The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (21 page)

“Save to the south. There is no threat to the south,” shrugged the sergeant, waving a hand in the direction of the lake and the archive buildings perched on its shores.

Manfir turned in that direction and movement on a lone balcony near the pinnacle of the highest tower attracted his eyes. At this distance the figures upon the balcony appeared small, but there was no mistaking the prelate of the scribes amongst them. Nostr stood high over the courtyards with the closest of his advisors in tow.

Manfir watched as the group surveyed the chaos of the human camp below then held a huddled conversation. The Zodrian king’s eyes drifted down the massive white towers and fixed upon a group of twenty gray robed scribes standing at rigid attention before the doors to the main buildings. Manfir scowled and turned to Brelg.

“I often wonder if we overlook a threat of a different kind,” grumbled Manfir.

“Increase the numbers of our brethren posted at all other entry ways to the archives,” ordered Nostr. “We cannot afford prying eyes within the confines of the towers.”

“As you wish,” replied the scribe Samot. “Do you fear forced entry into the towers prelate?”

Nostr’s face drew tight and he weighed his response.

“I fear nothing, Samot,” answered the prelate. “But I trust no one. What we harbor here can be discovered by none outside the order.”

Nostr spun from the balcony’s edge and marched back into the tower’s highest chamber. The wide circular room was unadorned by furniture or art. All was white and barren within save the tall, irregularly shaped stone standing near its center.  The black surface of the obelisk swirled and churned like the waters of a sluggish river under a moonless sky. A group of scribes surrounded the stone staring into its surface and noting changes upon scrolls of parchment.

“Anything to report?” asked the prelate.

“No, my lord,” returned a scribe. “The agitation waxes and wanes.”

Nostr took a moment to inspect the stone then turned to his advisors.

“It will not be long now,” announced the prelate. “It will be the final sign before His return to this world.”

Nostr drew a deep breath and closed his eyes to steady his fervor. His stony claws clenched tightly.

“And when He returns it will be both glorious and terrible,” murmured the prelate. “I have longed for this day.”

The expressions surrounding him remained serious and unchanged. Nostr opened his eyes and swept through the double doors opposite the obelisk. A wide causeway lay before him and spun downward within the tower toward its base.

Flair spent the entire day and evening culling the Eru’s herd of horses. He chose from many fine animals, wishing to find the very best for his men. The difference between life and death lie with these beasts and Flair intended to give his men every possible chance for success. He moved through the herd with Hai by his side inspecting the animals for the last time.

“These horses are amazing,” commented the Southlander. “There is no comparison between what we rode and what you now give us.”

“These are but pack animals,” laughed Hai. “My men ride upon the best of our herds.”

“They are a blessing to your people.”

“The true blessing today is this place,” said Hai sweeping his hand across the massive courtyards of Delvi. “It’s as if the scribes designed this enclosure for our group. Our armies find enough room to camp. The citizenry find access to both food and water near the lake’s edge, and the horses find all they need within the lush grasses. If not for the threat we face, this place is a perfect sanctuary for all our people.”

Flair glanced about at the hive of activity taking place within the walls of Delvi. Truly the place was a miracle. The wide curving walls arced from behind the archives to the east and gathered enough land within their confines to shelter this huge population. The walls continued past Flair and dove back into the white-capped waves of Lake Eru on the west side of the towers. Essentially, the arc of wall divided the peninsula of Delvi from the rest of the world.

As Flair marveled at the arc, he noted movement near the gates of the city. A group of ten scribes opened the door and allowed a pair of weary, dusty travelers within. The pair bowed deeply then moved toward the archives and entered the main buildings.

“It’s been a steady stream,” said Hai beside him. “They come in twos and threes. Always they appear to have traveled a great distance in a short time.”

“Where do they come from?” asked Flair.

“That I cannot say,” replied the Eru horseman. “But their destination is certain.”

He pointed at the archives of Delvi.

“The number of scribes housed within the walls of Delvi has steadily grown from the moment we arrived,” said Hai. “As our eyes focus on the storm rolling down upon us from the north we completely ignore the growing number of highly trained and highly motivated fighters who disappear within the buildings behind us.”

Flair grimaced and heeled the flanks of his horse, directing the beast toward the encampment of Zodrians and their leader, King Manfir.

The red robed priests stepped aside as their master Sulgor moved to join them at the top of the small hill. The Malveel king ignored their presence and strained to see through the heavy, morning fog before him. The sun would rise shortly and already its light infused the mists covering the land with a glow. Somewhere in the south, the walls of Delvi lay shrouded in these mists.

A rumble formed in the depths of the beast’s belly. The fact that his forces allowed the humans to reach a place of refuge infuriated the Malveel king.  He would be forced to methodically throw his numbers at the walls of Delvi. True, they did not appear too formidable, but he trusted the defenders within to utilize them to their utmost.

Whatever engendered such confidence within the dead heart of Izgra remained a mystery, but Sulgor preferred to face the reality of the situation as he saw it. He spun toward his most trusted ally. Canx the Silent stared into his king’s eyes bolstering Sulgor’s confidence.

“We will let the daylight waste away and wait until sundown,” stated the Magnificent. “Darkness sets fear in the hearts of men. When the sun falls behind the horizon, Vespewl will move his forces in from the west and Woil from the north. I want rams and siege ladders brought forth. The wall is our first enemy, not the men upon it. Once the wall falls, the men cowering within will become easy targets.”

Canx nodded his understanding and bowed.

“You will be my eyes and ears in the battle to come,” stated Sulgor. “Too much power is being concentrated in the hands of too few. Keep me well informed.”

The Silent slid from his master’s presence into the Ulrog encampment.

The group gathered near the gates of Delvi.

“They will come at dusk,” stated Olith. “It is their way. They believe darkness strikes fear into our hearts.”

“I agree,” stated Dravgo. “Those with a feeble heart let darkness rule them. The Malveel will assault the walls with ram and ladder.”

“We have the day to prepare, what are we to do?” wondered Manfir aloud.

“Use the light,” replied Temujen.

Manfir looked at the Eru chieftain quizzically.

“Strike first,” came Temujen’s simple explanation.

A call echoed from the top of the surrounding wall.

“Open the gates!”

A pair of Eru tribesmen rushed to the great wooden doors and swung them wide. A moment later the steaming form of Tarader burst into the courtyards of Delvi. The mighty stallion slowed and trotted to the great herds that milled near the water’s edge. The animals parted and their king bowed to the cool waters of the lake and drank deeply.

“The eternal horse enters without a rider. A good omen,” stated Samot from the balcony on high.

“Or a very bad one,” grumbled Nostr.

The tracker bowed before Lord Izgra.

“My lord. The eternal horse ran through our encampment,” the tracker winced expecting punishment then pressed on. “Our forces were unable to capture it.”

Izgra’s head rose and his silent, empty stare sent fear coursing through the tracker’s body. The Half-Dead released a cackle of laughter.

“It is of no import,” scoffed the warlock. “A rider less horse, no matter its pedigree, threatens no one. The animal never concerned me, but the rider did. Ader the Light Wielder is no more.”

CHAPTER 17: FIRE FIGHT

A DOZEN ULROG encircled a roaring blaze of scrap wood in the main encampment of the Army of the Scythtar. The chance to rest came rarely and fuel for such a fire remained scarce in the grasslands. The forced march from their mountain stronghold took its toll on the stone men both physically and mentally. They were not accustomed to camping in the open ranges of the Eru and their eyes shifted nervously at every movement or sound.

Throughout the evening, members of the Zorim contingent filtered in and amongst the main army. They too were exhausted. Vespewl drove them relentlessly. The Scourge remained intensely focused on his place in the great battle to come.

The dawn crept into the morning mists and strangely brought comfort to the Ulrog. Traditionally, the Hackles worked in the shadows and used the darkness of night to their advantage. However, unfamiliar territory changed the dynamics with which they made war. The dawn brought the ability to see their surroundings and assess the relative safety of their position. This relieved the Ulrog.

One of the dozen stood and retrieved the last of a pile of brushwood and tossed it upon the fire. He returned to his place and settled in. A few grumbles arose from a group of Zorim fighters confined to a sodden low patch of Eru grassland. The largest amongst them stood and trudged the thirty yards to the fire’s side. He stared at the blaze and allowed its heat to radiate into his rocky body.

“Move yer hide,” growled one of the dozen. “Yer blockin’ the fire.”

The Zorim stood firm but glanced over his shoulder to the speaker.

“I’ll move when I’m done,” he snapped and glanced to his compatriots on the sodden patch. “The conquerors of Keltar take what is rightfully theirs!”

The Scythtar fighter stood.

“Conquerors of Keltar?” he snorted and closed upon his adversary. “Drown river rats more like it. Word is you conquered an empty shell after you swam your way out of the giant’s trap.”

A growl of protest erupted from the Zorim fighters and Hackles everywhere quickly came to their feet.

“Test us, frozen dog,” rumbled the Zorim fighter, drawing his cleaver. “We of the Zorim spent years in a real battle with a true and dangerous enemy while you and your lot faced the last hopeless dregs that Zodra could throw at you. You couldn’t stand before the might of the Anvil and as usual Sulgor calls upon us to face the true challenge.”

The Zorim brotherhood snorted and laughed in agreement. The Scythtar Hackle’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He scanned the ground for his weapon. The Zorim fighter’s black eyes remained fixed upon him and the area went deathly quiet as tension filled the grasslands.

“However much I might find this little confrontation a source of entertainment on any other day,” came a deep rumble from the mists surrounding the encampment. “Today is special. Today I need all of you.”

Darkness materialized from the heavy morning fog as Vespewl the Scourge stepped from the draping wetness and approached the fire. The Hackles transformed. They no longer held the tense poses of warriors prepared to attack, but the rigid attention of Hackles expecting punishment. Vespewl fluidly moved toward the fire, dwarfing the stone men arrayed around it. His eyes matched the fiery intensity of the blaze.

“Today you are to be the instruments of my glory,” he purred, “ and if you sacrificed yourselves for anything other thanmy glory, I would be quite disturbed.”

His eyes scanned the crowd and all of the Hackles’ heads dipped in deference to the Scourge.

“Do not fret, men of stone. The fight is not long in coming. When evening falls, the forces of Amird will march upon the walls of Delvi and we shall....”

A cry of alarm arose from the mists to the west. The clash of metal upon metal could be heard in the distance.

“Fools!” snarled Vespewl. “I warned Sulgor of the folly of crowding too many fighting Hackles into such a tight space. Nagret was to warn his filth of the repercussions of fighting amongst themselves. Those who are insubordinate will suffer for their ...”

A pair of Hackles ran from the fog. One oozed black blood from a significant head wound. The other frantically glanced over his shoulder as he scrambled from the west. The pair ran directly past their Malveel lord. Vespewl’s upper lip quivered in fury. His eyes flared as he prepared to deal with any Hackles responsible for this annoyance.

The pounding of pursuit grew closer. Dark figures coalesced as the misty shroud dissipated from the heat of the rising sun.

“Stand down and lower your weapons!” boomed Vespewl. “Fighting amongst yourselves will not be tolerated! Any Hackle who disobeys my orders will find himself ...”

A dozen battle-armored Keltaran thundered from the mist and swept into the camp. Vespewl’s eyes widened in dismay as a long handled battle axe arced its deadly blade at the head of one of Lord Amird’s Chosen.

The battle no longer held the element of surprise. The Ulrog fully awakened to the Keltaran attack. Wave after wave of giant axe men and cavalry crushed into the west flank of the Ulrog position. The Hackles were disoriented. Many had just been informed of the evening attack planned for Delvi. They settled into camp, happy to find a few hours respite before more slaughter.

Ulrog snatched discarded weapons from the ground. Units hastily threw themselves together. Trackers busily ran battle plans between their Malveel leaders. Priests found it impossible to establish communications.

General Olith felt the full rays of the morning sun as the remnants of the mist disappeared from the field. He stood upon a hilltop nearly half a league from the main fight. The general longed to be amongst his men but knew his place lie here, coordinating their efforts and searching for any weakness he might bolster with his group of reserves.