BlackThorn's Doom (23 page)

“Picture the stuff of your nightmares, that is what we face. Trolls, Fell Hounds, even a Ma’ul stands amid their number. Against that fiend the Keep of Timosh proved to be ineffective. He tore down those great walls as if they were made of parchment.”

Otess gasped at the mention of the demon, the old steward tracing an arcane symbol of protection across his chest with a trembling finger.

“More dire than even the Ma’ul, Sur’kar himself leads his host.” Gaelan continued. “We fight a losing battle, the Ma’ul alone would brush this army aside. Once through the inner portal our hours are numbered.”

“We will face them none the less.” Pelatus vowed.

“That we will,” Gaelan agreed. “But not here. We strive to gain the Delin’ tor hills, a place better suited to defense than these open plains.”

“Should Sur’kar opt to follow?” King Pelatus said. “What would prevent him from simply pressing eastward and razing Rodderdam?”

“He will follow,” Connell interjected. “Once through the pass the Horse lords of Kesh will meet them upon this plain and we will lead them towards the hills. With the enemy before them, Sur’kar would be hard pressed to hold his warriors back.”

“What of the Ma’ul?” Gaelan asked. “You slew the Balhain, but I doubt you could best that creature.”

Connell laughed. “I am not so big a fool as to even try. A horse can outrun it, and we will keep our distance to be safe.”

Gaelan did not like the thought of separating from his cousin but he could see the merit in Connell’s plan. “Very well.” He said dejectedly. “Otess, you are to return to Rodderdam and do whatever you can to prepare for its defense should we fail.”

Otess nodded in acceptance although he could foresee nothing he could do that would prevail should a foe capable of defeating over seventy thousand men come upon the city.

“Then let us get this army moving,” King Pelatus suggested. “Those gates will not hold long if Trolls are on the other side.” He turned and galloped back towards the host.

Otess bowed towards his King. “I will do what I can.” He vowed. “Even if it is only to spread the word so that all men of Trondhiem can escape to safety.”

Gaelan smiled. “You have done well Otess, no matter what ill befalls us it is not upon your shoulders.”

Otess turned his horse and rode away at trot, his back bent under the weight of his many years and the doom that was upon them all.

The army surged southward and King Pelatus set a grueling pace seeking to over take the retreating survivors of the keep.

The Keshian riders formed tight ranks and separated from the host. Their hooves shook the ground as they approached the four riders.

Connell greeted his countrymen enthusiastically and had them form a line four horses deep. They sat in their saddles awaiting the arrival of the Morne. The colorful pennants hanging tied to their spearheads snapping loudly in the gentle wind.

Connell looked to Gaelan. “Your place is with the army.” He said. “We will slow their advance and buy you the time needed to gain the hills.”

Gaelan’s shoulders slumped. “I know Connell, but it is a hard thing for me to leave and allow them entry into Trondhiem.”

“I would feel the same should I be in your position.” Connell answered. “But we each have our duties, and yours lies with the army.”

An hour after Gaelan’s departure the mountains rang with an echoing boom. The Keshian horses snorted in response and the men sat straighter in their saddles. They knew the wait was over. The Gates had finally been breached and behind the sheltering hills the host of Sur’kar was now entering Trondhiem.

Beating drums sounded in the distance, echoing down from the Mountain face. For several hours they pounded suddenly growing silent without warning.

D’Yana’s blades flashed from their scabbards. “I thought all the traitorous scum were slain when the wall collapsed upon the dungeons.”

“They were.” Connell said realizing with horror what he was seeing. “That man is not alive.”

D’Yana blinked, had Connell lost his mind. She stared hard at the lumbering man and could see that his head was broken open and a good portion of his brain hung in tatters from the bloody wound.

Vernal stopped his approach his vacant eyes rolled up into his head until only the whites showed. His mouth slowly sagged open and dark blood spurted forth. With a wet sickly cough he spoke with a voice filled with torment and rage.

“Throw down your arms!” He commanded. “It is folly to resist further. Bend knee to Sur’kar and some may live to see another sunrise.”

“Be gone from here vile specter!” Connell commanded. “In life you were a traitor and in death you have not changed.”

Vernal laughed, a hollow cackling sound that sent great gouts of blood out of his mouth and down onto his chest. “I will await you in Hell Connell of Kesh.” He said collapsing onto the ground, his body lifeless once more.

From atop the hill the Morne appeared. By the thousands they marched down onto the grasslands in tightly formed ranks.

“Men of Kesh!” Connell shouted drawing his blade. “We strike hard and flee southward. Do not become entangled with the foe, if you do death awaits you.”

The warriors charged forth, their horses sounding like thunder upon the dry grass. Lowering their spears they closed the distance before the Morne archers could prepare.

They slammed into the front ranks, spears shattered and Morne died by the hundreds. The men struck hard and broke free immediately. Racing southward they reformed the line a mile away. Leaving behind over one hundred of their brethren dead.

The Morne ranks recovered quickly and they pressed forward the host arcing to the south facing the mounted warriors.

Connell watched them approach searching for a weakness. “Steel yourselves, arrows will greet us on our next charge.”

They allowed the Morne to close the distance to half a mile before driving once more into the advancing army. A rain of black arrows fell among them as they advanced and many men fell to the earth dead.

The Warriors once more slammed into the Morne ranks. Their lines fell apart and a massive melee ensued. Connell drove through the ranks of the Morne his sword reaping a bloody harvest. Behind him charged D’Yana both her swords cutting a deep swath through the warriors.

Connell fought his way out of the Morne and with a wave signaled his bugler to sound the retreat. The Horse lords whirled as one and drove out of the Morne leaving behind a field filled with the dead and dying.

The warriors raced southward less than five thousand strong. Connell was angry and dismayed. They had done damage to the enemy but not enough to warrant the loss of nearly one haft.

“The Morne give chase!” D’Yana shouted to him as they retreated. “Your plan is working Connell.”

Connell frowned knowing that they would have to face the foe again in order to slow them down. “I only hope we have men enough to buy Gaelan the time he needs.”

D’Yana could see the grief in his eyes. Every man who died weighed heavily on him; she knew it would take many years for the cost of this war to fade.

She gripped her reins tightly vowing to kill as many Morne as the Gods would allow before this was over.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Casius rode through a stretch of forest denuded of trees. Stumps and roughly hewn timbers littered the ground. Morne by the hundreds had worked here recently. In several places the broken hafts of their crude axes were visible.

They had constructed something here but as to what Casius could not begin to guess. The clues they left provided no suggestions to him.

The sky to the east was brightening, and soon the high walls of the mountains would cast their long shadow over him. The faint sounds of combat he had heard throughout the night had faded and an eerie silence now filled the wood.

The horse stumbled its sure-footed gait faltering as exhaustion set in. He had pushed the horse hard, now both of them were feeling the fatigue of covering so many miles with little if any rest.

The smell of burning wood drifted upon the wind. Through the trees ahead he could see the light of a great fire burning. He rode the horse out from the thin cover of the trees and up upon the crest of a low hill.

He sat motionless in the gloom watching as thousands of wains burned in the vale before the combs entrance. Most had already collapsed into flaming piles of timber laced with half metal bits of iron and glowing coals.

Across the burning fields he could see a lone figure on horseback watching him. The warrior’s armor shone dully and upon his head he wore a great winged helm. He knew that this was no Morne warrior watching him from across the fires.

Casius tore his eyes from the specter and looked on in shock at the destruction that had befallen the great keep. The magnificent structure was all but destroyed; the eternal keeps days had finally come to an end. Through the shattered walls flowed the army of Morne.

He turned his horse away and rode back the way he had come. He was in a dark mood and his back was stiff from too many hours in the saddle. He found a sheltered vale to the north and made camp his back leaning against a fallen tree.

He sat pondering his next step when a distant roar split the air. He knew that sound anywhere and it set his heart to beating. Sur’kar had another of the damned demons at his call.

He could think of no way to get through the entire Morne army, past Trolls and a Ma’ul to reach Sur’kar. Even with the sword of Thoron’Gil he knew it would be an impossible task.

As he brooded the sun rose and the shadow of the mountain grew long and stretched over him. His eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep.

He slowly awakened to the heavy sounds of a horse breathing. He shifted his position slightly and felt a cold razor sharp point resting against his neck.

He opened in his eyes; a mounted man sat in the saddle before him holding a long lance. Casius’s hand rested on his sword hilt but he knew he would be dead before he could draw the weapon. Ever so slowly he moved his hand away from Aethir’s pommel.

The warrior pulled the lance back slightly. “A wise move.” He said using the lance he motioned him upward. “On your feet.”

“I am not what you think.” Casius said lowering the hood and gaining his feet.

“If I had believed you to be a Morne, you would have died in your sleep.” The man replied with a grin that held very little humor. “The question is why are you out here dressed in the garb of my enemy?”

“I have traveled far,” he answered. “In a failed quest to slay the dark one himself.”

The warrior’s eyes widened in surprise and he laughed. “It must have been a mighty blow indeed to put such a notion in your head.”

Casius ran his hand across his right cheek and over his scalp. The burns were beginning to heal but the red flesh was only just now beginning to sprout hair in small patches. He could only imagine what he looked like. “I was burned by a Ma’ul in the tower of V’rag, before its destruction.”

The man stopped laughing and looked deep into Casius’s eyes. He could find no deception there. “If you speak truly, then there is a tale here worth hearing.”

Casius nodded and the grief at the loss of his friends struck him hard as he related his tale to the man.

As Casius spoke the man raised his lance and set the butt into his stirrup cup. “Gather your gear, Lord Burcott will wish to hear the news you bear.”

Casius gathered his meager belongings and mounted his stolen Morne horse. The black stomped its hooves, irritated by the presence of the foreign stallion. “Lead on then.” Casius motioned for the warrior to take the trail.

The man shook his head. “Over the rise and bear left.” The warrior motioned with his free hand. “You will see the game trail I followed.”

Casius turned and followed the man’s instructions.

“Do not try and escape,” the warrior warned from behind. “I am well versed in these weapons I bear and will not hesitate to slay you.”

“And yet you allow me to carry my sword?” Casius asked over his shoulder.

“Aye.” The man answered sparing a glance to the ebon hilt at Casius’s side. “If you have spoken truly then I will have no part in touching it.”

Casius found the trail with ease and he followed its winding course through the trees. It was a short ride, after nearly three miles they crested a steep rise and rode through a line of armed men dressed in sand colored clothing.

They nodded to Casius’s captor and watched with steely eyes as the stranger rode down into the shallow valley. Men by the thousands went about the task of keeping camp. Tents covered much of the free space, wedged between the trees without any noticeable pattern. Beyond the furthest tents Casius could make out a herd of the largest deer he had ever seen in his life.

“Burcott’s tent is in this direction.” His guide said dismounting and pointing towards the camps center.

Casius slid from his saddle and handed the reins to a waiting soldier.

Through the tents they wound coming to a small smokeless fire surrounded by armored men. One man drew Casius’s attention a burly old warrior who the men deferred to out of great respect.

The warrior who had captured Casius stepped forward. “My Lord,” He said in a strong voice drawing the men’s attention. “I have captured a young man, and he has a tale that you should hear.”