by Sandra Kopp
For several minutes Ryadok stared impassively into the owl’s face. “Yes, good,” he murmured, dropping his arm. The owl fluttered away and perched atop the wall.
Ryadok pressed his palms together and raised them to his lips. “So Mordarius has taken Valhalea and murdered his beloved uncle.” Turning, he paced across the rooftop.
“There will be no end to his striving. His greed knows no bounds. He must remember his place, however, for I rule supreme. I shall do nothing further yet—and neither shall he. I’ll watch the peoples tremble, laugh at their futile attempts to determine my next move.”
Ryadok turned and held out his arm. The owl glided to him, and he smiled as he stroked its soft feathers. “Beautiful bird. Tell your master, ‘Well done. Ryadok is pleased.’ Go now, my pet.”
He lifted his arm and the owl fluttered away.
“Mordarius accomplished much with an army of men and now fancies himself a god. But his grandiose visions will shrivel when my legions march!”
Ryadok’s ringing laughter filled the night.
THE COMMISSION
Aerie of Nimbia, one year later
Brooding clouds sulked above the rooftops, casting a sullen pall across the white-walled courtyard and the two grim men facing each other within it. Five people flanking them—three family members and two strangers—waited with bated breath. A solitary dogwood in the center of the courtyard lifted naked branches to the slate-gray sky as if beseeching heaven for deliverance from the impending wrath.
“Arris, you are mad!” Ramon Marchant, a powerfully-built man with steel-gray hair and handsome features, glared at his son.
“I assure you, Father, I am not,” Arris returned calmly. Slender and fine-featured, with a thick sandy mane tumbling to his shoulders, he stood almost a head above his father.
“The gods themselves chose you at birth. You bear their mark.”
Arris sighed. “That my left eye is brown and my right one green does not set me apart for the Order. Some among the Lesser Nimbians also possess this trait.”
His father’s stony silence rang volumes above the sobs of his daughter, Angelika, who along with her mother, stood beside him. Arris, flanked by the two strangers, seemed a stranger himself, as did his younger brother, Davon, who, torn by loyalty to both, had taken a position between Arris and his father.
Ramon sighed. “My first-born son! Possessing empathy and the healing arts, two of the greatest Arganian gifts! You would throw them away, reject your commission and go off with two—”
“I neither reject my commission nor esteem it lightly,” Arris broke in. “A threat arises in the east which will consume us unless we act quickly.”
“What part have you with two vagabonds you chanced upon in the camp of the Horse Lords?” his father thundered. “What business took you to Ha-Ran-Fel to begin with? Are Nimbia’s steeds not stalwart enough that you sought horses from those savages?”
Arris’ eyes flashed, but he maintained his composure. “My friends are not vagabonds, but honorable men who have answered the call to defend the free kingdoms, as their fathers did. And while lacking sophistication, the Horse Lords have proven themselves skilled and well-disciplined warriors who breed the fastest, most powerful steeds in Epthelion.
“Tell me, Father: what good are my gifts to fortunate people who don’t really need them? Nimbia, for the most part, lies above the threat and already abounds with healers. The peoples outside our boundaries have few, and these lack the skills and medicines they will need when full-scale war erupts. They cannot come to us. The journey itself would claim many lives.
“Also consider: what weapon have they against the sorcerer Ryadok? I may have acquired these gifts in order to aid in this struggle. As a people we’ve grown cold and aloof. I beg you, Father, allow me to add my strength to theirs, to go down with these men into oppressed Valhalea, and even into Barren-Fel if necessary. Perhaps we can thwart Ryadok’s schemes and prevent war altogether.”
“You spurn, you despise the highest, most noble calling,” Ramon spat back. “Only a carefully selected few ever receive it. If you leave Nimbia, you will lose it forever!”
“I do not despise it. I cherish it; but I choose to push beyond the old limits to an even nobler purpose.”
“You choose! You disgrace your family—and your homeland!”
“That is not my intent,” Arris responded quietly. “I mean only to use my gifts for the good of all, and in order to accomplish this I must descend into the muck and mire from which this evil arises, alongside other brave and valiant men. When I return I will gladly accept my commission and take my place in the Order.”
“You will never return!”
Arris looked down and bit his lip. “Indeed, I may not. But I shall go nonetheless.”
“The Arganian arts must never be revealed to outsiders. Your action constitutes treason! If you leave this city, you are not my son, for no son of mine is a traitor!”
Arris met his father’s stare. “I will not betray my heritage or native land. On the contrary, I go to defend both.” He bowed shortly. “Think well of me, Father. . .Mother.”
Cold silence met his plea. His mother stared past him, as stony and emotionless as the walls surrounding them.
“Farewell then.” Arris hung his head and stood for a moment. Finally he turned to his companions. “I can say no more. Let’s go.”
He led his companions through the gate without a backward glance but stiffened as his father began the Nimbian funeral chant.
“Arris!” Angelika darted after them.
Ramon’s strong hand grasped her wrist and spun her around. “Neither look at nor weep for this, the hollow shell of what was once your brother. He is dead, but in his rebellion refuses to know it. We will speak his name no more.” In a lifeless drone, Ramon Marchant resumed the words of death.
And like a wounded butterfly, a last withered leaf loosed its hold of the sleeping dogwood and fluttered helplessly to the cold stones.
They rode in silence down the stone street leading out of the city. Aerie, like most Nimbian cities, had been carved out of a precipitous white cliff high in the Alpenfel Mountains. Only the magic of the Arganian mystics made life possible in the thin air and frigid temperatures.
“We shouldn’t have involved you.” The speaker, another tall sandy-haired man astride a prancing bay mare, looked back at the large manor.
“I involved myself.” A faraway look crossed Arris’ face. “As a youth I often wondered about the lands and the peoples below our mountains—who they were, what they were like. One of my friends had kin among the Lesser Nimbians at Eldweiss. At fourteen, I accompanied him on a visit and there caught my first glimpse of the Horse Lords fighting mock battles along the Elgar River.” He smiled with fond remembrance. “They taught me how to fight—how to live.”
They turned at the clippity-clop of a rapidly-approaching horse. Davon reined in beside them. “I’m going with you.”
“No,” Arris told him firmly. “You’re the remaining son. You must carry on, should something happen to me.”
“If Ryadok prevails none of us will survive,” Davon answered. “Do not fear the funeral rite. It cannot harm you.”
“I do not fear it, neither do I believe our parents wish me to die,” Arris returned. “What will be, will be.”
“Then it’s settled.” Davon urged his horse forward. “I’m going with you.”
King Euratio and eleven other men awaited them at the city gate. Arris shuddered inwardly but maintained his composure as he beheld Baldimora, Premier of the High Arganian Order, standing at Euratio’s right. The king appeared cordial, but a disapproving scowl clouded Baldimora’s hawk-like face.
The quartet dismounted and dropped to one knee before the king. Euratio dipped his head and motioned for them to rise.
“Arris Marchant.” Euratio regarded Arris with mild curiosity. “Baldimora tells me you intend to postpone your commission and join the fight against Ryadok.”
Arris bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I wish to use my gifts to aid our cause and help the injured. If I return, and with your kind permission, I will accept my position in the Order.”
“Impossible.” Baldimora drew his thin frame to its full height. “You do not yet know how to use the skills you possess. They require training and discipline.”
“Mostly they require integrity, presence of mind, and greater concern for others than for oneself,” King Euratio said. “Arris possesses these qualities already.” He glanced around his entourage. “I approve his proposal. What say you?”
All except Baldimora nodded agreement. “He may reveal our mysteries to non-Nimbians,” he cautioned.
“We cannot grant outsiders power,” the king returned, “but imparting knowledge for treating sickness and injury is not forbidden. Indeed, we have a duty to share.”
Baldimora remained silent. Euratio turned to Arris. “I find your actions unprecedented but noble, Master Marchant. Go, with my blessing. When you return, I myself will install you in the Order.”
Arris bowed. “Thank you, sire.”
“I would speak with you alone for a moment.” Euratio drew Arris aside. “Learn what you can, particularly concerning Lucius Mordarius and his alliance with Ryadok,” he said quietly. “Send me word. Mostly I fear Mordarius’ power may equal or even exceed Ryadok’s. I shall also direct Baldimora to put his energies to the task.”
“I shall,” Arris promised.
Euratio clapped Arris on the shoulder and returned to his group. “Go in peace, all of you. May God grant you success and bring you safely home again.”
The four companions bowed and mounted their horses.
“Gatekeeper, open the gate!” Euratio raised his hand in farewell. “Godspeed, my friends.”
“Godspeed,” his entourage echoed as the four rode away.
THE SLAVE GIRL
May of the following year
A fetid mist rose from the dung heaps of Atwall stables to meet the clammy dawn of early spring. Merewyn Havalseth held one corner of her dirty shawl closer to her nose and mouth as she lugged the heavy pail to the heap, letting go of the shawl long enough to take the pail in both hands and pitch its contents. Turning again, she drew a ragged breath and cast doleful eyes past the stable to the reddening eastern sky.
Anger flamed within her. Those citizens not killed during the uprising now tilled Mordarius’ lands. Lines of men and women chained together cleaned Atwall’s streets. Others worked in the stables. Still others served Mordarius and his cronies in the sumptuous homes they now occupied. Soldiers wantonly seized any maiden they chose, used her until they tired of her, and then consigned her to the stables or streets.
Mercifully, Merewyn had been spared this abuse. But though her hair had grown quite long again, she hid it under an old stocking cap lest Mordarius, on a whim, shear her again. To endure such shame anew would surely drive her to madness.
“Hurry up!” Mehr’s raspy voice broke the stillness. “Worthless wench. Think you can stand there all day looking beautiful?”
Merewyn sighed and trudged to the stable.
Mehr burst into a wheezing laugh. “Look at you! The noble lady! I say, Your Majesty, if you insist on making your own trousers you should at least make them right. Or do you look like that underneath? Hah!”
Merewyn bristled, all too aware of her clothing’s ridiculous fit. Attempting to lessen her vulnerability, she had slit her long skirt up the middle and resewn the cut sides to form a crude pair of trousers. Given her haste and the lack of the proper implements, one leg had come out baggier and shorter than the other. Merewyn had ceased caring. At least the makeshift garment covered her adequately.
Mehr’s snigger whistled to a stop. “Feed these horses, witch!”
Merewyn lowered her eyes and trudged the last few steps to the stable door. Mehr, hands planted on his massive hips, glowered from the doorway. Old troll! Merewyn cast him a contemptuous glance as she passed.
Mehr’s eyes widened. “Little baggage!” He planted a boot squarely in Merewyn’s buttocks, sending her sprawling face-first into the manure-soaked straw.
“That’s right, eat up!” Mehr kicked her again.
Merewyn gasped and tried to rise, but Mehr’s heavy boot between her shoulder blades pinned her down. She clamped her mouth shut, trying to keep her head up as she fought to break free.
Mehr stopped in mid wheeze. “Oh—wait! I know how to deal with a brazen whore! That’s what you are, aren’t you? Tried to do your own cousin, didn’t you, but an honorable man he is.” Mehr lifted his foot, and though he had never done so with her before, Merewyn knew he was opening his trousers.
“All right, you,” Mehr growled. “Let’s us have a go at it. Up! All fours—now!”
Merewyn did not move.
“Up!” A meaty hand grabbed her collar, another the belt of her trousers as Mehr yanked her to her hands and knees. Merewyn twisted around and, with all the strength she could muster, drove her foot straight into his groin. With a high-pitched yelp, Mehr went down. Rolling into a ball, he rocked back and forth, gasping and whimpering as he cradled his injured manhood.
Merewyn sprang to her feet and bolted through the stable. Seizing a bridle, she yanked the end stall door open and rushed inside. A sleek bay mare snorted and whirled to kick. Merewyn sidestepped and moved to the horse’s head, talking quietly as she put one arm around her neck and pushed the bit into the reluctant mouth. Somehow her fumbling fingers pulled the bridle over the ears and fastened the strap.
By now Mehr had struggled to his feet. Merewyn leapt onto the mare’s back and kicked her into a gallop, narrowly missing a stableboy as she tore from the barn. Someone shouted as she pounded past the paddock and onto the narrow street that passed through the Old Town on its way to the river. A line of water carriers in her path tried to scatter but, chained together, succeeded only in pulling each other back and forth and dropping their clay jars, smashing them into jagged shards in the middle of the street.
“This way!” one of them cried, and the line threw themselves to the right as Merewyn raced past.
Merewyn’s breath came in heaves and gasps. Two miles separated her from the Ashgard piers. If she could reach them, she would release the horse and hide on a cattle scow sailing for Liedor—and freedom.
She glanced behind her. Two horsemen thundered down the street in hot pursuit. Merewyn faced forward again and dug her heels into the mare’s sides. The horse shot forward, and Merewyn glimpsed the mast of a distant ship.
Two other horsemen emerged from a side street just ahead and raced toward her. Merewyn reined to the east, jumping a low hedge to cross the grounds of the old Atwall library. With all four horsemen hard on her heels, she flew through the trees and fountains and jumped more hedges until she found a road leading into the woods. Again she drummed the mare’s sides, and her puffing mount found one more notch of speed to give her. They tore into the woods, Merewyn dodging back and forth to elude one rider closing rapidly in beside her. As they charged into a glade, he succeeded in grabbing her reins and pulling the mare to a stop. His three companions immediately surrounded her.
“Well, well. We have ourselves a horse thief.” The first rider dismounted and walked around to Merewyn. “Get off my horse!” He reached up, grabbed Merewyn’s belt, and pulled her to the ground. “What have you to say for yourself? Speak!”
“Why waste time with him,” a burly red-haired man queried. “Leastwise, I think it’s a him. Hard to tell, way he’s dressed. Say something, boy! Are you dumb?”
“Probably desperate, as are so many in Atwall these days.” The first man’s voice softened.
“Aye,” his companion conceded. “Well, you’ve got your horse back. But he’s still a thief, and we tradesmen enjoy Mordarius’ kind protection. I say we just hang him and be done with it.”
“Shouldn’t we take him to Mordarius for judgment?” asked a third.
“No!” Merewyn searched
the circle of faces. “Hang me here. Or take your swords and thrust me through. Or lend me a sword and I’ll thrust myself through. But you’ll not return me to Atwall alive!”
“And how would you stop us?” the red-haired man challenged. “I guarantee you’d prefer Atwall justice to ours.”
Merewyn’s eyes blazed. “Atwall justice,” she spat. “Atwall has no justice! Since the day Lucius Mordarius plunged Atwall into chaos, murdering and pillaging his own people, Atwall has no justice! Since Lucius Mordarius drove his people from their homes and into barns and stables—or into their graves—Atwall has no justice! Lucius Mordarius, the benevolent protector, adopted by my father when he was orphaned, repaid my father by beheading him in his own house—” Merewyn’s voice broke. “While my mother and I watched.” Her eyes blazed again and she snarled, “Don’t tell me about Atwall justice!”
Her captors fell silent. The first man’s stare bored through her and Merewyn, seeing him fully for the first time, stared back into the most piercing steel-gray eyes she had ever seen. For a long moment they remained thus, their eyes locked.
“But why should you care?” Merewyn lowered her gaze and noted his brown coat and breeches, made from a fine, soft-looking material she had never seen before, and his white shirt, ruffled at the throat. A dagger hung from his belt. He looked more a gentleman than a tradesman.
He motioned to the others. “Give us some privacy. I have some questions for this. . .fellow.”
His companions nodded and rode away.
For a moment the man stood silent. Without warning, he whirled and pulled the cap from Merewyn’s head. Stringy blonde hair spilled onto her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Merewyn gasped and staggered back.
“I didn’t think you sounded much like a lad. Your voice, while husky, will never sound convincingly masculine.” The stranger walked to a large flat rock a few steps away and sat down. “Come.”