The Trees And The Night (Book 3) Read online

  Moments after they left Nostr and began their journey down the tunnel, the stairway on which they descended disappeared and was replaced by the irregular floor of this huge tunnel. The footing was difficult in the low light, but at least the cavern did not have rubble on its floor.

  The duo traveled without speaking, allowing the slope of the tunnel to carry them forward. Cefiz guessed they toiled for hours, but had no real way to assess the passage of time. However, one thing was for certain. They did not descend the mountain as rapidly as they had ascended it. Humps and irregularities across the path caused them difficulty and the low light kept their pace slow.

  Cefiz reasoned their direction to be somewhat south simply due to an innate sense that often proved itself trustworthy. However, part of him guessed that at some point their path began to angle to the West. If that were the case, and the Ulrog scribe was to be believed, they might be within the mountain for days before they came to an exit. Certainly if they edged even further west in their march, they would be passing almost parallel to the knife-edge of the Scythtar. Granu abruptly halted.

  “We must rest,” said the Keltaran prince. “Going down can be as strenuous as going up and is certainly a greater strain on my knee.”

  It was the first time Cefiz heard the giant refer to his injury as debilitating.

  “I too must rest,” conceded Cefiz. “The stale air within this chamber leaves me wanting.”

  Granu leaned his fading torch against the wall of the tunnel and carefully lit a replacement. The pack slung across his back was thrown to the ground and the giant quickly rifled through it, retrieving a small water skin and length of jerked beef. The Keltaran sat and tore into the beef. Cefiz imitated Granu’s actions and he too was soon munching on beef and swigging water.

  “What direction do you think we are traveling?” asked Cefiz through a mouthful of beef.

  “Southwest,” stated Granu staring into the darkness down the corridor. “I cannot say how this concourse was formed, possibly an underground waterway surged through this chamber eons ago, but it most assuredly has edged west as we have descended.”

  “What are we to do when we are free of the mountain?” questioned Cefiz. “Return to Zodra?”

  “I am unsure,” returned Granu, “but I am sure there will be a sign. As you yourself said in the death chamber of Awoi, it appears as if our choices have been provided to us.”

  The pair continued to eat in the consuming silence of the mountain tunnel, each man equally preoccupied by his thoughts.

  Granu’s memory turned to his childhood and life in Keltar with Fenrel at his side. Granu always led. He was older. It was natural for him to take the lead in front of Fenrel. Had he pushed his brother aside? Had the shadow he created as he achieved greatness eclipsed his brother from the favor of country and king? These were questions he never contemplated. Perhaps they were questions he ignored. Was salvation possible for Fenrel? Salvation was possible for all concluded Granu, but they must accept it.

  Cefiz stared into the darkness of the tunnel and the image of a tattered, black cloak locked in the stony claw of an Ulrog Hackle repeated over and over in his mind. She had trusted and followed. She had seen the mistakes made by her father and herself. She determined to set them right. She did the honorable thing. Cefiz vowed to pass that information onto her father one day.

  CHAPTER 10: STEEL RAIN

  The first sign of the Anvil’s arrival was a light dusting of the sky to the West. They did not move rapidly so their shaggy steed’s hooves did not throw much of the dry, hill country topsoil into the air. The Anvil’s pace was to be expected. They knew where their foe lay and Fenrel felt no need rush forward. They would face one another shortly and the Keltaran prince savored the impending victory.

  Manfir smirked at the irony of the situation. Outnumbered and overmatched, he awaited his more powerful enemy within the borders of his own nation in a location exceedingly less defendable than the fortified city he sped from. The great kings of the past must surely be questioning his sanity in the halls of Avra’s paradise this fine day. The capital, surrounded by fifty-foot walls, lay virtually undefended, while he and this ragged group of militia stood naked against the might of the Keltaran Anvil. He laid his fate in the hands of Avra and prayed for deliverance.

  All was in readiness. The infantry dug trenches and erected barricades of stone and wood about the base of the great hill. The archers maintained a similar barricade up the slopes and held a fine field of vision from which to fire upon the Anvil. A command post stood upon the top of the hill from which Manfir would direct his troop’s movements. Only the rush of the Anvil was required to commence the anarchy of war.

  The massive Keltaran army stretched out half a league from the base of the hill. Two long lines of cavalry backed a wave of infantry ten deep. The Keltaran rode their favorite breed, the Brodor, a massive horse with long shaggy hair suited for life in the mountains. When properly motivated, the beasts were as formidable as a battering ram against both barricade and lines of infantry. Manfir prepared a plan to remove them from the battle.

  As his mind raced, the prince intently scanned the Keltaran lines. Manfir could barely discern individuals amongst the throng. The huge men on foot and horseback dressed in the skins of mountain goats and sheep. Their long hair cascaded over powerful shoulders from beneath burnished steel helms, many fashioned with the horns of mountain animals. Leather and steel guards wrapped their arms, and iron bound their knee-high boots. Manfir noted archers bearing crossbows sprinkled throughout the infantry. The prince breathed a sigh of relief. At least he would not concern himself with a concentrated attack through the air. The Keltaran always relied on their physical strength to win the day, and shunned the more strategic uses of bow and sling. Most of the Anvil armed themselves with heavy pike and battle-ax.

  Manfir hoped his militia’s recent training in both the use of these weapons and defense against them would payoff. He smiled again and thanked Avra for Granu of Keltar. Wherever the giant stood now, Manfir wished him luck. He had been wrong about the prince and surmised that he might never have the chance to thank Granu properly. It was one of many regrets he might take with him to his resting place this day.

  A thin line of trees surrounded the Dunmor a half league from its western edge. Fenrel called a halt and rode his huge, black Brodor to the front of the lines. A group of Keltaran all wearing the red skull insignia sat on horseback near the front of the Anvil. They were in the middle of an animated discussion as Fenrel rode forward. Immediately the group silenced. Aul separated himself from the group and addressed his captain.

  “My lord. The Zodrians have dug into the hillside,” began the giant. “It appears that they maintain to stand and fight.”

  Fenrel smiled and scanned his lieutenants. He read a mixture of triumph and uncertainty in their eyes.

  “Then we will make this their last stand,” smiled Fenrel.

  The men arrayed before the Keltaran prince avoided his gaze. Many turned toward Aul. Fenrel’s second in command seemed uneasy and he nervously addressed his master.

  “My Lord Fenrel,” stated Aul, “I ... we have every confidence in a Keltaran victory over the hated Zodrians ...”

  “But?” interrupted Fenrel, glaring at his second.

  “ ... but,” continued Aul hesitantly, “we are also aware the Zodrians are no fools. This unorthodox stand along the Dunmor is uncharacteristic.”

  “Do you waiver in your duty, Aul?” snapped Fenrel rising in his saddle.

  “Absolutely not, my lord,” replied the giant rapidly. “I simply apply vigilance to the well being of my men and my captain. Victory is a heady drink, and we should apply moderation in its tasting lest we allow it to blind us toward possible failure. The Zodrians have virtually sacrificed themselves to us here on the Dunmor. Why? Why leave their fortified city? Why march hundreds of leagues and weary their troops only to face immediate battle? Why are they without riders? We must scout the surroundin
g hills and attempt to discover any subterfuge.”

  Fenrel glared at the men arrayed behind his second and realized this was a confrontation he would need to win. These men teetered on the brink. He wanted their blind obedience. The captain relaxed in his saddle and smiled at Aul. His second visibly relaxed as well, believing his good sense caught hold of his master.

  “Aul, you are a loyal lieutenant and faithful Keltaran,” began Fenrel.

  The group visibly exhaled.

  “It is true the Zodrians are not fools,” continued Fenrel. “It is also true their tactics here today are quite unorthodox. Never before have we encountered a force of Zodrians this far from their home without a cavalry contingent. The natural order of things seems to have been disrupted.”

  “Yes, sir,” smiled Aul. “We are the superior force and it would take but moments to determine the situation and its full set of possibilities.”

  “Ah, would we had the time, Aul,” sighed Fenrel, “for you see, it is this type of ...”

  Fenrel halted and a hand rose to his chin as he searched for a word or concept. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and locked on his second. Eyes filled with anger and loathing.

  “ ... this type of weak minded, cowardly thought that has kept our people in the throws of banishment for centuries!” snarled Fenrel rising in his seat once more. “Even you, Aul, my most trusted, are infected with the indecision bred into our people by the legacy of Awoi.

  “The Zodrians are ours to annihilate and you balk. You wish to waste more time. Fortunately, the powers that be do not give us the time. We will not waste a moment longer worrying. We will not allow the clouds of self-doubt and indecision to enter our minds. Whatever their reason for sacrificing themselves on this rocky, barren terrain, I care not. The Zodrians have allotted us an opportunity to end this quickly, without a prolonged siege of their capital, and I will snatch that opportunity.”

  Fenrel heeled his horse and his menacing figure moved in amongst his lieutenants. Each dropped his head and stared to the ground below as the prince eyed them critically.

  “If you wish to have a piece of my glory,” snarled Fenrel. “Get to the lead of your Hammer units. WE MOVE ON THE ZODRIANS NOW!”

  Fenrel’s heels slammed into the flanks of his Brodor and he charged from the tree line to an open area in front of the Anvil. The giant horse swung to face the Keltaran and the prince roared to his men.

  “Soldiers of Keltar. For too long you have been the oppressed. For too long our neighbors to the East have found it necessary to pen us in like hogs and butcher us at their pleasure,” boomed Fenrel. “Now is the time for revenge. We have been given a chance to avenge the wrongs perpetrated on us for centuries. We have been shown the way to the City of Towers, a city that should be ours by rights.

  “Our Mother Gretcha was abused in the bowels of that city then cast out. We will destroy those whose forebears committed these acts then seize their city. If we cannot seize the city, we will burn it to the ground!”

  A cheer rose from the ranks of the Keltarans, led by those men sporting the ram’s skull insignia. Fenrel lifted a huge double-edged battle ax from a sheath strapped to his horse’s side. He held the weapon aloft.

  “NO RETREAT AND NO QUARTER!” screamed the captain. “Every last Zodrian dies before we move on the capital!”

  Manfir watched in fascination as the giant astride the black Brodor roared a speech to his troops. The Zodrian prince was unable to hear any of the words at such a great distance, but it was obvious this man called for blood and death against Manfir and his men. Manfir knew the essence of such speeches and cared not for its contents. What he did care for was the composition of the Anvil lain out across the plain below him and this bombastic speech permitted Manfir to assess his foe.

  He smiled as he noted bowmen littered throughout the fighting force. They had not yet coalesced into a single fighting unit and this was a good sign to the Zodrian. Individually they were bothersome but not very worrisome to the prince. If they united under one commander, they would be capable of raining death down upon any section of the hill they choose. Crammed in amongst their brethren while attempting to fire their weapons would be difficult and immensely less effective.

  The remainder of the Anvil sported heavy arms. Again Manfir noted a tactical error, unusual for the Keltaran. Soldiers with heavy ax were mixed in with pike men. Ax handlers were free fighters who needed room to wield their heavy blades, whereas pike soldiers normally fought as a group until circumstances forced them apart. Crowding them together in this manner created a problem for the Anvil. One group of their fighting force would hamper the effectiveness of another. Manfir furrowed his brow, perplexed by the awkwardness of the force spread out below him.

  “This configuration below us is suspect,” came a voice at Manfir’s shoulder.

  The prince turned to see Brelg standing beside him eyeing the Anvil in the distance.

  “I am confused,” replied Manfir. “It’s as if they’ve lost their good sense.”

  Brelg smiled and put a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

  “Let us hope they don’t discover it before they engage this position,” smiled the sergeant. “The Hammer commanders wear a strange uniform, black with a skull insignia. Those of us who have faced the Keltaran before are unable to determine its origin. I know not whether this bodes good or ill.”

  Manfir cast his eyes back down upon the Anvil.

  “ I’ve seen this insignia before,” said Manfir. “The red haired beast addressing the Anvil uses it as his crest. Prince Fenrel of Keltar has supplanted the regular leaders of the Anvil with his own hand picked loyalists. They will desire nothing less than our utter destruction.”

  “Excellent,” laughed Brelg. “So be it.”

  Manfir turned back to the sergeant with confusion in his eyes.

  “Has a black humor come over you, brother?” asked the prince.

  “Of course not,” smiled Brelg. “I had an ill humor until a moment ago.”

  Manfir’s confused expression persisted. Brelg shook his head.

  “You still have much to learn, my prince,” laughed Brelg. “You read the signs below but do not see their nature. This army, this mighty Anvil that we fear so terribly accomplishes our greatest task for us. They removed their own leadership before they deliver the first blow.

  “A moment ago I was convinced I would lay my life down upon the Dunmor and finish the service I rendered my country starting decades ago, but now I see hope, nay a real possibility of Colonel Flair’s plan succeeding.”

  “Explain,” prompted Manfir.

  “This fool Fenrel stands before his troop delivering a speech of death and destruction. A speech of victory and glory to motivate his men on the brink of battle,” continued Brelg. “They haven’t scouted the area. They know nothing of the cavalry we hold in reserve. They haven’t attempted to flank us and cut off any supply line or reinforcement line to the capital.

  “He obviously intends to attack immediately, when he finishes what he believes to be his glorious speech. What other reason for all his posturing? Olith, his uncle and the commander of the Anvil, is nowhere to be seen. Lastly, the greatest news of all you yourself delivered. The fool replaced the Anvil’s seasoned leadership with his own hand picked loyalists.

  “Men of limited training and questionable character lead the army below us. What is more important, men unwilling or fearful of contradicting their captain are his closest advisors. You know as well as I, the greatest confidant a man can possess is one willing to question his decisions and provide sage advice. Fenrel’s army is led by one man and only one man. If our fortune be tied to the character and capability of that one man, then so be it. I for one am heartened by this news and like our chances.”

  Manfir smiled at Brelg and nodded his approval.

  “You in turn breathe life into my hopes,” replied Manfir. “Now we must determine how to exploit the advantages the Keltaran afford us.”

  The pair
turned and began to climb the hillside toward their command post when a roar issued forth from the army below. Manfir wheeled around and mumbled a curse as the massive form of Fenrel turned the black mountain he rode upon toward the hill and leveled his ax head in its direction.

  “It appears we will have to make adjustments as the battle progresses,” stated Brelg soberly.

  “Apparently,” sighed Manfir. “Spread word amongst the archers. The black-garbed Keltaran are Hammer commanders. They wear the crest of their traitorous leader proudly. If Fenrel wishes to provide us with targets, we will happily oblige him with as many casualties as we can provide.”

  Manfir turned to the plain below and watched as the Anvil rushed past its leader. Fenrel sat motionless glaring to the hill above. For a moment the Zodrian felt as if the Keltaran prince stared directly at his position and a shiver ran down Manfir’s spine. Of all the knowledge he possessed at the beginning of this war, Manfir was certain about one undeniable fact. Fenrel of Keltar was pure evil and if the Guard faltered, all of Zodra would face a torturous death.

  Fenrel soaked in the din of his army. They rushed past him to fulfill the glory he so richly deserved. His own Ramsskull led the cheers and their wild eyes scanned him for even the slightest hint of approval. He lightly nodded but maintained his composure. Give them too much notice now and they will not seek greater approval on the battlefield. Keep them hungry for his acknowledgment and they will accomplish much to receive his praise.

  The Keltaran captain smiled to himself. He did well to remove Olith’s hierarchy from command of the Anvil. At first he questioned his own decision. Was he removing too much military knowledge from the Anvil in order to build its clarity of purpose and dedication to the cause? The answer edged toward the affirmative, but after several months Fenrel realized his mistake. The Keltaran possessed military strategy in abundance. Passion to his cause, however, they lacked.