist, and a leg wound from an earlier skirmish with the Rauths made him limp. Nevertheless, he carried himself proudly.

  “Are you sure you’re up to it, lad?” Charles asked q
uietly.

  Royce’s brows shot up. “I’m every bit as fit as you.” He chuckled. “If you could only see yourself. You look terrible.”

  “Heh.” Charles shook his head.

  Royce clapped Charles’ arm. “We’re sure to find something, eh? I mean, we must be near Liedor, far enough from Nedra’s—”

  “Don’t speak of her!” Marcos glowered at Royce, who immediately sobered. Marcos moved closer to Charles and continued, “Go, and do what you can. We’ll forage about and see what we can find here. It may be. . .” Marcos paused and glanced around. “We can’t afford to lose a horse,” he whispered.

  “But if I must sacrifice her to save your people I will do it,” Charles broke in.

  Marcos nodded once. “See what you can find. We will do what we can in your absence, and then what we must when you return.”

  “Aye.” Charles turned to Royce and bobbed his head toward Trevor. “Off we go then.” He mounted Vitimihovna while Royce hoisted himself onto Trevor.

  “Good fortune to you.” Marcos nodded once and raised a hand.

  “To you as well, until our return.” Charles touched a hand to his forehead and then, together with Royce, rode away through the trees.

  They traveled west, not speaking for most of the first hour as they trained their senses for signs of game. Charles prayed for the break in the forest signifying Liedor’s eastern border and, he hoped, safety. He prayed for Marcos who, despite utter despair and the odds stacked against him, retained his honor and dignity while striving to preserve his decimated tribe. And he prayed for Davon.

  Another half hour passed. The forest only grew denser. Were they traveling in the wrong direction? Charles cast a swift glance skyward. No, they were headed west, precisely where they needed to go. Surely Liedor could not be far; but this cursed wilderness seemed endless.