The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

“Good people. For your own well being you must evacuate your homes and move east. Leave nothing of use behind. No food. No roaming livestock. No tools. No weapons. If you cannot carry it with you, destroy it.”

  So the army of Manfir passed the last of the small villages of Zodra, departed the remnants of the western road, and marched into the rolling hill country of the western plains. The hills were of no great significance here, their slopes gradual and their heights low. A drought hung in the area as of late and the grasses lay stunted and dry. The draft animals and cavalry mounts required extra foraging time to find sustenance and streams ran low in their beds.

  After several hours trudging over these lands, Manfir spied darkness in the distance. The horizon punched skyward in a fist of five massive humps laid closely together. The army approached and many of the men looked on the Bear’s Knuckles for the first time in their lives.

  The hills inspired awe in those who had never ventured far from the capital. The Knuckles were tall. Their slopes were steep. The base of each hill rose abruptly from the rolling plains and challenged the heartiest of hikers. The passes between them were narrow, dark places.

  The face of each hill mirrored the lands about them. Several small trees grew on their surfaces and a few rocky outcrops peppered the Knuckles, but predominantly their arching slopes were covered with nothing but the stunted grass which populated this area of Zodra.

  The army marched directly at the center hill and soon passed through a ten-yard wide alley between the rapidly ascending slopes of two of the Knuckles. The tight alley forced the cavalry to ride three abreast. The infantry bunched up and marched through six men wide. After ten minutes at this pace Manfir and his cavalry exited the alley and passed the first row of the Bear’s Knuckles onto a wide open plain. Nearly a league in the distance a nearly identical yet slightly taller row of hills stretched toward the sky. Scouts spurred their stallions and shot across the expanse as the army slowly crawled forward.

  “In the heat of battle we will need rallying points for our retreats,” said Flair to Manfir. “When we are routed from the hills to the West, it is important for every man to set his sights on the same destination. If we are broken and scattered across these hills, we are lost.

  “When we retreat, the Keltaran will think they have shattered our force. The Anvil will be surprised when they advance and find another line of defense so rapidly set up. The men I have detailed on each hill will arrange defensive positions and establish a command post on the summit of each hill chosen.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” smiled Manfir.

  “The more prepared we are the better our chances,” shrugged Flair.

  “Well, you have made them as favorable as you can,” returned Manfir smiling.

  The pair led their force to the center of the western slope of the largest hill in the last line of Knuckles. Slowly the army filed from the valley and took up station in front of their commander. Manfir faced his army. Behind him to the West lay a flat, open field filled with wildflowers and grasses. Beyond the field lay a long line of spruce trees and over their tops the snowy heads of the Zorim Mountains glistened in the distance.

  “We have done well to arrive at the Dunmor without encountering the Anvil,” announced Manfir. “My compliments to you men. It has been a long and wearisome journey but alas we cannot rest. The enemy will be upon us soon and we must prepare.”

  The prince’s right hand swept across the hills aligned behind him.

  “There is your salvation,” exclaimed Manfir, “and the salvation of all mankind. We must use these hills as a tool for our protection. Remember. We are not here to make a stand. We do not draw a line on this ground and dare the Keltaran to cross it. Instead, we intend to dismay and disrupt our invaders. Harry them. Confuse them.

  “For too long we have been the pawns in a game of war played by the mountain folk. Now we will play them. They do not expect this and certainly will not understand it. That is our advantage.“

  Manfir’s hand shot toward the top of the largest hill in the line.

  “Look to the hilltop,” commanded Manfir.

  A group of men raised a golden pennant atop a tall staff.

  “When the pennant falls, whether it is my choice or the actions of our enemies, you will retreat to the next line of hills. There we will regroup under the next golden pennant and await the advance of the giants. They will have expected a rout of our forces. Again this will work to our advantage. Remember, the longer we keep them occupied here among the Dunmor, the more time we allow Corad Kingfisher and his Rindorans to arrive and aid us.

  “We may not stop the giants from advancing on our homeland, but we will make them pay for setting foot on Zodrian soil with thoughts of conquest. This hill will be our first stand against our enemies, but know that it will not be our last. The Keltaran will come expecting a weak defense from us, knowing we are the scraps and remnants of a nation already stretched to her limits. Let us prepare this place and show them that even the scraps of Zodra are a force not to be taken lightly!”

  Cheers erupted from the assembly and swords were slammed against shields.

  “Archers. Chose locations thirty yards down from the hilltop and dig in. Infantry. Build your barricades thirty yards below the archers. You will draw the Keltaran toward the hill and the archers will rain death down upon them as they advance. Commanders. Do not become dead heroes. When the pressure on the line becomes too great, retreat to fight at the next location. Dead heroes do not serve the cause.

  “Cavalry. Get to the eastern slopes of the hill and remain hidden. Split your force in two and await my signal. When it comes, one unit will swing around the hill from the North and the other from the South. The Keltaran’s ranks should be exposed and there you will do your greatest damage. Again I say, do not over extend yourselves. They are too many and we are too few. Damage them and retreat. If you can attack again without cutting yourselves off from the main force, do so but remember your task is to keep the Keltaran from surrounding the hill. Keep them to the West. In order for Colonel Flair’s plan to succeed we must be able to retreat to the East. Does everyone understand their tasks?”

  The guardsmen bellowed a roar of approval and cheered vigorously. The men quickly spread out and the hill transformed into a hive of activity. Trenches were dug. Fieldstone and boulders were pried from the earth and piled about the hill. The horsemen of the group disappeared behind the edges of the hill and after picketing their horses, they returned to lend a hand in the preparations. The mood was heavy but positive.

  “Sergeant Brelg,” called Manfir to the slopes of the hill above.

  “Yes, your Highness,” shouted Brelg.

  “Strike up a fire from any tinder you find in the grove,” called Manfir. “Make it large and keep it roaring, sergeant. It would be a shame if the Keltaran missed us on their way to the capital.”

  The hillside erupted in laughter and another cheer rose from the assembled force. Manfir turned the Black toward the western horizon and squinted at the mountains in the distance.

  “It is the best I can do, dear Lord,” whispered the prince. “I pray it will be enough.”

  Fenrel sat atop a massive Keltaran warhorse staring to the eastern horizon. The horse’s shaggy hair lay in clumps about its massive frame. It stamped and threw its head, chomping on the bit fitted tightly into its mouth. The Keltaran captain glared at the open fields stretching for leagues in front of him then spat on the ground.

  “We move forward,” snarled the giant to the men assembled on similar mounts about him.

  Silence enveloped the entourage. Fenrel knew its source. His underlings were uncertain, but none attempted to question his authority. They witnessed what happened to those who dared. But still, this was the ultimate test. His countrymen remained weak minded. They struggled to see the possibilities of where he led them. They could only envision a tradition of conservative warfare and subservience to the Zodrian Empire.

  No
more. They would use the mountains no more. The Keltaran grew strong during their years of cowering in the granite prison Hrafnu fashioned for them. The Zodrians on the other hand grew weak. Amird and his Ulrog accomplished what generations of Keltaran could not. The mighty Zodrian Empire grew vulnerable. They stood weak and defenseless. Their army ranged the Northern Marches battling the stone men who simply toyed with them.

  What of Zodra’s vaunted allies? The Elves retreated further and further into their woods, deaf to the calls of their allies. The entire world south of Zodra grew too accustomed to her protection to even consider protecting themselves. The Eru were too busy with their own troubles to worry about the Keltaran. Izgra delivered on that promise handsomely.

  The Zodrian capital stood open to conquest and Fenrel would be the first leader in his nation’s history to dare attack her. No Keltaran leader ever attempted to march on the capital. Fenrel laughed. For all their ferocity in battle his people truly were a simple bunch. Never thinking in the grand scheme. Never seeing the true nature of what they could become, rulers of the world.

  Izgra promised Fenrel all of Zodra south of the capital. However, Izgra didn’t see the value he gave up. The capital was the key. By rights it should be Fenrel’s city. Gretcha was the true line to the throne, not the bastard descendants of Manreel. Once the captain held Zodra, he held the hub of the world. He held the ability to control all the resources and people of that huge expanse of land. Whether they chose to willingly follow or were forced into service was of little consequence. Fenrel would rule through terror and intimidation.

  He would allow Izgra and the Ulrog to move south from their mountains, but only for a time. Then Fenrel would lash out with all of his power and destroy them. He would hammer the Ulrog. As they fled to their mountains he would follow. The giant smirked. The Zodrians, for all their conquest and power, were also a weak people. Even when they commanded considerable might years ago, they refused to follow the stone men into the mountains and finish the job. They allowed the Ulrog to recover and build their numbers. Fenrel and his Keltaran would allow no such thing. Every Ulrog would be hunted down and destroyed. Every Malveel, no matter how strong, would be torn asunder.

  Once accomplished, the giant would turn east and remove Izgra from his seat of power. Then the people would see. Fenrel would unite the world under his grip. He would turn from conquerer to ruler and worries of Amird and his servants would disappear. The myth of Avra would no longer be needed. Fenrel and the power he harnessed would be the only god his servants desired.

  The angry giant turned on his retinue.

  “We march to the city which held the Mother of our people in a dungeon for sixteen long years. We march to avenge years of oppression. We march to begin our reign,” snapped the captain.

  “We ... we will be vulnerable on the plains, my lord,” stammered Aul.

  Fenrel narrowed his eyes at the commander serving as his right hand.

  “There is barely a force left in this decimated kingdom to oppose us,” snarled Fenrel. “They cower in their city awaiting death, and that is exactly what I intend to give them. Every last one of them.”

  CHAPTER 4: THE SHABBY MAN

  The disheveled dockworker slid along the rotting wharves in the darkness of the night, hoping to keep his movements to himself. He moved with ease and confidence. The hour grew late. Many of the city’s inhabitants lay their heads upon pillows long ago.

  If the night watch spotted the shabby man, the watchman would behold a fellow of slight, wiry build, hunched over from another backbreaking day loading the king’s goods for transport to his army in the North. Although a curfew remained in effect for the entire city, the watchman would probably take pity on the wretch and assume the poor soul headed home for a deserved rest. Many put in long hours as contraband discovered by Colonel Ipson of Kelky hurried north and west to be distributed to the Guard and Prince Manfir’s militia.

  Young recruits gathered up newly discovered swords and shields, piled them upon any form of transport and rushed them to the front. Ipson’s men uncovered sacks of cornmeal and jerked beef and quickly sent them from the city. Any surplus remained in storage as the new officers of the supply staff desperately searched for a means of delivery.

  The shabby man dodged into the darkness of a narrow alley and halted before an oversized doorway. With what little ambient light he could utilize, he inspected the dirt surface of the trash filled alley. He stooped and ran his hand through the parallel ruts running beneath the closed and padlocked door. Certainly many a wagon passed through this opening in the last several months.

  He rose and glanced up and down the alley. One could never be certain how diligently the goods were guarded. Deftly he removed a slender, steel pick from beneath his tunic and his dirty hands inserted it within the lock. His hands twitched rapidly and within moments the heavy catch on the lock popped open.

  The man quickly removed the padlock and slipped inside the door, taking care to close it behind him. After a moments work with tinder and a nearby torch, the dark storage area glowed in flickering light. He moved forward and inspected the room’s contents. Dusty burlap covered much of what lay within the room. He ripped the burlap from the nearest bulk, shielding his face from the dust and debris swirling into the air.

  A large crate, embossed with the crest of Macin of Zodra lay beneath the burlap. The man moved about the room pulling more burlap free. Crates similar to the first lay strewn about the room.

  The man drew a long blade from under his cloak and worked its edge beneath the lid of the nearest crate until it popped open. He allowed a slight smile of satisfaction and tossed the lid aside. Dirty fingernails dove into the straw packing that surrounded the contents of the crate and slowly withdrew a gleaming cutlass.

  He held the blade up to the light of the flickering torch. Its metal danced with the red and orange of the flame. This was no scavenged blade from a forgotten battle of long ago. This was a recently forged weapon, a carefully packed and preserved weapon. It was a weapon that, if in the proper hands, could deliver death and destruction.

  The man quickly replaced the blade and moved throughout the room inspecting other crates. More blades, shields and pikes were discovered. He found sacks of cornmeal stored within wooden crates. Earthenware jars of oil for cooking and lamp lighting lay stacked in a corner of the room.

  The man shook his head. An army was only as formidable as the weapons, food and supplies that kept it alive. Power emanated from the storehouses and armories of a nation. Training remained essential, but many battles were lost by a better trained, lesser equipped force.

  The weapons and stores he discovered, along with those he came upon in other hidden caches throughout the night, could significantly change the fortunes of the war to come. Kel Izgra was mistaken. The Guard was no longer the weak remnant of an elite force. Granted, the improvements were not extraordinary, but those he worked for would desire the news of these stores immediately.

  He removed a small parchment from a pocket in his tunic and quickly scribbled down the location of this storage facility below the locations of others he visited this night. He carefully folded the parchment and replaced it. Quickly he snatched the cutlass from on top of the bundle where it lay. He tossed the gleaming weapon back into the crate and secured the wooden lid. Lastly, he threw the burlap sack back over the crate and stabbed the lone torch out upon the dirt floor of the storage facility.

  The man needed to make haste. There was so much more for him to do in the coming weeks. So much more information to gather and take to his superiors. The true armaments of Zodra were just one piece in the puzzle he labored to assemble. The allegiances of the powerful houses of the land needed to be determined as well as the preparedness of the Elven host.

  The shabby man slipped from the storage room and dashed down the alley through the darkness. Soon he left the wharf district of the great city and passed through the marketplace. The stalls and booths sat shuttered tightly for
the night and not a soul moved on the streets. He laughed to himself. This was his favorite time. He thrived in the darkness. So much to learn and discover in the night.

  After fifteen minutes at a hurried pace, the man closed on the outer walls of the city. He slowed. The walls were often guarded and he feared stumbling upon a patrol. The curfew allowed only those on or returning from the king’s business out of doors at this late hour. The light whinny of a horse froze the man against the wall of a silver smith’s shop. He crept forward and his hand slowly drew his blade from within his cloak. Horses on the streets were unusual at this time. Most of the draft animals of the city bedded down long ago.

  The man moved forward cautiously. He peered around the corner of the shop. A hundred yards ahead sat the gate of Zodra. Atop its causeway a pair of Guardsmen patrolled, their pace slow and methodical. The man knew the gatehouse beneath the causeway likely contained a dozen more soldiers on high alert.

  He crept forward in the darkness clutching his blade. One could never be too careful. Betrayal or compromise hung at every turn and it was difficult these days to determine who shared your allegiances.

  After a dozen steps the horse whinnied again and this time the man determined its whereabouts. Through the darkness of a nearby alley the harness buckles of a black roan gleamed in the moonlight as the animal shook a cloud of gnats from its flesh. Standing beside the beast stood a stocky man covered in a heavy brown cloak and hood. The figure slightly swayed as it fought off sleep.

  The shabby man smiled to himself and flitted across the street like a shadow passing beneath the moon. In a moment he stood beside the stocky man tending the reins of the horse.

  “Is the animal well rested?” he whispered.

  “Humph ...” gasped the horse tender, disturbed from his standing slumber.

  “My apologies,” stated the man sarcastically. “I didn’t wish to wake you from your dreams.”