The blinded Troll lurched forward and fell onto its side. Yoladt rushed forward his sword held high in both hands. With all the might he could muster he drove the blade into the beasts throat. The steel snapped in twain and black blood sprayed skyward. The Giant thrashed wildly its wet gurgling cries growing frantic.
Yoladt tried to retreat but he was caught a glancing blow and was thrown into a nearby tree. Stunned by the impact he lay flat on his back fighting to remain conscious.
Connell spared a glance to the other giant. The Troll was on one knee, blood gushing from beneath its arm where Turlock’s sword lay embedded.
Of Turlock there was no sign, only Ild remained on his feet, his shining sword cutting the giant with every swing. The Troll was done for and with every weak grab at the warrior he only hastened his own end as the wound in his arm widened.
The Grel’in’s eyes burned with anger and hatred. He lifted his leg and slid from his saddle. He landed gracefully and drew his sword. He moved with confidence his sword held at ease at his side.
Looking at the giant’s in disgust he turned and motioned for Connell to come forward.
Connell shrugged off his cloak and walked to where his challenger stood.
The Grel’in wasted no time, as soon as Connell was near it leapt forward and attacked with blinding speed and accuracy.
Connell was forced back by the ferocity of the attack. He parried blow after blow, calling upon all his skill to do so. Never before had he encountered anyone who could seriously press him. He had learned from the best and for the first time in his life he faced a swordsman with equal if not better skill.
Sparks flew as steel rang upon steel. The two combatants circled about the campsite their swords dancing in the predawn gloom, the flashing blades a blur to the eye.
Connell lunged forward his blade tearing through the Grel’in’s cloak. His opponent had saved himself by twisting to the right. Before he could recover the warrior lashed out with his boot and delivered a vicious kick to Connell’s ribs.
Connell gasped in pain but his sword arm never slowed. Giving ground before the Grel’in’s onslaught he was growing weary by the minute while his foe seemed as strong as ever.
Connell parried a cut to his head and countered with one of his own. The Grel’in leapt back in surprise, his own sword had only just barely fended off the blow.
Connell went on the offensive hammering away at the Grel’in with all his speed and might.
The smug smile on the pallid warriors face faded as its lips tightened in determination. The foul spirit within the man’s body began to know fear. In the darkest recesses of its mind the man’s spirit slowly became aware. For the first time in many long centuries he awakened. He felt the crushing walls of his prison beginning to erode.
Connell’s arm burned with exertion, his attacks had completely destroyed the buckler upon the Grel’in’s arm.
The Grel’in shook the crushed metal and leather straps onto the ground. Gripping his sword with both hands he plunged the blade for Connell’s chest.
Connell spun to the side and as the Grel’in darted past he struck him across the shoulder. The iron mail held firm and the blade skidded across the Grel’in’s back. A loud resounding crack of breaking bone filled the air.
The Grel’in staggered his shoulder blade shattered by the impact. The possessing spirit passed the pain onto his host and relished in the agony it inflicted. The Grel’in swung about lashing out with its sword. Although it’s shoulder was shattered it did nothing to slow the warrior down.
Connell jumped the blade and with a powerful swing he struck the helm from the Grel’in’s head.
The Grel’in howled fiercely, his skeletal visage a fright to behold. His eyes burned brightly beneath a crown of stringy white hair that grew in thin patches over a leprous pate.
The Grel’in backed away his left eye seeping milky fluid. Within moments the withered lids had sealed shut over the feral orb.
The Grel’in charged forth yet again. The two warriors wove around the clearing, in an amazing display of swordsmanship. Sparks flew from the dancing blades while bell like rings filling the wood.
Connell was gasping, the fire in his arm and chest growing unbearable. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, he had a deep gash upon his cheek and part of his left ear was missing. The Grel’in was cut in many places as well, but the loss of blood did little to hamper its skills.
They crashed into each other, locking their swords. After a few moments they separated pushing apart violently. Connell paced about Sur’kar’s foul creation. Once around, then twice, suddenly he leapt forward.
Swords clashed, showering the forest floor with sparks. Connell drove the Grel’in’s sword point to the ground. He withdrew his blade and lashed forward faster than the eye could follow. Blood sprayed through the air and the Grel’in staggered back his neck nearly severed in twain.
With a cry of victory the trapped soul ensnared the usurping spirit holding it within the dying shell it had occupied. Oberon of the golden wood once more was in command and the yellow light within the Grel’in’s eye faded. The pallid face smiled broadly as the body fell face first into the loam. The spirit within dying as its host’s lifeblood spilled out upon the earth.
Connell fell to his knees, no longer having the strength to remain standing.
Yoladt limped over to his side offering him a half filled water skin.
Connell drank deeply. “The Giants?” He asked looking about at the carnage for the first time.
“Dead,” Yoladt answered.
“Good,” Connell slowly came to his feet wincing as he touched his cheek. He smiled as Ild came into view leading a badly bruised and scratched Turlock into the clearing.
“The Tales of your prowess with the blade are not exaggerations.” Turlock said in awe. “I have never seen such skill in all my years.”
“We feared to intervene.” Yoladt added quickly. “None of us could have done nothing more than hamper your efforts.”
“Having sense enough to stay clear was help enough.” Connell said with a dismissing wave of his hand. He looked beyond the fallen trolls and saw the bodies of Erson and argen. Even a veteran of a hundred wars would have found it difficult to look upon their broken forms. “We have won the fight, but it has cost us dearly to do so.”
“Aye,” Turlock mumbled. “We must honor our fallen, but they deserve much more than we can give.”
Yoladt nodded in agreement. “The ground is iron hard and laden with stones. It will take many days to dig proper graves.”
Turlock shook his head. “There will be no graves, nor cairns of stone for these men. Only a pyre will do them justice. As the hero’s of old we shall honor them.”
“What of the Trolls?” Yoladt asked.
“Leave them for the crows.” Turlock spat at the fallen giants. “If the foul scavengers would have them.”
They built a high pile of timber on a nearby hilltop. Upon a bed of pine boughs they lay their fallen comrades. Each man’s sword upon his chest, their lifeless hands clasping the hilts, at their feet lay the weapons of the Grel’in and Trolls. It took all four men to lift the cudgels into place.
Once the pyre was complete Turlock carried a flaming brand around the pile of lumber. Three times he circled before stopping to light it at all four points of the compass.
The flames grew quickly, the damp wood popping and hissing in protest. Tossing the brand into the fire he lowered his head.
“I am no singer to send your spirits aloft,” Turlock said apologetically. “But your songs will be sung by our people when this is over. Go now my comrades, go seek those you have lost for they await you in the honored halls of your fathers.” Stepping back he drew his sword and held it high. “Hail Argen, son of Burok. Hail Erson, Son of Ymauld!” He sheathed his blade and turned his back to the fire. “Let’s go find the horses.” He said in a voice choked with both anger and sorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
After three days of hard marching the combined forces of Taur Di and Ahmed had covered nearly seventy miles, much of it through rugged terrain. Steep hills and deep ravines slowed them at times to a crawl as they struggled to get the wagons across.
The Fell hounds still shadowed them, but they did so from a distance. Twice ambushes had been set and many of the Fell beasts lay dead, their mangy hides pierced by both arrow and spear.
From beyond a low hill the sounds of rapidly approaching hoof beats reached their ears. Burcott raised his hand and the column formed tight ranks, the Taur Di swinging their mounts around to protect the flanks of the foot soldiers.
The horns of the forward scouts remained silent, no echoing calls of alarm broke the silence. From over the hilltop the riders appeared, a small unit of Taur Di that had journeyed far ahead of the main force.
The sure-footed deer leapt among the broken rock and gnarled brush, racing down the hillside at a speed that would have been all but suicidal on a horse.
Burcott dismounted and joined with Jehnom and the Sahri Kahlamm. “They bring news of some import.” Burcott guessed aloud.
The riders slowed, and their appointed captain dismounted and nodded to each of the commanders. “My lords,” He said in greeting. “The tower of Tor’lith lies a little over twenty miles north of here. We discovered the trail of an army moving eastward along the watch road. We followed the spoor a short ways and encountered something that defies explanation.”
“Try,” Burcott prompted the man.
“The track led into a…” The man paused searching for the words. “Wall of nothing, a darkness that the light of day could not penetrate.
“A strong wind blows out from it, a foul wind that reeks of decay and corruption. We drew close to its boundary but a feeling of fear overcame us and we fled in terror.” He lowered his eyes ashamed of his actions. “We raced far to the north before we returned to our senses. Once more we sought out the darkness and watched from a distance as it slowly moved eastwards, towards the place you name Timosh.”
“The wind blows from the south today,” Jehnom stated.
“Aye,” Burcott nodded. “This is Sur’kar’s work, what it portends I do not know.” Burcott looked at the trail worn men. “There is no shame in your actions. Since this campaign has begun I have learned that when it comes to Majik few of us have any defense.
“We will make camp in this dale.” He decided knowing that only a few hours of light yet remained. “You and your men have earned a good nights rest.”
The rider smiled in gratitude and led his detachment back towards the main force of the army.
“Your thoughts?” Jehnom asked, curious to know what the man was thinking.
Burcott combed his graying beard with his fingers. “Tomorrow we will close the distance, it will be a hard road but I fear for Timosh. If we are fortunate we may be in a position to intervene if necessary.”
“What of the wagons?” The Sahri asked. “A forced march would leave them behind.”
“The Taur Di could ward them as they follow.” Jehnom volunteered. “A hundred spears should suffice, for the greater threat lies ahead not behind.”
“The threat we know of,” The Sahri added. “It is the unknown that concerns me.”
“True,” Burcott replied. “I would rather our force remains whole. However Jehnom’s idea has merit. Should the supply train fall under attack we will not be so far ahead as to be beyond lending aid.
“Pick your men tonight, Jehnom. At first light we march.” Burcott nodded to them and walked up the hilltop looking to the northeast.
Word spread quickly through the camp. The Ahmed shed their extra gear and piled it onto the wagons; they would travel light, taking only water and weapons. These were disciplined men, used to hardship and the coming days would be a test of their mettle.
Burcott walked about the camp that night, lost in thought. The men were unusually quite seeking their bedrolls early preparing for the hard day ahead.
As the first rays of the rising sun broke the horizon the army set forth, their footfalls echoing loudly in the still air. The Taur Di rode ahead their keen eyes searching for any signs of the enemy.
By mid morning they reached the fire blacked ruins of Tor’lith. Only the outer shell of masonry remained of the tower. Perched upon a low tor the squat edifice was the first sign of civilization the men had seen in nearly a month.
Burcott’s men viewed the ruins and anger burned within their breasts. They knew good men had died here, their comrades in arms and fellow countrymen.
The watch road was little more than a winding trail. Narrow bridges of stone spanned the fuming ravines that crossed its track. The column of men and mounts spread out, many carried their weapons in hand fearing ambush at any moment. The army stretched to nearly two miles in length, a sizable force but a mere pittance when compared to what lay ahead.
They found the bodies of several Morne and one giant amid the brush, pierced by many arrows. It appeared that the men of the tower may have escaped and the enemy paid dearly for the attack. That night they camped upon the roadway. Burcott walked about the camp offering encouraging words to the men.
The Taur Di formed the bulk of the watch, allowing the foot soldiers to rest after the long hard march. Many of which were fast asleep before the evening meal had been prepared.
Burcott sent out scouts towards the fortress. He chose the Taur Di for the task, their mounts were fleet and yet their hooves made hardly any sound in their passage.
During the night the wind suddenly shifted, a roaring blast came in from the north, driving the temperature down until it began to snow before sunrise.
The southerners sat huddled about small fires. The men unused to the dramatic swings in temperature that often occurred in the highlands of the north. They broke camp early, preferring the warmth that came from exertion to the freezing cold.
Burcott eased the pace that day. He did not want to face an enemy with an army of trail weary men too sore and stiff to fight should the need arise.
They pressed on throughout the day, beneath an overcast sky that only heightened the gloom of the eerie wood.
From the fissures in the ground great plumes of steam arose, tainting the air with the stench of sulfur. The men coughed and their eyes and noses ran as the vapors wafted over them.
That afternoon two of the scouts returned, the darkness had continued to move throughout the night and although they had gained some ground it was yet a day ahead of them.
In the gloom of sunset the final tower appeared before them. Re’lith was a ruin as well. The walls fire blackened and collapsed. Beyond it they could see a faint darkening on the horizon that was the highest peaks of the Rahlcrag Mountains.
“Some thirty or less miles to the comb, where in lies Timosh.” Burcott told the two commanders as they stood about the crude map he had drawn in the deepening snow.
“By sunset tomorrow we will be able to see with our own eyes this army of Sur’kar’s. Once I have looked upon it then we can consider our options for attack.”
They were discussing strategies when two Taur Di rode into the camp. From the way their mounts held their heads Burcott could tell it had been a long hard ride.
“The Tree Killers have defiled this wood.” The scout said in his own language, pausing to allow Jehnom to translate. “A broad swath of trees have been felled, their lumber used to construct something. Whatever they had built left deep gouges in the earth. It followed a freshly cut path arrow straight to the mountains.
“Siege engines.” Burcott muttered. “They have built machines to batter down the walls.”
“I had believed the Morne to be inept in this kind of warfare.” Jehnom stated somewhat surprised by the revelation.
“They were,” Burcott agreed. “With Sur’kar leading them they are learning fast.”
“They have learned a new dance to Sur’kar’s music.” The Sahri said with a humorless grin.
Burcott nodded, h
e knew the Ahmed considered battle to be a dance, a careful choreography of death and blood.
“Then let us change the tune.” The Nomad king suggested. “The drums of the Ahmed have been rarely heard beyond our lands. When the time comes the drums of war will sound and the very roots of the Mountains will quake and the Morne will learn the meaning of fear.”
The snow ceased to fall and the temperature continued to drop. Until the air burned their lungs with every breath they took.
From the north a stiff wind rose, blowing the snow into great drifts about the trees threatening to bury the entire campsite before sunrise.
That night fourteen men perished in the cold. Two Taur Di, and the rest were Nomads from the deep desert.
Burcott was upset, he wanted to get moving but he would not begrudge the men the right to honor their dead as their customs demanded. He only asked that such services be kept short.
Two hours past sunrise the somber army moved on leaving behind a large cairn of stone and two enshrouded forms lashed to branches above the roadway.
The day passed slowly, the men’s senses straining for any sign of the enemy. They had come far, drawing close enough now that encountering a wandering patrol was a very real possibility.
By nightfall they could make out the comb that sheltered the keep beneath, a yawning opening in the dark stone of the mountain.
They made their camp within the shelter of a deep ravine to the south, far enough away to avoid the pickets about Sur’kar’s forces.
Burcott stood within the deep shadows of a twisted oak looking out upon his foes. The fires of the enemy spread out over the hilltops. Tens of thousands in number they formed a vast crescent a mile wide at its thickest the glittering horns surrounding the comb.
BlackThorn's Doom Page 14
