BlackThorn's Doom (22 page)

“Aye,” Burcott smiled as well. “It will slow their advance greatly and perhaps buy the time needed for the eastern Kings to rally and drive them out of Trondhiem.”

“With this cold there will be little for them to find.” The nomad King added.

“My people will burn their storehouses as they flee.” Burcott said. “The Morne will find little sustenance and many will die on the march.”

“Your people will starve as well.” Jehnom stated.

A cloud passed over Burcott’s face. “Perhaps many will, but whether it be death by hunger or Morne sword the outcome is the same.”

“When do we strike?” Jehnom asked watching the keep being overrun.

Burcott looked to the sky. “With the coming of the dawn. By then much of Sur’kar’s army will be within the keep and any response to our attack would be delayed.”

Within an hour the combined forces were in position. The Ahmed formed the heart of the assembly with the Taur’ Di and Burcott’s men warding their flanks.

With a nod from Burcott the men flowed down the hillside in complete silence. Moving as wraiths the warriors closed the distance.

The Morne’s overconfidence made them careless. Only a few sentries stood watch over the supply train, their eyes focused on the keep. From the darkness came the Ahmed, long knives flashed and the sentries fell in silence.

The Morne wagon crews were asleep in a small encampment amid the wagons. The Ahmed rushed forward killing them. It was grim work, but the Morne had to be silenced in order for the attack to succeed.

The Mounted warriors circled about the wagons while the Ahmed set them afire.

As the wagons began to burn a slumbering rock Troll arose from behind one of the wagons. Blinking its huge eye in confusion it lifted its club and lumbered towards the nearest group of Ahmed.

The nomads retreated, their knives and javelins no match for such a creature.

Burcott wheeled his horse about and charged. He guided his mount with his knees and lowered his lance seeking the Trolls belly.

The Lance struck true, the razor sharp tip piercing through the giants belly just below the rib cage. The tip traveled deep until impacting upon the giant’s spine. The force of the impact shattered the wooden shaft. Burcott let the broken haft fall and drew his sword as he flashed past the wounded Troll.

The Giant swung his cudgel wildly at the passing man. By sheer luck his blow connected, striking the horse.

The head of Burcott’s mount exploded into a spray of bloody pulp and bone fragments. Its legs buckled and the horse fell forward sliding along the ground and dislodging its rider.

With a bone jarring impact Burcott struck the ground and rolled beneath a burning wagon.

The Giant staggered backwards and wrenched the lance from his gut. Dark blood gushed forth, splashing loudly onto the ground. With a soft moan the Troll fell onto its back and died. Its face twisted in a grimace of pain.

Burcott laid on his side his head only a few feet from the foul smelling giant’s face. He rolled away from the creature and emerged from beneath the flaming wagon. The fire was hot and he retreated from the crackling wood.

One of his men rushed forward, his face filled with concern. “My Lord, are you injured?” He asked shocked by the amount of gore covering the grizzled warrior.

Burcott pulled off his helm. “Tis the horses blood, not mine.” He answered looking down at his soiled armor in disgust. “Phaw!” He muttered kicking the fallen Trolls foot. “They do stink.” He pulled his helmet back on.

The warrior nodded. “Perhaps the smell will improve once it rots.”

The battle within the encampment was over in minutes. Every wain was afire and flames leapt high into the air. Burcott surveyed the destruction, satisfied with what they had accomplished he ordered the retreat.

The Ahmed entered the wood and took up positions along the ridgeline to cover the retreat of the mounted men.

Burcott lingered until he was the last man upon the field. There was no response from the ruined keep. Evidently Sur’kar was not concerned about the loss of his supplies. The comfort of the Morne meant little to him. Then again with the Ma’ul alone he could bring the eastern kingdoms to their knees.

In the brilliant firelight Burcott could see a figure in the distance. Swathed in a black cloak and mounted upon a horse the color of midnight, Burcott took him to be a Morne scout at first. But something in the way he held himself cast doubts on his assumption.

The man turned his head towards Burcott and twin fiery orbs burned from beneath the hood. With a flick of his wrist he turned his mount and vanished into the darkness.

A chill ran through Burcott as a monstrous roar echoed from the Keep. Deep resonating booms shook the earth and somewhere beyond the ruined wall a fire flared brightly.

“Merciful Anoui” Burcott said. Invoking an ancient God’s name that he did not believe in. “What do you face Gaelan?”

Turning his mount away from the keep he rode into the obscuring darkness of the wood.

“What is our next move?” Jehnom asked once they had returned to the relative safety of their camp. “We cannot hope to assault the Morne openly.”

Burcott set aside his sword and the cloth he had been cleaning the weapon with. “We watch and wait.

“Sur’kar will move eastward and we will follow. When they camp we will strike and retreat. Small fast raids that will keep them from focusing their full strength on Trondhiem.” Burcott sheathed his blade and began to clean his blood-covered breastplate. “The Morne will pay for every day spent in the east. No rest will they find, and if it must be we will kill them one by one until this ugly mess is over.”

“And if Sur’kar sends the Ma’ul down upon us?” The Sahri asked, his youthful eyes betraying the fear that the demon cast over him.

“Then the mounted warriors will lead it away from the Ahmed.” Burcott responded. “If such a thing comes to pass it will fall upon your shoulders to continue the attacks.”

The Sahri bowed his head in acceptance. “Although these are not our lands my people will carry the fight to the Morne regardless how far they travel.

Burcott nodded and smiled in gratitude.

Chapter Twenty-One

The giants succeeded in battering down the iron gates. They pressed forward into the cool darkness of the tunnel, only to be greeted a hail of arrows. The shafts blinded several of the giants; they thrashed about impeding the progress of the others.

The men retreated to their horses and raced for the passages eastern gate, stopping several times to ambush their pursuers.

The Trolls roared in anger, their unseen foe always appearing to be just beyond reach. Behind them pressed the Morne, driven by the seething malice of the Ma’ul and its master Sur’kar.

The outer gates were sealed as the last of the fleeing men passed from the tunnels entrance. Gaelan was the last to exit; he looked upon the weary remnants of his defenders. He was shocked by their losses; of all the men who had held the wall fewer than five thousand remained. And they were all weary and battered. Hope had faded from them many days ago, but they stood tall, each man willing to serve their King.

“Those of you on horse, take a rider!” He shouted gaining the assembled men’s attention. “Carry only your weapons, leave everything else behind.”

“These men cannot possibly reach Rodderdam,” Connell whispered in his ear, guessing at Gaelan’s intentions. “They’re nearly spent as it is.”

“We go south, to the hills of Delin’ tor. There is a place within them that has served my people in the past and can be defended.” Gaelan whispered in response. He stood in his stirrups and shouted above the shuffling men. “Free Men!” He paused as their proud yet weary faces once more turned towards him. “The quest has failed and with it our greatest hope for victory.” He was surprised by how little effect this news had upon them. Perhaps they had believed the quest to be futile all along.

“If there are any among you who would throw down their arms and flee, do so now. There is no shame, you have all served heroically and no ill would ever be said of any man here.” Gaelan smiled, as the men stood still, no one moved. “Then we must make haste for Delin’ tor. When the Morne come upon us there, they will pay a dear price for our lives.” He raised his sword above his head, the blade catching the rising sun in a flash of blinding light. “While blood yet pumps in my veins I will not go down lightly!” Gaelan shouted. “For Freedom!”

They rode at a trot quickly catching up with the marching men. A hundred clarion calls broke out in the cold morning air, the brazen calls reverberating from the mountains.

In the golden light of the rising sun armor and weapons gleamed as a dark mass of armed men crested a hill less than a mile to the east.

The hosts of the eastern Kings had come, seventy thousand men strong. A mile wide column of men marching as one raised their voices in a cheer that could be heard for miles.

Forty thousand men from Ao’dan, their pointed bronze helms and large square shields of scarlet formed the center. On their left marched ten thousand Knights of Ril’Gambor. Their polished plates shining so bright that it hurt to look directly at them. On the right rode the Horse lords of Kesh four hafts strong, six thousand proud horses moving as one. Behind them rode the men of Trondhiem fourteen thousand warriors led into battle by the aged Otess, Gaelan’s steward. A score of standards fluttered in the light breeze. Highest of all hung the pennants of the four Kingdoms.

Gaelan ordered his men to continue moving. With worried expression upon his face he led Connell, D’Yana, and Yoladt towards the approaching army.

A small detachment of riders met them upon the hillside, an honor guard of Keshian warriors in the lead. Otess sat astride a powerful warhorse looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting chain hauberk. Beside him rode the King of Ao’dan, a resplendent figure in bright armor and tabard of cobalt blue.

Otess smiled in relief as his old eyes beheld Gaelan, his joy quickly faded as he made out the grim countenances before him. “I thank the Gods that you are well.” He said bowing his head in greeting. “Where is King Wolhan?”

Gaelan looked to his left where Yoladt sat in his saddle holding the reins to a horse bearing a cloth-enshrouded body. At its side sat Connell his hand upon the packhorse’s neck.

Otess’s face fell; he had come to respect the fallen King. “I am sorry.” He said to Connell in a voice weary of sorry.

Connell nodded in acceptance. “Many good men have died defending the Keep.” He replied.

The Keshian honor guard dismounted and the eight men fell to one knee before Connell. Each man clenched their right fist and struck the center of their breastplates.

Connell dismounted and took the reins of the horse from Yoladt. He gripped the shoulder of the nearest warrior and pulled the man to his feet. He laid the reins in the rider’s hand. “Take my father home.” His eyes blurred with grief and it was several agonizing moments before he could continue. “He was a great King and deserves to be laid to rest with the heroes of our lands. He will be the last King to have a Wyrenatt, for I will never know the peace of the Wyremounds.”

The warrior nodded his head gravely. “It will be an honor to serve him one last time, my liege.”

The Keshian warriors mounted and bore the Kings body eastward; four men to either side, at their head rode the Kings standard bearer.

King Pelatus of Ao’dan removed his bronze helm. He was an older man in his late fifties. Bald with a goatee of snow-white hair, his eyes were dark and full of intelligence. He gazed at Connell over a hawkish nose and a thin-lipped mouth.

A regal figure, almost as if a storybook King had somehow come to life. He needed no crown to proclaim his status, his presence alone proclaimed him to be a King.

“Although your father and I have had our differences, Connell.” He said in a soft voice filled with compassion. “He was an honorable man, and the world is a darker place without him.”

Connell looked at the King in surprise. It was a true testament to his father’s character that even a man that he had believed to be his nemesis would speak so highly of him. “Thank you,” Connell responded at a loss for words.

The King smiled kindly and leaned back in his saddle. “As it should have been done long ago.” He turned his gaze to the battered remnants of the keeps defenders. “From your presence here I take it that Timosh has fallen?” He asked Gaelan.

Gaelan looked to the dark cleft in the mountains, which held the tunnel into Moinar-Thur. “Timosh is lost and a great host is at our heels.”