by Sandra Kopp
Angyar untied Patuka and, with the mare in tow, hobbled down Beyelor’s arduous slope. Having brought no food and drained by yesterday’s horror, he felt jaded and heavy. The walk, however, revived him and soon his mental processes began to function. By the time they reached the road he had regained his customary long stride.
They crossed the road and pushed through the bushes along the opposite hill to a small brook. Patuka plunged her nose into the welcome stream, sipping noisily as she slaked her thirst. Angyar walked a few steps upstream and knelt to drink. Hunger made him faint but he had no time to hunt. He must return to camp and Aron. Shame washed over him as he considered that he had left his grief-stricken brother alone all night.
Aron! Alone!
Angyar pulled Patuka’s nose out of the stream and gathered the reins. Leaping into the saddle, he kicked the horse into a gallop.
As he rode, Angyar remembered that Ramsha and his sons had taken the direction he now traveled. They would have reached the camp well before dark. Aron had not stayed alone, after all, unless he had driven them away.
Angyar shook his head. Aron would have welcomed guests—only what explanation had he offered for his dismal demeanor? Angyar could not worry about that now. Aron’s welfare mattered more. Should Cumah appear, Aron would swiftly use the poisoned arrows still in his possession. Also, Ramsha and his sons had time and again proven themselves fierce fighters. Surely the four of them would defeat the beast.
Unless Cumah appeared in another form. His allusion to the fair-haired young man living among the Anathahites crept into Angyar’s memory, sending icy chills throughout his body. Angyar knew few blond men; but of those he did know two stood out as alarmingly as if they had just leapt into the road in front of him.
“Nimbians!” The word hissed through his teeth. The Marchants had journeyed to Barren-Fel. Their presence on the trail had made Angyar uneasy. What possible business could have summoned the Arganian and his brother to the Dark Land, other than rulership over all of Epthelion? Might Arris have enlisted the shapeshifters’ aid in his bid for the throne?
Guard every thought!
“Aron is safe!” Angyar shouted. “Do you hear me, aura? My brother is alive and safe, as are all who abide with him.”
Hold to that belief, he told himself. Let no evil enter your mind. Good thoughts, pure thoughts—nothing else!
Camp lay at least two hours away. Patuka’s easy lope devoured the miles. Over and over Angyar repeated the words of hope but his uneasiness deepened. How soon would the beast hunger again?
Good thoughts, pure thoughts. Thoughts of hope.
Nevertheless he dug his heels into Patuka’s sides, spurring her into a full gallop.
Around ten o’clock he reached the familiar glade. Bat-Karr, along with Ramsha’s horses, grazed peacefully near the stream outside the camp. Men’s voices and the comforting smell of pipeweed drifting through the trees betrayed nothing amiss. Angyar dismounted, unsaddled Patuka, and turned her loose to graze where she pleased. After hanging his tack from a nearby branch, he walked toward the camp. All appeared quiet yet ominous, like the lull preceding a monstrous storm. With bated breath, Angyar paused just inside the trees, his brow furrowed in consternation as he studied the group.
Aron squatted by the campfire, calmly turning pieces of venison impaled on a makeshift spit. His serene visage displayed none of the grief or shock from yesterday’s bloodbath.
Something is wrong. He acts as if nothing happened!
Angyar thoughtfully chewed his lip. Perhaps Aron had simply accepted the situation; even so, he should have appeared more somber. Finding him safe relieved Angyar beyond words but he still wondered, with some apprehension, what his brother had told Ramsha.
Ramsha. The stocky Wyar sat on a nearby log engaged in a convivial conversation with Riko and Risa. Obviously Aron had told them nothing about Jovah. Angyar remembered Aron’s distress as he returned to camp after they had buried Jovah. How did Aron hide that from Ramsha and his sons? Angyar had to find out. Head cocked, he stepped through the trees.
Ramsha’s company ceased talking as Angyar approached. Aron stayed focused on his spit, without so much as an upward glance even when Angyar planted himself before him.
Ramsha waved him over. “Well, Angyar, are you going to just stand there gawking? Come, sit.” He patted the log beside him.
Angyar frowned at Aron, dumbfounded by his brother’s composure. Without facing Ramsha, he said, “Did we not agree you would come no farther than the Ashgard?”
“The rest of the folk remain there, but I thought perhaps my sons and I might assist with your preparations.” Ramsha pursed his lips as he studied Angyar. “You bear a heavy load, my friend, too heavy for one man alone.”
Angyar did not answer.
“I thought to speak with you last night but Aron said you had gone to meet Arronmyl’s daughter.” Ramsha paused and then continued slyly, “He also tells me young Jovah has his eye on a comely Rauth girl.” He patted the log again. “You’re back from a long ride and heavily burdened. My sons and I came to help. Sit. Have some breakfast, and then let’s talk.”
Angyar turned and sighed, casting a backward glance at his brother as he sidled to the log and plopped down beside Ramsha.
“What said the woman?” Ramsha asked.
Angyar wearily shook his head. “She plans to recapture Rauwyar by a massive invasion and wholesale murder. I wish not to defile our land. I told her mine is the better way.”
“Aye.” Ramsha’s mouth twisted to one side. “I don’t wish our soil soaked with those blackguards’ blood, either.” He cast a sideways glance at Angyar. “You said you needed two days. Just two days and the Liedorans would flee, of their own accord, I believe.” He paused. His already penetrating stare intensified. Angyar shifted uncomfortably and Ramsha pressed, “Why then did you meet with her?”
Angyar ran his tongue across his parched lips. His brain squirmed for an answer. He felt clammy, weak, and sick. Somehow he must stall for time. “I need—” he faltered.
“You need food and rest,” Aron broke in. “You ate little yesterday and almost nothing the day before. A man cannot think when he’s exhausted and his belly’s empty. Breakfast is ready. Eat first, then rest; then we talk.”
Angyar’s tensed shoulders relaxed. “Yes. Thank you.” With a heavy sigh he eased himself to the ground and leaned back against the log.
Aron grunted. He cut generous slices of the roasted venison and stuck them on smaller sticks, which he passed to the group. After laying aside the remainder for himself, he put another piece on the spit and positioned it over the fire. “Nedra chafes at the delay,” he told Ramsha.
“I share her impatience,” Ramsha returned. “Our united companies outnumber the invaders at least ten to one. If we strike at night we could slaughter them in their beds and burn their houses down around them. The land would never taste their blood.”
“And then Theodus gathers all of Epthelion against us.” Angyar glared up at Ramsha.
“Which is why we discuss the matter after Angyar has eaten and slept.” Aron ceased speaking and returned to his spit.
Angyar relaxed, grateful for his brother’s intervention. He sank his teeth into the succulent meat and tore off a mouthful, grunting his satisfaction as he chewed. Juice trickled down his beard and he absently brushed it away, preoccupied by what he must later say to Ramsha. Damn the man! He would listen to nothing. Why could he not honor Angyar’s request and remain at the Ashgard River? Why did he come, and by his presence further complicate an already knotty situation?
Mercifully Ramsha let the subject drop and during breakfast rambled on with his sons about life in their camp. This one had proposed marriage to that one’s daughter who, meanwhile, was trying to wheedle a proposal from another young man. Such-a-one was eyeing so-and-so’s wife. Still another’s wife was just days from giving birth. And on it went.
Aron remained silent. Angyar listened patiently, occasional
ly putting in a word or two between mouthfuls. He applauded his brother’s ability to retain his composure despite his grief, and especially his plausible explanations regarding Angyar’s and Jovah’s absences the night before. Angyar himself could not have provided better. However, he must now carry the tale.
Fatigue made his eyelids heavy. Angyar devoured a second piece, wiped his chin, then slid forward and leaned back, using the log as a pillow. “I will reveal what was discussed and what I propose to do when I awake,” he told Ramsha and closed his eyes.
But sleep fled. Graphic images of Jovah’s savaged body appeared behind his closed eyelids, while Aron’s accusations set his ears ringing. His restless legs seemed twitchy and spasmodic, and he felt the need to stretch them continually. Cumah’s human face over the hazy image of the beast superimposed itself over Jovah. Angyar shifted and stretched, but now the log pillow chafed his neck. Half groaning, half sighing, he rolled off the log and onto his side. Finding the position somewhat comfortable, he drifted into a troubled doze just as he heard Ramsha asking Aron whether he didn’t think he had cooked enough meat.
Late that afternoon he awoke, yawning and stretching as he rolled onto his back. Ramsha and his sons remained seated on the log. Aron still squatted beside the spit, turning yet another chunk of venison. Irritated, Angyar wondered, had these people nothing else to occupy their time?
“At last, the sleeper wakes.” Ramsha’s booming voice broke the stillness and Angyar winced, wishing he could will the intruders into the wilderness beyond Epthelion’s outer reaches. Remembering then that he could, he quickly shook off the thought.
“You clearly did not sleep well,” Ramsha continued. “Your fitful slumber bespoke agitation—even fear.”
Chagrined, Angyar eased himself to a sitting position and then pushed himself onto the log, pretending not to notice the probing stares of Ramsha and his sons. Clearly they sought signs of weakness or indecision. Angyar would display neither. “I never rest when unduly exhausted. I’ll sleep better tonight.”
“Well, then. Let’s talk.” Ramsha moved to a tall stump situated near the front of the log where Angyar sat. Groaning, he settled onto it and then clapped his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. His posture reminded Angyar of a vulture roosting near a dying animal, patiently awaiting its demise. Riko and Risa repositioned themselves on either side of Angyar. Aron remained where he was, aloof and disinterested as he tended his venison.
“So. . .out with it. What is your plan?” Ramsha queried.
Angyar drew a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out. “I have simply determined to continue my original course, on my own, with no discussion and no aid from anyone.” He paused and returned Ramsha’s stare. “Concerning my meeting with the daughter of Arronmyl: I met her only to dissuade her from making a frontal attack on Rauwyar and to adhere to my plan instead. Again—and I stress this—I need no aid. The greatest help you can render is to return with your sons to the Ashgard and remain there until I send for you.” He waved a hand. “The matter is closed.”
“Return to the Ashgard!” Ramsha’s heavy brows knit together into a dark scowl. “We go back and then in two days you send for us?”
“All cannot come at once,” Angyar shot back. “You come, little by little, so the invaders suspect nothing. I depend upon you to decide who comes, when they come, and to keep order.” He shook his head and sighed. “I may be delayed another day, perhaps even two now, because the presence of too many people hinders my progress. I wish you could understand that.”
Ramsha regarded him narrowly. “The people grow restless wondering what you are about. Surely you understand their concern. You tell us to come, pretending to pasture our sheep; however, some fear we may walk into a full-scale war unprepared. We need an explanation, Angyar, so that we can plan accordingly.”
“Our people stand prepared to fight even in peacetime,” Angyar retorted. “They need make no special plan.”
“We don’t march our sheep into battle,” Ramsha shot back.
“You won’t be marching into war,” Angyar told him, “that is, if you will allow me to complete my tasks. When I send for you I will tell you everything you need.” He heaved a short explosive sigh. “The discussion has ended. Return to the people and await my summons.” He held up a hand as Ramsha spluttered a protest. “No more questions. Now be on your way.” Angyar scowled and set his jaw.
Ramsha glowered and slowly straightened. “You take too much upon yourself, Angyar. While a respected elder, you are not our king, even though you act so. You cannot possibly devise and enact a campaign to reclaim Rauwyar alone.”
Angyar rose. “Ah, but I can, and I will. Never fear, friend. I have things well in hand.”
Beside the fire, Aron threw back his head and laughed. Angyar started, aghast.
“Do you indeed, Angyar?” Aron let go of the spit and sat back, fixing his brother a mocking gaze.
Ramsha leapt to his feet and whirled to face Aron. “What do you mean?”
Angyar threw up his hands. “At last! He speaks! You’ve stayed silent enough since my arrival. Well then, brother. What words of wisdom have you to offer?”
Aron did not answer. A malevolent smile contorted his features. The air immediately surrounding his body seemed to shimmer. He lowered his head, fixing hate-filled upturned eyes upon his brother which, to Angyar’s horror, exploded into bright red slits.
Brutal realization struck. Angyar reeled. Raising a trembling forefinger, he gasped, “Cu—”
Before he could finish the word, Aron convulsed. Those red slits now glowed like burning coals, his skin erupted into a mass of hives and welts sprouting black fur, and a prominent hump swelled up behind his neck.
Alarmed, Riko and Risa raced to their father’s side.
“What’s going on here?” Ramsha thundered.
Waving wildly, Angyar shouted, “Run! On your horses and away from here!”
The trio scrambled for their mounts but the fully-transformed cumah belched a searing flame that incinerated them in their tracks. Angyar seized a poisoned arrow, put it to his bowstring, and shot it into Cumah’s belly. Cumah whirled to face him, but Angyar had readied a second one and now fired it straight into Cumah’s heart.
Cumah roared with laughter. Assuming the youth’s appearance, he pulled the arrows from his body. “Angyar, Angyar. These might affect a normal beast, but I am no normal beast.” He stopped laughing and regarded Angyar with wry amusement as he opened his hand and let the arrows fall. “Let’s see.” He glanced up as if in thought and then back at Angyar. “That’s five.” He clicked his tongue. “However, at least a hundred Liedorans reside in Rauwyar. How many Wyars now encamp at the Ashgard?”
“Leave them alone! Take me! Take me instead of them,” Angyar bellowed.
Cumah stared at him in disbelief. “You consider your life worth a hundred Liedoran lives? Such conceit.” Clicking his tongue, Cumah shook his head. “Nay, Angyar, your life buys but one of theirs, and as we partner in this endeavor I will not take it.”
“The killing must end now! Please! I implore you.” Angyar fell to his knees and spread his arms toward Cumah. “I devised this plan ignorantly, not knowing you were anything but a beast like unto a cougar or a bear. I beg of you, release me!”
Cumah regarded him haughtily. “You thought to control me—”
“Again, believing you only a beast!”
“This can not be reversed.”
“It must be!” Crying with pain and rage, Angyar raced to Patuka, leapt onto her back, and tore off into the trees.
“Our agreement stands, brother,” Cumah called after him. He licked his lips and wryly studied his fingernails. Bursting into laughter again, he assumed the beast’s form and bounded up the mountain.
Angyar had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Cumah had murdered his beloved brother, leaving Angyar devastated and desolate, without even a body to bury. The thought of Aron entombed in the monster’s gullet sickened
him beyond words. Wretched and brokenhearted, Angyar pulled Patuka to a stop and threw himself to the ground.
For an hour he laid face-down in the grit and duff, thinking he should simply take his life and end this misery. But his inner self screamed for vengeance upon the demon who had wreaked this destruction and murdered his beloved brother. Angyar had always believed that, while life remained, so did hope. He would find a way. For Aron’s sake and all who died with him, he would find a way.
Angyar rolled over and sat up. A few feet away Patuka grazed peacefully. Hoisting himself to his feet, he tottered toward her and picked up her lead rope. His remaining countrymen still waited at the Ashgard. Somehow he must warn them, without Cumah’s knowledge, to return to Teptiel. The means to accomplish this evaded him now. Horror and trauma had paralyzed his mind.
I will find a way.
He glanced around. He recognized this clearing as one situated at least a mile east of camp where his bridle and saddle, forgotten in his haste to flee, still remained. Unless Cumah had also incinerated those, Angyar would retrieve them and then continue to the waiting Wyars.
Mounting Patuka, he jogged out of the trees and turned onto the trail leading west. Guilt and shame weighed like crushing stones upon his shoulders. What would he tell his people concerning Ramsha and his sons? Many Wyars held Ramsha in higher esteem than they did Angyar. And even if the Wyars did return to Teptiel, Cumah would find and devour them.
We do not have a hundred people!
What then? Would Cumah satisfy his quota from the Wyars residing in Barren-Fel?
I wonder: Would one Arganian satisfy the requirement?
But there Angyar treaded dangerous ground. Arris’ power might now exceed that of any sorcerer before him.
I wish I could just die!
A smoky haze hung over a glade a short way ahead. Scarcely breathing, Angyar rode to it. Two scorched trees marked the entrance to the camp he once shared with Aron and Jovah. Angyar turned off the trail before reaching them, approaching the area where the horses had grazed. His tack still hung, unharmed, from the branch on which he had placed it. Beyond that lay the twisted, charred remains of Ramsha and his sons. He saw no sign of their horses.
