Burcott leaned against the tree; he was at a loss for words. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined such a force of arms.
Jehnom stood at his side studying the vast encampment. “They are many.” He said, stating the obvious without emotion.
The young Sahri Kahlamm could only nod in agreement. All his youthful bravado had fled when he espied the sheer number of Morne. “How can we hope to prevail?” He muttered. “They number more than all of the people of my lands. We would be nothing more than a biting fly on a bulls backside should we attack.”
“We will find a way.” Burcott said with false confidence. “Maybe by daylight we will discover a weakness to turn to our advantage.”
From within the comb came the call of a mighty horn, the deep note reverberating from the nearby mountains like a thunderclap.
“The horn of the keep!” Burcott said his heart buoyed upward by the blast. “Gaelan defies them yet!”
As the note faded a brilliant flash of emerald light burst forth from comb. As bright as the rising sun it blinded the men, forcing them to turn their heads and cover their eyes.
A tremendous roar shattered the night air and the earth bucked violently throwing them to the ground. A blast of hot air rushed outward melting the snow and leaving the men gasping for breath.
“By the gods!” Burcott exclaimed rubbing his eyes.
The men in the camp lay flat against the ground their eyes wide with fear. Something dire had occurred and the sheer power it displayed crushed their discipline and any hopes they may have had of prevailing.
The deer and horses bucked violently pulling at their tethers, seeking to flee in their terror.
Burcott knew he had to act quickly to keep the men from bolting as the animals wished to do. “See to your mounts!” He shouted to the men. He stormed through the camp pulling any within reach to their feet.
The men rushed to do his bidding their training taking hold and suppressing their fear.
Looking back at the enemy camp Burcott could see that many of the fires were extinguished, the whole of the crescents center now lay in darkness.
“The power of the dark god.” Jehnom said softly. “Nothing could have withstood it.”
From the darkness sounded the horn once more, its call defiant and bold. The men about Burcott smiled knowing the keep yet stood.
Chapter Seventeen
Gaelan rushed out onto the battlements. It took only a brief moment for him to see what it was that had alarmed the sentries so.
Beyond the comb the sky was growing darker, a wall of midnight black was slowly encroaching from the west. Its edges were well defined and a fetid reek blew out from it.
It flowed smoothly over the enemy camp and came to a standstill just shy of the combs entrance. Power flowed from it and a chilling sense of doom settled over the keep. Even the warriors deep within the stone stopped what they were doing and shivered in fear.
“What could that be?” Jerudan asked.
Gaelan shook his head. “I am not sure, but I believe Sur’kar himself has arrived.”
The enemy beyond the walls retreated into the darkness and a deep silence settled over the land. Gaelan remained on the wall for several hours waiting for the hammer to fall.
He was growing impatient; he had sent riders to Rodderdam ordering all who could bear a weapon to come to Timosh’s defense.
“Damn Otess!” He cursed slapping the merlon in his frustration. “What excuse could he have for his silence?”
Jerudan leaned against the stonework. “He was purging your realm of traitors and Morne when last I saw him.”
Gaelan arched an eyebrow and exhaled loudly. “Your right, I set no easy task before him ere I left.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “If Sur’kar has come here then we must assume that Connell has failed and all is lost.”
Jerudan stood silent; Gaelan had voiced the very fear that he harbored in his heart.
“With that failure we cannot hope to win.” Gaelan spoke his voice bordering on despair. “We will not last another week as it is.”
Jerudan’s face reddened in anger. “Then do we just slit our own throats or throw open the gates?” He asked fairly shouting the words. “The men of Ril’Gambor will not just lie down and die. If Sur’kar desires our defeat, then let him come and pay the price.”
Jerudan’s outburst strengthened Gaelan’s resolve. He gripped the warrior’s shoulder.
“Then we will stand?” Jerudan asked.
“Aye,” Gaelan answered. “If not here, then we will go elsewhere. Unto the very ends of the earth, as long as one of us remains his victory will never be secure.”
Gaelan looked out along the walls. “If only we had more men.” He said.
“Behind these walls one man is worth twenty.” Jerudan replied.
“Against these numbers they need to be worth two hundred. Everyday that passes saps at our strength, all the while the Morne grow stronger.” Gaelan corrected. “Of all our warriors there is scarcely a single one who does not bear some sort of wound.”
They stood upon the ramparts throughout the day and as the sun set the darkness beyond the comb faded and the fires of the enemy came slowly into view.
The camp was vacant, the Morne stood in orderly ranks behind a force of several hundred Ice Trolls, their feral eyes glittering brightly in the gloom.
The black armored warrior stood before the body of King Wolhan. In his hands a massive sword reflected the firelight.
The call to arms went out and within minutes the entire keep manned the walls their eyes showing a grim resolve as they awaited to see what this night would bring.
The enemy ranks parted and a dark shadow slipped through the opening. Behind it came a creature that stole the breath from the defenders. A flaming demon of legend strode forward the fires along its back flaring as it roared in challenge. The Ma’ul sent waves of fear into the hearts of the men seeking to drive them off the wall.
“Men of the east!” Gaelan shouted, even though his own heart threatened to betray him. “Stand firm, for your country and those whom you love. If we falter they are doomed!”
The Ma’ul roared once more and terror tore at their hearts. Men dropped their weapons and a handful cast themselves from the wall to their death on the ground below.
Then from within the tower the great horn sounded. Its deep call shattering the Ma’ul’s power and filling the men with renewed hope and courage. Long did the call echo within the comb, heartening the men and casting doubt into the Morne.
The Figure before the Ma’ul strode forth, he was tall and thin dressed in armor of crimson and black. He walked with authority his back straight and his head held high.
The Morne at his side looked away from his cruel eyes. Their God had come and woe to any who opposed his will.
His jade like eyes burned with malice and power. They swept the battlements with disdain and pure hatred. His hair was snow white and kept from his eyes by a circlet of gold encrusted with rubies of deepest red. Pure hatred radiated from him, cold and calculating. His capacity for evil was staggering to behold.
He stopped a few feet from his army well within bowshot from the keep, as if daring any man to be foolish enough to try and shoot him. Although more than a few arrows were knocked none were released. He smiled cruelly and rested his hand upon the hilt of a silver and bronze sword that he wore.
On his right hand a dark ring pulsed with power, writhing and twisting about his finger as if it were alive. It was unsettling and Gaelan found it difficult to look upon for very long.
Gaelan met his gaze and his heart nearly froze in his chest. He knew that below him stood the immortal evil that had nearly destroyed the world so long ago. The doom of man had come, with the forces of hell at his back.
Behind him the Ma’ul roared in challenge, causing the men upon the battlements to cry out in fear. Sur’kar smiled and motioned for the beast to be silent.
Chapter Eighteen
Casius
awakened after several hours and brushed off a layer of newly fallen snow. He stretched his sore limbs and surveyed his surroundings. He stood on the boundary of a snow covered plain and the low rocky hills that led north easterly to his goal, the fabled keep of Timosh.
He exhaled loudly and watched as the thin vapors of his breath coiled about in the freezing air. He was cold, but not uncomfortably so. Stomping the worst of the dried mud from his feet he began the long trek northward into the sparse woodland of twisted trees.
He walked for hours and as the sun began to set he took shelter beneath the boughs of a squat fir tree. He slept in short naps, awakened by horrific visions and the growing pangs of hunger.
He finally gave up on sleep shortly before dawn. His stomach rumbled loudly and his throat felt as if it was on fire. He began his trek in the darkness before dawn.
Up the gentle slope of the land he wandered. The landscape about him deathly still, only the sound of the sighing wind accompanied him on his journey.
Hours passed slowly and the day wore on. Shortly after midday he could not go another step. He lay down in a low depression on a windswept hillside and fell fast asleep.
A deep gnawing pain tore at his stomach and he awoke with a start. The sun had set and the sky above was a deep indigo ablaze with a million stars.
He slaked his thirst with a handful of snow, He knew it was freezing but he felt only the slightest of chills. He was lightheaded and knew that if he did not find sustenance soon he would die.
He walked throughout the night; lost in his thoughts of food he nearly missed the faint glow of a fire reflecting from a nearby hillside.
Heavy clouds had moved in from the west casting the land about him in almost total darkness. His eyes failed him and the strange ability he had had in the marsh abandoned him.
Moving with caution he drew towards the fire where faint voices began to reach his ears, inhuman voices that chilled his blood.
Hunger drove him forward and he crept closer until he sat huddled in the deepest shadows beneath a weathered old tree.
A large wagon sat upon a freshly cut trail. One of its wheels lay upon the ground broken, several of the crude spokes shattered. Tied nearby stood two large horses each as black as midnight, one of the mounts tossed its head and snorted loudly as it caught his scent.
Sitting near a small sputtering fire sat two Morne. They were wrapped in their cloaks sipping from bowls of steaming stew. With the horses snort both of them looked up and scanned the trees about them.
Casius froze; one of the Morne was looking directly at him. The reptilian’s eyes glowed a pale blue in the dim light. After a moment the beast looked away and muttered something in their harsh tongue before returning to his stew.
Casius exhaled his pent up breath before stepping back deeper into the darkness. He did not wish to press his luck, he was weakened by hunger and doubted he could best two rested and well-fed Morne in his present state.
His luck remained true to form and his left foot came down upon a half buried branch. The brittle wood shattered loudly and he was forced to stagger forward to keep his balance. Into the firelight he lurched desperately drawing his sword as he did so.
He must have been a horrible sight to behold, caked with dark mud and slime wrapped in a tattered cloak. His hair missing over half his head, the burned skin beneath an angry red where it showed through the grime.
One of the Morne sat motionless his cold eyes bulging in fear and shock. His companion was quick to recover and leapt to his feet drawing his wickedly curved sword. The Morne roared and leapt to the attack.
Casius parried the reckless attack easily and on his counterstroke he laid the Reptiles throat open the keen edge of Aethir sliding along the thick vertebrae. The Morne pitched backwards and landed in a twitching heap that sprayed hot blood over the legs of his companion.
Casius whipped the blood from his face and moved towards the remaining Morne.
The second Morne was terrified, he knew not what it was he faced but he had just watched the intruder casually kill his companion with hardly any effort at all.
Casius circled the wary warrior and waited for the other to attack.
The Morne spun to flee and fell forward, tripping over the body of his friend. In desperation he swung his sword.
Casius knocked the blade aside and drove Aethir deep into the fallen Morne’s chest, the ensorcelled blade cutting through flesh, bone, and armor with ease.
The Morne’s face contorted in agony and a dark froth of blood and spittle leaked from its thin mouth. It took only a few moments and the Morne stopped thrashing as he finally succumbed to death.
Casius fell to his knees in the bloody snow, trembling with fear and exhaustion. He sheathed his blade without cleaning it. It was not an honorable attack, and yet he felt no remorse. These were Morne and they deserved no quarter. Too many good people had died because of their brutality.
He crawled close to the fire and grabbed a half empty bowl of stew. He tore into it voraciously, trying not to speculate as to what type of meat it contained. Casius emptied the bowl and despite the smell of the dead Morne he fell into a fitful slumber.
After several hours he stirred and with his strength returning he rummaged through the broken wagon. He found wool blankets and arrows by the hundreds. To the rear of the wagon he found clothing and several wineskins among a generous pile of foodstuffs.
Casius shed his soiled clothing and donned the new garments. He removed a long knife from one of the dead Morne’s belts. It was a simple blade but it held a keen edge.
He filled a leather pack with small red potatoes and two haunches of what appeared to be smoked mutton. His search did not turn up any signs of a saddle. The Horses were draft animals and more than likely unused to having a rider upon their back.
He thought about riding bareback but one of the steeds attempted to bite him as he approached. Using the long knife he cut them free of their fetters and watched them race off into the darkness.
Taking a long drink of the bitter Morne wine he kicked out the fire and headed eastward towards Timosh.
For two days Casius plodded onward, his feet following in the ruts left by the passage of many wagons. At night he camped far from the trail, lighting no fires he sat huddled in the cold sleeping in snatches, awakening at the slightest sound.
He was following the trail in the predawn light when he heard the muffled thumps of approaching hoof beats. He dove into the nearby brush and hid among the gnarled trees.
A Morne warrior stalked out of the mists slowing his horse he studied the trail before him. He drew close to Casius and reined his mount in. His snout sniffing loudly as the warrior dismounted and drew his sword.
Casius pulled the long knife from his belt, flipping it over and grasping it by the blade. He took a deep breath and flung it with all his might.
The Morne had just entered the tree line when the blade struck him in the right eye. With a muffled grunt of surprise he fell forward into the brambles his sword falling from his grasp.
Casius retrieved the blade and drug the corpse further into the wood concealing it from the trail.
Thanking the gods for his good fortune he grabbed the horses reigns and mounted. With a light touch of his heels the horse eagerly set forth, desiring to be away from the smell of blood.
By noon snow began to fall once more, Casius rode wrapped in a wool blanket. He kept his hands tucked within the cloth folds hunching down against the growing wind tearing at his back.
As the sun set the snowfall lessoned until it was nothing more than a light flurry. He came to a rocky outcrop of stone and set camp. Sheltered from the freezing wind he watched the darkening sky. Heavy black clouds were rolling in, threatening things full of the promise of new snow.
He desired a fire but he knew it would be foolish to light one. It would serve as a beacon for any Morne patrols in the area. He settled in for another cold night and ate a meal of potatoes and smoked meat.
Despite his fear, sleep soon overtook him, and he drifted off with Aethir’s hilt gripped firmly in hand.
Casius awoke with a start; from the light filtering through the clouds he knew it was well past dawn. The Morne horse stood where he had tethered it, the moist breath from its nostrils steaming in the morning air.
Rising to his feet he stretched and froze as a low rumbling growl reached his ears. Upon the boulder where he had taken shelter against stood a Fell hound.
The massive animal crouched low its muzzle pulled back revealing rows of vicious yellow teeth. Long ropey tendrils of drool hung from its saber like fangs. Its muzzle was scarred and covered with the dark stains of dried blood.
The beast was sniffing the air its feral eyes locked upon him. The beast is confused Casius realized. He smells the Morne scent upon my borrowed clothing and the presence of the horse has him puzzled.
Casius knew his own spoor could not be fully masked or the Fell hound would not be acting this way. Casius slowly stepped away from the rock trying to show no fear. He hoped the beast would move off if he did not sense prey.
The Fell hound stood, he was large for his kind his head rising easily six feet above the ground. He watched Casius with suspicion. Fell hounds were ferocious creatures but dimwitted at best. After a few tense moments the hound snorted and leapt from the stone and vanished into the trees.
Casius watched the Fell hound leave, his heart hammered loudly in the stillness. “A fine sentry you make.” He scolded the horse lightly. He now knew that the animal would not alert him to any foul creatures that may be about. To the horse a Fell hound was nothing more than another traveling companion.
Casius mounted the black steed and loosened Aethir in its sheath. One Fell hound did not particularly frighten him. It was the knowledge that these creatures hunted in packs and from the sounds within the trees there had been many more watching from the gloom.
He rode eastward once more, with the Sur’kar’s hounds about he knew the Morne were close as well. And among them he would find the kin slayer. For good or ill this nightmare he had been living would be drawing to a close. All that was left for him to do was to try and kill an immortal.
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