The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  The blue knight’s eyes flashed at the Seraph then softened.

  “No,” responded the knight. “Not for lack of opportunity. They appear to test our defenses. They drive us from a section of the wood then quietly filter back over the mountains. They have achieved success through several different mountain passes, but choose an unused pass on each successive foray. It is like a game to them discovering how many passes will result in success.”

  “Dire news indeed,” stated Temujen. “We experience similar tactics along the Tre. Events forced me to split the riders and leave a quarter under the command of my son in order to stop the raids. When our main encampment heads west, the Ulrog raid into our lands to the east, killing livestock and burning prime grazing lands. When we travel east, they raid to the west.”

  “These raids have a similar feel,” interjected Hai. “Always the Ulrog appear to be testing how quickly we can respond to the attacks. They assess our strengths and weaknesses.”

  “My forces must split in order to protect the herds,” continued Temujen. “The winter months approach and the herds are our sustenance.”

  “The raids took their boldest turn just this week,” said Hai. “A raiding party pursued our friends for many leagues and further south than any Ulrog dare go before.”

  The horseman waved a hand toward Ader, Kael and Eidyn as he spoke. Ader visibly tensed and again Kael stared into the dark eyes of the blue knight. The Astelan leader edged forward on his cushion and addressed Temujen.

  “Before we go on,” said the knight, “I request an introduction to all in attendance. The security of my adoptive nation is at stake and I do not discuss such matters lightly.”

  The Derolians muttered their approval of such good sense. Temujen’s eyebrow rose in surprise but he nodded in assent. A sour expression played across Ader’s face as Temujen swept a hand in the direction of the trio sitting opposite him.

  “This wise gentleman of many years is the Chosen of ...” began Temujen.

  “Ader.” interrupted the Seraph. “And well known to you through story if not sight, Steward Portlo of Astel.”

  Temujen was taken aback at the rude interruption and Hai grimaced.

  “Forgive my haste, dear friend,” continued Ader quickly, “but matters are pressing and Steward Portlo’s need for assurances of my character are unfounded. The simple fact that you call me to your meeting should suffice when he stands in your home as a visitor.”

  “Perhaps,” returned Portlo bowing his head. “The allegiances of Ader the Chosen have never been questioned. However, the two beside you are unknown to me and simple decorum requires I be introduced.”

  “Just like all the Astelan,” grumbled the Seraph under his breath, “too smart for their own good.”

  Kael’s eyes widened at the slight and the boy stiffened.

  “Pardon me, my lord?” questioned Portlo with a slight sneer betraying his knowledge of the insult.

  “I said,’ Just some Elven, to do an old man some good’,” replied Ader. “I am not as young as I once was and require the services of these young men to help me.”

  Portlo studied Kael and Eidyn. Temujen and Hai exchanged puzzled glances at Ader’s complete dismissal of his comrades. Kael sat stock still uncertain of what was happening. Suddenly, the Elven prince began to chatter.

  “An honor to meet you, Steward Portlo of Astel,” began Eidyn confidently. “I am Prince Eidyn Valpreaux of Luxlor. Sent by my father to accompany Lord Ader on his journey to Zodra and to pledge every assistance of my people to the beleaguered northern kingdoms.”

  During this announcement, Portlo’s eyes never left those of Ader. The Seraph’s expression fell initially but flashed defiance when his eyes met Portlo’s.

  “Kael Brelgson, I believe Chieftain Temujen called your compatriot?” said Portlo to Eidyn.

  Ader frowned.

  “Yes,” said Eidyn smiling.

  “An odd surname for an Elf of the wood, do you not think, Prince Eidyn?”

  Eidyn’s smile dropped.

  Portlo’s gaze remained fixed on the Seraph.

  “Uh ... somewhat unusual, ... I suppose,” stammered the prince shooting a glance toward Ader.

  The Eru and the Derolians all sat quietly watching the contest of wills between the dour steward and the Seraph.

  “The name carries a much more Zodrian flair to it?” questioned the strong voice of the steward. “Do you not think, my Lord Ader?”

  Ader clenched his teeth and slowly tried to rise.

  “Portlo Fingar, steward of the house of De Hartstron ...” growled Ader.

  Suddenly, he stopped and stared at Kael.

  “Do help an old man up, would you boy?” groused an exasperated Ader.

  Kael’s eyes widened in surprise and the young man hopped to his feet, extending an arm. Ader smiled and grunted as Kael helped pull him to his feet. Quickly the steward rose as well and he faced the pair across the circle. Ader put an arm about Kael’s shoulder. The Seraph and the steward locked eyes.

  “Meet Kael Brelgson .... or I suppose more appropriately, Kael De Hartstron .... your king.”

  Kael’s eyes nervously darted between the Seraph and Portlo. He stepped forward and extended a hand to the steward. The blonde Derolian nearly gagged on a mouthful of drink, spitting it on the floor before him.

  Portlo’s eyes remained fixed on Ader for a moment longer. They were filled with accusation. Finally, his stern expression melted and he took Kael’s hand and bowed his head. The Astelan knights arrayed behind him followed suit and the steward dropped to one knee.

  “I pledge myself to the protection and defense of the Kingdom of Astel and to the Amethyst crown,” recited the steward.

  The Derolians looked perplexed. They had obviously never seen the Astelan steward in a subservient role. The beefy blonde gazed at the steward then eyed Kael. His head slowly shook as he tried to gather in what he saw.

  Portlo rose, both hands wrapped around Kael’s extended handshake.

  “Rumor circled that the Lady Wist carried a child, but the information remained hidden from us. We could only surmise what took place when Izgra crossed through the Black Mirror and the thirteen swept down from the Valley of Mnim.”

  “The Black Mirror ...?” mumbled Kael in reply.

  “The portal by which Izgra entered this world,” stated Portlo.

  The steward exchanged a glance with Ader. Questions filled his eyes? The Seraph frowned and shook his head.

  “You are not the only one that information was kept from,” sighed Ader. “The boy remained unaware of his heritage until just weeks ago.”

  Portlo’s eyes returned to Kael. The steward struggled with this information. Finally, Portlo locked his jaw and nodded.

  “No matter,” said the steward. “The rightful king stands in our midst and we will serve him.”

  Several members of his party added their assent, but the Derolian leader let out a deep cough. In a moment he regained his composure and cleared his throat.

  “You must be joking,” said the Derolian stepping forward. “The old man presents this boy as your king and you accept it?”

  Portlo confidently nodded his approval.

  “That’s ridiculous,” exclaimed the Derolian. “The old one has just admitted the boy was unaware of his heritage. For Avra’s sake, he could have plucked any boy from the nearest cabbage patch and presented him here and you would have accepted.”

  “We possess faith in Ader De Hartstron,” said Portlo slowly.

  The Derolian spun on Kael with a mixture of anger and dismay on his face.

  “Do you even know how to get to Astel, boy?” roared the Derolian.

  Before the boy could answer the big man closed the gap between them and leaned in with his face an inch from Kael’s.

  “Well, I do,” snapped the Derolian. “I do, because for nearly every day of the last sixteen years I’ve stood at the border between Derol and Astel and exchanged blows with every nightmare I
zgra could conjure. A task I’ve found neither heroic nor rewarding. A task that fell to me because the house to which you purportedly are heir helped Izgra the Half Dead enter this world.”

  “Lijon please,” interrupted Portlo.

  The Derolian spun back to the steward.

  “No,” barked Lijon. “I can see where this is headed and I don’t like it. We are allies. We took your people in. We have fought side by side for many years, but I will not sit idly by and say nothing as the struggle is turned over to an untrained boy simply due to his pedigree.

  “In all of our years together we have stepped back and let you make many of the great decisions. The Derolian people are not fools. Our Astelan brothers proved early on that their military and tactical training were superior to our own. We were but simple woodsmen when this all began. We were happy to step aside and allow you to lead, but this is madness. I’ve seen you bow before no one in the sixteen years of our friendship, but now you bend a knee to a ... a child based on the information of this old one.

  “I can only surmise that the stresses of leadership finally take their toll on you, friend Portlo. For there is no way the Derolians will follow the orders of this boy.”

  Lijon’s hand flicked dismissively in Kael’s direction and he moved back in amongst his countrymen. Portlo’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

  “Derolians,” sighed Portlo so only Kael could hear, “always emotion first and logic second.”

  The steward’s head rose and he glared at Ader.

  “And now we see what your years of deception have wrought,” said Portlo, “an alliance in jeopardy.”

  “I would just as soon kept the boy’s identity to myself,” scoffed Ader. “You demanded it be shown the light of day.”

  “You know my duty,” growled Portlo. “The boy’s return has meaning to his people. It brings hope. I am honor bound to fulfill our laws.”

  “Honor bound to thrust the mantle of leadership on a teen whose greatest decision to date has been whether or not to muck the stables before he feeds the hogs?” snarled Ader. “Now who is joking?”

  Portlo turned bright red. The pair stared hard at one another for several moments.

  “What are you talking about?” interrupted an exasperated Kael. “Leadership? What leadership? I’m on my way to rescue a friend if I can. I’m not here to lead anyone.”

  “Now that you return, you have responsibilities,” said Portlo to the boy. “You must be trained to lead the nation.”

  “What nation?” exclaimed an annoyed Kael. “There is no nation. Izgra sits in Astel.”

  “A nation is not comprised of land, Lord Kael,” stated the steward through tight lips. “A nation is her people. Whether on the bluffs and valleys of Astel or beneath the trees of the mighty Derol, the nation of Astel is her people.”

  Kael reddened as he recognized his rudeness. His tone softened.

  “I’m sorry,” said the boy removing his hand from the steward’s grip. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  He turned away from the Astelans and fell back in amongst Ader and Eidyn.

  “I’m not quite sure what my purpose is,” continued the boy, “but first I have a duty to a companion who spent countless hours protecting me with no thought for herself. She needs my help and I plan to give it to her.”

  “What of the thousands of your countrymen who need ...” protested Portlo.

  “Sir,” interrupted Kael, “until but a few weeks ago I was unaware of the existence of such a country let alone my countrymen. However, my father raised me to honor my duties and responsibilities. I pledge to you that once our companion, Lilywynn, is accounted for, I will do everything in my power to advance the cause of both the exiled Astelans and the Derolians who graciously hosted them these many years.”

  Kael turned and lightly bowed to Lijon. The big man returned the bow with a scowl on his face.

  “Your father taught you honor,” said Portlo glancing at Ader.

  The Seraph smiled and raised a brow.

  “Don’t look to me,” scoffed Ader. “I’m incapable of teaching such niceties. The boy has not been in my charge. However, if you wish I can inform you of his brief history at a more opportune time.”

  “I would be grateful to learn what the heir to the throne I protect, an heir whose existence remained unconfirmed to me, has been doing for nearly two decades,” said Portlo glaring at Ader.

  The Seraph dismissed Portlo with a wave of his hand.

  “There are much greater issues at stake here than you recognize, steward,” said Ader flatly. “Decisions were made. I made them. I will be responsible for their outcome. You led the nation of Astel with both passion and intelligence. Continue to do so until we can determine what the future holds.”

  Portlo acknowledged the compliment with a bow of his head.

  “The future begins now, Lord Ader,” stated the steward, “and its direction seems to be determined by the boy. When and where will he go?”

  All eyes focused on Kael and the young man felt small under their scrutiny.

  “To the Valley of Mnim,” said Kael softly. “To Lilywynn.”

  The congregation collectively held their breath for a moment before the Astelans plunged into the possibilities. They mulled the chances of such an endeavor and how it would be accomplished. The Derolians immediately broke into passionate debate over the insanity of such a task. Temujen viewed the assembly with a critical eye.

  “Is it possible that such a task might be assisted by the groups represented here?” called the Chieftain over the din.

  The assembly silenced and all eyes turned to Temujen.

  “Think of it,” stated Temujen. “Three peoples are represented here by their chosen leaders. Leaders who have slowly watched as the darkness grows to swallow us. Leaders who must one day unite to challenge this darkness. Why not now?”

  Portlo gazed at the chieftain then glanced to Lijon. The big blonde shrugged his shoulders with indifference then chomped on a roasted leg of prairie pheasant.

  “What is it you suggest?” asked Portlo.

  “That we combine both our tactical intelligence and our military strength to help Lord Ader pass through the Valley of Mnim,” replied Temujen, “and at the same time strike a blow against the enemy.”

  Lijon laughed and bits of meat spilled from his greasy mouth. The Derolian swallowed hard.

  “Again we talk insanity,” growled Lijon wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “The Mnim is an Ulrog stronghold. The Hackles outnumber the stones on its rocky floor. To force our way into the Scythtar to rescue one is madness and suicide for many.”

  All paused as the red faced Derolian scowled at the group. Portlo remained lost in thought and Temujen patiently assessed those about the tent.

  “Wise Temujen did not call for an assault on the valley,” said Portlo after a moment.

  “He asks us to combine our might,” replied an exasperated Lijon. “What other result does he seek?”

  “Diversion,” answered Portlo smiling and turning on the chieftain.

  “Yes,” said Temujen returning the smile. “For too long we have sat back and waited for the inevitable roar from the mountains. The Ulrog sweep down from their stronghold and attack. Destroying livestock. Burning homes. Taking lives. Eventually they return to the Mnim, the Mirozert or the Scythtar.

  “We beat them back and gather our scattered flocks, rebuild our homes and bury our dead. Perhaps it is time that we play the part of aggressor. We attack.”

  Once again Temujen calmly viewed the reaction of his guests. The Astelans appeared deep in thought, but the Derolians immediately smiled and opened a lively discussion of the possibilities. Lijon became quite excited and Kael realized the big woodsman was already smitten with the idea. Finally, Portlo silenced the tent.

  “The concept holds merit,” announced the steward, “but its execution must be exact. The entire Ulrog contingent must be drawn from the shadows of the valley or any sacrifice we m
ake goes for naught. An exact balance must be struck between our ability to inflict damage, protect ourselves and display the weakness that will coax the Ulrog to follow.”

  “And once they do follow, how will you escape them?” questioned Eidyn.

  The group silenced again.

  “The woods,” whispered Hai staring at the dirt floor beneath the tent.

  “What is that, my boy?” asked Ader.

  Hai looked up and scanned the assembly.

  “Our salvation shall lie in the trees and the night.”

  CHAPTER 18: A GOOD OMEN FOR A BAD DAY

  Manfir stood in the center of the field staring at the hills to the west. The fires slowed during the night and the thick black smoke cleared as morning approached. The hazy light of pre dawn filtered through the sky and behind him the rising sun painted all a rosy hue.

  “A good omen for a bad day,” laughed the prince grimly.

  Behind him on the slope of the hill chosen for their final stand, men moved back and forth across their picket lines putting final touches on its defenses. Some remained awake all evening working on the line. Manfir advised against this. A soldier’s first duty was to his own body. The greatest defensive position is no ally if you do not have the wits to utilize it. The prince caught a few hours of sleep and felt surprisingly refreshed. A footfall behind him turned his head and Manfir smiled as his commanders approached.

  “The Knuckles are a fair looking place,” smiled the prince wistfully. “In pleasanter times, I might have enjoyed a trot across these hills on a cool autumn morn.”

  “Like a barmaid who appears comely in the low light of the tavern, quite often the light of day is not as kind to her features,” stated Brelg sweeping a hand to the west.

  Manfir turned to see a long line of Keltaran infantry slowly marching from each valley bordering the main hill to the west. The Keltaran spread out across the field two hundred yards from the prince. Cavalry followed the infantry, backing their position.

  Fenrel trotted out of the shadows on a fresh mount. It irked him to ride another man’s beast. His Brodor perished in the Zodrian’s trap the previous evening.