“We have the day to prepare, what are we to do?” wondered Manfir aloud.
“Use the light,” replied Temujen.
Manfir looked at the Eru chieftain quizzically.
“Strike first,” came Temujen’s simple explanation.
A call echoed from the top of the surrounding wall.
“Open the gates!”
A pair of Eru tribesmen rushed to the great wooden doors and swung them wide. A moment later the steaming form of Tarader burst into the courtyards of Delvi. The mighty stallion slowed and trotted to the great herds that milled near the water’s edge. The animals parted and their king bowed to the cool waters of the lake and drank deeply.
“The eternal horse enters without a rider. A good omen,” stated Samot from the balcony on high.
“Or a very bad one,” grumbled Nostr.
The tracker bowed before Lord Izgra.
“My lord. The eternal horse ran through our encampment,” the tracker winced expecting punishment then pressed on. “Our forces were unable to capture it.”
Izgra’s head rose and his silent, empty stare sent fear coursing through the tracker’s body. The Half-Dead released a cackle of laughter.
“It is of no import,” scoffed the warlock. “A rider less horse, no matter its pedigree, threatens no one. The animal never concerned me, but the rider did. Ader the Light Wielder is no more.”
CHAPTER 17: FIRE FIGHT
A DOZEN ULROG encircled a roaring blaze of scrap wood in the main encampment of the Army of the Scythtar. The chance to rest came rarely and fuel for such a fire remained scarce in the grasslands. The forced march from their mountain stronghold took its toll on the stone men both physically and mentally. They were not accustomed to camping in the open ranges of the Eru and their eyes shifted nervously at every movement or sound.
Throughout the evening, members of the Zorim contingent filtered in and amongst the main army. They too were exhausted. Vespewl drove them relentlessly. The Scourge remained intensely focused on his place in the great battle to come.
The dawn crept into the morning mists and strangely brought comfort to the Ulrog. Traditionally, the Hackles worked in the shadows and used the darkness of night to their advantage. However, unfamiliar territory changed the dynamics with which they made war. The dawn brought the ability to see their surroundings and assess the relative safety of their position. This relieved the Ulrog.
One of the dozen stood and retrieved the last of a pile of brushwood and tossed it upon the fire. He returned to his place and settled in. A few grumbles arose from a group of Zorim fighters confined to a sodden low patch of Eru grassland. The largest amongst them stood and trudged the thirty yards to the fire’s side. He stared at the blaze and allowed its heat to radiate into his rocky body.
“Move yer hide,” growled one of the dozen. “Yer blockin’ the fire.”
The Zorim stood firm but glanced over his shoulder to the speaker.
“I’ll move when I’m done,” he snapped and glanced to his compatriots on the sodden patch. “The conquerors of Keltar take what is rightfully theirs!”
The Scythtar fighter stood.
“Conquerors of Keltar?” he snorted and closed upon his adversary. “Drown river rats more like it. Word is you conquered an empty shell after you swam your way out of the giant’s trap.”
A growl of protest erupted from the Zorim fighters and Hackles everywhere quickly came to their feet.
“Test us, frozen dog,” rumbled the Zorim fighter, drawing his cleaver. “We of the Zorim spent years in a real battle with a true and dangerous enemy while you and your lot faced the last hopeless dregs that Zodra could throw at you. You couldn’t stand before the might of the Anvil and as usual Sulgor calls upon us to face the true challenge.”
The Zorim brotherhood snorted and laughed in agreement. The Scythtar Hackle’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He scanned the ground for his weapon. The Zorim fighter’s black eyes remained fixed upon him and the area went deathly quiet as tension filled the grasslands.
“However much I might find this little confrontation a source of entertainment on any other day,” came a deep rumble from the mists surrounding the encampment. “Today is special. Today I need all of you.”
Darkness materialized from the heavy morning fog as Vespewl the Scourge stepped from the draping wetness and approached the fire. The Hackles transformed. They no longer held the tense poses of warriors prepared to attack, but the rigid attention of Hackles expecting punishment. Vespewl fluidly moved toward the fire, dwarfing the stone men arrayed around it. His eyes matched the fiery intensity of the blaze.
“Today you are to be the instruments of my glory,” he purred, “ and if you sacrificed yourselves for anything other thanmy glory, I would be quite disturbed.”
His eyes scanned the crowd and all of the Hackles’ heads dipped in deference to the Scourge.
“Do not fret, men of stone. The fight is not long in coming. When evening falls, the forces of Amird will march upon the walls of Delvi and we shall....”
A cry of alarm arose from the mists to the west. The clash of metal upon metal could be heard in the distance.
“Fools!” snarled Vespewl. “I warned Sulgor of the folly of crowding too many fighting Hackles into such a tight space. Nagret was to warn his filth of the repercussions of fighting amongst themselves. Those who are insubordinate will suffer for their ...”
A pair of Hackles ran from the fog. One oozed black blood from a significant head wound. The other frantically glanced over his shoulder as he scrambled from the west. The pair ran directly past their Malveel lord. Vespewl’s upper lip quivered in fury. His eyes flared as he prepared to deal with any Hackles responsible for this annoyance.
The pounding of pursuit grew closer. Dark figures coalesced as the misty shroud dissipated from the heat of the rising sun.
“Stand down and lower your weapons!” boomed Vespewl. “Fighting amongst yourselves will not be tolerated! Any Hackle who disobeys my orders will find himself ...”
A dozen battle-armored Keltaran thundered from the mist and swept into the camp. Vespewl’s eyes widened in dismay as a long handled battle axe arced its deadly blade at the head of one of Lord Amird’s Chosen.
The battle no longer held the element of surprise. The Ulrog fully awakened to the Keltaran attack. Wave after wave of giant axe men and cavalry crushed into the west flank of the Ulrog position. The Hackles were disoriented. Many had just been informed of the evening attack planned for Delvi. They settled into camp, happy to find a few hours respite before more slaughter.
Ulrog snatched discarded weapons from the ground. Units hastily threw themselves together. Trackers busily ran battle plans between their Malveel leaders. Priests found it impossible to establish communications.
General Olith felt the full rays of the morning sun as the remnants of the mist disappeared from the field. He stood upon a hilltop nearly half a league from the main fight. The general longed to be amongst his men but knew his place lie here, coordinating their efforts and searching for any weakness he might bolster with his group of reserves.
So far the battle succeeded. The Ulrog were disorganized and poorly prepared. Olith smiled to himself. In all of these centuries of fighting, neither Ulrog nor Zodrian learned. The Keltaran were not a people constrained to the tactics of what they were supposed to do, but a dynamic force always ready to gamble and surprise. He turned to the black-robed giant standing to his right.
“Brother Shor. We are in luck. I see no fire of Chaos to support the Hackles. Perhaps their Malveel masters meet at another location.”
“I wish that were true general.” replied the monk. “But the heavy concentration of fighters to the north leads me to believe otherwise.”
Olith squinted and allowed his eyes to roam in the direction Shor motioned. The melee loomed thick and the figures of Ulrog, Keltaran foot soldiers and cavalry blurred together. A geyser of red flame erupted from within the swarm
and splashed down upon Ulrog and Keltaran alike.
“One of the beasts comes to life.” stated Shor.
Vespewl’s wild red eyes swept across the battle. Black blood oozed from a long gash rent beneath the scales armoring his head. Fury boiled within him. He knew a Keltaran inflicted the gash, but the ultimate blame lay upon the arrogant stupidity of Vespewl and his Malveel brothers.
How could they think that a cornered and desperate foe would not attempt the unthinkable? In all these years the humans proved their resourcefulness under pressure. As the forces of Amird gathered for the final blow, the Malveel ignored these lessons of the past. Arrogance and Stupidity.
Vespewl turned and a great claw snatched an Ulrog tracker from the ground.
“You will go to the Army of Minm and find Woil. If he is not under attack yet, tell him he will be shortly,” growled the beast through snapping fangs. “Then move on to the encampment of Sulgor the Magnificent. Tell him to attack the home of the scribes now, while we engage the Keltaran here!”
Vespewl tossed the Ulrog in the direction of the Mnim camp and spun back into the battle, releasing a great plume of fire across all in his path.
“AND TELL THAT IMBECILE NAGRET TO BOLSTER MY EAST FLANK!” roared the Malveel lord.
“The beast puts pressure on the center of our line general,” stated Brother Shor.
Olith nodded his understanding. The Ulrog shifted into a fighting unit and the Malveel lord rallied his minions to his cause.
“If the center of the line breaks, half of our forces may be cut off from retreat,” continued Brother Shor.
Olith frowned then sighed.
“I hoped for more damage from our first wave,” said the general. “At this rate we accomplish nothing and send our men into greater peril. Signal your reserves, Brother Shor. We march into the fray only long enough to affect a proper retreat.”
Shor bowed then moved forward into the full vision of the one hundred black-robed giants arrayed around him. He raised his long handled pike on high.
“Brotherhood of Awoi! We march into the teeth of the beast!”
The group leveled their weapons and raced down the hill toward the blistering glow of Chaos fire.
Nagret the Shadow finished his report to Woil and moved through the Army of Mnim eyeing the Hackles under the Lamentation’s control. Their numbers were great and they appropriately averted their eyes as the Malveel lord passed amongst them. Many knew him only through reputation, but it pleased Nagret to see how his ruthlessness instilled the proper respect in the slaves of Amird.
Regret crept into the mind of the Shadow. By rights he should control these Hackles. He stood next in line to gain command of one of Amird’s great armies. In the past, the hierarchy of the Malveel was well established. Vespewl ruled his Zorim fighters. Greeb owned the Mnim. He and Wulak shared responsibilities in the Scythtar under Woil’s management. Upon Greeb’s death, Nagret became the logical choice to succeed the One Eye in the valley, leaving Woil more control over the larger Scythtar.
However, the grab for power by Woil and the consolidation of Zorim and Scythtar under Vespewl left Nagret with scant control. He stalked westward carrying a message from Woil back to Vespewl. The Malveel lord gnashed his fangs. He acted as an errand boy for the brethren.
The clash of battle arose from the distant western camp of the Scourge. The Hackles surrounding Nagret raised their eyes and searched the fog. Tension filled their stony bodies. Nagret’s lip curled in disgust over their ignorance. Surely some infighting resulted from forcing separate Ulrog camps into such close quarters. These incidents were inevitable. He halted.
“My Scythtar packs do not like being forced into close proximity with the likes of the Zorim dogs,” smiled Nagret. “I am sure a few found it so distasteful they endeavor to show Vespewl’s Hackles the hierarchy in the battle to come.”
Several of the trackers within the group smiled in understanding and the fighters present noted the relaxation of the trackers.
“However, let it be known, your Malveel lords do not approve of fighting amongst yourselves. Insubordination detracts from the greater purpose at hand. I will see to the squabble and rebuke those who transgress orders,” Nagret snarled, “ .... but I will take my time to allow my Scythtar a bit of pleasure before the pain.”
More of the Hackles smiled and growled in appreciation of Nagret’s wicked jest. The Shadow basked in their approval and deliberately strutted forward, his head held high.
A heaving tracker burst into the encampment. His black eyes darted frantically and fell upon Nagret.
“My lord,” he growled dropping to one knee. “The Keltaran are upon us.”
Nagret drew a deep hissing breath and his fiery eyes widened in shock.
“Lord Vespewl begs for your assistance on his western flank,” continued the tracker. “I am to continue on to Lord Woil with news of the attack.”
Nagret’s expression changed from dismay to intensity.
“Hebegsfor my assistance?” asked Nagret.
The tracker knew better than to contradict his report.
“My Lord Vespewl asks you to protect his flank,” he replied.
“By what means?” snapped Nagret.
“He did not say,” returned the tracker, averting his eyes to the ground.
Nagret’s eyes widened as he mulled the implications. He lowered his head and spun on the Hackles camped before him.
“All those within hearing of my voice are now under my authority,” bellowed Nagret. “Lord Vespewl commands me to come to his aid. You will now domy bidding as we rally to the side of my Malveel brother.”
He spun back to the tracker.
“You will fulfill your task, tracker. Go to Lord Woil and inform him that I commandeer half of the Mnim on the authority of Lord Vespewl.”
The tracker nodded his understanding and Nagret scanned the Ulrog masses for nearby priests.
“You,” he snarled at the red robed Hackles. “You are now my command staff. Form this rabble into some rank and set them at a run to the west!”
Vespewl raged through a mass of Brodor riding giants. They hacked at his scale armored flanks with battle axe and slammed his powerful limbs with their war hammers. All was to no avail. Lord Vespewl, third of the Chosen of Amird felt none of it. His powerful forearms knocked hammers spinning from the hands of the largest of the giants then slammed their bodies to the ground, piercing them through with his nine inch stone claws.
This was the true power of the Malveel, a beast built for killing. Vespewl reveled in it. He hadn’t felt such power or such fear in a century. He decided long ago to forgo the fight and preserve himself for the coming of Amird. He disregarded all of that now as he raked a Keltaran giant from the back of a rushing Brodor. The Ulrog rallying to the side of their master made short work of the Keltaran.
Vespewl knew not why the Keltaran ventured out from behind the paltry defense the walls of Delvi afforded them, and he cared not. They dared to believe they could inflict damage uponhis army! Their delusions would be their undoing.
“The Keltaran commander leads pike men from the hills, my lord,” shouted a tracker at Vespewl’s side.
The Scourge’s eyes rose to the west and he spied a group of giants ranging toward the gap his force pushed through the Keltaran line.
“Olith of Keltar,” snarled Vespewl. “I owe you a debt.”
The Malveel launched his massive body forward, slamming a shoulder into a pair of heavily armored Brodors. Riders tumbled from saddles. The horses themselves crumpled to the ground, broken and shrieking in pain. Vespewl trod upon the horses’ thrashing bodies as he closed on the Keltaran pike line sweeping down the hill.
Olith led his men at a full charge toward the fiery-eyed demon and its escort of rampaging stone men. He could see how the Malveel edged directly toward him. It appeared clear that Vespewl the Mighty Scourge sought retribution. A devilish grin played on the old giant’s face as he drew the broadsword of his brothe
r Grannak from the sheath strapped to his back. If he died striking a blow for Avra, let it be a blow aimed at the heart of Amird’s campaign on this earth. One never knew, with a bit of luck ...
Utecht hefted his battle axe from the crushed skull of the lifeless Hackle splayed at his feet. The fighting grew less intense. The mass of Hackles filling his vision thinned and the melee broke into the smaller skirmishes common of such big battles.
The Keltaran sergeant scanned the battlefield quickly and soon discovered the reason for the wane in intensity. Hackles everywhere streamed toward the proximity of their leader, the Malveel in charge. The beast rushed from the main battle toward a confrontation with the Brotherhood of Awoi as it rolled down the western hills toward the fight.
“Keltaran!” shouted Utecht above the din. “To the west and Lord Olith! Victory is near!”
Olith’s muscles tensed. Surely it would take all of his strength to absorb a blow from the Malveel and try to drive the blade through its thick hide. The fiery eyes rushed toward him and the size of the beast multiplied with every step.
Suddenly, Brother Shor and a half dozen monks sprinted past the general, forming a line in front of him. Shor glanced back to his leader. Their eyes met.
“Swordsmen to the back ranks for clean up,” shouted the monk with a smile. “The charge is the glory of the pike men.”
The monk spun forward and rushed at Vespewl.
In the east, Woil bathed his own battle in fire. His conflagration caught Ulrog and Eru horsemen alike. The Lamentation cared not who perished. All appeared clear to him. Those trapped in the city of the scribes initiated a desperate attempt to stave off annihilation. Possibly, they intended to break from their confines and scatter to the four corners of this world. No matter. Woil would bask in the glory of Amird when he crushed this challenge in the iron fist of the Army of Mnim.
The Eru formed one of their intricate war circles. Woil heard reports of how they devastated The One Eye’s ranks. He raged as his Ulrog recoiled and backed down. They were stupid beasts but their memory reached far enough to recall the pain of the previous week at the Derol’s edge. Woil refused to let them falter.
The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) Page 17