The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (23 page)

Fenrel gasped for air. The tumble from his mount knocked the wind from him and he lay dazed and confused. Slowly he shook the fog from his eyes and glanced about. He lay on his stomach amidst a field of weapons, his face pressed to something hard and wet.

The Keltaran prince was uninjured, save for the pounding of the fall. To his left, both man and animal howled and struggled on the trap the Zodrians set. Fenrel wondered what broke his fall. Slowly he pushed himself up on his hands and looked forward. Fenrel stared into the strangely serene face of Aul. The lieutenant lie face up, staring into the blue sky.

Fenrel had fallen across the big man’s legs. Aul’s massive frame destroyed or absorbed every weapon in its path. A rusty pike jutted from the lieutenant’s stomach. Weapons skewered both his left shoulder and arm. A jumble of snapped poles and handles lay beneath him.

Fenrel jerked his head down at the sound of bowstrings. From beneath his sweaty, red mane he glared to the valley walls. There he saw a group of Zodrians unleashing a storm of arrows. Fenrel’s vision whipped back toward the valley’s mouth. The remainder of his cavalry crowded the edge of the Zodrian’s trap attempting to navigate it. Arrows rained down upon them and slowly the Anvil cavalry backed to safety.

Cowards, thought Fenrel. Their commander is in need and they scurry from the Zodrians. Why didn’t the archers fire at him? He was an easy target. Surely they wished to finish him. Perhaps they thought him dead like this useless fool beneath him.

Panic spread through Fenrel’s mind as he saw his cavalry back away. If the cavalry departed, surely the Zodrians would target the men struggling in the trap. He needed protection. Again he looked to the body of the big man beneath him. Aul would serve him better in death than he had in life.

Fenrel slowly slid up the lieutenant’s body and began to work Aul’s shoulder free from the weapon staked through it. If he could get beneath the body of his second, he might go unnoticed. Fenrel yanked on the shoulder and the weapon ripped into the big man.

Aul let out a cough of blood and a howl of pain. Fenrel’s eyes darted to the walls above and his gloved hand slammed down over the mouth of his lieutenant. The prince was stunned. Aul’s body was pierced in at least a half dozen spots with mortal wounds, yet he still breathed.

Fenrel leaned in close to his second. His face hovered a few inches over Aul’s glassy eyes.

“Aul,” hissed Fenrel. “Silence.”

 “Aul,” whispered the figure.

The giant’s cloudy vision could not see the face hovering above him, but he recognized the voice.

Pain seared through his shoulder again and Aul broke into a fit of coughing.

Fenrel wrenched at the big man’s shoulder. Aul would be dead soon and finally silent. His lieutenant released a ragged cough and blood sprayed the prince’s face. Fenrel wiped it clean with a look of disdain and annoyance.

“Quiet,” snarled the prince as his eyes darted to the valley walls. “They will hear you.”

“Calm yourself,” said the image. “It will not be long now.”

Aul smiled and took comfort in the words. It would be good to rest. Suddenly, he felt uncertainty concerning his future. What fate had his choices allotted him in the afterlife? Would this be his only opportunity to say what was in his heart?

“Forgive me,” rasped the giant to the hazy image as a tear slid from his eye. “I failed you.”

Fenrel halted his frantic work upon Aul’s shoulder as the lieutenant’s whisper reached his ears. A wicked grin spread across his lips and he glared into the face inches from his own.

“Your failure achieved one positive result,” hissed Fenrel. “You saved me the trouble of killing you.”

The prince heaved upon Aul’s shoulder and the pike lodged there tore free with a sickening crunch. Aul sighed and stopped breathing.

The vision above the lieutenant came into focus.

“You never required my forgiveness,” replied the smiling face of the familiar image, “and you have always held the forgiveness of the One who counts.”

The pain and fatigue washed away from the warrior and Nimoth, his father, stood above him surrounded by blue skies. Nimoth held a hand out to his son.

“Come, my son. It is time to go,” said Nimoth with a twinkle in his eye. “I will show you a place of unsurpassed beauty. We shall dine and talk of its wonder.”

Aul sighed and felt weightless. In a moment the valley was gone and he stood surrounded in the splendor of the blue sky of his childhood.

Nyven smiled as the Keltaran cavalry backed from sight beyond the curve of the narrow valley. He and his archers completed their task and then changed their focus to the forest of weaponry below. At least a dozen men and horses lay there. Some struggled and cried out while others lay silent. He would allow these men the opportunity to die in peace.

Colonel Flair’s plan accomplished its goal. He bought the Zodrians valuable time as they awaited the Rindoran’s arrival. Nyven spun and faced his men.

“It is time for us to go,” shouted Nyven. “Well done, Guardsmen.”

Within moments the valley was empty of their presence.

Fenrel heard the shouts of the Zodrians and peeked over Aul’s shoulder to their source. The leader of the archers followed his men to the path below and soon was out of sight.

The prince pushed Aul’s body off him and slowly rose. The Zodrians were gone and he stood covered in the blood of his lieutenant. Quickly he spun and waded through the weapons, pushing aside their rusty edges. After a few short steps he grabbed a bloodied pike head and used it to lever the weapons from his path.

Several of his men called for help, but he ignored them and moved on. The prince was stunned at how far he had been thrown into the trap as he passed the body of his mount and exited the maze. He paused briefly and stared at the forest of weapons. Truly the powers aligned with him chose to protect him.

A strange roar issued from the east of the valley. Fenrel spun and viewed an orange glow bleeding through the dimness and immediately the sky above filled with thick, black smoke.

Nyven, and his archers scrambled past the edges of Ipson’s barrier and took up station twenty yards beyond. Ipson immediately tossed the burning torch amidst the oil soaked barricade. A roar followed by a low hiss erupted and the valley filled with a conflagration of flame, heat and smoke.

Fenrel turned and trotted west. Had the Zodrians filled the valley floor with flammable oils? In a panic he looked to the ground but realized his foolishness. It was a good idea, thought the prince. Trap the enemy then burn them to death. He would have filled the valley floor beneath the forest of weapons with oil, but knew the Zodrians were too weak to think so cruelly.

The prince rounded the curve in the valley and slowed as he viewed two-dozen Keltaran infantry stalking toward him. His Ramsskull must have sent this group into the valley to weed out the Zodrian archers. The men immediately stopped and stared at their prince. There he stood, covered in blood and clutching half of a blood smeared, rusty pike. The enemy archers had fled and Fenrel slowly strode forward as smoke rolled down the valley.

Several of the Keltaran infantry glanced to one another then broke into a cheer. The men ran toward their prince. Fenrel was puzzled at first, then quickly realized what the men perceived.

“The archers fled before me,” called Fenrel. “I pursued them down the valley but they set a wall of flame before me to hamper my efforts.”

The men crowded around the prince and roared in approval. They gathered Fenrel into their arms and hoisted him onto their shoulders. The group marched west toward the main body of the Anvil.

Heroes, thought Fenrel, these simple fools need heroes to drive them on. Intimidation and fear can only drive a man so far, but you can squeeze that extra effort from him when he is motivated by glory. The prince held his hands out and called for the men to stop.

“Loyal Keltaran,” spoke Fenrel. “I do not deserve your praise, for it was not I who averted a disaster for our land.”

The men halted and Fenrel motioned them to let him down. When he was set amongst them he turned and pointed to Hindle’s trap.

“The true savior of the day lies among the cruelly placed weapons of the Zodrians,” continued Fenrel lowering his head. “Commander Aul recognized the folly of our charge but only too late. He sacrificed himself to save countless numbers of our cavalry and keep the hopes of our quest alive.”

Many of the infantry turned to one another with looks of awe and reverence in their eyes.

“Aul personally fell upon the weapons of the enemy to save my life,” sobbed Fenrel. “I am indebted to his memory forever. I was stunned unconscious for a moment, but when I regained my senses, I filled with outrage as the Zodrians prepared to shoot upon defenseless men snared within their trap. I rose and charged their position.”

The group roared again, shaking their weapons above their heads.

“The Zodrians know nothing of honor. They refuse to stand toe to toe with the mighty Keltaran and make war as it was intended. Instead, they create sinister pitfalls of shameful death,” continued Fenrel. “It pains me to think of Aul, my savior, laid low in the cruel creation of our enemy.”

“Are you injured, my prince?” one of the Ramsskull asked Fenrel.

“It is but a little thing,” replied Fenrel lowering his head and touching his blood covered chest. “First retrieve the bodies of our fallen heroes, and then we will return to our forces.”

Manfir moved his infantry across the third plain and erected defensive positions against the base of the third hill. The day grew long. A cry went up from the feverishly workingmen and the prince turned to the West.

A column of thick black smoke rose from the northern edge of the hills they abandoned. The wind died throughout the day and the air felt thick and heavy. The column rose leagues into the sky and gathered in a massive knot of black smoke that mushroomed in the pale blue.

Not long after the cry, a line of men and horses appeared from behind the hills. They moved slowly to the East across the wide plain with no sense of urgency. Manfir felt relief creep into his heart. The Keltaran must be temporarily halted for the men to move so slowly. Excellent, thought Manfir. Flair chooses not to push both man and beast.

The prince praised Avra. He needed more time and Flair’s tactics gave him at least an extra day. The Rindorans might reach the battlefield in time. Manfir spun and looked to the hillside.

“Here is where it will be decided,” thought the prince.

Thousands of years of struggle and bloodshed would be concluded upon the third row of the Bear’s Knuckles.  Whatever the outcome, he could face Avra’s judgment with a clear heart.

CHAPTER 15: SMOKE IN THE DISTANCE

Corad Kingfisher’s head drooped and shock gripped him as he lost his balance. The Rindoran king quickly recovered as he shook his head back and forth. He would love to fall asleep in the saddle, Avra knew he needed the rest, but a tumble from his mount would be unfortunate.

The Rindoran Spear either rode in the saddle or marched on foot for nearly three days now, and the king realized he would be forced to stop soon. Corad frowned. He prayed that Manfir and his men had not engaged the Keltaran yet, but knew that if he arrived with an army exhausted from a forced march, they would be no help to the Guard.

Corad glanced over his shoulder to assess his force. Behind him stretched a long line of horsemen clad in the colors of the Spear. Upon each man’s head rested the crested helm of Rindor. A mixture of carts and support staff stretched behind the cavalry and hundreds of infantrymen trailed the carts. Each infantryman held the long trident favored by the Rindorans. A steel net stretched across each man’s left shoulder.

“Father, look to the West,” said a young man riding abreast to the king.

Corad turned and stared across the seemingly endless rolling plain and into the cloudless blue sky. The sun hung low and the king shielded his eyes to see the black smudge hovering just over the horizon’s line.

“Smoke,” said the King. “Your cousin does battle with the Keltaran.”

“It is a good sign,” replied Gage, prince heir of Rindor, “because it tells us the Guard still fights. There is no structure or building to set aflame amidst the Bear’s Knuckles. Therefore, the smoke must come from a manufactured source. The reports we received of barrel loaded wagons and the tracks we’ve seen upon the road lead me to believe my cousin employs one of his defensive tactics.”

“But that would mean he is fully engaged with the Keltaran,” returned Corad. “I fear we are too late.”

“On the contrary, Father,” continued Gage. “That smoke must be new and thick to be seen at this great distance. If the flame from whence it emits is being used to hold the Keltaran at bay, the tactic was recently employed. Manfir tries to buy time.”

“But we are still a day’s ride from the Knuckles,” complained Corad. “The fires will not last forever. We have failed him.”

“No. I believe we have time, and we may even afford our troops a brief rest,” returned Gage. “The fires will last into the night. Manfir will have used it as a last line of defense. I think it is fair to assume the armies arrayed along the Knuckles have clashed throughout the day. If this is true, then both will need to rest.