by Sandra Kopp
“Send word also to Nedra in Rama-Rauth that Bertrand, in his madness, considers himself Anhuapta’s chosen one and now travels with a cohort to Firendoom intending to enter the castle at any cost. She’ll not ignore that report, and even if she trusts the serpent to safeguard her position she will head for the castle or at least position herself close enough to the mountain to—drat!” He grimaced and slapped the table. “That won’t work. If she is holding Marchant, such news would endanger him.”
“Aye.” Edwin chewed his lip. “And if she possesses supernatural power this news will not move her.”
“We can still get Theodus out of our way.” Bertrand set his jaw. “Draft the letter, Robert, and have it dispatched as soon as you’re done.”
Hank produced a scrap of parchment and an inkwell and quill from a corner cupboard and brought them to Robert, who sat down, scribbled a hasty note, and pushed it across the table to his brother. A little smile played on Bertrand’s lips as he read. Nodding his satisfaction, he passed the note back to his brother, who signed it with a flourish, folded it, and secured the loose edge with wax.
“Here.” Bertrand drew a small bag from his shirt pocket and tossed it to his brother, who caught it with one hand. “Haul Squire Lakey out of bed if you have to. That post must depart by sunup. You’ve money enough there to convince him; if not, tell him I will come down and make the request myself.”
“Right!” Robert rose. His boots thudded across the floorboards as he strode outside. Hank followed, taking care to secure the door after Robert had gone.
William O’Dell had been standing aside, one hand on his furrowed brow as if deep in thought. Bertrand cocked his head, regarding him narrowly. “What’s on your mind, O’Dell?”
William O’Dell dropped his hand and ambled to the table, taking the chair Robert had occupied. “If Nedra isn’t holding Marchant, sending her off to the mountains is a good idea. The demon god holds no loyalty. If one he chooses disappoints him, he will search out and empower another for his use. The lovely Nedra would not know until plunged into a crisis and left to fend for herself.” Bertrand nodded and O’Dell continued, “I know the lady in question, having accompanied Robert when she commissioned him to find you.” He leaned forward and rested his folded hands on the table. “How about I travel to Rama-Rauth while the rest of you go to Madmarose. If I can slip in undetected, I can hopefully determine whether or not they have Marchant. If they don’t. . .” he looked around the table “. . .I could deliver Nedra’s message and then send her response to you by pigeon.”
Bertrand leaned back. A quizzical smile crossed his face. “Mighty risky. You could end up a hostage—or dead. Robert can’t join you this time. I need him here. Besides, I can’t risk her discovering we’re brothers. How would you explain his absence?”
Before O’Dell could respond a young red-haired man lounging at a nearby table slammed his mug down. The set of his jaw made his rugged features appear even sharper. “I say deliver the message on flaming arrows through their bloody throats.”
Bertrand’s smile widened. “Excellent idea, Mason. Well said.”
Edwin straightened. “Listen. Rama-Rauth lies a day’s journey beyond Madmarose. We can’t make a firm plan tonight anyway, so let’s just discuss this along the way. By then Charles may have learned something and can offer some insight concerning what to do.”
Bertrand nodded. “I agree. Well, boys, we leave before dawn, so let’s get what sleep we can and be ready to go.” He turned to Edwin. “Master Greene, in the morning you may send your messenger ahead to Master Bordner with the news that help is on the way.”
“Aye, gladly!”
Bertrand hauled himself to his feet, raised his fist, and shouted, “A quest! We ride to crush oppression once more!”
Every fist in the room raised. “Aroo! Crush the oppressors!”
Elated, Edwin rose, his own fist raised. “Aroo!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Barely conscious, Davon lolled his head aside, wishing he could silence the buzzing in his brain. His head throbbed. His right arm burned. His back ached, and his entire body stung as if stabbed by angry hornets. He tried to open his eyes but the lids seemed locked together. A spinning sensation made him queasy and he clawed the ground with both hands in a vain attempt to steady himself. The sensation only increased, and he dug his fingers deeper into the hard soil and curled them tight. His parched throat screamed for water but could utter no sound. His mind teemed with images of men battling monsters. The nauseating stench of blood and scorched flesh assaulting his nostrils made his eyes tear. Shouts and screams, howls and screeches, and terrible, otherworldly roars battered his eardrums.
I am either dead and in hell or totally insane!
A cool cloth pressed his hot face. He heard liquid being poured into a cup and then an arm, cold as ice and undulating like a writhing serpent, crept under his shoulders and raised him to a half-sitting position. Davon would have recoiled but lacked the strength. He felt a cup pressed to his lips and then the welcome taste of fresh, cold water on his tongue. He drank long and deep, unwilling to stop even after he had emptied the cup. Someone spoke in a language he did not understand and after a short pause he heard water poured again. The cup was held to his lips once more and he promptly drained it before again losing consciousness.
Davon awoke some time later, the din in his head subsiding as the darkness lifted. The voices and spinning sensation had ceased, and the breeze wafting across his face carried the sweet scent of pine and wild roses. For several moments he lay quiet, his eyes closed as he tried to ascertain whether he was alone. Somewhere overhead a chipmunk chattered; otherwise, he heard only the boughs sighing in the soft breeze. His senses detected no one nearby. Displaying some sign of returning consciousness would best determine the matter, he decided, and moaned softly. But the arm that had held him and the hand that gave him drink remained absent; the alien voice remained silent.
His head still ached. Davon put his hand to his forehead and winced as a sharp pain shot down his temple. Gingerly he felt around the spot. A large knot encrusted with dried blood had risen just above the right side of his forehead.
Davon blew out a breath. He had shown several signs of wakefulness and still no one approached. Cautiously he opened his eyes.
He lay on a bed of pine boughs, sandwiched between two heavy cloaks. Somber trees robed in moss towered over and surrounded him. Ashes encircled by rocks a few feet to his right indicated a campfire, long since extinguished. A bag resembling a quiver stood propped against a distant fir. To its left, a broad white cloth had been spread over a berry thicket. The sun hung low in the western sky. Its waning beams trickled into the shadowed glen, softening the roughened tree trunks with pale light.
A woman’s voice floated through the trees. Scarcely breathing, Davon raised himself on one elbow and peered through the foliage to his right. Just beyond a patch of ferns he spied a lithe dark-haired maiden clad in a short tunic that appeared to be made entirely of leaves. She might have been a Rauth, given her swarthy skin and long straight black hair. However, she stood abnormally tall, well over six feet, and her spindly legs and arms lacked any muscular definition. Her form seemed to shimmer ever so slightly, like waves of heat on a sultry summer day, and with each fluctuation Davon caught a fleeting glimpse of a different form, the nature of which he could not discern.
A man well over seven feet tall and with the same misshapen limbs and shimmery form emerged through the trees and joined the woman. They embraced and began speaking in a gruff staccato tongue that sounded more animalistic than human.
Anathahites!? Davon’s mouth went dry and his body numbed. He had heard of the shape shifters but dismissed the accounts as mere legend. Reportedly they came from the Black Quagmire located far outside Epthelion’s borders. Now they stood before him striving, it seemed, to retain some semblance of human form.
Was this their normal appearance? If not, surely they had seen enough men to bette
r emulate them. Perhaps they had assumed so many shapes that it became impossible for them to hold any one for an extended time.
Why do they hold me? Davon caught his breath. Were these among the creatures attacking us? Will they deliver me to Nedra—or to Anhuapta?
His mind raced and the sound of his furiously pounding heart roared in his ears. He must feign unconsciousness. But before he could lie down again the couple turned. Seeing Davon awake, they released each other and now approached. Davon shuddered and an icy chill crept up his spine.
“At last! We feared you were slipping away.”
The woman’s voice, speaking in the common tongue, reminded Davon of a trickling brook. He tried not to flinch as she knelt beside him and stroked his hair. She smiled warmly enough, but her high cheekbones and narrow chin lent a gaunt, almost ghoulish, appearance and her black eyes held a steely glint.
Her companion stood behind her, regarding Davon narrowly. He possessed the same facial features as the woman, save his chin was more pointed, and the skin on his left arm swelled and receded in a wavy snake-like pattern from shoulder to wrist.
Images of the Rauth’s viper-filled corpse flooded Davon’s memory. At the same moment he felt the sensation of that frigid limb supporting his back. He gulped and, despite his best efforts, could not help but cringe.
The woman’s smile faded as she withdrew her hand. “You shrink from my touch. Why? We mean you no harm. Indeed, we saved your life.”
Davon stared vacantly from one to the other. “I. . .am grateful but. . .where am I? Who are you?” Panic tensed his pale face. Davon caught his breath and stiffened. “Who am I?” he croaked.
The two exchanged glances and then the man stared hard at Davon, head cocked. “You do not know your own name?” His harsh tone, monotonic and devoid of expression, made his query sound more like a demand.
Davon’s head jerked back and forth.
“What do you last remember?” the man prodded. His tone now resembled two voices, one high and one low, speaking in unison.
Davon’s mouth opened. “I—” He nervously moistened his lips. “Nothing!” he whispered.
“Have you a horse?”
“I don’t know.”
“Brothers or sisters? A wife? Children?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!”
“You speak the common language. What is your native tongue?”
Davon shook his head.
“Let’s find out.” The man’s voice had resumed its monotonic quality. He bent forward slightly, probing Davon’s face with penetrating, upturned eyes. “Listen carefully now and see if you recognize anything I say.”
Davon’s heart plummeted. Surely this man read his very thoughts! Show no cognizance, his instincts screamed, for these beings, whoever or whatever they are, possess neither pity nor compassion.
The man spoke in Valhalean. Davon stared dumbly. A sentence in Liedoran followed, then another in the language of Ha-Ran-Fel and finally, Nimbian. Each time Davon shook his head, his expression unchanged.
“You are certainly not of Barren-Fel or the woodland realm,” the man exploded. “Nevertheless. . .” He uttered phrases in the tongues of Barren-Fel and San-Leyon.
Davon hung his head. “I cannot say, neither do I know how I remember the common tongue. It must have been the last language I heard.” His head throbbed unmercifully and, moaning, he put a hand to his forehead.
“Akira, stop,” the woman reproached. “You tax him too much. Look at him, barely awake and clearly in pain after his ordeal.”
“I meant him no distress,” the man countered. “I merely thought that by speaking certain phrases I might elicit a memory.”
Davon raised his head. “I know you are trying to help and I thank you. I just can’t—”
“Hush now.” The woman extended a long tapered forefinger toward Davon’s wound but did not touch it. “You suffered a terrible blow, from whence we do not know. But never fear, we will care for you and, if within our power, return you to your own people. All will be well.”
“Thank you,” Davon whispered. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth and fighting to maintain his composure as again she stroked his hair.
A little smile played upon her lips as she hovered over him. “Hush,” she crooned. “Rest now. Your strength returns but you still need time.” Davon drew a shaky breath and lay down. The woman gazed at him a moment and then rose and rejoined her companion. They silently walked through the ferns and back to the pool, pausing to glance back at Davon before continuing to a broad flat rock situated amid a protective cluster of small firs. Here they sat and for several minutes stared at the ground, saying nothing.
Finally the man spoke. “What do you make of him, Chemille?”
Chemille shrugged. “I find him comely enough but. . .”
“I mean his illness, not his appearance. I could not read him. His performance, while convincing, might have been pretense.”
“I could not read him, either. He suffered a severe blow which could easily have killed him.” Chemille paused. “He may indeed not know his own identity.” She turned to Akira and caught his arm. “Do not judge him harshly. Give him a few days, at least. Whoever he is, he seems nothing like the others we have seen.”
“Whether he resembles the others matters not. Often those who appear most harmless prove the most treacherous.” Akira chewed his lip. “The sorceress’ minions wantonly killed the San-Leyon host except the two fair-haired men who fought alongside them. These they seemed determined to take alive, for what purpose I could not learn. Those beasts were too dumb to—ah!” He broke off, waving a hand, and smiled grimly. “I chafe myself needlessly. When Chirubach returns he will know how to dispose of this one, perhaps at a handsome profit. If not—” He shrugged. “We simply kill him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A sweeping gale roared down the Alpenfel Mountains and across Barren-Fel. Overhead, patches of gray and white clouds billowed high, leaving streaming tails in their wake as they pushed across the heavens and tried to smother the morning sun. Scattered shadows fell over the sultry forest, the boughs of which tossed like an angry sea. Ancient branches creaked and groaned; their mossy robes floated and fell on the petulant gusts, occasionally wrapping around a trunk as if pulled there for warmth by a shivering tree.
Cumah slinked through the undergrowth, keeping to the shadows as he skirted the Rauwyar Valley on his journey south. At one point he passed a large stone house situated several yards to his right. A short distance from its north side five long, low mounds swelled out of the ground like rippling waves. Cumah paused, licking his chops as he scanned the empty grounds. The sweet aftertaste of human flesh lingered on his tongue and he craved more, particularly that of the maiden who had lived in that house. Beautiful, she was, and as a man Cumah might have enjoyed her—not that he hadn’t anyway. However, he could waste no time basking in that savory memory, for a more urgent matter beckoned, one he would have dealt with earlier had not that damnable Wyar demanded his presence.
Normally Cumah would have afforded no such attention to a human, but Angyar posed a threat. Unlike most men, life’s tragedies did not paralyze him long. Distraught over the deaths of his brother and countrymen, his mind nevertheless still functioned; his brain squirmed out schemes. Utter despair only spurred his inherent craftiness to higher, perhaps even dangerous, levels.
Cumah’s face darkened. This ignorant herder might prove capable of slaying the devil himself. Cumah’s only defense would be, either to escalate Angyar’s distraction to insanity and finally suicide, or—
A sneer curled his lip. If this ponchek wishes to engage the devil, then he shall have the devil to reckon with.
His appetite quelled and with a new mission in mind, Cumah turned from the house, creeping through the undergrowth to a narrow trail that snaked away from the valley and into the sheltering forest. He leapt onto the path in a graceful arc and launched into an easy lope, his well-toned muscles working with a
fluid rhythm that swept him through the trees. Cool air suffused his tossing fur, a soothing sensation under normal circumstances but scarcely noticed now as Cumah considered the errand before him.
Around midmorning he smelled water and, perceiving the Lost River lay just ahead, broke into a run. Without slowing his pace, he tore through the thickets lining the river bank and plunged into the rushing stream, slaking his thirst as he swam across. He clambered up the other side, paused just long enough to shake himself off, and hurried on.
Within a half-hour the forest thinned. Cumah paused to sniff the air and then peered beyond the scattered trees at a rolling sea of succulent green grass. He drew a deep breath and blew it out, his stiffened frame relaxing a bit as the exhalation carried with it the tension of his tired muscles. He had reached the narrowest part of Rauwyar Valley and, he hoped, the end of his journey. For a moment he paused, warily scanning the area around him. Seeing no one, he stole through the waning forest to the field’s edge.
Other than grass waving and rippling in the wind, nothing stirred. Cumah marveled no cattle grazed here. Maybe the Liedorans feared reprisal from vengeful Rauths, or maybe they simply conserved this field while grazing their other pasturelands. The reason mattered not; Cumah cared only that for the present he occupied this place alone.
He studied the field a moment, backed a few steps into the woods, then threw back his head and bayed. His long, doleful cry rose and fell above the rushing wind and sighing boughs. Even after he ceased, it echoed for several seconds through the indifferent trees before fading into silence.
Ears erect, Cumah awaited a response. None came and he howled again, louder and longer. Again only silence answered.