He winked an eye, slung his pack over a shoulder and strode from the hilltop.
Eidyn could not help but delight in their task. Certainly they courted danger. Certainly discovery meant death. However, he always enjoyed covert activity and he simply marveled at the abilities of the young woman he accompanied.
Eidyn proved himself an extremely talented scout for the Elven army, but Lilywynn put his training to shame. She slipped from spot to spot within the Derol Forest. A cloud passed over the sun and minutely changed the shadows deep within the wood. Lilywynn used the moment to her advantage. She soundlessly ducked , leapt, rolled , dashed and darted from hiding spot to hiding spot. Eidyn stood amazed. His naked eye could scarcely follow her. When he could not, he would search the forest about him until he discovered her new location. Often she hugged a tree or lay against the mossy surface of the forest floor, nearly invisible to the casual observer.
Eidyn tried to follow in her footsteps but quickly realized he should stick to his own training. It served him in the past and would certainly get him through this dilemma. Their journey from Astel into the mountains proved easier than the Elf prince could have imagined. The Ulrog did not expect enemies moving west with them, nor did they expect anyone to be insane enough to enter lands overrun with the stone men. The pair used this to their advantage, skirting through a gap in the mountains on the high ledges while the Ulrog plodded along the floor of the passage.
The Western Derol proved more difficult. The Ulrog stood on high alert in the realm of their enemies. Trackers searched for signs of the woodsmen, fearing ambush. Lilywynn and Eidyn found their progress impeded on numerous occasions. Their patience grew thin as they backtracked and tested the Ulrog lines for a location to slip through.
Finally, they found a likely spot. Three packs camped about the bed of a forest creek. The low ranking priest in charge of the group returned from conference with his masters.
“On your feet Hackles!” barked the priest.
The stone men readily complied.
“Our forces routed the accursed knights and their woodsmen allies from their forest camp. The Astelans continue a vain struggle against our brothers in the woods, but will soon fall victim to the might of the Ulrog. We will sweep into the plains and cut them off from retreat to the horsemen.”
Mention of the Eru sent eyes shifting amongst the Hackles. Reports of Lord Greeb’s death and the massive losses suffered on the Eru plains filtered amongst the Ulrog. The priest recognized the hesitancy in his force and his broken black teeth shown in a wicked smile.
“Now is our time ya fools,” laughed the priest. “More Hackles sweep over the Mirozert from Astel and Lord Woil will join us as he brings his forces out of the Mnim. By the time the knights disengage from our brethren, they will be in a vise of our design. Then they will bother us no more.”
The Hackles roared and rose to their feet. A flash to Eidyn’s right drew his attention. Lilywynn was on the move. By the time the Elf prince turned to her position, she disappeared. A shadow twenty yards ahead darted between heavy, moss covered trunks. The Ulrog gathered what little belongings they possessed and trudged south from the bed of the creek. Lilywynn kept to the north of the waterway. Eidyn’s eyes followed her path. At times she appeared like filtered sunlight splashing on the leaves of the forest’s ground cover. Other times she resembled shadows from the forest’s canopy, thrown on the floor of the wood.
Eidyn grinned then silently plunged through the forest after her.
A thick dust cloud floated above the advancing Ulrog army. Vespewl reclined beneath the canopy of his massive wooden litter nursing his wounds. He lazed upon pillows and linens pillaged from the Keltaran palace, but the Malveel’s mood grew sour.
His Hackles lost days of pursuit during the search of the tunnel discovered beneath the mountain city. They stormed the tunnel only to find it blocked by a carefully orchestrated cave in. After a day of excavating, the tunnel cleared, but the Ulrog discovered no chamber of safety. Instead, the tunnel ran straight and true beneath the Zorim toward the rolling hills of Zodra. Pursuit proved impossible. Vespewl dare not bottle his massive force within this narrow passage. The evidence forced the Malveel lord to accept the Keltaran’s escape.
Several packs and a minor priest remained to repair the mountain city and defend it, lest by some trickery the giants returned. Vespewl and the remainder of his army exited Hrafnu’s valley through the gorge. His trackers raced ahead to pick up the trail of the Keltaran.
Now they marched through the Zodrian countryside, deeper into the territory of the Guardsmen than any pack previously ventured. This knowledge tempered Vespewl’s anger with an edge of satisfaction. He, “The Great Scourge”, became the first of the Chosen to stab into the heart of the human domain. Vespewl would be the first of the Malveel to look upon the walls of Zodra and , if Woil could be contained with his tasks to the north, Vespewl would be the first to occupy the city where Amird came to power. No matter the accomplishments of his brethren, Amird must look favorably upon Vespewl’s feat.
A group of trackers rushed toward his location.
“My lord,” bowed the leader.
“Go on,” growled Vespewl.
“The Keltaran refugees race to the east,” continued the tracker. “But we discovered interesting signs to the south.”
“Out with it,” snapped Vespewl.
The Hackle bobbed his head in assent.
“A series of fierce battles took place along a group of hills known as ‘The Bear’s Knuckles’ ,” explained the tracker. “The Keltaran army met a contingent of Guardsmen along these hills and battle raged for nearly two days.”
“The dead?” inquired Vespewl with a leer.
“Not a significant number,” replied the tracker. “The humans hastily erected several barrows and mounds.”
“Not significant?” snarled Vespewl. “Who claimed victory? In which direction does the chase go?”
The tracker’s face betrayed no emotion.
“No chase occurred, my lord ....” he hesitated. “The forces united.”
“UNITED!!!” raged Vespewl. “Impossible! The enmity between these human tribes endures millennia. Fenrel would rather die than unite with the Zodrians.”
The tracker’s eyes locked on the ground beneath Vespewl.
“They erected a single mound on a parcel of scorched battlefield, my lord,” announced the tracker slowly. “The remnants of burnt Ramsskull banners and vestments covered the grave. We believe it to contain the body of Fenrel the Keltaran.”
Vespewl’s eyes narrowed and a hiss escaped from the depths of his chest.
“Then we are to face the combined might of the humans,” whispered the Malveel to himself. “Izgra’s plan collapses.”
Vespewl’s claw shot out and thrust the tracker aside. His head snapped toward the two dozen motionless Hackles chosen to transport him.
“Get to your stations!” roared Vespewl. “We must make ground on the Keltaran filth who escape us.”
The Ulrog jumped to their places and quickly lifted the litter. Vespewl glared at the prone tracker.
“Use half of your assets to track the newly formed human army,” demanded the beast. “I must attack them before they reach the walls of Zodra. Failure is not permissible!”
The tracker leapt to his feet, bowed and sprinted from the presence of the Malveel.
CHAPTER 5: LAMENTATIONS
“CONQUEST REQUIRES SACRIFICE,” thought Nagret the Shadow.
Woil the Lamentation taught him the concept years ago and Nagret took the lesson to heart. He was glad to have listened.
Woil demonstrated simple tactics and used them effectively for years. The Lamentation would bait the Zodrians into a skirmish by presenting Nagret and a small force of Hackles on the wrong side of the Frizgard River. This tactic drew the enemy in close to the Scythtar Mountains. They beheld the opportunity to slay a weakly supported Malveel and attacked. After the enemy fully committed, Woil or
dered his own Hackles in from the tree line and inflicted heavy damage.
Nagret winced, remembering a particular incident near the small cataract known as Aquaba. Nagret questioned Woil’s orders during that particular battle. Woil ensured no question of his command in the future. The Lamentation allowed the ruse to go too far. Zodrian cavalry swarmed Nagret and nearly killed him. However, the risky maneuver proved more successful than usual. Woil took great pleasure in reporting heavy losses amongst the Zodrians.
These tactics were certainly not the stuff of genius, but they secured Woil’s place in the Malveel hierarchy. With the One-Eye gone, Woil gained control of the Scythtar and Nagret garnered more power by default. Woil chose to control the Hackles from Greeb’s stronghold in the Mnim. This also suited Nagret. It left him free to enforce his will upon the packs stationed along the Frizgard without the eye of Woil constantly upon him.
Now he stood on a small ledge of the Scythtar high above the Frizgard River. He watched as Zodrian riders cut down his Hackles. The Ulrog fell to both spear and lance as they lumbered north toward a thin tree line screening the Frizgard. The loss of so many stone men angered Nagret. A new enemy created a wrinkle to his plan.
Horsemen beneath the blue banner of a jumping fish hampered his Hackles escape and thus the effectiveness of the plan. The horsemen employed mesh nets that proved surprisingly successful against his Hackles. They heaved the nets over the retreating stone men’s rocky hides then latched the nets onto the pommels of their saddles. Their powerful steeds spun and ripped the Ulrog from their feet. Zodrian lancers trailed closely behind and rushed in to quickly dispatch the prone Hackles.
Only a few dozen Ulrog remained on their feet and moved toward the tree line. Nagret growled. Conquest required sacrifice, but too many of his servants fell.
The Malveel’s mood changed quickly as the enemy closed on his position. A glint of gold and silver indicated the sacrifice of his Hackles would reap significant reward. Centered amongst the enemy rode a pair of men in ornate battle gear. Their mounts displayed the trappings of command, smartly armored and outfitted.
The pair worked the battle in symmetry. The lead rider wore a cape of blue that trailed behind him like a banner on the breeze. A sparkling metal net spun above him, catching the sun and igniting from its light. The net lashed out, hooking onto a speedy tracker who previously evaded all attempts to snare him.
The net wielder instantly secured the trap, reined his horse and spun to the right. The tracker jerked backward, lost his footing and flipped into the air. The second horseman, a silver haired Zodrian in gold breast plate, set upon him. The Zodrian darted past the net and slammed a long spear into the Hackle. The beast’s howl carried all the way up the mountainside to Nagret’s position. The tracker died in agony, pinned to the ground by the spear. The Zodrian snatched a second spear from a holder secured to the flank of his horse. The blue cape rode hard, advancing on another victim.
Nagret’s jaws snapped at the air in frustration. His vision drifted to the Frizgard five hundred yards northeast of the battle. The tree line thickened at this point and left the Frizgard invisible to the field of battle. Between the river and the tree line stood the milling forms of hundreds of Hackles. Several red robed priests moved amongst them, keeping them still.
Nagret swept his vision to the west. Similar forces lie hidden there. The sounds of war agitated his troops, but Nagret issued explicit orders. He commanded the priest’s to cut the throat of any Hackle who might betray their position. Woil’s most important lesson proved a hard one to learn. Patience multiplies results. The Malveel lord bared his fangs in pleasure. King Macin of Zodra was in for a surprise.
Macin reined in his mount and fell in behind Corad. The Rindoran king hammered the flanks of his stallion, putting the proper distance between himself and Macin. The Hackles ahead of them fanned out. The number of targets thinned. Corad unlatched the net from the horn of his saddle and studied the retreating Ulrog. A massive beast a dozen yards ahead appeared the obvious choice. However, a tracker five yards past the large fighter would reap more benefit.
The trackers proved to be a major asset to their Malveel lords. Prince Gage correctly ascertained that the removal of as many trackers as possible would result in a leaderless Horde.
Corad made his decision and turned to the Zodrian king trailing him. He nodded toward the more difficult target and received a white-toothed grin in response. Corad could not help but return the smile. Macin’s enthusiasm was infectious. Why hadn’t they united like this years ago? What price had pride played in the dire straits of their nations?
Corad spun back to the sprinting Ulrog. He signaled to a subordinate then pointed toward the battle Hackle. The subordinate understood and moved in on the large Ulrog. Corad’s mount shot past the larger beast and closed on the tracker.
The wait seemed unbearable. The Hackles he would lose did not concern Nagret. Certainly it rankled him to lose valuable assets, but more importantly he desired victory. His first true engagement with the enemy as commander had thus far resulted in the loss of three dozen Hackles. If the enemy somehow discovered his trap and escaped, he would own nothing to show for these losses. Conquest required sacrifice, but sacrifice without victory would be frowned upon.
The Malveel lord stared with intensity at the deadly race below. The blue cape rounded on a large Hackle but passed the stone man and closed on a speedy tracker. The net flashed and as before the tracker jerked backward. The Zodrian moved in and another spear dispatched one of Nagret’s messengers.
The Malveel saw enough. Now was the time to strike. The slits of the Malveel’s eyes widened and filled with the molten hatred of Chaos.
Corad danced his mount to the left and flicked the net in his hand. It snapped free from the writhing body of the tracker. The Rindoran king swung it across his saddle and glanced at his handiwork. The tracker stopped kicking and went still.
A shout to his right drew Corad’s head up. A spear flashed inches from his face and dove into the throat of a raging battle Hackle bearing down on the king. The large Hackle franticly clutched at the weapon and spun into the ground gurgling black blood from the wound. Corad’s Rindoran subordinate charged forward with a shredded net still fastened to his saddle.
Corad exhaled deeply and turned in the direction of the shout. Macin of Zodra stood tall in his saddle, arm extended before him.
“Pride before the fall, Corad,” laughed Macin. “Admire our work only when it is complete, else you may find no time to admire it at all.”
“Lesson learned,” smiled Corad in reply.
More riders thundered past their position in hot pursuit of the remaining Hackles.
“My lord, are you injured?” called Corad’s subordinate.
“No,” returned Corad. “All is well. Retrieve a replacement net. We have work to finish.”
The subordinate tugged on the reins of his mount then froze and stared past Corad at the Scythtar Mountains. An inhuman shriek sliced through the noise of pounding hooves and stomping stone feet. Corad followed the line of sight past the trees and up the cliffs and ledges of the Scythtar. A plume of red flame spewed into the sky from a distant black figure perched on a stone slab high above the raging river.
The battlefield silenced. The human army reined in their pursuit and stared to the cliffs above. The Hackles slowed their retreat and turned on their pursuers. A new noise filled the chill air of the northern plains. The thunder of hundreds of stone feet and the sharp crack of broken timber flooded the air.
Corad stared in dismay. A wave of Hackles smashed through the tree line to the west and charged on his position.
“Corad,” barked Macin sternly.
The Rindoran king looked to his brother-in-law. Macin sat pointing to the east. Corad witnessed an equal number of Ulrog moving in on him from that direction. His thoughts sprang to the safety of his men. They sat frozen in confusion an additional hundred yards closer to the tree line than he and Macin. Cor
ad Kingfisher hammered the flanks of his stallion and the animal lunged toward the group.
“To the men, Macin!” called Kingfisher. “We must lead them from this catastrophe!”
Macin clenched his teeth, nodded his assent and followed closely behind his companion.
Dravgo of Aquaba arrived too late. The trap had been sprung. He stared at the battlefield from a small hill nearly a league south. The action was difficult to see from this distance. However, the Malveel flame, arcing into the tree line below, was the only sign he needed. He turned to the young man accompanying him.
“It began as I said it would,” commented Dravgo. “They have been led into a trap. If you consulted with me before starting this campaign, I would have educated you on recent tactics employed by the Ulrog. As it is, we will find salvaging this situation difficult.”
The old soldier turned and surveyed the plain behind him. Three hundred battle tested Zodrian cavalry sat atop their mounts. Behind them sat another hundred Rindoran cavalry.
“Your kings are in danger gentlemen!” called Dravgo. “We ride into the heart of the battle! Rally to your commanders and bring them home!”
A roar went up. Shield and spear beat upon one another. Dravgo eyed the uncertain young man beside him.
“Do not look so dismayed, Prince Gage,” smiled Dravgo. “If it’s a man’s time, it’s his time. Consider yourself that much closer to seeing the glory of Avra.”
“It is not my time that worries me,” said an ashen-faced Gage.
Dravgo nodded his understanding and raised his saber on high. The cavalry tensed in their saddles.
“For our kings!” shouted the general as the saber slashed toward the northern horizon.
King Corad reached the main body of his force at the same time the Ulrog rushed in from both directions. The Rindoran king abandoned his net and chose a two handed grip upon his trident. Previous encounters with the Ulrog taught him the toughness of the creatures’ hides. It required all the king’s strength to remove the weapon from their pierced flesh.
The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) Page 5