He did not need his sight. He could scent the Elf. Each step of the small creature floated to him on the air. The wind ripped up the valley but it could not overpower Greeb’s hearing. Amird crafted him a hunter and even without sight, Greeb was in his element. The Malveel could hear the blood coursing through the frightened Elf’s veins. The tiny creature stood frozen, a half dozen yards to Greeb’s north.
It must be huddled behind a boulder near the edge of the cliff, thought Greeb. It was trapped. Greeb edged forward.
“You stole my eye,” growled the beast.
The pulse of the hunted quickened.
“Yet your poison worked too slowly,” snarled the enraged Malveel. “I removed the eye before the poison passed into my veins.”
The Elf edged to Greeb’s left, backing from the Eastern Mnim. The Malveel heard the wind tear across the little man’s clothes. He heard the heart pound in its chest. He tasted the fear as the Elf crept west toward the ridgeline trail.
Greeb kept his head locked toward the Elf’s original position. It had no idea that Greeb tracked it and the Malveel would not betray his secret by following the Elf’s path with his useless eyes. Greeb continued to address the empty hiding spot as he calculated how best to affect the kill.
“I will kill you,” stated Greeb, “because you are completely defenseless against me. It is obvious that you possess no more of your poison or I would be thrashing about on the ground, my limbs on fire.”
The Elf crept further west, but Greeb could cover the distance in a heartbeat if need be. It had no hope of escape, but its other weapons concerned Greeb. Even a small blade wielded by such a creature could find the proper place to kill. The greatest fear of the servants of Amird was their own death. All knew the place prepared for them held nothing but pain. Greeb was no exception to this rule. His lips curled into a wicked smile as he continued to face north. His voice turned melodic.
“You must come to your senses,” sang the rough voice of Greeb. “The Seraph abandons you here to face Amird’s Chosen. Ader De Hartstron cares for nothing save his own skin. You are without help and my Hackles crowd into the valley. It is hopeless.”
The Elf froze. The wind continued to rip at its clothing. Greeb pinpointed its location. His smile widened.
“Come to me.” softly demanded the voice. “I will make your death easy, nearly painless. It will be a relief after all of your struggles, all of your trials and tribulations. You will be allowed to let go of this world. To move on.”
The Elf remained frozen at its location. Greeb’s tongue tasted the air.
“Walk toward me,” demanded Greeb. “Your troubles will wash away ....”
Suddenly, the Malveel tasted a new scent. Unfamiliar. Five yards to the northwest of the Elf, he recognized another heartbeat, another rapid breath. The wind delicately played off the soft clothing of this new figure. What had he missed? Had the Seraph remained hidden along the cliff top? This new enemy somehow managed to elude Greeb.
The Malveel fought hard not to betray his shock. He continued to face the empty cluster of boulders. Were there more? He held the Elf in his control, but what of this other? What weapons did it possess? What abilities?
“Come to me, Elf,” repeated Greeb.
The One Eye lost his concentration. His voice came out flat, lifeless. He rushed the command. The connection was severed. The Elf sprang toward the new scent, a woman’s scent. The pair united somewhere to Greeb’s left, still only several strides from the Malveel. The beast could wait no longer. He would never gain control over two at once. He needed to attack before they formulated a plan.
His great maw widened in a horrible roar and his massive claws locked into the rock beneath him. In an instant Greeb launched himself with his powerful hind legs toward the pair huddling in fright somewhere near the cliff to his left. His front claws swung out to tear them asunder.
CONFUSION! SHOCK!
The pair rose above him even as he dropped upon their last location. Greeb expected to land on the cliff where they had stood, but there was nothing. His stony paws flailed at the emptiness.
TERROR!
His useless wings ripped outward in an attempt to slow the free fall, but his speed increased and he sensed himself dropping quickly from beneath the Elf child and human woman. Fire sprang from his claws and fountained upward at the pair hovering in the blackness above him. The distance was already too great. Greeb cursed them. His situation became clear. He plummeted toward his death on the cold gray rocks of the Northern Wastes five hundred yards below.
With his final breath, Greeb the One Eye, a Chosen of Amird the Deceiver, cursed the demon that created him.
Sprig’s cheek remained pressed to the black silk tightly bound about the waist of his savior. His eyes followed the Malveel as it spiraled downward, spewing flame into the darkness below. In a moment he heard a piercing screech. A pool of bright orange flame erupted and splashed upon the rocks below, briefly illuminating a place that had never seen light.
The Sprite blinked hard then turned up to the woman whose waist he clung to. Her eyes, hovering between a hood and mask of midnight silk, filled Sprig with confidence as the pair swooped from the sky above the Northern Wastes. They alighted on the stony path and Sprig dropped to a knee before the woman. He bowed, lightly took her hand and kissed it tenderly. She bent low as her free hand pulled the mask from her smiling face. Vieri wrapped the little man in her arms and tenderly embraced him.
Woil’s head snapped up from his study of the ridgeline path. The number of the Chosen declined once more.
For centuries the Malveel roamed this world and their number remained constant. The hand of Amird created his brethren in the fiery depths of the Scythtar ages ago. Hunters, bred to track and kill. The first of their quarry proved to be a simple task. Awoi was a fool. Little did the Seraph understand how hatred becomes a powerful motivator. His brother Amird aligned himself with Chaos, but did not fully embrace it. Amird roamed the Scythtar in his search for Awoi, but to no avail. Finally, his frustration became too great. The Deceiver needed assistance in the search for Awoi and the misshapen hag of Zodra. That assistance was offered up in the form of the Malveel, the Hunters.
Amird was called into the places where Chaos thrived. Beneath the roots of the mountains in the dark places, Chaos helped the fallen Seraph breed the tools he required. As each experiment thrived, Amird formulated a plan greater than the simple elimination of his hated brother. Certainly Awoi would fall and with him the concepts of charity and grace would be stamped from the world. However, these Malveel would serve an even greater role in subjugating the creations of Avra.
Chaos prodded Amird forward and showed him his mistakes. The Deceiver attempted to influence and to control the human race. He peddled this influence. Those unaffected by his influence were pressured with his power. However, the humans spread across the land too quickly. Amird would never control all without creatures completely loyal to his word. Thus the Chosen were formed to first discover the whereabouts of Awoi, then facilitate Amird’s rule over the humans.
Now their number had been reduced again. Somewhere one of the Chosen fell. Woil searched the power connecting the beasts.
Greeb. There was emptiness. The One Eye was no more. Woil slowed and his contingent of Ulrog slowed with him. They huddled about their master. The Malveel lord was now only a short march from the Mnim. Something or someone in the mountain valley held the power to destroy the One Eye. This was no small feat. Although Greeb was ridiculed centuries ago for his failure in Astel, all the Chosen save Sulgor still feared the great beast.
Sulgor was the first. His power was greatest. However, ages ago Amird realized he gave too much of himself to his first creation. Its existence was a heavy toll. The Deceiver learned on the stumbling blocks of pride. Sulgor was Amird’s crowning achievement, but the Malveel King could never be matched. Never again did Amird pour so much of himself into any one creature.
Greeb was his second. St
ill Amird gave too much. As each new member of the Chosen came into existence, Amird gave less and less. Their number halted at thirteen.
Woil’s memory stretched back centuries to the time when the Thirteen ran the Scythtar, the first and the greatest of Amird’s packs. At times they ranged together. At times they separated to cover more ground. They tasted the air with their tongues and drank the wind through their flaring nostrils, always on alert for the stench and bitter swallow of Seraph fire. Years they roamed, never picking up the trail.
Finally, one day a small group happened upon a tiny cabin on the steep slopes of the great mountain. Sulgor led the group. Woil and Quirg acted as his servants. They peered from behind the pines as the Seraph and his hag begged their existence from the land. Quirg called for their death, but Sulgor was always the prudent slave of Amird. The Malveel King correctly concluded that Amird wanted the kill for himself.
Sulgor was also no fool. He saw the power Awoi and the woman possessed. The Seraph was still young in this world. Awoi’s spirit had not been long from the hand of Avra. Sulgor would allow his master the kill and save himself any risk from a challenge of the Seraph. It was that day when Woil understood and emulated Sulgor’s genius. Never risk when others are willing to do so.
Although Woil was not in the first order of the thirteen, he prospered and grew powerful by this creed. Fools like Methra the Worm and Quirg Firebreather lost their lives by exposing themselves in foolish attempts to curry favor. Now Greeb challenged an unknown power in an attempt to turn the eyes of Kel Izgra in his direction, and Greeb was dead.
Woil the Shadow cared nothing for favor because he learned on that day long ago that Sulgor did not reward success. However, the Malveel King harshly punished failure. The lesson was simple. Avoid confrontation and survive. Woil slowly turned to face the packs arrayed about him.
“Lord Greeb is no more,” stated the Malveel.
Hundreds of oily, black eyes widened in shock. Growls of confusion rumbled throughout the Ulrog. Woil understood his opportunity. Again he would advance in power as he maneuvered away from danger.
“The Mnim is compromised and must be secured,” stated Woil. “However, I still have responsibilities at the Frizgard crossing. Those who slew the One Eye have most probably fled, lucky to escape our retribution. Our first task is to secure the Scythtar from further attack. The Elves are on the move and infiltrate our lands. Lands dominated by our kind since time immemorial. First, we discover the slaying of our priest at the crossing and now the loss of a Chosen. This news is dire. I must take control where others loosen our grip.
“Ettreck. Send a tracker back to the crossing and inform our packs I assume control of the Scythtar from the crossing to the Mnim. I will issue my commands from Greeb’s seat of power on the Mnim.”
The tracker stepped forward and bowed.
“Yes, my lord,” replied Ettreck.
“And Ettreck,” continued Woil smiling, “rally your trackers. In order for my plans to succeed I will need a steady flow of runners coursing back and forth across the ridgeline. Remember, as my power grows, so does your own.”
Ettreck’s head rose and he stared into the red eyes of the Malveel. A faint smile played across his stony lips.
“Yes, my lord.”
CHAPTER 26: INVITATION ACCEPTED
A thousand leagues away the sun neared the horizon. An hour of light remained and the shadows of the Bear’s Knuckles filled their valleys with a hazy darkness. Brelg and a group of green-garbed recruits crowded about Manfir attending to his weapons and armor. Brelg struggled to force the prince’s hand into a steel mesh gauntlet.
“Remember, he is known as a master with that wicked looking, double headed ax he carries,” stated Brelg. “Keltarans are trained to halt the weapon mid swipe and reverse its direction. It may not be a fatal blow but if he makes you bleed he will weaken you.”
Manfir nodded his head for what seemed like the one-hundredth time at Brelg’s endless litany of suggestions and instructions. The prince tried to take them all in but realized in the end he searched for one lucky circumstance that might afford him victory. The lessons went on as did the preparations.
Flair rode with a small group of cavalry along the eastern edge of the Knuckles.
The boy suggested the patrol for two reasons. First, despite assurances from Fenrel, he did not trust the Ramsskull or their leader. Certainly, the Guard was vulnerable if they allowed a Keltaran force to slip behind them in the growing shadows.
Second, the Southern lad did not wish to be near the preparations of Manfir. Until this point, he and the prince shared a vision on what they could accomplish against the Anvil. Thus far they fulfilled their wildest ambitions. These successes emboldened Flair, but Manfir inexplicably changed tactics. If the giant won this challenge, the Keltaran soldiers would rally to his cause. Was Manfir risking the lives of all his men in this brash gamble to unite the two armies?
One of Flair’s troops called out.
“Movement to the north.” cried the man.
Instantly the horsemen launched their mounts toward two dark figures, small in the distance. The cavalrymen rode hard for a few minutes. Flair’s grim expression softened then flashed into a broad grin as his unit approached the slowly moving figures.
Brelg bent forward to strap a steel shin guard upon Manfir.
“Leave it, my friend,” stated the prince. “On horseback my legs might be vulnerable, but on foot I will need all my mobility to dodge the strokes of the Keltaran.”
Brelg nodded at the logic of the request and tossed the guard aside.
“Do not fool yourself into thinking you can wear this beast down,” said Brelg. “Like all the mountain giants, he will possess unusual stamina. His size will not make him tire quickly. You must find openings and attack aggressively. The more you dance away from him, the more you wear yourself out.”
A buzz grew in the ranks of the Guard and Manfir gazed over their heads to the field beyond. A pair of massive Brodor slowly trotted to midfield. Upon their backs sat Fenrel and his witless guard. The prince wore a golden breastplate embossed with a ram’s skull. Black undergarments ran from his neck to his gauntlets. A steel plated skirt flowed to his knees where the tops of iron bound boots halted. Sweat poured from beneath a golden helm adorned with ram’s horns and his dirty, flame colored hair lay matted to his forehead and shoulders.
The pair reined in and the Keltaran prince dropped from his saddle. He slammed a pike bearing the Ramsskull insignia into the hard packed earth. His guard jumped from the saddle and hastily arranged a weapon’s stand. Quickly he retrieved a pike, staff, broadsword and mace from holsters and scabbards attached to his mount. Finally, the guard removed an enormous dual headed ax from the Brodor and leaned it in the center of the stand. Fenrel stepped forward.
“I make claim on this land for Fenrel Stormbreaker. I choose to extend the Invitation of Hadraig to the murderous cowards of Zodra,” boomed the voice of the giant. “Will any dare accept the challenge?”
Manfir frowned at Brelg.
“Lies upon lies.” said Manfir. “So is the way Amird builds his domain.”
Brelg nodded then gathered Manfir’s weapons within his arms.
“I WILL!” thundered a reply from behind the Guard’s northern rank.
The army spun and immediately opened a corridor for a group exiting from between the Knuckles. Manfir’s eyes widened in shock as Flair and a small cavalry unit led the limping figure of Granu and a haggard Cefiz into the midst of his army.
“I WILL FACE YOU!” called Granu once more toward his stunned brother. “But first I must ask leave to do so from my commander.”
Fenrel spluttered expletives but Granu ignored his brother’s glare and moved through the Guard toward Manfir. A murmur grew amongst the Anvil as well. The distance was too great for the Keltaran to hear the exchange, but several sharp-eyed giants recognized the abbot. Word rapidly spread and the tide of Keltaran soldiers swelled forward, clos
er and closer to the challenge site. Fenrel grew red in anger. He spun and barked at his Ramsskull.
“Keep them in their ranks.” shouted the giant trying to maintain control over his army.
The Ramsskull’s thugs drove up and down the line brandishing their weapons and threatening their own men but already the two armies stood only one hundred yards apart.
“You heard ‘im. Stand your ground!”
“Back in line you dogs, or your wish to be front and center will be granted during our first charge!”
Granu reached Manfir and lightly bowed to the Zodrian. Manfir returned the gesture.
“Young master Flair informs me that you intend to sacrifice yourself to my brother,” said a smiling Granu. “I had grown to believe you were an intelligent man, Zodrian. What has transformed you?”
“Desperation and a desire for victory.” smiled Manfir in return. “The pair forces my hand into questionable action.”
“Suicide is the ultimate act of desperation and accomplishes naught,” stated Granu. “ My brother is a master with both the hammer and the ax. You are without a horse, a severe limitation. You are also outmatched in this battle.”
“That may be true,” returned Manfir, “but the responsibility is mine. I would ask no man to fight in my stead.”
“The responsibility is hardly yours,” laughed Granu. “Justice is every man’s responsibility. Besides, Fenrel is a product of both his own bitter greed for power and my own ignorance. Had I been less concerned with the greater world and gave but small attention to my younger brother, perhaps I could have avoided his downfall. As it is, Fenrel is the responsibility and the failure of the House of Stormbreaker. I will set my own house in order.”
The giant grew grim and in his eyes Manfir saw a determination unlike any he had ever beheld. Still, the prince remained unwilling to pass on the challenge.
“I cannot allow you to ...” began Manfir.
The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Page 33
