The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (16 page)

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.

Fenrel was a veteran of several skirmishes along the borderlands and acquitted himself admirably concerning his own tactics and strategies. What defense could this tiny Zodrian force throw against him that he could not defeat? It mattered not. Izgra prepared the way. He ground the Zodrian Guard down. They were a shell of the force they had once been.  The army his Anvil faced would be shockingly outmatched. Farmers and herdsmen from the Southern militias would face warriors of the Anvil. What need did Fenrel have for strategy when the contest was a rout before it even began?

However, the Anvil needed men willing to follow Fenrel’s vision in order to march all the way to the capital. Men eager to understand the place Fenrel prepared for their people in this world. The type of men he lured to follow him. The type of men willing to follow his orders unquestioningly.

Olith and his commanders were not such men. They relied on the old ways. The ways that kept the Keltaran people trapped in the frigid mountains of the Northwest. At first Olith tried to assimilate into Fenrel’s scheme. Once Grannak was deemed incompetent and Fenrel given the King’s authority on all matters, Uncle Olith could see the direction in which the country moved. Grannak was hidden away in the King’s private quarters to be cared for by Fenrel’s “personal attendants”. Olith must have known his days were short if he did not bow down to his nephew. Fenrel chuckled at the memory of his uncle, kneeling before him begging to serve the Keltaran people and save them from the Ulrog threat to the North. The fool had no inkling of Fenrel’s greater plans. Olith obeyed, thinking he would find a chance to keep the Ulrog at bay.

Then the truth became known. Fenrel’s laid his plans before the commander of the Anvil and Olith bridled at Fenrel’s control. The prince found no choice but to jail the old man for his insubordination. He preferred to dispose of the threat to his authority altogether, but circumstances prevented Fenrel from the outright execution of his uncle. The Anvil loved their commander and control would be that much more difficult if news of Olith’s death spread through the ranks.

With the General’s imprisonment came complete control. Fenrel stripped Olith’s subordinates of their rank and replaced them with handpicked men. The Ramsskull became the leaders of the Anvil just as Fenrel planned.  Units of too great a stature were dispersed throughout the Anvil. Groups of this type held too much sway in other men’s hearts. It was good to break them up so they could not rally others against his cause. Now his own men carried out the battle against the Zodrians and history would never question whether it was Fenrel or Olith and his military strategists that won the great battle.

The last remnants of the Anvil rushed past Fenrel as Aul and a few of the prince’s personal staff reined in next to him.

 ”Sire,” began Aul, “our men approach the barricade erected by the Zodrian infantry. However, a secondary barrier farther up the hill worries me. It may not be a retreat point. If it holds archers our men will be easy targets.”

Fenrel shrugged and scoffed.

“Some may fall for the greater glory of Keltar.”

Flair was the only man standing half way up the great hill. The wind came in short gusts and whipped the dust stirred by the Anvil’s movements through the air. The young colonel glanced to his left, then eyed his men hidden in the trench to his right. Flair was anxious, but knew he needed to wait. The first volley was the key. It would be the Guard’s only salvo to go unblocked. Once the Anvil recognized the threat, they would protect themselves from attack through the air. This wind was a concern. Flair’s men needed to inflict much damage and discord with their first shot.

It was time.

“Archers up,” shouted the colonel.

Aul kept his eyes trained on the second barricade and growled when the long line of archers rose. Fenrel raised a hand to silence him.

“Let them fight ax with bow,” scoffed Fenrel. “I will wager on our steel.”

“Notch arrows,” shouted Flair.

Aul’s eyes dropped to the advancing Anvil. Most of the Keltaran did not see the threat. Those who did were unable to shout warning to their comrades over the rush and clamor of the Anvil’s charge. Fenrel clenched his teeth.

“Fools,” grumbled the prince turning to Aul. “Do something.”

The lieutenant glanced back to his commander then heeled his Brodor and charged foward to catch the advancing Anvil.

“Release,” bellowed Flair.

A deep hum, like the noise of an angry hive of bees, filled the air and a cloud of arrows spread out above the hillside. The cloud arced into the sky above the charging Keltarans, hesitated at its apex, then plunged into their midst.

Aul watched in horror as his men charged forward, ignorant of the death streaking from the skies above them. Fenrel so bent their will toward the utter destruction of the paltry Zodrian line manning the base of the hill, the Keltaran ran blind with rage into the teeth of their enemy. Aul was right all along. The Guard devised a plan after all. In a thousand years of warfare the Zodrians had never been fools. Why did Fenrel believe they were now? The Keltaran’s first charge would be a disaster. They would need to retreat and regroup before they even met the Zodrian line, the lieutenant was sure of that. He was also sure of one other fact. Barring any other dramatic surprises, the Keltaran’s overwhelming force would eventually win the day.

Manfir and Brelg stood motionless atop the hill, following the flight of the archer’s first barrage as it crested above the Anvil then showered amongst them. Dozens of Keltaran fell as the arrows hit. Many of the stricken giants caused the charging soldiers directly behind them to stumble and fall as well. Other Keltaran slowed in confusion, some turning to retreat. However, several hundred Keltaran still advanced on the Zodrian line, either oblivious to the danger from above or unaware of the damage it inflicted on their comrades behind them.

Manfir glanced nervously over his shoulder and slowly raised his right hand. An attendant stood on the East side of the hill’s summit with a red flag held to the ground. The attendant eyed the prince then quickly glanced at the Zodrian cavalry hidden in the valley below.

“Patience, my prince,” whispered Brelg. “Allow Flair to continue his plan.”

Manfir slowly nodded and held his hand on high.

The archers notched their second flight. The first flight was purposefully lofted to create time for a second flight to be readied before the Keltaran could react. The second flight was aimed down, into the floor of the battlefield, to create a truer, faster assault on the targets.

“Release,” commanded Flair.

The remaining Keltaran were within thirty yards of the hill’s base. A few held their small buckler shields in front of them, but not enough. The second flight of arrows rushed down the hillside whistling in the cool air. The angry black cloud slammed into the Keltaran, ripping men from their feet and tearing through both leather and steel.

“Retreat and reform,” shouted Aul at the wave of Keltaran flowing toward him. “Shields up you fools. Archers hold the heights. Retreat and reform.”

Over the heads of the retreating soldiers, the lieutenant watched the last remnant of the Keltaran advance break and run. Fenrel was wrong. The Zodrians refused to be swatted away like a pesky fly. The enemy held against the rush of the mighty Anvil. Aul cursed. He swore the Zodrians would not hold a second time. His men needed to regroup and advance more cautiously. Methodically. They were the superior force. Why did they rush into the teeth of the cornered wolf?

The Keltaran lieutenant turned toward Fenrel’s position near the line of trees. The prince sat motionless, unwilling to take part as his Anvil scattered in disarray. These men needed to be led before their confusion caused even further damage.

Aul snatched a banner embossed with the crest of the house of Stormbreaker from its bearer and held it high.

“Rally to me Keltaran,” bellowed the giant. “To the house of Stormbreaker!”

Fenrel reddened in rage. Why did the Anvil falter? The Zodrians caused a good deal of damage but if his foolish soldiers continued on they would have routed the Guard by now. Certainly men would be lost, but that was the price the Keltaran must pay for liberation and the glory Fenrel was due. The Anvil needed to weather this storm and press on, not run like beaten dogs.

The prince stared in disbelief as his army fled the Zodrian position, led by one of his most unquestioning servants. Fenrel shook with anger.

“Notch arrows,” called Flair over the whoops and cries of triumph from the archers. “It was but one charge gentlemen. They still out man us ten to one.”

The archers immediately sobered at the colonel’s admonishment and readied their bows. Flair eyed the scene below and held the next volley. Many of the Keltaran were out of range and Flair opted to conserve his weapons. The young colonel heeded his own advice and decided to wait for the next Keltaran charge.

Manfir turned to the flag bearer behind him and shook his head. The soldier visibly relaxed and he let the tension melt from his body. The cavalry would remain hidden.

“They will not make that mistake again,” commented Brelg. “No matter how driven by power Fenrel is, he will not needlessly sacrifice usable men to our archer’s. We can expect a flanking maneuver by his cavalry in an attempt to overrun our archers position.”

 “Yes,” nodded Manfir, “followed by another frontal assault by his infantry. He will hope to occupy our archers with his cavalry while his foot soldiers make short work of our front line.

“We can hold our own cavalry in check no longer. Whichever side he chooses to flank, north or south, we must counter with a full two-thirds of our horsemen. We will be overmatched but we need only occupy his horsemen to allow our bowmen to do their work. If we give our bowmen enough time, this hill will have stood two advances by the Anvil.”

“What of the remaining third of our cavalry?” questioned Brelg.

“When the Keltaran line breaks,” replied Manfir, “we will send our remaining horsemen out to harass their retreat. They will be unprotected by their own cavalry and at our advantage. We must capitalize on these early mistakes by Fenrel and his leaders, for I fear these opportunities will lessen as the battle grows old.”

Brelg nodded and called a runner over to inform Colonel Wynard and his cavalry of the decision.

Aul rode hard toward his master’s position leading the Anvil away from the danger above. He felt certain the army needed to regroup before their next plan of action could be formulated. These Zodrian were certainly no fools. They appeared weak, but often their position held a surprise or two. The Anvil encountered the first of these surprises and suffered for not recognizing the threat. Certainly there would be others and leading the Anvil away from stumbling upon them seemed the first order of business to a commander.

The lieutenant stared at Fenrel and his position as an island in the storm. The only place that seemed safe on the battlefield. However, as he closed on the prince, Aul recognized his error. There was more to fear on this battlefield than the enemy.

Flair stared down upon the battlefield below and counted the Keltaran fallen. His first real taste of war left him numb. He was excited by his successes, but their true outcome lay on the bloodied grasses of the plain below. The Southlander quickly made a decision then left his post and sprinted toward the hilltop.

CHAPTER 11: CRIES OF MERCY

Fenrel rose in the stirrups of his giant Brodor and bellowed over the confusion and shouts of the Anvil as they rallied to his position.

 “SILENCE! QUIET, YOU YAPPING DOGS!”

The Anvil settled and men heaved trying to catch their breath. Fenrel glared down on them from his horse. Disgust filled his eyes.

“Yes. Fill your lungs,” snarled the prince, “and while you catch your breath try to block out the STENCH. The foul taste of cowardice fills the air and corrupts what is to be our kingdom once more.”

Aul was devastated. Surely Fenrel could see the Anvil had foolishly charged into the teeth of the lion. Whether the lion be old or injured is no matter. If a fool offers his hand before the beast, it will be bitten regardless.

“You dishonor your forebears this day,” shouted Fenrel. “You might just as easily be filling your lungs with the heady scent of victory. Dogs! You ran like beaten dogs!”