The Trees And The Night (Book 3)

by Daniel McHugh

  “Yes,” stated Manfir flatly.

  Finally, an animated discussion broke out on the hilltop.

  “Impossible,” said Wynard.

  “They are far too committed,” exclaimed Flair.

  “Lunacy,” laughed a militia commander.

  “I plan to invoke the Invitation of Hadraig,” called Manfir above the noise.

  The hill quieted.

  “The what?” asked Flair.

  “The Invitation of Hadraig,” repeated Brelg solemnly. “An ancient challenge, forgotten by many but still talked about among those with a knowledge of lore and warfare.

  “Hadraig was the fifth to sit upon the Granite throne after the death of Hrafnu. He was a Keltaran of enormous strength and skill. He openly boasted that no man, neither Keltaran nor Zodrian could best him at individual combat. He claimed there would never be a Zodrian who could best the champion of his people in hand-to-hand combat.

  “He went so far as to issue a decree that if ever the champion of the Zodrian force called forth the champion of Keltar and defeated him, the giants would withdraw any claim on the disputed lands and vow never to harass Zodrian settlers.”

  “But what do ancient decrees and boasts have to do with us now,” complained Flair. “Fenrel certainly will not honor the ravings of a man centuries dead.”

  “We are unsure of that,” replied Manfir.

  “Have the Keltaran ever honored it in the past?” asked a visibly irritated Flair.

  “No ...” smiled Yully.

  “Exactly,” interrupted Flair. “We waste our time. We can still win this ....”

  “They never honored the decree,” interrupted Yully in return, “because it was never challenged. Never in all our long struggle has a man been insane enough to throw his life away by challenging the Keltaran champion to combat.”

  Flair went silent. The group stared at Manfir.

  “You would throw your life away as well, my son,” said King Macin softly. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “Think of it, Father,” explained Manfir. “Prince Fenrel is the key. He holds sway over his mercenaries and they in turn force his will upon the Anvil. You’ve seen Granu. His people cannot want this ... this waste of humanity.”

  Manfir swung a hand toward the battlefield.

  “The Abbot represents the faith of his people and if the men across this field hold the same faith, they will not want mankind to decide its fate by murdering each other on these hills.

  “Fenrel must fall and with him falls the hold that Izgra and Amird have on his people. Once we have loosened this grip, perhaps we can move our two peoples in a different direction. It is the only way. I must challenge him. I must face him. I must destroy him.”

  “But what if another is chosen to represent Keltar?” asked Brelg. “Or worse yet, Fenrel outright refuses the challenge?”

  “The man is full of the self deceit of Amird,” laughed Manfir. “He is a Keltaran giant of renown stature challenged by a simple Zodrian. His pride will force him to accept the challenge.”

  The assembly grew solemn and darkness crept over them.

  “Keep your heads up, gentlemen,” barked Manfir.

  All eyes shot to his stern face.

  “Regardless of the outcome you will still have a job to do,” said Manfir. “You will face the might of the Anvil or the power of the Horde. Either way I need you strong of will. Now depart and ready your units.”

  All in attendance bowed low and departed the hilltop. Macin hovered a moment longer and returned to his son.

  “Brelg and the Seraph molded you into a better man than I ever could have dreamed,” said the king. “Your character and strength of purpose shine a revealing light on my own inadequacies. I am proud with what deficient right I have to be.”

  “Any pride you derive from my actions is rightly felt, Father,” replied Manfir. “Brelg and Ader gave me the tools used to lead a righteous life. Your examples of courage and leadership provided the foundation for that life.”

  The old king embraced the prince for a long moment, bowed again and left the hill.

  Utecht strode toward a group of half a dozen Ramsskull huddled thirty yards from the opening to Fenrel’s pavilion. The black robed mercenaries looked up at the last moment to see the old sergeant barreling toward them. One lifted a hand in protest but Utecht knocked it aside without speaking. The Ramsskull commander’s mumbled protest faded as Utecht moved out of earshot and advanced on the pavilion.

  Two massive guards stationed just outside the tents flaps stepped forward with drawn axes. This pair had been at Fenrel’s disposal since the departure from Keltar. Wicked rumors of their murderous pasts floated through the regular Anvil and Utecht knew they could not be treated as dismissively as the Ramsskull. The giant halted as one of the guards addressed him.

  “What do yer want?” demanded the guard. “The prince is a bit busy right now.”

  Utecht looked hard into the guard’s eyes then shifted his stare to the tent’s closed flaps. A reek of burning flesh filled the air about the tent and groans emitted from behind its walls. Utecht returned his gaze to the guard.

  “I was told to report if anything important were to occur,” growled Utecht, “and something has.”

  “What’s ‘appened?” asked the guard suspiciously.

  “I do not report to watchdogs,” snapped Utecht. “If you wish to take responsibility for the delay, I will report to Fenrel when he is finished. You tell him it was your decision to delay the report.”

  The leader of the pair turned to his compatriot and they shared an awkward silence. Meanwhile, the groans from the tent grew. Utecht understood few words issuing from between the deep groans.

  “ ... difficult ... master.... your commands ... river city ... destroy ...”

  A new sound emerged from the pavilion. A voice at once stronger in purpose yet somehow ethereal and frail in depth.

  “ ... but one task before you .... must destroy the remnants ... opens conquest of all ...”

  The lead guard turned back to Utecht and snarled.

  “Stand back,” commanded the guard. “The prince likes ‘is privacy. Stand over there and I’ll check if ‘e can see ya.”

  Utecht was directed to the group of six Ramsskull. He edged toward them as the guard lumbered to the tent and hesitantly entered. A rage of protest issued from behind its walls and the guard quickly backed out bowing repeatedly. When he was well away from its opening he spun and stalked toward Utecht.

  “Me lord will be with ya in a bit,” smiled the guard viciously, “an if it aint important, you aint gonna be with us in a bit.”

  He and his comrade turned and took up station by the tent again. Utecht waited patiently as the Ramsskull continued to whisper back and forth and fret over the happenings within the tent’s walls. Minutes passed then finally Fenrel exited the tent and approached Utecht.

  A cowled black robe covered the prince from head to toe. He appeared extremely agitated. His right eye twitched uncontrollably and his face and neck, the only visible portions of his body, were covered in sweat. When he reached Utecht, he shook his head as if clearing it of a heady drink. He tried to focus on the man before him.

  “What is it?” demanded the prince.

  “Parlay,” stated Utecht flatly.

  Word had gone out that Utecht brought the news of the battlefield to the pavilion and many of the Anvil left their lines and crowded toward the site of the prince’s tent.

  “What,” roared the prince, ”you accepted parlay once more?”

  “No,” replied Utecht. “The leaders of the Zodrian force have ridden forth and their banners request parlay. Neither I, nor your Ramsskull, have replied.”

  The term used to refer to Fenrel’s hand picked soldiers carried an edge and the prince clenched his teeth at Utecht’s report.

  “What do they want?” snapped Fenrel.

  “Perhaps we should find out ... my lord,” suggested Utecht.

  F
enrel grumbled and shoved past the old sergeant. The Anvil, spread out before him, parted like water as his huge stride pushed him through their midst.

  “Back to your positions,” roared the prince.

  When he stepped past the front line of his troops he looked out on the rolling plain between the hills of the Bear’s Knuckles and spied three men on horseback at midfield. He spun toward his ever-present attendants.

  “Bring my mount,” he bellowed.

  An eye drifted to his left and there he saw the smug expression of Utecht.

  “And get one for my Master of Parlay,” he growled eyeing the old sergeant.

  The Black stood rock steady as his massive, shaggy cousins bore the Keltaran giants toward his position. Manfir, like his mount, was equally immovable. To the prince’s right sat Flair on a Southern cutter. Brelg sat to the prince’s left.

  Within moments Fenrel and two additional Keltaran thundered to within a dozen yards of Manfir’s position and halted. One of the companion’s wore the goat skull of his personal guard. This giant displayed a wicked, slovenly appearance and Manfir determined negligible wit lie beneath his heavy brow. The Keltaran without Fenrel’s colors was older and his placid face seemed only a cover for a greater depth.

  The prince himself was the major concern and immediately Manfir was struck by his own underestimation of Fenrel. Manfir had assumed a lesser version of Granu, the greater and older brother. That assumption lay far from the truth. Fenrel was as daunting a figure as the Abbot of the Monastery, if not more so. The younger brother appeared nearly equal to Granu’s height. However, his girth eclipsed that of Granu.

  A truly enormous pair of broad shoulders with a chest and torso to match framed the second son of Grannak Stormbreaker. Fenrel sat like a huge black block upon the back of his beast of burden, sweat pouring down his red and irritated face. Manfir would have chuckled at the sight if not for the menace the prince exuded and the task that lie ahead.

  The older Keltaran met Flair’s eye and the two exchanged a nod of recognition. The movement was not lost on the darting eyes of Fenrel and the prince glared at the old giant before turning on Manfir.

  “What do you want?” snapped Fenrel. “Do you come to beg for your lives?”

  “On the contrary,” stated Manfir leaning forward in the saddle. “We come to conduct business on behalf of our crown.”

  “What business?” scoffed Fenrel, “The only business I enact with Zodra is the issuance of her destruction, and I only need your neck stretched out before my ax to complete the transaction.”

  “So far, it appears you encounter difficulty completing your task,” smiled Manfir. “I believe it is the archers and cavalry of Zodra who transacted most of the business within these lands.”

  “Southern rabble and the bastard sons of horse breeders,” ranted Fenrel. “Tricks and subterfuge. You fight with no honor Zodrian, but it is of no matter. You backed yourself into a corner and have no hope to conjure from the shadows now. We will meet in battle as men are supposed to, and your weakness shall be your downfall.”

  “We have shown little weakness to this point and I doubt my men even know its feel,” stated Manfir. “Thus far the battle has been one sided.”

  “Not for long, Zodrian,” said Fenrel sweeping his hand toward Brelg and Flair. “You bring old men and boys to make war against the house of Stormbreaker. We fought as if we would meet true men in battle. A mistake perhaps. Now we will march slowly forward and grind you under our boots.”

  “Then I challenge you to do so,” said Manfir calmly.

  The Zodrian prince stared smugly at the face of Fenrel, a smile playing about the edges of his face. The Keltaran’s eyes twitched in anger and hatred. He had been disrespected far too often by his own on this campaign, let alone by the leader of his enemy. His anger raged and muscles tensed.

  “Oh, and let us not forget the business of which I spoke,” said Manfir matter-of-factly. “We called this parlay to accept the Invitation of Hadraig.”

  Utecht coughed and choked for a moment. The old soldier’s eyes contorted and his rapid breath could not hide his distress and confusion. The Ramsskull guard showed no reaction save a boredom with the entire discussion. Fenrel glanced back and forth between the obviously distressed Utecht and the smug Zodrian prince.

  “What nonsense is this?” boomed Fenrel more to Utecht than the Zodrians. “What is it this fool claims to accept?”

  “The Invitation of Hadraig, prince Fenrel,” replied Utecht calmly as he cleared his throat. “An ancient decree.”

  Fenrel shot a glance back to the Zodrian prince and grimaced.

  “I care not about an ancient Zodrian decree or any claim it makes against my people,” snarled Fenrel. “I am Keltaran, and only Keltaran decrees am I bound to. Decree and old treaty hold no weight now Manfir son of Macin. You will die this day, decree or no decree.”

  “I do not ask you to honor a Zodrian decree, fool of a giant,” roared Manfir. “I demand you honor a Keltaran one!”

  Fenrel grew red with anger and spun on Utecht.

  “What does this imbecile speak of?” questioned the giant.

  Utecht took a moment to eye Manfir thoughtfully then faced his prince.

  “Hadraig the Bold, fifth in line from our father Hrafnu, issued a decree from the Granite throne,” answered Utecht. “If a champion called forth from the ranks of the Zodrians were to defeat the Keltaran champion in single combat, the disputed lands along the edge of our mountains would be returned to Zodrian control and our people would retreat further into the Zorim.”

  Fenrel stared at the old sergeant pondering the disclosure. His eyes drifted as he determined its effect upon his plans. His lip curled in anger and he turned to Manfir.

  “Your people stand on the brink of annihilation and you battle with tricks and traps,” barked Fenrel. “Now that you have exhausted them, you dust off ancient challenges and try to bend them to your wishes. We will not be fooled again, Zodrian.

  “What need for you to gain claim to the disputed lands? I think you try to avoid this battle with your challenge. Why? Win or lose the challenge, your army will still fall to the Anvil. We are at war and warriors care not who is the rightful owner of the land they shed their blood upon. Warriors care only for victory. Your challenge now makes no sense. What do you hope to gain from it?”

  “Your death,” stated Manfir calmly.

  Fenrel sat speechless for a moment then let out a roar of laughter.

  “My death! My death? You must be joking, Zodrian?”

  “No, I am quite serious, Fenrel Stormbreaker,” returned Manfir grimly, “because I have come to the determination that I need the Anvil and the Anvil needs the Guard. If we are to survive the coming Ulrog storm we must unite. However, there is one major obstacle to that union. You.”

  “I am more than an obstacle, Manfir of Zodra,” boomed the Keltaran. “I am an impenetrable wall. Never will the Anvil march with the Guard by its side.”

  “Wall or not, your death removes the force driving this insanity,” said Manfir. “Once your Ramsskull is leaderless, others of stronger character and faith will step forward and direct the Anvil down the proper road.”

  Manfir’s eyes flicked toward Utecht. Again the movement was not lost on Fenrel. The giant leaned forward and spat on the ground.

  “You are a bold one, Zodrian,” rumbled Fenrel from between clenched teeth. “You call this parlay to inform me of my imminent death and to proclaim a new unity between men standing on the brink of murderous warfare. However, bold or not, all of your talk means nothing if the Keltaran do not accept your challenge. Also, the possibility remains that I choose a champion from amidst my force and send him at you.”

  “You will not do that,” smiled Manfir.

  “Do not tell me what I ....” shouted Fenrel.

  “You will not do that because it will undermine your position with both the Anvil and the Ramsskull!” shouted Manfir cutting off the prince. “You lead throu
gh fear and intimidation. How can you possibly maintain your facade of power if another stands in your stead as champion of Keltar? You will not risk the glory and focus of your army being transferred to another. Like all men of your ilk, you desire everything and can spare nothing for others.”

  Fenrel sat glaring at the Zodrian prince, blood rushing through his face till its redness surpassed that of his sweaty flowing mane of hair.

  “Yet the fact remains,” growled Fenrel finally. “You hope to gain a claim to the disputed lands and, as you so finely put it, remove me from leadership. What do I gain by this meeting? I see nothing to my advantage.”

  “You truly are short on brains,” laughed Manfir. “I offer you a shortcut to victory and you are far too simple to recognize it.”

  “Hold your tongue Zodrian or I will ...”

  “WHAT, MOUNTAIN DOG? YOU WILL WHAT?” boomed Manfir. “I will explain it too you. I offer you the opportunity to remove the man who planned and executed the systematic thinning of your force. I offer you the chance to make the Guard leaderless and vulnerable. I am yours for the taking if you dare try, Fenrel.

  “You marched to the Knuckles expecting a quick and easy victory, a rousing endorsement for your wicked plans of power and glory. You hoped to draw more than just your Ramsskull into your deceit. You hoped to find the Anvil slowly rallying to your cause. Fear and intimidation can only motivate so far. In the face of an enemy blade, a man must truly believe in his cause.

  “But the Anvil do not see this war in the light you wish. The Guard undermines your position by maintaining a successful struggle against you. Slowly your support wanes. I offer you a chance to regain that support. Kill me and you will see hundreds flock to your banner.”

  Fenrel fumed purple with rage. Never had he been spoken too and degraded in such a manner. He was proficient in the use of every known weapon. He was trained to kill with his bare hands. He stood head and shoulders above the Zodrian and outweighed him by nearly fifteen stone. More importantly, he was infused with a power the Zodrian knew naught about. It was time for him to unveil that power. Those of faith had been suppressed or put down and the Anvil that remained was a leaderless, faithless void. A void he planned to fill with the worship of just one figure, Fenrel Stormbreaker.