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

by Sandra Kopp

  They reached Myamina’s base late in the afternoon. King Ruelon issued instructions concerning the refugees and dismissed the host.

  Zithri nudged her horse closer to Windrunner. “I must get my sons and then prepare supper. Kaschi, switch over behind me.”

  “Let him be. I’ll stay right behind you,” Merewyn said.

  Hamiel rode up before Zithri could answer. “Merewyn, King Ruelon bids you come to the palace with him now.” He smiled. “Today you receive a place of high honor in his court.”

  Stunned, Merewyn could only stare. Zithri reached over and helped Kaschi off Windrunner and onto her own horse.

  “But I’ll see you later—won’t I?”

  “Of course,” Zithri told her. “We have much more training ahead.” She regarded Merewyn affectionately. “Your sojourn in the house of Hamiel has ended. Now you move on.”

  Merewyn caught her breath. How could she leave the family she had grown to love as her own with only an impersonal ‘farewell’?

  “I—will miss you both dearly,” she faltered.

  “And we you. But we trained you for this moment. We’ll join hands again, as we have these past days.” Zithri dipped her head. “Farewell, Merewyn Havalseth.” She rode away, leaving Merewyn staring after her.

  “Come. The king awaits,” Hamiel urged. “In this cold, with the people and horses weary, we’ve no time for pretty speeches and long farewells.”

  Merewyn nodded dumbly and followed him to the road ascending Myamina’s flank where King Ruelon, Attalia, Aethelion, and a number of the elite waited.

  Ruelon smiled and held out his hand. “Come.”

  Hamiel reached over and squeezed her hand. “Farewell for now, Merewyn. May good fortune follow you always.” Releasing her, he saluted the king and rode away.

  Ruelon beckoned again. Swallowing hard, Merewyn rode to him, and Ruelon led his entourage through the misty fog to the palace.

  The storms returned with vengeance, burying Tagenryd under three feet of heavy wet snow. Harsh winters were not uncommon, and during prosperous years when crops thrived and the stores abounded, the Horse Lords weathered them well. This year, however, the parched land had yielded little, and the farmers barely managed to eke out two months’ supply of grain, corn, and hay. With winter just beginning, and facing impending war, the future appeared bleak.

  But for the present, Ha-Ran-Fel enjoyed peace. Savage winters repelled invaders, and the warrior force had proven its mettle. Early January would bring its usual thaw long before the stores of food ran out, and during this interlude enough grass would emerge to feed the horses and spare the remaining hay for a time. The men would hunt and fish while the women foraged for bulbs, smoked meat, and made cheese. The Horse Lords would survive.

  Under Aethelion’s tutelage, Merewyn endured even longer hours and more arduous exercises. Every day she joined Aethelion’s elite warriors in the long stone-walled room beneath the Grand Palace to perfect fighting techniques. Aethelion proved a harsh yet fair taskmaster, praising any combatant who exhibited marked improvement or extraordinary skill, and upbraiding those who did not. Merewyn welcomed his approval, for despite the many weeks of Zithri’s drilling and the fierce battle she had fought, she often felt inadequate.

  “Well done.” Aethelion lowered his weapon after a particularly grueling sword fight and pulled off his helmet. “A worthy opponent and not easily beaten.”

  Merewyn wearily pulled off her own helmet and shook out her golden mane. “But beaten nonetheless.”

  “Only because you fought Aethelion.” King Ruelon, followed by Attalia, descended the stone steps and entered the room. ”No one else would have bested you.”

  “Save you, my lord, and Attalia.”

  The king absently waved his hand. “Attalia, perhaps, but. . .” He gestured toward the low bench along one wall. “Come, sit. Have a cold drink with me while Attalia engages her cousin.”

  Merewyn laid her sword and helmet beside the bench and sat, smiling her thanks as she accepted the mug of cold water Ruelon offered. Normally the room would have teemed with warriors. Today, however, Aethelion had elected to work with her alone on hand-to-hand techniques. Given the complicated footwork involved, Merewyn appreciated the privacy and extra space.

  Aethelion and Attalia donned their helmets and picked up their swords. Facing one another, they raised their weapons before them, blades held perpendicular to the floor. “Begin!” Aethelion commanded, and instantly the room reverberated with the clang of clashing steel.

  “Attalia is most skilled,” Merewyn noted, not without envy, for the pair executed their maneuvers as smoothly and gracefully as dancers.

  “She learned very young, as did her cousin. That blade’s as much a part of her as her own arm.” King Ruelon shot Merewyn a sideways glance. “You, too, possess remarkable prowess.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Zithri proved a most excellent teacher.”

  “Indeed.” He paused a moment, his eyes never leaving the duelers. “Your parting pained her deeply. She loves you like a sister.”

  Merewyn blinked in surprise. “I had no idea. She always acts so stern.”

  “Zithri doesn’t show her feelings. Life taught her early to take nothing for granted, whether people, possessions, or one’s next breath. She knew this day would come. She and Hamiel have trained many young warriors, and none of those partings distressed her. But I think she found in you a kindred spirit and a special bond. She could not bear to say good-bye.”

  “I’m very fond of her as well.”

  Ruelon turned to look at her. “You’re not unhappy here, are you, Merewyn?”

  “No.” Merewyn nervously moistened her lips and looked down for a moment. “Zithri taught me many things. She once spoke of bloodlines tainted by evil. I had no opportunity to ask, but often wondered: do some families veer toward evil despite good intentions?”

  For I share the bloodline of Lucius Mordarius!

  “A person’s heart, not his bloodline, determines his actions,” Ruelon told her. “Greed, the lust for power, selfish ambition—these constitute the greatest corrupters of man. Often a son repeats his father’s sins simply because he learned no other way, or because his conscience became seared after years of blindly following his father’s example and disregarding his own inner voice. We are all born unto evil, but not all of us succumb to it. From the vilest of clans can arise one good and honest man, and from among the noblest can arise the worst of tyrants.” He regarded her tenderly. “Does that comfort you, Merewyn?”

  “It does.” Merewyn drew a deep breath. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You follow your father, Merewyn,” Ruelon continued. “Never would I doubt your character. You befriended—nay, saved my people before ever I knew you. Stanslav would be no more had you not drawn away Ryadok’s beast. You showed much compassion to those bereft in Ptarmania. And. . .” His face now wore an expression that Merewyn did not understand—tender, yet intense. His mouth partly opened as if he would say more.

  Merewyn cocked her head. “My lord?”

  Abruptly Ruelon rose and strode from the room. The duelers lowered their swords and pulled off their helmets, following Merewyn’s stare to the door through which the king had exited.

  “What happened?” Aethelion demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Merewyn stammered. “We were talking. . .”Swift furious steps brought Attalia to the bench. Her sword and helmet clattered to the floor. She glared down at Merewyn. “What did you say to upset him so?”

  “Attalia.” Aethelion calmly held up a hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I will speak to him.” He nodded to Merewyn and left the room.

  Attalia sat down beside Merewyn. “I’ll not see my father insulted. What did you say to him?”

  “I said nothing insulting,” Merewyn stammered. “I don’t know what upset him. We talked about Zithri and then my father. He thanked me again for helping the villagers at Stansla—”

  “Oh!” Attalia rolled h
er eyes. “Always he speaks of what you have done for us, your sense of sacrifice, your wisdom beyond your years.”

  “He thinks much more highly of you!” Merewyn cried. “Before we spoke of anything, he praised your fighting skill.”

  Attalia sniffed and gripped the edge of the bench. Her brow furrowed. The mounting tension electrified the very air.

  “He’s very proud of you,” Merewyn insisted, “and no one will ever replace you in his eyes.” She rose. “I will return to Zithri. I don’t belong in a palace.”

  “My father will never allow it.”

  Only the sound of uneasy breathing broke the oppressive silence. Merewyn sat down again, wondering at this turn of events. She had never expected equality with the king’s daughter; but neither had she expected to incur her wrath.

  “Ha-Ran-Fel always has a mind for war, even during times of peace,” her father had said once. “A restless people, wanderers, free as the wind. They would rather invade another kingdom to procure the necessities of life than develop their own land and industries. And they forever distrust outsiders.”

  “Fight me.”

  Merewyn’s heart plummeted. “What?”

  “Fight me, while we await my cousin.” Attalia picked up her sword and helmet and jumped to her feet. Throwing her head back, she glared down at Merewyn. A sneer curled one corner of her mouth.

  “Come now. Have no fear. You trained with one of our best, did you not?” Attalia shook back her tawny hair and pulled on her helmet. “Come, savior of Stanslav! Fight!”

  Reluctantly Merewyn rose and picked up her sword and helmet. Anxiety at having offended the king escalated to fear in the face of his daughter’s challenge. Nevertheless, she put on her helmet. Muscles taut, throat tight, mouth dry, she took her stance in front of Attalia. She would rather have faced Lucius Mordarius and his entire army alone than the opponent before her now.

  Attalia’s eyes gleamed behind the mask. “Remember, maid of Valhalea: no warrior of Ha-Ran-Fel ever flees or begs for mercy; so fight. Fight as though you face a mortal enemy and prove yourself to me. I would confirm that you are truly the warrior my father believes you to be, worthy of his notice and to ride under his banner.”

  “Will we follow any rules in this contest?” Merewyn asked. “Or shall I consider this a duel? Will you cut off my arm or my head if you find opportunity?”

  Attalia lowered her sword and pulled off her helmet. “You are afraid, aren’t you?”

  “Not to fight, or even to die. But you demand that I engage my king’s only heir in a contest with no overseer and to fight as if for my life.”

  “And that concerns you?”

  “It does. Your words declare mortal combat. I would know if you give this contest bounds or not.”

  Attalia laughed. “You make too much of this, Merewyn. We fight, not to the death, but to test our skill. You watched me spar with my cousin. We strove to our limits. Consider this no different.” She put on her helmet and raised her sword. “Begin.”

  Merewyn’s breath came in short, uneven gulps. Attalia had set a trap from which she could find no way out.

  Without warning, Attalia lunged. Merewyn deftly sidestepped and parried the blow, but the force of it numbed her arm. Gasping and grunting, the duelers circled each other. Swords clashed furiously as they lunged and thrust, dodged and parried. Merewyn tried to conserve her strength, but Attalia’s lightning-quick thrusts and superior skill made it impossible.

  Merewyn had hoped to maintain a defensive posture only, but Attalia’s escalating attacks demanded a switch to the offensive. The numbness in her arm turned to pain; every blow sent what felt liked daggers shooting from her wrist through her elbow. She gritted her teeth. Any show of weakness would declare her a coward and defeated, and Merewyn would concede to neither.

  As if in a vision, she saw Attalia’s blade descend from the left. Merewyn’s sword flew up to meet it, stopping it in midair. For a moment their eyes met. Then, with a swift circular motion of her arm, Merewyn dislodged Attalia’s sword and sent it flying across the room. Attalia gasped but recovered immediately and retrieved her weapon.

  “You would best me, Valhalean?” Attalia lunged. Merewyn’s blade met hers. Tortured steel clashed louder as the contest intensified. Neither combatant noticed the silent figures in the doorway.

  “Enough!” Ruelon thundered above the din.

  Meekly they lowered their swords and removed their helmets. Merewyn wiped her brow with the back of a shaking hand and slowly turned. King Ruelon, flanked by Aethelion and two guards, scowled at them from the doorway.

  Attalia went to him and knelt, pressing her forehead to his hand. Merewyn stopped a few steps behind Attalia, bowed her head, and dropped to one knee.

  “Up!” Ruelon commanded. The women obeyed. His eyes darted from one to the other, resting at last on his daughter. “Well, Attalia. Has she passed the test? Has the Valhalean proven herself to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, Father,” came the quiet response.

  “Do you find her lacking in anything: skill, courage, endurance?”

  “No.”

  Ruelon glanced at those around him. “Does anyone here find her inadequate or unworthy in any way?”

  “No, my lord.” The men shook their heads.

  The king turned to Merewyn. “Neither do I.” He held out his hand. “Come, Merewyn.”

  A faint flush crept into her cheeks as she laid her hand in his and allowed him to lead her from the room. They climbed the gray stone steps to the main floor and entered the Great Hall. Two large shields hung from both walls, and between the shields were carved likenesses of warriors charging into battle with swords raised high.

  “Well done,” Ruelon said. “You’ve passed the most rigorous test my court demands.”

  “This contest happened by design then.”

  The king did not answer. They passed two more images—one of a defeated king kneeling before the king of Ha-Ran-Fel and on the opposite wall King Ruelon astride his prancing charger—before reaching the corridor leading to the sleeping chambers. King Ruelon released Merewyn’s hand. “Wash and change your clothes, then join me in the dining hall for some refreshment.” With that, he left her.

  Merewyn walked to the end of the corridor, entered her chamber and closed the door. For a long moment she pressed her forehead against the varnished oak, pondering what had just occurred. The king had not seemed angry, but his abrupt departure from the sparring room, along with Attalia’s challenge, disturbed her. Aethelion appeared to know something of the matter, yet revealed nothing.

  Merewyn sighed heavily and turned to sit down on the edge of her plush bed. Her eyes traveled slowly around the spacious room, noting every detail of its paneled walls, fireplace, and tapestry-carpeted floor. Before her, between the door and opposite corner, stood a massive oak cupboard containing the colorful skirts, fringed tunics, shoes, and heavy woolen coat Ruelon had given her, along with the clothing from Emily Greene. A finely-carved dressing table, a mirror, and a small table bearing linens and a wash basin lined the wall facing the foot of her bed. The large window behind her let in abundant light and fresh clean air. She had enjoyed such luxury in Valhalea, but now longed only for her tiny nook in Zithri’s yurt.

  Several minutes passed. Merewyn rose and went to the window to close the curtains before removing her sweat-soaked clothing. She dipped a washcloth into the basin and carefully wiped her face, neck and arms, rewetting the cloth to clean the rest of her body. Finally she donned fresh clothes and plaited her hair.

  Her slippers padded softly on the wood floor as she hurried down the hall and around the corner to the dining room. She had expected Aethelion and Attalia to join them, but found only the king seated at the long table. A cheerful fire danced on the hearth. Rich colorful tapestries graced the walls and lent a cozy feeling to the room. Ruelon smiled and gestured to the chair beside him. Merewyn smiled back and took her seat. A servant brought bread and wine.

  Ruel
on raised his glass to hers. “To the victor!”

  Their glasses clinked together. Flushed, Merewyn took a sip and set her glass down. “I don’t believe the victory was truly mine.” She accepted the bread Ruelon offered, delighted to find it still warm.

  “Before today no female ever dislodged Attalia’s sword from her hand,” Ruelon returned.

  “But she swiftly recovered and resumed the contest.” Merewyn bit into the bread.

  “You’re hungry,” Ruelon observed with a smile.

  Merewyn swallowed. “I knew the captain and I would spar, and not wanting a full stomach to slow me, ate little breakfast.”

  “A wise decision.” Ruelon drained his glass and signaled for another. “I need not tell you how pleased your abilities make me. You credit your father’s memory.”

  “You’ve told me many times, but I appreciate hearing it again.”

  The king rested his elbows on the table. “I consider you more than a warrior, Merewyn, and more than merely the daughter of a dear friend. You possess all the qualities I would demand of a queen of Ha-Ran-Fel, and I confess I hold you up as a standard for Attalia to follow when one day she takes my place on the throne.”

  “Attalia possesses many good qualities of her own,” Merewyn returned.

  “She does indeed. I am very proud of her. But she’s young and headstrong, and easily swayed by those who would draw us back to the old traditions. Your father taught us of the one true God and I, for one, accepted his teachings. We’ll never conform to the rest of Epthelion, yet we must not return entirely to savagery. The world has changed.”

  “I am unfamiliar with your old traditions, but find nothing objectionable in the way you live now.” Merewyn hesitated. “You never answered my question as to whether Attalia challenged me by design or not.”

  “She did not.” The king looked down, his forehead furrowed in a troubled frown.