The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (7 page)

“I shall try to keep up with you, my friend,” said Kael.

“One of the Elven archers and the Elven child are on foot,” grunted the tracker as he studied the ground beneath him.

Hnarg’s brittle lips curled into a smile of satisfaction.

“Their time grows short,” whispered the priest.

The tracker’s head rose and he took several strides south staring at the swaying seed heads of the tall grasses.

“The lame animal was sent south,” growled the tracker. “It could not have gone far.”

At the mention of the weak horse several members of the pack lifted their weary heads and turned in the direction the tracker indicated. One of the larger Hackles slowly lifted his cleaver and peered into the grasses. Suddenly, the rocky fist of Hnarg crashed into the side of the Hackle’s head and sent him sprawling onto the ground. Hnarg stood menacingly over the Hackle, his fists clenched and the Fire of Chaos in his eyes.

“You would risk all for a piece of horse flesh?” roared Hnarg as his eyes left the Hackle and swept the pack. “Fools! We stand in the heart of the horsemen’s lands. The lame beast was sent south for a reason. Should any of us follow it in order to fill our bellies, we most certainly would draw nearer a camp of the Eru. As it stands, the old man has steadily drawn us south as we move east. He is no fool. He prays that his group stumbles upon the horsemen. If they do, we are doomed. Our only hope is to take the Seraph’s head and quickly retreat to the great mountains. The longer we tarry, the shorter grow our chances of survival. We are close. Keep your bellies empty for one more day that you may keep the heads you use to fill those bellies. Now move!”

Hnarg viciously kicked the sprawling form of the Hackle at his feet. The creature took the blow then sprang to its feet and followed his brethren as they raced east through the grasses.

Kael ran at a steady pace beside Eidyn’s trotting stallion. His chest heaved at the strain of trying to keep up with the horses. He and the Elven prince switched positions twice since the loss of Kael’s chestnut, each man spending nearly five hours running. The boy neared exhaustion.

The darkness did not help matters. It covered the broken landscape hours before and as the night grew long, Kael’s body begged for sleep. Suddenly, Sprig materialized from behind a sea of swaying grass. The Sprite made his presence scarce since the loss of the horse, disappearing for hours at a time. The tiny man dashed forward and grabbed hold of Ader’s outstretched hand, launching himself onto the back of the giant gray stallion.

The Seraph continued to ride on as he listened to the Sprite’s report. Kael swallowed hard as he watched Ader’s face tighten. After a moment more, the Sprite sprang from the stallion and disappeared again into the long grasses of the Eru plains. Ader slowed and turned to Kael.

“We can no longer afford caution with our mounts,” stated Ader. “The Ulrog have neither turned nor slowed from our trail. In fact, they are but half a league behind and gain rapidly. We must push our steeds to their limits and hope they hold.“

Ader extended a hand to the Southland boy and Kael quickly took hold as he glanced nervously over his shoulder to the West.

“I would suggest a course due south,” continued Ader, “to give the Ulrog one more thing to think about.”

“But ...” began Eidyn.

 “We would be abandoning our quest for the rescue of Lilywynn,” interrupted Ader. “A suggestion that would be met with heavy disapproval I am sure not only from our Elven prince but from the remainder of the party as well. Therefore, we will continue on this course and hope to stay ahead of our pursuers.”

Ader whispered to his mount and the giant horse raced forward into a rugged land of washes and breaks.

The moon sat high in the evening sky spilling silver light over the swaying grasses. Hnarg’s Hackles slashed through the greenery following the paths trampled by the two large horses they pursued. They were close and the pack knew it. They gathered strength and energy from the signs. The old man and his Elves were running scared. Their course seemed almost frantic. They zig zagged across the land attempting to throw the pack from their trail, but the pack could not be fooled. It was now a matter of moments before the Hackles would stumble across the small group. That is when Hnarg would take the old man’s head, a prize that would absolve any wrongdoing in the eyes of the Malveel.

The priest burst from a particularly thick section of grass into an open wash. Several of his Hackles ran before him and howled with frenzy. Hnarg’s vision followed the extended arm of one of the Hackle’s. Approximately three hundred yards from his position, a pair of horses bore riders through a steep sided, dry gully. The shimmering moon lit the white stallion like a blazing star and the huge gray shown like its reflection in a still pond.

“The Seraph runs before you,” shouted Hnarg. “Finish him and take his head.”

More Hackles poured from the grasses and followed the lead runners into the wash. Hnarg licked his lips in excitement. They would be upon the old man in minutes.

“They are close,” huffed an exhausted Ader as the huge gray pounded along the winding floor of the dry creek bed. “Their leader already delights in his victory.”

Kael held the Seraph’s waist tightly. The power in Tarader’s stride diminished over the last few days, but the horse remained difficult to stay upon. Kael slowly stretched his mind east and searched for the Ulrog. Quickly he came upon their presence. Ader was correct. They were close.

However, Kael was puzzled by the myriad thoughts he sensed behind him. Certainly he sensed rage and hatred. The Ulrog’s minds clamored for the death of the Seraph. Also, he recognized pleasure. They ran for nearly four days and finally neared their quarry.

Yet he discovered something else. On the edges, just out of reach, the boy discerned something else. His mind fought to reconcile it with his understanding of the Ulrog. The emotions he perceived did not fit the Ulrog. Kael studied them all. Honor. Duty. Even pity.

Hnarg reveled in his element. His pack surrounded him as they charged through the steep sided ravine. The Seraph fled a mere three hundred yards ahead and the mounts he and his companions rode looked wasted. The kill should prove relatively easy.

However, the Seraph was no fool. He did not live this long being powerless. Hnarg knew the encounter at the crossing probably sapped the Seraph of most of his spirit force, but a battle with Ader DeHartstron still held danger. Slowly the Ulrog priest fell back in the pack. Possessing the head of the Seraph was important, not the kill. Hnarg would allow one of the Hackles to perform that duty, but he would take most of the glory in Kel Izgra. Why should a priest of Amird expose himself to the cornered lion when he commanded servants for such tasks?

The pack rounded a corner in the ravine and Hnarg saw the flash of white ahead. The Elf’s stallion acted like a beacon in the moonlight, drawing the pack forward toward salvation. They closed the gap and ran a mere hundred yards behind the Seraph now. With each stride he sensed the energy of the pack grow. They thrilled for the kill. They tasted blood.

Hnarg could hear the pounding of the hooves of the Eternal Horse. The river rock cracked and sprayed from beneath the creature’s step as it fought frantically to keep ahead of the nightmare Hnarg and his pack represented. The pounding grew louder and louder and the pack closed the gap.

Eidyn guided the white stallion with his knees as he leaned backward and released another arrow into the tightly packed group of Hackles. The ravine grew narrow and the sides steep, forcing the Hackles together. This gave the Elf prince his best opportunity.

Kael would have joined in the attack, but he fought hard to simply stay upon the back of Tarader. The mighty stallion lurched and scrambled over the rocks of the riverbed, tossing his riders to and fro.

 “Kael,” wheezed an exhausted Ader. “I can do no more. If we are to stay alive, it is up to you.”

 The boy’s eyes widened and he glanced to the pack, a mere fifty yards behind them. He gathered himself and attempted to touch the power he knew he possessed.

The cursed Elf fired arrows into the pack. Several of Hnarg’s Hackles were struck, but they never slowed. Others shoved the injured aside and took their place, howling and screaming curses to the old man and his companions. Excellent, thought Hnarg. They are properly motivated.

Once again the priest allowed the slower runners to advance past him. He did not brave the realm of the horsemen to be killed by a stray Elven arrow. His smile of satisfaction grew. It was difficult to see over the heads of his brethren, but the sound of horse’s hooves grew over the howls. The Hackles raised their cleavers.

Hnarg’s eye caught a flash of color on the ledge five yards above him. He glanced up the walls of the ravine and saw nothing for a moment. Then a glint of steel illuminated by the moonlight appeared then vanished. The sound of hoof beats grew, too many to be just the echoes of the old man and his Elves.  Panic gripped the Ulrog priest. The horsemen found him.

As Kael prepared himself, conflicting emotions from the trailing creatures again struck him as odd. Anger, hatred, honor, sacrifice, greed, duty. Instantly the boy knew.

“We’re not alone,” whispered the boy to Ader.

Hnarg’s mind raced. Could he salvage anything from this encounter? He was so close. Certainly all in his pack would die, but they might yet reach the old man and kill him first. The Seraph rode a mere twenty yards from his lead runners. If somehow Hnarg escaped and returned with news of the Seraph’s death, he might yet find absolution in the eyes of the Malveel.

The priest frantically glanced to the ledge above the ravine. The horsemen obviously shadowed the pack but did not yet show themselves. The Eru executed a plan, and Hnarg’s Hackles played into it.

“Perhaps,” thought Hnarg, “if I cannot see them, they will not see me.”

The priest dropped ten yards behind the last trailing Hackle and slowed.

“He who wins the head of the Seraph will be made a priest,” roared Hnarg.

The pack howled in crazed excitement, lunging toward the faltering mounts of their quarry. Hnarg stopped and dove for the shadows of the ledge’s overhang. The pack raced around a bend in the riverbed, only steps from the old man. Hnarg gripped the wall of the ravine in the darkness and remained motionless. The pounding of hooves on the ledge above continued past his location and quickly faded.

Ader turned in surprise to Kael’s comment. A question remained in the Seraph’s eyes, but Kael put it to rest with the nod of his head. Tarader staggered and nearly fell. The Seraph stroked the animal’s neck.

“Just a bit longer, my old friend,” said Ader softly. “Hold out for a moment longer. Salvation is at hand.”

Eidyn’s stallion trailed the big gray by mere feet. Fear increased the animal’s speed, but the pack matched it with the frenzy of the kill. The Elf prince drew shafts from the quiver slung over his back and sent them whistling into the pack just a few feet behind him. A large Hackle locked its stony claws onto the white stallion’s rump and the animal whinnied in fear as the Hackle tore into its flesh. Eidyn rapidly fixed another shaft to his bow, rose lightly in his seat and released the bolt inches from the Ulrog’s face. The arrow hammered into the stony head of the Hackle, ripping it from its feet and slamming it onto the dry river’s bed.

 Blood poured from the stallion’s wound and the animal faltered as the trailing Ulrog closed in, howling in fury. Suddenly, a louder cry drowned out the howl of the Ulrog and a thick handled spear whistled past Eidyn’s position. The spear slammed into the chest of the nearest Ulrog. The force knocked the beast backward and thick, black blood poured from around the spear’s shaft. The remaining Ulrog quickly shoved the body to the side and rushed forward oblivious to all but the need to kill the Seraph.

Eidyn bounced along stunned for only a moment then resumed his barrage of arrows at a feverish pace. The pounding of horse’s hooves surrounded him and in brief glimpses he saw men on horseback spill over the rim of the ravine.

The Eru found them.

Hnarg stood motionless in the darkness of the ravine. The sounds of the chase faded. His Hackles howled in triumph. They obviously engaged the Seraph and his Elven archers. The kill would be quick, but what of the horsemen? He felt sure his pack would be eliminated shortly. The howls of triumph were cut short and replaced with screams of fury and the battle cry of the Ulrog. Had his Hackles been given enough time to dispose of the old man?

Horse and rider sped down the sides of the ravine slamming into the Ulrog pack. Spear and blade glinted in the moonlight as they were brought down upon the Hackles. Cleavers slashed and claws raked, but they were no match for the overwhelming force of the Eru horsemen.

The Ulrog were trapped. Eru spear and blade found their mark and within moments the remainder of the Vendi packs lay motionless beneath the hooves of one hundred Eru cavalry.

Hnarg lay frozen against the side of the ravine. With each passing moment the howls of the Hackles faded and the war cry of the Eru grew. Hnarg knew the Vendi pack was no more. Had they served their master in their death? Had they taken the old man? The answer was Hnarg’s only salvation. If he returned to the Scythtar empty handed he was dead, a sacrifice to the lessons taught by his masters. However, if he returned with news of the Seraph’s death, the Malveel would praise him. There remained a risk the Seraph lived and Hnarg would be caught in a lie. So be it. At least Hnarg would stave death off for a time. The alternative was unthinkable. An Ulrog outcast from his pack was a pitiful creature. North or south of the Knife Mountains he would be hunted. No, thought Hnarg, he would risk the lie on the chance his Hackles reached the old man first.