The giant and Guardsman walked in near complete darkness for over two hours. The tunnel they navigated varied little. It continued on its southwest trajectory with a steady down slope for leagues. Their muscles ached and blood pounded through their temples as they tried to keep from stumbling in the weak torchlight.
Granu abruptly halted. Cefiz nearly stumbled into the back of the enormous giant and his pack dropped to the ground. He was ready to chastise Granu, but sensed something was wrong. Cefiz peered down the passageway in a vain attempt to discern a change in their situation. The Guardsman glanced back at the giant through the torchlight. Granu tested the air with his nose.
“What is it?” asked Cefiz.
“Guano,” replied Granu as he drew in a deep breath.
“Pardon?” questioned the Guardsman.
“Bat droppings,” answered the giant flatly. “Can you not catch that hint of acrid odor in the air?”
Cefiz frowned and drew in a deep breath, ready to announce the sensation a figment of the giant’s imagination. However, just before he spoke a hint of the acrid odor tickled his senses.
“Yes,” said a surprised Cefiz. “There is .... something in the air.”
The Guardsman drew in another deep breath and definitely smelled the odor.
“They are distant from us,” said Granu, “but a number of bats definitely roost within this cave system.”
Cefiz frowned and turned on the giant.
“Well, that is fascinating news, Keltaran,” huffed the Zodrian, “but I don’t care if a family of grizzled bears takes refuge in this hole. I want out. How does this news help us?”
Granu turned on his companion, smiled and shook his head.
“Hours in the darkness dull your wits, lieutenant,” laughed Granu. “Bats may roost in caves, but they do not hunt there.”
A look of recognition slowly crept across the Guardsman’s face.
“On occasion they will fly more than a league into the depths of a cave,” continued the giant, “but they must forage every evening. We cannot be more than two leagues from the exit of the tunnel.”
Cefiz’s eyes widened and a broad smile broke across his face. Quickly, he snatched his pack from the floor of the tunnel and moved down the passageway. As the pair hurried along, Cefiz felt a stir in the air. The suppressive staleness they journeyed through broke up. However, the overwhelming stench of ammonia replaced that staleness.
Shortly, Granu put a firm hand on the eager Guardsman and drew him to a halt. Cefiz frowned, annoyed that his rush to open sky was halted. Granu pointed to the tunnel ceiling above the lieutenant and Cefiz’s eyes followed the motion.
It appeared to the Guardsman that the brown ceiling of the tunnel wavered in his torchlight. Was the flickering torch creating this illusion on the surface of the rock, or was the heat of the flame playing tricks with the light? Cefiz held his torch aloft and stabbed it closer to the ceiling.
There was a high-pitched shriek as an entire section of the brown ceiling shifted from the flame. Cefiz recoiled and immediately recognized that which Granu uttered.
“Bats,” stated the giant. “The ceiling is covered with them.”
The giant’s own torch was dipped toward the ground and Cefiz looked down to see the floor of the passageway coated in a thick grayish white substance. Cefiz glanced back to the ceiling and slowly drew his torch down toward his side. The tiny bodies cramped together on the tunnel ceiling filled back into their original places.
“It must be daytime,” stated Granu. “They roost.”
The giant carefully stepped forward across the slick, wet floor of the tunnel. Within moments the stench within the tunnel broke up and the darkness outside the circle of torchlight lessened. They rounded a small bend in the tunnel and spied light ahead.
“Thank Avra,” exclaimed Cefiz. “Never have I been so happy to catch a glimpse of sky.”
The pair moved forward to the tunnel’s opening and navigated past several large boulders wedged there. They stepped out onto a ledge that ran ten yards along the surface of a shear rock wall. Both men shielded their eyes from the overwhelming sunshine. After a few moments their sight adjusted and they inspected the location.
Additional boulders lay crowded about the ledge, many of which stood as tall as the tunnel’s opening. Granu inched forward and peered over the edge of their mountain balcony. A hundred yards below the Frizgard roared through the gorge it etched into the mountains. After two days within the confining darkness of the tunnel, the plunge to the river below was overwhelming and the giant stepped back with an unusual case of vertigo.
“That answers a question that nagged me over the course of our journey through the mountain,” stated Granu turning to the Guardsman.
“What question?” asked Cefiz still blinking from the blinding rays of the sun.
“I wondered where we were being led and why the Ulrog Horde never discovered this tunnel’s opening,” said Granu. “Over the centuries they crawled about on the surface of the Scythtar likes ants on their hill. I could conceive of no tunnel or cave they have not explored. This opening is virtually unattainable from the river below and these boulders obscure the cave’s mouth so perfectly that I highly doubt the Malveel are aware of its existence.”
“If these heights are unattainable from below,” frowned Cefiz, “is below unattainable from these heights?”
“Perhaps,” replied Granu smiling. “That is the first question we must answer. Once we are on the banks of the Frizgard, we must attempt to determine in what direction our future lies. I hoped for a sign.”
“I believe our second question has already been answered,” said a stunned Cefiz gazing past the shoulder of the giant.
Granu slowly turned and followed the Guardsman’s line of sight. His eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine and he gazed out over the southern horizon. From this height, the view was incredible. The northern hill country stretched out toward the southern horizon for leagues.
“A sign indeed,” mumbled the giant.
Far in the distance, slightly west of their position, a massive column of black smoke rose and polluted the blue sky.
“It seems my brother guides me to his whereabouts,” continued the prince.
The Keltaran threw his staff to the ground and checked that the ax of Gretcha was properly secured to his back. Again he inched toward the edge of their roost and peered down the face of the granite wall.
With a deep sigh the priest of Awoi pulled a length of rope from his pack and tied one end about his waist. The other end he deftly tossed to Cefiz.
“I cannot afford to lose you, Guardsman,” growled the Keltaran playfully. “If you should fall, please try to bounce off a rocky outcrop or two to slow your plunge. It would lessen the strain on the rope when it finally goes taught.”
Cefiz hesitantly moved toward the ledge and gazed over it wide eyed. He placed a hand on the still ample paunch above his belt line.
“If I fall,” replied the cook, “I pray to Avra you have the claws of one of those bats, or I fear my days before a sauce pan will send us both to our deaths.”
Granu smiled and sat on the edge of the precipice. He threw his feet over and slowly lowered himself. Cefiz quickly tied the rope about his own waist and stepped away from the edge, drawing the slack from the rope. In a moment, the giant disappeared from view and the Guardsman stood sweating in the cool mountain breezes. A moment more and he felt a light tug on the rope. Cefiz swallowed hard and moved toward the cliff’s edge.
Fenrel sent for his pavilion and his men hastily set it up beside the slopes of the second Knuckle. The prince desperately wanted solitude. He wished to commune with the powers that fueled his desire for conquest. He needed to report to his master.
When his infantry scouts had walked him to the main force of the Anvil, word quickly spread concerning his heroics in the face of the enemy’s archers. A second Hammer was sent to help in the retrieval of bodies, while a third scouted the hills and ass
essed the enemy’s whereabouts.
The sun dipped toward the horizon as Aul’s body was carried to the main encampment. Word also spread concerning the praise Fenrel heaped upon his second. When the body was laid before Fenrel, the prince fell to his knees hugging the corpse and sobbing uncontrollably. The Anvil went silent. Fenrel had never been seen in this light before and a confused army stood stunned. Fenrel’s face rose to the sky.
“Why?” shouted the giant, “Why does one man live and another die? By what rule do you hold sway over our fortunes? I have been weak .... and at times I have lived the life of a selfish man. But here lies a man who always understood sacrifice. A man willing to fall for the lives of others.”
A cheer went up from the Anvil. Aul’s past was erased with his performance in battle and in the minds of the Keltaran he already reached legendary status for his bravery.
“To fall in such a way,” snarled Fenrel. “To perish at the hands of trickery and cowardly machinations. To be ensnared in a trap, then brutally slain from afar with bow and bolt. What type of man lures his enemy to a death with no honor? What type of enemy runs from battle? These Zodrians are not men. They are spineless cowards!”
Again the Anvil roared its approval. Fenrel held them now. He appealed to their sense of honor. A subject he cared so little for in the past, but now found a potent motivator.
“The Zodrian raise nary a blade against us, but we bleed,” screamed Fenrel. “As in the past, when they rode down the sons and daughters of Hrafnu who tended to their flocks, the Zodrian display their true colors. A people of murderers and thieves! A people who have stolen our lands and our birthrights! A people that cannot be trusted!”
Fenrel jumped to his feet and his broad shoulders and huge frame eclipsed all around him. His eyes went wild and his teeth shown as he sneered at his men.
“Look at this brave man,” said Fenrel pointing to Aul.
A few men close to Fenrel dropped their eyes to the ground, ashamed to stare at the body of the fallen hero. Fenrel quickly grabbed the shirt of a man close to him and yanked him toward Aul’s body.
“LOOK AT HIM!” screamed Fenrel as he pulled the man down toward Aul. “This man was my friend! My brother in arms! What has he died for?”
The soldier squirmed under the pressure of the question and Fenrel growled and threw him back into the crowd.
“WHAT?” continued Fenrel, “So we could bury our people and head back to our valley? No! We will complete what Aul and the others began. We will honor their memory against the dishonorable. We will clear the lands of the Zodrians and their moral bankruptcy.”
As he finished, a line of infantry ran from the hill above. The Keltaran surrounding the prince parted and let the commander of the unit advance to Fenrel.
“What do you report?” snapped the prince.
The commander bowed low.
“My lord,” said the Ramsskull. “The Zodrians move east. They fortify positions along the third and last line of the Knuckles. The fires continue to rage preventing any advance by our cavalry through the valleys.“
“Then we shall lead our Brodor over the hills,” snarled Fenrel in return.
The Ramsskull commander missed Fenrel’s speech. He spent the long climb over the hill trying to discern what his army’s next move might be. Fatigue and confusion caught the better of him and he blurted his objections.
“My lord,” stammered the commander. “We cannot possibly continue our attacks.”
Fenrel spun on the man his eyes widening. His hands clenched into balls of rage, but in an instant he realized his mistake and relaxed. He couldn’t attack this man and maintain the facade of honor he displayed to his troops. Quickly he reined in his temper and addressed the commander.
“Do you suggest otherwise?” said Fenrel flatly.
The commander glanced about at his comrades then replied.
“Yes ... uh ... yes I do,” stated the commander. “The Zodrian have confounded us in the light of day. To attempt another attack, in the dark of night, against a position they prepared, appears folly to me. We must march on them with first light. They can run no further for they must be as exhausted as we are. I also believe they will not abandon the fortifications they engineered to make a run for their capital. If they were caught short of their goal, we would surely annihilate them. I suggest we march on them as one unit, horse and infantry abreast. They will fall to our combined might.”
A murmur ran through the crowd as many in the Anvil nodded and agreed with the commander’s assessment. Fenrel narrowed his eyes and the edge of his lip turned up in a wry smile.
“Perhaps the one I pray to has again seen to intervene in my favor through this young commander,” said Fenrel. “For his judgment seems far advanced for his few years. It shall be as he says. We attack at sun up.”
Fenrel spun and strode confidently into his pavilion. The remainder of the Anvil set up camp and prepared the bodies for burial.
Utecht and a few compatriots hesitated near Fenrel’s pavilion. They were not there to ogle the bodies for they had seen death many times. They were veterans in the Anvil. Between them they had marched on countless campaigns for the rulers of the mountain city. Instead, they inspected Aul and the others. Several attendants sliced lengths of canvas from a roll and wrapped the bodies. Others threaded heavy cords through large needles and began to sew the canvass closed.
“He bears only the heavy wounds of the pike,” commented Utecht. “I see no arrow punctures.”
The men with Utecht moved closer and inspected the body as Aul was laid upon a length of canvass.
“Some of those who retrieved the bodies saw no arrows amongst the dead,” added a man to Utecht’s left.
An attendant punched a threaded needle through the canvass near Aul’s feet and quickly drew it out the other side.
“Those in the cavalry claim only they were fired upon,” continued another.
The attendant quickly worked his way up to Aul’s chest. Utecht frowned.
“Perhaps our prince adds a new trick to his arsenal,” grumbled the old sergeant. “In these past few days all have witnessed how he soured on the lad. Yet inexplicably, the loss of Aul finds him heartbroken. This prince deceives at every turn to achieve his goals.”
The last flap of canvass was laid across Aul’s face and sewn shut. The attendant knotted the thread and moved to the next body.
“The folly of this campaign grows with every step,” said Utecht. “Good men die to feed dreams of revenge and conquest born from a man unworthy of his position. We must stay alert and look for any chance to expose this man for who he is.”
The others nodded and strode toward the camp, filtering in amongst their brethren and prompting questions around each campfire that evening.
CHAPTER 16: JERGSON’S WAY
The streets of Rindor could confuse even a lifelong resident. A twist to the left followed by a pair of right turns and the follower found himself in a narrow alley bound with empty clotheslines and strewn with debris. The high walls of the piled buildings of the river city crowded the moonlight from the place. The leader turned to him.
“Jergson’s Way,” stated the leader. “We have met here unmolested for the past several years. I am sorry I kept the location from you until now, but those in our brotherhood swore me to secrecy.”
The follower nodded and surveyed the scene. Jergson’s Way was difficult to locate and what is more important for this meeting’s purposes, it was uninhabited. Most of the surrounding buildings acted as workhouses, filled with seamstresses and woodworkers during the day and abandoned in the evening. The goods they produced were of such a cheap quality that the watchmen left the area to itself in the late hours.
“One of us owns the property and no questions are asked about our gatherings.”
The leader moved forward stepping over broken crates and refuse. The pair picked their way through the alley and approached a heavy wooden door bound in rusty iron. The leader halted and knoc
ked upon the door in a series of three then two sharp, loud raps. He glanced over his shoulder.
“A code,” smiled the leader. “Only those aware of the sequence are allowed entry.”
The follower allowed his expression to grow properly awed by such intellect and foresight. He nodded his approval and the leader winked in return. Momentarily a heavy bolt was thrown on the interior of the doorway. The mass creaked open and the leader slipped into the low light. The follower’s vision swept the alleyway behind him then he too slipped inside the building.
Quickly the door was fastened behind him and the leader drew him further into the room. A large, worn table occupied the center of the space. A dozen mismatched wooden chairs holding equally mismatched occupants surrounded it. The leader took a seat at the table and motioned the follower to join him. All in the room remained silent as he complied.
The follower quickly scanned the occupants of the table. Several were familiar to him and he could guess some of the others through reputation. Across from him sat Cayril, the manager of the Verlan estates to the east. Cayril nodded as their eyes met and the follower allowed a slight smile and returned the nod. He and Cayril did business at least half a dozen times a year and spent many a night in deep conversation at one of Rindor’s taverns.
Next to Cayril sat Olean. The follower never met the man but the flowing white hair and wicked scar on his nose could belong to no other. The follower conducted quite a few transactions with the estates Olean managed for the Pateen family. Lord And Lady Pateen rarely visited their possessions far to the south and compelled Master Olean to remain upon the property much of the time. Olean stared at him through unflinching eyes.
Others at the table held similar pedigrees. Many of the estate managers from the most powerful houses in Rindor sat about this table. Many knew him or knew of him, but most kept quiet and unexpressive.
“I believe all are here,” said a voice behind the follower. “ Master Clitch has finally arrived with our .... guest for the evening.”
The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Page 18
