“Cortik,” barked the Malveel from his perch. “Send word to Sulgor concerning this challenge to our strength. Also inform our lord that we believe the Derol to be poorly defended to the east.”
“Yes, my lord,” rumbled the voice of the High Priest.
The red robes of Cortik billowed as he swung toward his Hackles and locked an iron claw on an Ulrog runner. The High Priest quickly passed the message to the runner then threw the beast up the slope. The runner stumbled forward then without hesitation broke into a lumbering gait up the rocky slope of the Western Mnim.
Good, thought Greeb. He covered himself in case of failure. Sulgor would be informed of the human force challenging the Scythtar. Greeb afforded the Malveel King the opportunity to strike at the weaknesses created by such folly. If by some insanity Greeb and his Hackles were forced into retreat, it could only result from the combined efforts of Derol, Astel and Eru. In such a case, Greeb would be shamed, but if Sulgor neglected to advance on the Derolian camps along the Mirozert, he too would share in the shame of lost opportunity.
A roar echoed in the distance. The faint clang of clashing steel followed. An Ulrog death cry echoed in the distance then was swallowed by the darkness. The Hackles aligned below Greeb grew restless and a low murmur of growls and grunts broke out. Greeb remained expressionless. Cortik nervously glanced to his master.
Five minutes passed. The darkness grew as the hour crept deeper into night. The murmur of conversation faded then unexpectedly rose once more. Trackers returned and pushed their way past the milling Hackles. Slundoc was amongst them. The lead tracker halted and gathered information from his subordinates. Finally, he turned and raced to the foot of Greeb’s perch.
“What do you report, tracker?” demanded Greeb.
Slundoc dipped his head in proper respect then spoke.
“The Eru hold their force a half league from our position,” began the tracker. “Darkness hides their numbers, and they do not hold the usual formation.”
“I asked for a report, not excuses,” roared Greeb, his eye pulsing red fire.
“Yes, my lord,” returned Slundoc dropping his head. “I only offer the information as a means of determining the enemies intent. Certainly they wish to confuse, my lord. A task they will find impossible when your servants act as diligently as I.”
Slundoc bobbed his head up and down in repeated bows and kept his eyes solidly focused on the ground. Greeb considered the tracker with a snarl.
“Go on,” hissed the Malveel through clenched jaws.
“As I said, my lord. The Eru keep their mounts apart and attempt to fill the gaps with riders and woodsmen,” continued Slundoc. “Therefore, from this distance their number appears more than it truly is. However, we were able to close on their position and discern a true count. It is a great force, my lord, but not as great as it appears. I believe Temujen commands near to four hundred horsemen and several hundred foot soldiers.”
A din of growls and curses broke out amongst the Hackles at this news. The limited number of humans emboldened them.
“SILENCE!” bellowed Greeb.
The Hackles immediately quieted and stared up at their master.
“What of support units?” questioned Greeb. “Does Temujen hold horsemen in reserve?”
“I sent trackers as distant as a league south from the Eru position,” replied Slundoc. “They discovered no reserve units.”
Greeb lowered his head in thought. Four hundred horsemen seemed too few. The last report he received from his trackers told of at least two hundred more riders under the chieftain’s command. However, Ulrog raids most definitely thinned their numbers. Cortik and his priests reported Eru casualties by the dozens after every such raid.
Greeb chuckled. He was no fool. The Ulrog tried to curry favor with him as much as he did with his masters in Kel Izgra. “Dozens of casualties” probably meant “few”, but he could not be certain. Additionally, Woil reported sightings of a large group of horsemen patrolling the Eru to the west. If this were true, it would certainly explain the limited numbers under Temujen’s command.
The number of foot soldiers also made sense. The woodsmen and their exiled allies were sensible. To leave their camps in the woods unprotected was not likely. Greeb believed hundreds of soldiers and riders were unaccounted for, but where were they?
The Malveel slowly raised his head and his lone eye glared at the dark ribbon of trees running across the eastern horizon. A low rumble grew within his belly as he glared at the trees. Finally, his sight shot to Slundoc.
“What of the Derol?” barked Greeb. “What lies within the wood?”
Slundoc’s eyes widened and again he dropped his head in deference to his Malveel master.
“The Derol is .... ah ...,” stammered Slundoc.
The tracker’s mind raced. Two of his brethren did not return from their mission. They were ordered to skirt the Eru position and survey the land between the horsemen and the Derol. Certainly they fell prey to Eru sentries. This resulted in an incomplete picture for Slundoc to deliver to his master and Greeb did not tolerate inadequate results.
“ .... has been reported clear of enemy forces,” continued Slundoc.
Greeb’s glowing red eye stared down hard at the tracker as a massive claw rose and stroked the dead gray orb. Slundoc feared his master and knew death was the penalty for supplying false information.
“Two of my subordinates were lost in their attempt to scout the area,” blurted Slundoc. “However, those assigned to cover the task were successful in avoiding the Eru sentries and report no movement in the wood.”
The lie was something his subordinates dare not contradict. All would be punished for their failure to scout the Derol. Slundoc was the lead tracker in the Eastern Scythtar and privy to all the information Greeb received. Certainly his master was aware that the numbers arrayed before them seemed logical. At best a hundred horsemen were unaccounted for and most likely roamed the plains to the west. Also, the Derolians most probably left a contingent of one hundred ax men in their roaming forest camp. Greeb glared at the tracker.
“I believe we face the combined force of all the South uses to defend itself in this area,” stated Slundoc confidently.
Greeb’s head rose and he stared out over the army in the distance.
“Why?” muttered the Malveel. “Why challenge the Mnim now? It does not make sense.”
“Two smallish Ulrog,” stated the Derolian. “They moved more quickly than their larger brethren, but our axes made short work of them.”
“You are sure there were no others?” questioned Hai.
“Absolutely,” returned the Derolian. “We allowed them to deeply penetrate our screen in order to watch for followers. There were none. No report of our presence returns to the Scythtar.”
“Excellent work,” smiled Lijon slapping the scout on the back. “Return to the forest’s edge.”
The woodsman bowed and slipped through the trees disappearing into the darkness. Lijon turned to Hai.
“It appears we avoid detection,” stated the big man, “but Greeb the Dead Eye will question the disappearance of his trackers.”
“Possibly,” replied Hai, “however, he may consider the trackers casualties of their own carelessness. Eru sentries are an easy explanation for the tracker’s disappearance.”
“He will remain uncertain of the Derol’s edge,” stated Lijon. “The plan requires that he focus on Temujen.”
“At worst his attention will waiver between Temujen and the wood,” replied Hai. “Once my father fully engages the Ulrog, Greeb will have no time to waste his thoughts on the forest.”
Lijon considered Hai’s words and nodded in agreement.
“These arguments remain moot if the beast remains holed up within the Mnim,” commented Lijon.
“True, but I believe Portlo and Temujen can find a way to motivate him,” stated Hai. “Have your woodsmen continue their work. We have a limited time to construct the trap.”
“The work is under way as we speak. When the Ulrog enter the wood, it will guide them to their deaths.”
“His trackers must have reported to the great worm by now,” said Portlo.
“He will know our numbers,” replied Temujen, “but that is according to plan. We’ve given the beast enough pause to allow Hai to assume his position in the wood.”
“The Ulrog trackers scouted as far as a league south of our position. If Greeb has not discovered Hai, he believes our entire force is concentrated before him,” said Portlo. “He should have discerned his advantage, I question why he hesitates in his attack.”
“Orders,” returned Temujen. “It is the only reason he didn’t attempt to overrun us in the past. We’ve never afforded him an opportunity such as this, but there were times when he could have inflicted ample damage upon us. Always the Ulrog broke off the battle and returned to their mountains. Izgra waits and wants to commit only when they are fully assured of our destruction. Even now Greeb the Dead Eye cannot be certain his attack upon us will be totally successful.”
Portlo grimaced and stroked his chin.
“I require a fast horse,” stated the steward, “a very fast horse.”
Ader sat with his backed propped against the huge stone outcrop, his head tilted backward and his eyes closed.
“How can he relax?” thought Kael.
The boy stood near the southern edge of the rocks and peered toward the force spread across the plains. As time passed, flickers of light twinkled to life in the darkness below. Temujen’s riders were igniting torches and campfires. The lights danced like fireflies as riders patrolled in and around the camp.
One of the lights separated itself from the others and slowly wove its way north. Kael motioned Eidyn to join him and the pair stared hard in the direction of the light. The darkness enveloped all else and Kael remained uncertain of what he beheld.
“It appears to be a rider,” said Eidyn. “He carries a banner.”
“Portlo intends to wield a weapon more powerful than a sword,” said Ader from behind them.
The young men turned and eyed the Seraph. Ader’s eyes slowly opened and he stared at the stars above.
“The steward provokes the One Eye’s desire for vengeance,” stated Ader calmly. “He carries the banner of Astel.”
The young men snapped their heads about and locked eyes on the tiny flicker of light as it halted a hundred yards from the last known location of the line of growling Ulrog.
The warm southern breeze increased and whipped the white and amethyst banner of Astel over Portlo’s head. His cape too was caught up in the wind and snapped near the head of his rock steady Eru stallion. The banner was adhered to a long staff resting in his left stirrup and securely fastened to the halter of his mount by a leather strap. His left hand held the reins of the stallion. In his right, the steward held a burning torch.
Portlo dropped the reins and reached into a canvas saddlebag slung across the stallion. He quickly drew another torch from the bag and set it aflame. The grass grew thin this close to the Mnim and Portlo tossed the new torch to the barren ground. He produced a second and repeated the process a total of six times. All the while, the opening of the valley remained silent and the shadowy gray figures aligned across it barely moved.
Portlo strategically deposited the torches in a half circle about his mount. He sat illuminated by their firelight. The steward rose in his stirrups and peered into the darkness of the Mnim.
“Greeb the Dead Eye,” called Portlo. “In the name of the throne of Astel and as a representative of the Eru tribes and Derolian peoples, I demand that you vacate the Mnim Valley and return over the mountains to the frozen homeland where you and your Ulrog spawn were crafted!”
Roars and growls erupted from the darkness of the valley. The shadows before him shifted and moved, and the air filled with the pops and crackles of stone grating on stone.
“SILENCE!” roared a guttural voice over the din and the Mnim immediately quieted.
Portlo’s gaze adjusted to the source of the command. The torches encircling him made it difficult to penetrate the blackness beyond. Floating in the darkness above the heads of the mass of Ulrogs hovered a single, glowing red orb.
“And who makes such a command?” growled a voice from beneath the eye.
“I am Portlo, steward and protector of the throne of Astel,” returned the knight.
Only the sound of the winds buffeting the flames of the torches could be heard for a long moment, then the eye narrowed.
“I have seen the throne of Astel,” rumbled the voice. “It lies fractured at the foot of my master’s tower.”
Harsh laughter broke out in the Mnim but a sharp growl from the eye cut it off.
“A simple chair does not make a throne,” stated Portlo. “It does not matter what a king sits upon as long as he is capable to rule and others follow. The throne of Astel awaits its king, and it is my duty to protect his lands and possessions in his absence.”
“Fool,” laughed the eye. “A king must have power and power comes from control and conquest. Astel couldn’t hold her own lands let alone grow through domination and expansion.
“Any king rising to her throne would possess no land and find no countrymen to subjugate. Your remnants are an exiled people, forced to beg your existence from the ignorant hunters of the Derol. Be gone or I will ignore my masters, snap your bones and grind the horsemen beneath my claws.”
A low hum built through the ranks of Hackles as the threat of violence aroused them. Greeb let it build. Portlo sat steadily on his mount and stared at the floating red eye. Finally the hum dissipated.
“You made an attempt on my people once before Greeb and paid a heavy price for it,” stated Portlo calmly. “Do you dare commit such folly again?”
The glow of the eye intensified and narrowed to a slit. The only sound to be heard was the rustle of Greeb’s scaly wings as they shifted back and forth across one another. A low rumble started in the belly of the beast and through tightened jaws he cursed.
“Portlo, Steward of Astel. I shall remember that name and your weak human features. For when the time arrives, I shall make it my personal quest to tear your heart from your chest and show it to you as you die.”
The steward listened to the shifting of the great wings and noted the eye grow slightly larger. A clatter of rock and stone tumbling to the ground emitted from beneath the eye and the gray figures arrayed below shifted away. Portlo read the signs and knew it was time. He rose even higher in the stirrups.
“Be gone from our valley,” shouted the steward. “We give you until sunup on the morrow!”
The steward yanked hard on the reins of the stallion, turning him on the spot. He hammered the horse’s flanks with his heels and the mighty animal burst forward. A hatred filled roar erupted behind him and Portlo glanced backward to see the glowing red orb rise in the air for a moment then plummet toward the valley floor below.
Those Hackles too ignorant to make way for their master were crushed and skewered by his massive claws as he hammered their bodies to the rock below. Greeb raked at both the earth and bodies below him, propelling himself forward. Portlo’s stallion snorted in terror and raced away from the Mnim as the horse’s large brown eyes strained backward at the menace pursuing him. In a moment Greeb rushed through the half circle of torches, scattering them across the rocks. Sparks jumped from the skittering torches, rose in the night and rushed back over the heads of the roaring Ulrog on a stiff southern breeze.
“He flees from the valley,” exclaimed Eidyn. “I lost him in the darkness.”
“He is pursued,” said Kael pointing. “Look there.”
The pair witnessed the glowing, red orb charge the firelight. The form of Greeb illuminated for a moment, then disappeared into the darkness as well.
“A Malveel pursues Portlo,” gasped Kael in alarm.
“That would be Greeb,” stated Ader calmly.
> The Seraph remained sitting. His back and head lay against the mammoth boulder that concealed the trio.
“Obviously Steward Portlo knew the proper cues to infuriate the beast,” continued Ader, “but we need more than an angry Malveel. We need the entire Ulrog army aroused.”
“The earth has burst into flame!” exclaimed Kael.
Greeb swept the flames of Chaos back and forth across the plain. The beast roared in frustration and cursed the name of Portlo. The human rode a fast horse and disappeared south into the darkness. This would normally not hamper one of Amird’s chosen. Greeb could taste the horse’s sweat in the air. The beast’s path was clear.
However, Greeb refused to be so easily baited. He commanded a thousand Hackles back in the valley’s opening. They were prepared to die for their master. He spun and crawled back toward the Mnim.
“Cortik!” roared the Malveel.
The Hackles standing before Greeb shifted and parted. Cortik and five other priests slowly descended a few yards toward Greeb, their heads held low. Their master’s one eye still pulsed with the power of Chaos and the entire line of Hackles stared at the Malveel in anticipation of his orders.
“They bait me,” scoffed Greeb more to himself than the assembled priests. “Why? They know we are a superior force, yet they attempt to draw us out.”
Greeb reached the priests and his lone eye surveyed them.
“I possess power,” thought the Malveel. “Yet I am ordered not to use it. These humans taunt me, yet I am not allowed to beat them down.”
His head rose and scanned the mouth of the Mnim. Countless black eyes peered back at their master. Eyes filled with conviction and hatred. Eyes prepared to go to any lengths to advance the cause of their lord and master. Why should Greeb hold now? The human fools handed him victory by attacking the Mnim. By annihilating them now, he would facilitate Amird’s return to this world. He would rise above both Sulgor and Izgra.
The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Page 25