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

by Sandra Kopp

  “Everybody, mount up.” Bertrand’s voice boomed through the trees. “Ill weather threatens. Let’s hope we can find our friend and get to safety ahead of the storm.”

  They silently mounted. Bertrand motioned Charles to the front and then pointed to Trevor. “Why not just turn that horse loose? That’d be the quickest way to find his master. He seems to know where he’s going, so why hold him back?”

  Charles hesitated, then slowly nodded. “All right.” He knotted Trevor’s reins together and looped them over the horse’s head, letting them rest across the saddle. Trevor set off at a brisk trot and Charles, leading the rest of the company, followed.

  For the next two hours they traveled, never slowing their pace. The trail, while narrow, remained level, with few rocks and no roots impeding their progress. An occasional log lay across their path, which the horses easily jumped. The Little People fanned out on either side and forged ahead, searching for tracks.

  At around ten o’clock they entered deeper forest. Thick trees crowded the trail, snaking gnarled roots across the rocky path. Trevor slowed, ears erect and head bobbing lightly as he walked. Behind him, Charles silently prayed that before much longer the horse would pick up Davon’s scent.

  After several minutes the ground leveled out. Myan appeared on the trail ahead of them, waving. “Tracks!”

  The company galloped to meet him. Myan turned and led them around a bend to where their trail converged with another coming from the west. Two sets of hoofprints from the new trail followed their current path northeast.

  “Huh.” Charles studied the prints. “Two horses, no one on foot. I wonder if Davon and Angyar procured mounts or. . .” He urged his horse forward. Again the Little People scouted ahead.

  A half hour passed. Edwin pulled off his hat and fanned his face. “Whew! Something smells burnt.”

  Charles sniffed. “Yeah. I smell it, too.”

  Just yards ahead the path made a gentle curve to the east. Trevor froze and emitted a loud snort. Fearing the horse would bolt, Charles rode up beside him and took hold of the reins. All the horses seemed edgy now, their gaits choppy as they punctuated their breathing with nervous snorts.

  Myan’s group emerged at the bend, their faces etched with unspeakable horror. Charles’ heart plummeted. Please tell me they haven’t found Davon’s body! He dug his heels into Vitimihovna’s sides and raced to Myan, his companions close behind him.

  “Davon?” he cried.

  Myan shook his head as he turned his horse and proceeded back around the bend.

  At first they saw only more of the same pristine scenery they had witnessed on previous days: Regal evergreens swaying gracefully in the breeze, with pockets of ferns and other diverse shrubbery amid the trees. Charles frowned, puzzled at what had so disturbed the Little People. They rounded another bend—and Charles went cold.

  Some ten feet off the trail a towering pine stood apart. A blackened, twisted figure dangled just inches above a pile of ashes and partially-burned sticks.

  Charles sucked in a breath. His throat tightened. Even at this distance he recognized the charred remains of what had once been a man. His heart began to pound.

  “Oh, my,” came Edwin’s voice beside him.

  The men dismounted and slowly approached, staring in horror. Blackened strands of the heavy rope tied around the chest under the arms, and another around the neck still held the body aloft. Conflagration had consumed the clothing and much of the flesh; but enough of the face remained to clearly identify the corpse of Ian Abuttska. Thrashing death throes had twisted his limbs into impossible angles. His eyes and mouth gaped, contorted by indescribable torment and horror, and some blow or perhaps the throes of death had dislocated his lower jaw. As a final indignity, his murderer had frivolously perched his hat atop his head after dousing the flames.

  “My g—” The words died on Bertrand’s lips. He turned askance, his lips tightened into a thin, straight line. After a moment he muttered, “Even I would not have been so vile.”

  Royce gestured helplessly. “Who could do this?”

  “You know as well as I,” Marcos growled. “The same one who would have burned three of us at Rama-Rauth and then three more every night as she crossed Barren-Fel.”

  Charles shifted his gaze to Hans, who stared, stone-faced, at the ground. He wished he could offer some word of comfort. But Nedra was forever lost to Hans, having chosen a cruel, capricious demon over the man who cherished her above all else.

  “Well.” Bertrand absently waved a hand. “There’s naught to be done here.” He offered Charles a tight smile. “At least this is not your friend. We can thank heaven for that.”

  William O’Dell bobbed his head toward Abuttska. “Should we cut him down?”

  Bertrand looked down as he pondered.

  “I don’t think we should linger.” Mason studied the western horizon. “I’ve a feeling there’s a horde headed our way ready to string us up as well.”

  “Aye,” echoed from throughout the group.

  “I think so, too.” Bertrand cast a nervous glance around. “Let’s get out of here.” He started to mount, hesitated, then turned and offered the dead man a half-hearted salute. “Farewell, my one-time comrade.”

  He swung into the saddle and the company set off at a full gallop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Nedra pounded to the top of the hill and reined her horse in. Six hours of hard riding had brought her out of the lowlands and into the foothills of the Mystic Mountains. She threw back her head, savoring the wind tousling her long tresses and shaking her head to allow the brisk air to cool her scalp.

  The forest had relented a little, curbing its stern evergreens to a scattered few, allowing the varied deciduous trees and remaining wildflowers full run of the mountain. Nedra dismounted and led her horse across the ridge. It felt good to stretch her legs; besides, the palomino needed a rest. She cast a glance at the long-suffering beast patiently plodding alongside. The mare was drenched with sweat, with lather foaming under the straps of her bridle. Her head hung and she badly needed another drink. For a moment Nedra’s heart went out to her. But more important matters beckoned and, tossing her head, she picked up her pace.

  She cast a glance at the gathering clouds. The storm would probably drench her. She sniffed and then began to laugh. All was well. She had regained Anhuapta’s favor. Ian Abuttska, faithful servant, had provided the ultimate sacrifice—granted, not willingly—but Anhuapta had accepted him nonetheless and endowed her with power enabling her to continue this grueling trek without food or rest.

  Her laughter subsided and she sighed, wishing the castle a little closer. At one point she had sensed a disturbance in the psychic plane, but the Red Horse and Marcos’ band had occupied her such that she never determined the cause. “No matter,” she murmured.

  She had suffered much the past two days. Her sacrifice-turned-fiasco, followed by the prospect of Arris Marchant wresting her throne away, had tortured her almost to the point of madness. And then there was Ian Abuttska’s feigned allegiance, geared only toward satisfying his perverted lust. He had actually enjoyed her tying him up, teasing and titillating while wearing that silly, disgusting grin—until he saw the rock in her hand.

  With Abuttska unconsciousness, Nedra threw a rope over a low branch, tied one end around his waist and the other to his horse’s saddle, then led the horse forward, lifting Abuttska until his toes just cleared the ground. Next, she tied a second rope under his arms and secured the other end to the branch to hold him. After untying the first rope from the saddle, she looped it a couple of times around the branch and then fashioned a noose, which she slipped around his neck and tightened. By then Abuttska had awakened; but he no longer laughed. Alarm and fear twisted his face, especially when she piled the tinder and branches around his feet and struck her flint. As the flames climbed higher, Abuttska screamed and kicked, begged and cried. Nedra sat cross-legged before him, eyes closed, slowly swaying back and forth
while chanting prayers to Anhuapta. . .

  “’Anything I needed,’ he told me. He sacrificed freely.” Nedra shrugged and kept walking.

  As she crossed the center, the mountaintop began a gentle descent, its broad expanse curving before her like an enormous ball. She drifted out of her reverie to scan the forest below and stopped dead in her tracks. The red castle, plaza, courtyard, wall and all, sat atop an adjoining hill. Her heart leaped. She did not have to travel to Fang Mountain, after all!

  “Praise to Anhuapta! Rather than carry me to my castle he has carried my castle to me!” Eyes flashing, she drew her sword and held it aloft. “Prepare yourself, Nimbian. You shall either bow or die!” She put up her sword, mounted the horse, and raced down the mountain.

  Charles crested a low hill and reined his horse in. They had reached the foothills of the Mystic Mountains, where began the laborious ascent to the higher peaks. His companions flanked him on either side, fanning out along the hill’s domed summit. Despite the heavy clouds, no rain fell and the wind remained calm. Too calm, Charles thought as he scanned the lowering sky. He had taken hold of Trevor’s reins again, for the horse seemed to have lost all traces of his master and begun wandering aimlessly. Charles had held such hope that Davon might be riding one of the horses they’d been trailing those many miles. But only one horse, which he guessed now to be Nedra’s, continued on the trail past the tree where Ian Abuttska still hung. Heaven only knew what had become of Abuttska’s horse.

  “Look!” Marcos pointed to the northeast, where seven crimson spires soared above a nearby hill. “There it is! The Red Castle. But—” he looked around at Hans. “I thought you said—”

  “It was on Fang Mountain,” Hans returned curtly.

  “What’s it doing here?” Charles murmured.

  “The snake god moved it for the coronation.” Bertrand’s grip tightened around his spear. “The time has come.”

  Edwin looked from Marcos to Bertrand to Charles. “What do we do now?”

  Charles shook his head. “I don’t know. Wish I knew where Arris is. I—” He stopped and held up a hand. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?” Edwin whispered.

  They listened with bated breath to the sound of thousands of marching feet. Horrified, they whirled to look behind them. A quarter-mile away the ground amid the trees seemed to move as an innumerable army, both mounted and on foot, advanced to the castle.

  “That’s not just Rama-Rauth,” Bertrand rasped. “That’s all of bloody Barren-Fel!”

  “Get behind the hill,” Marcos hissed. “Maybe they’ve not seen us yet.”

  Keeping low to their horses, they trotted to the other side. From amid the enemy host came a shout and then the blast of a trumpet.

  “Bloody hell! They’ve seen us,” Bertrand said. “Look for a hiding place.”

  “Too late,” came from Marcos. “Here they come.”

  “Well, ride for all these nags are worth,” Bertrand said, and spurred his horse forward.

  They tore across the mountain and down the other side, dropping into a deep wash that wound among the hills and into an aspen thicket. Plowing through, they clambered up the mountainside into the shelter of a dense stand of cedars, boulders, and fallen trees near the top. Seizing whatever branches they could get hold of, they pulled themselves off their horses and climbed, seeking cover amid the higher foliage as the shouts and war whoops drew closer.

  Charles straddled a branch. Looking down, he saw Edwin struggling to reach him and swung to the branch below, grasped Edwin’s flailing arm, and pulled him up. “Well done. Keep climbing.”

  They climbed a few branches more, secured their places, and readied their bows and arrows.

  Edwin gave Charles a weak smile. “I never thought it would end this way,” he said. “I figured I’d die at home in my easy chair with a pint in one hand and a slice of Emily’s pie in the other.” He leaned over and clapped Charles on the shoulder. “I’ve got to say, I’m mighty proud to have known you, Charles, and even prouder to have fought and died beside you.”

  Charles nodded and grasped Edwin’s hand. “Feeling’s mutual. I’m proud to have known you, too. But, Edwin, let’s not say farewell just yet. If Arris is in that castle, we may just make it.”

  “Aye.” Edwin’s smile broadened. He nodded.

  But both knew they hoped in vain.

  Chest heaving, Arris approached the landing. A few more steps would put him before the throne, the seat of power from whence he should rule all of Epthelion, but only as a puppet, a shell of a man indwelt by a demon. The throne had lost its allure; its seductive promises meant nothing. Arris had come for a single purpose, with only an idea concerning how to accomplish it and fully aware it might cost his life. The castle’s infernal heartbeat assailed his brain, and now the whispers of those embedded in its walls melded into the din.

  Hail, O exalted one! Ascend the throne that we may live, that we may live to serve thee. Exalted prince, and lifted up, set the stone, ascend thy throne.

  The voices droned on, repeating the words over and over and growing louder as he ascended. He had climbed over a hundred steps, and now only fifteen remained. He paused a moment to catch his breath.

  Cosmos. . .castle. . .void. . .castle. . .void. . .cosmos.

  The voice was different; softer, familiar. Arris caught his breath, his eyes riveted on the landing.

  Castle. . .cosmos. . .void.

  Davon! His words conveyed a message; but what could they mean? Images of a raging battle in the foothills nearby inundated his brain. Friends and comrades fought for their lives, a mere handful against a sea of hardened, enraged warriors. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the mental onslaught only intensified. Jaw set, he steeled his resolve and homed in on Davon’s voice. Castle. . .cosmos. . .void.

  “Balfor, omrίba, nucan!”

  Arris’ heart sank as the great front door groaned open. Nedra burst inside, loosing a shriek that echoed through the castle. Footsteps drummed the floor as she raced into the paneled room and vaulted up the staircase after Arris.

  Castle. . .cosmos. . .void.

  Arris suddenly grasped Davon’s meaning, and it correlated with his own plan: Send the castle into the void of empty space. He longed to speak to his brother, to tell him he understood; however, he must mask his thoughts lest Anhuapta discern them and thwart his efforts. He must formulate the command such that he transported only the castle and those pertaining to the Serpent. He had but one chance. He must not fail.

  Already Nedra was halfway to him, shouting, “Bow or die, Nimbian! You shall never occupy my throne!”

  Arris had no time to grapple with her. Too many lives hung in the balance. Gasping, he lunged up the remaining stairs to the landing, thrust his hand into his pocket and, holding the sapphire in an iron grip, withdrew it. A powerful force beaming from the throne nearly tore the gem from his hand, but he gripped it tighter. He no longer heard Nedra’s footsteps and knew instinctively she had taken the serpent’s form.

  The Corridor cannot work. I must use the Vortex.

  Mentally he formed the command. If not spoken quickly and correctly the spell would fail and he and those dear to him would die.

  “Look at me, Nimbian!” Nedra spoke with a serpent’s hiss. She was just below the landing, but Arris did not turn.

  A flash of searing blue light streamed from the sapphire to the empty setting above the middle of the throne. Arris held the stone aloft and shouted, “Vortex!”

  He heard a rush of wind that deepened to a deafening roar as a thick gray funnel formed above him. “Speak!” an ominous voice commanded.

  Images of Davon and his friends being killed pummeled Arris’ brain. Scales clattered on stone behind him as Nedra leaped onto the landing, her sword raised.

  Arris ducked as Nedra’s blade sliced through the air directly over his head. Grasping his sword, he spun around barely in time to parry her next blow. Nedra shrieked. Summoning all his faculties, Arr
is shouted, “Vortex! Conduct this castle, its founder and all who pertain to him to the far reaches of the cosmos and deposit them into the black void from which nothing returns!”

  Instantly the castle exploded, disintegrating into a cloud of shards and fragments amid a ground-shaking bang! Arris felt himself pulled straight up and then dropped. Arms and legs flailing, he fell several feet, finally landing on his back in a patch of wild roses. For a moment he lay still, oblivious to the thorns pricking his skin as he stared at a massive column of thick black smoke shooting straight up.

  Gradually the smoke cleared, stretching thin upon the breeze wafting across the forest. The last rolls of thunder pealed through the canyons and then died away. Arris groaned. Realizing then what he had fallen into, he wrenched his arms free of the thorny bonds and struggled to his feet.

  His fine garments were gone, replaced by his own torn and bloody clothing. The castle, its courtyard—everything—had vanished. Only pristine, untouched forest remained. Behind a nearby thicket, Barada hauled himself to his feet and approached, nickering softly. Arris hugged his steed’s neck as the stallion nuzzled his arm and then looked around. “Davon?” He received no reply and set off toward where the castle had stood. “Davon!”

  A low moan emanated from some bushes a few feet away. Arris darted to them, relief lighting his face as Davon, supported by a leafy canopy, stirred and opened his eyes. “Praise heaven!” Arris laughed and extended a hand.

  Davon chuckled as he grasped the hand and pulled himself up. “I was afraid I wouldn’t make myself clear. I had to be careful, lest the evil ones catch my meaning.”

  Arris sighed. “Never in my life have I spewed so many words in such short time. The fact I remembered them all amazes me.” He cast a glance skyward. “I think, though, I was given help.”