by Sandra Kopp
What form will you take, Cousin? Have you the fortitude to appear as a man, or must you cower behind some disguise, stalking your prey like a ravening predator?
She opened the pouch, took a pinch of the grainy substance and paused. “Is this what Arris uses?” she murmured. “Will this make me like him? Will I be able to speak to him, wherever he is?” She hung her head. “I wonder if he’s still alive. I pray he is.”
Drawing a trembling breath, she put her hand to her mouth and trickled the powder onto her tongue, closing her eyes to savor its honeyed sweetness.
“How I wish you were here, Arris. Even while I loved Ruelon I thought of you. In my dreams you called to me but I could not come. Would you call me again, should you return?”
Why do I think of Arris now? It is Mordarius I seek, to exact the justice he deserves. I must attend to my task. For my parents’ sake I cannot fail.
The world brightened, and she clearly distinguished sounds heard only faintly moments before. She glanced at the sky, marveling at the size and clarity of the heavenly bodies.
The distant flapping of wings reached her ears, but something in the sound told her no ordinary bird approached. Merewyn stiffened, peering skyward as she took her bow off her shoulder.
Keeeee-rrrrrr!
A lone hawk skimmed the treetops. Soaring upward, it hovered a moment before circling the glade. Through the gathering gloom Merewyn noted that the talons resembled fingers, one bearing a ring with a peculiar dragon-shaped crest.
“Lucius Mordarius!”
Merewyn fitted an arrow to her bowstring, aimed at one of the outstretched wings, and released it. The hawk screeched and veered south, its good wing struggling to control its erratic descent.
Enabled by the Nimbian powder, Merewyn watched the hawk alight in a distant tree and hurried to it.
The hawk had grasped the arrow in its beak, trying to pull it free.
“You poor, poor bird. Let me help you.” Merewyn shot an arrow toward the good wing, but just before it hit the bird tried to fly and the arrow impaled the injured wing just where it joined the body. The hawk’s shrill screech changed to a man’s roar of pain as the weight of Mordarius’ transformed body snapped the flimsy branches and sent him crashing to the ground.
Merewyn stood over him. “What witchcraft protects you now…Cousin?”
A guttural snort escaped Mordarius’ contorted lips. He raised his good hand. The ring’s dragon crest glinted faintly as he aimed it at Merewyn and released a fluorescent green bolt of pure energy. Merewyn ducked as the searing flame passed overhead. Snarling, Mordarius released another. Merewyn gasped and jumped aside, but this time her clothing ignited. She dropped and rolled, grinding one shoulder into the damp earth when the flame refused to die.
The flames extinguished, she jumped to her feet. Behind his outstretched arm, Mordarius leered like a demon from hell.
Draw your sword.
The words, just a thought in her mind, rang as loudly as a shout.
Draw your sword and swing!
Mordarius loosed another bolt. Merewyn yanked out her sword and swung. Energy met steel with a blinding explosion. A wrenching jolt tore through Merewyn’s body, convulsing her so savagely she thought it had torn her apart. It spun her around, sending the weapon flying as it slammed her to the ground.
Mordarius stood over her, pitifully clicking his tongue as he watched her struggle for breath. “Look at her. The mighty warrior queen.” He clicked his tongue again. “Poor sweet thing. Papa’s precious little sweetheart. Why, you’re nothing but a spoiled little girl, a bad little girl. We shall put you back in your place though, shan’t we?”
He smiled malignantly and drew his dagger. “Such lovely locks. What a pity you have to part with them again. And what a pity this time they won’t grow back.”
Grabbing a handful of hair, he yanked her to her knees. “Be a good little girl and sit still,” he whispered. “It may help to lessen the physical pain, at least.”
Instantly the memory of that last terrible night in Atwall returned. Merewyn tasted again the blood pouring from her nose and mouth, felt the soldiers’ vise-like grip, the cruel stones cutting into her knees, and the frigid wind on her bald scalp. Indescribable fury exploded within her, sending a rush of blood to her brain that roared in her ears like a raging gale. Merewyn bared her teeth and sank them into his thigh. Howling, Mordarius jerked away. Merewyn leapt to her feet and dashed for her sword.
Snarling, Mordarius aimed the ring toward her but Merewyn neither slowed nor faltered. Sword raised high, she rushed at him and swung, severing his arm at the elbow. His power gone, the sorcerer screamed and collapsed.
Merewyn seized a greasy lock and wrenched his head back. “Murderer! Whore!” she rasped through gritted teeth. “Now you shall taste some of what you have meted out. I will ensure that you hurt as you have never hurt in your miserable life.” Her fury mounting, she dropped the sword and drew her dagger, brutally twisting Mordarius’ hair as she did so. “Fiendish ogre, you shall rue your birth!” She spat in his face and put the dagger to Mordarius’ hairline. Half sawing, half pulling, she slowly and methodically separated the sorcerer’s scalp from his head. The beleaguered warlock shrieked, writhed, begged, and bawled.
Euratio, Aethelion, Hamiel, Zithri, and a handful of Nimbians galloped up. They stared, incredulous, through the flickering torchlight at the wretched warlock cowering at Merewyn’s feet.
“Enough,” Euratio told Merewyn. “You shall have your justice, but let his men behold him thus and see if they will yet fight for him.”
Merewyn smiled as she picked up her sword and returned it to its sheath. “Very well.” She dangled the bloody locks in front of Mordarius’ twisted face then turned and stalked away.
At dawn they rode to meet the Valhalean force assembled on the Sumerian Plain. The damp earth steamed in the morning air, its rising vapor coating the deciduous leaves along their path with glistening film. Lucius Mordarius, a rope around his neck and broken arms dangling uselessly at his sides, stumbled along in front of Windrunner, grimacing with each prod of Merewyn’s sword. A chipmunk scampered onto the path in front of Mordarius and stopped, raising itself on its hind legs to give him a curious stare before sprinting up a nearby tree.
At midmorning they emerged from the forest and onto the treeless plain. Mordarius’ army, some sixty thousand strong, marched down the middle of the grassy expanse in time to the measured beat from the line of drummers at their head. A lone rider rode before them and, as they neared, Merewyn recognized him as Perfidio, once-loyal advisor to King Nicholas.
A broad trough crossed the plain three hundred yards from the forest. The armies of Nimbia and Ha-Ran-Fel reached it first and stopped. Merewyn’s warriors and the Nimbians fanned out behind and on either side of King Euratio, Merewyn, Aethelion, Hamiel, Zithri and Lucius Mordarius, who remained in front of Merewyn.
No one spoke or raised a weapon. Perfidio reached the opposite side of the trough and raised his hand. The drummers pounded out a final cadence and fell silent. Behind them the Valhalean host clapped their right hands to their sides and stood at attention.
Goading the hapless Mordarius before them, King Euratio, Merewyn, and Aethelion advanced to meet Perfidio. Perfidio glowered at Merewyn. “What are you, to drive our potentate along like a beast? Even a defeated king deserves some dignity.”
Merewyn pointed an incredulous finger at Mordarius. “This you call royalty? This son and heir of a mongrel bitch, with nothing to his name but a bad smell, who betrayed his people and murdered those who loved and cared for him? Indeed, I do afford him the dignity he deserves. Look at him! He who ruled myriads by fear now cowers before a woman. Even the abyss from which he drew his power has closed her mouth against him. And now—”she glared at the Valhaleans—“who will you follow? This, who filled your ears with syrupy lies and promises of heaven, but instead gave you hell? You fought for him only because, had you refused, his henchmen would have killed y
ou. And now your loved ones labor, shackled and chained.”
“Should we surrender, you would slay us as traitors,” Perfidio retorted.
“We would not,” Euratio told him. “Fight for us now against those still loyal to Ryadok’s memory and to his puppet. Yes, Ryadok has perished,” he proclaimed as the men exchanged glances.
Stunned silence greeted his words. Finally Perfidio spoke. “Then we are free!” He turned to his men and raised his arms. “Did you hear?” he shouted. “The tyrant is dead and Mordarius broken.”
Mordarius threw back his head. “Fight, you fools!” he bellowed. “This blackguard lies. These savages will slay you all!”
He flinched as Merewyn pressed the point of her blade to his neck. “Silence, father of fools,” she hissed.
Euratio surveyed the Valhaleans. “Join us and regain your lives and freedom, and afterward return to your homes and families in peace, fully pardoned and without retribution. What say you?”
For several moments, they stood silent. A few murmured among themselves.
Finally Perfidio spoke. “We want only to live in peace. We want our homes and our families back. We want—” He broke off and looked away.
“Will you renounce Lucius Mordarius and ride with us?”
They nodded as one man. “Yes. Yes!” The words rang out in a jubilant shout.
Euratio turned to Merewyn. “What judgment would you mete upon the tyrant Mordarius?”
“He shall die according to Ha-Ran-Fel tradition; only let his blood not stain our land.”
Merewyn withdrew her sword from Mordarius’ neck and reined Windrunner around to face Zithri and Hamiel, who silently rode forward, unrolling a doeskin blanket between them.
Mordarius’ eyes bulged as Hamiel dismounted. He tried to run, but his buckling legs refused to respond. “Help me!” he screamed to Perfidio. “Fight for me now and I will make good my promises. I swear it!”
But the Valhaleans stood silent. Hamiel seized the whimpering despot and threw him down on the blanket, folded it over him and remounted. With Merewyn leading, the warriors of Ha-Ran-Fel rode back and forth across it until they had trampled Lucius Mordarius to death.
Near the ruins of Donegal’s Inn the hosts of Nimbia and Ha-Ran-Fel met Bertrand and a host of a hundred and fifty Liedorans. Merewyn rejoiced to see Edwin and Emily Greene among them.
Bertrand stepped forward and saluted Euratio. “Has all of Valhalea joined us?”
“Yes,” Perfidio responded emphatically.
“Ludhov rides from the west. My armies descend from the north and northwest while Arronmyl, who invaded Barren-Fel, now approaches from the east. If we travel north, we shall completely encompass any forces still loyal to the tyrants.” Euratio looked over the sea of faces surrounding him. “What say you?”
“We ride!” came the unanimous response.
The host moved out, but only a scattering of rebels remained on the plain some fifty miles south of Langhorn, and these threw down their weapons as the woodsmen and Euratio’s host closed in.
“Victory is ours! The tyrants have fallen!” The triumphal cry thundered over the plain.
Merewyn trotted ahead of her warriors toward Arronmyl. “Gallant warriors, I greet you in the name of Ruelon, late king of Ha-Ran-Fel. Thank you for your aid.”
A tiny smile lit Arronmyl’s weathered face. He bowed shortly. “And I commend you and your gallant band for effecting the dragon’s demise. My condolences for the loss of your king.”
Merewyn dipped her head. She started to speak, but caught her breath as four familiar figures emerged from the ranks. The burly redhead grinned and took the hand of the dark-haired maiden beside him. Two blond men standing nearby nodded and touched their hats. The slender man astride the chestnut stallion simply stared.
Merewyn stopped short, the words frozen on her lips. “Arris?”
A NEW BEGINNING
“You’re quite smitten with this queen of the Horse Lords.” Ramon Marchant joined Arris on the stone bench in one corner of the Marchants’ courtyard. August had brought abundant sunshine and warmth. The flowering dogwood teemed with crimson and snow-white blossoms. Buoyant birdsong echoed throughout its branches. Honeybees hummed among the fragrant flowers dotting the yard and lining its perimeter. Evening’s lengthening shadows inched across the pastel blue and cream tiles paving the courtyard.
Arris smiled. “I cherish her, Father.”
“You’re determined to marry her?”
“I will have no other.”
“Leila Yohalani came to see you last evening, but you’d not yet arrived.” Ramon paused. “Her husband died, you know.”
Arris impassively stared ahead. Ramon sighed. “I know she hurt you. But that has passed. What matters now is that you marry a Nimbian in order to retain your Arganian powers. You have prospects other than Leila,” he continued quickly. “Everyone in Aerie knows and reveres you.”
Arris shifted his gaze to his father’s face. “I cannot in good conscience remain an Arganian. My struggle with Ryadok revealed that these benevolent powers share the same hellish origin as the Black Arts. Have you ever wondered why the High Arganians seclude themselves? Only a hairsbreadth divides the benevolent from the malignant, and good from evil. While imprisoned I summoned my sword across the room to my hand with but a thought, and with it cut my chains—but only after yielding to such consuming hate I felt I could kill everything in my path. I held intoxicating power! But I beheld the source of that power, and knew it would possess me as it did Ryadok—himself an Arganian.”
His father regarded him narrowly. “We had no Arganian named Ryadok.”
“Aurelius Marchant, your brother’s son. Lusting after wealth and power, he sold his soul and became Ryadok, even taking the Serpent’s form.”
Ramon paled. “Years ago I wrote him concerning a matter that escapes me now. Aurelius never responded, neither did anyone else in the Order. I wondered then what had become of him.”
“His own lust consumed him; he cared for no one else. The Black Arts nearly drove me to madness. I actually considered myself a god and desired Ryadok’s throne. In that state I cared for nothing else. But such power only destroys, and so I renounce the Arganian arts, resolving to live as an ordinary man with the woman I love. I have advised King Euratio of my discovery. He deems the matter worthy of investigation.”
A long thoughtful silence followed, after which Ramon hung his head. “How I misjudged you, my son.”
“Before I left that day, I forgave you. Everything that befell me worked for the best.” Arris turned and opened his arms. The two embraced.
“I’m proud of you, son.” The elder Marchant patted Arris’ back and pulled in a slow breath. “But you’ll not remain in Aerie, I fear.”
Arris smiled and released his father. “If you saw for yourself the incredible beauty of a grassy meadow sweeping across the foothills; savored the intoxicating fragrance of sweet wildflowers; listened to the waterfalls thundering off the cliffs; and felt the golden sun on your face and the wind in your hair I think that you, too, could forsake these snow-white cliffs for the lands below. There is life, and there I found love!”
“You will live in Valhalea, then.”
“As we traveled south, my companions and I passed through the most beautiful foothills north of Teptiel. At the time I thought I should like to live there. Merewyn has since agreed. It’s not far from here. You and Mother might even like it.”
“Will your friends draw you away again?”
Arris chuckled and shook his head. “Hans has chosen a woodsman’s life. He has married the daughter of Arronmyl and now resides deep in the forest. Charles already holds a post in Valhalea’s new government.” Arris’ eyes sparkled. “I want to raise cattle and horses. I don’t care to rove again.”
His father sniffed. “You’ve no idea how to live such a life.”
“I think I do. I learned many things in my travels. Merewyn and I will succeed.”
“I’ve no doubt you will.” Ramon sighed and clicked his tongue. “Since you’re so determined, we shall host the wedding here. Afterward, you and Merewyn can begin your new life.” He paused. “You’ll have some curious-looking foals, I’ll wager, crossing your chestnut with that spotted steed of Merewyn’s.”
“Windrunner’s a magnificent horse.” Arris laughed then. “We’ll simply let nature take its course and see what happens.”
Ramon grunted. “Yes. Well, it will take time to build a house and barns. Davon and I could help you.”
He put his arm around Arris, who responded, “Father, I would welcome your aid.”
The road, a narrow ribbon of rich red soil, wound north through a field of thick grain and curved northeast as it climbed into pasture lands carpeting the foothills. As the party topped the first rise, they saw a land abounding with lush grass and antelope. Currant thickets filled numerous pockets in the hillsides, and splashes of blue, red, yellow, and orange dotted the grasslands. Hues of yellow, red, and orange tinged the higher slopes of the mighty Alpenfel Mountains, which seemed to hover just above the foothills, so close Merewyn felt she could reach out and touch them. Flowers and sage scented the bracing air.
The road dipped, rising again after a quarter mile into a wide meadow. Arris stopped and pointed to a neighboring hill. “There it is.”
Atop the hill, a semicircle of soaring pines formed the backdrop for a large two-story house built entirely of white stone that sparkled in the full sun. Its roof boasted four gables, two facing the back of the house and two facing front. Beautiful hardwood doors on both levels opened onto spacious balconies.
“How splendid,” Arris’ mother murmured.
Ramon stared, awestruck. “Nimbian snowstone; or do these aged eyes deceive me?”