A deep strum sounded in the darkness to the south. Black eyes rose and shifted from the Malveel to the southern horizon. One lone red eye turned and joined them, attempting to penetrate the darkness. A low hum buzzed in Greeb’s ear as an object flashed past and slammed into one of his priests.
The Hackles broke into a deafening roar that even their master could not suppress. Greeb spun back to his priests and spied the form of a prone Ulrog with his black, oily blood gushing from a massive wound upon his head. The priests backed away and searched the night sky. The Hackles beyond created an opening around an object at their feet.
Greeb stalked past the priests of Amird and scanned the ground. There, amidst his roaring Hackles, lay the head of one of Slundoc’s lost trackers. Temujen’s sentries performed their duties as efficiently as always. Slowly Greeb’s scaly lips curled high above his black fangs in a wicked snarl. His lone eye filled with rage. His Hackles quieted.
“Slundoc. The disappearance of your subordinates is no longer a mystery,” snapped Greeb.
The tracker nervously lowered his head. Greeb’s eye swept the assembly.
“Kill them,” hissed Greeb. “Kill them all.”
The Hackles erupted and spilled past their Malveel lord out of the mouth of the Mnim and into the inky night of the Eru grasslands.
Temujen sat on his midnight mare staring toward the roar erupting from the Scythtar. Behind him, Derolian woodsmen quickly disassembled the makeshift catapult they had fashioned.
“Due to the Ulrog’s response, I fathom you were accurate with the device,” commented the chieftain over his shoulder.
The Derolians smiled and nodded in reply. Within moments, Portlo’s mount raced toward the assembled human force.
“Ready yourselves,” called the winded steward. “They will be on the move shortly.”
As if in response to his command, the angry roar from the Mnim tripled in intensity and washed across the grasslands of the Eru.
Ader’s head snapped forward and his eyes opened wide.
“They move,” stated the Seraph.
In a swirl of robes and limbs, Ader gathered himself from the ground and moved to the edge of the boulder. Eidyn and Kael jumped from his path and allowed him to peer around the rock. Over Ader’s shoulder Kael watched as hundreds of shadows streamed from the Mnim past Portlo’s ring of torches. Within moments the torches were obscured by the sheer density of Hackles pouring past the firelight. Sparks sprayed and darted through the flood like yellow jackets roused from their nest.
“We leave momentarily,” mumbled Ader as he peered at the rush.
Greeb turned and stalked toward the opening of the Mnim. A cold calm crept into a heart forged of molten rock. There was no need for his immediate presence. The priests of Amird would direct the Hackles and “motivate” them should they falter. Greeb would come upon the battle after its first major clash and determine where the fire of a Malveel lord was most needed.
He stomped forward raking the earth with his claws. He committed. There was no turning back. Never before had he used his full contingent of Ulrog against the humans. Never before had he completely abandoned the Mnim.
Again the question he dismissed upon the sight of the tracker’s head sprang into his mind. Why? Why did the Eru and their allies goad him into a battle with no chance of victory?
The sounds of the clash ahead rose and the clang of steel upon iron rang through the foothills of the Scythtar. Greeb’s blood rose and his lips twitched in anticipation. He fought hard to remain on task. He must think. However, screams of death filled the night and Greeb tasted the fear of battle on the air. Unwittingly, his pace quickened and the Malveel rushed from the Mnim toward the melee in his path.
CHAPTER 21: FEINT AND PARRY
Temujen stared at the force of Ulrog bearing down upon his position. Hundreds of cleaver wielding stone men rushed toward the aligned forces of Eru, Derol and Astel. The Ulrog spread apart in their long sprint from the Mnim. They were no longer a cohesive unit, but rather a jumble of runners separated by two hundred yards from vanguard to stragglers.
Not far behind the last remnants of the charge, Temujen spied the priests of Amird. They remained up slope, each surrounded by a hand picked contingent of massive Ulrog. As the charge continued the priests slowly fanned out across the length of the Ulrog line. Each would be given a section of Hackles to command. Trackers would be used to run the priest’s orders in and amongst the Hackles. The trackers were the key to many of the Ulrog’s recent successes. They were a new breed, much more intelligent than their brothers. Their use freed the priests to change their battle plans at will and attack in their own right.
Temujen waited. He needed the Ulrog and their masters to commit fully to the charge. A feint or change of direction would hamper the chieftain’s plan. The Hackles closed to within fifty yards. The Eru chieftain turned and nodded to Portlo of Astel.
“May Avra guide you,” said Temujen.
“And you,” replied Portlo as he maneuvered his mount back toward his infantry.
Temujen’s eyes turned to the Ulrog. Thirty yards remained between the lead runners and the Eru horsemen. The chieftain spied a glint of moonlight on their black, oily eyes.
“ERU!” shouted the chieftain. “RIDE!”
Immediately the arrayed horsemen turned their mounts. The Eru laid heels into the flanks of their steeds and abandoned their location. Half drove hard to the south and half to the north. Instantly, the Derolians stepped forward and lowered steel tipped pikes at the charging Ulrog. Astelan knights stepped to the side of the woodsmen and drew their swords. Portlo trotted up and down the line adjusting its mix to achieve optimum strength.
The Eru swung wide of the Ulrog charge, flanking the Hackles on both sides. When they were a hundred yards north along the Ulrog’s flanks, the riders turned again and charged directly into the Horde. Temujen’s saber slashed against the hardened stone skins of Ulrog. Sparks flew as steel grated across flinty hide. Eru stallions, fitted with steel breastplates, hammered unprepared Hackles, trampling them beneath their hooves. Cleavers hacked and slashed horse and rider alike. Horses cried in terror. Riders shouted, caught up in the fever pitch of battle.
The front line of the Ulrog charge continued forward into the position defended by the human infantry. However, the Eru maneuver effectively split Greeb’s force. The slower Hackles became preoccupied with the horsemen and Temujen’s riders cut a swatch through the Ulrog force from both directions. Soon riders from the south converged on riders from the north and two distinct battles erupted beneath the Scythtar’s foothills.
“The Eru are the threat,” shouted Cortik to a tracker huddled nearby. “Tell them to focus on the horsemen.”
The High Priest ripped at the tracker with a powerful hand and the smaller Ulrog bowled forward down the slope by the force of the blow. When the beast caught its balance, it ran off toward the fight.
“He will not get through,” snarled a voice from behind the High Priest.
Cortik spun in anger then dropped his head in deference as Greeb stalked down the slope toward him.
“Temujen split our force in two and cut off communication to our lead Hackles,” spat Greeb. “He realizes the Hackles are mindless without our direction. You must concentrate your forces on this side of the split and push to unite with the vanguard.”
Cortik nervously looked to his trackers and grabbed one of the messengers.
“You heard our master,” mumbled Cortik rapidly. “Issue the command.”
The runner bowed toward the Malveel and ran off.
“My lord, Temujen’s force will be difficult to break,” stated Cortik.
“So you had best join the fight rapidly,” replied Greeb calmly surveying the battle through a narrowed eye.
Cortik’s eyes widened in shock, then the High Priest of Amird bowed.
“Of course, my lord.”
Cortik and his attendants lumbered down the slope toward the melee. The High Pr
iest chanted the prayers of Chaos as he ran.
The first line of Ulrog met the Derolian position. Heavy pikes, supported in leather trusses skewered the first dozen Ulrog attempting to overrun the Derolian line. Many were incapacitated on the spot. Others took the pike head in a shoulder or thigh and thrashed about until Astelan knights moved forward and dispatched them with their heavy broadswords.
Several spots along the Derolian line received a concentrated assault of Hackles. Here the line wavered as Ulrog spilled behind the humans and fanned out to inflict as much damage as they could. Immediately, Portlo directed reserves of Astelan swordsmen and Derolian ax men to the breaches. The humans surrounded the Ulrog and attacked in a flurry of ax blows and sword thrusts. Regardless of Portlo’s efforts, those few areas where the line broke spread like a blight on a summer crop. Hackles flocked to these oases of relative superiority and methodically worked to expand the breaches.
Within moments the pike line clogged with Hackles piling into the backs of their comrades and trampling the bodies of their brethren. The pikes were of no use in close quarters. As soon as the charge was effectively halted, the Derolian pike men dropped their steel tipped staffs, drawing sword and ax.
Where they could, the humans held the line and pushed the Hackles back against their own forces. Many of the trailing Ulrog were unable to gain proximity to the enemy and remained ineffective. The Ulrog charge stalled, but Portlo knew it was only a matter of time before it swelled again.
Temujen’s task was complete. He split Greeb’s army in two and worked feverishly to widen the gap between the priests and their main force. His horsemen rode in an ever-increasing circle within a sea of cleaver armed stone men.
The chieftain was proud. Proud as he watched the efficient riding of his force. Proud as he noted how each man risked little and took what small advantage the enemy provided. Temujen reined in at the center of the circle. He spun Hershon north.
Two hundred yards up the slope he eyed the stalking figure of Greeb as the Malveel paced like a caged animal. A small group of Ulrog headed toward the battle from the Malveel’s location. The flash of red robes in the moonlight indicated the presence of priests and Temujen calculated how much longer his riders would dominate the fight. Certainly his advantage would fade quickly as the fire of Chaos entered the fray. The Derolians to the south would not hold for much longer.
“Timing,” thought the Eru chieftain.
Always it came down to the decision of one to chart a course for the lives of many.
Ader had seen enough. He spun from the boulder and drove his legs up the slope of the hill. Eidyn and Kael nervously glanced to one another then followed the Seraph. The grassy hill continued for a hundred yards then transformed into the granite of the Scythtar Mountains. Boulders both large and small lay scattered about the foot of the mountain from years of landslides. Ader picked his way between the boulders and followed the mountain’s base to the east.
“The boulders will help obscure us from the plains as we move toward the opening of the Mnim,” said the Seraph. “Hopefully, the Ulrog and their master are properly distracted.”
The bodies of Ulrog Hackles lay scattered about the swirling maelstrom of Temujen’s riders. Unfortunately, a number of horses and their riders lay amongst the dead as well. The Ulrog halted the growth of the split within their forces and methodically worked to close it. A group of larger Hackles used a pair of stallions’ carcasses to create a barrier. They attacked passing riders with both cleaver and stone. The barrier prevented the riders from closing on the Hackles, keeping the Ulrog free from effective counterattack.
In a burst of light, the fire of Chaos swept across the battle. Several horsemen were caught in the conflagration. The Ulrog Hackles engaging those riders felt the pain of the fire as well. Riders dropped from their horses, rolling on the ground to extinguish the flames engulfing them. Horses bolted, wild eyed, their flesh alive with fire. Flame soaked Ulrog staggered about roaring in pain and swinging their cleaver at anything within their range. The order of war disintegrated into pandemonium.
Temujen took stock of his situation. One-third of the ground his force occupied turned into confusion and chaos. His circle of riders broke and priests moved on his position. Soon the flames of Chaos would sweep the entire battlefield. The ensuing disarray favored the Ulrog. The Eru were at their best riding in battle patterns established over hundreds of years. Like an elaborate dance, the Eru would be lost if the music changed.
A premonition caused the chieftain to turn his attention to the slope. In the darkness behind the advancing priests, Temujen watched the red orb move down toward the battle. It was time.
“ERU!” cried the chieftain. “Retreat!”
Greeb raked at the stunted grass of the Scythtar’s foothills, moving purposefully toward battle. He had seen enough. The Eru formed one of their intricate rides of death. Horses, riding in opposite directions, danced in front of his confused Hackles. As a beast slashed at one moving target another appeared to plunge a sword or spear into the Hackle’s side.
His decision to send Cortik forward was correct. Brute force and power was needed against such a precise attack pattern. He wasted the priests by holding them on the slopes. Cortik’s appearance effected immediate results. The Eru circle wavered and the ensuing chaos disrupted the rider’s pattern.
However, the Eru recovered and adjusted to the presence of the priest. They moved clear of Cortik’s range and avoided his flame. True power was needed to break the Eru and it would come from Greeb. The Malveel rushed forward, his rough wings rasping against his scaly hide.
Greeb hammered through those Ulrog on the fringes of the battle. Roars arose from the Hackles as their master joined them.
“Good,” thought Greeb. “I help motivate the beasts.”
The Ulrog parted and Cortik turned to his commander. The High Priest’s eyes glowed with the fire of Chaos and fervor to do Amird’s bidding.
“My lord, the Eru circle weakens,” shouted Cortik through a smile of shattered shale.
“Then we shall smash it,” snarled Greeb.
A cry of retreat arose from amongst the riders and they spun west. Greeb watched in frustration as the Eru built a wedge of horses and drove from within the Ulrog force.
Portlo continued to direct his line, but kept a discerning eye on the battle that raged a hundred yards north. The Eru riders were easily seen from his perch upon the stallion’s back and the steward watched their circle as it sped past the dancing flames of Chaos. It wouldn’t be long. He chanced a glance to his support unit stationed fifty yards southeast from his line of infantry.
A line of men knelt in the stunted grass and stared at the battle raging before them. Each man clutched a longbow and carried a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. A second row of bowmen knelt a stride behind the first.
A shout arose from the north followed by a roar. Portlo’s head snapped around and he watched as Eru riders streamed from amidst the Ulrog, pounding an opening through the enemy ranks and escaping to the west.
The steward spun his mount southeast and the stallion leapt toward his archers. Lieutenants amongst the battling infantry noted his departure and shouted orders to their men.
“Ready yourselves,” they shouted over the clang of steel.
Portlo swung wide of his bowmen and reined in just behind their line. He ordered torches lit and they were staked beside his position, illuminating him in the darkness.
“Ready,” shouted the steward.
The first line of bowmen stood and notched arrows.
“Woodsmen! Retreat!” shouted the lieutenants above the din.
Portlo’s infantry broke from the Ulrog and ran toward the line of archers. The Hackles hesitated for a moment allowing their enemy to remove themselves from the battle. Without their priests to exhort them, the Ulrog were unsure of their response.
Suddenly, a large Hackle responded to the apparent cowardice of the running woodsmen. He raised his
bloodied cleaver on high and released a shout of triumph. Others picked up his call and the Ulrog army rushed southeast sensing victory.
“Aim!” called Portlo.
The lieutenants led their sprinting infantry into the firing line of their own archers. Eyes widened as they beheld a hundred steel tipped shafts drawn tightly and aimed at their heads. They ran for a half dozen more strides. The Ulrog closed on the weary fighters.
“Drop!” screamed the lieutenants.
The infantrymen threw themselves forward onto the trampled grasses of the Erutre.
“Fire!”
The strum of a hundred longbows vibrated on the wind. Wild-eyed infantrymen hugged the earth and beheld a hundred black fletched hornets silhouetted for a moment against the gleaming stars of the night sky. The hornets buzzed over their heads and were gone. The men immediately rose and rushed toward their comrades again.
The Ulrog were too dimwitted to understand the unusual tactic of their enemy. The humans dropped to the ground. This puzzling action simply provided a prone and more easily dispatched enemy to the Ulrog mind.
Suddenly, several Hackles were halted in their tracks as if confronted by an invisible wall. Some were ripped from their feet by the force of the longbow at such close range. Sparks showered the dry grasses as steel ripped through their flinty hides. Arrows deflected from the armor of some Hackles only to be redirected into the body of a neighbor. The Ulrog rush slowed.
“Drop!” shouted the lieutenants leading the retreat southeast.
“Fire!” barked Portlo from behind the second line of bowmen.
Ulrog spun, shoved and hammered to escape the angry sting of the Derolian arrows. Dozens fell clutching wound or shaft, pumping their black blood onto the pale green grass of the Erutre. Those trailing in the charge were stunned to run headlong into the wide-eyed faces of their panicked comrades. The Ulrog rush halted.
The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Page 26
