The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (30 page)

“Even in retreat lives are being lost,” replied the Prelate. “Ready the Scribes. We cannot allow the human forces to reenter the city. We march forward to join the fight whether He returns to lead us or not.”

“Do you face your own moment of doubt, my lord?” said Samot turning to his master.

“No,” stated the Prelate. “He will ...”

Yully’s arm rose and he pointed to the plains far north of Lord Sulgor’s position. A mass of blackness rolled southward like a low-lying storm front. The Prelate narrowed his eyes and pondered the signs.

Izgra rocked hypnotically within his musty, dark pavilion. The Half-Dead spat curses and lashed his back with a braided leather cord.

“All you desire has been fulfilled, my lord! Fear, hatred, disloyalty, dishonor, betrayal, prejudice, violence and murder. The ingredients are here! Come to us and you will tip the balance of power, plunging this world into the great Abyss of Chaos.”

Izgra’s body shuddered and twitched.

Nostr stared north. His keen eyes narrowed, inspecting both the battle and the movements beyond. Within the room he heard the crackle and hiss of the black obelisk. The voice of Samot called to the Prelate, snapping the Ulrog’s head around.

“My lord! He returns!”

Nostr spun and marched through the doorway into the tower room. Yully followed closely behind.

A tiny figure eased itself over the edge of the tower’s rooftop. Sprig dangled his feet then lightly dropped to the balcony’s surface. He sprang to the doorway and hid himself, huddling in a recessed area beside the entry.

One hand cautiously opened the pouch tied to his waist and he slowly pulled a pair of Reas darts from its interior. With the other hand, he slid a Rimshar tube from beneath the folds of his meld cloak. He stood prepared. Quietly he edged toward the opening and turned an ear toward the room’s interior.

Drengel swept across the grasslands with a new purpose. The Conjuror noted the progress of the battle. He refused for his glory to be taken. His Memnod sparked with the fire of pure Chaos, leaving a path of death and destruction across any living thing they touched. The grasses wilted, the brush ignited, fire swept the lands they passed and blackened the sky with smoke.

Izgra lay doubled over on the floor of his tent. The Half-Dead beat the earth with his bony hands and plaintiff sobs echoed in the dark, canvass chamber.

“Come to us, my lord,” he moaned. “The signs are ripe. Enter this world and make it your own.”

Nostr stood before the obelisk and hummed a soft chant. His hands lay folded within his robe and deep blue eyes scanned the roiling surface of the black mirror. The surface parted, giving the obelisk an uncharacteristic depth.

Drengel marched toward the canvas pavilion. His Memnod followed closely. No guard offered protection to the structure and harsh sobs echoed from the interior. This pavilion must have been Izgra’s command station before the battle erupted. Drengel moved forward for further inspection.

The creatures of Chaos halted and their blunt, many clawed hands rose on high. Drengel looked about in confusion.

“Why have you halted?” snarled the Conjurer.

“He arrives,” answered the hollow echo of the Memnod.

The obelisk swirled in light. A brilliant flash momentarily blinded all and a thunderclap rolled through the tower of Delvi. A figure stepped from the obelisk’s light into the room. Nostr’s blackened, stony teeth broke into a broad smile and he bowed his head.

“You return to us,” stated the Prelate of Delvi. ”We patiently awaited your arrival and ask for instructions.”

Sprig slid a dart into the Rimshar tube, raised it to his lips and braced himself against the wall. He knew the room to be filled with a dozen Scribes trained as experts in hand-to-hand combat. He would likely receive only one shot before they overwhelmed him. Slowly he crept closer and pressed an eye to the seam of the open doorway. Nostr and his Scribes surrounded a figure that stood backlit by the brilliance of the shimmering obelisk.

The tiny man tensed and calculated the distance his shot would fly. Another bang erupted in the room and a second flash of light pulsed through the open doorway. The Sprite’s eyes fluttered. When his vision returned, another figure stood beside the first.

Nostr smiled and affected an elaborate bow.

“Welcome, Alel of Forend, to the world of your brother. Your arrival fulfills the last of my visions. Others of my order have seen past this point, but to me all is as it should be. For the first time in my life the future is a mystery.”

Sprig’s eyes widened and the little man darted into the room. Standing before the great black obelisk stood Kael Brelgson and a man who looked remarkably like Ader De Hartson. Kael noted the movement and turned toward the Sprite with a smile. Nostr followed his eyes and turned.

“Ah, there stands the bird who nested upon my rooftop for the last day. I dared not disturb you for you are a dangerous little man. I suppose what transpires here is to your satisfaction?” rumbled the Prelate with a deep bow.

A silver chain, strung around the thick neck of the Ulrog, came free from his robes and a finely crafted medallion dangled from its end. Alel stepped forward and inspected the symbol. The thumb and index finger of a silver hand formed a circle that encompassed an all seeing eye.

Alel looked from the medallion into the blue eyes of the Ulrog. He returned the smile.

“Greetings, Eye of Avra.”

Kael stepped forward and inspected the medallion.

“You are the Sixth of the Seraphim,” stated the boy.

“At your service,” replied Nostr with another bow.

CHAPTER 23:  BRIMSTONE

“WHERE?” SNAPPED DRENGEL to his servants, “Where is our lord?”

The lead Memnod’s hand lowered to the south then slowly swept across, aiming at the pavilion.

“HERE!” boomed a deep, ancient voice from within the tent.

Smoke seeped between the seams of the pavilion and the air filled with the scent of brimstone. The structure burst into flames. Red fire raged across its surface. The twine holding it in place snapped and heat billowed the canvass flaps outward. The entire structure flared a brilliant red then crumpled to the ground, revealing a huge figure, engulfed in flames, standing amidst the wreckage.

“I return, Conjuror,” snarled Amird. “Now give me my army so I might exact my revenge!”

The Army of Darkness swept by their caretaker and fell in behind Amird the Deceiver, their true creator.

“Move!” roared Sulgor to his priests and Hackles. “They are on the run. I want them before they reach the damned wall.”

Uncertainty filled the Magnificent’s mind. He knew the war turned in his favor. From his position, he clearly saw Woil’s forces making solid progress against the Grey Elves.

Nagret’s battle appeared a bit hazier, but from the location of the dust clouds and billowing smoke, Sulgor surmised the Shadow also pushed south.

The city of Delvi troubled the Malveel king. He sensed something. He could not name his fear, and that uncertainty concerned him most. The Scribes remained a mystery to the forces on both sides of this struggle and now the outcome of centuries of warfare unfolded on their very doorstep. Sulgor’s eyes rose to the white tower in the distance as another pulse of light shot from within the room atop it. These strange phenomena occurred again and again and Sulgor fought to ignore them. What did the Scribes hide in their precious tower?

Woil rushed forward igniting the air with the fire of Chaos. The Lamentation’s chest heaved. He was exhausted. Frustration filled his eyes and he roared in anger.  The Elves were far too intelligent to be caught in the beast’s conflagration. Without Strang, Woil acted as the only true anchor of power in the Mnim force. The Elves were wise enough to keep moving and avoid his attacks.

The Lamentation gnashed his teeth and growled in pleasure as he watched the walls of Delvi creep closer and closer. Once he backed them against the city’s walls, these fools would have no choice but to face Woil. When that time came, he would make them burn.

“We cannot hold the plain, my lord,” shouted General Chani to Eidyn. “We will find no room to roam and the Malveel will rage in amongst us.”

Eidyn glared across the battlefield at the beast. Ulrog and Elf alike scattered from Woil’s presence.

“Then perhaps we need to take the fight to him, general,” returned Eidyn. “Something tells me that we must stay clear of the city and keep the Ulrog at bay or all is lost.”

The monks of Awoi astounded Nagret. He would gladly give ten hackles for each monk if such a trade could be made. Unfortunately, he would make due with his Hackles and if the price to kill one monk cost ten Hackles, he controlled more than enough stone men to pay in full.

The monks and their Keltaran brethren made short work of Canx and his trackers. However, that one small victory did not win the battle for the giants. Nagret’s order to consolidate forces and grind slowly toward the walls of Delvi proved successful. He needed only his vast number of Ulrog to assure victory. Slowly the Keltaran line retreated and their numbers dwindled as Nagret sacrificed Hackles in a methodical assault on their position. Time lay on the Shadow’s side. The Malveel brotherhood waited millennia to serve their Lord Amird in this battle. Nagret could stay his lust for victory a few hours more while his Hackles ground the Keltaran Anvil beneath their stony feet.

“My king, this Malveel shows uncharacteristic restraint,” stated Brother Shor. “He knows it is only a matter of time before the walls of Delvi and the waters beyond block our escape.”

Granu clenched his teeth and nodded in agreement.

“Pressing my back to a stone wall, behind which sits an army of unknown allegiance, is disconcerting,” stated Granu. “But I feel in my gut that we must stay the course or all might be lost.”

“There,” pointed Nostr. “His presence and that of his army stains the north.”

Kael watched as the black cloud rolled slowly southward toward the rear of the Ulrog army. The force marched too far away to discern individual figures, but red lightning flashed from its midst and smoke roiled from the trail they scoured across the grasslands.

The boy glanced to the courtyards below as another flash of light pulsed from the doorway behind him. Dozens of scribes rushed through the remaining herds of Eru horses, draping and cinching bridles across many of the beasts of burden.

“My brothers make ready,” rumbled Nostr, the Eye of Avra.

“17th Lancers to center position,” barked Manfir to a messenger.

The lad saluted smartly and dashed from the king’s presence. Manfir pointed to three other young men.

“12th and 30th infantry to break engagement and support center line,” snapped the king in a rush, “and tell Colonel Flair I want at least three cavalry units on a hard charge behind the Lancers.”

The king spun to Brelg who stared at him with an arched eyebrow.

“The beast thinks he’s going to push me up against that wall,” snarled Manfir. “I’ll have none of it! We’ll die out here on the plain before he forces me back into that city.”

Sulgor threw a tracker forward with a mighty heave of his massive right claw. The stone man tumbled across the ground then quickly jumped to his feet and ran south.

“... and tell them if the center line buckles I will skin them alive!” bellowed Sulgor. “There are plenty more priests to fill their positions.”

Suddenly, a chill ran down the spine of the huge beast. He froze. The heat of battle put him in such frenzy, he thought of nothing but the destruction of the Zodrian Guard. Now he stood immobile.  His senses danced and his great nostrils flared in fear.

Slowly he turned and his body shrunk toward the floor of the trampled grasslands. There, towering above him and surrounded by a wall of black Memnod, stood a gigantic figure clothed in the darkness of Chaos. Flashes of red lightning arced and crackled within the creature. Red venomous eyes bore into the soul of the Magnificent.

“My army tarries in its duties,” stated the hollow voice of Amird the Deceiver.

Sulgor took an instinctive step away from the Lord of Chaos.

“We try to fulfill your wishes, my lord,” said Sulgor weakly.

“I brought those who will accomplish what you cannot,” said Amird.

The Memnod army moved past their master, disregarded the prostrate Malveel and headed south.

“My lord, look to the south!” cried Diom.

Eidyn dodged a slashing cleaver then unloosed an arrow into the chest of the Hackle wielding it. Quickly he spun and danced his mount free from the fight. His sharp eyes scanned the southern horizon. Dozens of gray robed scribes rushed across the grasslands toward his position. The Elven king’s lip tightened in anger. Had the Scribes finally made their move?

“Diom. Gather a dozen units to your banner,” shouted Eidyn. “Alert the Sprites. Together you must keep them from our rear.”

The lieutenant nodded and turned his mount. He halted as a tiny figure dashed past him and leapt onto the back of Eidyn’s mount. Sprig cupped a hand over the Elf king’s ear and an instant later was gone.

“Diom,” shouted Eidyn with a smile. “Prepare to assault the Ulrog line. Pass the word. We gain reinforcements.”

The Elf lieutenant’s eyes went wide with questions, but he swallowed hard and slammed his heels into the flanks of his stallion. The mount shot down the Elven line as Diom barked orders to the Grey Elf force.

“They are here,” announced a panic stricken Lijon.

The Derolian stood before Manfir’s mount and pointed wildly to the north. The king looked over the heads of the battling armies and stared at the thick blackness creeping south.

“There is no stopping them,” continued the woodsman in despair. “We will all be killed!”

Suddenly, the Derolian howled in terror and his eyes went wide as they locked on something over Manfir’s head. Lijon threw his arms up defensively and Manfir quickly drew his sword and spun in his saddle.