The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (32 page)

“But the Anvil do not see this war in the light you wish. The Guard undermines your position by maintaining a successful struggle against you. Slowly your support wanes. I offer you a chance to regain that support. Kill me and you will see hundreds flock to your banner.”

Fenrel fumed purple with rage. Never had he been spoken too and degraded in such a manner. He was proficient in the use of every known weapon. He was trained to kill with his bare hands. He stood head and shoulders above the Zodrian and outweighed him by nearly fifteen stone. More importantly, he was infused with a power the Zodrian knew naught about. It was time for him to unveil that power. Those of faith had been suppressed or put down and the Anvil that remained was a leaderless, faithless void. A void he planned to fill with the worship of just one figure, Fenrel Stormbreaker.

“I give you three hours to prepare yourself and order your affairs, Zodrian. We meet on this spot,” commanded Fenrel. “I will need scant time to remove you from this equation. Each of us will retain a second to manage our weaponry as is the custom. Your word is your bond. No tricks or my man will be instructed to strike you down and any who accompany you.”

The prince turned to his guard and the slovenly Keltaran released a dull, witless chuckle. Immediately Fenrel spun his Brodor and rode off. The witless guard followed but Utecht hesitated a moment and lightly bowed to the Zodrians. They returned his bow and the battlefield cleared.

CHAPTER 19: GREEB THE ONE EYE

Night fell on the jagged slopes of the Scythtar Mountains. A stiff southernly breeze washed over Greeb and he surveyed the Western Mnim Valley from his perch upon the ridgeline trail.  The Malveel took pleasure in the warmth of the current. His kind were born in the fiery depths of the Scythtar’s molten core and disliked the frozen lands of the stone men.

Beneath him, the Western Mnim stretched into the lands of the humans. The valley was a long, featureless gorge with a moderate slope descending from the Scythtar ridge to the plains of Eru. It held nothing but broken rock and the Ulrog who guarded it.

Greeb turned to the east and stared at the Horn. The last of the mighty Mirozert Mountains that ended the range as it slammed into the Scythtar wall. Behind the Horn lay the eastern branch of the Mnim. Like a divining rod the pair of valleys reached from the Scythtar ridge into the lands of the humans.

The eastern branch was essentially a continuance of the ridgeline trail. The trail ducked behind the Horn as it ran east then turned south where a narrow gorge ran straight and true like a deep cleaver slash southeast into the plateaus of Astel.  Its pathway was difficult and dangerous, even for creatures born of stone. High winds and loose rock took many a Hackle’s life as they traversed the gorge. From his place on the trail, Greeb could journey on either side of the MIrozert into the Eru grasslands or the Astelan highlands.

Astel. Greeb still thought of the land to the southeast as Astel. Although Lord Izgra demanded all refer to it by its new name of Kel Izgra, Greeb felt differently. He had reason. A stony claw rose and raked across a dead, gray eye. Greeb let a long, low growl emit from within his cavernous belly.

It was centuries since the battle, but everyday the Malveel relived his mistake and his hatred grew. The De Hartstrons. The vile spawn of the old man. They left him with a useless, visionless eye. They were the instruments of his shame.  They made him an afterthought in the rank of the Malveel and in the mind of Lord Amird.

In the beginning he was Sulgor’s second. Powerful. Feared. All commands from the Malveel King went through Greeb. Then he engaged the De Hartstrons in Amird’s first true push to establish a stronghold amongst the human lands. Everything changed. Greeb’s battle plan was brilliant, but the Astelan army weathered the test. The Malveel lord was bested and fought ferociously to escape intact .....  almost intact.

Once again Greeb growled and stroked his lifeless eye, the memory both painful and pathetic. It was Amird’s failure and with him Sulgor. Too little was known to issue such a command of conquest. They did not gain enough information on Astel before forcing the attack. Greeb was rushed into action and it was Greeb who paid.

The Malveel lowered his head and quickly surveyed the land about him. These thoughts were dangerous. His lord was as vigilant punishing his own as he was in punishing enemies. Greeb was a creation of Amird. The Deceiver maintained control of him for so long that Greeb wondered if Amird could see into his very thoughts. After a moment, Greeb’s head rose and he peered down the valley to the south.

The Mnim, this was Greeb’s charge. He was reduced to the role of watch dog. The packs he commanded populated the walls and floor of the valley. Their task was simple. They held the valley and periodically harassed the horsemen, destroying their herds when possible.

Like hungry wolves, the Ulrog ventured into the Eru when the riders were distracted. The Ulrog slaughtered all livestock they could then exited to the safety of the valley. Greeb resented this task. He commanded more than enough Hackles to sweep into the Eru and challenge for the plains themselves. However, Sulgor was specific. Greeb was to keep the Horsemen off balance.

“Patience,” cautioned Sulgor. “When the day comes, you will be unleashed, but our Master wishes to be present at the great event. His time draws near. The more Chaos and disruption entering the world, the stronger he becomes. It will not be long now. Guard the Mnim with vigilance and you will be rewarded.”

Greeb followed those orders and now here he stood. Decades of skirmishes. Decades of raids. Every time he inflicted pain upon the Eru or their human cousins huddled in the Derolian forest, he was called back to this rock. Called back like a servant to sit and stare while the humans retreated and rearmed. Forever a sentinel at a crossroads no human in his right mind would wish to journey upon.

A cry arose from within the valley stretching out below him. Rocks moved in the failing light and boulders creaked in the shadowy darkness as Hackles jumped to their feet and viewed the progress of a lone runner from the plains below. Greeb’s remaining eye was keen and locked on the runner, following his progress. It was Slundoc, Greeb’s lead tracker. The Ulrog had been dispatched earlier in the day to perform a routine check of the grasslands.

Greeb stood patiently following the tracker’s progress as the stone man lumbered up the slope, picking his way between gray lumps of either stone or stone men. Finally the tracker appeared before the Malveel at the base of the Horn and dropped to one knee.

“Lord Greeb,” growled the stone man, his chest heaving. “The Eru are on the move.”

Greeb dismissed the news with an arched brow. The scales on his armored maw crackled as his lip curled into a snarl.

“Do they turn to the west again to gather in their flocks,” spat Greeb.

“No, my lord,” replied Slundoc.

Greeb drew his mouth closed. Confusion crept into his thoughts. Slundoc toiled under his command for nearly two years and the Malveel never knew the tracker to show fear. Tonight was different. Slundoc should have recovered from his sprint up the mountain by now. He was a tracker, bred to endure such hardship. However, Slundoc’s chest still pumped up and down as he stared wide-eyed at the Malveel.

“Do they travel east to counsel with the Derolians and their vile Astelan allies?” questioned Greeb more hesitantly.

“No, my lord ....” replied Slundoc hesitating himself.

Greeb’s lone eye twitched in rage.

“Then where do they travel to, you fool?” roared the Malveel. “I tire of guessing!”

Slundoc shrank lower to the stony floor of the crossroads and lifted his arms in protection.

“They march on the Mnim, my lord,” exclaimed Slundoc. “They attack us!”

Greeb froze. His fiery red eye darted back and forth across the tracker’s face. Had the Ulrog gone mad? What would possess him to say such things? Another roar issued from the slopes of the valley below.

“Riders on the plains below, my lord,” growled the High Priest Cortik, commander of the Hackles in this part of the Scythtar.

Greeb’s lone eye rose and scanned the horizon over Slundoc’s prone body. There in the distance rose the tell tale dust of a massive movement of animals and men. Greeb’s eye remained fixed on the sight as he bowled Slundoc over and charged down the slope. His thick black tongue ran nervously over the spikes filling his mouth.

The Malveel’s mind raced. All these years of waiting. The shame and humiliation every time he journeyed to Kel Izgra to beg for more Hackles. The looks from the others. Even Methra, Sulgor’s chosen lackey, stared down his ignorant snout at Greeb. Greeb had laughed to himself at the news of Methra’s death. Another of those who rejoiced in Greeb’s fall now burned in the eternal fire of limitless Chaos.

Now, in the distance, rode Greeb’s revenge. The Eru chose to advance on the Hackles. Whatever madman suggested this folly was certainly unwittingly influenced by the hand of Chaos. Many horsemen would perish this bloody evening. Greeb slowed.

“You are a chosen of Amird,” Sulgor had once said. “Show the Hackles neither fear nor excitement. The former should be banished from your heart and the latter sets the beasts to thinking.”

Greeb’s great black tongue flicked in and out between rows of jagged, knife edged teeth. He tested the air and narrowed his eyes on the dust cloud. He did not need eyes to know what approached. He tasted them on the air. Horses. Many of them moved toward the Mnim.

Hackles milled about in confusion. The tracker’s news had obviously irritated their master and something stirred in the lands below the mountain valley. Finally, Greeb rose to his full height and the fire of Chaos sparked within his eye. All Hackles within sight of the Malveel froze and stared at the great beast.

“Our master, the Lord of Chaos, answers my pleas and sends the horsemen to fall before us,” bellowed Greeb. “Cortik. Gather the priests of Amird and come to me. We must plan. The remainder of you ready yourselves. You will feast on horse flesh tonight!”

A deafening roar issued from the countless Hackles populating the Western Mnim. They turned and rushed toward the valley’s mouth.

Kael froze. The inhuman roar to the east sent a chill down his spine. The sound reminded him of a miller’s grindstone. Rock grating on rock in a chorus of stone. The boy turned and eyed Ader in the darkness of the new born night.  The Seraph smiled reassuringly and headed on down the animal path they trod.

The path ran from west to east along the foothills of the Scythtar themselves. They climbed high enough now that the rolling grasslands of the Erutre stretched out two hundred yards below them toward the southern horizon.

Two leagues southeast of their position, a gray mass of dust swirled toward the mountain range on the stiff southern breeze. Hazy figures moving within the cloud pinpointed the location of the combined forces of the Eru, Astel and the Derolian woodsmen.

Two leagues due east of the mass stretched the dark edge of the Derolian forest. The Derol ranged thousands of leagues south until it intermingled with the boundaries of the Toxkri and finally ended abruptly at the towering sand dunes of the Borz. Thousands of leagues of light and shadow. Kael shot a glance at the full moon. He hoped those shadows would help his allies now. Ader pointed toward a huge rocky outcrop rising from the grassy hillside ahead.

“We shall shelter behind that stone,” stated the Seraph. “We are nearly a league from the Mnim and do not wish to journey too close. We will wait for the proper signs then we must move quickly.”

Eidyn and Kael nodded in acknowledgment. The trio strode ahead then settled beside the giant stone and waited.

“Do not bunch up,” shouted Temujen to his riders. “When the dust clears, we wish to appear more than we are from a distance. They must have a moment of hesitation. In that way, once they commit they will do so wholeheartedly.”

The Eru horsemen rode three yards apart and fought their mounts natural inclination to bunch ranks. Temujen frowned as he inspected the foot soldiers boxed within his riders. Were their numbers too small? Had he gambled their fortunes away by weakening the formation too greatly? Four hundred horsemen would make short work of any Ulrog raiding party, but this group was required to face the concentrated might of the stone men’s numbers in the Eastern Scythtar.

What of his infantry? A combination of two hundred ax wielding Derolian woodsmen and one hundred Astelan swordsmen was intimidating, but certainly not a force capable of halting a thousand Ulrog.

However, that was the point. Temujen held no interest in stopping the Ulrog’s advance. His force needed to appear strong enough for his challenge to the Mnim to be believed, but weak enough to instill confidence in the Ulrog’s masters. Temujen noticed Portlo eyeing him intently.

“Many may lose their lives over the rescue of this girl,” stated the steward.

 “Then they lose their lives in a moral cause, Lord Portlo,” stated the chieftain.

The steward contemplated the response then turned his gaze to the western foothills of the Scythtar.

“Do you believe the boy knows where he is being led,” asked Portlo, “or who is leading him?”

Temujen followed Portlo’s gaze.

“Can any be certain of their path until they have taken it?” returned Temujen. “I believe the boy’s faith grows, and with it his direction becomes clearer. Hopefully one day he sees with clarity and recognizes the plan laid out for him.”

The chieftain and the steward held one another’s gaze for a few moments then Temujen turned to the assembled force.