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

by Sandra Kopp

  Davon swallowed, tightlipped, wishing he could give them the supplies they so desperately needed—or even just a word of hope! But he could offer nothing and deemed his abilities woefully inadequate against such rising evil. The serpent’s malevolent shadow crept over the land like a gathering storm. Davon felt little hope and, he thought, giving the impression he did constituted mockery.

  “Arris Marchant has already entered Barren-Fel,” Charles told Marcos, “and I have every confidence he can supply what Davon lacks.”

  Marcos regarded him silently a moment and nodded shortly. “I hope so. Never have we known such dearth, such utter desperation. And this betrayal by one of our own—my dear sister, no less!” He looked askance, his face taut. His shoulders sagged and he emitted an anguished sigh before facing them again. “But what can we do but accept our lot and act as circumstances dictate? We march, either to victory and better days—or to death, which I deem preferable to this miserable hell.”

  He scowled as Davon cast a pitying glance toward a group of women and children standing behind them. “They are proud sons and daughters of Arronmyl San-Leyon who will muster the strength and will to live. I need every one for the battle ahead. Those too weak to fight can serve in other ways. No one stays behind.” He paused. “You two, the strongest and most alert, shall act as watchmen.”

  “We serve as watchmen, hunters, soldiers—whatever occasion demands,” Charles told him.

  Marcos grunted and returned to his camp. Davon stared after him. So stoic; but what pain his face displays.

  Charles clapped Davon on the shoulder. “Come,” he said quietly. Leading their horses, they followed Marcos to the waiting villagers.

  Marcos strode to the front. His stern gaze swept over the group. “The Lost River lies two days north. Bordner and Marchant will scout ahead. We’ll rest at the river a day or two and hopefully find good fishing. When we continue, those with horses will join the scouts in watching for game and Rauths. Keep your weapons ready and kill any Rauth you see, for already they have shown readiness to kill us. Show no mercy, for they will extend none.” Marcos glanced about the group and nodded grimly. “Let’s move,” he shouted and, shouldering his bow and quiver, turned and marched away through the trees. The woodsmen and Little People silently fell in behind him.

  Davon and Charles mounted their horses and rode to the head of the company. Davon’s lips tightened. By his estimation, the people numbered no more than four hundred. He wondered whether some woodsmen had already departed San-Leyon; if not, and if only these remained, their population had dwindled by half.

  The day passed uneventfully. Davon gathered herbs to be dried later for teas and medicinal powders. Mostly he prayed that at least one of the glades they crossed on their journey would shelter a herd. But despite lush grass carpets, none of the clearings yielded so much as a track and the woodsmen and Little People doggedly trudged on.

  Late afternoon of the second day the roar of cascading water told them they had reached the mouth of Gonor Canyon. Keeping to the forest, the weary company plodded upstream until, roughly a mile above the rapids, they decided to camp amid the trees and thickets near the shoreline. The children gathered wood and kindling while the men fished and the women gleaned whatever food the forest offered. No one relaxed their guard. All watched and listened, for a fleeting shadow or whisper of wind might portend danger. Within the hour they gathered an adequate, albeit meager, feast. Returning to camp, they kindled small fires and prepared their meal.

  Davon handed his catch—three large trout— to a passing woodsman and paused just inside the trees, frowning as he stared past a thicket a short way to the north. Charles stepped alongside him and followed his gaze. “What do you see?” he whispered.

  Davon pointed and whispered back, “A deer, I think.” He noiselessly slipped an arrow from his quiver and, with Charles following, crept toward the thicket. Charles peered around him and caught his breath as a small form moved gracefully around a fallen log, head down as it grazed. Davon put the arrow to his bowstring and aimed. The animal raised its head, ears erect, and then bounded away. Davon released his arrow and with a twang! the shot passed cleanly through the animal’s neck just below the head. But instead of dropping, the deer exploded into a cloud of smoke and ash.

  Horrified, the men could only stare. Davon found his voice first. “Nedra has bewitched the herds. She, who counts the stags as friends, has cursed them all.”

  “And us as well,” Charles finished.

  A twig snapped behind them. Dry cones and duff crunched and crackled under hurried footsteps. The men turned as Marcos raced toward them. Expectation brightened the woodsman’s face and in a voice tinged with excitement, he asked, “What did you shoot?”

  “A deer, we thought,” Davon answered. “But it turned to ashes when the arrow hit.” He gasped and, with a single fluid motion, whipped out another arrow and loosed a shot that just missed the side of Marcos’ head.

  Aghast, Marcos reeled and almost fell. “What are you doing, man?” he cried, struggling to regain his feet.

  Davon pushed past him to a shaggy raven-haired man draped lifelessly over a large rock. Davon’s arrow had impaled his throat, and blood streaming from the gaping wound stained the stone and flowed in crimson streams down his dangling arm to form a gory pool on the ground. A quiver filled with arrows hung off one shoulder and a hatchet lay on the ground beneath his limp hand.

  “One of Nedra’s spies, no doubt.” Marcos wiped his brow. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Aye.” Davon grabbed a handful of hair and lifted the dead man’s head. “Definitely a Rauth. Long way from his village, I’d say.” He peered closer at the lifeless face. “But what’s this?”

  His companions drew closer as Davon pointed to a curious pattern of ridged, swirled scars embedded in the Rauth’s features.

  Marcos curled his lip, turned aside, and spat. “Disgusting. Looks like worms burrowing under his skin.”

  Davon released his hold and sighed. “We’ve found our last meal here, I fear. The sorcerer knows we’ve arrived and will curse the river as well as the forest.”

  “Sorceress, you mean.” Marcos frowned. “At least this time she allowed us a few fish, but this is probably our last hope of regaining any strength. I had hoped for better but. . .” He paused and searched Davon’s face as if hunting some sign of reassurance.

  “I shall seek to discover what spell binds these creatures and whether I can break it,” Davon answered. “I believe this is the serpent’s work, so we face a more formidable foe. If nothing else, perhaps I can draw his attention to myself and allow you an opportunity to penetrate his defenses elsewhere.”

  Marcos nodded shortly. “Let me know if there’s aught we can do.”

  “I shall, when the time comes. Until then I’ve much to do.”

  “I appreciate any aid you can offer. In the meantime, we’ll manage as best we can.” Marcos turned and trudged back to camp.

  Charles stared after him. “They’ll not get much, if any, rest here.”

  “Not unless we can protect and provide for them.” Davon yanked his arrow out of the corpse and walked to a tree beyond the deer’s scattered ashes to retrieve the arrow protruding from its trunk. Turning back, he slipped the arrows into his quiver and then knelt by the ashes to scoop up a handful. He examined them for a moment, intermittently stroking his thumb across them, and then let them trickle through his fingers. Rising, he wiped his hand on his pant leg.

  Charles cocked his head, brows raised as he shot Davon a questioning look.

  Davon wryly twisted his mouth. “I don’t think this was an enchanted deer, but a conjured image.”

  He suddenly tensed, the color draining from his face as he pointed a trembling finger at the dead Rauth.

  Charles turned. He gasped. The corpse’s sallow skin swelled and bulged. Its arms and legs twitched, and soon the whole body convulsed.

  Davon’s eyes widened. “Something inside fights to
escape! Run!”

  Shielding their heads, they dove into a thicket and scrambled through, reaching the other side as the corpse burst with a resounding pop.

  Charles peeped over the foliage. Davon started to his knees but, hearing a rustle behind him, rolled instead to a sitting position. A tiny head rose from the grass. Its mouth opened and the skin on either side fanned into a serpent’s hood. Davon yelped and kicked it away. “Vipers!”

  The ground around the torn corpse writhed with snakes. The men leapt to their feet and drew their swords.

  Marcos and a band of woodsmen burst through the trees, stopping short as they beheld the horror. “Bring torches! Bring wood!” Marcos shouted. “We’ll burn them out.”

  The entire company sprang into action. Some threw kindling on the squirming pile while others set it afire. Still others holding clubs and torches rimmed the perimeter to meet any viper attempting escape. Trapped within a ten-foot radius, dying serpents writhed and twisted, hissed and spat. A caustic venomous odor rising from the pile stung eyes and nostrils, but none in the company wavered. Soon, charred and flattened, the serpentine forms lay still. The woodsmen let the fire die.

  Davon wiped his dripping brow. “I think we got them but search the area. Make sure none escaped.”

  Using sticks and clubs, the people poked in and around bushes, logs and rocks for several feet around. After a half-hour they found none and Marcos ordered them back to camp. But as they drifted back through the trees a woman shrieked. Davon and Charles sprinted toward the sound. Near a rotting log a sobbing young woman fought to shake something off. The men dashed to her and noted immediately the viper dangling from her bleeding arm, its fangs fastened into the flesh just above her wrist. While another woman tried to calm her, Davon seized the viper below the head, extricated the fangs, and then crushed its head against the trunk.

  “Malina!” A frantic woodsman raced to the woman and scooped her up in his arms. Grief twisted his rugged features. “Help her, Nimbian. Please, help her!”

  Davon pulled a kerchief from his pocket and snapped a piece off a small branch. These he fashioned into a tourniquet and placed it above the bite. “Follow me,” he commanded and, with Charles, the woodsman carrying his stricken wife, and some dozen other woodsmen on his heels, raced to his campsite. His saddle and satchels hung over a low branch. Davon darted to them and swiftly pulled down one of the satchels. He bobbed his head toward a rolled-up bedroll on the ground beneath the saddle. “Open that and lay her on it; and would someone please kindle a fire.” Davon rummaged through the satchel.

  Charles untied the bedroll and spread it out. Malina’s anxious husband gently laid her down. “Suck the poison out?” he asked Davon.

  Davon nodded. “Yes, but I need to cut through those fang marks first.”

  “I’ll do that.” The woodsman whipped his knife from his belt.

  Davon gestured toward the small campfire Charles had kindled a few feet away. “Hold it in the fire a minute or two first. I need it as clean as you can make it.”

  The woodsman grunted assent and sprang to sterilize his blade. Davon retrieved a white pouch and tin cup from his satchel and poured a few grains of white powder into the cup. Opening his waterskin, he filled the cup and stirred the mixture. Apprehension seized him as he glanced at Malina, now white faced and sweating profusely, her every breath a wheezing gasp. His own throat tightened. “Just try to hold on,” he said gently. “You’ll be all right.”

  Her head lolled toward him, eyes drifting as they tried to focus. “Where’s Benji?” she croaked.

  “I’m here, love.” Her husband ran up and knelt beside her, tucking her arm in his as he poised his knife to cut the wound. “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”

  Davon hurried to them. “I’ll do this. Hold her.” He took Benji’s knife, waited until the woodsman held Malina securely, and then carefully cut a slit through each of the two tiny holes. Malina screamed and Benji held her tighter, whispering endearments. Blood streamed down her arm as Davon squeezed. Putting his mouth to the wound, he sucked and spat a moment or two, then took the cup and held it to Malina’s mouth. “Drink this.”

  Malina convulsed. Foam bubbled from one corner of her mouth and a strange gurgling issued from deep in her throat.

  “Help her,” Benji pleaded.

  “Sit her up,” Davon commanded.

  Benji wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and tried to raise her, but Malina now thrashed furiously. The back of a flailing hand smacked her husband squarely in the teeth. Benji blinked back the smarting tears and tried to hold on, but Malina squirmed from his grasp. Strange, guttural noises rasped from her tightening throat.

  Charles sprang to her other side and, gently but firmly, took hold of one wrist. Benji held her other arm and then both put their arms behind Malina’s back and together raised her to a semi-sitting position.

  Beads of sweat glistened on Davon’s forehead as he considered Malina’s throat muscles might no longer function, rendering her unable to swallow. But she was already near death; he could only try.

  Live! I beg you!

  Grasping the hair on the back of her head, Davon firmly put the cup to Malina’s mouth. Malina choked down two swallows and jerked her head aside. Spasms wracked her body. Her breathing became even more labored.

  “Drink!” Davon tightened his grip, turned her head back toward him, and forced the liquid down her. Malina bucked and writhed, but somehow it all went down without her vomiting. Hastily Davon mixed a stronger potion and made her drink that, too. Within but a moment, Malina’s spasms calmed. Gradually her wheezing subsided and her glazing eyes cleared again. Weak with relief, Davon sat back, shoulders slumped.

  An ecstatic laugh burst from Benji’s throat. “You did it! You saved her!” Half chuckling, half crying, he settled Malina back on the bedroll.

  Davon managed a shaky smile. “She’s young and strong. She’ll be sick a couple of days but will recover completely. Camp beside us tonight, if you wish. That way I can keep an eye on her and give her more medicine, if needed.”

  Benji nodded. “I bring our things.”

  Davon nodded back and Benji sprinted away.

  Charles knelt beside Davon. “Well done.”

  Davon ruefully shook his head. “Aye, but for a moment I feared—”

  Sensing another presence beside him, Davon broke off. Charles, too, looked around. Amid the crisis, neither had noticed that Marcos had joined them, standing silently behind Davon as he tended Malina. Stern features relaxed almost into a smile, Marcos now knelt before Davon and extended his hand. “Well done, indeed! You’ve proven your quality, Davon Marchant.”

  Davon smiled and grasped the woodsman’s hand. “I only wish this our last misfortune. However. . .” His voice trailed off.

  Marcos released Davon’s hand and nodded. “Aye, I know. We’ve seen but the beginning.” He groaned and rolled into a sitting position, one knee up, around which he clasped his hands. The sun dipped below a distant hill, plunging the forest into shadow and lending a chill to the already cool riparian air. The Lost River whispered past, pausing occasionally to lap the shoreline.

  Davon regarded the scene, wryly twisting his mouth to one side. Deceptively tranquil, he thought.

  Benji returned, a tattered deerskin bag hanging from one shoulder and his arms piled high with two old bearskins. Plopping down beside Malina, he unfolded the bearskins and spread them out, then gently placed his sleeping wife on one of them and wrapped it around her. He pressed his hand to her cheek and forehead and smiled at Davon. “Fever gone and she’s dry now. She’s sleeping good.” He kissed Malina and crawled over to sit beside Charles, his face grim. He sighed. “I’ll not sleep, though. I sense more trouble.”

  “We can count on it.” Marcos chewed his lip. “I’ll watch tonight.” He cast a sideways glance at Charles and Davon. “I would welcome your company as well.”

  “We’ll not sleep either and will gladly join you,” Charl
es answered. He nudged Davon, who stared at the ground, saying nothing. “Davon, what’s wrong?”

  Davon pulled a shaky breath. “I cannot say, but I fear a treacherous night. The very trees watch and listen. ’Tis as if each harbors a spirit.”

  “Should we return to San-Leyon?” Charles asked.

  Davon shook his head. “This evil observes no boundaries. It will hunt us there as well.”

  Spectral howls rose in the distance. A faint sulfuric stench floated to their nostrils.

  Charles gasped. “Baugonril!”

  “No. This is far worse.” Davon leaped to his feet, buckled on his sword, and seized his bow and quiver. Charles likewise girded on his weapons.

  Marcos raced to the woodsmen’s camp. “Arm yourselves,” he bellowed. “Enemies approach!”

  Throughout the camp they sounded the alarm. The demon howls became louder, melding now with a cacophony of screeches and squawks overhead. Keeping the children and weaker folk in the center, the woodsmen and Little People encircled the camp, facing outward to meet the advancing onslaught.

  Davon jabbed a forefinger toward the camp. “Take Malina in there!” he shouted at Benji, but the woodsman had already scooped his wife up and hurried away. Davon and Charles followed, positioning themselves outside the line near Marcos and Benno.

  Powerful wings flapped overhead. Cruel talons raked Davon’s shoulders and clutched at his jacket. Charles pulled his sword and swung, jumping aside as an enormous vulture-like head plopped to the ground. He darted an upward glance and gasped. Hundreds of vulturine creatures circled in the gathering gloom, each easily weighing a hundred pounds, with a wingspan of ten feet across. “It looks as though Ryadok’s legions have returned,” he shouted to Davon.

  The forest rang with piercing screams and screeches as the creatures dove in, tearing faces and clothing with razor-sharp claws. The defenders answered with a barrage of arrows that brought down several but the enemy numbers only increased—and the howls were coming closer. Around the camp branches snapped and hoofbeats pounded as terrified horses broke free and fled. Children sobbed. The shouts of men and women rang throughout the camp. All seized whatever weapons they could and fought for their lives.