Kael flipped through one of the large Keltaran books and the name of Ader jumped out at him from nearly every page. Part of the boy wished he could weep and another told him the emotion he should feel was joy, but he displayed neither. Instead, he quietly shut the book and moved toward the next bookcase. It too contained an orderly set of books of the same size and binding. Kael stared at the symbol above the case, an eye peering through the rounded fingers of a hand. He slowly pulled one of the books from the shelf and read. The Seraph stepped beside him.
“You will find this set of books answers many of your questions, Kael. However, it will probably raise just as many. I must attend to some business. Read. Absorb. We will talk at length when I return.“
Kael did not lift his head from the heavy tome he held. He simply nodded. Alel patted him on the shoulder with a smile then moved toward the open door. Before he departed he turned to the engrossed boy.
“Do not forget to eat, lad,” laughed Alel. “Those books can be mesmerizing. Remember to take a break.”
Kael grunted his assent and the Seraph slipped from the room.
“The city of Amird is ours for the taking,” whined the high rasp of Nagret the Shadow.
The lesser Malveel paced before Vespewl, his eyes darting from the ground to his fellow Chosen then back again.
“The fools afford us great opportunity, Vespewl, and you ask me to squander it,” snapped Nagret.
Vespewl remained silent, searching Nagret’s anxious features. Finally, Nagret halted his pacing and glared at his brother.
“Well. What have you to say?”
Vespewl arched an eyebrow and slowly rose from the litter upon which he traveled. His prodigious girth rasped as the scales upon his body grated against one another.
“First,” seethed the Malveel. “I warn you to watch the tone with which you address me.”
He slid from his resting place and leaned over Nagret. The lesser Malveel shrank toward the floor, the twin points of fire deep within his eye slits searched for a means to escape.
“I am not accustomed to those of ... inferior power, making demands before me,” growled Vespewl.
Nagret’s eyes momentarily fixed upon the leg that Vespewl favored, then he quickly bowed his head and backed away.
“I do not demand,” offered the Shadow. “I simply ask you to reconsider your course. My Lord Amird will show great favor upon those who deliver the city of his past glories.”
“What you overlook,“ returned Vespewl edging forward, “is the fact that a battle will be raging elsewhere as WE conquer women and children. This battle will decide the fate of the world. I would hate for our masters to lose this battle in our absence and find even greater issue if they win and we are not present.”
Nagret’s head bobbed as he backed further from Vespewl.
“Yet if they win, we will be ready to offer my lord the conquered realm of Zodra?” replied the beast halfheartedly.
“And that will be the last insult you ever attempt to foist upon my lord. He is not a fool to be toyed with, Nagret,” snarled Vespewl, his eyes flashing. “Now get your Frizgard packs filtered within my ranks. You will take your orders from me or so help me you will join Methra!”
Nagret’s scaly lips quivered in anger but after a moment he bowed low and slunk from Vespewl’s presence.
CHAPTER 11: THE CLEARING
LIJON SMILED ACROSS the forest trail at Fraz, his second in command. The forest, his forest, once again provided the means for his people to repel the Ulrog. Thousands of the beasts trudged down from the mountain passes of the Mirozert in the last few days. Hundreds met their death in the intricate traps and snares the Derolian woodsmen set throughout the forest.
However, traps and snares fill. The great numbers of the Ulrog horde passed them by ignoring their dead. For every Hackle halted by the clever designs of the Derolians, ten more stood ready to take its place in line. The Ulrog steadily pushed west, sweeping past Derolian outposts, overrunning villages and forcing their way toward the open fields of the Erutre.
Now Lijon stood near one of the last of the Derolian obstacles, a narrow forest trail that opened into a clearing. At the far end of the clearing the trail resumed its path westward. The clearing was one of many sprinkled throughout the Derol, formed when the woodsmen chose an area for timber cutting. A section of the forest would be clear cut, then planted with seedlings in order to replenish the resource. These areas opened to the sky above and the saplings grew rapidly along with lush grasses and ferns.
This particular grove of saplings lie nearly one hundred yards in diameter. The young trees were several years old and already stood three yards tall. Their skinny limbs reached upward toward one of the few patches of blue sky within the deep Derol.
Lijon motioned to Fraz and the pair entered the clearing from the eastern trail. They carefully hugged the rim of the clearing and made their way to the exit on the opposite side. Once there, they took cover and Lijon searched the woods on the north and south of the clearing. In moments he determined the location of at least a dozen of his comrades. They lay low within the forest debris. Their cloaks blended well with their surroundings. Lijon was pleased. The Ulrog force trailing him would be taken unaware.
After a short wait, the first signs of pursuit reached the woodsmen. The crack of tree limb and the stomp of hundreds of stone feet could not be muffled in the stillness of the Derol. From previous reconnaissance, Lijon knew the Ulrog force consisted of nearly one hundred Hackles. A trio of priests led them and displayed a recklessness that Lijon and Portlo intended to exploit. The Ulrog raced through the wood, ignoring any danger the Derolians might present.
Shadowy figures on the opposite side of the clearing alerted Lijon to the enemy’s exact whereabouts. The woodsman hunched deeper into the cover of his location and stared at the forest’s edge. Sharp, guttural calls echoed within the trees. Answering calls, in the tongue of the Ulrog, floated across the opening.
“Trackers,” thought Lijon. “They hover near the edge of the clearing, uncertain what to do.”
Movement near the trail opening drew Lijon and he watched as a smallish Hackle exited from the shadows of the wood and inspected the clearing. The tracker stood knee deep in forest grasses and slightly taller than the sapling’s lowest branches.
Another tracker stepped from the darkness of the wood and quietly stalked south of his leader’s position. Lijon followed the second tracker with his eyes. This Ulrog also took his time to inspect both the ground before him and the clearing’s edges. Lijon praised Avra for such obedient men. He preached patience in order for the plan to work. He was soon rewarded.
A louder, harsher voice called Lijon’s attention back to the darkness of the eastern trail. A pair of dull red points floated within the darkness. They grew. A High Priest of Amird, leader of these packs, strode down the path toward the clearing. His massive frame burst from the wood. A look of distress and anger twisted across his stony face.
“Dras! Why do we hesitate?” demanded the priest.
The first tracker to enter the clearing spun back to the opening, approached the priest and bowed low.
“Lord Tchkor, the clearing has not been read for signs.”
“We have no TIME!” barked Tchkor glancing back over his shoulder to the trail behind him. “Damn the signs. We must break free of the Derol before nightfall.”
“But my lord,” pleaded Dras. “The woodsmen lay traps throughout the Derol. We lost many useful Hackles to their trickery.”
Tchkor’s eyes flared and he pounded a fist down on the back of Dras’s head. The tracker dropped onto his hands and knees before the priest, crying out in pain. Tchkor bent low and put his black lips near his subordinate’s ear.
“Get your tracker rabble into the clearing and move on,” growled Tchkor, lips quivering in anger. “Their bodies will clear a path.”
The priest’s massive claws locked on the back of the tracker’s neck and he rose, lifting Dras with him.
The tracker was set on his feet, spun toward the clearing and hurtled forward.
“Trackers! Follow your leader!”
Immediately, a half dozen smaller Ulrog broke from the tree line and picked their way between the saplings in the grove. Dras dragged himself forward and glanced back at his master. Tchkor did not follow the tracker’s progress. Instead, he turned to inspect the trail he exited. When the high priest finally looked back to Dras’s position he erupted in anger at the tracker’s hesitancy.
“Move you worthless beast!” roared the priest.
Fire flashed from his raised hands and ignited the grove behind Dras. The tracker and his comrades spun west and lunged forward into the clearing. Lijon smiled.
In an instant, a high-pitched twang sounded from near the second tracker to enter the grove. The beast stepped nearly thirty yards into the clearing when a sapling tied beneath the tall grasses launched itself upright. A noose anchored to the tree tightened about the Hackles ankle and ripped him from his feet. Several more twangs screamed through the heavy air of the Derol and four more Hackles found themselves dangling from supple yet sturdy oak saplings.
Dras froze in confusion. His comrades struggled in vain. The forest’s edge erupted in movement. Woodsmen appeared with bow and spear. The Ulrog trackers made easy targets as they swayed from the woodsmen’s snares. Derolians easily dispatched the Hackles, piercing their stone bodies with multiple projectiles.
Those Derolians nearest the priest’s position turned their weapons on Tchkor and the Hackles crowded about the eastern trailhead. The high priest roared in frustration and with each hand motioned sections of his Hackles toward the Derolians stationed in the woods. His subordinates rushed behind the cover of the trees and worked their way toward their attackers. Tchkor snarled and backed down the trail into the forest. Arrows riddled the trees about him. Only the red glow of his Chaos filled eyes could be seen in the dusky shadows of the wood.
“The fool,” laughed Lijon. “He splits his force around the grove, just as we planned.”
Lijon stood and motioned to the west down his own trail.
Fighting Hackles powered through the dense undergrowth and broken timber littering the Derol Forest. Their confidence remained high. This trap had been sprung and taken the lives of a few worthless trackers. A small price to pay for the annihilation of the troop of woodsmen manning the position.
The lead Hackle could hear the noise of longbows snapping death across the clearing at his priest. He crouched not far from the archer’s location. Their longbows would be no match for cleavers and stone hammers. He plunged past the low hanging branches of an old leaning oak.
His oily black eyes went wide at a flash of blue that rushed toward him. A knight of Astel stepped forward and slammed the long blade of a broadsword into the Ulrog’s midsection, making this the last surprise the Hackle would ever experience.
Roars of dismay and anger filled the woods on both sides of the clearing. Hackle after Hackle blundered into the path of broadsword wielding knights. The Astelans thrust and slashed their way through the stone men, heavily damaging the enemy. The Derolian archers remained focused on the eastern trail head and the clearing’s interior. The moment a Hackle stepped from shelter, a dozen steel-tipped shafts pelted the beast. Lijon focused on the red eyes within the wood. They flared with rage, but also periodically spun to the east, checking the darkness behind them.
Lijon bent low and retrieved a freshly cut lance from the ground. The green wood felt wet. An iron point had been affixed to its end and a grip hastily carved into its handle.
“Tis a fine piece of Derolian wood, my lord,” said the big woodsman as he hefted the lance toward a man seated atop a large stallion. “It may bend upon impact, but should not break.”
The knight accepted the lance and laid its handle within a holster buckled to his mount’s side.
“If produced by the hands of Derolians, it will be of the highest quality,” smiled Portlo in return.
The eastern trailhead erupted in flames and the harsh, guttural screams of the high priest of Amird told all within range that assault lie imminent. Portlo chucked the flanks of his stallion and it moved toward the opening into the clearing. A dozen mounted knights retrieved lances from Fraz and followed their leader.
“Take the clearing and move onto the western trail,” roared Tchkor. “We must be free of the Derol by nightfall!”
The first Hackles to plunge into the clearing attempted retreat from the sword-wielding knights of Astel. High Priest Tchkor turned his fiery rage on them, leaving them no alternative but to flee into the clearing. The woods held the death of Astelan steel. The eastern trailhead held the fire of Chaos and the clearing held arrow and spear. The Hackles made their decision quickly.
Some lost their lives to the few remaining snares that had not been tripped by the trackers. The snares yanked these heavy fighting Ulrog from their feet. However, the crush of their comrades storming across the clearing took more of their lives than the arrows or spears of the woodsmen.
The remaining Hackles made good progress across the dell. Those closest to the sides caught the brunt of the Derolian archer’s attack. The group of stone men bunched toward the center of the clearing as they raced across it.
The progress of their brethren and the motivation provided by the flaming hands of Tchkor pushed more Hackles into the clearing, the larger of the beasts forcing their way toward the center of the pack. They trampled the saplings, grasses and bodies of their brethren as they raced to the western trailhead.
The magnitude of their miscalculation presented itself before them. A dozen fully armored knights of Astel poured from the western wood on horseback and fanned out across the clearing. The knights lowered their iron tipped lances and hammered the flanks of their armored stallions.
Many of the Hackles spun and rushed toward the streaming arrows and spears pouring from the forest. Others raised their weapons and chose to confront horse and rider alike. The first wave of Astelan knights slammed into these stone men with a metal raking crunch. The riders remained seated, but many Ulrog lay broken from the lance of the knights or the hooves of their mounts.
Lijon waved to a group of woodsmen stationed to his right. They rose from the grasses, released a battle cry and rushed in amongst the few Hackles who avoided lance and horse. The woodsmen’s hatchets flashed and they made short work of the stranded Hackles. The mounted knights regrouped and charged forward at a new line of Ulrog. A similar encounter ensued and again the woodsmen cleaned up the remains with their hatchets.
Lijon grinned in satisfaction. On either side of the clearing he could see the blue mantles of Astelan knights coursing through the woods as they decimated the Hackle’s first charge through the forest. His archers rained death into the confused Ulrog. The beasts rushed from punishment to punishment within the clearing. The knights charged, reformed, then charged again. Not a single knight had been unseated. Across the clearing, in the gray shadows of the woods, the fiery eyes of the high priest swept across his defeat. Lijon exalted.
A knight reined in beside the big Derolian motioning for a replacement lance. The splintered remains of the knight’s original weapon lay within its holster. Lijon dropped to a knee and lifted a new pole from the pile at his feet.
“Perhaps we underestimated the thickness of their hides,” laughed the knight from beneath his visor. “Derolian craft or no, you had best keep a handy supply of weaponry. I fear we will need it.”
“As you command, my lord,” smiled Lijon in reply.
The woodsman tore the old lance from the holster and replaced it with the new. He slapped the exposed rump of Portlo’s stallion and the horse spun and charged into the fray.
Lijon followed the horse but let his eyes shift back to the eastern trail head. Something drew him there. A darkness more palpable and brooding replaced the shadows of the woods. The red eyes of the high priest could still be seen floating within the tree line, but now a blackness backed
him and sapped all light from the wood. Lijon stared in confusion as the blackness grew and encroached on both the priest and the tree line. Another pair of fiercer, more intense red eyes blazed to life directly behind the priest. Lijon drew in a deep breath and held it. A chill shot up his spine.
The High Priest Tchkor glared at the catastrophe before him. His force lay in disarray. The mounted knights of Astel annihilated his fighting Hackles. Most of his trackers fell to woodsmen’s arrows or the snares within the clearing. He needed to decide now whether to press himself into the battle or retreat. However, uncertainty gnawed him. How much time could he spare beforetheyfell upon him from the east? He decided to throw himself into the fray when a chill ran through him.
“You tarry too long in your duties, priest,” came a wicked whisper from behind his right ear.
The steaming hot breath of a Malveel lord bathed his neck. Tchkor slowly turned and looked over his right shoulder. Lord Drengel slid backward and a creature of blackness rushed past the Malveel toward the priest.
Lijon trembled. He didn’t recognize the blackness, but he knew it to be unnatural. His attention diverted to the mounted knights. They routed yet another Ulrog advance and made progress toward the eastern trail head. They were oblivious to the danger. Lijon dropped the lance he held and ran into the clearing.
“Lord Portlo! No! Retreat!”
The Derolian’s call drowned beneath the inhuman cry that echoed from the eastern edge of the clearing. Trees crashed. Horses shrieked. A mass of heavy black figures emerged from the eastern wood. Attached to the central of these figures was the struggling Ulrog priest. Hundreds of tiny black claws reached from within the blackness of the Memnod. The claws raked the Ulrog’s thick hide and dragged him into the nothingness of the creature of Chaos. The Memnod consumed the priest in an instant. The blackness lurched forward toward the advancing knights.
The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) Page 12