Patience multiplies results. The Malveel lord bared his fangs in pleasure. King Macin of Zodra was in for a surprise.
Macin reined in his mount and fell in behind Corad. The Rindoran king hammered the flanks of his stallion, putting the proper distance between himself and Macin. The Hackles ahead of them fanned out. The number of targets thinned. Corad unlatched the net from the horn of his saddle and studied the retreating Ulrog. A massive beast a dozen yards ahead appeared the obvious choice. However, a tracker five yards past the large fighter would reap more benefit.
The trackers proved to be a major asset to their Malveel lords. Prince Gage correctly ascertained that the removal of as many trackers as possible would result in a leaderless Horde.
Corad made his decision and turned to the Zodrian king trailing him. He nodded toward the more difficult target and received a white-toothed grin in response. Corad could not help but return the smile. Macin’s enthusiasm was infectious. Why hadn’t they united like this years ago? What price had pride played in the dire straits of their nations?
Corad spun back to the sprinting Ulrog. He signaled to a subordinate then pointed toward the battle Hackle. The subordinate understood and moved in on the large Ulrog. Corad’s mount shot past the larger beast and closed on the tracker.
The wait seemed unbearable. The Hackles he would lose did not concern Nagret. Certainly it rankled him to lose valuable assets, but more importantly he desired victory. His first true engagement with the enemy as commander had thus far resulted in the loss of three dozen Hackles. If the enemy somehow discovered his trap and escaped, he would own nothing to show for these losses. Conquest required sacrifice, but sacrifice without victory would be frowned upon.
The Malveel lord stared with intensity at the deadly race below. The blue cape rounded on a large Hackle but passed the stone man and closed on a speedy tracker. The net flashed and as before the tracker jerked backward. The Zodrian moved in and another spear dispatched one of Nagret’s messengers.
The Malveel saw enough. Now was the time to strike. The slits of the Malveel’s eyes widened and filled with the molten hatred of Chaos.
Corad danced his mount to the left and flicked the net in his hand. It snapped free from the writhing body of the tracker. The Rindoran king swung it across his saddle and glanced at his handiwork. The tracker stopped kicking and went still.
A shout to his right drew Corad’s head up. A spear flashed inches from his face and dove into the throat of a raging battle Hackle bearing down on the king. The large Hackle franticly clutched at the weapon and spun into the ground gurgling black blood from the wound. Corad’s Rindoran subordinate charged forward with a shredded net still fastened to his saddle.
Corad exhaled deeply and turned in the direction of the shout. Macin of Zodra stood tall in his saddle, arm extended before him.
“Pride before the fall, Corad,” laughed Macin. “Admire our work only when it is complete, else you may find no time to admire it at all.”
“Lesson learned,” smiled Corad in reply.
More riders thundered past their position in hot pursuit of the remaining Hackles.
“My lord, are you injured?” called Corad’s subordinate.
“No,” returned Corad. “All is well. Retrieve a replacement net. We have work to finish.”
The subordinate tugged on the reins of his mount then froze and stared past Corad at the Scythtar Mountains. An inhuman shriek sliced through the noise of pounding hooves and stomping stone feet. Corad followed the line of sight past the trees and up the cliffs and ledges of the Scythtar. A plume of red flame spewed into the sky from a distant black figure perched on a stone slab high above the raging river.
The battlefield silenced. The human army reined in their pursuit and stared to the cliffs above. The Hackles slowed their retreat
Macin reined in his mount and fell in behind Corad. The Rindoran king hammered the flanks of his stallion, putting the proper distance between himself and Macin. The Hackles ahead of them fanned out. The number of targets thinned. Corad unlatched the net from the horn of his saddle and studied the retreating Ulrog. A massive beast a dozen yards ahead appeared the obvious choice. However, a tracker five yards past the large fighter would reap more benefit.
The trackers proved to be a major asset to their Malveel lords. Prince Gage correctly ascertained that the removal of as many trackers as possible would result in a leaderless Horde.
Corad made his decision and turned to the Zodrian king trailing him. He nodded toward the more difficult target and received a white-toothed grin in response. Corad could not help but return the smile. Macin’s enthusiasm was infectious. Why hadn’t they united like this years ago? What price had pride played in the dire straits of their nations?
Corad spun back to the sprinting Ulrog. He signaled to a subordinate then pointed toward the battle Hackle. The subordinate understood and moved in on the large Ulrog. Corad’s mount shot past the larger beast and closed on the tracker.
The wait seemed unbearable. The Hackles he would lose did not concern Nagret. Certainly it rankled him to lose valuable assets, but more importantly he desired victory. His first true engagement with the enemy as commander had thus far resulted in the loss of three dozen Hackles. If the enemy somehow discovered his trap and escaped, he would own nothing to show for these losses. Conquest required sacrifice, but sacrifice without victory would be frowned upon.
The Malveel lord stared with intensity at the deadly race below. The blue cape rounded on a large Hackle but passed the stone man and closed on a speedy tracker. The net flashed and as before the tracker jerked backward. The Zodrian moved in and another spear dispatched one of Nagret’s messengers.
The Malveel saw enough. Now was the time to strike. The slits of the Malveel’s eyes widened and filled with the molten hatred of Chaos.
Corad danced his mount to the left and flicked the net in his hand. It snapped free from the writhing body of the tracker. The Rindoran king swung it across his saddle and glanced at his handiwork. The tracker stopped kicking and went still.
A shout to his right drew Corad’s head up. A spear flashed inches from his face and dove into the throat of a raging battle Hackle bearing down on the king. The large Hackle franticly clutched at the weapon and spun into the ground gurgling black blood from the wound. Corad’s Rindoran subordinate charged forward with a shredded net still fastened to his saddle.
Corad exhaled deeply and turned in the direction of the shout. Macin of Zodra stood tall in his saddle, arm extended before him.
“Pride before the fall, Corad,” laughed Macin. “Admire our work only when it is complete, else you may find no time to admire it at all.”
“Lesson learned,” smiled Corad in reply.
More riders thundered past their position in hot pursuit of the remaining Hackles.
“My lord, are you injured?” called Corad’s subordinate.
“No,” returned Corad. “All is well. Retrieve a replacement net. We have work to finish.”
The subordinate tugged on the reins of his mount then froze and stared past Corad at the Scythtar Mountains. An inhuman shriek sliced through the noise of pounding hooves and stomping stone feet. Corad followed the line of sight past the trees and up the cliffs and ledges of the Scythtar. A plume of red flame spewed into the sky from a distant black figure perched on a stone slab high above the raging river.
The battlefield silenced. The human army reined in their pursuit and stared to the cliffs above. The Hackles slowed their retreat
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