The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) (8 page)

Corad and three retainers remained within the eye of the storm. The three lost their mounts to the raking claws of the Ulrog. They huddled close to their leader’s stallion. Corad stood atop his steed stabbing and thrusting at the circle of Ulrog crushing in upon them. Two of the Rindorans held tridents like their leader. The third snatched a cleaver from a fallen Ulrog and slashed at any Hackle advancing on the king’s stallion.

Sweat poured down Corad’s face and his muscles ached from the exertion of the fight. Red flame poured over his exit to the south and the remaining directions drowned in a sea of Ulrog. A rush through their lines upon his armored mount meant abandoning his retainers to the blades of the Hackles.

A crash and roar rose above the din. A half dozen Hackles swarming before him tumbled forward and lie sprawled at his men’s feet. Macin of Zodra and his armored stallion burst into the circle above them. The Zodrian king slammed his lance into the prone form of the largest. Corad’s attendants made short work of the others.

“You’ve put yourself in a bit of a spot,” shouted Macin.

“Us ...” corrected Corad. “I’ve put us in a bit of a spot.”

The kings formed a defensive stance. Macin spun his stallion south. The path he cleared in the Ulrog force already closed. Corad spun north. His men took positions to the east and west. The Ulrog regrouped from the shock of Macin’s appearance. They closed in on the small, marooned force.

“South is our only choice,” shouted Macin as he slashed his sword down upon a Hackle who strayed too close.

The beast fell with a large slash spurting oily blood across the flanks of Macin’s stallion.

“It appears they are aware of our choice,” he continued.

Trackers moved through the lines of Hackles directing them into a tighter mass south of the position. Corad’s trident caught the shoulder of an Ulrog. The Hackle howled. One of the Rindorans lunged forward slashing the beast’s belly with the rusty cleaver.

The combination attack proved deadly, but it focused the attention of the two defenders. An Ulrog dashed in and locked a stony claw upon the flowing blue cape of the Rindoran king. A trident met the Ulrog’s leg, but too late. The beast roared and fell backward into its brethren. Corad flipped from his seat and spilled onto the ground beneath Macin’s mount. Corad’s rider less horse reared and kicked toward the crunch of Ulrog. The dark mass of stone bodies dragged the stallion into their midst. Macin frantically directed his mount and searched for Corad beneath him. Iron shod hooves danced around the Rindoran king’s body, nearly trampling the man.

The cleaver wielding Rindoran fell next. His success with the crude weapon emboldened him. However, the blade’s short reach made the Rindoran far too vulnerable to the long arms of the Ulrog. They grabbed his free arm and dragged him under their stony feet.

Macin felt a sharp blow to the small of his back. He spun the stallion in the direction of the assault. The Ulrog ripped another Rindoran from the small group. Corad rose, trident in hand, and protected Macin’s rear. A pair of large, muddy fieldstones slammed into Macin’s chest, knocking him from the stallion. Pain seared through his body and his breath left him. The Hackles overpowered the last of Corad’s attendants.

Only the kings remained. Macin lie beneath his battle trained mount. Corad stood over his fallen comrade swinging his trident in a wide arc.

The Hackles latched onto the ridged armor of the stallion. The horse struggled and kicked as Ulrog dragged it from its master’s side.  The high-pitched shriek of the stallion died and a strange moment of calm settled in the midst of the maelstrom.

The Ulrog knew they possessed victory. Corad glanced down to the prone form of Macin and smiled. Macin returned the grin to the only man he could have ever called “brother”. Immediately his thoughts filled with regret. Regret at what might have been if these two sovereigns set aside their pride. Corad read his thoughts.

“We lived as fools,” laughed Corad. “We die as wise men.”

The Hackles roared in triumph and rushed in.

The priests of Amird pursued the stragglers of the retreat. They surrounded themselves with the fiercest of the Ulrog fighters and rained fire across the field of battle.

Prince Gage saw none of this. His eyes bore into the Ulrog Horde, pinpointing the last location of the fluttering blue cape. Battered riders streamed past him and Dravgo barked orders. Gage cared not. He was intent, his purpose clear.

A shout to his right caused no distraction. He lowered his body in the saddle to increase his speed. Again, a shout arose. The last of the retreat flew past him in the opposite direction. A familiar name reached his ears, but he ignored it. The Ulrog line swung toward him. The priests raised their hands and poured fire over the field. They marched only two hundred yards away now. Gage drew close. A blue cape appeared. Its bright color shocking in a sea of grays and blacks. A powerful stone hand whipped it through the air like a glorious trophy. A force slammed into the right side of Gage’s mount. The familiar name sounded once more.

“... Gage! Control yourself!” shouted Dravgo.

The Zodrian general slammed his mount into the side of the Rindoran’s steed. Gage shot a glance at the battle scarred veteran.

“YOU are the leader of your people now,” shouted Dravgo. “Look to their interest. You accomplish nothing on this path!”

Dravgo’s mount forced Gage’s horse to the left in an attempt to turn the young man from his path of destruction. Gage looked back to the advancing Ulrog. The blue cape disappeared. A seething storm of gray shapes remained, churning forward over the stunted grasses. The prince’s eyes fell and he snapped the reins of his mount. The entire unit turned a hundred yards from the Ulrog and charged back south.

“Retreat!” shouted Dravgo. “We will avenge this loss another day!”

CHAPTER 6: FAMILIAR VOICES

TORCHLIGHT THREW SHADOWS on the face of the little man. Sprig leaned in close to Vieri and whispered in her ear. She nodded her understanding, then surveyed the men and women about her. They lay on pillows and lush carpets, but their expressions shown as anything but relaxed. All knew the import of the Sprite’s report and what it held for the Eru. Temujen tried to ease the mood.

“Come daughter of the sands. We are a courageous people. Your news will not send us screaming into the night.”

Chuckles broke out amongst the people within the tent. Vieri smiled at the Eru chieftain. He acted quite like her father, pragmatic and strong, a true leader.

“The news is not good,” began Vieri. “Sprig roamed through the eastern half of the Scythtar. The Ulrog’s numbers grow.”

“That may be true,” stated Hai from beside his father. “But they are manageable. The losses we inflicted  upon them will be hard to absorb.”

“They’ve already done so,” frowned Vieri.

A murmur of concern swept the tent.

“The numbers concentrated in the Mnim alone surpass all previous totals,” continued Vieri, “and more flood in from the frozen wastes everyday. We can only assume the same increase occurs to the west. As I traversed the Scythtar Mountains the signs lie everywhere. Ulrog on the move, driven by Malveel. Theywill push out from the mountains.”

Temujen grimaced. Hai stared to the ground.

“They dare not move on the Erutre,” mumbled Hai. “We would cut them to shreds.”

“Not a force of this size,” returned Vieri. “Their numbers are too great, their tactics too advanced. The hands of Kel Izgra manipulate the actions of these creatures. They are no longer marauding beasts in the thrall of the Malveel. They have been trained and taught how to encounter us.”

Hai scoffed.

“Vieri Shan. Your assessment is deeply appreciated. But the Ulrog are simple beasts, incapable of performing complicated tactics and ....”

The loud blast of a horn cut his words short. Men and women leapt to their feet. An Eru rider burst into the floating palace, his saber drawn.

“Ulrog within the camp, my chief,” he shouted to Temujen. “Trackers eliminated our sentries.”

“What of the horses?” asked Temujen calmly.

“They ... they scattered, my lord,” stammered the rider.

Temujen spun on the men and women before him.

“To the horses!” commanded the chieftain. “They remain our salvation.”

He looked to his wife, Fondith.

“Those who cannot fight must be led south,” said Temujen searching for ideas. “Journey to the lake near the place of the scribes. We will regroup there and look for support from our allies.”

She nodded and ran from the tent. Temujen addressed his son.

“Lead the Ulrog away from the retreat,” ordered Temujen. “Coax them, goad them and entice them! Anything you can. The Hackles must be led west.”

Hai bowed quickly. He rose and his eyes met those of Vieri.

“Avra be with you,” said the Windrider.

“And with you,” he replied and dashed from the tent.

The signs lie everywhere. Twisted, gnarled tree trunks. Grass blackened and matted to the earth. A stillness hovered in the air. Not a single night-bird foraged the moonlit skies. The Memnod passed this way.

Kael and Ader hung in a small grove of trees not far from the moon shadows of the great palace of Astel. They stared at the tower before them. No light glowed within its confines. No laughter or merriment broke the quiet.

“We have luck on our side,” whispered Ader.

Kael furrowed his brow questioningly.

“The Memnod cleared our path,” continued the Seraph. “Izgra does not want his forces at one another’s throats. He sent the Ulrog onward before the Memnod marched through.”

“You believe the palace to be empty?”

“No,” returned Ader. “I’m sure Hackles and possibly worse lurk within, but the main force moved on. Amird’s battle to return to this world begins. Not many an Ulrog will be spared from the fight.”

Kael turned back to the darkened structure then stood.

“I must get inside.”

“Why?” asked Ader sharply.

Kael blinked.

“Why must you get inside?” repeated the Seraph, his voice firm. “Why are you drawn to Astel like a moth to a flame? Why now? Why not before? What changed?”

Kael’s eyes darted about in confusion. He looked to the ground. He remained unsure of how to answer. He searched his thoughts.

“I ... I must do something.” replied the boy.

“That is not adequate,” snapped the Seraph.

“What do you mean ‘not adequate’?”

“That will not suffice,” snarled Ader. “I know the way in. I led you here. We will go no further until you answer my question. Ineed to know why you want to get in there so badly.”

The duo stared at one another for a long moment. Ader’s set his jaw. His gray eyes penetrated the boy. Finally, Kael spoke.

“I will find something there. I will .... get some answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“To who I am!” shouted Kael, not caring who heard “To what I am! Why I am! Why all of this happened! You, me, Father, Mother ... Aemmon! WHY? I NEED TO KNOW WHY?”

The old man stared at him, his expression unchanging. Kael heaved, red-faced with emotion. Finally, Ader let out a light chuckle.

“Precisely the questions I wanted answered all these years.”

The Seraph retrieved his staff and wrapped his cloak tightly around his body.  He stepped past Kael and strode out of the grove. The boy stood perplexed.

“Coming?” called the Seraph over his shoulder.

Kael spun and snatched his things from the ground. As he turned back to follow Ader, a torn scrap of paper tumbled into a gorse bush to the Seraph’s left.  The old man’s hand slid back inside his cloak and he pushed on toward the towers of Astel.

Kael raced to catch up. As he hurried past the gorse bush, he lowered his frame and swept the scrap of paper from the darkness.

The pair walked confidently toward the towering structure. However, Ader did not move toward the massive black gate to the west. Instead, he angled toward the tallest of the castle’s northern towers. It jutted from the main structure, a smooth, soaring cylinder rising high into the night sky. Near its pinnacle two black openings punctured its gray surface like dead eyes.

The pair stepped closer and Kael stared up at the eyes. Each stride brought him closer to discovery. A loud crunching beneath his feet alarmed him. He froze and his eyes shot to the ground. Bones and boulders lay beneath him. Countless bleached white and shattered skeletons lay amongst the crumbled remains of smashed Ulrog. The sticky tar of Hackle’s blood painted the scene in hash marks of black.

“It seems Lord Izgra prefers a specific means of dealing with bad news,” stated Ader as he stared at the open windows two hundred yards above. “And it matters not whether you are Ulrog or human.”

Kael followed the Seraph’s eyes and stared at the tower windows. A chill ran up his spine.

“The Astelans constructed the tower as an addition after they built the palace,” whispered Ader. “I suggested that the leaders of Astel required a vantage point to look upon their kingdom. It seemed frivolous at the time, but by then they considered me a somewhat eccentric fellow.

We added the alcove to the side of the throne room above. This tower supports it. The spire itself stood too thin to house anything worthwhile, so people assumed the structure to be solid stone.”

A sly grin broke across Ader’s face.

“Actually, I needed a way to consult with the throne without so much fanfare or probing eyes,” laughed Ader. “After a time, Ader DeHartstron evaporated from the living’s memory and was forgotten except for tales of old.

I still appeared before the leaders of Astel. Usually a week or two after their coronation. I found it helped to let their grief settle before I appeared like a ghost from the past. Most accepted my consul. Others found me difficult to stomach. But all and all I kept my hand deeply involved in the direction of Astel.”

The Seraph moved forward and rounded the tower. A deep crevice formed where the masonry curved to the south and joined the main building. Brambles and thickets covered the darkened corner and the pair found it difficult to forge ahead. After a brief struggle they wedged themselves between the surface of the tower and the palace. A large stone no bigger than a man’s head lay against the base of the tower.