Ader moved like a ghost from boulder to boulder as he crept up the slope of the Mnim’s opening. Kael and Eidyn followed, taking great care to match the Seraph’s footsteps. The trio saw no one, but they studied every rock on their journey up the mountain valley. Kael was well aware of the Grey Elf’s confidence in his powers of detection, but the boy had also seen how easily the Ulrog disappeared in their mountain surroundings.
Within moments the group probed deeply into the valley and Ader showed no signs of slowing. Kael fought hard to keep up with the Seraph, but the clash of the battle below played on his attention. The boy slowed, glanced over his shoulder and stared as black figures danced across raging fires in the fields below.
“They’ve chosen their path,” stated Ader without turning. “You cannot help them. Your task lies on the spine of the great mountains. It’s there that you should focus your attention.”
Ader continued to hike up the mountain in long, purposeful strides. Kael turned his face north and obediently followed.
Cortik shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. His master approached. Should he pursue the horsemen or push on to the infantry below? Such was the problem faced by all the minions of such a fickle lord. Certainly the horsemen were both the greater threat and the greater prize. However, once the Eru chose to retreat, it made little sense for the Ulrog to follow. The Hackles were simply too slow to pose a threat to the fleeing horsemen. Also, if they pursued too far, they ran the risk of spreading their numbers and opening themselves to counterattack. No, Cortik chose the stationary infantry target, an easier victory. Greeb skulked into the circle of Cortik’s attendants.
“Cortik,” snarled the beast. “I ordered the Hackles to focus on the horsemen.”
The high priest bowed and kept his head lowered.
“Yes, my lord,” whimpered the priest, “but when the horsemen retreated, I was forced to shift targets. The Hackles are too slow to challenge the fleeing horsemen.”
The Malveel’s lip quivered in disdain, but he quickly agreed with the priest’s assessment.
“The Derolians leave themselves vulnerable without the support of the riders,” continued Cortik. “We possess an opportunity to wipe them out and open the Derol to conquest from the East.”
Greeb’s red eye narrowed and he studied the face of his second in command. The priest was right. The horsemen may have slipped through his fingers, but the woodsmen would find no speedy means of escape. They ventured from their beloved wood, their refuge. They might still attempt to scurry back to its protection now, but they would be hard pressed to achieve escape with the entire Mnim Ulrog pursuing. The Ulrog surrounding the Malveel gazed at Greeb in anticipation of his orders.
A growl built in Greeb’s belly. The thought of eradicating the Derolians and their Astelan allies from the Derol took hold of him.
“But what of the Eru?” whispered the voice in his head. “They goad you. They draw you out away from the Mnim. Why?”
“What of the horsemen?” barked Greeb aloud.
“Southwest, my lord,” replied Cortik. “They rode in nearly the opposite direction of the infantry.”
Roars of fury and agony erupted from the Ulrog vanguard. Greeb’s scaly head rose above his Ulrog attendants and the great red orb scanned to the southeast. A mass of gray and black Ulrog ran about in a confused frenzy. In the poor light, Greeb was unable to determine their actions. However, it was clear the Hackles encountered a line of Derolian archers stationed fifty yards to the southeast. Torches lay about the archers and the light silhouetted the Steward Portlo sitting upon horseback. The pennant of Astel fluttered beside him. The steward directed the archer’s movements, hammering the Ulrog charge with a deadly salvo of arrows. Greeb’s face contorted in a fit of fury.
“BRING FIRE DOWN UPON THE ARROGANT ASTELAN AND HIS RABBLE!” bellowed Greeb. “CHAR THEIR BONES!”
A great razor tipped claw slashed forward driving Cortik’s attendants toward the fray. Trackers fanned out bringing the order to priests scattered along the Ulrog charge. Cortik snapped about and charged forward as fire pulsed from his fingertips.
Greeb stood rigid. His muscles tensed and he tried to contain himself. Again the Astelans tried to thwart his plans. He would have none of it. Their fragile alliance with the Eru shattered upon the first charge of his Hackles. They were abandoned. Now these arrogant manipulators fought alone and outmatched against the Ulrog of the Mnim. Greeb’s Ulrog.
The remnants of the rabble that caused him his greatest defeat would pay for shaming him in the eyes of Amird. Once he annihilated them, the door would be open for Sulgor to invade the Derol. A huge victory for his masters that would hasten the return of Amird to this world. Greeb would be raised up for his service and those who mocked him would pay.
The Malveel eyed the steward of Astel. The weak human cantered up and down the line of archers, exhorting his men to victory. Greeb snarled in disgust. He proclaimed the man’s death. It would be a great motivator for his Hackles. The Malveel dug his claws into the rich, black earth of the Erutre and launched himself toward the fight.
The bowmen shielded their eyes and reeled back as a second wave of blistering fire swept toward their position. The Ulrog priests were unable to reach the bowmen with the flame, but the heat was enough to scorch a man. Soon the priests of Amird would force their advance and Portlo and his men would be engulfed.
“Concentrate your fire on the priests,” shouted the steward. “They must not advance.”
His bowmen sped arrows into the areas from which the flame emitted, but this tactic allowed the remaining Ulrog to advance. Several of the beasts reached the archery line and disrupted the steady flow of arrows. The Ulrog advance forced many archers to drop their bows and draw their steel.
Portlo’s thoughts jumped to the inevitable. The priests surrounded themselves with Hackles, using their minions as shields. Soon they would be close enough to cause massive damage to his men. The time was near, but again it was his decision and it to be exact.
An exhortation for the support of the Lord of Chaos boomed from the Ulrog line. A large priest in red robes pushed forward surrounded by a contingent of equally huge Hackles. The priest raised his hands above the heads of his brethren and unleashed a brilliant stream of flame.
Portlo’s men recoiled from the shear intensity of the light. It swept the archery line setting both earth and men aflame. His archers cried out in panic and agony as they turned and fled. It was time.
“RETREAT!” screamed Portlo, swinging his stallion in wild circles. “RETREAT TO THE WOOD!”
The steward held a moment to ensure all of his injured were attended to. He glanced back to the north and saw the line of Hackles slowly parting as the great red orb stalked through the darkness directly toward his position.
Hai’s hand shot out and restrained Lijon.
“It’s too early,” stated the horseman.
“But they’re dying,” protested the Derolian. “We must go to their aid.”
“The wood is their aid,” returned Hai. “We must let them help themselves. To venture from our position is to invite disaster.”
Lijon relaxed and settled back, nodding his head in agreement.
“Ready your men,” continued Hai. “Portlo will be hard pressed to make the wood before he is overcome. If he cannot, then we will ride to his aid.”
Lijon nodded. The Derolian woodsman spun and crept through the wood informing his men of the possible course of action.
Kael moved swiftly across the broken shale of the Mnim. The valley was narrow, long and deep. Its slope was not much of a challenge for the trio at this point and they quickly distanced themselves from its opening. The noise of the battle faded and was replaced by the wind rushing up the valley from behind. Occasionally, the clang of steel rode upon its currents, but even these sounds disappeared after a time.
The sign of vegetation faded as well. The small group truly entered the Scythtar Mountains. Well-worn paths crisscrossed
the broken shale. Their surface hammered smooth by centuries of heavy, rocky soles beating upon them.
Kael glanced to Ader. The Seraph had recovered fully from his encounter in the rapids of the Frizgard and Kael was stunned at how he pushed the boys. In the halls of Luxlor the stamina and speed of Eidyn were hailed by soldier and statesman alike. Additionally, Kael’s ability to outpace the Elven prince was described as something supernatural. However, the true order of things revealed itself on the slopes of the Scythtar. The Seraph demonstrated why he was dubbed Heartstrong.
Ader danced across a steep section of rocky trail and turned to his companions.
“We’ve made excellent time,” stated the Seraph. “If we keep this pace we will reach the ridge line trail within the hour.”
“So soon?” replied a shocked Eidyn.
“There is a reason the Mnim is so heavily guarded,” answered Ader. “It is an easily accessed crossroads. The knife-edge of the Scythtar dips to meet the Mirozert.
“Hopefully the battle below rages for days and we rescue Lilywynn, but if the Malveel and his army decide to break off the battle, it would behoove us to be high along the ridge line to escape detection. Then our difficulty will not only be the girl’s rescue, but also how we exit the Scythtar.”
Kael and Eidyn exchanged a nervous glance then both peered back down the blackened valley toward the distant plains.
“Don’t worry,” smiled Ader. “The beast typically makes camp in the lower basin of the valley. There is no need for him to retreat to the heights. We should go undetected up here while we wait for Lilywynn and her captors. Avra blessed our quest by delivering us into the hands of the Eru. We made great speed across the grasslands and I’m confident we arrive before Lilywynn even if her guard chose to forgo rest.”
“Hopefully,” stated Eidyn weakly.
Portlo laid his heels into the flanks of his stallion and the animal erupted from the grasses. Most of his men were accounted for and those who required assistance were slung over the shoulders of their comrades. Fifty yards separated the Ulrog from his archers and Portlo prayed it was enough to keep his force ahead of the pursuit. The Derol stood a mere three quarters of a league away, but it seemed like a different world.
Periodically a dark bolt whistled past the steward as he sped to catch his men. Portlo held no fear of the bolts. The Derolian woodsmen were the standard by which all other archers were judged. They were employing a simple tactic. Four or five men near the lead of the retreat would stop, turn and fire into the midst of their pursuers. This slowed the already laborious pursuit by the Ulrog and allowed those woodsmen lagging an opportunity to catch up.
Portlo chanced a glance over his shoulder and was shocked to see how closely the Ulrog maintained their pursuit. His eyes widened even further as he spied the red orb leading the charge. The stony horned head of the Malveel stood out black against the wildfire ignited in the grasslands. Greeb’s actions motivated his minions. Never before had the Ulrog displayed such a passionate will. They lusted for death and destruction. Excellent, thought Portlo, they shall receive death and destruction.
A rumble of pleasure spasmed through Greeb’s body as he ripped across the Erutre toward the Astelan retreat. The steward’s face shown with shock as he turned to check the pursuit. The fool expected to see mindless Hackles lumbering across the grasslands. Certainly he didn’t expect to see them led by a Malveel lord.
The rules changed and Greeb reveled in the fact that he was the instrument of their change. No longer would he encounter these arrogant humans with the restraint Sulgor forced upon him. No longer would conquest be delayed in favor of patience. These humans grew over confident. Years of toying with them infused hope. Greeb prepared to dash those hopes as he dashed their brains against the stones.
Why did they goad the Malveel from his stronghold? The answer appeared obvious to Greeb now. How could he have not seen it before? They did not goad him for a hidden purpose. These humans actually believed they could achieve victory. Sulgor and Izgra coddled them for so long they grew delusional. Greeb would wash away those delusions in a sea of human blood.
The trees were close. Within minutes Portlo and his men would enter their protection. However, dozens of faster Ulrog and their Malveel master covered the same distance with astonishing speed. They closed the gap with the Derolians to a slight twenty yards. His men would be forced to take cover immediately.
The first of Portlo’s archers reached the tree line and spun in behind massive trunks. Instantly, they notched arrows and fired at the pursuing Ulrog. Sparks erupted from flinty hides that saved the lives of their wearers. Others were torn from their feet and dropped into the tall grass of the Erutre, oily blood pumping from their wounds.
The Malveel slowed, raking the air with his claws as arrows buzzed past him. The first dozen Ulrog runners did not see him halt and continued their charge. The Ulrog trailing Greeb froze and frantically searched for cover.
What was he thinking? He was a Malveel lord, not one of the mindless drones who enforced the will of Amird upon others. Greeb’s powers were formidable, but foremost among his attributes were his brains. To be lost to the bolts of a dozen archers was absurd. Amird created Hackles for such work. The stone men’s lives were expendable. The Malveel spun and crouched low in order to lessen the target he afforded the Derolians.
“Do you abandon your lord to face the filthy humans alone?” roared Greeb.
Wild-eyed Hackles and red robed priests raced to surround their leader. Greeb heaved and gnashed the air. More Derolians entered the wood. Arrows poured from the trees in greater quantities. The Derol erupted like a disturbed hornets nest.
Hackles on the outer edge of the group roared in pain as arrows split their hides. Black blood oozed down as they dropped. Greeb’s long neck rose above the heads of his servants and his eye blazed red. He invoked the name of his master and sprayed the forest’s edge with flame.
“Burn them out,” commanded the Malveel, “then cut them down.”
The priests immediately surrounded themselves with guards and advanced on the wood, dousing it in red flame. The remaining Hackles fanned out and lumbered forward swinging their cleavers before them. Greeb allowed himself a wicked smile as a great claw reached toward the back of his neck and worked a long, black fetched arrow from between two massive, stony scales. When it was free he threw the bolt to the ground and ran a claw across the wound. The claw came away covered in the blackness.
The last of Portlo’s men dashed into the wood, hotly pursued by the lead dozen Hackles. The steward had not counted on such passion from the Ulrog. Typically, the stone men shunned the woods. It was something with which they were unfamiliar. Certainly the presence of their master fostered such blind obedience. Hopefully this blindness could be exploited in Portlo’s favor.
The steward leapt from his horse and drew his sword. An attendant grabbed the stallion’s lead and rushed it deeper into the wood. Portlo moved in beside a tall oak.
“Hold your arrows,” cried the steward. “Wait until they are upon us. These Hackles were wasted by their lord!”
The dozen Ulrog covered the remaining steps in an instant.
“Fire!” shouted the steward as he dashed from behind the tree.
Immediately, the Hackles were riddled with arrows. Their bodies quaked left then right as they were struck at point blank range from one direction then the other. A particularly large Ulrog fought through at least eight hits and entered the wood wielding his cleaver. Portlo leapt upon the beast instantly, parrying a clumsy thrust and delivering a deathblow.
A cry from a nearby archer alerted the steward to danger. Roiling flames spanned the distance between the main Ulrog line and the wood. The priests moved on his position. Portlo dove behind the oak as flame engulfed the forest’s edge. A moment later the fire of Chaos dissipated, but the damage was done.
A handful of archers ran deeper into the wood screaming in pain as fire crawled across their clothing. Portl
o watched as the figure of Lijon dashed from behind a towering oak. The woodsman threw his body into one of his flaming brethren and slammed the man to the ground. Quickly Lijon scooped dirt and debris from the forest’s floor and poured it onto his prone companion. The flames smothered and died.
The trees on the forest’s edge were aflame. It danced amongst their branches and crawled across the forest floor to ignite other dry timber. The remaining archers retreated, moving deeper into the woods. Portlo ran with them. Twenty yards into the darkness he was startled by a figure stepping into his path. Hai quickly bowed.
“Are your losses light?” asked the rider.
“My force is not significantly weakened,” replied Portlo heaving from his run.
“The Ulrog show an unusual degree of fervor,” stated Hai. “I did not expect them to challenge the wood this early in the game.”
“Nor I,” returned Portlo. “Your father may return to find our corpses. The plan called for him to remain out of sight for several hours. Again timing is at the heart of our plan.”
“Do not worry,” smiled Hai. “Temujen will send scouts to monitor the battle. Once he has assessed the situation he will return inside the time allotted.”
Portlo acknowledged the assurance with a nod.
“I leave you now,” continued Hai. “You must not show your strength until we are set to sweep out from the northern wood.”
“My strength may not be enough to hold these woods, let alone drive the Ulrog back into the open,” scoffed Portlo, “but we do what we must.”
The steward slapped Hai upon the back and a broad grin flashed across his face.
“Avra protect you, Hai,” smiled Portlo.
The Eru rider smiled in return and dashed north.
The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Page 27
