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

by Sandra Kopp

  “I believe so,” Charles answered. “Brevitz Inn has thirty rooms, at least, and I’ve not seen many guests outside ourselves.” He paused. “I wasn’t sure whether you would enter the village or camp outside.”

  “After twenty hours in this bloody saddle my arse needs a soft bed,” Bertrand shot back. “Come on, mount up behind us and let’s go to town.”

  Edwin rode up beside Charles and kicked his stirrup free. “Up with you now.”

  Charles placed his hand on the pommel, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up behind Edwin’s saddle. Marcos mounted behind Robert LeConte, Benno behind William O’Dell, and Royce behind Mason. With lighter hearts and even a bit of banter, they set off for Madmarose.

  Twenty minutes later found them at the stable adjoining Brevitz Inn. Bertrand and his company put up their horses while Charles and the woodsmen went to the inn to secure their accommodations. No one noticed the skulking figure slink around the feed bin and out the stable door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  An hour before dawn Charles, Marcos, Benno, and Royce, along with fifteen other woodsmen and Bertrand’s company sat down to breakfast in the inn’s sprawling dining hall. Despite the arduous journey and the dangerous task before them, Bertrand was in high spirits. He laughed and joked with Sam Brevitz and the serving maid and regaled all who would listen with tales of past feats. Charles and the woodsmen looked on, exchanging occasional dubious glances, while across the table Edwin stared, stone-faced, at his plate.

  Charles shot Bertrand a wry look as the swarthy mercenary laughed raucously after cracking a joke. The man is crazy! I would never reveal so much. He glanced then at Edwin who returned his gaze and almost unperceptively shook his head before returning his focus to his plate.

  Charles shrugged, scooped up the last of his scrambled eggs and shoved it into his mouth. Of Bertrand’s qualities, eccentricity probably ranked among the highest. Many opinions equated eccentricity with insanity, a possible requirement for even undertaking the quest before them. He could only entrust the situation to God, Charles decided, and turned to Marcos. “Are these fifteen all of yours that are going?”

  Marcos gulped down a mouthful of bacon and eggs, wiped his mouth with the back of a weathered hand, and grunted. “No. Myan and his people are all coming. They’ve had their fill of Liedoran village life.”

  “Surely not the severely injured.”

  “They had no sorely wounded among them. Besides, they heal fast.” Marcos tossed down the last of his ale and set his mug down. “They wanted to leave last night, scout out Rama-Rauth, and send us word today. I persuaded them to wait and travel part of the way with us on horseback.”

  Charles regarded him quizzically. “Surely they didn’t mean to walk to Rama-Rauth. They should ride—all the way, not just part.”

  Marcos smiled wryly. “Horses slow them down. And on a quiet night one can hear hoofbeats a mile away.” He shook his head and reached for a piece of bread. “Nay, Charles, these people move like swift shadows, and their small size enables them to get in undetected where we can’t. I know no better trackers or raiders.” He paused, then swiped a dollop of butter out of the dish before him and smeared it across his bread. “If Davon’s alive, they will find him—” His voice dropped to a whisper —“and, I pray, my missing people.”

  Marcos bit into his bread. Charles turned his attention to Edwin, who stared askance, his brow knitted with consternation.

  “What’s wrong?” Charles whispered.

  Edwin bobbed his head to one side. Trying not to appear obvious, Charles stole a glance in the direction Edwin indicated. A tall, gaunt man of perhaps forty, with chiseled features and dressed in a dirty over-sized coat and floppy hat, sat propped against the wall, his beady eyes riveted on Bertrand.

  Edwin leaned forward. “That bloke’s trouble. He’s been staring since we walked in.”

  Charles looked forward and rubbed his forehead. “That’s why I thought Bertrand would camp outside town. Enemies abound, especially with a price on his head.”

  “He mentioned an informant here.” Edwin sat back. “This might be him.”

  “And still Bertrand shows himself?” Charles asked.

  Bertrand pushed back his chair before Edwin could answer. “Time to go, lads. If you’ve not settled with the goodman, do it now and be quick about it.”

  He rose and ambled to the tall counter. The rest of the company followed. Charles kept a wary eye on the hawk-like stranger, who maintained his vigil of Bertrand. Aware of Charles’ perusal, however, the stranger shifted his gaze to him, then abruptly pivoted toward the table and dug into his breakfast.

  Edwin settled his bill and edged over to Charles. “Pay him no mind, lad.”

  “I would know his name and occupation, at least,” Charles returned.

  “Scoundrel and ne’er-do-well.” Bertrand, unnoticed, had joined them.

  “You know him then.” Charles raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye.” Bertrand absently tucked a scrap of parchment into his shirt pocket. “Let him alone. He’ll yet do us a service, albeit unwittingly.” He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Come. We’ve work to do.”

  Bertrand strode toward the door. Charles and Edwin, along with the rest of the group, fell in behind him, leaving the inn in favor of the stable where they retrieved their horses.

  Charles saddled Vitimihovna and then Trevor, tied his satchels and bedroll behind Vitimihovna’s saddle, and mounted. Leading Trevor, he rode outside. Bertrand and his men, already astride their horses, waited in the street.

  “That’s a fine-looking gray.” Bertrand shot Trevor an appreciative glance.

  “He’s Davon’s. Both horses found us hours after we forded the river. I’m hoping he can take us to his master.”

  Bertrand nodded. His smile faded as he looked at the assembled woodsmen, all of them afoot. “You can’t—”

  “Thomas Hind promised us horses from the community herd,” Marcos broke in. “They await us at the grange, where the Little People will also join us.”

  “All right.” Bertrand held up his hand and motioned ahead. “Let’s go, lads.”

  The grange, a rambling log structure that better resembled a barn, sat near an aspen grove just outside Madmarose’s east end. The company rode through the silent streets, passing a café, apothecary, and butcher shop before crossing the wide creek bordering the village. Soon the grange came into view, its lofty roof darkly silhouetted against the lightening clouds. Charles shuddered. By day the grange appeared warm and welcoming. In the predawn darkness against this looming backdrop it reminded him of Ryadok’s black castle.

  Myan, along with some fifty of his folk, awaited them on horses. Thomas Hind, flanked by Bard, Ewan, and Donegal stood a few feet beyond them, each holding four horses saddled, bridled, and loaded with supplies. The remaining woodsmen, many of whom could hardly walk, had gathered their meager supplies and now clustered around the Little People, ready to march. Their heads might be bandaged, their limbs splinted, their flesh scraped and bruised; yet each face expressed fierce determination and the devotion to follow their leader to whatever end.

  Bertrand gestured toward the bedraggled assemblage. “We cannot take you.”

  “I told them to stay until they heal.” Thomas shook his head. “They’re a stubborn lot and insist on going, but one can see they still suffer. We will gladly care for them and then arrange for their return home when they recover.”

  Marcos nodded as he strode to his defiant countrymen. “Master Hind is right. We must travel fast and fight furiously. You will only hinder us.”

  “Put us on horseback. We can wield sword and arrow as well as any of you.” This from a man leaning on a makeshift crutch.

  “I admire your spirits and stout hearts but you’re still impaired. Lose your horse and you’re helpless. If none of us can help you. . .” Marcos made a slashing motion “. . .you’re dead.”

  Behind him, Bertrand boomed, “Stay and recover, and then
join us. This enemy won’t go down easy and it won’t go down quick. You’ll see plenty of fighting, whenever you come.”

  “He’s right.” Marcos’ stern eyes swept the group. “We’ll need your numbers later. I want every one of you sharp. Make yourselves useful here. Certainly I will recompense the good people of Madmarose for their generosity; but in the meantime help with whatever work you can.”

  “We’re not farmers,” one of the woodsmen muttered.

  “But you are men of honor,” Marcos shot back, “and these folk opened their homes to us.”

  “We’re just happy to help.” Thomas stepped forward and relinquished his horses to Marcos, Benno, and Royce. “I hope you find your people alive and well. Bring any that are injured here. We will care for them, too.”

  “Thank you.” Marcos moistened his lips and extended his hand. “I’ve no words to express my gratitude; but rest assured I will repay you.”

  “You expressed yourself well enough; as for the rest. . .” Thomas waved absently “. . .take no thought for that.” He smiled and clasped Marcos’ hand. “God be with you, Marcos—with all of you. May He grant you success. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. God bless you all for the help you have rendered.”

  Marcos turned and hoisted himself into the saddle, then hesitated a moment before offering a last word to his countrymen. “Do not chafe at remaining here. I need you to be strong and well. We shall reunite soon. Farewell.”

  He nodded to Bertrand, who raised a hand and waved the company forward. They rode away without a backward glance.

  The sun rose, illuminating the emerald swells that only too soon would yield to forbidding forest.

  “Take us over the route you took that night,” Bertrand instructed Marcos. “That way we should find any who fell behind and could not continue.” Marcos nodded and motioned for Benno and Royce to join him in the lead.

  Bertrand fell in beside Edwin and Charles. “Were you attacked at Rama-Rauth?” he asked Charles.

  “No, about a mile above Gonor Canyon. But I’ll wager Davon’s in Rama-Rauth, if Nedra holds him. Concerning Marcos’ people, however—”

  “The witch would have killed them all,” Marcos broke in bitterly. “She permits none of us to live.”

  Charles sighed. “I fear he speaks the truth. Nevertheless, I still hold hope they may have escaped. They know their enemy and how to survive the deep woods.”

  “That they do.” Bertrand set his jaw.

  The sun rose higher. The friendly meadow rolled out before them toward the somber dark hues of wilderness forest marking Liedor’s eastern border. By ten o’clock they entered the first scattered firs heralding the massive green army behind them.

  A shout from behind the company, followed by the pounding cadence of rapidly-retreating hooves, stopped them short. Mason and William O’Dell, who had brought up the rear, broke away in pursuit of a lone horseman.

  “Ha!” Bertrand turned his horse and spurred him forward. The rest of group followed him into the chase.

  Their quarry rode like a man possessed, furiously whipping his horse as he pounded out of the trees toward Madmarose and quickly gained ground. Mason spurred his own horse forward and, after a mile, managed to get alongside. He reached for the horse’s bridle but the rider veered aside, directly into William O’Dell, who clawed at the bridle only to receive a stinging slap across the face with the end of a rein. Mason closed in again and this time succeeded in grasping the reins near the bit and pulling the horse down. The rider brandished a knife, but William O’Dell grabbed his arm. Snarling, the man freed his foot from the stirrup and leveled a kick at O’Dell, but Mason wrapped his arm around his neck and flung himself off his horse, taking them both to the ground.

  The rest of the company formed a circle around them and dismounted. Robert LeConte wrestled the knife from the stranger, and together with William O’Dell pulled him to his feet. Mason hauled himself up and moved in to help restrain their captive who, still defiant, spat in his face and then drove his boot toward his groin. Mason pivoted just in time and the boot struck his buttock instead.

  “You stinking son of a—” Glowering, Mason wiped the spittle from his cheek and threw a punch. Fist met jaw with a resounding crack, sending his stunned target to his knees.

  The gaunt stranger from the inn. Charles and Edwin exchanged glances.

  Bertrand seemed unperturbed. He sauntered to the stranger and motioned to LeConte and O’Dell to lift him back up. His face relaxed into a broad grin. “Well, well,” he boomed. “Mr. I-Am-A-Buttski. Happy you could join us.”

  Robert LeConte tittered and then Bertrand’s men erupted into laughter.

  Bertrand planted his hands on his hips. “You’re late!”

  The man smoldered. One corner of his lip curled into a sneer. “Abuttska,” he spat. “Ian Abuttska. I’ll thank you to afford some respect to a man’s good name.”

  “I would do so, sir, were you a man and your name good,” Bertrand shot back. “Yet rest assured, we will give you all the respect you deserve.” He nodded to Mason. “Tie him up.”

  “Coward!” Pure hate distorted Abuttska’s weathered features. “Bid your trolls release me and let’s fight like men.”

  “Would that I had the time,” Bertrand sighed, “but, alas, I’ve more pressing matters.”

  “Coward! Fool! You’re afraid!” Abuttska cleared his throat and spat a thick brown stream at Bertrand’s feet.

  Bertrand regarded his fouled boot for a moment and then drew himself to his full height. “All right.” He glanced around the group. “Give us some room.”

  The company stepped back, maintaining the circle while affording enough room for the sparrers to maneuver. Bertrand stepped into the center and turned to face Abuttska, still restrained by Robert LeConte and William O’Dell. “Let him go.”

  Abuttska jerked free and marched toward Bertrand, his beady eyes darting about the circle as if seeking an escape. Apparently finding none, he glared at Bertrand and clenched his teeth, shoulders rising and falling as he sucked in a half-dozen loud, deep breaths. Bertrand simply stood, waiting.

  Abuttska advanced until six feet from his opponent and then doubled his fists and slowly circled. Bertrand nonchalantly scratched his ear. Abuttska danced, hopping side to side from one foot to the other, occasionally jumping forward as if he would lunge, but retreating immediately. The tactic aroused no response from Bertrand.

  The dancing slowed. Abuttska’s stare intensified. With lightning speed he lunged at Bertrand, who merely side-stepped and pivoted. As Abuttska rushed past he planted his boot in Abuttska’s seat, sending him sprawling. Bertrand’s men howled with laughter.

  Red-faced and cursing, Abuttska scrambled to his feet. His right hand dove inside his open coat and re-emerged clutching a long knife. Mason readied an arrow but Bertrand shook his head and motioned him down.

  Again Abuttska attacked, moving now with a cat-like agility that amazed Charles. Over and over he lunged, slashed, and dodged, the blade of his cruel knife glinting in the sun as he delivered lightning-like jabs.

  Bertrand, however, looked almost bored, doing little more than sidestepping to avoid his attacker’s blade. For a minute or so he tolerated the performance, but then his demeanor changed. As Abuttska lunged again, Bertrand’s lip curled and his bushy brows knit together in an angry scowl. His muscular right arm drew back and then shot forward, propelling the hardened fist solidly into Abuttska’s jaw. Abuttska reeled and staggered a few steps before slowly collapsing into a crumpled ball.

  Bertrand wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “I’ve no more time for games. Tie him up.”

  Abuttska had hauled himself onto all fours and was shaking his head. He started to rise, but Robert LeConte and William O’Dell dashed to him and swiftly bound his hands behind him.

  Bertrand opened and closed his fist several times. “Blindfold him.”

  “I am no coward,” Abuttska cried. “Let me watch what you do to me.”<
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  Mason whipped out a kerchief and handed it to William O’Dell, who wrapped it around Abuttska’s eyes and tied it.

  “Put him on his horse,” Bertrand directed.

  “What are you doing?” Abuttska shouted.

  Bertrand waved a dismissive hand and strode to his horse. “Gag him.”

  Abuttska unleashed a volley of curses, but Robert stuffed his kerchief into his mouth, stifling the words to a garbled murmur.

  With Abuttska writhing, struggling, and kicking between them, Robert and William dragged their hapless captive to his horse and hoisted him onto its back.

  “Mount up,” Bertrand commanded.

  The company remounted, the woodsmen and Little People keeping silence while Bertrand’s men ribbed their unfortunate captive.

  Bertrand scowled. “Enough. Let’s go.”

  They turned east and rode back through the scattered trees to the denser forest beyond. Twice Abuttska tried to jump from his horse but Mason’s quick reflexes and strong arm thwarted his attempts.

  “Aw, let him go and let’s have some fun,” one of Bertrand’s comrades said.

  Bertrand spoke without looking back. “You’ll have your sport soon enough. Now hold your tongue.”

  They rounded a knoll and entered a wide open meadow, the last grassland before entering Barren-Fel’s wilderness forest. Near its center a huge oak spread its massive canopy umbrella-like against the cerulean sky.

  Bertrand turned and nodded to Robert LeConte. “Got a rope?”

  “John does.” Robert signaled to a burly redhead, who jogged his horse ahead and fell in beside Mason. Two ropes hung from his saddle. “You want to hang him?” John asked.

  A muffled cry erupted behind the kerchief in Abuttska’s throat. He kicked and squirmed and again tried to throw himself from the horse. Again Mason held him fast.

  “Not by the neck,” Bertrand answered. “Put the rope under his arms. We’ll leave him for the crows.”

  “Surely not—” Charles began, but a nudge from Edwin, along with Bertrand’s dark scowl, silenced him.