The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (31 page)

“Any pride you derive from my actions is rightly felt, Father,” replied Manfir. “Brelg and Ader gave me the tools used to lead a righteous life. Your examples of courage and leadership provided the foundation for that life.”

The old king embraced the prince for a long moment, bowed again and left the hill.

Utecht strode toward a group of half a dozen Ramsskull huddled thirty yards from the opening to Fenrel’s pavilion. The black robed mercenaries looked up at the last moment to see the old sergeant barreling toward them. One lifted a hand in protest but Utecht knocked it aside without speaking. The Ramsskull commander’s mumbled protest faded as Utecht moved out of earshot and advanced on the pavilion.

Two massive guards stationed just outside the tents flaps stepped forward with drawn axes. This pair had been at Fenrel’s disposal since the departure from Keltar. Wicked rumors of their murderous pasts floated through the regular Anvil and Utecht knew they could not be treated as dismissively as the Ramsskull. The giant halted as one of the guards addressed him.

“What do yer want?” demanded the guard. “The prince is a bit busy right now.”

Utecht looked hard into the guard’s eyes then shifted his stare to the tent’s closed flaps. A reek of burning flesh filled the air about the tent and groans emitted from behind its walls. Utecht returned his gaze to the guard.

“I was told to report if anything important were to occur,” growled Utecht, “and something has.”

“What’s ‘appened?” asked the guard suspiciously.

“I do not report to watchdogs,” snapped Utecht. “If you wish to take responsibility for the delay, I will report to Fenrel when he is finished. You tell him it was your decision to delay the report.”

The leader of the pair turned to his compatriot and they shared an awkward silence. Meanwhile, the groans from the tent grew. Utecht understood few words issuing from between the deep groans.

“ ... difficult ... master.... your commands ... river city ... destroy ...”

A new sound emerged from the pavilion. A voice at once stronger in purpose yet somehow ethereal and frail in depth.

“ ... but one task before you .... must destroy the remnants ... opens conquest of all ...”

The lead guard turned back to Utecht and snarled.

“Stand back,” commanded the guard. “The prince likes ‘is privacy. Stand over there and I’ll check if ‘e can see ya.”

Utecht was directed to the group of six Ramsskull. He edged toward them as the guard lumbered to the tent and hesitantly entered. A rage of protest issued from behind its walls and the guard quickly backed out bowing repeatedly. When he was well away from its opening he spun and stalked toward Utecht.

“Me lord will be with ya in a bit,” smiled the guard viciously, “an if it aint important, you aint gonna be with us in a bit.”

He and his comrade turned and took up station by the tent again. Utecht waited patiently as the Ramsskull continued to whisper back and forth and fret over the happenings within the tent’s walls. Minutes passed then finally Fenrel exited the tent and approached Utecht.

A cowled black robe covered the prince from head to toe. He appeared extremely agitated. His right eye twitched uncontrollably and his face and neck, the only visible portions of his body, were covered in sweat. When he reached Utecht, he shook his head as if clearing it of a heady drink. He tried to focus on the man before him.

“What is it?” demanded the prince.

“Parlay,” stated Utecht flatly.

Word had gone out that Utecht brought the news of the battlefield to the pavilion and many of the Anvil left their lines and crowded toward the site of the prince’s tent.

“What,” roared the prince, ”you accepted parlay once more?”

“No,” replied Utecht. “The leaders of the Zodrian force have ridden forth and their banners request parlay. Neither I, nor your Ramsskull, have replied.”

The term used to refer to Fenrel’s hand picked soldiers carried an edge and the prince clenched his teeth at Utecht’s report.

“What do they want?” snapped Fenrel.

“Perhaps we should find out ... my lord,” suggested Utecht.

Fenrel grumbled and shoved past the old sergeant. The Anvil, spread out before him, parted like water as his huge stride pushed him through their midst.

“Back to your positions,” roared the prince.

When he stepped past the front line of his troops he looked out on the rolling plain between the hills of the Bear’s Knuckles and spied three men on horseback at midfield. He spun toward his ever-present attendants.

“Bring my mount,” he bellowed.

An eye drifted to his left and there he saw the smug expression of Utecht.

“And get one for my Master of Parlay,” he growled eyeing the old sergeant.

The Black stood rock steady as his massive, shaggy cousins bore the Keltaran giants toward his position. Manfir, like his mount, was equally immovable. To the prince’s right sat Flair on a Southern cutter. Brelg sat to the prince’s left.

Within moments Fenrel and two additional Keltaran thundered to within a dozen yards of Manfir’s position and halted. One of the companion’s wore the goat skull of his personal guard. This giant displayed a wicked, slovenly appearance and Manfir determined negligible wit lie beneath his heavy brow. The Keltaran without Fenrel’s colors was older and his placid face seemed only a cover for a greater depth.

The prince himself was the major concern and immediately Manfir was struck by his own underestimation of Fenrel. Manfir had assumed a lesser version of Granu, the greater and older brother. That assumption lay far from the truth. Fenrel was as daunting a figure as the Abbot of the Monastery, if not more so. The younger brother appeared nearly equal to Granu’s height. However, his girth eclipsed that of Granu.

A truly enormous pair of broad shoulders with a chest and torso to match framed the second son of Grannak Stormbreaker. Fenrel sat like a huge black block upon the back of his beast of burden, sweat pouring down his red and irritated face.  Manfir would have chuckled at the sight if not for the menace the prince exuded and the task that lie ahead.

The older Keltaran met Flair’s eye and the two exchanged a nod of recognition. The movement was not lost on the darting eyes of Fenrel and the prince glared at the old giant before turning on Manfir.

“What do you want?” snapped Fenrel. “Do you come to beg for your lives?”

“On the contrary,” stated Manfir leaning forward in the saddle. “We come to conduct business on behalf of our crown.”

“What business?” scoffed Fenrel, “The only business I enact with Zodra is the issuance of her destruction, and I only need your neck stretched out before my ax to complete the transaction.”

“So far, it appears you encounter difficulty completing your task,” smiled Manfir. “I believe it is the archers and cavalry of Zodra who transacted most of the business within these lands.”

“Southern rabble and the bastard sons of horse breeders,” ranted Fenrel. “Tricks and subterfuge. You fight with no honor Zodrian, but it is of no matter. You backed yourself into a corner and have no hope to conjure from the shadows now. We will meet in battle as men are supposed to, and your weakness shall be your downfall.”

“We have shown little weakness to this point and I doubt my men even know its feel,” stated Manfir. “Thus far the battle has been one sided.”

“Not for long, Zodrian,” said Fenrel sweeping his hand toward Brelg and Flair. “You bring old men and boys to make war against the house of Stormbreaker. We fought as if we would meet true men in battle. A mistake perhaps. Now we will march slowly forward and grind you under our boots.”

“Then I challenge you to do so,” said Manfir calmly.

The Zodrian prince stared smugly at the face of Fenrel, a smile playing about the edges of his face. The Keltaran’s eyes twitched in anger and hatred. He had been disrespected far too often by his own on this campaign, let alone by the leader of his enemy. His anger raged and muscles tensed.

“Oh, and let us not forget the business of which I spoke,” said Manfir matter-of-factly. “We called this parlay to accept the Invitation of Hadraig.”

Utecht coughed and choked for a moment. The old soldier’s eyes contorted and his rapid breath could not hide his distress and confusion. The Ramsskull guard showed no reaction save a boredom with the entire discussion. Fenrel glanced back and forth between the obviously distressed Utecht and the smug Zodrian prince.

“What nonsense is this?” boomed Fenrel more to Utecht than the Zodrians. “What is it this fool claims to accept?”

“The Invitation of Hadraig, prince Fenrel,” replied Utecht calmly as he cleared his throat. “An ancient decree.”

Fenrel shot a glance back to the Zodrian prince and grimaced.

“I care not about an ancient Zodrian decree or any claim it makes against my people,” snarled Fenrel. “I am Keltaran, and only Keltaran decrees am I bound to. Decree and old treaty hold no weight now Manfir son of Macin. You will die this day, decree or no decree.”

“I do not ask you to honor a Zodrian decree, fool of a giant,” roared Manfir. “I demand you honor a Keltaran one!”

Fenrel grew red with anger and spun on Utecht.

“What does this imbecile speak of?” questioned the giant.

Utecht took a moment to eye Manfir thoughtfully then faced his prince.

“Hadraig the Bold, fifth in line from our father Hrafnu, issued a decree from the Granite throne,” answered Utecht. “If a champion called forth from the ranks of the Zodrians were to defeat the Keltaran champion in single combat, the disputed lands along the edge of our mountains would be returned to Zodrian control and our people would retreat further into the Zorim.”

Fenrel stared at the old sergeant pondering the disclosure. His eyes drifted as he determined its effect upon his plans. His lip curled in anger and he turned to Manfir.

“Your people stand on the brink of annihilation and you battle with tricks and traps,” barked Fenrel. “Now that you have exhausted them, you dust off ancient challenges and try to bend them to your wishes. We will not be fooled again, Zodrian.

“What need for you to gain claim to the disputed lands? I think you try to avoid this battle with your challenge. Why? Win or lose the challenge, your army will still fall to the Anvil. We are at war and warriors care not who is the rightful owner of the land they shed their blood upon. Warriors care only for victory. Your challenge now makes no sense.  What do you hope to gain from it?”

“Your death,” stated Manfir calmly.

Fenrel sat speechless for a moment then let out a roar of laughter.

“My death! My death? You must be joking, Zodrian?”

“No, I am quite serious, Fenrel Stormbreaker,” returned Manfir grimly, “because I have come to the determination that I need the Anvil and the Anvil needs the Guard. If we are to survive the coming Ulrog storm we must unite. However, there is one major obstacle to that union. You.”

“I am more than an obstacle, Manfir of Zodra,” boomed the Keltaran. “I am an impenetrable wall. Never will the Anvil march with the Guard by its side.”

“Wall or not, your death removes the force driving this insanity,” said Manfir. “Once your Ramsskull is leaderless, others of stronger character and faith will step forward and direct the Anvil down the proper road.”

Manfir’s eyes flicked toward Utecht. Again the movement was not lost on Fenrel. The giant leaned forward and spat on the ground.

“You are a bold one, Zodrian,” rumbled Fenrel from between clenched teeth. “You call this parlay to inform me of my imminent death and to proclaim a new unity between men standing on the brink of murderous warfare. However, bold or not, all of your talk means nothing if the Keltaran do not accept your challenge. Also, the possibility remains that I choose a champion from amidst my force and send him at you.”

“You will not do that,” smiled Manfir.

“Do not tell me what I ....” shouted Fenrel.

“You will not do that because it will undermine your position with both the Anvil and the Ramsskull!” shouted Manfir cutting off the prince. “You lead through fear and intimidation. How can you possibly maintain your facade of power if another stands in your stead as champion of Keltar? You will not risk the glory and focus of your army being transferred to another. Like all men of your ilk, you desire everything and can spare nothing for others.”

Fenrel sat glaring at the Zodrian prince, blood rushing through his face till its redness surpassed that of his sweaty flowing mane of hair.

“Yet the fact remains,” growled Fenrel finally. “You hope to gain a claim to the disputed lands and, as you so finely put it, remove me from leadership. What do I gain by this meeting? I see nothing to my advantage.”

“You truly are short on brains,” laughed Manfir. “I offer you a shortcut to victory and you are far too simple to recognize it.”

“Hold your tongue Zodrian or I will ...”

“WHAT, MOUNTAIN DOG? YOU WILL WHAT?” boomed Manfir. “I will explain it too you. I offer you the opportunity to remove the man who planned and executed the systematic thinning of your force. I offer you the chance to make the Guard leaderless and vulnerable. I am yours for the taking if you dare try, Fenrel.

“You marched to the Knuckles expecting a quick and easy victory, a rousing endorsement for your wicked plans of power and glory. You hoped to draw more than just your Ramsskull into your deceit. You hoped to find the Anvil slowly rallying to your cause. Fear and intimidation can only motivate so far. In the face of an enemy blade, a man must truly believe in his cause.