The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (16 page)

“Tis a fine piece of Derolian wood, my lord,” said the big woodsman as he hefted the lance toward a man seated atop a large stallion. “It may bend upon impact, but should not break.”

The knight accepted the lance and laid its handle within a holster buckled to his mount’s side.

“If produced by the hands of Derolians, it will be of the highest quality,” smiled Portlo in return.

The eastern trailhead erupted in flames and the harsh, guttural screams of the high priest of Amird told all within range that assault lie imminent. Portlo chucked the flanks of his stallion and it moved toward the opening into the clearing. A dozen mounted knights retrieved lances from Fraz and followed their leader.

“Take the clearing and move onto the western trail,” roared Tchkor. “We must be free of the Derol by nightfall!”

The first Hackles to plunge into the clearing attempted retreat from the sword-wielding knights of Astel. High Priest Tchkor turned his fiery rage on them, leaving them no alternative but to flee into the clearing. The woods held the death of Astelan steel. The eastern trailhead held the fire of Chaos and the clearing held arrow and spear. The Hackles made their decision quickly.

Some lost their lives to the few remaining snares that had not been tripped by the trackers. The snares yanked these heavy fighting Ulrog from their feet. However, the crush of their comrades storming across the clearing took more of their lives than the arrows or spears of the woodsmen.

The remaining Hackles made good progress across the dell. Those closest to the sides caught the brunt of the Derolian archer’s attack.  The group of stone men bunched toward the center of the clearing as they raced across it.

The progress of their brethren and the motivation provided by the flaming hands of Tchkor pushed more Hackles into the clearing, the larger of the beasts forcing their way toward the center of the pack. They trampled the saplings, grasses and bodies of their brethren as they raced to the western trailhead.

The magnitude of their miscalculation presented itself before them. A dozen fully armored knights of Astel poured from the western wood on horseback and fanned out across the clearing. The knights lowered their iron tipped lances and hammered the flanks of their armored stallions.

Many of the Hackles spun and rushed toward the streaming arrows and spears pouring from the forest. Others raised their weapons and chose to confront horse and rider alike. The first wave of Astelan knights slammed into these stone men with a metal raking crunch. The riders remained seated, but many Ulrog lay broken from the lance of the knights or the hooves of their mounts.

Lijon waved to a group of woodsmen stationed to his right. They rose from the grasses, released a battle cry and rushed in amongst the few Hackles who avoided lance and horse. The woodsmen’s hatchets flashed and they made short work of the stranded Hackles. The mounted knights regrouped and charged forward at a new line of Ulrog. A similar encounter ensued and again the woodsmen cleaned up the remains with their hatchets.

Lijon grinned in satisfaction. On either side of the clearing he could see the blue mantles of Astelan knights coursing through the woods as they decimated the Hackle’s first charge through the forest. His archers rained death into the confused Ulrog. The beasts rushed from punishment to punishment within the clearing. The knights charged, reformed, then charged again. Not a single knight had been unseated. Across the clearing, in the gray shadows of the woods, the fiery eyes of the high priest swept across his defeat. Lijon exalted.

A knight reined in beside the big Derolian motioning for a replacement lance. The splintered remains of the knight’s original weapon lay within its holster. Lijon dropped to a knee and lifted a new pole from the pile at his feet.

“Perhaps we underestimated the thickness of their hides,” laughed the knight from beneath his visor. “Derolian craft or no, you had best keep a handy supply of weaponry. I fear we will need it.”

“As you command, my lord,” smiled Lijon in reply.

The woodsman tore the old lance from the holster and replaced it with the new. He slapped the exposed rump of Portlo’s stallion and the horse spun and charged into the fray.

Lijon followed the horse but let his eyes shift back to the eastern trail head. Something drew him there. A darkness more palpable and brooding replaced the shadows of the woods. The red eyes of the high priest could still be seen floating within the tree line, but now a blackness backed him and sapped all light from the wood. Lijon stared in confusion as the blackness grew and encroached on both the priest and the tree line. Another pair of fiercer, more intense red eyes blazed to life directly behind the priest. Lijon drew in a deep breath and held it. A chill shot up his spine.

The High Priest Tchkor glared at the catastrophe before him. His force lay in disarray. The mounted knights of Astel annihilated his fighting Hackles. Most of his trackers fell to woodsmen’s arrows or the snares within the clearing. He needed to decide now whether to press himself into the battle or retreat. However, uncertainty gnawed him. How much time could he spare beforetheyfell upon him from the east? He decided to throw himself into the fray when a chill ran through him.

“You tarry too long in your duties, priest,” came a wicked whisper from behind his right ear.

The steaming hot breath of a Malveel lord bathed his neck. Tchkor slowly turned and looked over his right shoulder. Lord Drengel slid backward and a creature of blackness rushed past the Malveel toward the priest.

Lijon trembled. He didn’t recognize the blackness, but he knew it to be unnatural. His attention diverted to the mounted knights. They routed yet another Ulrog advance and made progress toward the eastern trail head. They were oblivious to the danger. Lijon dropped the lance he held and ran into the clearing.

“Lord Portlo! No! Retreat!”

The Derolian’s call drowned beneath the inhuman cry that echoed from the eastern edge of the clearing. Trees crashed. Horses shrieked. A mass of heavy black figures emerged from the eastern wood. Attached to the central of these figures was the struggling Ulrog priest. Hundreds of tiny black claws reached from within the blackness of the Memnod. The claws raked the Ulrog’s thick hide and dragged him into the nothingness of the creature of Chaos. The Memnod consumed the priest in an instant. The blackness lurched forward toward the advancing knights.

Portlo lowered his lance and heeled the flanks of his mount. The armored stallion battered through the young trees of the clearing, snapping low hanging branches and boughs. The other mounted knights rallied to their leader and plunged toward the advancing Memnod nightmare.

Lijon cried out in sorrow and dismay. The lance of his ally, his friend, neither bent nor broke on the surface of the black apparition. Instead, it passed through the beast as if made of air. Portlo carried forward into the creature and death.

“RETREAT! WOODSMEN! KNIGHTS OF ASTEL! RETREAT!”

CHAPTER 12: GHOSTS OF THE SWAMP

TEEG RACED ALONG the tight trail. The light faded as evening approached. His eyes darted over the trail below him in search of the signs. They lie everywhere. A large force moved through the swamp recently, perhaps the previous evening.

It must have been the Windriders. They heeded the Counselor’s advice and did not stray from the deer paths and boar trails. Sound advice, for these two animals thrived in the dangerous Toxkri for centuries. They possessed an innate knowledge of where the ground remained sturdy and where a false step led to suffocation within the sucking waters of a hidden bog.

Teeg did not find it difficult to track the Borz. At least a few hundred Windriders made their way through the swamp in single file. So many feet trekking the same path could not be hidden. It was a matter of time before he reached them, and then it would be up to his companion.

Viday found no difficulty keeping up with the Master of Spies. He was young and life in the Borz was a physical challenge he conquered. Besides, the heavy air within the swamp acted as a heady cocktail for a man raised in the dry and hostile environment of the desert. Viday felt alive with energy.

The old Elf continued the rapid pace. Time was his enemy. If he did not reach the Windriders in time, innocent lives might be taken.  Teeg abruptly stopped and Viday nearly stumbled forward into him.

“What is it ...” began Viday.

Teeg held a hand up to silence the Windrider.

“Listen.”

Viday shot a puzzled look at the old Elf, but complied. At first he could hear nothing but the call of the multitude of birds living within the canopy of the Toxkri. However, after a moment the soft, sweet melody of a flute floated through the dense swamp. Viday’s brow furrowed, but before he could speak Teeg waved him forward. They traveled along the same path for a few hundred yards. With each step the music of the flute grew loader.

The path widened and the pair stepped into a small clearing within the swamp. In the middle of the clearing stood a massive willow. Its branches and leaves draped downward around its trunk like a huge green curtain. Through the net of swaying foliage the pair viewed a figure nestled against the gnarled trunk. The figure’s delicate hands danced upon a tiny flute. Teeg smiled and edged forward.

“Good evening to you, gentlemen,” sang a lilting voice. “Tis a beautiful night.”

Viday fought to see the creature in the shadows of the tree. It neither moved nor continued its address. The Windrider’s hands slid toward the folds of his silken garb. He glanced to Teeg for direction. The old Elf’s smile grew and he inched ever forward.

“Lady Jenpry, the night is indeed beautiful,” replied Teeg. “But the desires of men are not. Evil intentions are at work this evening and I fear you sit in this paradise vulnerable to foul deeds.”

Viday glanced back to the woman calmly sitting before him.

“As you well know, Lord Teeg,” returned the woman. “All you see in the Toxkri is not as it appears. A patch of solid ground is a fen that swallows the careless hiker. A green vine becomes a viper that takes the life of the foolish man. And a defenseless, old woman, the leader of an army defending its homeland with vigor.”

She laid her flute in her lap. The edge of the clearing burst with activity. A dozen figures, equipped with blade and bow, stepped from the surrounding greenery. Their cloaks shifted and changed hue with every movement. The effect left Viday slightly dizzy as he stared at the men.

“Although I think it impossible,” continued the woman. “I must ask the question. Are you here of your own free will Lord Teeg, or does this Windrider hold sway over you?”

“It is reassuring to own the confidences of a woman as beautiful as she is powerful,” replied Teeg. “I assure you, I am here as an ally of Viday Shan, new chieftain of the Shan Borz.”

The Master of Spies turned to Viday.

“Viday Shan, I am pleased to introduce you to the Lady Jenpry, daughter of Lord Sprite, the leader of the people of the Toxkri.”

The Windrider stood befuddled. A paradise? People living here? He could not hide the confusion in his eyes.

“There will be time enough for explanation,” continued Teeg. “But for now, rest assured that the people of Sprite are faithful to Avra and allies in the struggle against Amird. It is their lands that your people invade on their journey to intercept the Grey Elves. It is the Sprites who pose the most danger to you now.”

“Posed,” stated Lady Jenpry. “My people effectively removed the Borz threat.”

Teeg spun toward the woman, his typically calm exterior fraught with concern.

“The Borz suffer as equally at the hands of the Deceiver as any other, my lady. They lost their patriarch in the fight. Their thoughts remained with Avra even if Chaos controlled their actions. I pray you do not add to their woes.”

Jenpry rose and moved from beneath the willow. A quick motion with one hand ordered her guards to stand down. They lowered their weapons.  She exited from behind the willow’s draping foliage and the woman’s beauty and bearing struck Viday dumb.

Her features were as delicate as her voice. Short-cropped hair of an ebony hue as flawless as a raven’s wing and high cheekbones accentuated angular blue eyes. Her flawless skin was ageless as well. If the Windrider had not heard Jenpry describe herself as an old woman, he would have been hard-pressed to determine her age. At first glance he thought her young, but her eyes betrayed the truth. The wisdom behind them communicated years of experience.

She dressed from head to toe in a gossamer gown made of the same material as her guard’s cloaks. The gown caught the light about her and reflected all within its sight. The long strands of willow branches remained within the reflection of the gown moments after Jenpry passed through them. Viday shook his head to clear the image as the ethereal beauty moved toward him.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Viday Shan,” smiled Jenpry with a bow. “It is one of my great regrets that we neglected to open relations with our neighbors to the south.”

The woman’s dazzling smile struck Viday speechless.

“However,” continued Jenpry with a laugh. “The people of Sprite gain safety through secrecy. Opening a dialogue with the Windriders would defeat that purpose, would it not?”

Viday nodded his assent. Jenpry turned to Teeg.

“Do not fret, my lord,” said the woman. “We harmed none of the Borz. Instead, they were ... incapacitated.”

Viday’s eyes narrowed and he glanced to Teeg. The old Elf shrugged his shoulders. Jenpry continued.

“Viday Shan, I ask a favor of you.”

“If it is in my power and causes no harm to my people, I will comply, my lady,” returned the Windrider.

“I require some time with Lord Teeg. We will walk for a moment and ... negotiate. After that time I will require you to perform a task. It will result in the freedom of your people. Do you agree?”

Viday’s eyes traveled between Teeg and Jenpry. Neither face could be read.