The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (2 page)

Roars of approval erupted amongst the Borz.

“Now I must return to Luxlor,” announced the Elf eyeing the assembly critically. “I bestowed upon you both great honor and trust. I allowed this select group to look upon me. It is a sign of good faith for the future. When next we meet, it will be as we stand over the ruins of the treasonous armies who conspire to hand this world over to Amird the Deceiver. May Avra bless your endeavors.”

The entire Borz contingent bowed low. The Counselor lightly nodded his head in reply then swept from the tent.

Kael struggled over boulder and break. The trail through the Eastern Mnim proved more difficult than Ader described. Both Kael and Eidyn narrowly escaped death on separate occasions.

After three days of travel they finally reached a place where the sheer walls of the valley lessened and its basin widened and flattened out.

“The valley nears an end,” called Ader to the group trailing him. “I see no reason for Hackles to be stationed here, but be wary. We did not traverse such a treacherous path only to announce our presence to the enemy.”

Kael’s attention remained fixed on the boulder he stood upon. It teetered and swayed beneath his feet. The boy sprang forward to another perch as the boulder tumbled a dozen feet into an open crevasse. Ader frowned at Kael. The boy shrugged in reply. 

After another hour of picking their way through the Mnim, the group exited the valley into the rolling foothills of Astel. Ader led them south, away from a crude path stabbing southeast into the heartland.

“Ulrog trackers use the path to transport messages between Kel Izgra and the Scythtar,” explained the Seraph. “We must skirt the edge of the forest and use its cover to conceal our movements. Hopefully, we will find a means to cross back over the Mirozert and enter the Derol. These mountains are much lower than their relatives to the north. There are many passes and trails. Possibly too many for the Ulrog to properly guard.”

Eidyn and Lilywynn nodded in compliance, but Kael turned to the southeast and stared at the horizon. Ader noted the boy’s distraction and sighed.

The Ulrog tracker stared down at the stone floor of the tower, certain not to make eye contact with the priests before him. They acted as Sulgor’s chosen priests, powerful in the ways of Chaos. He was only one of Greeb’s many trackers, a Hackle of low station in the hierarchy of Amird’s forces.

Typically, he would be sent away after he delivered his message to Sulgor’s outer circle, but in this instance the priests ordered him to stay. The departure from protocol worried the tracker. The heavy oak door of the chamber opened and another priest beckoned him into the room. The tracker complied and tried to keep his gaze from meeting that of the priest. With head hung low he shuffled forward.

“You are the messenger sent from the One Eye?” snarled Sulgor the Magnificent.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the grating voice of the tracker. His oily, black eyes fixed upon the floor and his stony lips trembled in fright at the sound of claws raking the slate floor of the room.

“A battle rages to the west? Greeb led the Mnim against the men of the woods and their allies?”

The tracker tensed. Sulgor’s hot breath streamed upon his downcast head. The Malveel’s presence hung over the Ulrog like a dark cloud.

“Th ... The horsemen and the woodsmen attacked the Mnim,” returned the tracker. “Lord Greeb believes the Eastern Derol to be poorly defended.”

“HE BELIEVES NOTHING!” came a shriek from somewhere behind the Malveel king.  “HE IS DEAD!”

The tracker visibly jumped and his eyes darted up. Standing past the seething fire filled eyes of the Malveel king stood a black robe waving a skeletal hand at the tracker.

“REMOVE IT FROM MY SIGHT!” demanded Izgra. “IT KNOWS NOTHING I HAVE NOT ALREADY DISCOVERED.”

Sulgor grimaced. The declaration of the death of one of his brothers alarmed him.  The tracker bowed low and quickly backed from the room. Sulgor gathered himself and turned to face Izgra.

“They weaken themselves, my lord,” stated the Malveel. “The Mnim is a fortress unto itself. Any attempt to penetrate it must surely result in the loss of many human lives.”

“Yes,” hissed Izgra. “But for what purpose? They accomplish nothing!”

The black robe slid from the dais and approached the western window of the tower. Izgra gazed toward the peaks of the Mirozert in the distance.

“They weaken their position and open the way,” stated the warlock. “HE will return, but not here. It is not what the scribes foresaw.”

Sulgor emitted a low rumble. Izgra remained staring to the west.

“You chafe at your ignorance Sulgor, but you are not privy to all,” snapped Izgra. “It does not harm us to retain knowledge of the scribes. The prophecies prove true so far. Why fight what may be inevitable?”

“Because the scribes call for our doom,” returned the Malveel king.

“Do they?” cackled Izgra. “Or do the fools who take them at face value see what they wish to see? Perhaps the scribes receive their visions from a place outside of Avra’s control. Perhaps the scribes call for our victory!”

Izgra spun and marched toward his inner chamber.

“We receive the opening we desire,” declared the Half-Dead over his shoulder. “Move your forces over the Mirozert and take the Derol. It will be our staging point for the final assault.

I warn you Sulgor. He is coming. Continue to do his bidding and you will be exalted. Fail, and you will burn in the fires of Chaos with the others.”

Sulgor’s fangs flashed but he bowed to the retreating figure. When Izgra disappeared behind the black curtain, the Malveel king turned and approached the west window. He stared to the horizon, but not the mountains across which he would send his full force. Instead, his red eyes scanned the northern mountains. The knife-edged tips of the Scythtar loomed above their smaller counterparts.

Sulgor snorted. Greeb played the fool, too caught up in his shame to be effective to his master. What did Sulgor care of the One Eye’s single defeat those many years ago? The Malveel king cared only about results. Greeb acted as his most effective commander until defeated by Astel. His constant second-guessing caused the One Eye’s fall from power. Now there would be no more second-guessing. Greeb became the latest of his brothers to fall.

Sulgor growled. How? How could such a creature, surrounded by a host of slaves, fall? Izgra missed something in this equation. The return of Amird consumed the Half-Dead so much he overlooked the power at play within the world. It was not a simple thing to kill a Malveel. They survived for centuries, powered by Chaos. Now Greeb was no more. Sulgor swore not to be caught unaware.

CHAPTER 2: THE RHYTHM OF DESTRUCTION

B
OOM!

“Dirg!” called the High Priest Krin as he strode down the line of Hackles manning the massive battering ram.

Four hundred stony black claws drew the huge pine away from the gates of Hrafnu’s city.  A near perfect circle of rust and splinters covered the area of the gate receiving the brunt of the ram’s punishment.

“Grall,” bellowed the priest.

The iron-capped ram rushed forward. Stony backs and shoulders lay their weight into its force.

BOOM!

Krin ranged up and down the line, calling out the rhythm of the gate’s destruction.

Vespewl the Scourge lay on his giant divan two hundred yards from the mountain city’s gates, watching Krin’s progress. Like his Malveel brethren, he was a beast of scale and claw. However, Vespewl held a major distinction. He was the largest of the Malveel. Years of gorging himself on anything that walked upon Avra’s world produced a creature who dwarfed even Sulgor the Magnificent. This didn’t make him the most feared of the Malveel. On the contrary, Vespewl the Scourge adeptly avoided all confrontation. He contentedly ruled his Ulrog packs and allowed the likes of Greeb and Woil to do the real fighting.

That is why the task put before him rankled so much. Certainly he was capable, but was this conquest necessary. Vespewl scowled and mused his situation.

Sulgor’s orders were specific. Vespewl would not attack the city of Keltar unless something highly unusual occurred. The Malveel lord easily completed his mission. Vespewl’s forces overran the valley gate and took control of Hrafnu’s valley, cutting off Prince Fenrel and his marauding army from any hope of a return to their home. If they did attempt return, the giants would sustain massive losses attempting to regain the valley gates.

Vespewl relished these types of command. Woil, Greeb and the other zealots of Amird ran across the world attempting to fulfill the wishes of Sulgor and Izgra the madman. Vespewl sat contentedly in Hrafnu’s valley, eyeing a severely undermanned stronghold doomed to fall.

However, a wrinkle developed in Vespewl’s plans. The situationhad become unusual. The battlements of the giant’s fortress lie abandoned. No smoke rose from within her walls. All was quiet. Where had they gone?

At first, Vespewl stubbornly ignored the situation. The less for him to decipher, the better. However, Vespewl certainly was no fool. Sulgor’s orders were not to be ignored, and no Malveel wished to incur Izgra’s wrath. After nearly a day of silence from within the city, Vespewl ordered the ram.

He puzzled over a difficult situation. The Keltaran proved a resilient group. They showed themselves adept at trickery over centuries of warfare. Even in their weakened state they might inflict heavy damage upon Vespewl’s numbers. The Malveel lord cared nothing for the Hackles under his command, but he could not afford to lose numbers. Izgra would be displeased.

Vespewl turned to the two-dozen large Hackles standing at the ready to transport him wherever he wished.

“To the gates,” barked the Scourge.

The Hackles rushed forward and lifted the divan. Vespewl settled back, a wicked grin playing across his scaly maw. He enjoyed power.

“The giants cower within. They possess no army to defend their precious citadel,” shouted the High Priest Krin. “Honor your Master with their deaths, you scum. Grall!”

The huge trunk rushed forward.

BOOM!

The Hackles manning the ram cursed and swore under the weight of the massive weapon.

“Dirg!” called Krin.

The ram slowly withdrew from the gate.

“You work like lazy dogs! You are not fit to stand before the glory of Amird when he returns!” bellowed Krin. “GRALL!”

BOOM!

“Dirg!”

Krin watched the ram withdraw. He felt a trickle of water splash upon the stony crust of his head. The High Priest’s eyes shot to the empty causeway above. He studied its edge for signs of the giants. The ram swung back. The High Priest could see no one manning the battlements. His angry eyes shot back to the gate.

“Grall!”

BOOM!

“Dirg!” called Krin.

A cascade of water splashed down upon the High Priest. Fire flared in his eyes as he backed from the gate to get a better view of the battlements. He scanned the stone railing but spied no Keltaran. The Ulrog manning the ram relaxed. Their tool sagged toward the ground.

Vespewl looked up from the mountain goat he consumed within the luxury of his divan.  The noise of the ram stopped. Why? His red eyes bore in on the High Priest Krin. The fool stood apart from his Hackles and searched the ramparts of Keltar. From his vantage point, Vespewl could easily see the unoccupied wall. The Malveel lord looked to the Ulrog manning the battering ram. They stood motionless. The weapon hung toward the ground. Annoyance rose within Vespewl. Grudgingly he raised himself from the divan and stalked up the valley toward the gate.

The ridiculousness of this Keltaran ploy mystified Krin. Why would they douse him with water when burning pitch would drive his Hackles from the gate? The High Priest sensed the silence surrounding him. His eyes shot to the Hackles manning the ram. They stared past him down the valley, apprehension in their stony faces. Krin filled with alarm and spun to face down the valley as well. Vespewl nearly bowled him over.

“What is the meaning of this, Krin?” drawled Vespewl sourly. “Why do you halt my work?”

Krin’s eyes widened with fear. He backed away quickly, bowing as he retreated.

“Apologies, my lord.” spluttered the priest.

He spun to the ram and its holders.

“You heard Lord Vespewl! Continue your work! Keep your own pace!” He added with menace.

The Hackles dug their flinty claws into the branch stumps protruding from the giant pine. Once again they slammed its massive weight into the gate. Vespewl moved closer. He truly enjoyed his power even though it required effort to enforce. His presence sent fear into the Hackles. He also enjoyed fear. The pounding increased in frequency.

BOOM!

“Our great sovereign demands the conquest of this jumble of stone,” growled Vespewl.  “I intend to award him the city of Keltar upon his return to this world. “

Krin faced his master and doubled over in a deep bow.

“The giant’s city will be yours to give, my lord,” announced the High Priest. “This barrier is formidable, but it cannot stand against our will.”

Vespewl stared down at the high priest’s lowered head and a wicked smile played across his lips. When Amird restored this world to the power of Chaos, all would grovel at the feet of the Lord of Chaos and his chosen Malveel.

BOOM!

A cascade of water splashed down upon Krin’s head. The High Priest spun and glared to the ramparts.

“Do these simpletons intend to chase us off with buckets of water?” snapped the priest.

Vespewl stepped back from his subordinate and eyed the heights. Something was amiss here, but he could not puzzle it out.

BOOM!

A larger fall of water swept from the stone above and rained upon the priest and those Hackles nearest to him.

“Lay your backs into it, dogs!” howled Krin. “I will remove the heads of those Keltaran who mock us from above!”

Brother Shor used his staff to push his raft past the spire of the Monastery of Awoi. It was so strange to see his beloved home from such an angle. The crystal clear waters melting from the peaks of the Zorim Mountains allowed him to peer into their depths. Twenty yards below him sat the threshold of the monastery.