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

by Sandra Kopp

  Barada plowed ahead. Arris wheezed and gasped but pulled barely enough oxygen for a decent breath. He caught a fleeting glimpse of something dark, and then a back hoof impacted his cheek. Arris lowered his head between his arms, protecting it as best he could, and prayed. His arms and fingers burned, stretched to their limits by Barada’s frenzied lunges.

  Lightning exploded around him. Arris closed his eyes against its glare. Thunder crashed and then big icy raindrops pelted him like hailstones. He tried to look but the liquid darts stung his eyes so that he could not keep them open.

  At length he felt himself dragged upward and cracked his eyelids open. The air had lost its viscosity. They had reached the edge of the valley, and now Barada puffed and groaned as he labored up the mountain. Arris could scarcely speak but managed a feeble, “Whoa.”

  Barada stopped and stood, head down and back hunched against the driving rain. Arris released the stallion’s tail and collapsed in the muck. His arms throbbed. Both hands stung. Mud caked his face, impeding his breathing. The rain fell harder, pummeling his body like a shower of stones. Arris crawled to his hands and knees and after a couple of deep breaths hauled his exhausted body to its feet. Grasping Barada’s reins, he lumbered into the trees near the mountaintop and began wiping off the streams of crimson goo clinging to himself and Barada. . .

  Arris awoke with a start. The broad green valley stretched before him, its verdant floor rising here and there in gentle swells. A wide brook flowing down its center sparkled in the morning sun. Curiously no shrubbery lined its bank. Other than a small copse near the brook, the valley held only grass. Fang Mountain formed its eastern side. The craggy top, dramatically crowned with scattered boulders and its trademark spires, spilled over onto gray granite walls that plunged downward to meet the gentler grass-covered lower slopes halfway up.

  Atop Fang Mountain the castle sat, indifferent and aloof, between the peak’s enormous spires. It seemed almost asleep, as if lulled by the radiating waves of rose-hued light endlessly caressing it from bottom to top. The site seemed to have been swept clean of rock and debris, leaving a flat granite floor which served as the spacious courtyard surrounding the structure. A winding road led from the courtyard down the mountain’s stark flanks, crossing two broad fields of gray and copper-tinged scree on the upper slope before descending to the lower slope and into the valley.

  Arris’ lips tightened as he surveyed the valley. Nothing there portended the events of his dream. Yet witchcraft had built this citadel—and witchcraft protected it now.

  He glanced at his torn and bloody clothing, now wet with dew. . .or rain? He scanned the sky and noted a handful of puffy white clouds floating lazily overhead; otherwise, the sky showed no sign of a storm. The ground itself looked dry enough, with none of the muck and mire that would have followed a deluge.

  I dreamed. Arris sighed. In this dark and magic land one often could not distinguish fantasy from reality. At any rate, he must now cross that valley. His destination lay on the other side. If he hoped to find his friend and stop whoever would probably prove the most evil and treacherous of Anhuapta’s henchmen, he must press on.

  He caught his breath, remembering that either in a vision or a true altercation he had taken something—a gem, if memory served him. He groped about his jacket pockets and felt something hard, reached into the pocket and drew out a sapphire. The stone’s beauty entranced him and he stared at it a full minute before Barada nosed his arm.

  Arris blinked and then turn to tousle the stallion’s forelock. He chuckled. “Good lad, Barada. At least one of us keeps the mission in mind.”

  He untied a satchel from his saddle and carefully placed the sapphire inside. After securing the flap, he tied the satchel back into place and mounted. As he reined Barada toward the valley he cast a gaze south toward Firendoom. He froze, studying the crumbling rust-red dome. The entire mountainside had molded itself into a visage of murderous rage so vividly graphic it sent a chill down Arris’ spine. Two dark slanted hollows near the top formed eyes burning with fury. Stone arches situated over each created brows knitted into a frown. A conglomerate outcropping directly below shaped a hooked, beak-like nose, under which an arced crevice molded a sulking, downturned mouth.

  The mouth opened. The eyes bored through him, black and penetrating. Arris waited for the entity to speak but no words came. A shadow passed over the mountain and when the sunlight returned Arris saw only red stone, cracked and weathered beneath its bald pate.

  “Whew!” Only then did Arris realize how tense the incident had left him. His shoulders had frozen into a shrug and he had stiffened both arms and clenched his right hand into a tight fist. He cast a wary glance at Firendoom, now standing benign and indifferent, then breathed deeply and relaxed. Turning Barada, he rode into the valley.

  The lushness of the place astounded him; even Liedor’s richest agrarian regions could not have surpassed the succulent pasture this dark loam produced. And the array of wildflowers could not possibly exist at this altitude without the use of magic arts.

  “Ah, yes. As the Arganians sustain Aerie, so Anhuapta sustains his abode.”

  A rosy hue fell over the valley, a delicate pink that darkened almost to crimson before lightening and then repeating the cycle again. Arris urged Barada into a trot, his senses alert for any developing viscosity or the humming he had heard in his dream. The air remained clear, clean and silent. He crossed the creek and continued to the base of Fang Mountain and the wide, well-packed road to the top.

  As he climbed he wondered what he would find there, whether sword-wielding geriatric morphing into a beast or an army waiting to bind, imprison, or kill him. Perhaps Anhuapta himself waited. The allure of Ryadok’s throne with its heady power and sense of invincibility, even immortality, flooded Arris’ memory. In its presence he considered himself a god. He had resisted then; but Anhuapta would intensify those sensations into irresistible seductions.

  Soon the grassy lower slopes lay behind him. The castle’s emanations darkened the gray stone to the color of red wine. The road steepened and wound more sharply around the merciless incline. Sweating and puffing, Barada labored toward the summit, finally reaching the top shortly past noon.

  A gray wall twenty feet high enclosed the courtyard. Arris stood before a massive iron gate near the southeast corner which, to his surprise, stood open and unguarded. Indeed, the entire castle appeared vacant.

  “I suspect the serpent expects us,” he murmured. “Apparently, however, we do not merit a welcoming delegation—probably a good thing, now that I consider Ryadok’s reception.” Chuckling, he nudged Barada through the gate and onto the empty courtyard.

  Inside, he slowly dismounted and surveyed the scene. Oppressive silence prevailed, with no sign of either man or beast. Were someone there they should have seen him and reacted by now. Perhaps the entity in Firendoom watched, he thought, and shot a glance in that direction. But the gruesome visage had vanished and he turned his attention back to the castle.

  The courtyard consisted of a smooth slab of gray granite that glittered like snow in the full sun. Only bare wall rimmed the south and west sides, but a variety of tastefully arranged trees, shrubs, and flowers lined its eastern edge, creating a lovely border ten feet wide that stretched to its north corner some sixty feet away. A glassy wall of solid rose quartz soared twenty feet high across the courtyard’s north side, in the center of which stood a massive arch composed of glittering white stone. Beyond that, a wide path entered a second courtyard where the castle, still bathed in rippling radiance, reared heavenward, enticing and yet exuding a coldness that discomfited Arris.

  Barada nickered softly and pulled him toward an elderberry bush a few steps away. Arris tried at first to hold him, but as the stallion persisted he relented and followed him to the bush. Obviously a stream flowed there and Barada, all but desiccated by the laborious climb, craved a drink.

  Arris heard the inviting splash of water as they approached. He quickly foun
d its source, a pipe protruding through the wall behind the elderberry. A pure mountain stream tumbled out the pipe and spilled into a gravelly bed that wandered through the shrubbery, pooling in places deep enough to provide a refreshing drink for a thirsty horse. Arris, his own throat parched, reached through the elderberry to catch water in his cupped hand and drank. Refreshed by the cold sweet liquid, he took another drink and then patted Barada’s neck as he gazed toward the castle.

  “Well, friend, whether I care to or not I’ve got to go in there.” He drew a short breath and blew it out. “Let’s go.”

  Leading Barada, he crossed the courtyard to the white gate. He wondered at its vacuity. Shouldn’t it offer rails for tying horses, he wondered, or supply buildings for tack and weapons? What about barracks? Perhaps Anhuapta simply left those decisions for the new sorcerer to make after his arrival.

  He reached the white arch and stopped. The iridescent air within its entryway shimmered with rainbow hues and displayed a viscous quality that reminded Arris of an oily film on water. He knotted Barada’s reins and drew them over the stallion’s head, draping the ends over his saddle. “Stay, Barada.”

  Arris approached the arch and cautiously extended his hand, palm up, against the scintillating screen. A tingling, almost pleasant sensation traveled up his arm. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped through.

  He found himself in a grass-bordered courtyard graveled with crushed crimson stones and surrounded by a high rose quartz wall. Flat white stone paved the wide path meandering from the arch up a gentle slope to the castle’s broad steps, six in number, that led to what Arris surmised to be a double door—at least, the two stone protuberances centered above the top step resembled door handles; otherwise, the wall displayed nothing that would differentiate a door from the rest of the wall.

  “Interesting.” Arris walked up the path and suddenly noticed his clothing changed to a different color and material than what he had worn just moments before. A gentleman’s royal blue suede breeches replaced his rugged trousers. Instead of a tunic, he wore a fitted jacket of the same color and material over a fine white shirt ruffled at the throat. His sword and dagger remained strapped to his waist. His right arm felt strong and free of pain, and when he reached into his shirt to feel around his injured left shoulder he found it totally healed. He noticed, too, a heightened awareness of everything around him. His visual acuity had increased, along with his auditory and olfactory senses. Enigmas of the Arganian arts that had evaded him while under Baldimora’s tutelage now made perfect sense. He possessed knowledge concerning capabilities of the gem acquired during his visional battle, along with full understanding as to how to utilize them. New powers, immature as yet, slowly awakened. He had only to swear that eternal, irreversible oath.

  Soon he would face Anhuapta for what he hoped would be the last time. At least he faced him not alone. His authority to summon the Corridor, his mastery over Anhuapta’s guardian in obtaining the gem, and now his blue garments proved beyond all doubt he had obtained Baldimora’s aid.

  The gem, necessary for entering the castle, remained tucked in his satchel. Returning to Barada, Arris opened the satchel and retrieved his prize. For a moment he held it in his cupped hand, gazing upon its lustrous beauty and listening to its whispered secrets. So lovely. . .but so treacherous.

  He placed it in his jacket pocket and patted Barada, then gathered the reins and led the stallion through the arch to a grassy spot along the wall where he could graze. Turning, Arris started for the castle, but as he looked at it now he stopped, stunned. A network of darkened streaks now raced throughout the rosy walls and a faint murmur, punctuated with the sounds of a beating heart, broke the stillness. The waves of light enwrapping the castle accelerated. The walls expanded and contracted, expanded and contracted. Arris cocked his head. It breathes!

  His mind suddenly echoed with the sounds of battle: Shouts and cries, clashing steel, the whir of arrows in flight. He saw Davon—disheveled and bloody, dazed and disoriented—while an eerie voice uttered unspeakable threats in a frightening otherworldly tongue. Beyond it all loomed a greater foe, but he thrust the images away. He could tarry no longer; it was time to act. Arris strode to the steps and climbed to the top.

  “Balfor, omrίba, nucan!”

  He heard a pop, and then the faintest crack appeared between the protuberances. Silently they separated, opening outward into a great double door. Arris walked inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Hurry up!” Chirubach brought the riding crop down hard between Angyar’s shoulders.

  The party had set out long before sunup, tramping northeast through the deep forest on a direct course to Fang Mountain. While not the easiest route, Chirubach deemed it the fastest, despite Angyar’s warning that while they enjoyed level terrain thus far, a treacherous stretch of steep, rocky mountains and plunging ravines awaited them less than two days away. No paths existed, and navigating around impassable canyons and over precipitous slopes overlaid with shifting scree might easily restrict their daily progress to a single mile.

  “You’ll not cross with a horse,” Angyar said bluntly, darting a quick glance in Patuka’s direction.

  “There is no such stretch so far south,” Chirubach shot back. “You stall, for what reason, I cannot fathom. We travel as I direct. If we hit such terrain as you describe, you will find a way around it.” His scowl deepened. “You will find a way or die.”

  Angyar returned his stare through smoldering eyes but said nothing.

  Chirubach placed the old Wyar and Davon ahead of the group, their arms bound behind them and nooses encircling their necks while he followed, holding the ends of the ropes and flogging Angyar with his own riding crop whenever he felt their pace too slow. Akira brought up the rear, leading Patuka with Chemille astride. They journeyed all day without stopping and, despite the lengthening shadows, Chirubach appeared determined to travel all night as well.

  Disheartened and weak from hunger, Angyar groaned and staggered forward a couple more steps before crumpling to his knees. “Show some mercy, for pity’s sake. We have traveled all day with neither food nor rest.”

  “You merit neither,” Chirubach barked.

  “Perhaps I do not; but what value will the sorcerer place on a damaged prize?” Angyar returned, bobbing his head toward Davon. He hunched his shoulders then, wincing, as Chirubach raised the crop.

  Akira stepped forward and grasped Chirubach’s upraised arm. “He may be right. If confederate with the fair one’s people, the sorcerer will avenge your harsh treatment of him. Treat him well, and the sorcerer will reward us.” He paused and then continued quietly, “You might consider that before binding him tomorrow as you did today.”

  Chirubach dropped his arm, glanced around and sighed. The sun had sunk behind the distant hills and twilight further darkened the forest gloom. Logs and branches littering the ground afforded plenty of wood for shelter and a fire, and a nearby stream offered clear clean water. Fresh tracks in the soft earth told him deer had recently passed that way, and he had to admit venison would taste delicious.

  “Very well.” Chirubach nodded. Stepping forward, he grasped Angyar’s rope near his neck. As he jerked the old Wyar to his feet, the noose tightened and closed off Angyar’s airway. Angyar choked and gagged and Chirubach grabbed the noose, his long nails gouging Angyar’s skin as he did so, and gave it a rough yank to loosen it.

  Davon watched, his eyes wide and innocent. “Why do you mistreat him so?”

  Chirubach shot him a disgusted look, spat and pushed Angyar away. “Watch them while I search for food,” he instructed his companions. Transforming into the beast, he bounded away.

  Chemille gracefully dismounted and swept to Davon. “Come, sit,” she urged and, tucking her sinuous arm through his, conducted him to a log and sat him down. Angyar watched dolefully as she untied Davon and tenderly massaged his wrists.

  “I don’t need help. I’m fine.” Undisguised revulsion darkened Davon’s fa
ce as he looked away.

  “Hush, hushhhhh,” she whispered and continued massaging him. Davon shot Angyar a silent plea for help.

  Akira, meanwhile, untied Angyar and led him to a stone situated across from the log where Davon was seated. “Sit here.” He sat Angyar down, glowered at Chemille, and barked, “Let the Fair One alone. Make yourself useful and help me gather wood and set the fire before Chirubach returns.”

  Petulantly Chemille rose, letting one hand trail across Davon’s shoulders as she set off after Akira. They moseyed about, gathering sticks and throwing them into a pile a few feet from their prisoners. Chemille then built a fire while Akira fashioned the longer poles into a shelter.

  With their captors thus occupied, Angyar leaned toward Davon. “Do you really not know who you are?” he whispered.

  Davon looked at him blankly. “Should I know you, sir?”

  Angyar sat back, his shoulders slumped. He looked askance and sighed. He had hoped to spirit Davon away while the shapeshifters slept and bring him safely to his brother. Now Akira had taken possession of Patuka, and Chirubach would likely bind his prisoners again after supper. But even left unbound and Patuka returned to him, Angyar had to consider that Davon, in his current state, might refuse to accompany Angyar quietly.

  Angyar shuddered. Chemille especially repulsed him, and Davon’s behavior told him the young Nimbian shared that revulsion. Somehow Angyar must formulate a plan. Surely, if he could preserve Davon, Arris would procure Angyar’s release and perhaps slay these monsters. Perhaps he could even resurrect the murdered Wyars.