The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (15 page)

The Seraph’s eyes fell toward the ground. He appeared troubled.

“Yes,” muttered Alel. “ Unfortunate.”

His eyes rose.

“But we move on as we must,” he stated. “You must admit. In his early days, Amird was a force.”

“He was a murderer then too,” exclaimed Kael. “Are you missing what I told you? Ader is dead.”

“A relative term, my dear boy,” laughed Alel. “In reality, my brother does not inhabit the frame he once did. That is all. He moved on.”

Kael’s face screwed into a combination of anger and confusion. His thoughts went back to the voices he heard within the obelisk. He heard Ader. Indeed, his friend was not dead. He was ... somewhere. Kael focused on Alel’s comment.

“Six Seraphim?”

The boy spun around the room eyeing the six bookcases.

“Why yes, six. We are all instruments of Avra.”

Kael approached the second bookcase. A heart cradled within a pair of hands designated it. The Heart of Avra.

“Most of the tomes regarding Awoi were written by Keltaran hands. Several ancient Zodrian manuscripts reference the battle between Awoi the Usurper and Amird the king’s council,” said Alel. “Obviously, history is in the eye of the beholder.”

Kael moved to the third bookcase. It was orderly. Row after row of gray bound books lined the shelves. Each book was of the exact same size and a symbol embossed on their spine matched the symbol above the case. A hand cupped around an ear. Kael turned to face Alel and noted a redness in the Seraph’s face.

“Those are the diaries of the Ear of Avra,” coughed the old man. “My diaries. I am the recorder. The hearer of prayers. All that is said in the name of Avra reaches me.”

He hesitated.

“Obviously, there was no need for me to collect histories of myself. They are really more of a record of Forend than anything else.”

Kael turned back to the fourth case with the lips calling out through a pair of hands. Alel stepped forward and proudly removed items from the shelves and display them to the boy.

“This is my most eclectic collection. Books bound in Eru horse hide. Keltaran epic poems. Parchments of white Almar shaved from the great trees with diamond edged blades.  The delicate rimshar paper of the Sprites. Even early descriptions of the Voice of Avra’s first visit to the people of the sands written on the hide of a camel. Fascinating information to see through their eyes.”

Kael flipped through one of the large Keltaran books and the name of Ader jumped out at him from nearly every page. Part of the boy wished he could weep and another told him the emotion he should feel was joy, but he displayed neither. Instead, he quietly shut the book and moved toward the next bookcase. It too contained an orderly set of books of the same size and binding. Kael stared at the symbol above the case, an eye peering through the rounded fingers of a hand. He slowly pulled one of the books from the shelf and read. The Seraph stepped beside him.

“You will find this set of books answers many of your questions, Kael. However, it will probably raise just as many. I must attend to some business. Read. Absorb. We will talk at length when I return.“  

Kael did not lift his head from the heavy tome he held. He simply nodded. Alel patted him on the shoulder with a smile then moved toward the open door. Before he departed he turned to the engrossed boy.

“Do not forget to eat, lad,” laughed Alel. “Those books can be mesmerizing. Remember to take a break.”

Kael grunted his assent and the Seraph slipped from the room.

“The city of Amird is ours for the taking,” whined the high rasp of Nagret the Shadow.

The lesser Malveel paced before Vespewl, his eyes darting from the ground to his fellow Chosen then back again.

“The fools afford us great opportunity, Vespewl, and you ask me to squander it,” snapped Nagret.

Vespewl remained silent, searching Nagret’s anxious features. Finally, Nagret halted his pacing and glared at his brother.

“Well. What have you to say?”

Vespewl arched an eyebrow and slowly rose from the litter upon which he traveled. His prodigious girth rasped as the scales upon his body grated against one another.

“First,” seethed the Malveel. “I warn you to watch the tone with which you address me.”

He slid from his resting place and leaned over Nagret. The lesser Malveel shrank toward the floor, the twin points of fire deep within his eye slits searched for a means to escape.

“I am not accustomed to those of ... inferior power,  making demands before me,” growled Vespewl.

Nagret’s eyes momentarily fixed upon the leg that Vespewl favored, then he quickly bowed his head and backed away.

“I do not demand,” offered the Shadow. “I simply ask you to reconsider your course. My Lord Amird will show great favor upon those who deliver the city of his past glories.”

“What you overlook,“ returned Vespewl edging forward, “is the fact that a battle will be raging elsewhere as WE conquer women and children. This battle will decide the fate of the world. I would hate for our masters to lose this battle in our absence and find even greater issue if they win and we are not present.”

Nagret’s head bobbed as he backed further from Vespewl.

“Yet if they win, we will be ready to offer my lord the conquered realm of Zodra?” replied the beast halfheartedly.

“And that will be the last insult you ever attempt to foist upon my lord. He is not a fool to be toyed with, Nagret,” snarled Vespewl, his eyes flashing. “Now get your Frizgard packs filtered within my ranks. You will take your orders from me or so help me you will join Methra!”

Nagret’s scaly lips quivered in anger but after a moment he bowed low and slunk from Vespewl’s presence.

CHAPTER 11: THE CLEARING

LIJON SMILED ACROSS the forest trail at Fraz, his second in command. The forest, his forest, once again provided the means for his people to repel the Ulrog. Thousands of the beasts trudged down from the mountain passes of the Mirozert in the last few days. Hundreds met their death in the intricate traps and snares the Derolian woodsmen set throughout the forest.

However, traps and snares fill. The great numbers of the Ulrog horde passed them by ignoring their dead. For every Hackle halted by the clever designs of the Derolians, ten more stood ready to take its place in line. The Ulrog steadily pushed west, sweeping past Derolian outposts, overrunning villages and forcing their way toward the open fields of the Erutre.

Now Lijon stood near one of the last of the Derolian obstacles, a narrow forest trail that opened into a clearing. At the far end of the clearing the trail resumed its path westward.  The clearing was one of many sprinkled throughout the Derol, formed when the woodsmen chose an area for timber cutting. A section of the forest would be clear cut, then planted with seedlings in order to replenish the resource. These areas opened to the sky above and the saplings grew rapidly along with lush grasses and ferns.

This particular grove of saplings lie nearly one hundred yards in diameter. The young trees were several years old and already stood three yards tall. Their skinny limbs reached upward toward one of the few patches of blue sky within the deep Derol.

Lijon motioned to Fraz and the pair entered the clearing from the eastern trail. They carefully hugged the rim of the clearing and made their way to the exit on the opposite side. Once there, they took cover and Lijon searched the woods on the north and south of the clearing. In moments he determined the location of at least a dozen of his comrades. They lay low within the forest debris. Their cloaks blended well with their surroundings. Lijon was pleased. The Ulrog force trailing him would be taken unaware.

After a short wait, the first signs of pursuit reached the woodsmen. The crack of tree limb and the stomp of hundreds of stone feet could not be muffled in the stillness of the Derol. From previous reconnaissance, Lijon knew the Ulrog force consisted of nearly one hundred Hackles. A trio of priests led them and displayed a recklessness that Lijon and Portlo intended to exploit. The Ulrog raced through the wood, ignoring any danger the Derolians might present.

Shadowy figures on the opposite side of the clearing alerted Lijon to the enemy’s exact whereabouts. The woodsman hunched deeper into the cover of his location and stared at the forest’s edge. Sharp, guttural calls echoed within the trees. Answering calls, in the tongue of the Ulrog, floated across the opening.

“Trackers,” thought Lijon. “They hover near the edge of the clearing, uncertain what to do.”

Movement near the trail opening drew Lijon and he watched as a smallish Hackle exited from the shadows of the wood and inspected the clearing. The tracker stood knee deep in forest grasses and slightly taller than the sapling’s lowest branches.

Another tracker stepped from the darkness of the wood and quietly stalked south of his leader’s position. Lijon followed the second tracker with his eyes.  This Ulrog also took his time to inspect both the ground before him and the clearing’s edges. Lijon praised Avra for such obedient men. He preached patience in order for the plan to work. He was soon rewarded.

A louder, harsher voice called Lijon’s attention back to the darkness of the eastern trail. A pair of dull red points floated within the darkness. They grew. A High Priest of Amird, leader of these packs, strode down the path toward the clearing. His massive frame burst from the wood. A look of distress and anger twisted across his stony face.

“Dras! Why do we hesitate?” demanded the priest.

The first tracker to enter the clearing spun back to the opening, approached the priest and bowed low.

“Lord Tchkor, the clearing has not been read for signs.”

“We have no TIME!” barked Tchkor glancing back over his shoulder to the trail behind him. “Damn the signs. We must break free of the Derol before nightfall.”

“But my lord,” pleaded Dras. “The woodsmen lay traps throughout the Derol. We lost many useful Hackles to their trickery.”

Tchkor’s eyes flared and he pounded a fist down on the back of Dras’s head. The tracker dropped onto his hands and knees before the priest, crying out in pain. Tchkor bent low and put his black lips near his subordinate’s ear.

“Get your tracker rabble into the clearing and move on,” growled Tchkor, lips quivering in anger. “Their bodies will clear a path.”

The priest’s massive claws locked on the back of the tracker’s neck and he rose,  lifting Dras with him. The tracker was set on his feet, spun toward the clearing and hurtled forward.

“Trackers! Follow your leader!”

Immediately, a half dozen smaller Ulrog broke from the tree line and picked their way between the saplings in the grove. Dras dragged himself forward and glanced back at his master. Tchkor did not follow the tracker’s progress. Instead, he turned to inspect the trail he exited. When the high priest finally looked back to Dras’s position he erupted in anger at the tracker’s hesitancy.

“Move you worthless beast!” roared the priest.

Fire flashed from his raised hands and ignited the grove behind Dras. The tracker and his comrades spun west and lunged forward into the clearing. Lijon smiled.

In an instant, a high-pitched twang sounded from near the second tracker to enter the grove. The beast stepped nearly thirty yards into the clearing when a sapling tied beneath the tall grasses launched itself upright. A noose anchored to the tree tightened about the Hackles ankle and ripped him from his feet. Several more twangs screamed through the heavy air of the Derol and four more Hackles found themselves dangling from supple yet sturdy oak saplings.

Dras froze in confusion. His comrades struggled in vain. The forest’s edge erupted in movement. Woodsmen appeared with bow and spear. The Ulrog trackers made easy targets as they swayed from the woodsmen’s snares. Derolians easily dispatched the Hackles, piercing their stone bodies with multiple projectiles.

Those Derolians nearest the priest’s position turned their weapons on Tchkor and the Hackles crowded about the eastern trailhead. The high priest roared in frustration and with each hand motioned sections of his Hackles toward the Derolians stationed in the woods. His subordinates rushed behind the cover of the trees and worked their way toward their attackers. Tchkor snarled and backed down the trail into the forest. Arrows riddled the trees about him. Only the red glow of his Chaos filled eyes could be seen in the dusky shadows of the wood.

“The fool,” laughed Lijon. “He splits his force around the grove, just as we planned.”

Lijon stood and motioned to the west down his own trail.

Fighting Hackles powered through the dense undergrowth and broken timber littering the Derol Forest. Their confidence remained high. This trap had been sprung and taken the lives of a few worthless trackers. A small price to pay for the annihilation of the troop of woodsmen manning the position.

The lead Hackle could hear the noise of longbows snapping death across the clearing at his priest. He crouched not far from the archer’s location. Their longbows would be no match for cleavers and stone hammers. He plunged past the low hanging branches of an old leaning oak.

His oily black eyes went wide at a flash of blue that rushed toward him. A knight of Astel stepped forward and slammed the long blade of a broadsword into the Ulrog’s midsection, making this the last surprise the Hackle would ever experience.

Roars of dismay and anger filled the woods on both sides of the clearing. Hackle after Hackle blundered into the path of broadsword wielding knights. The Astelans thrust and slashed their way through the stone men, heavily damaging the enemy. The Derolian archers remained focused on the eastern trail head and the clearing’s interior. The moment a Hackle stepped from shelter, a dozen steel-tipped shafts pelted the beast. Lijon focused on the red eyes within the wood. They flared with rage, but also periodically spun to the east, checking the darkness behind them.

Lijon bent low and retrieved a freshly cut lance from the ground. The green wood felt wet. An iron point had been affixed to its end and a grip hastily carved into its handle.