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

by Sandra Kopp

  Vitimihovna started and loosed an explosive snort. Charles caught his breath, heart pounding as he peered through the trees. Seeing nothing, he exchanged a quick glance with Royce, who immediately shifted his focus to the surrounding terrain. For a moment they heard nothing; then, in a thicket several yards to their right, branches cracked and snapped as something large pushed through.

  Swiftly and silently the men readied their arrows, not knowing whether they faced man, beast, or monster. A great horned head reared above the foliage. Charles nearly laughed as he recognized the massive rack of an enormous bull elk. Proud and lordly, the beast emerged and paused a moment, sniffing the air.

  The men released their arrows, shouting triumphantly as the missiles found their marks in the tawny neck. But, to their dismay, the beast bolted. Heels drumming their horses’ sides, the men gave chase, ignoring the spiny boughs whipping their faces as they plowed through trees and undergrowth. Royce managed another hit, this one to the shoulder, but the bull charged on. Charles gritted his teeth. No horsemeat. . .not with an elk this close!

  The bull headed down a rocky, steep-sided ravine. Charles pounded his saddle’s pommel. Drat! With Royce close behind, he guided Vitimihovna to the rim and urged her forward. The horses started down, gingerly at first, then settled back on their haunches and slid easily to the bottom. They followed a narrow path snaking along the ravine floor a quarter mile and then topped a low rise overlooking a sea of rolling meadow. Charles gasped. A cry burst from his throat as he looked over at Royce and pointed ahead. “Liedor!”

  The bull charged into the meadow and slowed. His proud head drooped, and then he crumpled and lay still. At the same moment Charles spied four men on horseback, each with a pack horse, advancing from the northwest. Shouts erupted from all six men as, waving their bows, they raced to the kill.

  Charles and Royce arrived first. Charles leapt from the saddle before his horse had even stopped and placed one foot on the elk’s shoulder. The four horsemen galloped up and formed a circle around them.

  “We claim this kill, for we shot and have tracked the beast for over two miles,” Charles declared.

  “Aye, but he went down in Liedor,” one of the men growled. “He’s ours by rights.” He cocked his head then and stared from Charles to Royce and back again. “What the devil happened to you blokes?” He deftly alit and frowned at Royce. “You, especially. You’re naught but skin and bones.”

  “He is one of the few remaining to Arronmyl San-Leyon,” Charles told him and, with Royce interjecting here and there, related the account of the woodsmen’s misfortunes and the resulting massacre.

  For a moment after he finished, the newcomers remained silent. Finally, the man who had spoken first and who had studied Charles intently as they talked, asked, “Did I not see you with King Fortius at Kapras Rock during the war?”

  “You may well have,” Charles answered. “My comrades and I fought beside King Fortius for a time.” He extended a hand. “Charles Bordner at your service.”

  The man grasped Charles’ hand. “Thomas Hind, at yours.” He paused. “How many of San-Leyon remain?”

  “Less than two hundred,” Charles told him. “All suffer starvation and all have been wounded to varying degrees. None escaped unscathed. I and Royce here are among the least injured.” He earnestly searched each face. “Please, we need your help. Our people need food, medicine, and safety. Some may have already succumbed in our absence. Even worse, our pursuers may have discovered them.”

  “How far away are the people?” Thomas pressed.

  “At least two hours ride,” Royce told him.

  “Then we’ve no time to lose.” Thomas turned to his group and gestured toward a young man of about twenty-five. “Bard, leave your packer here; we’ll need him. Return to the village and rally the people. Bid them bring carts and bandages and have as many come with their weapons as possible. Wait for us here.

  “Ewan and Donegal, prepare the elk. Cut off enough for us to give the woodsmen a little sustenance while we rig up some means to transport them. Everyone, move!”

  Bard handed his pack horse’s lead to Ewan, then turned his horse and galloped away. The rest of the party tied their horses and set to work on the elk, gutting it out and cutting off its head before hanging it by its hind legs to drain. Ewan and Donegal sawed away the hide. Royce, starved beyond endurance, tore off a piece of flesh and gulped it down raw.

  Normally this would have repulsed Charles, but today he felt almost hungry enough to do the same. Almost. “How far to your village?” he asked Thomas.

  Thomas grunted as he tugged at the thick hide. “Seven miles.” He glanced at the sun. “They may be here by evening.”

  “It may well take us that long,” Charles murmured.

  He stepped back while Ewan and Donegal skillfully cut away part of the hide and sliced off a sizeable chunk of meat, which they tied to poles suspended between two horses.

  “It can drain along the way,” Thomas said. He turned to his men. “One of you, come with us. The other should stay here, look after the kill, and watch for Bard.”

  Donegal elected to remain. Ewan assembled the pack horses. Shortly before noon the party headed into the forest and nearly three hours later entered the woodsmen’s makeshift camp.

  Marcos and Benno came to meet them. Their eyes widened and their faces brightened when they saw the meat. “You did it!” Marcos exclaimed.

  Charles dismounted. “We brought both food and aid.”

  Marcos turned to Thomas and Ewan. “Welcome. Who are you?”

  “Thomas Hind and Ewan McLaren from Madmorose,” Thomas answered. “We have sent for carts and supplies to meet us at the border. We have only to get there. We brought food—”

  But already several woodsmen swarmed toward the venison. With Ewan’s help, they unfastened the poles and untied and distributed the meat, most of which they devoured raw. The abler men then set about constructing horse-drawn gurneys for those unable to walk.

  Amid the bustle, Marcos drew Charles aside. “It wasn’t entirely peaceful here,” he said quietly. “We had an incident.”

  “What happened?” Charles whispered back.

  “Emile encountered what he first thought a wild dog slinking around the camp and killed it only—” Marcos paused. Consternation clouded his face. “It wasn’t a dog.”

  Charles felt his skin tingle. “Where is it?”

  Marcos jerked his head toward a cluster of rocks between two pines where a visibly-shaken Emile and Myan stood guard. “Over there.”

  Charles glanced around. Thomas and Ewan, immersed in constructing the gurneys, worked with their backs toward him and without further hesitation he followed Marcos to the pines.

  Myan pointed behind the stones. Charles peered over and gasped. An abnormally tall man clad only in a loincloth lay dead in a shallow depression. His sparse stringy hair appeared shockingly black against his milk-white skin. His thin limbs resembled poles, with little muscle definition. His sharply angular face, with its pointed chin and over-sized hooked nose, did not look human. The eyes especially unnerved Charles: Lidless opalescent orbs of cloudy blue lacking pupils, irises, lashes—every feature that defined a normal eye.

  Marcos looked at Charles. “As I said, he looked like a dog but took this shape after death.”

  Charles shook his head as he stared at the corpse. “I’ve never seen anything like this!” He shuddered. “Looks more like a spider.”

  “What do we do?” Marcos pressed.

  Charles thought a minute, tight-lipped. “Bury him,” he answered finally. “I’ve no idea who or what he is, but think it best he not be found.” He turned away, muttering, “Let’s hope no one employing witchcraft has already discovered the deed.”

  A worried frown crossed Marcos’ face. He hung his head and sighed. “Aye.”

  A half-dozen woodsmen and Little People huddled a few steps away, watching. Marcos waved them over and in a low voice delivered his instructions.
Using branches, axes, and their bare hands, the group dug a hole, rolled the corpse in, and covered it with dirt and a thick mat of needles and duff. Their grim task finished, they stood back to study their handiwork.

  Myan tamped down one corner with his axe handle and kicked detritus over it. “Well, what do you think?”

  Charles scanned the camp. Through the trees he saw Thomas and Ewan, backs still facing him, feverishly lashing branches together. He bobbed his head toward the stones and then pushed one of them over the makeshift grave, quickly stepping aside as Myan and Emile rolled the rest of them over.

  Myan made a face. “Oy! I hope we’re gone before that blighter starts stinking.”

  Relief had flooded Emile’s face. “Thank you,” he said to Charles.

  Charles acknowledged with a nod and clapped the woodsman’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s rejoin the others.”

  Already the mood in the camp had brightened. The promise of aid along with the food in their stomachs had renewed their hope. The gurneys stood ready, hitched to the horses, and the woodsmen and Little People loaded their wounded and began the final leg to Liedor and safety. Late that afternoon they emerged from the forest into Liedor’s rolling hills where a caravan of carts and wagons surrounded by a veritable army awaited them. Overcome, many of the woodsmen wept. Charles suddenly felt icy and totally drained.

  The villagers helped the beleaguered company into the transports. Someone, Charles knew not who, urged him into one of the wagons while another man took Vitimihovna and Trevor in tow. Finally, surrounded by the armed men, the caravan set off for Madmarose.

  Night fell. They traveled in silence under a moonless sky so blanketed with stars there seemed not a space between any two of them. Charles slumped against the side, staring into the murk. The cool air kissed his feverish cheeks and tickled his nostrils with feathery fingertips, but he scarcely noticed. Beside him Royce dozed peacefully, his rhythmic breathing rising and falling amid the usual nocturnal sounds. Charles’ own eyelids felt heavy, yet sleep fled. He saw neither the darkness, nor the welcoming lights of Madmarose when at last they came into view. His mind had transported him back to the forest glade, where he stood before a freshly dug grave speckled with sun and shadow and guarded by sultry stones—and around one stone the ground began to move.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angyar swallowed the last of his breakfast and then rose and stamped out the fire. It was late in the morning, probably around ten o’clock, and he chided himself for having slept so long. Across from him, Aron sat on a log, deftly fastening arrowheads onto newly-carved shafts. Bat-Karr and Patuka waited patiently under a nearby fir.

  Angyar’s mouth tightened. “I don’t see Maracca. Where is Jovah?”

  Without looking up, Aron replied, “He left before sunup. Herders are bringing cattle this way. He’s gone to meet them.”

  “What? We’ve not been near Teptiel in over a fortnight! Who told him this?”

  “Ramsha’s sons. Jovah encountered them somewhere in the foothills, when I don’t know.”

  “He should have woke me. I would have ridden with him. When and how many are coming?”

  Aron shrugged. “I don’t know. Jovah went to find out.”

  Angyar snorted. “You he keeps apprised. Why said he nothing to me?”

  Aron stopped working and glanced up. “For the past fortnight you’ve thought of nothing but cumah. Yesterday you returned to camp grouchy and utterly spent, and as you slept sounder than the dead I thought it best not to wake you.”

  “You should have, nonetheless,” Angyar sputtered. He kicked at the ashes again. “I don’t understand. Why do they come now?”

  “Perhaps the herds need new pastures.”

  “Nonsense,” Angyar retorted.

  “Well then, perhaps the people grow restless. They see Rauwyar within their grasp and wish to act.”

  “But we’re not ready,” Angyar fumed. “Wyars moving in now will arouse Liedoran suspicion. I’ve too much work yet with cumah. Our people must wait until he is properly trained.”

  Aron sighed. “I cannot fathom this plan of yours. You spend much time trying to tame a beast that may prove untamable.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Angyar snapped. “With cumah we can defeat not only the invaders but the witch as well. Without him we’re at her mercy and—” he shook his finger at Aron—“I’ll not bow to a brazen wench, even the daughter of Arronmyl.”

  Aron’s stare intensified. “What do you want with cumah? You’ve made no effort to catch him. For two weeks now you’ve followed him about. You watch him. . .he watches you. I find this both wearisome and pointless.”

  “He will serve as a—” Angyar broke off as Jovah galloped into camp and rose, frowning, one eyebrow raised as he fixed the youth a hard stare. Aron resumed working, ears attuned to the impending exchange.

  Jovah pulled up in front of Angyar and swung out of the saddle.

  “How many approach and where are they?” Angyar demanded before Jovah could catch his breath.

  “More than Riko told me.” Jovah blew out an explosive breath. “They’ve almost reached the North Fork and—”

  “They were not to come until I sent for them,” Angyar huffed. “You should have told them they must go back! Now I must do it.” Grumbling, he pushed Jovah aside and stormed to the large rock upon which he had placed his saddle. Without breaking his stride, he snatched up the saddle and marched to Patuka.

  “They need not go back. Could they not just wait where they are?” Jovah called after him. Angyar gave no answer. Jovah sidled to Aron and sat beside him. He bobbed his head in Angyar’s direction. “He’s in a foul mood this morning.”

  Aron sniffed. “His beast consumes him.” He shook his head and sighed. “Nay, this quest for our valley and for victory at all costs consumes him.” He stared after Angyar who, having saddled his horse had just mounted and galloped away. “Go with him, Jovah, in case tempers flare. If Ramsha rides with that group, you know they will. He and Angyar always clash and we can’t afford to fight among ourselves.”

  Jovah nodded. “He’ll not listen, but. . .” He shrugged and then sprang to his feet. “I’ll do what I can.” Bounding to Maracca, he leaped into the saddle and raced after Angyar.

  They pounded down the narrow trail winding over and among the domed hills, leaving rising puffs of rust-red dust in their wake. Jovah leaned forward, urging Maracca on faster for Angyar, despite his age and decrepit appearance, was already a quarter-mile ahead and riding like the wind.

  Some twenty minutes later the trail topped a low hill and wound through a small aspen grove before making a gentle “S” curve down the opposite side to a level stretch roughly a mile long. Maracca’s strong legs devoured the miles and by the time the trail began climbing again she had nearly caught up with Patuka. Jovah relaxed and sat back. In another hour they should reach the rushing streams of the infant Ashgard River and shortly after, the advancing Wyars.

  But as he closed in on Angyar, Jovah grew uneasy. Something about Angyar’s head unnerved him. It seemed blurred, distorted. A dusty wake might explain the anomaly; but on this hardened stretch the horses’ hooves kicked up no dust. Distance posed no factor, for Jovah, now less than twenty feet behind Angyar, could see him plainly. He blinked hard a few times, vigorously shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, but the distortions remained. The back of Angyar’s head rippled, much like the waters of the pond where Jovah had skipped rocks as a boy. For a moment the rippling ceased and Angyar’s head appeared normal again; but then, to Jovah’s horror, it transformed into a weathered, sun-bleached skull. Eyeless sockets leered grotesquely and displayed a malevolence that frightened him. The ghastly mouth twisted into an evil grin.

  Jovah gaped as the sockets narrowed. Something long and ropelike spiraled toward him, but the skull so entranced him he took no notice until he felt the stinging blow across his nose and cheek. His hand flew to the spot and felt the angry welt already rising beneath his l
eft eye. Jovah winced and pulled his horse down, but again the whip unfurled, twisting toward him with the speed and fury of an angry serpent. Jovah whirled Maracca about and dug his heels into her sides. Maracca leapt forward but the cruel lash wrapped twice around Jovah’s neck and jerked him out of the saddle. His neck popped and the brutal impact with rock-hard earth knocked the breath out of him. Jovah tried to cry out but the tightened lash had cut off his air and now dragged him, bouncing and flailing, after Angyar’s furiously galloping horse. Desperately he tried to wedge his fingers between his neck and the whip but only felt it grow tighter. The unforgiving road scraped him raw. Scattered stones bludgeoned his body. Jovah’s eyes bulged and a strange buzzing reverberated through his head. The world darkened. . .

  Abruptly the whip vanished. Jovah rolled several times and finally lay on his side in the road, broken and bleeding, gasping to fill his tortured lungs while he listened to Angyar’s hoofbeats die away. His neck and throat burned as though he had breathed fire. His head pounded, and his back and right shoulder throbbed almost beyond endurance. He tried to cry but managed only a wheezing whimper. He began to sit up, but stabbing pain in his left arm told him it was broken. Somehow he struggled to his feet and staggered a couple of steps before collapsing. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes as he laid the back of his right hand on his forehead.

  A gentle hand touched his. Jovah opened his eyes. A tall blonde man in a green tunic knelt beside him, speaking softly. Jovah gasped. Apprehension seized him, for the man resembled a Nimbian and had Angyar not said the Nimbians had allied themselves with Anhuapta? Yet so kindly was the man’s demeanor and his words so comforting that Jovah relaxed. After all, the Nimbian healer had once saved his life and nothing in his manner now indicated malicious intent. “Master Marchant,” he whispered.

  “Softly.” The man pressed his hands to the sides of Jovah’s head. “I’ve come to ease your torment; and I give you my word you will never hurt again.”

  He gently lifted Jovah’s head. Cradled in those healing hands, Jovah’s pained expression melted into quiet serenity and then surprise as his supposed rescuer violently twisted his head to one side, snapping his neck. Why, he wanted to ask. But his breath fled and his murderer’s face blurred into an inky pool that melded with the silent darkness enveloping him.