by Sandra Kopp
“Nonsense!” Arris clasped his brother’s arm. “We fought well. Besides. . .” He grinned. “Ryadok told them to capture, not kill us, although somewhere along the way I think they forgot that.” Feeling something sticky, he lifted his hand and stared for a moment at the red stain. “You’ve been injured.”
“A cut, nothing more,” Davon returned.
“Let me see.” Arris rose to one knee and studied the wound. “You’re right. Just a scratch. We’ll soon set you right.” He pulled a pouch of powder from an inside pocket, poured a small amount on the spot, and gently pressed it in.
“Aye, thank you.” Davon’s eyes fell upon Arris’ chest. “You didn’t escape completely unscathed, either.”
Arris looked down at the dark patch on his shirt. “I guess I didn’t notice.” He unfastened the top button, smiled, and then dabbed some powder on a small gash just left of the breastbone. “There.” He heaved a short sigh. “I’ve had enough of this hellhole. Let’s get out of here before Ryadok seals us in with his witchcraft.”
Davon motioned to the door opposite the one through which Arris had first entered. “Let’s go this way.”
They hastened down the gallery steps into a darkened corridor. “Careful,” Davon cautioned. “The floor roughens here. Stay against the wall where the footing is better and we can feel our way.”
They hurried as fast as the uneven path and the gloom allowed, stumbling around upthrusted rocks and ankle-deep holes. Davon cursed after an especially painful meeting of his big toe with an unyielding stone. After what seemed an eternity, the corridor curved and sloped gently upward. The floor leveled out, and they soon entered a long hallway lined with doors on the left and dimly lit by flickering torches fastened into sconces beside each door.
“There’s a window at the end of this hall,” Davon whispered. “It’s tight, but we can fit through it.” They ran, eager to escape the horror of their recent experience, but as they passed the last door a blood-curdling scream stopped them in their tracks.
“Another woman birthing a beast?” Davon whispered.
“I think not. I sense a trap.” Arris jerked his head toward the window. “Get out of here!”
“No. I’ll stand with you.”
Before Davon finished speaking, a dark phosphorescent cloud shimmered at the opposite end of the corridor. A glowing halo of brilliant blue irradiated around its black center, finally exploding in a brilliant flash.
Ryadok stood before them, backed by more soldiers than they could count. His hunched shoulders and lowered head heightened the fury smoldering in the upturned eyes now riveted upon Arris.
“You dare to cross swords with me, Arris Marchant!” The unnaturally deep voice echoed eerily throughout the corridor. “You, with Arganian skills neither developed nor tried, you dare to take on a master? You are brash indeed—and very foolish.”
“Davon, get out of here now!” Arris said huskily. “You condemn us both if you stay.”
Chest heaving, Davon hesitated but, as Arris stepped between him and the sorcerer, sheathed his sword and dashed to the window.
“You shall learn what it means to defy Ryadok,” the sorcerer hissed. “You shall pay dearly for your arrogance!”
Ryadok closed his eyes and spread his arms, slowly drawing himself to his full height, a magnificent figure enveloped in glowing blue light. Opening wide his eyes then, he leveled a searing gaze at Arris. The arm holding the staff shot forward, pointing its top at Arris’ chest.
Arris started, taken aback by Ryadok’s hypnotic stare. He shifted his gaze, forcing himself to look instead past Ryadok’s right ear.
A barrage of flaming balls swarmed at him. Swinging his sword in a circular motion, Arris deftly deflected them.
Ryadok intensified his stare, and now a single bolt of lightning streaked toward Arris. Arris fell on his back with his head toward Ryadok and held his sword up, angling the blade to refract the energy backward. Several soldiers, struck by the searing fire, collapsed and died. Arris changed the angle a hairsbreadth to the right, directing the stream straight at Ryadok.
The sorcerer cursed. Arris squeezed his eyes shut and put up his free arm to shield his face from the blinding flash. A hollow, unearthly howl followed. The castle quaked.
And then. . .deathly silence.
Arris cautiously opened his eyes and raised his head. Ryadok and his minions had vanished, leaving a smoke-filled hall.
Arris jumped to his feet and dashed to the window. Davon awaited him on the narrow ledge outside.
“You’ve done it!” Davon exclaimed. “You’ve beaten Ryadok.”
“I can’t make that boast, little brother,” Arris returned. “I may have stunned, but not killed him. He’ll soon recover. We’d do well to distance ourselves from this place.”
Arris squeezed through the window. The brothers inched along the narrow ledge to the castle’s southwest corner, where the rough stone afforded sufficient hand and foot holds for a hasty descent.
Upon alighting, they found the grounds empty and the drawbridge unguarded. Arris drew his sword and scanned the courtyards before darting to the mechanism that lowered the drawbridge. Davon followed, his own weapon drawn, matching Arris’ moves.
They lowered the bridge and crossed over unchallenged. In the lengthening shadows, they topped the hill and entered the woods. Davon whistled. A soft nicker answered, and Trevor trotted out of a nearby grove.
“Good lad!” Davon mounted and kicked the left stirrup free so that Arris could mount behind him.
“It surprises me that Ryadok so readily revealed himself. He should have made his performance more convincing.” Davon shrugged. “I think he underestimated you.”
“I think, rather, he allows us to believe we beat him.” Arris pointed to the southeast. “I left Barada over there.”
“He must feel as anxious to leave this place as we.” Davon chirruped, and Trevor broke into a brisk trot.
Hoping to reunite with their comrades, the Marchants crossed the Singing River and angled south toward Kapras Rock. The forest appeared less forbidding now. Indeed, sunlight flowed more freely through the sighing boughs, and pleasing aromas of pine and fir soothed the senses.
At length they entered a glade, where they encountered a massive force—not soldiers of Ryadok, but a Liedoran offensive led by King Fortius himself.
“Ho! Nimbians! What news?” Fortius cried.
“We infiltrated Castle Ryadok and killed a demon beast, along with ten guards,” Arris told him. “Some event drew Ryadok elsewhere, but he later confronted us in a vision. I believe we did him some hurt, for he abandoned the castle. What news do you bring?”
“We destroyed an army between the Lost and Singing Rivers. A man we believe to be Ryadok fled toward the mountains. While pursuing him, we leveled a settlement near the Mystic and Singing Rivers. Afterward, we pushed deep into the Mystic Mountains, but found not so much as a footprint, and so have returned. We go to Kapras Rock to meet our confederates.”
“We travel there ourselves,” Arris responded.
“Let us ride together then,” the king said, and the brothers gratefully fell in behind him.
A quarter-mile from the glen they happened upon a passable trail threading south among the ancient trees. This they followed for several miles and at dusk found themselves skirting the meadow surrounding Kapras Rock, where they met Charles and Hans, the woodsmen, the Little People, and Edwin Greene. A shout arose as Arris and Davon rode into camp. Charles and Hans rushed to meet them and related all that befell them at Rissling.
Charles showed them to a spot near a campfire over which bubbled a steaming pot. The delightful aroma of freshly-roasted venison tantalized their nostrils and set their stomachs rumbling.
“What brought Fortius to the battle?” Arris asked as he took the plate of stew Charles offered.
Charles ladled some stew onto another plate and passed it to Davon. “Edwin Greene met an old confederate known as The Fox, and told him
of our mission. The Fox then gathered four hundred men to help search for Baugonril. When they crossed into Barren-Fel, they found the Rauths armed for war and immediately sent word to Fortius.”
Dusk turned to night. The clear sky glistened like a jeweled carpet. A faint ring around the waxing moon blushed pink. The men talked until they could no longer stay awake, and then turned in for a well-earned rest.
The following morning, the Liedoran army, the woodsmen and Little People, The Fox and his men, and the four companions and Edwin Greene assembled in the meadow. King Fortius addressed the company. “We can return home for a time, but not in peace; rather we must regain our strength, amass new weaponry, and prepare for an even greater war. At least we have some time, however short. Liedor and San-Leyon are pledged to the cause, and I will dispatch emissaries to Nimbia and Ha-Ran-Fel. Ruelon, I know, will answer, and I am confident that Euratio will also join us.” Fortius raised a hand. “Farewell, comrades. When next we meet may we celebrate true freedom and lasting peace.”
“Hear, hear!” someone shouted, and the assembly responded with a rousing cheer.
“Hornsman, sound the departure,” Fortius instructed, and as the horn blew the Liedoran army mounted their horses.
“Long live King Fortius!” the crowd chanted. The king touched his forehead in salute and led his army away. Those remaining readied themselves for the journey home.
Nedra had just finished braiding her hair, and now slipped quietly to Hans’ side as with his good arm he adjusted his cinch and lowered the stirrup in preparation to mount. Sensing her presence, he turned.
“I will see you again when this is over, will I not?” she asked.
Hans pressed her hand. “I will come for you,” he said huskily.
“I’ll be waiting.” Nedra laid her hand on his cheek, kissed his lips and returned to her father.
Hans watched, flushed and trembling, as she disappeared into the crowd. Turning abruptly, he hoisted himself onto Parsius’ back.
Davon nudged Arris. “Quite a story behind this, I’m sure.”
“And I would love to hear it,” Arris returned with a grin.
The companies went their separate ways: the woodsmen and the Little People to San-Leyon, King Fortius and his host to Langhorn, and The Fox and his men to Brackenlea. Charles, Hans, Arris, and Davon returned to Garris with Edwin Greene to recover from their respective wounds at the inn.
And on the parapets of Atwall’s imperial palace a lone figure watched the sun set. Lucius Mordarius saw, not the sun’s dying embers, but in his mind the burning pyre of his fading mentor, still thrashing in his death throes.
“Mighty Lord Ryadok! What hast thou done, to meet this inglorious end? Driven into mountain caves with your head down and tail tucked like a whipped cur—and at the hand of an obscure Nimbian more apprentice than Arganian!”
He started to laugh but caught himself and sobered immediately. “Softly,” he murmured, stroking his pointed beard. “Let us show proper reverence for our fallen mentor.
“And concerning the rebels, we must proceed delicately. For the present, let these fools believe they have triumphed. At the opportune moment I shall strike. I, Lucius Mordarius, once deemed unworthy by the Dark Lord, shall conquer and reign supreme! The Dragon’s colors shall fly over every kingdom in Epthelion while the Serpent cowers in his hole. And when he does come forth—” Mordarius’ eyes gleamed maniacally—“he shall serve me!”
PART V
THE WARRIOR QUEEN
WARRIOR IN TRAINING
Swiftly, silently, the night swept over the land, fleeing westward in the face of approaching dawn. On its downy mattress of grassy hilltops, nestled under a blanket of pre-dawn haze, the little village slumbered peacefully. Behind it the mighty Alpenfels yawned and stretched, thrusting up lofty peaks to catch the first rays of warming sun. The foothills huddled at their feet, purple velvety mounds piled one upon another like cubs snuggled around their mother.
September had arrayed the hills in colorful robes of gold and brown splashed with dark and silvery greens, with brighter shades of red, orange and darker gold where the night had kissed with frosty lips. The gentle wind breathed across the steppes, whispering to all who would hear to take heed and prepare, for soon the raging winter winds would blow with vengeance, driving before them icy rains and swirling snows.
This was Tagenryd, chief settlement of Ha-Ran-Fel and home of its warrior king, Ruelon Aram-Turien. Some two hundred fifty souls lived in wooden or earthen huts dotting the lower hills surrounding the region’s tallest hill, Myamina, upon which stood Ruelon’s Grand Palace and stables. Another three thousand, the nobles and ranking officers of Aethelion’s elite host, occupied the huts and yurts scattered across the outlying hills.
Atop a low hill adjoining Myamina, facing the Grand Palace, one yurt stood alone, larger than most, covered with a heavy deerskin adorned with the likenesses of the occupants’ favorite steeds in full gallop. Here dwelt the warrior Hamiel, trusted friend and aide to Aethelion and a member of his elite host; his wife, Zithri; his three young sons; and a newcomer to the realm.
The stars had barely faded when the flap on the yurt’s east side flew back. A solitary figure stepped out and for a moment stood motionless, facing the lightening horizon. Young, slender, and unmistakably feminine, she nevertheless exuded a warrior’s indomitable spirit.
The sky blushed bright pink. A flaming arc peeked over the horizon, bathing the world in golden light as it swelled into a brilliant ball and lifted itself skyward.
She turned abruptly. Swift, purposeful strides carried her to the expansive barn housing the warhorses. She entered. An eager nicker answered her throaty call.
“Borea-ramina.” Merewyn laughed softly and opened the stall door to tousle the ebony forelock. “My Windrunner.”
“You’re up early.” Hamiel’s burly, six-foot frame filled the tack room doorway. “Good. Zithri welcomes such eager pupils.”
Merewyn turned and smiled shyly, pleased to have won his approval. This formidable man with the deep rough voice still intimidated her somewhat. Although he resembled Hans Ogilvie, Hamiel lacked Hans’ round red face and spontaneous jocularity. Yet Merewyn often noticed that the stern brown eyes staring from beneath the bushy brows and tawny mane regarded her kindly.
“I want to learn.” Merewyn filled a pail with oats and poured it into Windrunner’s trough. Her smile widened. “Also, I want to ride my horse.”
“And a magnificent steed she is. Borea-ramina, the Windrunner. Marked by the Zephyr Lords of Ha-Ran-Fel. Never have we bred a horse colored like her, or one that can run like her.”
Merewyn gazed lovingly at her steed, coal black save for her rear half, frosty white sprinkled generously with black spots. “I marvel King Ruelon would part with her,” she said softly.
“King Ruelon honors your father’s memory, as well as your aid at Stanslav. Few would have acted or endured as you have. He would give you nothing less than this steed and her trappings.”
“I am grateful. Windrunner will serve me well.” Merewyn looked down as she stroked Windrunner’s silky neck. “I’m also grateful that the king allows me to fight. I have an account to settle with the witch-king and his lackey.”
Hamiel grunted. “So I’ve heard.” He straightened and slapped his thigh. “Let’s see what we can do to settle this account.”
Merewyn gave the mare a final pat and stepped out of the stall. “I’ll get my saddle.”
“Hold, lass.” Hamiel regarded her quizzically. “You must strengthen your arm and get the feel of the bow first—and you must learn how to use it! We can’t have you and that fiery horse careening about the village while you wield a weapon you don’t even know how to use, can we?”
Merewyn cast him an innocent look. “Is it so hard?”
Hamiel nodded knowingly. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” He turned as Zithri entered the doorway and walked toward them.
“There you are.” Zithri’s husky v
oice rose above Windrunner’s hungry munching.
Merewyn found Zithri more intimidating than Hamiel. Big-boned and almost as tall as her husband, Zithri had piercing black eyes and black hair spilling over her shoulders in two long, thick braids. From childhood she had trained in the use of sword and bow, and sat a horse as skillfully as the king himself. She was a Huth, whose Wyar forebears had fled the first of Barren-Fel’s sorcerer kings. Migrating first to Liedor, then to Ha-Ran-Fel, they had quietly kept to themselves for many years, moving often to evade the wandering bands of Horse Lords, until Ruelon’s father captured them and incorporated them into his realm.
“You’ll not bend a bow without putting some food in your stomach first.” Zithri paused. “You’ve eaten almost nothing these past two days. Does our fare offend your Valhalean palate?”
Merewyn hesitated. In truth, she had eaten little more than a few nibbles of bread and dried venison since coming to live with them. As did most homes throughout the realm, the yurt reeked of acrid cheese. Merewyn had never overcome her revulsion for this Ha-Ran-Fel staple, for the memory of her terrible sickness after leaving Stanslav lingered still. Yet by not eating she risked insulting her hosts as well as the king.
“Your fare does not offend me. The prospect of meeting my enemy occupies my thoughts and stifles all else.”
“The four spies who withstood your enemy rendered him harmless for now,” Hamiel told her firmly. “But the lull will not last. You must use this respite to strengthen and prepare.” His voice softened. “The most seasoned warrior has felt what you feel now. Do not let fear and anger conquer you. You must conquer them. If you don’t, you give your enemy all power over you. Anger uncontrolled flames up fast and hot, and even though you direct this fire at your foe, it is you that it burns. It clouds your mind and diminishes your judgment, allowing you no rest. Though you follow a just cause you must not strike blindly, for you will not prevail.”
“There is a time to fast,” Zithri put in. “But that time is not now.”