The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  All eyes turned to a rumble from the North. Another unit of Zodrian cavalry swept from the northern valley. Their numbers were not great, but the shock of their appearance was enough to turn the hearts of the Ramsskull.

  “RELEASE!” bellowed Nyven.

  “To the heights,” shouted Aul. “The archers are the key.”

  The air about the Keltaran infantry swarmed with death. Zodrian arrows tore into men preoccupied with the thundering Zodrian cavalry. Cries rose from all about the line. Caught between a rain of death from the hilltop and the hammering hooves of the Zodrian force, the Ramsskull infantry broke. It took only one man’s fear, and quickly his call was picked up across the entire Keltaran line.

  “RETREAT!”

  Aul’s men neglected his command to reach the hilltop. They frantically tried to turn their close packed mounts to face the onslaught of Flair and his horsemen. Aul’s force was deeply penetrated by the Zodrian charge and they were in jeopardy of being split. If the giant attempted to follow through up the hill he might lose half of his force behind the Zodrians.

  Brelg required his timing to be exact. He needed assurances that Flair cut the Keltaran cavalry in two. If he committed too early and the Keltarans coalesced, he would be sending his pike men to their deaths.

  “Advance,” shouted Brelg to his pike men.

  The group shouldered their heavy pikes and charged down the hill.

  Many of the Keltaran infantry ran toward the tree line. As more men spun and retreated, others saw the folly of standing alone and joined them. Arrows continued to rain down upon them and the Zodrian cavalry hacked at the edges of the retreat.

  “Fools and cowards,” hissed Fenrel as his attendant strapped an armored breastplate across the prince’s chest.

  Manfir waited a moment longer. He needed the Keltaran infantry in full retreat. Suddenly he raised his left arm and motioned to the south.

  Corporal Trawney immediately recognized the signal from his prince.

  “Troops one through seven, to the southern valley. Take down as many Keltaran cavalry as you can on your way but do not linger,” shouted Trawney.

  Manfir repeated the signal to the north.

  “Troops eight through fifteen, to the northern valley. Double-time,” shouted Corporal Jilk two hundred yards north of Trawney’s position. “We must make the next hill before the Keltaran realize we retreat as well.”

  It would not be long now, thought Flair as he hacked at a nearby Keltaran. His horsemen drove hard and nearly split the Keltaran cavalry force in two. Brelg’s pike men advanced from above and Trawney’s men would soon move in from the northwest. Flair knew the Keltaran cavalry commander struggled to make a decision. Retreat or be crushed in the snare.

  Aul swung his ax in a wide circle, hammering the shield of the closest Zodrian. The man and his horse reeled, but the Southerner stayed atop his animal and returned the blow. These infernal men from the South were raised on beasts of burden. They proved difficult to unseat and impossible to repel. The Zodrians nearly completed a split of Aul’s forces.

  No matter. Half of his cavalry amounted to a greater force than all the Zodrian army.

  “Aul,” shouted one of his subordinates from behind. “Our infantry abandons us.”

  The Keltaran lieutenant chanced a look over his shoulder at the battlefield beneath the hill. His heart sank. The Ramsskull failed him. Keltaran infantry streamed across the plain toward the shelter of the pine trees. A small group of Zodrian cavalry pursued them. The Zodrians continued their surprises.

  “Pike men from the hilltop!” shouted another of his men.

  “Foot soldiers from the north!” screamed a third.

  Aul clenched his teeth and pounded the Zodrians about him, clearing room for his Brodor to turn. Fenrel’s wrath would be unquenchable, but the Keltaran lieutenant thought of his men.

  “RETREAT!” shouted the giant as he heeled the Brodor and headed west.

  CHAPTER 13: THE FOREST OF STEEL

  Manfir watched from above as Trawney and his men rushed the Keltaran cavalry. Anxiety washed from the prince as he sensed success. Either the Keltaran commander was a fool and half his force would be lost, crushed in the net formed by Trawney’s infantry, Flair’s cavalry and Brelg’s pike men, or he would respond appropriately and retreat.

  Manfir would accept either outcome, but deep in his heart he realized his country’s need for the Keltaran. If Zodra somehow managed to defeat the giants, his army would be so weak from the encounter she would surely fall to the Ulrog and Izgra.

  A horn blared from the melee below. The commander of the Keltaran forces, a massive Keltaran in black, turned his mount and led his comrades in the only direction out of the Zodrian net, west.

  “Hold near the mouth of the valley for only a moment,” shouted Brelg to his pike men. “We must be sure this is no ruse. If they turn, we must stand and fight with our cavalry. If they flee, we retreat to the next line of hills.”

  Flair’s men gave short chase as the young colonel turned his mount and rode toward Trawney.

  “Corporal,” shouted Flair, “get your foot soldiers on the move through the valley. They must cross the open plain to the next hillside position before the Keltaran are aware we also retreat.”

  Fenrel sat on his mount staring at his army in disbelief. The infantry streamed back toward his position in disorderly groups, many without their Ramsskull commanders. Several hundred yards behind them rode the Keltaran cavalry, lightly pursued by a smaller Zodrian force.

  Red-hot anger flashed through the prince’s face. Aul would lose his life if he could not adequately explain this catastrophe. The Zodrian rabble was not even comprised of true Guardsmen. Long ago Izgra forced every trained soldier in the kingdom to the North.

  This Manfir proved the reports on his abilities to be understated. No matter. The Zodrian prince thus far succeeded through subterfuge and chicanery. Fenrel knew the Zodrians would be unable to conjure any more tricks. He would lead the Anvil against this pitifully defended position himself and any man who dared attempt to retreat would be struck down by his Ramsskull.

  The Keltaran prince searched the hill for the whereabouts of the Zodrian who vexed his attempts at conquest. The oddity of the Zodrian position struck him. The hilltop was abandoned. Where had the Zodrian commanders gone?

  Fenrel stood in the stirrups of his Brodor and craned his neck to see over the heads of his retreating cavalry. He clenched his teeth in anger. A steady stream of Zodrian infantry poured into the mouths of the northern and southern valleys. Likewise, the archers fled from the heights of the hill and streamed down its sides to join their comrades.

  Fenrel’s eyes scanned to the south. The Zodrian cavalry broke pursuit of his own horsemen and rode hard toward the southern valley. It was impossible to believe, but the signs could not be ignored. The Guard was in full retreat.

  Fenrel’s cruelly sharpened spurs gashed the flanks of his Brodor and the beast jumped forward, bowling over the attendant holding its reins.

  “They retreat, you fools,” bellowed Fenrel. “Turn and pursue them. Pursue them!”

  Flair sat atop his stallion near the mouth of the southern valley allowing the animal to catch its breath. His cavalry flowed past him following their orders to retreat to the next line of hills. Brelg departed minutes before and the last of the infantry also disappeared from the battlefield.

  The Southerner smiled. So far the plan was a rousing success. The Guard’s casualties were light, while they had inflicted much damage upon their foe. What is more important, the Anvil retreated in full, allowing his own forces to extricate themselves from their positions with no resistance.

  Flair’s eye caught sight of a lone rider atop a massive warhorse standing near the western tree line. The figure’s golden chest armor glinted in the sun and several attendants surrounded him. The Brodor he sat upon leapt forward and raced toward the retreating Anvil. The rider waved his hands frantically and gestured toward Flair’s
position.

  The young colonel smiled to himself. The Keltaran have another puzzle to contemplate, thought Flair. The young man turned his stallion east and joined the last dozen of his horsemen as they entered the southern valley and left the first of the Bear’s Knuckles abandoned.

  Aul spurred his Brodor forward to lead his men west. Like the others he could see the enraged prince charging toward their line. He did not wish any other but himself to face the wrath of Fenrel. The decisions made today were his and so was the failure. Perhaps these were the type of ideals his father tried to instill in him years ago. Aul smirked. It was a shame he only now began to understand these lessons as he rode toward his own execution.

  The infantry slowed and spread like water before the prow of a ship as Fenrel’s broad shouldered mount sliced through them.

  “Get to your commanders,” ordered a red faced Fenrel. “The Zodrians flee you fools. Now is our time!”

  The Keltaran infantry scrambled and spun in the direction of the hills. Indeed, the entire battlefield was nearly deserted as the remnants of the Zodrian cavalry funneled into the small gap of the southern valley. The wave of Keltaran soldiers and cavalry slowed and stopped. Fenrel plunged forward and Aul advanced to meet him.

  “The fault lies with me, my lord ...” began Aul.

  “SILENCE!” roared Fenrel. “You will be dealt with later, Aul. Now I need all of you. Every coward who turned and ran in the face of this miserable enemy will prove himself to me now. You will sacrifice yourselves on the altar of my victory if need be, but none will turn from our task again. I will drive us forward for it is clear to me the Anvil needs true leadership on the battlefield.”

  “My lord, the Zodrians prove resourceful,” stated Aul.

  Fenrel narrowed his eyes in anger.

  “Resourceful?” raged Fenrel. “Tricks. Legerdemain. This cavalry they produce is nothing more than mere South folk rabble. Man for man and measure for measure we are ten times the force of this group. Yet we flee before them like dried leaves before an autumn gust.”

  Fenrel ripped a huge battle-ax from its resting place on his saddle.

  “The first man to turn from his duty will deal with Keltaran steel, not Zodrian,” shouted Fenrel. “Ramsskull!”

  Many of his personal force pushed their way through the crowd to stand beneath their prince. He surveyed them from above.

  “You were my chosen,” stated Fenrel.

  Many of the group smiled and bowed to the prince.

  “But thus far you have failed me,” snarled the giant. “Your men flee from their duty in the face of their commanders and are not reprimanded.”

  Many heads dropped and eyes scanned the dirt.

  “This is unacceptable,” snarled Fenrel. “You too will be given a new authority. Any man shirking his duty will be cut down!”

  Protests arose from the greater Anvil. Fenrel rose in his stirrups and glared across the men. Immediately they silenced. The giant pointed to the vacant hillside and sneered.

  “Is this the legacy of our forebears?” boomed the prince. “The glorious Anvil defeated and demoralized by a handful of Southern farmers and cattlemen. Zodrians untrained and ill equipped for battle set you on your heels twice this day. For some of you, the only means of restoring the honor of your fathers to your pathetic names is to fall on this very day in the throws of battle. Heed my word Keltaran Anvil. We will be victorious this day, or you will all die in the struggle for victory.”

  No cheer rose from the assembly for every man knew Fenrel’s words as a threat not a call to glory. The prince’s eyes bore into the crowd challenging all. After a few moments he settled back into his saddle.

  “Anvil. Form ranks,” called Fenrel. “Ramsskull. Get your men in line.”

  The Anvil broke into a hive of activity as units reformed and took their proper position. The cavalry swung out in front of the infantry’s position and assumed a three-tiered formation. Aul sat staring at Fenrel as the prince drank in how men jumped at his commands.

  “My lord,” interrupted Aul, breaking Fenrel from the pleasure of his thoughts. “What would you have me do?”

  Fenrel slowly turned on his second and critically eyed him.

  “You are my second,” said the prince sarcastically, “and your place is with me. I charge myself with your conversion back to the cause, and if you should falter, I charge myself with your punishment.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Aul bowing his head.

  Fenrel scoffed and heeled his Brodor, riding to face the entire Anvil.

  “Those of you to my north will pursue through the northern valley,” shouted Fenrel pointing to half the Anvil. “Cut down all who stand in your path. The Zodrians choose to run and they leave what little protection they owned on the hillside. Those to my south will follow me through the southern valley with the same instructions. Show no mercy!”

  Fenrel turned and started off in a slow trot toward the southern valley. The Anvil obeyed his commands and moved forward, goaded by the verbal abuse of the Ramsskull.

  “You heard Lord Fenrel,” shouted one commander. “Redeem yourselves for your cowardice.”

  Another moved from the lead position in his unit to a vantage point behind.

  “The first of you to turn will catch my steel,” snarled the Ramsskull officer.

  Fenrel leaned toward a Ramsskull cavalry officer and held a brief word. Immediately, the officer wheeled his mount and coursed back and forth in front of the infantry’s lines.

  “Double-time,” shouted the cavalry commander. “Keep up with the cavalry if you know what is good for you. Remember how you fled from the hillside and find the same energy.”

  Manfir’s giant black sprinted along the Zodrian’s new position beneath the central hill of the second line of the Dunmor hills. His infantry aligned themselves between the hill and their prince. He scanned the valleys to the West for any sign of the Anvil.

  “Sergeant Brelg,” called Manfir. “Send half your men on to the third position. Our ranks were hardly thinned and we wish to bait the Keltaran into a race. We wounded them deeply and even a maniac like Fenrel might flinch at our numbers.”

  “Yes, my lord,” called Brelg from in front of the infantry.

  Quickly the drill sergeant strode down the line barking orders to his men.

  “Units one through four, move into the valley and head east to the third line of hills,” shouted Brelg. “Take care and remain single file on the north side of the valley.”

  Manfir looked up at the sound of pounding hooves echoing from the West. Flair and the remainder of the cavalry entered the wide plain between the Knuckles and charged hard to the East.

  The Zodrian cavalry aligned midfield and the young officer immediately went to work. He reviewed his line of horsemen and shouted instruction.

  “Remember gentlemen,” called Flair, “we must engage the enemy only long enough to allow our infantry to effect their exit from this plain. When the foot soldiers disappear we must break off our battle. We chose your mounts for their speed, not their endurance. Once we disengage, it is imperative that you exit the plain quickly. The plan depends on no bottlenecks through the eastern valleys.”

  Brelg’s infantry streamed from the second hill and the old soldier gave the same orders to several units to the South. When the Keltaran cleared the first Knuckle, they would find a far less formidable foe confronting them.

  Manfir turned to a young man stationed behind him.

  “Master Hindle. Is your work in the valleys complete?” asked Manfir.

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the blacksmith. “Any rider entering these valleys best traverse them with great care. They are a deathtrap, bristling with a thousand ways to die.”

  “As long as your handiwork takes no Guardsman’s life,” replied Manfir.

  “The word was spread, my lord,” returned Hindle. “A narrow path runs against the steep valley walls. Your infantry should encounter no difficulty. It is your horsemen I
fear for. They must maintain control of their beasts and keep their heads. Single file is imperative. One misstep and the trap will snap shut on the hand of the trapper.”

  “The cavalry are in good hands,” replied Manfir smiling.

  “You are all well aware of the situation,” shouted Flair as his stallion pranced back and forth in front of the cavalry. “This portion of the plan lies on our shoulders. Once again we attempt to fool the Keltaran into letting their own bloodlust be their worst enemy. Speed is our ally. Your enemy is frustrated and confused. They have seen their brothers fall and have had nary an opportunity for revenge.

  “The Keltaran are fierce warriors. Yet they have not been able to exchange blows with us. This is our advantage. Once we harass them and disengage, they will chase us to the gates of Zodra for a chance to strike a blow. We will lead them straight into the teeth of the lion.

  “The valleys hold death, death for not only the Keltaran, but any man who falters. You must keep your heads. Stay tight together but do not crowd the man in front of you. Those that exit to the north, keep to the northern wall. To the South, hug the southern wall. Avra willing, we will all meet on the eastern field.”

  A cry arose from amongst the infantry. Flair turned as the riders of the Anvil emerged from the valleys flanking the first of the Bear’s Knuckles.

  Fenrel rode from the valley surrounded by the black-cloaked riders of his Ramsskull. His ego raged. This was how a true king led his men. He should have led them against the Zodrian position on the first hill. His Ramsskull needed his presence to instill in them a mastery over others. Fear and intimidation, those were the tools of a great leader.

  That intimidation was evident now. The Zodrian Guard lay huddled against the base of the second line of Bear’s Knuckles. Their numbers were far less than the Keltaran prince previously surmised. Their cavalry stood midfield, the first line of defense. It too looked thin and stretched.