The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (19 page)

“But we already have,” answered Viday. “We journeyed on a fool’s quest, Yazir. The Counselor stood in league with the servants of Amird. We played as his pawns. Our purpose was to eliminate the people’s hope and battle the Elves to the death.”

Yazir Dubad stroked his chin and considered the statement.

“Rada?”

“He learned too late,” replied Teeg. “I brought him to the White Palace and the Counselor unwittingly revealed all before both men lost their lives.”

Yazir clenched his jaw.

“I may not have agreed with the way Rada came to power,” said Yazir. “But once he gained it, there was no finer leader than Rada Shan. The desert cries upon his loss.”

“And now you must show that same leadership,” said Teeg. “Your men are cornered, tired, hungry and on edge. If the ghosts of the Toxkri wished, they could have taken your lives hours ago. Instead, they call upon you, Yazir. You must order your men to sheath their weapons for a brief time and trust. Talk must prevail.”

Sayid gained confidence and scuttled forward, but a sharp glance from Yazir froze him in his tracks. Suddenly, Jenpry moved into the clearing from the edge of the firelight. The bonfires sparkled within her gown, setting her aglow in a fiery dance of orange and red. The effect was unsettling and the Windriders tensed once more. However, the beauty and demeanor of the lady quickly disarmed them.

“I give you some of your people as a sign of good faith,” said Jenpry.

A half dozen dazed Windriders emerged from the swamp behind her and were gathered in by their comrades. Those in the clearing laughed at the sight of friends and family they thought never to see again.

“All I ask is that you let Viday Shan and Lord Teeg explain all,” continued Jenpry. “I am sure when you see what befell the unfortunate people of the sands, you will beg me to lead you from this place so you may exact retribution on the true servants of the Deceiver.”

Yazir considered the statement for a moment. He glanced at the reunion taking place around him. He slowly turned and bowed low to the lady Jenpry.

“Instruct us in the truth, my lady, and you gain allies for life.”

The Eru camp was massive. Tents, yurts and lean-to crowded about and nearly on top of one another. People shuffled amongst the gray and brown structures attempting to locate loved ones or procure a bit of food. A misty rain blew in from the north soaking clothing and muddying the small walkways between the tents. Manfir inspected the conditions then turned to his hostess.

“Tis a far cry from the normal order of an Eru encampment,” he frowned.

“We erected it in haste and exhaustion,” replied Fondith. “Without my husband and the riders, it is a difficult task even when rested.”

The Zodrian king wrapped an arm around the sturdy woman’s shoulder.

“As long as your people are protected and safe,” stated Manfir. “You completed your task. You should be proud, Fondith.”

“I would be.” returned the Eru chieftess. “If I weren’t so consumed with worry.”

Manfir smiled.

“Do not worry for Temujen, my lady. His hide grows too old and tough to be harmed by an Ulrog cleaver.”

Fondith returned the smile and patted Manfir on the back. He drew her to his side with a warm embrace and they chuckled. 

“Manfir!” came a shout from behind the pair.

They spun to see Hai racing through the maze of tents.

“What is it my friend?” asked the king calmly.

Hai stopped and gave a quick bow to his mother before turning his attention back to the Zodrian king.

“Some Derolian woodsmen and Astelan knights enter the camp. They return from the fight in the woods.”

“How goes it?” questioned Manfir sternly.

Hai hesitated and glanced at his mother.

“Go on, Hai,” prompted Fondith. “We must all prepare for the worst.”

He frowned.

“They are routed. Steward Portlo has fallen.”

“Grave news,” stated Manfir.

“There is more,” continued Hai. “But you should hear the news from the Derolians yourself.”

Manfir nodded and the trio moved off toward the Derolian’s tents.

“We listened to the Zodrian boy and we find ourselves in the same predicament as before,” barked Olith of Keltar as he glared across the meeting tent at Flair. “Battle plans must be determined. Strategy defined. We cannot afford to jeopardize the people’s future on the opinions of some young pup.”

Flair set his jaw and stared back at the old giant. He drew in a deep breath to defend his position but was cutoff.

“Uncle,” stated Granu. “The young pup engineered the Keltaran defeat at the Bear’s Knuckles. His instincts proved true from the first day I met him. Unification of our armies is the only answer. We are strong as one.”

“That was when we thought ourselves facing only the might of the Scythtar Ulrog combined with a contingent from Astel,” snarled Olith. “The boy led us to a battlefield where we are severely outnumbered. Hackles pour over the great divide from the frozen wastelands. Astel empties itself of every last Ulrog. Now we hear reports of these creatures of pure Chaos. With all of this might unleashed upon us, we stand naked from the onslaught, no walls to protect us.”

“What good will your walls do against our foe?” asked Flair. “How will they help defeat Izgra and his minions? How will we inflict damage upon the Ulrog if we cower behind walls?”

“Time!” snapped Olith. “We need time. Even as we speak the army of Izgra coalesces on the plains to the north.”

“Just as our army does here in the south,” replied Flair.

Olith’s eyes widened and a red rage filled his face. He swept a hand in the direction of the camp.

“LOOK ABOUT YA, BOY!” boomed the giant. “YOU  CALL THIS AN ARMY! Women, children, cattle, the injured. This is not an army. This is an exodus!”

“I must agree with the Keltaran,” said Dravgo. “There are too many separate units to manipulate here. Eru horsemen, the Anvil, the Guard. The remnants of the woodsmen and their Astelan allies. How do we form a cohesive fighting unit out here in the open? How do we protect the women and children? How do we move the injured?”

“How do we not?” exclaimed Brelg. “We have no choice.”

He spun and faced Olith.

“It makes no sense to grumble over our choice, general, because it has been made. Whether you like it or not, we are in the open and it is where we will face the Ulrog in the final battle. Now is the time to devise our battle plan, not gripe over the path we took  to get here.”

Olith glowered then sighed.

“Brelg is correct. We must look to the future and determine all options available to us. Like it or not we shall face the Ulrog shortly. If it must be in the open, it must be in the open,” agreed the giant.

A silence fell across the assembly. Each man studied the face of the others. Finally, Lijon broke the silence.

“You cannot,” mumbled the woodsman.

He stepped forward into the center of the group.

“You have not seen what I have seen. You have not experienced these Men of Darkness,” warned the woodsman. “No one may face them in the open. No one can stop them. We must flee. We must find shelter.”

“There is no shelter to find, Derolian,” corrected General Wynard. “That is the point.”

“No ... it is not.” came a voice from the entry.

General Yully strode into the tent carrying a neatly folded stack of clothing. The old general wore a coarse robe of gray material. Its hood lay on his back and his shock of white hair lie thinly across his head. He appeared much older outside of his grand uniform and reminded Flair of Grandfather Hamly back at “The King’s Service” in Kelky. The boy smiled to the general, but it was not returned.

Yully approached King Manfir and placed the stack of clothing at his feet. General’s stripes embossed the lapels of a jacket.

“You possess an alternative which you do not discuss,” stated Yully.

Manfir narrowed his eyes at the strangely clothed general then responded.

“What do we overlook?” questioned the king.

“I am instructed to offer you and all of those assembled here temporary refuge within the walls of the congregation which I serve. The courtyards will adequately house this entire group and your beasts of burden. It is but a days march from here and may draw you closer to allies arriving from the south.”

Wynard moved forward and inspected Yully’s garb. He drew a critical eye over his commander.

“This ... congregation ... will open itself up to us and allow us entry?” questioned Wynard.

“Only the grounds are open to you,” replied Yully. “The main buildings and the archives will be off limits.”

“What place does this fool speak of?” growled Olith. “We have no time for riddles...”

Granu held a hand up to silence his uncle and limped toward Yully. This small movement required a good deal of effort and the Abbott’s face blanched from the pain. He spoke to Manfir and the rest of the group as he searched Yully’s emotionless features.

“The walls are tall,” stated Granu. “Not as thick as I prefer, but they should hinder the Horde for a time.”

“True,” responded Manfir. “But we will find our backs against the waters of the lake. There will be nowhere to run once we commit to the place.”

“Where?” snapped Dravgo. “What place?”

Granu and Manfir puzzled over Yully’s offer and did not respond.

“But the lake provides excellent defense to our backs,” continued Granu. “The Ulrog will only come at us from one direction.”

Temujen smiled broadly.

“The water is fresh and the fish plentiful enough to stave off our hunger,” said the chieftain of the Eru. “The women can be set to work. We should be able to handle an extended siege ...”

“My master will expect you within the day,” interrupted Yully. “ Do not tarry. Izgra drives his Ulrog relentlessly in your pursuit.”

The old general spun and stepped from the tent. As the flap of hide fell back over the opening the room erupted in questions and comments. Finally, the loud voice of Olith boomed over the din.

“What place has the fool been talking about?” asked Olith. “I thought he was a Zodrian general. Who is this master he speaks of?”

Granu frowned.

“The place he speaks of is the city of the scribes on the shores of Lake Eru,” grumbled the giant. “And apparently the master he served these many years has not been Macin of Zodra but the Ulrog Nostr, prelate of Delvi.”

CHAPTER 15: THE DROWNING SEE

MANFIR SAT UPON the Black staring at the alabaster walls rising before the glistening waters in the distance. Behind the wall stood higher towers of white and gray. They shown in the sunlight like beacons. Manfir thought the city beautiful in the past, but now he could look at it as nothing more than a strategic position from which to battle his enemy.

“It holds serious advantages and some significant flaws,” commented Brelg from beside the king.

“The foremost being whether we are truly welcome,” grunted Manfir. “The prelate has been an enigma throughout this struggle. I am uncertain whether we should trust him.”

“Ader did not,” said Eidyn.

“Precisely,” returned Manfir. “But Granu believes Nostr’s intentions to be pure. The prelate provided him with the ax of Gretcha and a means to escape the Scythtar.”

“But was his real intention to pit the brothers of the house of Grannak against one another?” asked Brelg. “You accomplish so much more if your enemies destroy one another. Look at how Izgra manipulated the Borz.”

“And why does Nostr forbid us from the interior of the city?” added Eidyn. “What does he hide within its walls?”

“I do not know,” said Manfir. “But we are committed. It is the best place to defend against the Ulrog and protect our peoples. However, we must keep an eye on the scribes. Their true numbers are unknown and their skill in combat is well documented. We will be bottled up within those walls with hundreds of them while the northern horizon preoccupies us.”

“I will make it my duty to ferret out all I can,” said Eidyn bowing.

Manfir threw a hand on the Elf’s shoulder and nodded his thanks. The first few wagons of the exodus creaked by the trio heading south to the walls of Delvi.

Izgra ripped back the black curtains surrounding his divan.

“Why do we halt?” screeched the Half-Dead.

The battle Hackles carrying the ebony platform looked to the dusty ground and did not respond. Izgra’s eyes flared but the presence of Woil restrained his anger.

“News, my lord,” stated the Malveel bowing low.

“What news?” growled Izgra.

“My trackers return. The Derolians escaped us and joined the encampment of the other human races.”

“They escape nothing,” spat Izgra. “They simply borrow time. Their days are numbered along with those they join.”

“Yes, my lord,” agreed Woil keeping his eyes averted to the ground.

“We cannot afford to slow our pace, Woil,” chided Izgra. “We must set upon the Eru and their guests before they run from us. I do not wish to hunt them down across the breadth of Zodra.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tell the others that the glory of Amird is ...”

Izgra halted. The dark form of Sulgor stalked from the vanguard of the formation.

“What is it you wish, king of the Malveel?” asked Izgra sarcastically. “Lord Woil informs me of recent events. We will speed our pursuit and eliminate the Eru and the Derolians with one stroke.”

Sulgor’s lips curled in annoyance and anger. He stared at the Half-Dead then spun on Woil.

“Did you inform him of everything?” asked Sulgor.

Woil’s eyes darted between his masters. He shrunk further from the pair.

“You did not,” concluded Sulgor after a moment.

The creature spun on Izgra and his angry eyes bore into the warlock.

“The humans united,” he stated.

The black cowl of Izgra remained still, unfazed. Sulgor’s eyes narrowed.

“Not just the Derolians and the Eru,” continued Sulgor. “But the Keltaran and the Zodrian as well.”

“This cannot be,” hissed Izgra.