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

by Sandra Kopp

  At the moat, he stopped and peered through the twilight gloom into its bottom and then up and down its length. Seeing nothing, he plunged down the bank, dashed across the bottom, and leapt up the other side.

  He crossed the jousting yard and stopped within fifty feet of the castle. For a moment he studied the dour structure, then picked up a rock and hurled it against the wall. A distinct crack pierced the silence, followed by the sound of stone bouncing on stone when Castle Ryadok indifferently swatted the rock aside and sent it scuttling across the paved courtyard. Glancing about, he approached the castle and stood for a moment, bracing himself for a discharge of energy before touching the wall. He felt not so much as a tingle.

  Dropping his hand, he circled south to the great gate. No blazing blue light containing Ryadok or his image erupted from the ground. No troops stormed out to surround him. No serpents swarmed out to entangle his steps, nor did Baugonril leap at his throat. All remained silent. . .all remained still.

  As expected, Arris found the gate locked. He cast his eyes to the tower window through which he and Davon had escaped during their last visit. “That appears to be my way in—unless the Dark Lord relents and extends his hospitality to an old friend.”

  Smiling wryly, Arris shifted his bag and strode off into the trees west of the castle to await the dawn.

  Arris awoke to eerie silence. Heavy clouds covered the sun, but enough light filtered through for the task ahead. Rising quickly, he downed a breakfast of cheese and jerky, gathered his gear, and walked to the castle.

  The tower window stood completely open. Arris shifted his focus to the wall, mentally noting every foothold. The burden he carried increased the danger of an already perilous climb, but he needed all he had brought, and time raced on. He dared wait no longer.

  Redistributing his load, Arris made for the corner and climbed. The rough stone chafed his hands and snagged his clothes, but he carefully felt out each hand and foot hold and pressed on. At length he reached the ledge and, sweating and gasping, pulled himself onto it. Without stopping to catch his breath, he edged his way to the open window. Only after he had stepped inside did he allow himself to rest.

  Here, in this corridor, he had faced Ryadok. The smoke had long since cleared but seemed to hover still, an evil, invisible, malodorous presence. Deathly silence prevailed, and yet the hallways echoed with the cries and voices of those who had lived and died within these walls, both tormentors and tormented alike.

  Every instinct screamed that he flee. But the image of fallen Atwall took shape in his mind. The scope of its destruction at Mordarius’ hand would pale in comparison to what Ryadok would do to all of Epthelion. Captive peoples would plead for death, but Ryadok would keep them alive in continual agony, feeding his maniacal lust.

  Arris squared his shoulders, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky light. Ryadok is not immortal. He can—and will—die. And I do not withstand him alone.

  He saw himself suddenly at the head of a well-armed troop. Directly behind him stood Charles, Hans, and Davon and, behind them, Edwin, Arronmyl, and The Fox. An innumerable host followed after, but the final figure intrigued him most. On a distant hilltop behind the host, a mounted figure stood alone. A horsehair tassel streamed from atop the helmet, and from below it a cascade of long flowing hair. The radiance of her burnished shield rivaled the sun. Sword held high, she proudly sat a curiously-patterned black and white steed unlike any Arris had ever seen. The vision lasted but a moment and then vanished in a brilliant flash of golden light.

  Arris drew a shaky breath. “Ah neel hoolani?”

  But the vision revitalized him. He drew his sword and with slow deliberate steps slipped down the center of the corridor, peering into the rooms on both sides as he passed, every one completely empty and swept clean. He reached the spot where Ryadok had stood and paused to study it.

  “All that fire and lightning and the floor not even scorched. Ryadok employed neither trickery nor illusion, but real power.”

  Arris closed his eyes and for a fleeting moment saw clearly Ryadok’s comatose form bathed in pale blue light and stretched out on a stone shelf in what appeared to be a cave. The shadow of a great hooded serpent hovered over him, its frightful forked tongue flicking in and out with lightning speed as it gently swayed back and forth.

  The air over Ryadok’s head glowed red. Arris caught the glint of scales and a blood-red eye. The serpent’s head slowly turned. . .Gasping, Arris forced his eyes open, stubbornly resisting the nauseating dizziness passing over him while trying to quiet his pounding heart. “’Tis worse than I feared—the serpent is the threat. Ryadok believes this beast exists to empower and obey him, and for now it does. But should he ever try to cast it aside—or should he no longer serve its purpose—then it will kill him as surely as it will kill me. It is the master and he the slave.”

  Arris continued down the corridor until it intersected with an unlit and windowless passageway running deep into the castle’s interior. He lit a torch from the sconce behind him and stepped into the blackness.

  The stagnant air stank of mildew, mold, and death. The torch flickered and smoldered. Arris cast a final glance over his shoulder, then tightened his grip on his sword and forged ahead. The floor sloped sharply upward, but by the weakening light of his dying torch he saw that it remained smooth and quickened his pace.

  The passage steepened as it angled to the right. The air turned thick and dank until it seemed almost liquid. Arris’ lungs fought for air as he felt his way along the rough stone wall. His torch had become little more than a smoking glow.

  Lub-DUP. . .lub-DUP. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the dull, ominous sound of a beating heart emanated from every stone, growing louder and louder until the passage rang with it. His throat turned dry and his skin clammy. Arris stopped and peered harder into the darkness.

  Luba-DUPida. . .luba-DUPida…Such an errant, irregular pattern! Arris could feel his own heartbeat beginning to match it. His chest tightened. He felt dizzy.

  “Il ‘ya homina! My will is my own! I am slave to no one!”

  Immediate silence followed. Arris collected himself and waited, listening. All remained silent and again he groped his way forward.

  Within a few steps his toe struck something hard. Arris stumbled and fell forward. His knee and the hand grasping the torch hit what felt like two stone slabs, one above and slightly behind the other. Feeling around, he surmised he had found a staircase, and with more than a little hope, looked up. The faintest glimmer of light winked down at him.

  Arris carefully ascended. With each step the air became more breathable. At the top he found it cool and refreshing, and light enough that he could see without the torch.

  Sword ready, Arris slowly turned about. He had entered a cavernous room resembling more a cave than a palace. The rough-hewn gray stone walls sloped irregularly. The only light filtered through a network of cracks and small holes in the ceiling and upper walls. In size, the cavern could easily have contained Greene’s Willow Inn. Tunnels branched off in every direction. Arris guessed that he stood directly in the center of the castle’s upper level.

  A glimmering spot on the opposite wall caught his eye and he cautiously edged toward it, peering down each side tunnel as he passed. Near the middle of the room, he discovered a wide crystalline staircase curving slowly to the left as it rose toward a velvety blue, diamond-studded dome.

  The faintest breeze stroked his cheek. Startled, Arris spun around. Though quite alone, he studied the chamber all around for several minutes, his clear eyes boring into every niche, crack and shadow.

  He felt it again: airy fingertips sensuously brushing his cheek and neck. Arris peered up and saw, through a small hole directly overhead, a patch of blue sky. Another puff fanned his face. A gray cloud floated past.

  Arris shook his head and turned his attention back to the staircase which in the fading light had turned translucent gray. He rubbed the stone banister. “Ah. Not as beautiful as
before, but still solid.”

  He began to climb, his hand gripping the banister and his eyes riveted on the dome above. A strange euphoria—the sensation of soaring high into the night sky—seized him. He laughed. Though encased in a tomb, I am giddy with power beyond all comprehension! I must be nearing Ryadok’s throne!

  At that moment the stairs before him vanished. Arris froze. The banister and the step upon which he stood remained solid, but below he saw only empty space, as if he hung in midair. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. He had climbed perhaps halfway and knew not whether the rest of the staircase still existed or had dissolved into nothing.

  Holding his breath, Arris grasped the banister and resumed the climb, carefully testing each step before putting his full weight upon it. The staircase remained intact and he soon reached the top.

  A pillar of crystalline rock soared high above the floor. At its top, encrusted with precious gems and bathed in ethereal, blue-white light, stood Ryadok’s magnificent throne. Arris gaped, transfixed.

  He would have loved to climb that pinnacle for a closer look, to discover the throne’s composition and the source of its power, or bask in the glow of its unspeakable aura. But he had not the chance. Enraptured by its majestic splendor, Arris did not notice the pinprick of light bobbing ever so lightly behind his left shoulder. A bizarre sensation of heat radiated throughout his body. Searing blue light enveloped him, and he gazed at the throne through liquid fire.

  The blue turned to blinding white and then total darkness!

  ON THE EVE OF BATTLE

  At Ptarmania, two scouts watched the lone horseman streaking toward them. “It’s Elund,” the scout named Bartael exclaimed.

  “With bad news, I’ll warrant.” Bartael’s companion spurred his horse forward. Together they raced to meet the approaching rider.

  The gap between them quickly closed. “What news?” Bartael shouted as Elund pulled his dripping mount to a stop.

  “A greater evil than can be imagined,” Elund gasped. “Baugonril strikes without warning from the air. At Rishaud he appeared out of nowhere, bit the head off a hunter, and then vanished ere the body hit the ground. I must speak to the king at once!”

  “He rode north to meet Aethelion before returning to Tagenryd. You’ll need a fresh horse. Take one from the village.” But before Bartael could finish, Elund galloped away.

  King Ruelon listened gravely as Elund poured out his report. “So it has begun. The armies will soon follow. Indeed, they march even now.” His stern eyes swept the crowd gathered before him in the Great Hall: Aethelion, Elund, Hamiel, and Zithri, along with twenty of the elite host—and, by his side, Merewyn. His finest and fiercest fighters awaited his command.

  Attalia, tall and defiant, stood near the door. “You must stay here,” Ruelon told her.

  “I will fight alongside you!” she cried.

  “You must stay and defend Tagenryd, and rule in my stead should I not return.”

  “Father!”

  “I will say no more.”

  Ruelon turned to Aethelion. “Assemble your host. Send riders to the farthest reaches with orders for every able-bodied man and strong lad to arm himself and be ready to fight. Have the men of the northern settlements assembled here and ready to ride by sunup. We’ll gather the rest as we journey south.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Aethelion bowed and, followed by the others, strode from the hall.

  Merewyn stared after them. The long-awaited day had arrived! How would it end? Would her revenge come at last? Or would she fall in battle and Lucius Mordarius hang her lifeless body above the gates of Atwall, there to gloat over her?

  Never!

  The room had emptied save for herself, the king, and Attalia, who had slipped to her father’s side. Attalia took Ruelon’s hand, her face glowing with a tenderness Merewyn had never seen before.

  Merewyn rose. “If you please, my lord, I will see to my weapons and my horse.”

  Ruelon nodded once. “Go.”

  Merewyn gazed out the window of the royal bedchamber, languidly watching the Alpenfels change from fiery red to rosy pink and finally to somber purple as the dying sun breathed its last. Those mountain hues matched her own mood, she thought morosely as she turned from the window and prepared for bed. Fueled by lust for vengeance for her parents’ death, the spark within her had roared into impassioned flames when she joined the Horse Lords. Her marriage to King Ruelon, although it had not lessened her fervor, brought a calming interlude. Tonight, however, she felt the choking gloom of impending death. There would be war, and of a far greater magnitude than last winter’s skirmish at Ptarmania.

  Merewyn did not fear death, but the knowledge that many whom she had grown to know and love would die filled her with unbearable sadness. Ruelon, Zithri, Hamiel. . .even Aethelion. How could she endure yet another void among those she loved?

  Arris, you must stop this. You must stop Ryadok and his render his puppet impotent! And Baugonril—

  She bowed her head. Baugonril confined to the terrestrial sphere inspired fear enough, but how unspeakably terrible his metamorphosis!

  “You are certainly pensive this evening, my dear.”

  Merewyn had not heard Ruelon enter and came to herself with a gasp. Ruelon laughed softly and pulled her close, and she clung to him, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest as she savored the smell of him.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I was just thinking,” she murmured, and lifted her lips to his.

  He kissed her long and hard and then for several minutes simply held her, stroking her hair and face as he gazed down at her. Merewyn basked in his loving warmth, wishing she could preserve this moment for all eternity.

  “Well, Merewyn, our time has come,” the king whispered finally. “Together, before too many days, we shall meet our enemy.” His brow furrowed quizzically, and he cocked his head. “Does that not please you?”

  “I am pleased. . .and yet I grieve. I grieve for those who will die, and for those left without fathers and brothers and husbands, and for the young children bereft of their mothers. I hoped that somehow someone would stop Ryadok and destroy his beast. I hoped that the puppet would simply die and —”

  “What’s this?!” Ruelon exclaimed. “Is this the voice of my warrior queen? I hardly recognize it! Where is the fire—the passion? You talk like a—”

  “Like a woman who has fallen in love and wishes for her life and the lives of those she cares about never to end. Forgive my weakness, my lord, but I have seen so much sorrow and so little happiness. I know as well as you that the time has come, and that only through war will we purge the land and free its people. My desire for justice burns hot as ever! But I also know we shall pay dearly in blood. I love my adoptive land and its people and wish we could continue in quietness and peace.”

  “Ah.” Ruelon’s voice softened. He kissed her again. “Those words warm my heart. But how little you understand us. Our very origin marks us as warriors. Death in battle earns the highest honor—especially for the king.”

  “I know, my lord, and I’m ready. The sooner we meet the witch-king and his puppet, the sooner we make an end of them!”

  “That sounds like my Merewyn!” Ruelon held her tighter and for several minutes buried his face in her luxuriant hair. Finally he said, “I have left instruction with Benuel for the people to follow Attalia’s rule should I die, and to ensure you are provided for as well.”

  “Hush.” Merewyn pressed her fingertips to his lips and slowly traced them down to caress his soft beard. Ruelon closed his eyes. His breathing deepened as she tenderly kissed him. “We’ll say no more about this,” she whispered.

  “Merewyn, my love.” Ruelon’s eyelids fluttered open. “I am old. I have lived my life. Your life lies before you, not bound up in mine. I have fought many wars, but none as great as what looms before us. Doubtless it will claim my life—but how glorious my death!”

  “I pray you, stop!”

  “’Tis a journey we all must
take.”

  “I would die with you!”

  “And so you may,” he broke in gently. “But we’ll hope for the best, won’t we?” Ruelon smiled warmly and squeezed Merewyn’s hand. “Do not bind yourself to my memory. I would not linger, sick and useless, a burden to my people, bearing the dishonor of being thought a coward by those I once ruled, a helpless old man languishing in the twilight hours of his waning strength with only his memories as he waits for death.”

  “I would not wish that. But you are yet strong, my lord.”

  “Yes,” Ruelon conceded. “Who can tell? We shall go, each as ordained for him. Now come. It grows late. I’m tired, and morning will arrive too soon.” He picked her up and carried her to bed. In that darkened chamber, he sought her as he had never sought her before, loved her as he had never loved her before, and she clung to him as to a priceless treasure she could not let go. And afterward, when Ruelon had finished and fallen asleep, Merewyn quietly wept.

  Far from the slumbering Horse Lords, young captain Theodus paced atop Langhorn’s eastern wall. His skin tingled in the electric air. The moon had turned orange—very unusual for this time of year—and a strange cloud hung before it. Uneasily he wondered what these signs meant and whether King Fortius had sufficiently prepared.

  Barren-Fel remained quiet. Two more spies had returned with the news that nothing had changed from a fortnight ago, save that the peasants had begun working their fields.

  “The Dark Lord lives,” Theodus muttered. “The very air harbors death.” Glumly he watched the first watchmen take their posts, then walked along the wall, issuing orders and offering encouragement. Returning to his own post, he scanned the night-enshrouded hills before him. Uneasiness turned to dread.

  The bell in the old church tower tolled one. Theodus leaned over to draw a cup of water from the wooden bucket at his feet. Something zipped past, directly overhead. A nearby soldier cried out and toppled to the ground.