BlackThorn's Doom (17 page)
Connell motioned for Yoladt to hold his temper in check. “I am Connell, Prince of Kesh and the son of King Wolhan. Three companions and I left Timosh and Tarok-nor in the hopes of slaying Sur’kar. Our quest has failed and my friends lie dead within the ruins of V’rag.”
A single figure stepped out of the darkness a loaded crossbow in hand. About his shoulders hung a cloak of mottled white. “I’ll be damned.” He said in disbelief. “I was in Timosh when your party departed milord.”
“Many brave men ward that wall.” Connell said. “Forgive me if I do not recognize your face.”
“Turolk is my name.” He said with a bow. Lowering the crossbow as he turned and whistled sharply into the darkness.
Three men rose from the snow. They approached warily bows in hand.
“My companions.” Turolk said. “Ild, Erson, and argen.” He pointed to each man he named. “Put your weapons away lads, its Lord Connell of Kesh.”
The men quickly unloaded the crossbows, slipping the bolts into quivers strapped to their thighs.
Connell nodded in greeting and motioned Yoladt to step forward. “This is Yoladt, warrior of the Mahjie and a trusted companion.”
Yoladt smiled in greeting. “Well met.”
“How did you end up out here?” Connell asked Turolk.
“We were to relieve the watch at the outermost tower, Tor’lith. There were twenty of us in all but we were ambushed by the Morne and only those of us who were lucky enough managed to escape the ambuscade.
“We were cut off from the keep by a horde beyond counting. We could do little to aid those in the keep, so we came here and have slain several score Morne as they have come down out of the pass.”
“You have done well then.” Connell complimented the men. “None of Sur’kar’s messengers have made it to the besiegers then.”
“None by this path.” Turolk said with a hint of pride.
“Tell him of the forest men.” The young man named Erson said.
“Bah!” Turlock dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Nothing but a rumor that is.”
Connell raised his hand interrupting Turlock. “In times of war rumors often prove to be true.”
“Very well,” Turlock conceded. “During the first days of the siege a force of men rode out of the forest mounted upon giant stags. Aided by survivors from the tower of Re’lith they set fire to many of Sur’kar’s siege engines.” Turlock shrugged. “Tis but a rumor, for I have seen no forest warriors or other men for that matter.”
“Then how came you by this news?” Yoladt asked.
“A Morne messenger spoke of it. We ambushed him and a companion not far from here. He told of the warriors before his death.” Turlock answered. “But his knowledge of our language was limited and he was on deaths doorstep at the time.”
Yoladt nodded at the man’s response.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” The thin warrior named Ild spoke, a thick scar across his lips slurring his words. “What was it like beyond the Vurgwall?”
“A land like no other,” Connell answered. “Nothing is as it seems, poisonous plants and fire scorched earth. In places black water explodes out of the very earth, boiling columns that soar hundreds of feet in the air.
“At the heart of it all stands the broken remains of Trothgar, its very core aflame. The mountain rumbles and spews thick clouds of black ash that burns as it falls from the sky.
“And the sky above is filled with thick boiling clouds that hurl sheets of fire across the heavens at one another. An unending battle being waged over a forest of diseased trees that give shelter to all manner of nightmarish creatures.”
The Warriors looked on Connell and Yoladt with respect, these men had dared to go where no sane man would ever venture. They had gone into the very heart of the black land and have returned to tell the tale.
“Where will you go now?” Turlock asked.
“Into the mouth of the lion Turlock.” Connell answered looking to the east. “I am returning to Timosh, it is there where I will make my stand.”
Turlock held out his sword, hilt first towards Connell. “Then accept my service.” He said with his head bowed.
Connell gently pushed the sword aside. “Nay Turlock, though you and your men are worthy.” Connell said with a grim smile. “I am going to my doom and I would have no man honor bound to follow me there.”
Turlock sheathed his blade. “I will follow nonetheless, where the bearer of the eagle brand goes so shall I.”
The other warriors stepped forward to stand alongside Turlock, their faces both proud and stern.
“It seems that we all shall go.” Turlock said with a smile.
Connell exhaled loudly and nodded his acceptance. “Have you horses?”
“Aye,” Turlock answered while pointing to the south. “Over that rise, four of Trondhiem’s best.”
“Then let us be off,” Connell said leading his mount up the hillside. “We have some eighty or more miles to travel.”
“Closer to a hundred.” Ild offered. “Horses do not travel as a crow would fly.”
“We also have some spare clothing.” Turlock added.
Connell plucked at the sleeve of his soiled Morne robe. “If it would get me out of this I’d wear a jester’s cap and gown.”
Over the hill they entered a shallow vale surrounded by a thin stand of twisted oaks. Within the copse stood four horses, calmly chewing yellow grass. They were powerfully built chargers, though a bit lean from the scant winter forage.
Turlock opened a bundle from the pile of tack lying upon the ground. He tossed a heavy cloak of mottled white to Connell; a moment later another was passed to Yoladt.
Connell allowed the Morne cloak to slip from his shoulders and to fall upon the trampled snow. He was thankful to be rid of the foul smelling cloth as he pulled the white cloak over his dark mail and fastened the clasp at his shoulder.
Connell arranged the heavy cloth and noticed a dark stain upon its breast and a small hole in its middle.
Turlock could see what held Connell’s attention. “It was my younger brothers.” He said softly. “He has no use of it now, a Morne arrow saw to that.”
Connell could hear the grief in the man’s voice. “Blessed are the few who have not felt the sting of loss these days.”
“Aye, Death’s shadow stretches far.” Turlock said while saddling his mount. Once finished he swung up into the saddle and gathered his reins into his hand. “We must ride as silently as possible.” He warned. “The horde is vast and many scouts scour this land.”
They covered a few miles coming to a hidden campsite used by Turlock and his men. The sky to the east brightened as the sun crested the horizon.
“We should rest here, mi lord.” Turlock suggested. “It is best to travel in darkness and a small fire goes unnoticed in the sunlight.”
Connell nodded, he was weary from his trek through the pass. “A warm cup of tea and food fit for a man would be most welcome.” He said sliding down from the saddle.
“Tea we have.” Turlock said with a laugh. “As for food we have little that I would consider fit for a man. Salted pork and iron hard biscuits.”
“A meal fit for a king.” Connell said with a smile.
Connell seated himself near a small fire Ild had prepared. As he waited for the tea to brew he fell fast asleep and did not awaken until sunset. Turlock and his men took the watch for the day allowing the two weary men a much needed rest.
Upon awakening they ate a hot meal and waited as the sky darkened with the setting sun. Breaking camp as the moon crested the horizon they rode eastward with Turlock leading.
For three hours they rode up and down steep hillsides. Covered with stunted trees and loose rock that forced the horses to scramble for their footing at times. Breaking the silence as the men softly cursed while fighting to remain in the saddle.
Turlock brought his mount to a stop atop a low hill. Connell reined his steed in along side. The sky above was free of clouds the light of the moon shone brightly upon the land.
Below them lay a deep canyon, its bottom lost in darkness, the jagged rock of its walls visible for hundreds of feet.
“Do you intend to lead us down into that abyss?” Connell asked seeing no way down lying before them.
Turlock shook his head. “It cleaves the earth from north to south. A full thirty miles in length and a mile across at it’s widest. From where we now stand the southern end is twenty miles away.” He turned his horse away from the edge and rode back down the slope. “Our way lies to the north, where a dry river bed lies at the head of this hellish hole.”
Connell took one last look into the darkness and followed Turlock’s mount.
Northward they fared for three hours. At times they were forced to detour around yawning clefts in the earth that led to the deep canyons rim.
The trees grew taller and closer together. The land beneath their boughs seemed darker and more sinister. The argent moonlight scarcely pierced the canopy of barren limbs above.
Through a break in the trees they could see the bone white cliffs of highland vale. Turlock led them northward until they had come within a mile of the escarpment. It was an imposing site the gleaming stone rising sheer for several hundred feet above the wood.
Turning eastward they rode for several miles until they reached a shallow depression in the earth. It was steep sided and its bottom littered with smooth round stones.
“Here once flowed the river Canda lev, its birthplace was above us upon the vale. Long did its waters flow, carving deep into the earth and opening the canyon to the south.” He led them across the riverbed as he spoke. “In the early spring it is reborn, the icy waters a mere shadow of its former greatness.”
Across the riverbed they entered a thick stand of oak. The moonlight fading as dawn began to draw nigh. Turlock dismounted.
“A good a place as any to make camp.”
They were setting up camp when a sharp birdcall pierced the morning silence.
Turlock drew his sword. “Tis Erson’s signal,” He whispered. “Something is amiss.”
Connell and the others drew their blades as well, each knowing that the warrior was standing ward near the riverbank. Within moments the lithe man emerged from the shadows.
“Ogorum,” He panted. “They follow our trail. I counted two, but a pale man on horse follows as well.” He looked back towards the river. “I would swear his eyes glowed red within his helm.”
“Glowing eyes?” Connell asked his suspicions roused by the brief description. “How was he dressed?”
“Heavy chain of dark metal, with a full helm sporting red feathers.” Erson answered.
“Grel’in,” Connell spat. “How close are they?” The snapping of branches answered Connell’s question before Erson could reply.
The two Trolls burst through the trees scattering limbs high into the air. Their terrifying roars echoing from the distant cliffs.
The horses reared and breaking their fetters they galloped off into the wood.
The Trolls carried iron cudgels with long crude spikes on one end. They lashed at the horses in glee, but the steeds were quicker and the clubs drove their heads deep into the earth.
Behind the towering trolls the Grel’in rode into camp. His feral eyes took note of each man and a cruel grin slowly pulled at the corners of his pale lips.
The four warriors of Trondhiem were of stout heart. The mere sight of two raging rock Trolls would have sent lesser men fleeing into the darkness, but not these battle hardened veterans. They had spent many months on the frontier and had grown accustomed to the horrors that stalked this land. With a wordless shout they charged the nearest of the beasts.
Surprised by the unexpected attack the Troll stepped backwards raising its club to strike. Turlock and Ild attacked from the right, while Erson and Argen struck from the left. The Troll hesitated, although powerful they were slow thinking and easily confused.
Swords flashed and shallow nicks appeared in the thick hide. Bellowing in rage the Troll struck downward with all his might. The ground shook with the sheer force of the blow.
Ild had saved himself by diving forward and somersaulting between the giant’s splayed legs. The Troll reached after him, his hand tearing off the warrior’s cloak.
Turlock lunged forward and drove his sword into the exposed armpit of the Troll. The Hide was thinner and the bright blade sank to the hilt. Dark blood sprayed from the wound covering Turlock with gore.
The Troll screamed in agony and swept Turlock aside with a powerful blow of its hand. Turlock flew high into the air, crashing through branches he landed with a heavy thud in the darkness.
Yoladt dodged a strike from the uninjured Troll. Leaping high into the air he landed on the shaft of the cudgel, springing forward he slashed with his short sword. The force of the blow knocked his sword from his grasp.
The Troll staggered clawing franticly at its face trying to stem the flow of blood from its ruined eye. Yoladt landed hard and rolled away. The Troll’s stamping feet narrowly missing him.
Connell dashed forward, ducking beneath the Giants flailing arms. As he passed he landed a powerful blow behind the giant’s knee. The sword of his father parted hide, muscle, and sinew as if it were butter. The steel rang loudly as it smashed into heavy bone.
The blinded Troll lurched forward and fell onto its side. Yoladt rushed forward his sword held high in both hands. With all the might he could muster he drove the blade into the beasts throat. The steel snapped in twain and black blood sprayed skyward. The Giant thrashed wildly its wet gurgling cries growing frantic.