The battle immediately deteriorated into the chaos of war. No lines existed and no combatant worked in unison with an ally. The Ulrog attacked anything that moved, slashing at horse and rider alike. Timely jabs of Corad’s trident kept cleavers at bay. His mount danced amongst the Ulrog. To remain stationary was to die.
Macin charged into the mix not long after Corad. The Zodrian king strapped a long shield to one arm and with the other he slashed downward with a great broadsword. His mount transformed into a weapon. Macin directed the armored black stallion with his knees and heels, spurring the beast forward when a Hackle stumbled into its path. The powerful horse knocked several of the stone men off balance. The tridents and spears surrounding Macin quickly dispatched the beasts.
The numerous gray lumps scattered across the battlefield evidenced the effectiveness the human army displayed in neutralizing the first Ulrog rush. However, more and more Hackles poured into the fight. They closed in tightly on the human army and their endless supply presented all the proof needed to determine the future outcome of the battle.
“We need to make progress south!” shouted Macin over the melee.
The Zodrian king blocked a cleaver slash from one of the larger Hackles before him. Corad replied by retrieving his net and latching it over the shoulders of the nearest Hackle. He hammered the flanks of his stallion and dragged the Ulrog toward the line of its brethren. With a quick maneuver and release of the net, the Hackle flew into the line, knocking a dozen Ulrog to the ground.
Macin was ready. He followed the Rindoran’s lead and trampled in amongst the Ulrog with a troop of cavalry closely following. The horse’s iron shod hooves hammered the Ulrog on the ground. The enemy line arrayed before Macin broke. More Zodrians and Rindorans spied the gap and rushed to it.
Corad and a small group of Rindorans held back, keeping the way open for their comrades. Corad’s long handled trident swept before the Ulrog in a wide arc, forcing them back. Riders shot past Rindoran king into the gap. It widened with each new lance added to Macin’s rallying point.
Macin chanced a glance to the north. Corad’s blue cape fluttered over the battlefield. A large silver trident spun and stabbed at the gray lumps trying to close the gap’s opening. Macin turned to the south. The Ulrog blocking his retreat grew thin. The window for escape opened.
“Retreat!” shouted the king. “To the south! To the south!”
He spun his stallion and the steed rumbled toward the thin line of Ulrog blocking his way. In an instant the burnished steel of his mount’s armor crunched into the hardened stone bodies. Macin nearly lost his balance. The black claws of the Ulrog raked on the armor of his mount but found no flesh to lock upon. Macin’s attendants stabbed and slashed with lance and sword and they broke free. Nothing blocked their escape to the south.
Hope jumped into the heart of Prince Gage. Horses and riders poured from a gap in the Ulrog line. With each passing moment their numbers swelled. The blue banner of Rindor shot from the gap.
Dravgo rode hard beside the prince. The reinforcements still galloped a long ways from the fight, but if the kings could distance put distance between the Ulrog and themselves, Gage and his force might arrive and slow the tide of disaster.
Macin and the first riders through the gap spun and took defensive positions. In order for the others to free themselves the gap needed to be maintained. More riders pounded through and filed in behind the king. As their numbers grew so did their resolve. Macin ordered two lines of cavalry on either side of the gap. They moved against the packed Ulrog. Their large mounts and pointed weapons forced the Ulrog even further apart. Macin chanced another look to the north. Only Corad and his immediate attendants remained within the swirling melee of Ulrog Hackles. The Rindoran king’s blue cape whipped in the wind. A brilliant light burst over Macin’s head.
The High Priest Zorith panicked. Nagret would take his head. The battle seemed won but inexplicably many of the humans slipped from his grasp. Zorith held his priests of Amird in reserve to this point. However, if the humans escaped without a single priest joining the fray, the Malveel would flay Zorith. He ordered the red-robed priests to close the gap. They quickly plunged through the throng. The priests’ hands ignited in the fire of Chaos. Red flame washed down upon anyone in proximity to the gap.
Horses reared in terror, snorting and stamping as they fought the direction of their riders. Macin himself reacted quickly. His raised shield caught the brunt of the attack and grew hot from the fire of Chaos clinging to it. Most of his riders, however, possessed less luck. They sped from the gap, their clothes raging with fire. The attack also fell upon many Hackles. Huge, gray shapes staggered and stumbled, encased in the crimson glow of fire. Their Ulrog comrades dove from their path.
A flash of blue to the north drew Macin’s attention. He needed to retrieve Corad then sprint to safety. The flash abruptly disappeared as a renewed crush of Hackles closed in on the Rindoran king. Macin laid into the stallion’s flanks and plunged back through the gap.
Gage still rode a half league from the battle when the gold breastplate of King Macin disappeared back into the darkness of the Ulrog Horde.
“Fool,” snarled Dravgo from beside him. “His men look for leadership not martyrdom.”
Gage winced at the implication. He tried to coax more speed from his mount, but the horse could give no more. The Zodrians retreating from the ambush began to reach Dravgo and his force.
“Get behind us and support the rear!” shouted the general to the haggard cavalrymen.
Those retreating swung wide of the newcomers and bolstered their numbers from behind. The gap in the Ulrog line completely evaporated. A jumble of frenzied gray shapes obscured Corad’s position. Dravgo looked to the young man beside him. Gage’s set his jaw and wild despair entered his eyes.
Corad and three retainers remained within the eye of the storm. The three lost their mounts to the raking claws of the Ulrog. They huddled close to their leader’s stallion. Corad stood atop his steed stabbing and thrusting at the circle of Ulrog crushing in upon them. Two of the Rindorans held tridents like their leader. The third snatched a cleaver from a fallen Ulrog and slashed at any Hackle advancing on the king’s stallion.
Sweat poured down Corad’s face and his muscles ached from the exertion of the fight. Red flame poured over his exit to the south and the remaining directions drowned in a sea of Ulrog. A rush through their lines upon his armored mount meant abandoning his retainers to the blades of the Hackles.
A crash and roar rose above the din. A half dozen Hackles swarming before him tumbled forward and lie sprawled at his men’s feet. Macin of Zodra and his armored stallion burst into the circle above them. The Zodrian king slammed his lance into the prone form of the largest. Corad’s attendants made short work of the others.
“You’ve put yourself in a bit of a spot,” shouted Macin.
“Us ...” corrected Corad. “I’ve put us in a bit of a spot.”
The kings formed a defensive stance. Macin spun his stallion south. The path he cleared in the Ulrog force already closed. Corad spun north. His men took positions to the east and west. The Ulrog regrouped from the shock of Macin’s appearance. They closed in on the small, marooned force.
“South is our only choice,” shouted Macin as he slashed his sword down upon a Hackle who strayed too close.
The beast fell with a large slash spurting oily blood across the flanks of Macin’s stallion.
“It appears they are aware of our choice,” he continued.
Trackers moved through the lines of Hackles directing them into a tighter mass south of the position. Corad’s trident caught the shoulder of an Ulrog. The Hackle howled. One of the Rindorans lunged forward slashing the beast’s belly with the rusty cleaver.
The combination attack proved deadly, but it focused the attention of the two defenders. An Ulrog dashed in and locked a stony claw upon the flowing blue cape of the Rindoran king. A trident met the Ulrog’s leg, but too late. The
beast roared and fell backward into its brethren. Corad flipped from his seat and spilled onto the ground beneath Macin’s mount. Corad’s rider less horse reared and kicked toward the crunch of Ulrog. The dark mass of stone bodies dragged the stallion into their midst. Macin frantically directed his mount and searched for Corad beneath him. Iron shod hooves danced around the Rindoran king’s body, nearly trampling the man.
The cleaver wielding Rindoran fell next. His success with the crude weapon emboldened him. However, the blade’s short reach made the Rindoran far too vulnerable to the long arms of the Ulrog. They grabbed his free arm and dragged him under their stony feet.
Macin felt a sharp blow to the small of his back. He spun the stallion in the direction of the assault. The Ulrog ripped another Rindoran from the small group. Corad rose, trident in hand, and protected Macin’s rear. A pair of large, muddy fieldstones slammed into Macin’s chest, knocking him from the stallion. Pain seared through his body and his breath left him. The Hackles overpowered the last of Corad’s attendants.
Only the kings remained. Macin lie beneath his battle trained mount. Corad stood over his fallen comrade swinging his trident in a wide arc.
The Hackles latched onto the ridged armor of the stallion. The horse struggled and kicked as Ulrog dragged it from its master’s side. The high-pitched shriek of the stallion died and a strange moment of calm settled in the midst of the maelstrom.
The Ulrog knew they possessed victory. Corad glanced down to the prone form of Macin and smiled. Macin returned the grin to the only man he could have ever called “brother”. Immediately his thoughts filled with regret. Regret at what might have been if these two sovereigns set aside their pride. Corad read his thoughts.
“We lived as fools,” laughed Corad. “We die as wise men.”
The Hackles roared in triumph and rushed in.
The priests of Amird pursued the stragglers of the retreat. They surrounded themselves with the fiercest of the Ulrog fighters and rained fire across the field of battle.
Prince Gage saw none of this. His eyes bore into the Ulrog Horde, pinpointing the last location of the fluttering blue cape. Battered riders streamed past him and Dravgo barked orders. Gage cared not. He was intent, his purpose clear.
A shout to his right caused no distraction. He lowered his body in the saddle to increase his speed. Again, a shout arose. The last of the retreat flew past him in the opposite direction. A familiar name reached his ears, but he ignored it. The Ulrog line swung toward him. The priests raised their hands and poured fire over the field. They marched only two hundred yards away now. Gage drew close. A blue cape appeared. Its bright color shocking in a sea of grays and blacks. A powerful stone hand whipped it through the air like a glorious trophy. A force slammed into the right side of Gage’s mount. The familiar name sounded once more.
“... Gage! Control yourself!” shouted Dravgo.
The Zodrian general slammed his mount into the side of the Rindoran’s steed. Gage shot a glance at the battle scarred veteran.
“YOU are the leader of your people now,” shouted Dravgo. “Look to their interest. You accomplish nothing on this path!”
Dravgo’s mount forced Gage’s horse to the left in an attempt to turn the young man from his path of destruction. Gage looked back to the advancing Ulrog. The blue cape disappeared. A seething storm of gray shapes remained, churning forward over the stunted grasses. The prince’s eyes fell and he snapped the reins of his mount. The entire unit turned a hundred yards from the Ulrog and charged back south.
“Retreat!” shouted Dravgo. “We will avenge this loss another day!”
CHAPTER 6: FAMILIAR VOICES
TORCHLIGHT THREW SHADOWS on the face of the little man. Sprig leaned in close to Vieri and whispered in her ear. She nodded her understanding, then surveyed the men and women about her. They lay on pillows and lush carpets, but their expressions shown as anything but relaxed. All knew the import of the Sprite’s report and what it held for the Eru. Temujen tried to ease the mood.
“Come daughter of the sands. We are a courageous people. Your news will not send us screaming into the night.”
Chuckles broke out amongst the people within the tent. Vieri smiled at the Eru chieftain. He acted quite like her father, pragmatic and strong, a true leader.
“The news is not good,” began Vieri. “Sprig roamed through the eastern half of the Scythtar. The Ulrog’s numbers grow.”
“That may be true,” stated Hai from beside his father. “But they are manageable. The losses we inflicted upon them will be hard to absorb.”
“They’ve already done so,” frowned Vieri.
A murmur of concern swept the tent.
“The numbers concentrated in the Mnim alone surpass all previous totals,” continued Vieri, “and more flood in from the frozen wastes everyday. We can only assume the same increase occurs to the west. As I traversed the Scythtar Mountains the signs lie everywhere. Ulrog on the move, driven by Malveel. Theywill push out from the mountains.”
Temujen grimaced. Hai stared to the ground.
“They dare not move on the Erutre,” mumbled Hai. “We would cut them to shreds.”
“Not a force of this size,” returned Vieri. “Their numbers are too great, their tactics too advanced. The hands of Kel Izgra manipulate the actions of these creatures. They are no longer marauding beasts in the thrall of the Malveel. They have been trained and taught how to encounter us.”
Hai scoffed.
“Vieri Shan. Your assessment is deeply appreciated. But the Ulrog are simple beasts, incapable of performing complicated tactics and ....”
The loud blast of a horn cut his words short. Men and women leapt to their feet. An Eru rider burst into the floating palace, his saber drawn.
“Ulrog within the camp, my chief,” he shouted to Temujen. “Trackers eliminated our sentries.”
“What of the horses?” asked Temujen calmly.
“They ... they scattered, my lord,” stammered the rider.
Temujen spun on the men and women before him.
“To the horses!” commanded the chieftain. “They remain our salvation.”
He looked to his wife, Fondith.
“Those who cannot fight must be led south,” said Temujen searching for ideas. “Journey to the lake near the place of the scribes. We will regroup there and look for support from our allies.”
She nodded and ran from the tent. Temujen addressed his son.
“Lead the Ulrog away from the retreat,” ordered Temujen. “Coax them, goad them and entice them! Anything you can. The Hackles must be led west.”
Hai bowed quickly. He rose and his eyes met those of Vieri.
“Avra be with you,” said the Windrider.
“And with you,” he replied and dashed from the tent.
The signs lie everywhere. Twisted, gnarled tree trunks. Grass blackened and matted to the earth. A stillness hovered in the air. Not a single night-bird foraged the moonlit skies. The Memnod passed this way.
Kael and Ader hung in a small grove of trees not far from the moon shadows of the great palace of Astel. They stared at the tower before them. No light glowed within its confines. No laughter or merriment broke the quiet.
“We have luck on our side,” whispered Ader.
Kael furrowed his brow questioningly.
“The Memnod cleared our path,” continued the Seraph. “Izgra does not want his forces at one another’s throats. He sent the Ulrog onward before the Memnod marched through.”
“You believe the palace to be empty?”
“No,” returned Ader. “I’m sure Hackles and possibly worse lurk within, but the main force moved on. Amird’s battle to return to this world begins. Not many an Ulrog will be spared from the fight.”
Kael turned back to the darkened structure then stood.
“I must get inside.”
“Why?” asked Ader sharply.
Kael blinked.
“Why must you get inside?” repeated the
Seraph, his voice firm. “Why are you drawn to Astel like a moth to a flame? Why now? Why not before? What changed?”
Kael’s eyes darted about in confusion. He looked to the ground. He remained unsure of how to answer. He searched his thoughts.
“I ... I must do something.” replied the boy.
“That is not adequate,” snapped the Seraph.
“What do you mean ‘not adequate’?”
“That will not suffice,” snarled Ader. “I know the way in. I led you here. We will go no further until you answer my question. Ineed to know why you want to get in there so badly.”
The duo stared at one another for a long moment. Ader’s set his jaw. His gray eyes penetrated the boy. Finally, Kael spoke.
“I will find something there. I will .... get some answers.”
“Answers to what?”
“To who I am!” shouted Kael, not caring who heard “To what I am! Why I am! Why all of this happened! You, me, Father, Mother ... Aemmon! WHY? I NEED TO KNOW WHY?”
The old man stared at him, his expression unchanging. Kael heaved, red-faced with emotion. Finally, Ader let out a light chuckle.
“Precisely the questions I wanted answered all these years.”
The Seraph retrieved his staff and wrapped his cloak tightly around his body. He stepped past Kael and strode out of the grove. The boy stood perplexed.
“Coming?” called the Seraph over his shoulder.
Kael spun and snatched his things from the ground. As he turned back to follow Ader, a torn scrap of paper tumbled into a gorse bush to the Seraph’s left. The old man’s hand slid back inside his cloak and he pushed on toward the towers of Astel.
Kael raced to catch up. As he hurried past the gorse bush, he lowered his frame and swept the scrap of paper from the darkness.
The pair walked confidently toward the towering structure. However, Ader did not move toward the massive black gate to the west. Instead, he angled toward the tallest of the castle’s northern towers. It jutted from the main structure, a smooth, soaring cylinder rising high into the night sky. Near its pinnacle two black openings punctured its gray surface like dead eyes.
The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) Page 6