by Sandra Kopp
Merewyn nodded. “True.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll remember what you’ve told me and act upon it.”
“Come. After breakfast we’ll take our bows into the field.” Zithri turned and led the way to the yurt.
Out of respect for Zithri’s position as Hamiel’s wife, Merewyn followed a few steps behind. Few in Epthelion observed this old custom anymore, but Merewyn had noticed that many in Ruelon’s realm continued to embrace the old ways.
Zithri spoke without looking back. “As you are unaccustomed to our ways and considering your wounding at Stanslav, we’ll proceed slowly.”
“That wound has healed,” Merewyn told her.
“Nevertheless, you start slowly; otherwise, you will find yourself unable to fight at all.” Zithri’s voice rose. “I will teach you discipline, young Merewyn. When I tell you a thing, you will do it.”
“I will obey you.” But inwardly Merewyn trembled.
They ate a hasty breakfast of jerky and parched corn, after which Zithri led Merewyn to a field.
“Take your bow.” Zithri handed her the weapon.
The midmorning breeze stirred the native grass, causing the feathery sheaves to ripple and sway across the golden expanse. Only a solitary juniper or occasional sagebrush dotted the otherwise empty field. Zithri had propped a crude target made from straw and skins against a nearby sagebrush.
Merewyn took the bow and studied it for a moment. It not at all resembled those used by Charles Bordner and his companions. Their bows nearly matched the men’s height in length and straightened when at rest. Merewyn’s crescent-shaped bow extended no longer than her arm from fingertips to elbow.
Merewyn hesitated. “I have no arrows.”
“Test the string first, feel its strength,” Zithri returned. “Then we’ll know your readiness for arrows.” Zithri raised her own bow and quickly demonstrated, setting her stance as if aiming to shoot.
Resolutely Merewyn grasped her bow firmly in the middle with her right hand. Doing her best to copy Zithri’s form, she put her other hand on the string and pulled. The weapon yielded grudgingly, but only after she had expended considerable effort. Much to her chagrin, both of her arms shook noticeably. She tensed in a vain attempt to steady herself but only shook harder and, with a little gasp, gave up and lowered the weapon.
“Ah. Not as easy as you thought.” Zithri fitted an arrow to her own bow, and with a fluid, effortless motion, aimed at something in a nearby juniper. The arrow streaked toward its target and landed in the field beyond. Merewyn noted the tiny clump impaled on its tip.
“What did you shoot?” Merewyn asked.
“Come and see.” Zithri set out for the juniper and Merewyn followed, almost running to keep up with the older woman’s long strides.
The arrow had landed a considerable distance beyond its mark, but Zithri’s sharp eye had noted where it fell. She quickly retrieved it and with a triumphant smile held it up.
Merewyn gasped. From well over a hundred feet away, Zithri had sighted and shot, directly through its tiny heart, the hapless sparrow once perched on that high branch.
“You shall learn to do the same—at full speed on horseback.” Zithri turned and led Merewyn back to the target.
That night Merewyn lay on her bed of skins listening to the relentless wind. Her neck and shoulders ached, her left arm throbbed, and a large red blister stung the pad of her middle finger where she had pinched it between an arrow shaft and the bowstring.
Zithri had said they would start slowly, yet all that morning and much of the afternoon they drilled. The austere Huth proved a demanding taskmaster. Over and over she corrected Merewyn’s stance and the placement of her hands, with crisp instructions concerning the smooth, methodical fitting of arrow to bowstring and the tilt of the head while aiming and releasing. Demonstrating repeatedly, Zithri executed each shot so swiftly and fluidly that Merewyn could scarcely follow her movements.
Bolstering her resolve, Merewyn had aimed and shot. The missile fell impotently to the ground mere inches from her feet. Over and over Merewyn tried, each frustrated attempt yielding the same result. Once she thought she detected amusement in Zithri’s dark eyes, but Zithri’s expression never changed. Patiently she guided Merewyn’s hands, and by the end of the session, Merewyn could at least hit the target, although not in the area that Zithri had marked out.
“Don’t worry, it will come.” Zithri’s stern face at last broke into a smile. “You’ve done well. Tomorrow we’ll ride into the steppe, and later I will teach you sword and dagger.”
A short explosive snort from across the yurt jarred Merewyn from her thoughts. Hamiel groaned softly and resumed his rhythmic breathing.
Merewyn smiled. The snores did not disturb her; indeed, she found them comforting, for they reminded her that she had friends in this alien land. Her own eyelids grew heavy, but she shook off sleep. Time grew short. She must hasten her progress.
She stared into the darkness, focusing her thoughts to so ingrain the archer’s form into her mind that when next she picked up her bow, her body would automatically conform to that image. Zithri emerged through a drowsy haze, the tassels on her long tunic blowing in the wind, her swarthy face defiant. She took her stance and aimed her bow.
But Zithri changed. Her form grew taller, more agile and muscular. Her long black braids shrank into short, sandy waves. The clothing of a Ha-Ran-Fel warrior transformed into the tan breeches and brown, belted tunic of a Nimbian archer. He raised his aim, launching his arrow toward the sun.
A great black bird, uglier and more fearsome than anything Merewyn had ever seen before, plummeted to the earth. Amidst a cloud of dust and feathers, the monster thrashed, convulsed and finally lay still. The dust slowly settled.
Flushed with victory, the archer turned. A triumphant smile lit his handsome face. He beheld Merewyn and his eyes softened. He held out his hand to her. . .
Merewyn bolted upright, falling to the bed again as her tortured muscles screamed in agony. “Arris,” she moaned. “Don’t leave!”
But a distant look crossed his face. He lowered his hand and slowly faded.
Arris, tell me how to reach you and I’ll come!
Someone glided through the darkness and hovered over her. Merewyn gasped and cried out.
“Are you all right, Merewyn?” Zithri asked.
“Yes. I was dreaming.” Merewyn sat up and ran a trembling hand through her hair.
Zithri slipped away and soon returned with a wooden cup filled with cold water, poured from a waterskin hung near the door. “Here,” she whispered and, handing the cup to Merewyn, turned and noiselessly rejoined her sleeping husband.
The water calmed Merewyn and cooled her hot face. She lay down again, but her thoughts returned to Arris. Why, after all these months, had he invaded her thoughts?
She had felt such attraction to Charles Bordner—defender, protector, her hope and desire—during that desperate flight. But Arris had been there for her, too. Arris’ face—especially his eyes—haunted her now.
Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Arris, did you come to say good-bye?
Only dark silence answered.
May God keep you safe. But before she could finish the thought, exhaustion claimed her and she fell asleep.
Days passed. Merewyn saw no more of Arris, but could not forget him. Continually she mulled the vision, pondering its meaning. Arris had beckoned to her, but then that strange faraway look came upon him and he departed, ignoring her pleas to stay.
Angelika had left Tagenryd to join him. Was she indeed Arris’ sister—or his wife?
Early one evening Merewyn rode alone to the top of a low hill west of Tagenryd, determined to resolve the matter. The soft south wind lifted her hair and brushed it gently to one side as she reined Windrunner in and contemplated the setting sun. “Such foolishness,” she said. “We had only a few days together. I was a fleeing slave, and Arris and his companions benevolent strangers. Some mission known only to them brou
ght them to Valhalea. We had no time or place for love to grow. And yet. . .”
With God all things are possible, her father had often told her.
“Arris is so handsome,” she whispered, “and mysterious, unlike anyone I have ever known.” Her eyes fell. “Angelika claims him as her brother, but. . .well, I will do this, and we shall see what comes of it. If God grants my petition, then I will hope to one day see him again. If not, I will put him out of my mind forever.”
She lifted her eyes to the sun, now barely visible behind a distant hill. “Lord,” she prayed, “if ever my path will cross Arris’ someday, then let me see him tonight. Only this time let him give me a promise that he will return for me.” A tear sprang to her eye and she paused to steady herself, for her rising emotions had caused her to gasp. “Let him not. . .slip away as though called by another. Let him exist for me alone.”
The last sliver of sun sank out of sight and the now chilly wind picked up a little. Merewyn turned Windrunner and galloped to the village.
Arris did not return. Merewyn immersed herself in training and developed her skills so rapidly she amazed even Zithri.
“You show as much skill as Attalia, who has trained her whole life,” Zithri told her. Merewyn glowed with pride, for she deemed this comparison to Ruelon’s daughter high praise indeed.
Together with Hamiel, Zithri continued drilling her in the use of bow and sword, and taught her to throw a dagger with such precision that Merewyn could drive the blade into the shaft of an arrow protruding from a target fifty feet away. By mid-October, two months from her arrival at Ruelon’s court, Zithri declared her ready for mounted combat.
Ha-Ran-Fel enjoyed a particularly long autumn that year, and the people of Ruelon’s realm used the time to full advantage. Blacksmiths labored from sunrise until sunset turning out weaponry and additional armor. Ruelon and Aethelion relentlessly drilled their troops. Bands of scouts patrolled the foothills and steppes, scouring the kingdom for spies and invaders, and rallying their countrymen in the outer reaches.
Zithri and Merewyn spent most of their daylight hours on the steppe. Merewyn learned to shoot her bow and throw her dagger—hitting her target most of the time—while riding at a full gallop. They engaged in mock swordfights on horseback, each trying to unseat the other. As in a real battle, the fallen combatant received no mercy.
“Fight or you die!” Zithri commanded. “Use every weapon with equal skill. If your horse throws you, call to her and remount. Stand strong, warrior of Ha-Ran-Fel!”
During the course of these exercises, Merewyn learned how to grab the pommel of her saddle and swing onto Windrunner’s back as the horse galloped past. And every night she returned to the yurt bruised and muddied, often bloodied, but always flushed with excitement and a sense of achievement unlike anything she had ever experienced.
And she had gained the attention of a most prominent and noble man. From various vantage points atop the foothills, King Ruelon himself witnessed several of these exercises and, through Hamiel, conveyed his admiration and approval.
One afternoon’s exercise, however, proved dismal. Merewyn grunted and gasped, trying to will her tiring arm to press on through the pain and fatigue. She did not look Zithri in the face, for Zithri had taught her early that the trickery in an opponent’s eyes effected many a warrior’s demise. The women circled each other, the wooden blades of their practice swords clashing furiously. As she parried a thrust, Merewyn glimpsed King Ruelon astride his snow-white stallion watching from a nearby hill. His dark cape unfurled over his charger’s hindquarters. Her concentration broken, Merewyn lost her grip on her sword and her seat atop Windrunner. The sword flew south; Windrunner bolted northeast. Merewyn landed, unhurt but humiliated, on her buttocks in between.
“Ha!” Zithri brandished her sword and lunged at Merewyn. Merewyn rolled and somehow, through the melee of flying hooves and Zithri’s slashing blade, found her feet. For a moment she froze—and then felt the wooden point against her throat.
“You fought well, noble warrior,” Zithri intoned. “But not well enough. I claim your life.”
“King Ruelon!” Merewyn wrung her hands. “Watching. . .I couldn’t—what do I do now?” she blurted finally. “I’ve failed—in front of the king!”
Zithri straightened and withdrew her sword. “Find your weapon. Or call your horse. Mount up. Quickly! Quit yourself like a warrior of Ha-Ran-Fel!”
Hearing approaching hoofbeats, Merewyn turned. Windrunner, head high and ears erect, trotted briskly toward them. “Hie! Borea-ramina!” she cried, and immediately Windrunner broke into a run. Merewyn caught the saddle as the horse swept past and leaped lithely onto her back. They circled around as the king, joined now by Aethelion, galloped over the hill and out of sight. Merewyn reined in Windrunner and slumped dejectedly.
Zithri rode up beside her. “You see why we train so intensely, do you not? Consider now: what would you have done against an unfriendly opponent? Never hesitate, Merewyn. Never freeze. Do something!”
“I didn’t know the king was watching. He distracted me.”
“You will fight many battles in his presence. Will that always discomfit you? If it does, you have no place in his ranks.”
“I wanted to do well, to prove myself.” Merewyn morosely waved a hand.
“You are doing well. Hamiel has delivered many good reports to the king concerning you.” Zithri stopped, and a knowing look crossed her face. “Ah,” she said softly, staring hard at Merewyn. “Tell me, Merewyn Havalseth: Do you fight for Ruelon’s sake, or your father’s? Do you strive only to catch the king’s eye with your prowess and skill? Or do you fight for your family honor, and to regain Valhalea’s lost liberty?”
Merewyn paled. She had tried to keep her growing infatuation with King Ruelon inevident. But Zithri had discerned the truth and might consider Merewyn an immoral woman trying to manipulate her way into a special relationship with the king. That must not happen!
Eyes flashing, Merewyn turned to face Zithri. “I do this for my father and my mother. I do this to avenge their deaths upon the black-hearted traitor who repaid their love and generosity by killing them. And yes, my heart aches for Valhalea. I fight to restore her glory as well.”
“Well.” Zithri shoved her sword back into its scabbard. “Why should it matter that the king sometimes watches? He watches all his warriors. How else would he know what kind of army he has and how well prepared to meet another king in battle?”
Merewyn reddened. “Forgive me. My people are not warriors, as yours are. Only lately did I learn these skills, and I wanted those watching to believe I had known them all my life.” She drew a shaky breath. “I care for King Ruelon’s opinion because I persuaded him—indeed, I begged him—to allow me to join him in the war against Mordarius. I cannot be a burden to him or to those beside whom I will fight. But I did behave shamefully, and of that I repent.”
“I see,” Zithri said softly. “Forgive me also, for I spoke hastily. You’ve done nothing that requires my forgiveness. I didn’t understand your words at first but do now and, knowing your pure motives, will say no more.” She jerked her head to the south. “Your sword flew off that way, I believe. Find it, and we’ll continue.”
By the next day, Merewyn’s performance had improved—and to her joy, the king returned to behold it. That night she settled happily into bed. She would sleep well.
Outside, the gale howled. Autumn fled, driven hard by the icy jaws of tempestuous winds. Merewyn shivered and snuggled deeper into her bed. Now she would learn the rigors of warfare in the harshness of a Ha-Ran-Fel winter.
But it would make her strong. In this cruel and savage land, in the midst of turbulence and war, she must be strong.
RAIDERS FROM THE SOUTH
Dawn’s dim light revealed a desolate land thinly blanketed with something resembling coarse salt. Winter’s first snow had arrived, beaten and buffeted by the merciless winds into little more than a pitiful scattering of dry pellets.
Merewyn awoke early, unrefreshed after a night of fitful slumber. Hearing voices, she drew aside the thin curtain enclosing her tiny nook and peeked out. Hamiel and Zithri huddled over the smoky fire in the center of the yurt. From their drawn faces and hushed tones, Merewyn sensed they had slept no better than she.
Groggily she stood and pulled the curtain open. “Is all well?”
Hamiel wearily rubbed his neck and shook his head.
“His dreams have troubled him,” Zithri told her.
“I understand troubling dreams,” Merewyn said softly. “Can I do anything?”
Before they could answer, the low, mellow tones of a distant horn floated through the icy air. Hamiel and Zithri sprang to their feet.
“Aethelion’s horn!” Hamiel rushed outside. The horn blew again, and now others joined in, their melodious tones mingling into a resonant chorus that rose to the heights of the Alpenfels, beautiful but for the ominous message portended.
Hamiel returned, his eyes wide. “The beacon of Abbajon is burning! There is trouble to the south!”
Zithri spun around to face Merewyn. “Are you ready for your first taste of war?”
“Yes,” came the mechanical response.
“Put your things on. Bring the baby. We’ll take the children to my sister, then go to our horses. Quickly!”
Merewyn’s heart pounded as she pulled on her heavy outer garments and armor. Zithri waited at the door, her two oldest sons in tow as Merewyn girded on her sword and pulled her bow and quiver over her shoulder.
“Hurry!” Zithri jerked her head toward the flap. Merewyn gathered up the baby and hastened to her. Gritting their teeth against the biting cold, they ran to a neighboring yurt. The flap flew open as they approached, and a woman resembling Zithri stepped out.
“Raquella, see to my sons. I’ll return for them in a few days.”
Raquella nodded shortly, took the baby from Merewyn, and herded the older boys inside. The flap fell shut again.