The Trees And The Night (Book 3) (38 page)

However, would he ever be in a position to challenge Sulgor? His failure years ago in Astel removed him from Amird’s eye. Certainly he was still one of the Chosen, but an afterthought with his master Amird. Viewed as nothing more than a servant, never again to attain the high status he once held. Now is when he commanded the Hackles of the Scythtar. Now is when thousands would follow his commands.

A roar erupted from the ranks of his army. Greeb spun back toward their body, anger in his eye. He bore down on the figure of Cortik who stood staring at the woods.

“What is it, priest?” barked Greeb.

The High Priest turned in a sweep of red robes, his black teeth exposed in a grimace of hatred.

“Nothing, my lord,” snarled Cortik pointing back to the wood. “A fool of a Derolian shouts insults from the wood. We must depart.”

“Yes,” returned Greeb. “Send your Hackles in a tight formation to the mouth of ...”

“The flames of Chaos can do no harm against a man armed with the word of Avra,” shouted a voice from within the flame.

Greeb’s coiled body froze and the red orb darted across the dancing flames.

“Be gone, spawn of Amird,” bellowed the voice. “You defile the world of Avra with your presence.”

“Portlo,” hissed the Malveel softly.

“My lord,” broke in Cortik. “We leave the Mnim open to the Eru. They may have circled to the north and blocked it from our return.”

“Sun up,” cried the voice. “You have until sun up to crossover the Mnim and return to your frozen homeland.”

“Arrogant! Boastful!” rumbled Greeb glaring into the fire.

The red orb narrowed into a slit that grew blood red in intensity.

“.... Sun up! Or we will be forced to remove you from the valley! ...”

Greeb’s cavernous chest rumbled and a low growl grew within. The Malveel’s body coiled even lower toward the ground.

“My lord,” shouted Cortik in an attempt to drown out the voice within the flames. “We must retreat and wait for the arrival of Lord Sulgor. He will certainly know how to deal with this rabble of humans.”

The orb opened wide and Greeb’s massive right claw snapped up toward his High Priest. In an instant the scaly paw wrapped about Cortik’s neck and head, covering the priest’s entire face. Cortik thrashed and struggled to breath. The onyx claws grated across the rocks encrusting the priest’s skull. Greeb’s eye skirted about as he inspected the priest with a look of hatred and disdain.

“RETREAT!” snapped the Malveel. “WE WILL NOT RETREAT! I do not need Lord Sulgor to show me how to deal with these humans.”

 A muffled, hollow cry built in the back of Cortik’s throat as the hand of Greeb closed tighter and tighter about his head. Lines of black, oily blood trickled down the Ulrog’s head from those spots where the black claws sliced through stone and hide. The priest locked two stony hands on Greeb’s forearm.

“My lord, NO!”

“Sulgor will come to the Eru and find the bodies of these Derolians stacked in piles before him,” shouted Greeb.

The hand flexed further. Cortik howled and quaked, unable to break free. Greeb’s upper lip twitched uncontrollably.

“BE GONE! DOG OF IZGRA, BEFORE MY FOLK PLUCK OUT YOUR REMAINING EYE!”

Greeb’s head snapped toward the flames, his eye penetrating its blinding-light and pinpointing the shadow of Portlo moving behind it. The Malveel ripped his hand free from the skull of Cortik. The High Priest dropped to the ground clutching his head and howling in agony. Greeb’s oil covered hand swept toward the wood, spraying the blood of his priest across the Hackles.

“Into the wood,” screamed the Malveel. “We finish this tonight!”

The Ulrog, caught in the fever pitch of bloodlust, roared in approval and poured toward the flames of the Derol. Cortik writhed on the ground, his hands wrapped around his head. Greeb stepped over his body. The Malveel lord’s chest heaved. He watched as his Hackles streamed into the wood.

“You have baited and goaded me this night, Portlo of Astel,” murmured the beast. “You desire this battle. I know not why, and no longer care. You will get what you want and you shall rue its coming.”

“The Ulrog have entered the wood,” wheezed the breathless scout.

“Good,” replied Hai. “Now it is up to Steward Portlo and the Derolian woodsmen. We will give the Hackles more time to become ensnared.”

Portlo moved through the woods rapidly, the scheme of the snare locked in his memory. The false trails and dead ends danced in his mind. Within moments the steward stood beside Lijon, surrounded by runners.

“They come,” he stated through an expressionless face.

The moon glowed across the white of the painted horse’s hide. The horse was normally not a favorite of Eru scouts. Its coloring made it far too visible in the night.  However, this particular animal was fast and its rider fearless. The horseman guided the paint over the top of a slight hill and charged down into a sea of men and horses. The sea parted and the small horse sped through their midst to the side of Temujen, chieftain of the Erutre.

“Noma, in this light that horse glitters like the waters of the Frizgard,” called Temujen to the scout. “He will be the death of you.”

The scout reined in smiling.

“He will only be the death of me if those who discover his brilliance can catch him,” laughed Noma,“and none ever will.”

Temujen returned the scout’s smile.

“What have you?” asked the chieftain.

The smile dropped from the scout’s face.

“The Ulrog move into the wood,” replied Noma. “The Malveel remains poised at its edge.”

Temujen allowed a grim smile.

“We will allow the Derolians to abuse the Hackles in their maze. When Greeb discovers his folly, we shall move upon him.”

Hackles lumbered through the flames knocking charred timber aside. Normal fire hardly affected their tough hides. After the first dozen passed through the flames consuming the forests tinder, much of it was smothered. Those Hackles that hesitated became emboldened by their comrades and raced forward. Greeb remained just outside the wood surrounded by trackers.

The Hackles paused within the forest’s darkness. More Ulrog poured forward and became hemmed in by their brethren. The wood was unfamiliar territory to them. In their limited experience within the confines of the Derol, the Hackles had suffered grievous losses.

“Spread out,” roared a red robed priest as he encountered the jam of Hackles. “You are ripe for the arrows of the woodsmen. They have naught to hide behind but trunk and limb. Move forward and you will ferret the woodsmen from their hiding places. Slaughter them where they stand!”

The vanguard of the Ulrog grunted in reply and immediately rushed forward into the darkness. More Ulrog pushed past the flames at the forest’s edge and replaced their comrades. They raced past tree and bush, alert for any movement. Except for the command of the priest, they were a leaderless band of roving killers, looking for anything to strike down.

Within moments the lead Hackles fanned across the wood, moving in a steady lumbering line through its darkness. Slundoc dashed along with them. The tracker would have exercised greater caution if he could, but Greeb was specific. The Malveel lord required updates on everything in order to direct the battle. Slundoc planned to return to the forest’s edge as soon as the Ulrog made contact with the Derolians.

The tracker noted how the forest closed around him. To his left the wood thickened so significantly that he lost sight of many of the Hackles supporting his position. A quick glance to his right confirmed the same impression. It appeared that he and the fifty or so Ulrog running alongside him were isolated from the main force, sprinting down a tunnel of trees.

The tracker slowed and his coal black eyes surveyed his surroundings. Roaring Hackles bumped and battered past the smaller tracker. Their indignation evident by how they carried themselves. The Ulrog fighters were forced to accept Greeb’s command from the trackers, but they were well aware of who did the real fighting. Disdain for the trackers ran high in the Horde.

Slundoc’s eyes lifted into the trees above as more huge Hackles rumbled past him. A flash of near white caught his eye as the strong southern breeze pushed the forest’s canopy aside for just a moment and allowed the moonlight to penetrate deep into the woods. The tracker moved sidelong through the steady stream of Ulrog, his eyes locked upon the location of the white flash.

It dazzled him again. This time however, the tracker inspected the source and clearly saw the perfect white circle of the severed limb standing out in the darkness. The cut was recent. The woodsmen must have severed the bough and dropped it into the wood below. Slundoc followed the course of the huge fallen limb. It choked one side of the tunnel from any type of passage. It was strategically placed.

His eyes danced up and down the tunnel of trees as the remnants of the Ulrog charge passed him. More white spots jumped out in sharp contrast to the darkness around them. The fallen trees and limbs created a corridor deeper into the wood.

Recognition changed to panic. The Ulrog were not on a bloody rampage into the wood to slaughter Derolians. Instead, they were being herded forward to their deaths. Slundoc spun and dashed toward the backs of the advancing stone men.

“HALT!” bellowed the tracker.

Lijon stood at the end of the trap behind a blind created from evergreen boughs and tree trunks. The evergreen’s thick needles acted as an excellent screen to obscure him from the charging Ulrog. His men bound the logs so solidly together a battering ram would be required to break them apart. The big woodsman found difficulty recognizing the shadows of his brethren stationed behind a similar screen across the tunnel of trees. At least a dozen bowmen on each side of the tunnel held their longbows taut, straining against their release.

Portlo stood a dozen yards up the tunnel from the archers. He commanded a group of swordsmen. His gauntlet raised above his head. Portlo and his swordsmen would be the first to engage the Ulrog in hand-to-hand combat. The steward opted for this duty, feeling it was best suited to his swordsmen. The lead Ulrog slowed as he encountered a mass of tangled tree and vines. He was the first of his comrades to reach the dead end.

“The snare is set,” murmured Portlo dropping his hand.

Lijon’s fingers snapped open, releasing a long arrow. It whistled through the air slamming into the head of the lead Ulrog. As the beast toppled forward, more arrows erupted from the blinds, hammering the front dozen Hackles to the ground in a spray of stone and black blood.

Lijon stepped backward to reload as an alternate stepped forward and selected a target.

“Neglect the wounded,” barked Lijon. “Leave them to the steward.”

The alternate adjusted and sent his shaft over the heads of the forward Hackles and into the midst of those still lumbering down the length of the tunnel. The steel tip met the soft throat of a brute. The beast clutched its searing pain and spun about wildly. Ulrog behind and beside the crazed Hackle tripped as the injured Ulrog frantically worked to rip the dart from his throat.

Lijon stepped forward. Several uninjured Ulrog near the end of the trap raked the opposite screen with their cleavers. They vainly tried to cut away the vines binding the boughs to the trees. Lijon released a long bolt from three yards away that passed through the torso of a large Hackle and pinned him to his comrade. The pair of beasts roared in pain and struggled until the larger of the two ripped his comrade from his side. Oily blood splashed down upon the forest floor.

Ader remained frozen against the rock. His face was an expression of calm. Kael nervously glanced between the trail and Eidyn’s position. He needed to calm himself as well, but he couldn’t. Too much was happening and too much had yet to occur.

“We could be here for days,” whispered Kael.

“We could,” returned the Seraph softly, “but we will not.”

“How can you be so .... ?”

Kael was cut off by the distant clatter of rock tumbling down the slope. He nearly poked his head over the boulder but the powerful hand of Ader restrained him.

 “There are thirteen, including a lesser priest,” stated Ader, his eyes still closed. “They will be upon us in minutes. Stay calm. Ready your bow. Make the first shot true. We need to thin their numbers. Eidyn knows what to do. I will focus on the priest.”

The Seraph’s eyes slowly opened.

“Above all, stay by me. I can protect you if you stay within my proximity.”

Kael rapidly nodded.

The front of the Ulrog charge was severely incapacitated. However, the trailing Hackles heard the cries of battle and assumed their comrades encountered the enemy in combat. They rushed forward, crashing into the backs of their brethren. The confines of the woods made it difficult for them to move. This was Portlo’s cue. The steward nodded in the direction of several Derolian ax men.

The ax men lifted their weapons and swung them down hard on a series of vines bundled against a large oak. The ax heads stuck in the mighty tree with a loud thunk and the straining vines snapped with a whip crack. The tree groaned and seven tree trunks at least a half-yard in diameter spilled from the forest’s dark canopy. The heavy trunks, twenty yards in length, smashed through leaf and limb as they plummeted into the forest tunnel.

The Ulrog panicked at the cacophony above them, but found little time and no means to escape the trap. The heavy trees slammed down upon the heads of dozens of Hackles, crushing some and mortally wounding others.