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

by Sandra Kopp

  Edwin took no notice. “Will, I need my horse. Saddle him, would you, and bring him to the house.”

  Will nodded, propped the pitchfork against the stall door, and dashed to the tack room.

  Edwin started for the inn but before he got halfway, another pigeon swooped low, barely missing his head. Edwin gasped and ducked. The pigeon soared skyward and circled, again flying toward Edwin as he slowly straightened. As the bird approached, Edwin recognized the feathered messenger and broke into a laugh. “Darter!”

  He held out his arm and Darter alighted. With trembling fingers, Edwin extracted the note. His laughter died and the color drained from his face. In a barely legible scrawl Charles had written: Edwin, we and the woodsmen were massacred in Barren-Fel and suffered heavy losses. Davon dead or captured. We have fled to Madmarose. Please help if you can. Charles.

  Edwin stared, shocked and dumbstruck, barely noticing the icy chill creeping up his numbed body and breaking out as cold sweat from every pore. Davon—dead or captured. Mental images concerning his possible fate flooded Edwin’s mind. A lump rose in his throat, but he quickly choked it down. He must act, and quickly, to save his imperiled friends.

  Edwin’s mind raced for a plan. If sane, Bertrand LeConte probably possessed more knowledge than anyone concerning the woodsmen’s attackers and how to deal with them. Otherwise, mustering a band in Garris, even for a rescue mission, would take time. The animosity between Rauths and woodsmen was common knowledge, but most men in Garris would hesitate participating in any incident relating to either without a declaration of war, lest their action incite war. They’d had their fill of death and fighting.

  Edwin’s final option involved traveling to Langhorn to entreat Theodus’ aid. However, Theodus cared little about affairs in Barren-Fel and San-Leyon, unless the trouble spilled inside Liedor’s borders.

  Edwin put a hand to his mouth, brow puckered in thought. The seasoned, hardened Bertrand employed numerous tactics to distract his enemies. Feigning madness might be one of them. Whatever his situation now, Edwin still considered Bertrand best able and most willing to help. Knowing his location, Edwin must now step out in faith. He dropped his hand and drew a resolute breath, then squared his shoulders and limped to the inn.

  Inside, he rummaged through his desk for a scrap of paper. Plopping down in his chair, he tore off a strip, dipped his quill, and wrote: Charles, I just received word of the man you asked about. I go there now. We will come to you. Edwin.

  He hastily tucked the note into the tube on Darter’s leg, took the bird outside, and gave it a little toss. Darter soared skyward and out of sight. Returning to the inn, Edwin entered his chamber to gather his sword, knife, bow, and quiver and then went to the library for Dash.

  Emily entered as he took the bird out of the cage. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Edwin mouthed a silent command and nodded toward the door. Emily quietly closed it and Edwin crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

  “To Brackenlea,” he whispered. “I’ve just heard from Robert LeConte. They’ve found Bertrand.” He paused and drew a tremulous breath. “I’ve also heard from Charles. They were ambushed and suffered heavy losses and. . .” he paused and swallowed, hard “. . .Davon is missing.”

  Alarmed, Emily laid a hand on her mouth. “Oh, no! Edwin, what do we do?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to see Bertrand and enlist his aid. Then we go to Madmarose to help Charles and, hopefully, Davon.” Edwin pressed his lips together. “I only hope we are not too late.”

  Emily’s eyes welled with tears. “Are you sure Bertrand will help or that he even can?”

  “I am sure of nothing. But I must go, for all our sakes.” Edwin buckled on his knife and sword, kissed Emily again, and opened the door. “Take care of the inn. I will return when I can.”

  Emily followed as he walked to the front door and opened it. Outside, Will waited with the horse. Edwin handed him his bow and quiver and took the reins. “Look after your mother, lad.”

  “Aye, father.” Consternation clouded the boy’s face. “But shouldn’t I ride with you?”

  “No. Not this time.” Edwin mounted. Will handed up his bow and quiver and Edwin slung the weapons over his shoulder.

  “Farewell now, and don’t worry. All will be well.” Edwin waved and rode away. But he could not shake his brooding trepidation nor swallow the choking lump now filling his throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Icy rain poured down in sheets as Edwin rode slowly down a silent back street on Brackenlea’s far east side. Night had fallen—it was at least half-past nine—and the chilly air, intensified by a driving north wind, nipped his grim face and tore at his oilskin. Edwin clutched the garment closed so that Dash, safely concealed in his bosom, would stay sheltered. He looked neither right nor left, not wanting to see the broken windows, the burned-out shells, or the charred heaps of a once thriving town that now more resembled a graveyard. Here and there a few candles burned faintly behind thin curtains. Most homes, however, were dark.

  He crossed a rutted trail traversing the main street and continued past the blackened ruins of what had been a mercantile and an apothecary shop. Beyond that, still intact, stood the old hostel. Edwin rode to the hostel’s tie rail and dismounted. After tying the horse, he stole a quick glance around, and then with measured steps walked up the board walk to the hostel door. It was locked. Edwin blew out a nervous breath and rapped twice.

  The narrow peep-door opened. Blood-shot eyes in a wizened rat-like face peered out. “We’ve naught for accommodations, sir,” piped a thin, raspy voice, “so off with ye.”

  “None at all? For even a fox?” Edwin queried.

  The man at the door snorted. “They’re hunting foxes quite heavily these days. Not many left. Now, off with ye.”

  Edwin knew this ploy well, for he had used much the same on many occasions during his mercenary days. The doorman spoke, not of woodland creatures, but of Bertrand, the rebel leader known to those trusted and privileged few as The Fox. With a price on his head, Bertrand presented an inviting target to scores of bounty hunters and ne’er-do-wells seeking instant wealth; and evidently Robert LeConte had not informed the doorman of Edwin’s arrival, else why would he deny that Bertrand was there? Edwin’s uneasiness increased.

  Under pretense of offering a bribe, should anyone be watching, Edwin removed a small moneybag from under his coat and stepped closer to the door. “Tell the goodman the Red Hawk has returned to the roost.”

  A brief silence followed. “Wait here.” The door banged shut.

  Edwin stared at the ground, chewing his lip. What have I walked into? Perhaps, had I revealed my code name to LeConte before he departed the inn. . .yet what if Robert LeConte is not who he says? What if he hunts, not only Bertrand, but everyone loyal to him?

  The peep-door opened and the wizened face glared out. “Around the back.” The door slammed shut again.

  Edwin hung his head in mock dismay. “Well. . .guess I’d best try elsewhere.”

  He turned and, as he started down the walk, wondered if this performance was even necessary or whether someone indeed watched. Best to err on the side of caution, he decided.

  The rain abated. Edwin mounted his horse and continued up the dark street. No one had bothered to light the lamps. He shook his head. The war mentality had never left this place, even after the tyrants’ destruction. “They rebuilt the rest of the town,” he muttered, “but it seems only owls and jackals inhabit this side. How can they bear living in this graveyard?”

  Shrouded by night, he reached the end of the street and wandered onto what had once been the well-manicured grounds of one of Brackenlea’s grandest homes. The burned-out structure, now little more than a fragile shell, vacantly watched his approach. Only the sloping roof over the front of the house remained; conflagration had devoured the rest. Blackened tatters hung in a few windows, the dismal remains of once elegant draperies. A charred turret soared above the left side of
the railed porch. The beautifully carved front door, strangely unmarred, stood closed in sullen defiance. Somewhere inside a beam fell. Its hollow crash echoed throughout the structure. A great horned owl flew out of a shattered upstairs window.

  Edwin swallowed hard, trying not to think of the screams that must have pierced the roar of ravenous flames, tried not to see the ashen faces, twisted with terror and pain, at the upstairs windows. The home of one of Lucius Mordarius’ imagined enemies, the house had been torched in the dead of night while its occupants slept. All had burned alive.

  A narrow lane, bordered on the opposite side by a high, thick hedge, ran along the back of the acreage. Edwin rode through the broken stone wall onto the lane and turned back toward the hostel. Riding between the hedge and broken walls, he finally reached the old stable across the lane from the hostel’s back door.

  The hostel door opened as he dismounted and the rat-faced man motioned him inside. “Leave the horse and your weapons,” he hissed. “Len will see to them.”

  A leathery hand from behind Edwin snatched the reins from his grasp. Edwin started, gaping as he regarded the lanky man garbed in flannel shirt, blue breeches, and greasy leather hat. Len said nothing, but through the dim light Edwin glimpsed a spark of recognition on those weathered features. Len led the horse into the stable but immediately returned, one hand extended. “Your weapons, sir.”

  Heaving a quiet sigh, Edwin reluctantly surrendered his sword, knife, quiver, and bow. “Inside with ye now,” Len grunted and retreated into the stable. Edwin watched until he disappeared and then turned and trudged to the hostel.

  Robert LeConte opened the door and ushered him inside. “Welcome, my friend.” But his stony features offered neither welcome nor friendship.

  Edwin’s heart began to pound, and he tried to quell the panic rising inside him. Every instinct warned him to flee but also warned that, if he did, he would not reach the door. He pulled a silent breath and held it, willing his heart to slow and his tightened muscles to relax. His friends needed help, and Edwin had come too far to turn back now. For nearly three decades he had been a mercenary and through far worse. For heaven’s sake, he would ride this out as well.

  He nodded to Robert and offered a weak smile. “Is Bertrand—”

  “Shh!” Robert commanded. His sullen demeanor alarmed Edwin, though he fought to conceal it. He might have walked into the lair of a renegade band who had already killed Bertrand and now intended to dispatch Edwin as well.

  Robert conducted him into a large, dimly-lit room. A low fire burned in the great stone fireplace in the center of the right-hand wall, and a single candle burned on each of the three round tables situated in the middle of the room. Heavy curtains covered each window. Scattered cots littered the floor around the tables. Fifteen men, including William O’Dell, stood in a row across the width of the room, eyeing Edwin suspiciously.

  A tall, heavily-bearded man dressed in a blue flannel shirt and loose-fitting black breeches leaned against the fireplace, coolly regarding Edwin through piercing black eyes. His hair and beard, once as black as his eyes, were liberally streaked with silver and heavy lines creased his weathered face; nevertheless, the arm resting on the fireplace mantle remained firm and well-muscled. His calloused hand held a razor-sharp knife. For a long, uncomfortable moment he remained motionless, unflinchingly staring Edwin down.

  Edwin met his gaze, hoping his right eye would not twitch, as it was wont to do when he felt nervous. It did not. He searched Bertrand’s face for some sign of recognition, but although only a year had passed since their last meeting Bertrand showed none. The fingers curled around the knife handle tautened and relaxed, tautened and relaxed, the knuckles whitening with each contraction.

  Edwin’s mouth went dry. He stood in Bertrand’s lair, at the mercy of a seasoned and possibly insane warrior who, once a confederate, now acted strange toward him. Should he speak first, Edwin wondered, or should he wait for Bertrand? He glanced from William O’Dell to Robert LeConte, neither of whom looked back. Edwin gulped. What is going on here?

  Bertrand raised his hand off the mantel and rubbed his mustache with a thick forefinger. His sudden grin revealed straight white teeth. “Well done! You’ve finally mastered that twitching eye, Edwin Greene,” he boomed, and burst into a loud laugh. His men also relaxed, guffawing raucously as they slapped their knees or elbowed their neighbors.

  Edwin reddened. Weak with relief, he looked down and shook his head.

  “Ah, Bobby told me he’d found you.” Bertrand shoved his knife into the sheath on his belt and with long strides crossed the room. Clapping Edwin on the shoulder, he said, “Good to see you again! Welcome, my friend. I pray our sporting brought you no offense.”

  “You had me wondering. . .” Edwin began.

  “Hot cider for this fellow!” Bertrand motioned to the rat-faced man. “And bring a round for the rest of us, too.” The rat-faced man nodded once and disappeared through a doorway.

  Bertrand noted Edwin’s paunch and smiled knowingly. “You have softened a bit.”

  “In body but not spirit.” Edwin clapped Bertrand’s shoulder in return. At that moment Dash stirred inside his jacket.

  Bertrand raised an eyebrow, his focus drawn to where Dash’s movements stirred the material. His deep voice carried an ominous tone as he motioned to the spot and asked, “What is this?”

  Edwin maintained his composure, trying to think of a suitable response as he opened the garment and let Dash hop onto his arm. To his relief, Bertrand’s tensed features relaxed.

  “Ah.” Bertrand waved a hand. “Messenger pigeon. Could prove useful.”

  Edwin opened his mouth, but before he could speak the rat-faced man returned with two steaming mugs.

  “Thank you, Hank.” Bertrand motioned Edwin to a table. The rat-faced man placed the mugs on the table Bertrand indicated and left the room.

  Edwin lowered himself onto the chair, grateful for the chance to rest his feet. Bertrand sat down across from him, his chair turned slightly so he could rest one arm on the tabletop as he studied his friend. His amiable expression put Edwin at ease.

  Edwin cupped his chilly hands around the mug, savoring its welcoming warmth. The cider’s spicy aroma filled his nostrils and soothed his nerves. He smiled, grateful for this friendly presence. “I’ve heard little concerning you these past months. How are you?”

  Bertrand’s smile faded. “I fare well enough; however, I would fare much better if your king did not hunt me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why does he?”

  Bertrand blew into his cider to cool it and then took a drink. “Barren-Fel’s lovely ruler asked for my aid in regaining Rauwyar. While I believe Theodus should relinquish control, I found her demeanor discomfiting and refused to join her. Now rumor holds that, not only have I aligned myself with her, but I seek to overthrow Theodus and usurp his throne. My protests of innocence fall on deaf ears.” He paused. “I daresay a witch rules Barren-Fel and that she has bewitched Theodus.”

  “Entirely possible, given what I’ve heard from other confederates.” Edwin took a sip.

  “How so?” Bertrand queried.

  Edwin told him of Davon’s visions and the meeting with Charles at Greene’s Willow Inn, along with Arris’ journey to Barren-Fel. “The castle has been rebuilt,” he finished, “and the signs all signify that Nedra of San-Leyon will ascend the throne.”

  “Um.” Bertrand thoughtfully chewed his lip. “She could ascend only if empowered by the Serpent. If she holds such power, she may indeed have bewitched Theodus.”

  “Yes.” Edwin looked down a moment. “I must confess to another reason for wanting to reach you.”

  Bertrand cocked his head, brows raised. “And that is?”

  Edwin leaned forward. “Minutes after my pigeon returned with Robert’s message, another pigeon from Charles Bordner alit with news that he and Arronmyl’s people were ambushed in Barren-Fel. They suffered heavy losses, and. . .” Edwin paused. Bertran
d’s stare intensified as he waited. Edwin pursed his lips and then continued, “Davon Marchant is either dead or captured. Charles and the survivors fled to Madmarose.” He bobbed his head toward Dash. “This is actually Charles’ bird, which I hoped to send back to him with news that I am bringing help.”

  Bertrand set his mug down, sat back and whistled softly. “The Arganian’s brother, right?” Edwin nodded. “I don’t know the lad personally but understand he also showed some promise in Arganian skills.” Bertrand sighed. “Dead? I know they’re not immortal but. . .”

  Edwin set down his own mug. “I refuse to believe it. Hans told me how that young man cheated death after Ryadok’s beast attacked him. He’s young and strong, and possesses wisdom beyond that of most men twice his age.” Edwin rubbed his chin. “I know you’ve your own troubles to deal with but—”

  “But?” Abruptly Bertrand slammed his fist on the table and glared at Edwin. “You doubt my abilities? I may be hunted but am neither incapacitated nor hiding.”

  Edwin met his stare. “I don’t doubt your ability, but simply consider your possible reluctance to take this on. You’ve much more pressing matters; and a price on your head.”

  Bertrand picked up his mug, drained it, and then set it down again and wiped his mouth. “I have already heard how the witch of Barren-Fel starved her own people and attacked her brother when he came to her for aid. Afterward he returns with Bordner and the Nimbian? There is no question who ambushed that company. She has already involved me, for by her design Theodus hunts me.”

  “She may have engineered the attack on Bordner to draw you out,” Robert told him.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Bertrand returned. “However, I’ll not cower while others suffer. I’ve still a few tricks up my sleeve. We hit them hard and fast and in ways they will not expect.”

  A collective shout rose from the men. Bertrand glanced around, nodding his satisfaction. His black eyes gleamed in the smoky light. “Aye. Well said, lads. Now, here is what we do. Bobby, send word to your esteemed employer the king that Bertrand is camped in a cave at the base of Trinity Peak in Valhalea with a troop of mercenaries and appears to be planning a coup. That will send him on a merry chase and put one foe behind us.