The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  CHAPTER 22: THE FOREST’S EDGE

  The stream of arrows from the Derol slowed then abruptly stopped. The flames that Greeb and his priests unleashed crawled across the face of the wood with a life of their own. Periodically, one of his priests washed the Derol in flame. The Derolians retreated from the heat and set up a defensive position some distance within the wood.

  Greeb faced a difficult choice. His Ulrog feared the wood and had never done well when forced to enter it. Additionally, venturing into the wood took Greeb and his army further from their valley stronghold. The Malveel lord was not naive. Temujen and his Eru riders removed themselves from the fight, but they were no cowards. If Greeb entered the wood in pursuit of the Derolians, he exposed his rear to the riders. If Temujen returned, the chieftain might delay the Malveel’s retreat to the Mnim and cause serious damage to the Ulrog forces along the way.

  Greeb cursed and spat the name of the Eru. Even if the horsemen returned, Greeb’s force was too large to overcome. However, at its worst, the battle might weaken Greeb’s position so seriously that Sulgor and Izgra would be forced to delay their conquest of Zodra. This type of delay would not be tolerated by his masters, especially a delay caused by disobeying their explicit orders.

  The Malveel stood lost in thought as he peered at the leaping flames devouring the Derol. Nothing short of complete annihilation of the woodsmen would be accepted by Sulgor. Destroy the woodsmen and you open a new door for Sulgor to the West. Failure and retreat would simply weaken his force.

  Greeb weighed his alternatives and decided. Retreat to the Mnim now. Minimal losses and the Eru driven further south. Sulgor would learn little of the battle and question nothing. Suddenly, Cortik appeared at his right hand.

  “My lord,” growled the high priest. “The Derolians retreat from the wood’s edge. My priests waste themselves by igniting timber already charred black.”

  Greeb raised a brow in thought.

  “Tell them to stop,” stated the Malveel calmly and his gaze returned to the flames.

  Cortik sensed his master’s mood.

  “Lord Greeb, the Derolian are masters of the wood. They know its ways and windings. They need neither light nor pathway to navigate it,” said Cortik. “If we venture into its darkness, we most certainly will receive heavy casualties.”

  The High Priest’s face twitched as he braced for the response. Greeb’s eye lost its fire and the Malveel slowly turned back to the High Priest. He hesitated a moment then replied.

  “Call your Hackles back into formation,” snarled Greeb. “The Horde of mighty Amird will not be drawn into the Derol to be toyed with by the chattering squirrels inhabiting its branches. When the time comes, Amird will lead us to this place and we will uproot the oaks and shake the woodsmen from the trees. Today, I will spare them, so one day my lord will bathe in their blood.”

  The Malveel spun and moved away from the light of the fires. He remained surrounded by trackers and attendants. Cortik waited until Greeb turned then allowed a slight smile of relief to crack across his rigid face.

  Lijon’s men continued their work on the Derol. Trees were strategically felled across certain pathways while alternate trails remained wide open. In other areas, woodsmen severed limbs near through and dropped them to hang by a small portion of their width. These great tangles of branch and leaf created additional cover and obstruction. The wood turned into a green and black maze of dead ends and hidden chambers, a maze with its secrets known only to the Derolians.

  The woodsmen set up firing points for their archers. Ax men and Astelan swordsmen huddled in the hidden areas created by the low hanging canopies. Portlo surveyed the wood with a beaming Lijon at his side. All was ready.

  A Derolian scout appeared before the steward. The scout’s face was blistered and soot covered his clothing.

  “Steward Portlo,” coughed the scout, “the Malveel moves from the edge of the Derol. His priests call the Hackles away from the forest.”

  Portlo grimaced. Certainly the Seraph and his charge received enough time to enter the Scythtar. Possibly even enough time to scale the valley into the range’s upper reaches. However, the Ulrog needed to be engaged in a true war in order for the Seraph to slip out again. Portlo fought to obtain as much time as possible for the old man.

  “Lijon,” stated the steward calmly, “continue with any additional preparations. The Ulrog will attack the wood within the hour.”

  Lijon nodded and moved away. He held no reason to doubt the steward’s word, for the steward had never been wrong in all the years the huge blonde woodsman served with him. Portlo turned and strode purposefully toward the forest’s edge.

  The trio reached a barren, wind scraped plateau at the top of the Mnim Valley. Kael found it both difficult to stand and hear. The southern wind raced up the Mnim and ripped over the top of this plateau.

  “The Scythtar ridge,” stated Ader.

  Kael investigated their surroundings. He stood atop a flat stretch of broken rubble that sat upon the upper end of a great flood of stone and rock that comprised the whole of the Western Mnim. It was as if a river of stone had one day washed down the mountain, blasting it open and settling in the wide fissure known as the Mnim.

  To the east, the saddle of the ridgeline trail ran for a half league then dipped and disappeared behind the crown of the last of the Mirozert Mountains. The lesser range ran to the southern horizon bordered by the dark skirt of the Derol for countless leagues. In the moonlight, the dark, hulking shapes of the Mirozert peaks crowded over the endless Erutre plains.

  Ader moved the group north for a hundred yards and they halted before a cliff that dropped into infinite darkness. For the first time Kael looked down into the land of Zodrians’ nightmares. The Northern Wastes lie in inky darkness, huddled in the frozen land beyond the Scythtar. The moon seemed incapable of penetrating the shadows cast from the mountains, shadows that stretched north.

  “The Scythtar Mountains guard this land more capably than the spawn of Amird,” stated Ader. “This is one of the few passes from the South into the Wastes and even here one must travel west to find the trail that winds down to its broken, frozen surface.”

  Kael turned to face the length of the Scythtar. The saddle he stood upon rose sharply toward the towering peaks to the west. A winding path, beaten into the river of broken shale, climbed toward those peaks. Kael stood upon the end of the ridgeline trail, the dangerous conduit the Ulrog used when trying to rush between Kel Izgra and destinations west. This was the trail Ulrog Hackles dragged Lilywynn along. The boy turned to Eidyn and noted the Elf’s nervousness.

  “Eidyn, station yourself there,” said Ader pointing to a jumble of boulders just off the trail. “Keep hidden.”

  The Elf quietly obeyed the instructions. Ader crossed to the opposite side of the trail and settled behind a similar bundle.

  “Kael, you are with me,” stated Ader.

  Kael followed the Seraph and sat beside him. When Ader seemed comfortable, he leaned against the boulder and closed his eyes. Kael sat nervously craning his head over the top of the boulders, peering up the slope toward the Scythtar’s peaks.

  “What now?” the boy asked nervously.

  “We wait,” stated Ader calmly.

  Slowly the Ulrog returned to their ranks. Greeb wanted a tight formation on the march back to the Mnim. The Malveel searched the darkness to the west. Temujen rode out there somewhere. The Eru chieftain still commanded a sizable host of riders. The Derolians hid in their woods and posed no threat for now, but the riders were a different matter. Greeb exercised patience. There was no need to rush. Better that he gather the Ulrog into a solid unit as opposed to spreading them out across the Erutre.

  The burning Derol hissed and popped behind him. Its dry tinder would burn for hours. The Derolians probably huddled within the darkness a half league from the light and cautioned one another against approaching it. His priests were feared.

  Time dragged on and Greeb convinced him
self that he chose correctly. Why challenge Sulgor’s orders now? Centuries had passed while he displayed patience. He held himself in check during its entire stretch. To act rashly now would be to jeopardize all the rewards of his early restraint.

  However, would he ever be in a position to challenge Sulgor? His failure years ago in Astel removed him from Amird’s eye. Certainly he was still one of the Chosen, but an afterthought with his master Amird. Viewed as nothing more than a servant, never again to attain the high status he once held. Now is when he commanded the Hackles of the Scythtar. Now is when thousands would follow his commands.

  A roar erupted from the ranks of his army. Greeb spun back toward their body, anger in his eye. He bore down on the figure of Cortik who stood staring at the woods.

  “What is it, priest?” barked Greeb.

  The High Priest turned in a sweep of red robes, his black teeth exposed in a grimace of hatred.

  “Nothing, my lord,” snarled Cortik pointing back to the wood. “A fool of a Derolian shouts insults from the wood. We must depart.”

  “Yes,” returned Greeb. “Send your Hackles in a tight formation to the mouth of ...”

  “The flames of Chaos can do no harm against a man armed with the word of Avra,” shouted a voice from within the flame.

  Greeb’s coiled body froze and the red orb darted across the dancing flames.

  “Be gone, spawn of Amird,” bellowed the voice. “You defile the world of Avra with your presence.”

  “Portlo,” hissed the Malveel softly.

  “My lord,” broke in Cortik. “We leave the Mnim open to the Eru. They may have circled to the north and blocked it from our return.”

  “Sun up,” cried the voice. “You have until sun up to crossover the Mnim and return to your frozen homeland.”

  “Arrogant! Boastful!” rumbled Greeb glaring into the fire.

  The red orb narrowed into a slit that grew blood red in intensity.

  “.... Sun up! Or we will be forced to remove you from the valley! ...”

  Greeb’s cavernous chest rumbled and a low growl grew within. The Malveel’s body coiled even lower toward the ground.

  “My lord,” shouted Cortik in an attempt to drown out the voice within the flames. “We must retreat and wait for the arrival of Lord Sulgor. He will certainly know how to deal with this rabble of humans.”

  The orb opened wide and Greeb’s massive right claw snapped up toward his High Priest. In an instant the scaly paw wrapped about Cortik’s neck and head, covering the priest’s entire face. Cortik thrashed and struggled to breath. The onyx claws grated across the rocks encrusting the priest’s skull. Greeb’s eye skirted about as he inspected the priest with a look of hatred and disdain.

  “RETREAT!” snapped the Malveel. “WE WILL NOT RETREAT! I do not need Lord Sulgor to show me how to deal with these humans.”

  A muffled, hollow cry built in the back of Cortik’s throat as the hand of Greeb closed tighter and tighter about his head. Lines of black, oily blood trickled down the Ulrog’s head from those spots where the black claws sliced through stone and hide. The priest locked two stony hands on Greeb’s forearm.

  “My lord, NO!”

  “Sulgor will come to the Eru and find the bodies of these Derolians stacked in piles before him,” shouted Greeb.

  The hand flexed further. Cortik howled and quaked, unable to break free. Greeb’s upper lip twitched uncontrollably.

  “BE GONE! DOG OF IZGRA, BEFORE MY FOLK PLUCK OUT YOUR REMAINING EYE!”

  Greeb’s head snapped toward the flames, his eye penetrating its blinding-light and pinpointing the shadow of Portlo moving behind it. The Malveel ripped his hand free from the skull of Cortik. The High Priest dropped to the ground clutching his head and howling in agony. Greeb’s oil covered hand swept toward the wood, spraying the blood of his priest across the Hackles.

  “Into the wood,” screamed the Malveel. “We finish this tonight!”

  The Ulrog, caught in the fever pitch of bloodlust, roared in approval and poured toward the flames of the Derol. Cortik writhed on the ground, his hands wrapped around his head. Greeb stepped over his body. The Malveel lord’s chest heaved. He watched as his Hackles streamed into the wood.

  “You have baited and goaded me this night, Portlo of Astel,” murmured the beast. “You desire this battle. I know not why, and no longer care. You will get what you want and you shall rue its coming.”

  “The Ulrog have entered the wood,” wheezed the breathless scout.

  “Good,” replied Hai. “Now it is up to Steward Portlo and the Derolian woodsmen. We will give the Hackles more time to become ensnared.”

  Portlo moved through the woods rapidly, the scheme of the snare locked in his memory. The false trails and dead ends danced in his mind. Within moments the steward stood beside Lijon, surrounded by runners.

  “They come,” he stated through an expressionless face.

  The moon glowed across the white of the painted horse’s hide. The horse was normally not a favorite of Eru scouts. Its coloring made it far too visible in the night. However, this particular animal was fast and its rider fearless. The horseman guided the paint over the top of a slight hill and charged down into a sea of men and horses. The sea parted and the small horse sped through their midst to the side of Temujen, chieftain of the Erutre.

  “Noma, in this light that horse glitters like the waters of the Frizgard,” called Temujen to the scout. “He will be the death of you.”

  The scout reined in smiling.

  “He will only be the death of me if those who discover his brilliance can catch him,” laughed Noma,“and none ever will.”

  Temujen returned the scout’s smile.

  “What have you?” asked the chieftain.

  The smile dropped from the scout’s face.

  “The Ulrog move into the wood,” replied Noma. “The Malveel remains poised at its edge.”

  Temujen allowed a grim smile.

  “We will allow the Derolians to abuse the Hackles in their maze. When Greeb discovers his folly, we shall move upon him.”

  Hackles lumbered through the flames knocking charred timber aside. Normal fire hardly affected their tough hides. After the first dozen passed through the flames consuming the forests tinder, much of it was smothered. Those Hackles that hesitated became emboldened by their comrades and raced forward. Greeb remained just outside the wood surrounded by trackers.

  The Hackles paused within the forest’s darkness. More Ulrog poured forward and became hemmed in by their brethren. The wood was unfamiliar territory to them. In their limited experience within the confines of the Derol, the Hackles had suffered grievous losses.

  “Spread out,” roared a red robed priest as he encountered the jam of Hackles. “You are ripe for the arrows of the woodsmen. They have naught to hide behind but trunk and limb. Move forward and you will ferret the woodsmen from their hiding places. Slaughter them where they stand!”

  The vanguard of the Ulrog grunted in reply and immediately rushed forward into the darkness. More Ulrog pushed past the flames at the forest’s edge and replaced their comrades. They raced past tree and bush, alert for any movement. Except for the command of the priest, they were a leaderless band of roving killers, looking for anything to strike down.

  Within moments the lead Hackles fanned across the wood, moving in a steady lumbering line through its darkness. Slundoc dashed along with them. The tracker would have exercised greater caution if he could, but Greeb was specific. The Malveel lord required updates on everything in order to direct the battle. Slundoc planned to return to the forest’s edge as soon as the Ulrog made contact with the Derolians.

  The tracker noted how the forest closed around him. To his left the wood thickened so significantly that he lost sight of many of the Hackles supporting his position. A quick glance to his right confirmed the same impression. It appeared that he and the fifty or so Ulrog running alongside him were isolated from the main force, sprinting down a tunnel of
trees.

  The tracker slowed and his coal black eyes surveyed his surroundings. Roaring Hackles bumped and battered past the smaller tracker. Their indignation evident by how they carried themselves. The Ulrog fighters were forced to accept Greeb’s command from the trackers, but they were well aware of who did the real fighting. Disdain for the trackers ran high in the Horde.

  Slundoc’s eyes lifted into the trees above as more huge Hackles rumbled past him. A flash of near white caught his eye as the strong southern breeze pushed the forest’s canopy aside for just a moment and allowed the moonlight to penetrate deep into the woods. The tracker moved sidelong through the steady stream of Ulrog, his eyes locked upon the location of the white flash.

  It dazzled him again. This time however, the tracker inspected the source and clearly saw the perfect white circle of the severed limb standing out in the darkness. The cut was recent. The woodsmen must have severed the bough and dropped it into the wood below. Slundoc followed the course of the huge fallen limb. It choked one side of the tunnel from any type of passage. It was strategically placed.

  His eyes danced up and down the tunnel of trees as the remnants of the Ulrog charge passed him. More white spots jumped out in sharp contrast to the darkness around them. The fallen trees and limbs created a corridor deeper into the wood.

  Recognition changed to panic. The Ulrog were not on a bloody rampage into the wood to slaughter Derolians. Instead, they were being herded forward to their deaths. Slundoc spun and dashed toward the backs of the advancing stone men.

  “HALT!” bellowed the tracker.

  Lijon stood at the end of the trap behind a blind created from evergreen boughs and tree trunks. The evergreen’s thick needles acted as an excellent screen to obscure him from the charging Ulrog. His men bound the logs so solidly together a battering ram would be required to break them apart. The big woodsman found difficulty recognizing the shadows of his brethren stationed behind a similar screen across the tunnel of trees. At least a dozen bowmen on each side of the tunnel held their longbows taut, straining against their release.