The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (29 page)

Portlo acknowledged the compliment with a bow of his head.

“The future begins now, Lord Ader,” stated the steward, “and its direction seems to be determined by the boy. When and where will he go?”

All eyes focused on Kael and the young man felt small under their scrutiny.

“To the Valley of Mnim,” said Kael softly. “To Lilywynn.”

The congregation collectively held their breath for a moment before the Astelans plunged into the possibilities. They mulled the chances of such an endeavor and how it would be accomplished. The Derolians immediately broke into passionate debate over the insanity of such a task. Temujen viewed the assembly with a critical eye.

“Is it possible that such a task might be assisted by the groups represented here?” called the Chieftain over the din.

The assembly silenced and all eyes turned to Temujen.

“Think of it,” stated Temujen. “Three peoples are represented here by their chosen leaders. Leaders who have slowly watched as the darkness grows to swallow us. Leaders who must one day unite to challenge this darkness. Why not now?”

Portlo gazed at the chieftain then glanced to Lijon. The big blonde shrugged his shoulders with indifference then chomped on a roasted leg of prairie pheasant.

“What is it you suggest?” asked Portlo.

“That we combine both our tactical intelligence and our military strength to help Lord Ader pass through the Valley of Mnim,” replied Temujen, “and at the same time strike a blow against the enemy.”

Lijon laughed and bits of meat spilled from his greasy mouth. The Derolian swallowed hard.

“Again we talk insanity,” growled Lijon wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “The Mnim is an Ulrog stronghold. The Hackles outnumber the stones on its rocky floor. To force our way into the Scythtar to rescue one is madness and suicide for many.”

All paused as the red faced Derolian scowled at the group. Portlo remained lost in thought and Temujen patiently assessed those about the tent.

“Wise Temujen did not call for an assault on the valley,” said Portlo after a moment.

“He asks us to combine our might,” replied an exasperated Lijon. “What other result does he seek?”

“Diversion,” answered Portlo smiling and turning on the chieftain.

“Yes,” said Temujen returning the smile. “For too long we have sat back and waited for the inevitable roar from the mountains. The Ulrog sweep down from their stronghold and attack. Destroying livestock. Burning homes. Taking lives. Eventually they return to the Mnim, the Mirozert or the Scythtar.

“We beat them back and gather our scattered flocks, rebuild our homes and bury our dead. Perhaps it is time that we play the part of aggressor. We attack.”

Once again Temujen calmly viewed the reaction of his guests. The Astelans appeared deep in thought, but the Derolians immediately smiled and opened a lively discussion of the possibilities. Lijon became quite excited and Kael realized the big woodsman was already smitten with the idea. Finally, Portlo silenced the tent.

“The concept holds merit,” announced the steward, “but its execution must be exact. The entire Ulrog contingent must be drawn from the shadows of the valley or any sacrifice we make goes for naught. An exact balance must be struck between our ability to inflict damage, protect ourselves and display the weakness that will coax the Ulrog to follow.”

“And once they do follow, how will you escape them?” questioned Eidyn.

The group silenced again.

“The woods,” whispered Hai staring at the dirt floor beneath the tent.

“What is that, my boy?” asked Ader.

Hai looked up and scanned the assembly.

“Our salvation shall lie in the trees and the night.”

CHAPTER 18: A GOOD OMEN FOR A BAD DAY

Manfir stood in the center of the field staring at the hills to the west. The fires slowed during the night and the thick black smoke cleared as morning approached. The hazy light of pre dawn filtered through the sky and behind him the rising sun painted all a rosy hue.

“A good omen for a bad day,” laughed the prince grimly.

Behind him on the slope of the hill chosen for their final stand, men moved back and forth across their picket lines putting final touches on its defenses. Some remained awake all evening working on the line. Manfir advised against this. A soldier’s first duty was to his own body. The greatest defensive position is no ally if you do not have the wits to utilize it. The prince caught a few hours of sleep and felt surprisingly refreshed. A footfall behind him turned his head and Manfir smiled as his commanders approached.

“The Knuckles are a fair looking place,” smiled the prince wistfully. “In pleasanter times, I might have enjoyed a trot across these hills on a cool autumn morn.”

“Like a barmaid who appears comely in the low light of the tavern, quite often the light of day is not as kind to her features,” stated Brelg sweeping a hand to the west.

Manfir turned to see a long line of Keltaran infantry slowly marching from each valley bordering the main hill to the west. The Keltaran spread out across the field two hundred yards from the prince. Cavalry followed the infantry, backing their position.

Fenrel trotted out of the shadows on a fresh mount. It irked him to ride another man’s beast. His Brodor perished in the Zodrian’s trap the previous evening.

The first thing the Keltaran prince noticed was how thin the Zodrian line appeared. The Knuckle they chose to defend rose with a much broader and easier slope than those of the day before. This aspect forced the Zodrians into spreading wide to protect their flanks. Any tighter and the formation would easily be circumvented. The Zodrians could not afford to lose higher ground.

Additionally, the Zodrian cavalry stood in the open. Their horses were picketed and their riders stood or sat beside the beasts. Fenrel appreciated this development as well. No more surprises. The full Zodrian contingent lay arrayed across the base of the hill and Fenrel found it almost laughably weak.

Certainly the Zodrians stunned his force the previous day, but the Keltaran prince felt convinced all subterfuge was gone. This battle would degrade into brute strength against brute strength and the Zodrians were inadequate.

Manfir sighed and bade his commanders to follow him. He strolled back toward the Zodrian position talking as he inspected its defenses.

“I wish it didn’t come to this,” grumbled the prince. “The Keltaran and the Zodrian are trapped in their own hatred and will destroy one another for the greater glory of Amird.”

“It is a shame,” commented General Wynard. “The solution to our salvation stood in front of us for centuries, but we ignored it.”

“Blinded by hatred and revenge,” added Brelg. “If we could but join the Anvil to our ranks we might garner a chance against the Ulrog.”

“Wishful thinking, gentlemen,” snapped Flair. “Now is not the time for it. We are not yet beaten. They still outnumber us significantly, but remember their cause carries no passion for their men. We also hold the hills. They must come at our higher ground if they want us.”

“True,” replied Manfir. “If only Corad ....”

The prince’s words were cut short by the blare of a trumpet in the east. The entire Zodrian line sprang to their feet and snatched weaponry from scabbard and sheath. A rider burst from behind the great Knuckle and bore down on Manfir and the commanders. He called out thirty yards from their position.

“The Rindorans, my lord,” shouted the rider. “The river folk. They’ve come!”

The little group exchanged surprised glances then dashed toward the hill. Before they reached the Zodrian lines, the first wave of Rindoran cavalry swept onto the plain. A young rider separated from the group and directed his mount toward Manfir. A golden helm with a ridge resembling the fin of a great fish sat upon his head. A breastplate embossed with dancing otters flashed from beneath his cloak and a trident as long as a Keltaran pike lay strapped to the mount’s side. The rider reined in a few yards before the stunned company.

“It’s been quite some time since last we spoke, cousin,” boomed a voice from beneath the helm. “Unfortunately, I was uninformed of your visit to our kingdom some weeks ago.”

Manfir bowed before the rider.

“The circumstances of my visit were .... muddled,” replied the prince.

The rider threw a leg over his mount’s back and dropped to the ground. He clasped the sides of his helm and removed it, tucking it under his arm. Long golden hair cascaded to his shoulders as he moved forward.

“No matter. We will acquire ample time to reacquaint ourselves once we finish with this business,” replied Gage nodding to the Anvil. “We are respectively the futures of our kingdoms and I for one do not like the way our diplomacy has been handled in the past.”

“Agreed,” smiled Manfir, “but first there is the matter to which you refer.”

Gage returned the smile. He turned and gazed toward the opening to the east. More Rindoran riders streamed in and took up station along the hill. Soon, infantry filed in behind the thin Zodrian line. The Rindorans wore similar armor to their prince. Each man carried a massive trident and a tight meshed, steel net slung over his shoulders.

A company of officers followed on the infantry’s heels. At their head rode Corad Kingfisher and Macin of Zodra in animated discussion. Gage laughed and turned to his cousin.

“If debate and argument were the weapon of choice, our fathers would wear down the defenses of any foe,” said Gage. “They’ve been at it from the moment we left the river city and apparently the sobering thought of facing the might of the Anvil does naught to temper their feud.”

“Perhaps we should send them off while we attend to the matter at hand,” grinned Manfir.

“Absolutely not,” exclaimed Gage rolling his eyes. “The thought that they will finally be forced to silence and take up arms has been the only comfort rocking me to sleep at night.”

The group enjoyed a hearty laugh and Gage finally bowed before Manfir.

“On the streets of Rindor one day I shall be called your king, a position that shall always feel foreign where you are concerned. When I was very young I grew contentious and unruly.  My mother recognized that a young man often searches for a role model. A direction.

“Although my father is a man of honor and strong character, Lucyn realized a lad has difficulty seeing his father through a clear eye,” Gage smiled again. “Youth rebels at ties with authority. He needs a figure of a more contemporary age to model himself. It was Queen Lucyn that drew my eye to you.”

“The legend of Lucyn’s sagacity grows,” interrupted Brelg. “A wise woman.”

“If you only knew one-tenth of it,” smiled Gage with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve always tried to exemplify the traits which I admire in you, Manfir of Zodra. Your trials and sacrifices, although lost to many over the years, never escaped the watchful eye of Lucyn of Rindor. I stand here today and offer you the services of my trident and those of the forces of Rindor. May Avra bless your every endeavour. I am yours to command.”

Manfir moved forward and embraced the young man.

“May the faith you award in me be rewarded in turn,” replied Manfir. “We shall need all the blessings of Avra to succeed.”

Fenrel raged at the Ramsskull officers before him. None could provide the answers to the questions he sought. The Anvil stood in shocked silence staring across the rolling field at the hill to the east.

The thin force spread across the western slope of the Knuckle grew, swelling with each passing moment as troops with strange garb and even stranger weaponry filed in from behind the hill. This was no Southern folk rabble. These were professional soldiers, polished and outfitted with armor and freshly forged steel.

“Where do they come from?” shouted Fenrel. “What is their number? Their strengths? Their weaknesses?”

The Ramsskull commanders dropped their heads and stared at the ground. None had ever reached rank above sergeant in the regular Anvil. They knew very little of the strategic strengths of the greater world. Most would prove more adept at thieving a merchant out of his goods than advising their leader on military tactics and performance.

“Not one of you has an ounce of brains to consult me on this mystery force?” harangued the captain.

The silence continued. Fenrel burned. Suddenly, a voice rose from the infantry line.

“I may be able to enlighten you, my lord.”

Fenrel turned to his army and narrowed his eyes at its unwavering mass.

“Who spoke?” demanded the prince. “Let him come forth.”

Utecht slowly pushed past his comrades. His brethren’s eyes betrayed their concern but the old sergeant’s jaw remained fixed as he strode toward Fenrel. The prince eyed the sergeant up and down and a look of puzzled bewilderment crossed his face. This old one seemed familiar to Fenrel, but so many of his subjects passed before his eyes that Fenrel ignored the tug of memory and addressed the man.

“And how might you help enlighten me, old man?” scoffed the prince. “I do not seek remedy for rheumatic knees.”

Fenrel beamed at his Ramsskull and several chuckled at Utecht’s expense. Others knew the reputation of the warrior and dropped their eyes uncomfortably. Utecht remained expressionless and waited for their mirth to cease.

“I have been long in the Anvil of Keltar,” began Utecht, “and witnessed my share of battles. However, when I was a young man, Grannak Stormbreaker desired news concerning the strengths of all the great armies of the lands south of the mountains. Your father was ever one for diligence in the protection of his people.”