The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  Fenrel laughed and turned to his Ramsskull as they trotted forward.

  “This is the rabble you ran from?” scoffed the prince looking to Aul. “Thin and weak.”

  Lieutenant Aul remained stone-faced, staring at the enemy. He was full of trepidation, but loath to voice his concerns. The Zodrians were resourceful and intelligent. Why would they now sacrifice themselves in a full frontal battle? Their horses were faster and their men better rested. This encounter made no sense. Their numbers also appeared incomplete. The lieutenant weighed the consequences of speaking out.

  Fenrel’s cavalry completely emerged from the valley and the Anvil’s infantry began to stream from the opening as well. The army fanned out across the plain.

  “They do not dare to engage us at the mouth of the valley as they should,” continued Fenrel. “They let the bear out of its cage and now must face it.”

  “My lord,” stated Aul. “The Zodrians have proven themselves adept at the use of subterfuge. I am concerned.”

  Fenrel spun and scowled at the lieutenant.

  “Even now you question our purpose and try to stay the hand of power guiding me,” snapped Fenrel. “Stay close and fight with your utmost Aul and you might stay the executioner’s hand when this is all over.”

  Surprisingly, the Zodrian cavalry edged forward in a light trot. Aul and Fenrel turned to the East.

  “Your failures instill a brazenness in these Zodrians, Aul,” grumbled Fenrel. “Are they so brash as to attack us?”

  The edges of the Zodrian infantry line frayed as men streamed into the valleys on either side of the hill. The young Zodrian officer leading the enemy’s cavalry spun his horse and shouted frantically toward his infantry. However, there was no response. The Zodrian infantry continued to flee from the battlefield. Fenrel’s lips curled into a wicked smile.

  “Do you see how the enemy reacts to a foe standing its ground and showing its resolution?” questioned the prince as he rose in his stirrups and raised his voice. “The Zodrian foot soldiers flee from us, abandoning their cavalry. Now we will crush them.”

  Fenrel’s arm stretched on high, holding his massive battle-ax aloft.

  “Keltaran cavalry, on my signal, we charge.”

  Aul’s eyes widened and he spun toward the prince.

  “My lord,” questioned the lieutenant. “Do you think it wise to abandon our own infantry support? A charge will again split our forces.”

  “Opening us to what threat?” snapped Fenrel glaring at Aul. “Stay close and learn how to lead your servants.”

  The Zodrian infantry disappeared from view and the small cavalry unit halted its tentative advance. Fenrel’s arm dropped.

  “Charge!” shouted Fenrel slamming his heels into his Brodor’s flanks.

  The animal reared then launched itself forward as the entire Keltaran cavalry sprang toward the Zodrian position.

  Flair glanced over his shoulder to the East. Relief filled his heart. The infantry’s exit from the battlefield was quick and efficient. They lingered long enough to make the Keltaran hesitate. In a few moments the Anvil’s leaders would see an abandoned, undermanned cavalry unit, a unit teetering on the brink of running as well.

  Flair considered himself a fairly competent student of human nature. These Keltaran were hungry for a victory. Desperate might be more accurate. They marched from their stronghold convinced in the weakness of their enemy. Their leaders primed them with tales of conquest. The Zodrian cavalry stood within their grasp. An easy victory awaited them.

  A roar and thunder erupted from the West. Flair spun to see the entire Keltaran cavalry churning across the small plain toward his position leaving their infantry behind. Now was the time of the Southern horsemen. Their skill would be their only salvation against these mountain men.

  Flair raised his saber, a red pennant affixed to its tip.

  “Watch for my signal!”

  Brelg, Hindle and Manfir followed their infantry through the northern valley. The Prince’s black stallion moved east earlier and Manfir thanked Avra for that decision. His massive horse would not have been able to traverse the narrow path beside Hindle’s weapons. Manfir grimaced as his cloak caught for the third time on one of the jagged blades. He turned to free himself and looked back to the West. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Crowded within the valley were hundreds of pikes, spears and blades. The rusting, nearly useless weapons stood deeply imbedded in the hard packed earth, blades up and tilted westward. The narrow path hugged the northern wall of the gorge.

  “Master Hindle,” called the prince to the man trotting ahead of him. “Have you allowed enough room for our own cavalry to pass unmolested?”

  The blacksmith stopped and turned to the prince. He critically eyed his work and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Colonel Flair provided the width, my lord,” replied Hindle. “He was specific. The cutters from the Southern plains are a smallish animal, my prince. If expertly ridden, they should travel the valley unscathed. However, the Keltaran Brodor is a massive beast. Many will not find the path amenable to their size.”

  Manfir eyed the bristling valley floor again and frowned. The thought of what lay ahead for those unlucky men who fell into this trap made him shudder. To fall while exchanging blows with an enemy is the way a soldier should die. To perish on a blade held in the hand of Mother Earth was a cruel twist.

  The faint thunder of hooves reached the prince’s ears. Quickly he glanced above to the walls of the valley. A dozen archers held positions on either side of the valley’s walls. They clung to the steep slopes of the hill with their bows notched.

  “Nyven,” called Manfir to an officer standing awkwardly on the hill’s slope. “There is no need to waste your arrows on men impaled upon these devices. Your duty is to stop any Keltaran who somehow navigates this maze of weaponry. We are not Ulrog. Allow those men who fall into the trap the time to make amends with their Creator.”

  The Zodrian officer nodded in reply and Manfir trotted forward extricating himself from the forest of weaponry.

  Flair and his horsemen charged into the face of the Keltaran Anvil. He needed to time his charge exactly or risk encountering such a superior force. Forty yards from the Keltaran front line, Flair’s saber dropped and the red pennant disappeared from view. Immediately his force split in two. Those to his left wheeled hard to the South while Flair and his unit turned hard to the North, swinging wide and fast from the Keltaran’s path.

  Within moments Flair and the Zodrians reversed direction and traveled just ahead of the Keltarans. Due to his place at the center of the charge, Flair was the last rider in the northern unit. A dozen of the front line Keltaran horsemen were a mere length behind him as the young colonel’s horse built speed. The Keltarans howled and called for blood.

  Fenrel was stunned once more. These foolish and prideful Zodrians intended to charge down his throat. He would oblige them. They would be the first to fall and the prince would hound the Zodrian infantry all the way back to the great city itself. Every last one of them would perish before he set foot in the citadel and claimed it for Keltar.

  “A moment more,” thought Fenrel, as his mind reached the fever pitch of battle, “a moment more and ....”

  Suddenly, the Zodrian cavalry split like a wave upon a rock. Half of the enemy veered to the North and the other South. They turned. Now the moment Fenrel waited upon would be a moment of escape for the Zodrians. Fire raged in the prince’s veins. They would not escape him.

  “RIDE THEM DOWN!” screamed Fenrel. “KILL THEM ALL!”

  The Keltaran force also split as Fenrel’s riders randomly chose which group to follow. Fenrel’s Brodor slammed into Aul’s mount as the prince chose the group led by the Zodrian officer. It was clear to the prince that the Zodrians intended to flee eastward through the narrow valleys of the Bear’s Knuckles.

  Aul’s Brodor faltered but caught its footing and stayed abreast of Fenrel’s mount. He was nearly upon the Zodrian, but Aul knew
this could not last. The Southern animals were fleet of foot. They were chosen to harass and befuddle the Keltarans. If the Zodrians did mean to enter the valleys to the east, they would be fifty yards ahead of the Keltaran by the time they reached it. This was a race the Keltaran were meant to lose. Why? Aul’s mind raced to decipher the latest of the Zodrian’s puzzles.

  Foam sprayed from the mouth of Flair’s stallion as the colonel pushed the horse to its limits. Ahead of him, his men coaxed their mounts into a tight line. The northern valley approached rapidly. Flair glanced back and was relieved to see he already outstripped the Keltaran riders by fifteen yards.

  Blood streamed from the flanks of Fenrel’s Brodor as the prince mercilessly spurred his mount forward. The beast snorted and whinnied as the prince screamed to the riders keeping pace with him.

  “Speed!” shouted Fenrel. “More speed! None shall escape us!”

  Aul’s mount surprised its rider by keeping pace with the front dozen of the Keltaran cavalry. Ahead of him raced the Zodrian officer. The young man trailed his fellows, but already increased his lead over Aul and Fenrel by thirty yards. This race turned to madness. If the Zodrians chose to, they could lead the Keltaran all the way back to their capital. Fenrel would never catch them at this pace. Aul grimaced. The Keltaran were being led, but to what end? The Zodrians ahead slowly tightened their formation and coalesced into a long, single file line.

  The front rider in Flair’s group raced into the valley and followed its curve out of sight. Flair prayed that these men held the horsemanship he had seen on the training grounds. They were all militiamen from Southern ranches, expert riders chosen for their skill. Their mounts were “cutters”. Fast horses bred to cull other horses from the herd for branding and sale. Now this horsemanship and the ability of these special horses meant life or death for every rider in the line.

  The horses raced forward and horse after horse was swallowed into the valley’s mouth. Flair nearly reached the mouth of the valley himself when he tightened the reins on his stallion. The horse needed to be entirely under his control in order for this maneuver to work. The Southlander squeezed his knees into the sides of the animal. It would know from the pressure he placed there which direction to slide as they moved through the valley.

  He was fifty yards ahead of the Keltaran charge when the walls of the narrow valley rose up around him. He dropped his speed by half but still moved at a quick pace. The valley curved and the path ahead hugged the northern wall.

  A sea of weapons rose from the ground in front of him. The curve of the valley hid them from view until the last moment and the shadows cast by the giant hill helped disguise their presence. Flair pushed his stallion further to the left and decreased his speed even more so as not to overrun the rider before him. Within moments he traversed the slim path fashioned between the bristling weapons and the steep sided, northern hill.

  Ten strides later and the colonel fought to maintain his concentration. The northern hillside bulged into the valley, significantly narrowing the space. Flair spied a group of men clinging to the steep walls of the valley, but dared not look to them directly. If the plan worked, Nyven’s archers would not be called upon.

  A shout brought the colonel’s heart to his throat. A rider three positions ahead of Flair hugged the slope too closely and his mount’s footing became unbalanced. The beast stumbled.

  Immediately, the rider yanked hard on his reins, pulling the horse’s head back and away from the slope. At the same instant, the rider swung onto the left side of the stallion. The horse’s knees buckled and horse and rider tumbled northward onto the nearly vertical slope of the hill. The riders immediately behind barely slowed as their mounts danced over the flailing hooves of the fallen stallion. As Flair passed, the fallen rider scrambled up the slope to the safety of the line of archers and the downed stallion struggled to its feet and continued down the path.

  A few moments more and Fenrel would enter the valley. Aul and a handful of others kept pace with him. The prince smirked with pleasure. His threats to the lieutenant were effective. Aul pushed his mount to its limits to remain on Fenrel’s left shoulder. When the Zodrians were defeated, however, the mercenary would need to be removed. Aul had lost too much of the desperation that made him valuable to Fenrel.

  “Into the valley,” shouted Fenrel. “Hunt them down!”

  The prince knew one thing for certain. The valleys between the Knuckles were narrow and steep sloped. The Zodrians were no fools. Fenrel watched them narrow their lines as they moved toward the valley. They wished to keep their speed and not risk bunching up. They intended to race straight through to the plain beyond this line of hills. If the Keltaran held any hope of catching them, they needed to keep their speed. If a few of his cavalry lost their footing as they were bumped into the valley walls, so be it. They would still emerge on the other side as a much superior force.

  Stamina, thought Fenrel. That was his ally. The thin, fast horses of the Guard might outstrip him on a sprint across the plain, but the Brodor was bred to work for days. Once again he hammered his spurs into the flanks of his warhorse.

  Aul glanced to his prince. The determination and bloodlust in Fenrel’s eyes were alarming. The prince spurred his horse on without any consideration of the possibilities.

  Aul’s own Brodor seemed to thrive from the race with Fenrel’s beast. Aul and Fenrel moved slightly ahead of their brethren and their horses’ heads lunged forward in unison.

  Aul stared toward the open mouth of the valley as it loomed toward him. What lay beyond? Another Zodrian trap? Undoubtedly. By what means? A stand by the Zodrian pike men? The space was far to narrow for the Zodrian infantry to be effective. At best ten men standing abreast might span the little valley. The armored Brodor and their riders would mow them down and shatter that defense.

  Would the Zodrian cavalry turn and face their pursuers? Again possible, but highly unlikely. The Zodrians were much more effective on the open plain. Even outnumbered the Zodrians were better off harassing the Keltaran than attempting to weather a charge by a line of Brodor.

  Barricades? Possible and much more likely. They would slow the Keltaran charge, but not halt it. Perhaps the Zodrians placed archers in the valley. They would need to be upon the slopes to protect themselves and create excellent sight lines. However, the slopes were extremely steep and footing would be difficult. The unbalanced stance would add to the archer’s ineffectiveness. Aul clenched his teeth. What were these Zodrians planning?

  Flair exited Hindle’s forest of weapons. Ahead of him a group of infantry stood beside a train of old wagons loaded with wood and large barrels. Flair reined in beside them.

  “Colonel Ipson, is everything ready?” asked Flair.

  “Yes,” replied Ipson.

  “Remember to wait for Nyven and his men to exit the valley,” stated Flair. “If you see any Keltaran approaching, consider Nyven lost and proceed.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ipson.

  Flair spurred his horse and charged east. Ipson spun and addressed his men.

  “Turn them over, gentlemen,” shouted Ipson. “Build it high. We don’t want anyone jumping the barricade.”

  His supply soldiers wedged long poles beneath the edges of the huge wagons and levered them onto their sides. With a crash and a rumble the wagons toppled into the center of the valley sending their contents across its floor. Other men quickly grabbed the wooden debris and stacked it across the valley obstructing it completely.

  The thunk of an ax echoed down the valley as a pair of men waded through the refuse hacking into the large barrels. Their tops splintered and cracked as oil splashed over the barricade of wood. When the supply crew finished, a three-yard high barricade, dripping in flammable oil, lay stretched across the valley. Ipson and his men stepped back and surveyed their work. The supply commander smiled and struck flint to a torch held by one of his men, careful to keep it clear from the barricade.

  The Keltaran raced into the valley and Aul
was immediately struck by the limited visibility. Shadows made it difficult to see directly ahead of him let alone fifty yards beyond. The noise added to the confusion. The Brodor’s hooves were amplified in the valley, overwhelming Aul’s senses. At this breakneck speed the ride would be dangerous. However, knowing an enemy awaited him at some point made it tenfold. Aul grimaced. The Keltaran could end up killing themselves if one of the front riders stumbled. A horse simply needed to lose its footing for a catastrophe to ....

  Recognition raced into the lieutenant’s consciousness. A trap! The Zodrians again intended to defeat the Keltaran without even engaging them. They laid a trap. Aul turned to Fenrel and shouted in alarm.

  Energy flowed through Fenrel’s veins. The thrill of the chase gripped him. Knowing his superior numbers and expecting nothing short of glorious victory, the prince thrilled at the thought of the mighty Zodrian Guard fleeing before him like a buck pursued by a pack of timber wolves.

  Something distracted him. On the edge of his vision, in the shadowy darkness of the valley, he caught sight of Aul waving frantically toward him. Fenrel turned to see the lieutenant shouting at him, but the pounding of the Brodors’ hooves drowned out the words. He could see alarm written on Aul’s face, but Fenrel sneeringly dismissed it. The caution of fools would not steal his victory.

  Aul watched his commander glance in his direction then turn away as he slammed his spurs into the flanks of his Brodor. The prince committed and with him so did the Keltaran cavalry. Aul’s men were racing to their deaths. How could he stop them? The big man swung back to the slowly curving valley ahead.