The Golden Shield of IBF by Jerry Ahern, Sharon Ahern Page B

stuporously to his feet, reaching for the sword at his hip. “My Queen? What is...” Eran wondered fleetingly if he were at a loss for words or merely too intoxicated to complete a thought.
    “The Virgin Enchantress lives, and she’s brought someone with her. Curse her! Curse them both!”
    Eran knotted her fingers into her lover’s hair, pulling his face down to hers, kissing him violently on the mouth. Blood trickled from his lips. Eran tossed back her hair, howling with rage and delight, knowing that for her both feelings always were and always would be one in the same.

Chapter Four

    Erg’Ran gave heed to the advice proffered him in the millers cottage by the Virgin Enchantress, that he must look to options other than Swans magic for the survival of the Company of Mir. Pursuant to the dire warnings that Swan’s spell would no longer confound the Horde of Koth in their search should the Queen Sorceress make good her death threat, Erg’Ran threw himself into directing the building of additional fortifications behind the Falls of Mir, consulting maps to preplan escape routes and rendezvous points in the event their encampment had to be abandoned. In the midst of these endeavors, and sooner than the time allotted by Swan’s mother’s ultimatum, an arrow was brought to Erg’Ran in his tent. The message wrapped to the arrow shaft detailed an eyewitness account of the Mist of Oblivion appearing near the castle residence of the Virgin Enchantress, how the Mist of Oblivion was seen to consume the castle and all within and vanish. Erg’Ran collapsed to his knees and wept. He felt the hand of Gar’Ath, mightiest warrior in the Company, clasp his shoulder.
    Erg’Ran raised himself to his foot and peg, the tears still flowing from his eyes. Through the open tent flap, he felt the cold wind blowing from the precipice over which the falls cascaded for the last several hours. Somehow, it was colder to him now.
    Struggling against the emotion engulfing him, Erg’Ran blurted out his words in staccato phrases. “The Virgin Enchant—Enchantress may not be—be dead, may have esca—escaped, may have escaped and—and if she did we need to find her immediately before her mother’s—her mother’s minions find her. To horse, Gar’Ath, with five—five others and I will go—go, also.” Snorting back his tears, or at least attempting to do so, Erg’Ran’s eyes scanned across the assembled Captains of the Company. “We must assume—” Erg’Ran cleared his throat. “We must abandon the encampment at once except for a small, highly—highly mobile unit which can escape—escape at an instant’s notice when, if the Horde arrives. We will meet—meet by the old summer palace, within three days. We must assume—assume—that—Swan is—that Swan is dead.”
    Erg’Ran sank forward over his maps, head aching, his throat so tight that he could barely breathe, heart hammering within his chest. He wanted to say that he would somehow, no matter the cost, avenge himself on Eran, the Queen Enchantress, kill her and obliterate her hideous evil from Creath. And, if Swan were dead, whatever price he must pay, he would exact revenge. Erg’Ran wished to say all of that, but could not utter even a solitary word. He could only weep and touch his fist to his forehead, invoking the courage of Mir...

    Alan Garrison stood up, brushing the snow from his Levi jeans. “We’re dead, right?” Maybe Swan was an angel; if looks were the benchmark for angelic nature, she was that benchmark personified.
    On two sides of the barren expanse on which Garrison stood were high, snow-splotched walls of granite, mountains coursing upward to vanish within the low, heavy overcast. Behind him, the plain stretched for what seemed an interminable distance, disappearing past the horizon. Ahead of him lay a deep wood, snow accumulating heavily at its boundary, within the wood an assortment of trees both familiar and strange, unlike anything he had ever