The Sunset Lands Beyond (The Complete Series, Books 1-3): An epic portal fantasy boxed set

by Sarah Ashwood

  The Simathe High-Chief glanced about, noting the strange tunnel of light was gone and the storm had receded as well. Where was the Artan? Whatever that white brilliance had been, it had ruined his night vision. Temporarily, he hoped. For once, he wished mightily for a lantern or a torch, but knew he hadn’t the time to find one. Instead, he waited tensely for the next flash of lightning, no matter how weak, to show him where she was.

  When it came, he saw that she lay ahead on the path—a dark form which, at this distance, appeared unmoving. He ran. Ignoring the mud, he dropped to his knees. A small part of him was aware of the gentle rain wetting her face. Brushing the damp hair from her brow, he ran his eyes swiftly over her inert body, assessing the damages. There were none—visible, at least—and he thought she breathed steadily. Next, he glided sure hands over her neck, arms, and legs, stopping short when he found one foot pinned beneath her mount. Grimly, he laid a hand to the animal’s side.

  It was dead.

  Even alone, he could have moved the beast enough to free her leg, but that would mean shoving it aside, her limb taking the brunt of the weight. If weren’t already broken, such a maneuver might change that. If it were broken, moving the horse by himself risked worsening the damage. After a brief hesitation, the warrior-lord decided against going it alone. Instead, he reached out mentally to three of his men.

  I need help.

  Torches had finally been lit at the scene of battle. Those carried by his warriors bobbed along the path as they hurried over. While waiting for help to arrive, Ilgard resumed his position of kneeling over the lass, shielding her from the falling rain with his own body. The lightning had passed too far away to be of any use, nor could he hear her breathing over the downpour. To reassure himself of its steady rising and falling, he placed a hand lightly on her chest, keeping it there until the torches were close enough for him to see that she breathed regularly.

  What could have happened? It had to have been deliberate—the strange, consuming lightning and the deathcats’ assault occurring simultaneously. Another attempt by The Evil to destroy their Artan? The Simathe lord feared so. He knew they were fortunate that only her horse and not her life had been lost in the attack.

  With minimal effort, the four warriors lifted the dead animal, moving it aside. As soon as the pressure on her leg was released, the girl moaned, began to stir. Reoccupying his position next to her, Ilgard felt the leg just freed. Running a hand cautiously from thigh to toes, he was relieved to feel no obvious breaks. She moaned again, louder this time, her head rolling restlessly from side to side. Leaning over, he pressed a palm to her shoulder, pinning her against the muddy ground.

  “Lie still, my lady.”

  Miraculously, at his touch, the sound of his voice, she calmed, stilled. Not knowing what else to do, Ilgard scooped her up carefully in his arms and stood. Her dead weight, the way her head drooped upon his shoulder, prompted an exchange of worried glances among his men. What harm the light may have wrought they could not tell, and neither could she. She was completely unconscious and unlikely to come out of it soon.

  Without a word, the men strode hastily through the tall, damp grass, heading back toward their comrades. The rain came down even harder, and the High-Chief feared they would not reach Treygon this night.

  Arrival at Treygon

  I came slowly awake, conscious of something strong and immovable surrounding me. At the same time, I seemed to be jostling along. The pain in my head throbbed in sync to the bumping beneath me, and forcing my bleary eyes to open was a struggle. They felt gritty, heavy. All about me was darkness and damp, and for one terrifying moment I couldn’t see anything.

  A deep voice. “Lie still, my lady.”

  Ilgard?

  I turned my head to the side, seeking him, only to smack into something hard and unyielding.

  “Ouch!” I complained, reaching for my throbbing temple.

  The solid mass vibrated, and I heard a quiet chuckle. “I warned you to lie still.”

  “Ilgard?”

  “Aye?”

  “Where am I?”

  Slight pause. Then, “You share my mount.”

  Ah, that would explain things. The fogginess in my brain lifted as I put the pieces together. I was sitting sideways, sandwiched firmly between the saddle horn and the man behind me. A rolled cloth between my hip and the pommel added a thin padding, while the heavy cloak wrapped around my shoulders kept me relatively dry and warm, despite the rain. Strong arms held me safely, comfortably, and I was surprised to discover I felt neither embarrassment nor fear. The warrior’s body heat comforted me, and for the time being I was content to rest my aching head against his shoulder, losing myself in his warmth and strength.

  We rode in silence, several minutes passing before it hit me: the attack and the fact that it was still dark and raining. I bolted upright, seeking the Simathe High-Chief’s shadowed face.

  “Ilgard, what happened? The light? And the skull? I think—I think I was attacked by something. There was a huge skull, and…and this blue light.” The memories weren’t coming as they should. When I struggled to think, my head hurt worse. I pressed a hand to my temple. “I can’t seem to remember everything, but I know something happened out there.”

  I waited for him to speak. He didn’t, so I asked, “Where’s the rest of us?”

  When I looked over his shoulder, I could make out the vague shapes of only a few horses and riders where there should have been far more.

  His answer was slow in coming. “If you were attacked, my lady, so were we. Deathcats. They killed most of our mounts and wounded some of my men. A few remained behind to safeguard the injured. Aid will be sent to them when we arrive at Treygon.”

  “Deathcats? What’re they?”

  “They are cats,” he retorted, surprising me by a wry attempt at humor.

  “Well, obviously they’re cats,” I shot back. “But what kind of cats? Like, lions or something?”

  “I know not of lions,” he replied, “but they are larger than an ox; lethal, fierce, and swift. Wherever they hunt, they are feared.”

  I shuddered. “And they jumped you? Why?”

  “The Evil, I think,” he shrugged. “You vanished, and before we could reach you, they came out of the darkness. However, they were repelled…and you are safe.”

  Was it my imagination, or did the arms encircling me tighten a teeny bit?

  Probably not.

  “Will your men be okay?”

  “Their wounds will mend,” he stated simply.

  I relaxed against his chest. “I wish I could remember what happened. All I can see in my mind is that crazy light—the way it kept growing and growing. And a skull. It seems…seems there was this blue light that had something to do with me, but I can’t remember what. And the skull—what was the skull? I can’t seem to think.”

  “It will come when it comes.”

  I sighed at the annoyingly succinct remark. The man had to be a master of them.

  Rain continued to pelt us. I pulled my cloak tighter about my body, bunching it under my chin in a clenched fist. I labored to think, but try as I might, the events of the past few hours were all but lost. I could remember fear of the coming storm, my mount bolting, careening down the path, and the subsequent blaze of lightning that struck both myself and my horse—

  Wait, my horse…

  My horse!

  Again I bolted upright, this time narrowly missing a collision with the Simathe’s chin.

  “Ilgard!” I leaned back to look into his face, or what I could distinguish of it. “Ilgard, the horse I was riding—where’s my horse? Why aren’t I on him, instead of…”

  I let the sentence trail off. Obviously something bad must’ve happened, or I wouldn’t be riding double with the High-Chief.

  The Simathe gave a grim, one-word response. “Dead.”

  “Dead?” I repeated, aghast. “But—but how? How could my horse be dead and not me? We were both hit.” My voice trailed of
f to whispers. “I think.”

  He didn’t bother to reply. I suppose there was nothing to be said. He and his men had been engaged in one fight, while my horse and I went through a nightmare of our own. They hadn’t seen, and I couldn’t remember. After a while, I slumped against him, dejected and worried. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Hours later, we reached the gates of Treygon. The rain had stopped, but I felt heavy, sodden, weighed down by the rainwater soaking my clothing, cloak, and hair. Even my skin felt waterlogged. I awakened just as the monstrous, wrought-iron gates of the Simathe stronghold swung slowly inward. Despite their size, twice as tall as any man—possibly more—they parted soundlessly. We rode through the gap, the horses’ hooves ringing loudly on the cobblestones beneath.

  Morning had finally arrived, but the light was sluggish and dirty: aftereffects of last night’s squall. Thick, grey clouds obscured the early-morning sun. A frisky wind sighed across the courtyard. I shivered in its bitter breath, chill settling in my bones.

  Much more of this and I’m going to end up with a cold, I grumped.

  Annoyance built against Lord Ilgard and the rest of the people responsible for taking me from home, then from Laytrii, forcing me to go on this miserable trip to this miserable place, and putting me in this miserable condition. Homesickness, sleeplessness, fear, cold, and bad weather were making me sulky. I didn’t even thank the warrior who appeared to help me down from the back of his master’s horse.

  Weary, I braced myself against the wet animal, waiting while Ilgard swung down and another man came to take the horse away. I trailed my hand along the beast’s side as he walked past, thinking, Poor thing. Though almost as fierce looking as his owner, he must’ve had a rough time of it these past miles, carrying the two of us through rain, mud, and up, I supposed, the Unpassed Mountains.

  The man who’d helped me dismount saluted the High-Chief. His lord returned a curt nod. Ilgard and his subordinate then exchanged a brief, direct glance that ended when the High-Chief said, “Dispatch aid to the wounded men on the plains.”

  “As my lord commands.”

  The warrior snapped off another salute. As he hurried away to do his master’s bidding, a firm hand grasped my elbow.

  “This way, my lady,” said the High-Chief.

  We left the courtyard, passing through the massive doorway that allowed entrance into the very heart of Treygon. Too tired to lift my head and study my surroundings, I kept my gaze fastened on the toes of my wet, muddy boots and the fawn-colored stone floor, worn smooth by the passage of time and feet.

  Boy, you can tell it’s all men around here. Nobody else would’ve picked such an ugly color.

  The pace Ilgard set was brisk, and as I stumbled along, the annoyance simmering beneath the surface grew. I wanted to demand he show a little consideration and slow down—maybe give him a piece of my mind while I was at it.

  He sees how tired I am, I sulked. Would it kill him to chill out a little? I’m wet, I’m muddy, and I’m exhausted. I only got one decent night’s sleep the whole trip between Laytrii and here. What’s his problem, anyhow? He is way too overbearing.

  My irritation grew as we navigated long hallways and ascended narrow staircases. There were no soft carpets or pretty marble floors in Treygon. Everything was that ugly, tan stone…which for some reason I found annoying. Irritating me further, my feet were wet and aching inside my boots; the leather rubbed against my pinkie toes.

  I swear some word vomit was on its way out. Luckily for me, we reached our destination when we did. The Simathe High-Chief pulled us to a stop outside a broad, closed door. Releasing my elbow, he turned the handle, ushering me into a simply furnished room. It wasn’t very large, but I had to admit it was clean and adequate.

  “This will be your chamber,” he offered by way of explanation. Pushing back the hood of my cloak, I looked around, making no reply. He continued. “If you wish to bathe, I’ll have water sent.”

  I nodded in cool agreement. Duh. Only a savage wouldn’t clean up before getting into bed.

  “Very well. I will return for you later.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I heard him start to walk away, but his footsteps stopped at the door.

  “Lady Hannah?”

  “What?” I snapped, keeping my back to both doorway and man, wishing he would go away and leave me alone.

  “Look at me, my lady.”

  I felt my back stiffen. My chin came up. Just who did he think he was, giving me orders like that?

  “Lady Hannah,” he said after a moment of taut silence, “I commanded you to look at me.”

  There was nothing of request in that tone. It was all command, and in its even, measured timbres I heard a demand for swift obedience. I briefly considered rebelling, but that voice held an edge which, even in my present state of mind, I wasn’t foolish enough to ignore. Slowly, I turned, but refused to meet his gaze. Several days’ beard growth had darkened his chin and jaw with black stubble. I gazed at it stubbornly.

  “My lady, let me warn you. When I return for you it will be for one purpose: Joining. You would do well to submit. Whether you do is your choice; nevertheless, it will happen.” He paused to let that sink in, then added a quiet, “Take heed.”

  At the word Joining my eyes lifted involuntarily to his. Soulless, pitch-black eyes flickered in the chamber’s dusky light. The shadow across this man’s chin and jaw didn’t give him the sleepy, careless look it might have most men, but only added to the persona of a fierce warrior-lord. A quiver of fear replaced my annoyance, throwing out any wild notions of giving him a good scolding.

  At the end of that warning speech, he pinned me with a long, long black stare before turning and striding from the room, closing the door behind himself. Bleak silence fell in the wake of his unsettling warning and departure.

  Treygon’s Guest

  Shortly after Lord Ilgard’s departure, there came a firm knock at the door.

  “Yes?” I called.

  “Water for your bath, my lady.”

  “Come in.”

  The door opened, admitting three men bearing a large tub between them. Although their eerie eyes and midnight hair said they were Simathe, they were dressed more like servants than warriors. Following this trio there came others bringing pails of water that were emptied into the tub. Steam rose in a damp cloud, filling the air. I waited impatiently beside the bed for the last man, who carried a neatly folded stack of clothing, to leave.

  Placing the bundle on the bed’s forest-green coverlet, he said, “The High-Chief sends word that your belongings had to be left with the wounded, my lady. When those sent to their assistance return, they will be fetched.”

  “Okay, but what’s that?” I inquired, pointing toward the items piled on my bed.

  “Clothing. Our clothing.” He shrugged apologetically. “It is all we can offer.”

  I smiled tiredly. This had been a very long, very bad day. Now, on top of everything else, I was reduced to wearing men’s clothing—Simathe men’s clothing, at that. Could it get any worse?

  “Okay, thank you,” I said to the man, not bothering to voice my complaints.

  Not like he’d care anyway.

  Nodding, he left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Heaving a sigh, I stood in place a moment before going to check if the door had any kind of lock. It didn’t. Not even a hook and eye or sliding bar. Apparently, the rooms here weren’t designed with a great deal of privacy in mind. On the other hand, since I hadn’t heard the last man lock me in when he left, I guessed they weren’t too worried I’d try to escape. Not that I had anywhere to go, even if I could. It was one thing to think about fleeing Laytrii; quite another a whole nest of Simathe in their own stronghold.

  Slumping against the door, I allowed my eyes to slide shut. The idea of bathing with no lock on the door in a fortress full of men made me really uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do it.

  On the other hand…

  I opened my eye
s and slid a glance toward that inviting tub of hot water. I was wet and muddy, and I did need a bath.

  Oh, what the heck.

  Pushing away from the door, I began fumbling with the belt of braided leather around my waist. All of the men had knocked so far. Surely they would continue to. They’d better. After all, I was the alleged Artan, which had to mean I deserved my space. I just hoped they’d see it that way.

  Sliding off the belt, I dropped it onto the bed next to the pile of provided clothing. Peeling off my cloak, boots, and stockings, I left them in a wet heap on the floor. Afterward, I stripped off my soggy clothes, leaving them where they fell. Untying the leather thong from my braid, I pitched it onto the bed and gave my head a shake to loosen my wet hair. The dark strands slapped my bare skin, clinging to my shoulders.

  With my fingertips, I gently touched the necklace Aerisia’s High Elder had placed around my neck. Fingering the golden chain, I debated whether or not to remove it for my bath. Even though Lord Elgrend hadn’t instructed me not to take it off, I had the feeling there was something special about this piece of jewelry. Something that made me loathe to remove it, even for the short amount of time required to bathe. In the end, I simply left it on.

  Fingers trembling from the chill air, I sorted through everything the Simathe had left on my bed. There were clothes, but I also found soap wrapped in a washcloth, as well as a couple of towels. Grabbing the last items, I tiptoed across the chilly floor and climbed into the tub, leaving the soap and towels on the floor beside me.

  Submerging my cold, aching body into the heavenly warmth of the bathwater, I relaxed, letting it wash away unpleasant memories, trail dust, and physical pain. Even as I mellowed, unsettling memories disturbed the peace: memories of my first warm bath in Laytrii’s palace and the subsequent attack by the creature calling itself Jonase.

  I winced, forced that particular memory away. I don’t need this, I told myself. I’m safe here—safe. Nobody would dare attack me in Treygon. Even if they did, Ilgard would be there for me like he was last time.