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

by Sandra Kopp

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  June 1 in Madmarose dawned bright and clear. The raging storm from the night before had cried itself out and now, its mighty thunderheads reduced to impotent puffs, meekly retreated to the Mystic Mountains, leaving a feathery wake above the rain-soaked fields.

  It was just after nine o’clock, and already the village bustled with activity. People streamed in and out of the mercantile, bakery, and two small cafes lining one side of the main street. On the opposite side, a coach drawn by four white horses pulled up at Brevitz Inn to board six passengers bound for Langhorn. The sweet aroma of fresh hay emanated from the stable next door, and the steady clanging of hammer striking iron rang from the smithy next to the stable. Hooves and wagon wheels left their marks up and down the dirt streets.

  Four men and two women laden with bags came out. A porter tossed their baggage to the driver, the passengers arranged themselves inside, and then the coach pulled away. Minutes later Charles emerged through the inn’s front door. He nodded a greeting to some passersby before stepping onto the board walk, stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled a few paces to the rail where some horses were tied. He paused.

  Brevitz Inn, a rambling three-story frame structure situated on the northeast corner where the main street intersected with Madmarose’s most heavily-traveled farm road, offered small but comfortable rooms. Charles found the food tasty enough but, in his opinion, it did not compare to the sumptuous fare served at Greene’s Willow Inn. Owner Sam Brevitz had graciously appointed his first-floor accommodations to Charles and several woodsmen. The more severely wounded stayed at the grange under the doctor’s care, while the Little People, uncomfortable in close quarters, occupied the grange’s large open loft.

  Charles scanned the crowd and saw, to his satisfaction and relief, neither woodsmen nor Little People. Since their arrival in Madmarose three days ago, his companions had constantly nagged him concerning his lack of appetite and disregard for his health. Marcos and Benno proved especially aggravating with their constant badgering that Charles might embark alone on a search for Davon. Charles respected and to some extent agreed with their concerns. But the thought of his dear friend lying wounded or unmercifully tortured robbed him of rest and appetite. His friends meant well; but Charles needed time alone to think and, if circumstances dictated, to act—alone, if necessary. Now seemed the perfect opportunity for solitude and reflection.

  Charles cast a final look around and then, head down, strode along the street to the narrow red dirt road leading out of town toward the west. Edwin’s message day before yesterday had kindled a mixture of hope and trepidation, for Bertrand’s mental state remained unknown. Would Edwin meet a seasoned mercenary cunningly outwitting his enemies, or a raving lunatic? Either way, Edwin would surely send Dash with news. The bird would travel from the west, perhaps today, if Fortune smiled. And if not—

  If not, I leave this afternoon. Charles set his jaw. Davon must wait no longer.

  Liedor’s emerald swells rolled out before him. Shadows chased each other across restless waves of windswept grass as high as a horse’s belly. Aspen groves and solitary live oak dotted the landscape. Berms molded from the rich red soil formed striking borders along verdant meadows liberally splashed with yellow balsamroot and purple larkspur. The road stretched westward, a seemingly endless rusty ribbon slicing through the fields and melding with the horizon.

  A quarter-mile ahead the road curved into a gentle S. A great live oak stood on the first bend, its spreading canopy shading part of the road. A low branch offered an inviting perch upon which to sit while reflecting and awaiting Edwin’s message. Charles picked up his pace.

  “Charles!”

  “Drat!” Charles spat the word through clenched teeth as he recognized Marcos’ voice, still some distance behind him. “Why didn’t the doctor keep him at the grange? And how in heaven’s name did he find me, for I saw him nowhere.” He shook his head and muttered, “What is he thinking, running about in his state? Had I his wounds I’d remain abed.”

  Indeed, over the past weeks the brawny woodsman had received several injuries requiring weeks of rest—impossible, given the circumstances and Marcos’ stubborn temperament.

  Charles resisted the urge to glance around. If he pretended not to hear, Marcos might tire and turn back. Charles pushed on faster.

  “Ho! Charles!”

  Charles’ stiffened shoulders slumped. He made a face and stopped, muttering as he slowly turned, hoping his demeanor would not betray his annoyance. Marcos, still several yards away, broke into a run.

  Charles twisted his mouth aside and ambled a few steps toward him, stopping several feet from the approaching woodsman. “Look at you, pale as a ghost. And you chide me for abusing my health.”

  “I must speak with you.” Marcos stopped beside him, panting. “I meant to catch you before you left the inn, and would have but for that bloody draught the doctor poured down me last night. Obviously his medicines don’t affect you.”

  “He offered none. However, my friend, you took several arrows that cost you much blood, not to mention the injuries incurred before your plunge into the canyon. You’ll not mend racing around the countryside like this. Rest assured I would apprise you before embarking on any search.”

  Marcos regarded him narrowly. “Liar.”

  “All right, perhaps not,” Charles conceded. “But you must agree you’re not entirely fit for travel, let alone more fighting.”

  “Concerning my fitness for either, I will speak for myself.” Marcos planted a hand on his hip. “If you’re searching for the Nimbian, I’d say you’re headed the wrong direction.”

  “I’ve begun no search. I simply needed space from all the villagers hovering over me.” Charles kicked at some pebbles, sending them bouncing off the road into the grass. “This morning seemed a perfect opportunity—or so I thought.”

  Marcos nodded. “I understand. Look, you’re not the only one bereaved. I’ve over a hundred souls on my conscience who will not let me rest. How can I, while they’re out there maybe clinging to life by the skin of their teeth—that is, if any still live. I should be with them! And the thought that, had I arrived a week, a day, or even an hour earlier I might have saved at least some of them drives me almost mad!”

  “Forgive me.” Charles ruefully looked down. “Davon’s fate has consumed me such that I considered only myself. I can only imagine your anguish.”

  “Hmph. How often I wished my father still alive.” Marcos cast a mournful gaze to the horizon. “He never would have lost so many.”

  “Your father could have done no better,” Charles returned. “Consider that you’ve endured starvation, inadequate clothing, attack and relentless pursuit by supernatural enemies against which you’ve little defense. Praise heaven the Little People were able to draw them off our trail that night, else we all might have perished. No, my friend, do not judge yourself harshly.” He paused. “Would that we had some otherworldly aid. Arris went to Barren-Fel, else he could assist us. Or would that we had Hans, at least.” He peered hard at Marcos. “Do you know where Hans is?”

  Marcos’ face fell. “I asked Nedra that when last we spoke but rather than answer she attacked. As we fled I spied red hair on a bloody scalp hanging from her belt, and I wondered then—” He broke off, paused, and then raised his head to meet Charles’ stare. “I’ve not seen Hans in months.”

  “I see.” Charles turned away and riveted his gaze on the crimson road winding across the knolls.

  “I would give what’s left of me to know what befell him, for a better man never walked this earth.” Marcos hesitated and regarded him quizzically. “What are you looking for?”

  “I hoped my other pigeon might bring word from Edwin.”

  “You said Edwin was meeting Bertrand the Fox.”

  Charles nodded.

  “Such an ally he would be!” Marcos turned his own attention to the western horizon.

  For several minutes they remained thu
s, neither speaking as they studied the morning sky.

  Suddenly Charles caught his breath. Marcos looked at him sharply. “What is it?”

  Charles did not answer, but pointed to a dark dot near the center of a puffy white cloud. It steadily approached, rising and dipping like a leaf riding the swells of a great sea. Charles’ vision clouded and he closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it.

  “Could it be?” he whispered. He opened them again, and now beheld the unmistakable form of a pigeon circling toward him. Laughing, Charles stepped forward and held up his arm. “Dash! Oh, I knew if I wished hard enough you would come, and here you are!”

  The bird alighted on his wrist. Charles’ hands trembled as he removed a paper scrap from the tiny tube attached to Dash’s leg.

  Marcos fidgeted while Charles read. “Well?” he blurted finally.

  A broad smile lighted Charles’ face. “Edwin’s coming and he’s bringing Bertrand. They’ll be here tonight!”

  Some twenty miles southwest, Leidor’s rolling swells flattened into a broad tree-dotted plain before colliding with San-Leyon’s wilderness forest. Through this plain, out of sight of the Ashgard River, rode seventeen men led by Bertrand the Fox. Already half their journey lay behind them, for they had set out well before sunup and taken no rests other than a quick lunch at noon. The early afternoon sun, warm enough but not unpleasant as yet, beamed down from amid scattered clouds lazing across the sky. The men spoke little, their thoughts focused on the task at hand and their senses alert for unsavory characters.

  Edwin Greene rode behind Bertrand and Robert LeConte, pleased at reuniting with his former confederate but apprehensive concerning what danger the Fox’s actions might arouse. Theodus would have posed no threat from Langhorn, he reasoned, for skirting San-Leyon’s northern border took them far from the main traffic routes, with little chance of hostile encounters. Bertrand’s deceit, he feared, would incur dire consequences.

  “You seem pensive, Master Greene.” Bertrand dropped back and fell in beside Edwin. “What troubles you?”

  Edwin frowned and absently flicked bits of duff off one pant leg. “Sending Theodus on a wild goose chase, especially into Valhalea. From Langhorn he cannot see us travel, so he would be none the wiser remaining there. When he finds nothing at Trinity, he will know you have duped him, become suspicious, and hunt you more diligently than ever.”

  “Exactly what I’m counting on.”

  “What?” Edwin looked at him sharply.

  “He will believe I sent a false report to lead him astray and return with vengeance. More than likely he will increase the bounty on my sorry hide. Some scoundrel in Madmarose will see me there, probably try to apprehend or kill me, and when he fails, happily ride toward Langhorn and meet Theodus returning home. Theodus, when he gets the news, will immediately ride this direction.”

  “And if the scoundrel succeeds in killing you?”

  Bertrand shrugged. “Hasn’t happened yet. Aye, I am not immortal, but. . .” He waved a dismissive hand and smiled wryly. “We’re going to need Theodus, Edwin, along with every man he can bring. We get to Rama-Rauth, run into trouble—” he shook his head —“we can’t summon him then. It would take too long to assemble an army; that is, if he even came. This way he’s already armed, angry, and ready to fight. And once there he’ll see the situation for what it is and act accordingly.”

  “You seem sure of this informant.”

  “Aye. There’s one bloke in particular I’ve locked horns with. No doubt he’s still chafed. Looks like a buffoon but I’d not take him lightly. He gained the king’s favor by helping crush an uprising in Rauwyar.” Bertrand pursed his lips. “It’s him I’m counting on. And unless I miss my guess, our timing will put him directly in Theodus’ path when he returns from Trinity.”

  Edwin drew a deep breath. “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  Bertrand grinned. “As I told you in Brackenlea, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Whistling, he trotted ahead to rejoin his brother.

  At six o’clock Charles Bordner, flanked by Marcos, Benno, and Royce set off across the field west of Madmarose toward a low wooded rise situated a mile from town. “I don’t know whether or not they will follow a road. More than likely they’ll just cut cross country; that’s what I would do. Whichever way they come, this hill should afford a good vantage point.”

  With plenty of cover, should Bertrand wish not to be seen. Charles had considered that, rather than lodge in town Bertrand might wish to camp in the woods. The Fox’s true state remained a mystery. Charles could scarcely wait to meet him again.

  “’Twill be a boon, having stout warriors beside us.” Marcos cast a glance toward the distant forest. “I’ve seen these blokes fight. They’re fierce.”

  At Charles’ request, Marcos had revealed Edwin’s message only to Benno and Royce after first swearing them to secrecy. In answer to anyone else who might ask, they strolled through the field simply to stretch their legs and get some fresh air. Only one person did, and when he accepted their explanation without question Charles bid him good evening and commenced a casual conversation with his companions as they ambled down the street.

  They reached the rise and began to climb, soon melting into the lengthening shadows spilling down its slope. Charles pondered Edwin’s message. Edwin had given neither starting point nor departure time; probably wise, given the circumstances. In his first note Edwin had indicated he must travel to meet Bertrand—most likely to Brackenlea, if Bertrand had retained his usual haunt. Brackenlea lay some forty miles from Madmarose, in which case Bertrand and his company would arrive well after nightfall.

  Charles reached the top first and continued through the woods to its opposite side. Spying a group of rounded granite stones tall enough to sit on, he proceeded to them.

  Marcos motioned south. “They’ll come along our border there, I’ll wager. Should we go on?”

  Charles shook his head. “Circumstances might have dictated an alternate route. I’ll not risk missing them. From here we can watch the whole horizon from north to south.” He lowered himself onto one of the stones. “Just as well get comfortable.”

  Marcos nodded and sat down beside Charles. Benno and Royce edged forward a few steps and studied the terrain. Benno said something to Royce and pointed southwest, then slowly traced his finger along a straight line due south, as if describing Bertrand’s anticipated path. Royce nodded, and the two talked back and forth several minutes before rejoining their fellows.

  Benno plopped down on a stone near Marcos, winced, and shifted his weight. Royce grinned as he found a perch across from Benno. “Hide getting a little thin, is it?”

  Benno grunted. “Not enough meat on these bloody bones.” He stared dismally toward the southwest. “They probably won’t get here till way late. If they left from Brackenlea, they may not make it till tomorrow.” He sighed. “May as well enjoy myself.”

  He reached into his pocket and fished out his pipe and the worn leather pouch containing his pipeweed. After measuring a generous amount into the bowl, he tamped it down with a gnarled forefinger and clamped the pipe between his teeth. Royce, meanwhile, had ignited a tiny pile of duff and twigs. One end of a thicker twig burned brightly and he pulled it from the flame, putting it to Benno’s pipe as the old woodsman leaned toward him. Soon a network of lacey orange threads raced throughout the fragrant flakes. Benno grunted his thanks and sat back, inhaling deeply before releasing a series of wispy rings that dissipated in the still air.

  An hour passed, and then another. Twilight darkened the rolling swells in dusky gloom.

  Benno groaned and shifted his weight. “Be too dark to see them before long.”

  Charles nodded assent. For several minutes he said nothing, then: “What was that bird call he used when he hunted Ryadok? Edwin told me once, but I can’t recall.”

  “Bird?” Benno’s forehead puckered.

  “Bobwhite,” Royce said. “He and Arronmyl used it y
ears ago. That’s good, because it’s easy to imitate.”

  “Well, let’s hope Bertrand remembers that. Whistle it every few minutes after dark. We’ll see if he answers,” Marcos instructed.

  “I only hope no one from the village comes looking for us,” Charles murmured.

  “Aye.” Marcos scratched his cheek. “But surely they realize that, since we’ve mended, we’ve matters to discuss and plans to make. I doubt they’ll want to throw themselves into this caldron with us and will be only too happy when we leave.”

  Another hour passed. Royce whistled ‘bobwhite’ every ten minutes but received no response. Stars glimmered in the moonless sky in every direction as far as the eye could see. A brisk wind arose. The men fidgeted.

  A bright streak flashed across the western sky. Royce pointed. “Falling star!” Scarcely had he spoken when another flashed. Royce leapt to his feet. “Sit down, ‘tis nothing,” Benno growled. Royce ignored him and whistled, “Bobwhite! Bobwhite!”

  A distant ‘bobwhite’ brought them all to their feet. Royce whistled again, and like an echo the reply came back. With Charles leading, the men hastened down the hill.

  “Edwin?” Charles called.

  “Charles!” Edwin’s voice boomed, and now Charles and his companions heard the steady clop! clop! of hooves approaching at a brisk trot. Within moments the two groups met.

  “Who of Arronmyl came with you?” This from Bertrand.

  “Marcos, son of Arronmyl, and Benno and Royce, two of my stoutest warriors,” Marcos answered.

  “How many of Arronmyl’s people remain?”

  “Less than two hundred. One hundred and eighty, perhaps.”

  “And maybe fifty of them fit to fight,” Charles put in.

  “We might be best off with just a few,” Bertrand said, “but we can discuss that later. Right now I’m ready for a pint of ale and a hearty meal.” He laughed. “Nay, make that a gallon of ale and the meal is optional. Has Madmarose accommodations for seventeen men?”