The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  The first thing the Keltaran prince noticed was how thin the Zodrian line appeared. The Knuckle they chose to defend rose with a much broader and easier slope than those of the day before. This aspect forced the Zodrians into spreading wide to protect their flanks. Any tighter and the formation would easily be circumvented. The Zodrians could not afford to lose higher ground.

  Additionally, the Zodrian cavalry stood in the open. Their horses were picketed and their riders stood or sat beside the beasts. Fenrel appreciated this development as well. No more surprises. The full Zodrian contingent lay arrayed across the base of the hill and Fenrel found it almost laughably weak.

  Certainly the Zodrians stunned his force the previous day, but the Keltaran prince felt convinced all subterfuge was gone. This battle would degrade into brute strength against brute strength and the Zodrians were inadequate.

  Manfir sighed and bade his commanders to follow him. He strolled back toward the Zodrian position talking as he inspected its defenses.

  “I wish it didn’t come to this,” grumbled the prince. “The Keltaran and the Zodrian are trapped in their own hatred and will destroy one another for the greater glory of Amird.”

  “It is a shame,” commented General Wynard. “The solution to our salvation stood in front of us for centuries, but we ignored it.”

  “Blinded by hatred and revenge,” added Brelg. “If we could but join the Anvil to our ranks we might garner a chance against the Ulrog.”

  “Wishful thinking, gentlemen,” snapped Flair. “Now is not the time for it. We are not yet beaten. They still outnumber us significantly, but remember their cause carries no passion for their men. We also hold the hills. They must come at our higher ground if they want us.”

  “True,” replied Manfir. “If only Corad ....”

  The prince’s words were cut short by the blare of a trumpet in the east. The entire Zodrian line sprang to their feet and snatched weaponry from scabbard and sheath. A rider burst from behind the great Knuckle and bore down on Manfir and the commanders. He called out thirty yards from their position.

  “The Rindorans, my lord,” shouted the rider. “The river folk. They’ve come!”

  The little group exchanged surprised glances then dashed toward the hill. Before they reached the Zodrian lines, the first wave of Rindoran cavalry swept onto the plain. A young rider separated from the group and directed his mount toward Manfir. A golden helm with a ridge resembling the fin of a great fish sat upon his head. A breastplate embossed with dancing otters flashed from beneath his cloak and a trident as long as a Keltaran pike lay strapped to the mount’s side. The rider reined in a few yards before the stunned company.

  “It’s been quite some time since last we spoke, cousin,” boomed a voice from beneath the helm. “Unfortunately, I was uninformed of your visit to our kingdom some weeks ago.”

  Manfir bowed before the rider.

  “The circumstances of my visit were .... muddled,” replied the prince.

  The rider threw a leg over his mount’s back and dropped to the ground. He clasped the sides of his helm and removed it, tucking it under his arm. Long golden hair cascaded to his shoulders as he moved forward.

  “No matter. We will acquire ample time to reacquaint ourselves once we finish with this business,” replied Gage nodding to the Anvil. “We are respectively the futures of our kingdoms and I for one do not like the way our diplomacy has been handled in the past.”

  “Agreed,” smiled Manfir, “but first there is the matter to which you refer.”

  Gage returned the smile. He turned and gazed toward the opening to the east. More Rindoran riders streamed in and took up station along the hill. Soon, infantry filed in behind the thin Zodrian line. The Rindorans wore similar armor to their prince. Each man carried a massive trident and a tight meshed, steel net slung over his shoulders.

  A company of officers followed on the infantry’s heels. At their head rode Corad Kingfisher and Macin of Zodra in animated discussion. Gage laughed and turned to his cousin.

  “If debate and argument were the weapon of choice, our fathers would wear down the defenses of any foe,” said Gage. “They’ve been at it from the moment we left the river city and apparently the sobering thought of facing the might of the Anvil does naught to temper their feud.”

  “Perhaps we should send them off while we attend to the matter at hand,” grinned Manfir.

  “Absolutely not,” exclaimed Gage rolling his eyes. “The thought that they will finally be forced to silence and take up arms has been the only comfort rocking me to sleep at night.”

  The group enjoyed a hearty laugh and Gage finally bowed before Manfir.

  “On the streets of Rindor one day I shall be called your king, a position that shall always feel foreign where you are concerned. When I was very young I grew contentious and unruly. My mother recognized that a young man often searches for a role model. A direction.

  “Although my father is a man of honor and strong character, Lucyn realized a lad has difficulty seeing his father through a clear eye,” Gage smiled again. “Youth rebels at ties with authority. He needs a figure of a more contemporary age to model himself. It was Queen Lucyn that drew my eye to you.”

  “The legend of Lucyn’s sagacity grows,” interrupted Brelg. “A wise woman.”

  “If you only knew one-tenth of it,” smiled Gage with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve always tried to exemplify the traits which I admire in you, Manfir of Zodra. Your trials and sacrifices, although lost to many over the years, never escaped the watchful eye of Lucyn of Rindor. I stand here today and offer you the services of my trident and those of the forces of Rindor. May Avra bless your every endeavour. I am yours to command.”

  Manfir moved forward and embraced the young man.

  “May the faith you award in me be rewarded in turn,” replied Manfir. “We shall need all the blessings of Avra to succeed.”

  Fenrel raged at the Ramsskull officers before him. None could provide the answers to the questions he sought. The Anvil stood in shocked silence staring across the rolling field at the hill to the east.

  The thin force spread across the western slope of the Knuckle grew, swelling with each passing moment as troops with strange garb and even stranger weaponry filed in from behind the hill. This was no Southern folk rabble. These were professional soldiers, polished and outfitted with armor and freshly forged steel.

  “Where do they come from?” shouted Fenrel. “What is their number? Their strengths? Their weaknesses?”

  The Ramsskull commanders dropped their heads and stared at the ground. None had ever reached rank above sergeant in the regular Anvil. They knew very little of the strategic strengths of the greater world. Most would prove more adept at thieving a merchant out of his goods than advising their leader on military tactics and performance.

  “Not one of you has an ounce of brains to consult me on this mystery force?” harangued the captain.

  The silence continued. Fenrel burned. Suddenly, a voice rose from the infantry line.

  “I may be able to enlighten you, my lord.”

  Fenrel turned to his army and narrowed his eyes at its unwavering mass.

  “Who spoke?” demanded the prince. “Let him come forth.”

  Utecht slowly pushed past his comrades. His brethren’s eyes betrayed their concern but the old sergeant’s jaw remained fixed as he strode toward Fenrel. The prince eyed the sergeant up and down and a look of puzzled bewilderment crossed his face. This old one seemed familiar to Fenrel, but so many of his subjects passed before his eyes that Fenrel ignored the tug of memory and addressed the man.

  “And how might you help enlighten me, old man?” scoffed the prince. “I do not seek remedy for rheumatic knees.”

  Fenrel beamed at his Ramsskull and several chuckled at Utecht’s expense. Others knew the reputation of the warrior and dropped their eyes uncomfortably. Utecht remained expressionless and waited for their mirth to cease.

  “I have been l
ong in the Anvil of Keltar,” began Utecht, “and witnessed my share of battles. However, when I was a young man, Grannak Stormbreaker desired news concerning the strengths of all the great armies of the lands south of the mountains. Your father was ever one for diligence in the protection of his people.”

  Utecht delivered the last line with an edge that implied no such care was taken with Keltar’s current ruler. Fenrel’s lip curled in distaste and he stepped close to Utecht, snarling down upon the older man.

  “The fate of Keltar is foremost in the mind of all the House of Stormbreaker,” growled Fenrel.

  “In those days, King Grannak sent me to spy on the military maneuvers of the river folk,” stated Utecht, ignoring the prince.

  “The river folk?” questioned the prince. “The military of the traders on the Ituan?”

  “Yes,” replied Utecht flatly.

  “Rindor is a city state under the dominion of Zodra,” scoffed Fenrel. “Their men have long since been bled into the Guard.”

  “No, they have not,” returned an expressionless Utecht.

  Fenrel spun and turned to the host positioned across the rolling plain. Bright blue banners rose and lazily floated in the light breeze. A breaching fish embroidered with golden thread lay across some of the banners. Others portrayed a pair of playful otters.

  Fenrel turned back to Utecht.

  “What were the conclusions of your observations?” snapped Fenrel.

  “I forwarded my conclusions to the honorable General Olith to assess,” said Utecht. “Your uncle is most equipped to determine how formidable a foe the Rindorans are.”

  Blood flushed into Fenrel’s sweaty face and his eyes bulged in apoplectic anger. His huge hand snatched the front of Utecht’s tunic and he dragged the old warrior into his face.

  “WELL! THE OLD FOOL ROTS IN THE CELLS OF THE PALACE!” roared Fenrel. “AND IF YOU WISH TO JOIN HIM YOU CAN CONTINUE TO BE SLOW ABOUT UNMASKING YOUR INFORMATION!”

  Spit and foam sprayed from the prince’s mouth across the face of Utecht. The Keltaran warrior neither blinked nor wiped the moisture from his face. He stared back into the wild eyes of Fenrel.

  “The Rindorans are accomplished warriors with a tradition of service and training that rivals our own,” stated Utecht calmly. “Each man must serve within their army for at least three years of his lifetime. Once service is complete, the man must return to the royal training grounds to the north of the river once a summer for renewed instruction.

  “The city maintains a regular force of nearly five hundred infantry and cavalry who are often life long members of the Spear. This is the main corps of their force. I imagine they supplemented those numbers with men equipped and trained to take up arms at a moments notice.“

  “That is more like it,” grumbled Fenrel. “So now I am aware of the army deployed against me. The real question is, how great a threat are these fishermen playing at soldier.”

  “I assure you, Fenrel son of Grannak,” stated Utecht, “the Rindorans are not to be taken lightly. It is true they own a limited history of warfare but what they do own is significant. The river city represents the only blemish on Zodra’s record of conquest and domination of the Westlands. The Spear turned aside every assault on their stronghold and steadfastly endured a siege of immense length.”

  “What care I of ancient battles?” barked the prince. “It is the here and now that concerns me.”

  “The Now is a direct result of the Then,” quoted Utecht from a well-known sermon by Granu. “Those dwelling within the river city’s walls have not changed, nor has their character. We shall find overcoming them a stern task.”

  Fenrel’s eyes again flashed with rage.

  “For one so knowledgeable in the ways of war, you quote a cowardly peacemaker easily, old man,” shouted Fenrel.

  He spun from Utecht and stormed toward his attendants.

  “I must ponder these developments in a place without distractions,” boomed Fenrel. “Erect my pavilion between the shoulders of the hills. I require solitude and clarity of thought to determine our next move.”

  The attendants sped off toward the supply wagons of the Anvil.

  Fenrel grabbed a Ramsskull officer and tore the man’s black mantle from his frame. He shoved the man aside and spun to Utecht throwing the goat skull uniform at the old man. Utecht caught the uniform and looked at it in distaste.

  “Since the loss of my most trusted advisor, Aul, I feel little comfort in the musings of these imbeciles arrayed about me,” snarled Fenrel. “You, on the other hand, provide useful information, albeit in a dangerously bold tone.

  “I do not wish to lose your whereabouts within the throng. A man of your knowledge and open tongue bears watching. A leader never knows when a man might overstep his bounds and act against or beyond authority.”

  Fenrel paused and glared at the old sergeant.

  “For example, he might accept parlay when it is not his to accept.”

  Utecht remained stone faced.

  “My lord, I am unfit for the Ramsskull,” said Utecht.

  “Meaning you are beneath the Ramsskull or the Ramsskull is beneath you?” asked Fenrel raising an eyebrow.

  Utecht let the question hang in the air.

  “No matter,” continued the prince. “You will stay close to my Ramsskull and inform me immediately of any changes in the enemies formation. I must contrive a means of victory over this rabble.”

  Fenrel turned with a sweep of his cloak and stalked toward his already rising pavilion. The Anvil hung motionless staring at the prince until he marched well out of earshot then broke into animated discussion. The Ramsskull officers eyed one another nervously then backed from the main force to offer their own consul.

  Utecht hovered a moment longer then let the skull embossed garment fall from his hands to the dirt below. He turned to the Anvil and was gathered in by his concerned compatriots.

  Manfir stood near the top of the main hill deep in thought. Around him stood Macin, Corad, Gage, Generals Wynard and Yully, the militia commanders and Brelg. Silence hung in the air as all the men ruminated on their predicament. Finally, Colonel Flair crested the hill.

  “Pardon my late arrival, gentlemen,” huffed Flair, his chest heaving from the exertion of the climb. “I was busy integrating our two cavalries when I received the summons.”

  “No apologies needed, colonel. I would rather you completed your task than hastily retreat from it,” returned Manfir kindly. “Besides, your delay afforded me more time to think on the matter at hand and solidify my line of thought. I’ve come to a conclusion concerning our future, my friends, and I would like to share it with you.”

  All eyes stared intently at the prince as he pursed his lips and steeled himself for what appeared a hard choice.

  “In the morn, several of us stood on the rolling field below and spoke of ‘what if’ and ‘why not’,” said Manfir. “What if things were different between our peoples? Why couldn’t I ride the hills and valleys surrounding the Zorim unmolested one day? Why, even though we all announce ourselves followers of Avra, have we allowed centuries of mistrust and enmity to develop between these two great nations?

  “These are the questions that I’ve asked myself in the weeks since I beheld Granu son of Grannak standing in the halls of Luxlor. These are the questions that I can find no good answer for.

  “I’ve long counted myself a student of Brelg Kelson and once more found myself marveling at his wisdom this morning. He and General Wynard put words to what has been growing in my heart these many weeks. Granu planted that seed and despite all my worst intentions it flowers.

  “Those soldiers standing across the plain, bristling with weaponry and ready to slaughter us all, are the salvation of Zodra, not its doom.”

  All remained still, even Macin stood speechless.

  “You raise no protest against this judgment because all here know it to be true. The field below carries a destiny. Forever more it will stand as the place where huma
nity marked itself for death or found new redemption in the ideals of forgiveness and reconciliation.

  “If we remain steadfast and immovable, war will be waged at this place. Such a war as never occurred between our peoples. Blood will flow and the grass shall grow crimson from its abundance. When all is done, one group shall be victorious. However, a hollow victory is no victory at all.

  “If Keltaran banners remain afloat, the future is obvious. Their weakened force will march on toward our homeland and after a prolonged siege they will breach the gates of the capital itself. All will fall before the axes of the followers of Fenrel. Eventually, our forces to the North will be crushed and the Ulrog Horde will make its way to Zodra. Then Fenrel will see that the promises of the Deceiver retain the value of the air they drift upon.

  “If by some miracle we prevail against such a monstrous force, we accomplish a tremendous feat but ultimately a victory as hollow as the last. We stand prepared for a battle of cruelty and death. We have no more tricks and no place for retreat. The battle that rages here today is to the death and the halls of Avra will fill with the dead.

  “Any Zodrian force that stands upon these slopes when the last blow lands will be one of minor significance or help to our comrades in the North. Thus I conclude that we lose before the first blow is struck.”

  The silence lasted a moment more then General Yully cleared his throat.

  “A week ago I would have been the first to criticize your methods and your means, Prince Manfir,” stated Yully, “but I’ve stood in wonder as you effectively neutralized the Keltaran’s advantage in numbers and inflicted injury upon them as we go virtually untouched. This melancholy overcoming you perplexes me. Do you believe no hope remains for our nation?”

  “Hope is the tonic of the true believer, General Yully,” replied Manfir smiling. “Hope I possess in plenty.”

  “But if we cannot do battle here and we cannot retreat to Zodra,” said Flair, “in what is your hope founded? Do you hope to convince the Keltaran to return to their mountains and leave us in peace?”