Keeper of the Mail

By Douglas H. Noddin

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469107936

Douglas H. Noddin

About the Author Douglas H. Noddin was born in Springfield, Massachusetts in 1967, but has lived in Maine since he was two years old. He shares four children and three grandchildren with his wife of twenty-two years, Holly. Family time is a priority and they enjoy traveling and spending time with their two horses. Owning a small business has been their major source of income for the past twenty years, but writing has always been a passion of his. After originally writing some manuscripts several years earlier, he has finally decided to proceed in getting them published. Children’s books and science fiction novels are his genre.

Book preview

PART I

KEEPER OF THE MAIL

AMBUSH

The hair on the back of his neck raised as anticipation of the upcoming battle began to overwhelm him. His squad leader passed silently behind, tapping Dalvid and each of the other Pentaurs in his squad to signal them that the order to charge could come at any minute. Was this how his father and grandfather felt in the war with the Piks so many years ago? So calmly over the dinner table they had boasted of battles won. But this war was different. Instead of aiding a neighboring empire, Verbia was now being invaded.

Despite the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, he knew they had not yet been detected by the Zeltac scout patrols. Seconds seemed like hours. He wiped his hands slowly on the rough heavy cloth of his Pentaur uniform, and made eye contact with Handron. They had both grown up in the same small Verbian town and enlisted together when the government called out for troops. Immediately he could tell that Handron was feeling the same way he was. He regripped his sword and ended their momentary stare with a confident half-smile. There was nothing else to do now but be strong. He realized how tightly he was gripping his sword when he felt his arm muscles pressing against the cloth of his tightly-knit shirt. The uniform was barely large enough for his broad torso, sculpted by years of training in his father’s blacksmith shop. He had to concentrate on relaxing to ease his tenseness. Suddenly, a distant whistle was repeated by a hundred others, including his own squad leaders’. The order had come to attack!

As he jumped up and climbed over the ledge, he could hear hundreds of other Pentaurs on both sides of him doing the same. They raced down the grassy slopes toward their destination, the Zeltac encampment, which was only starting to become visible in the predawn light. Sounds of the charge brought life to the sleeping enemy camp. Horns of alarm sounded and troops began to pour out of their tents, unorganized and confused. Maybe this attack would stop the Zeltac invasion and halt their quest to conquer the last few, free empires. Dalvid’s nervousness had turned into physical energy and he joined with his comrads in a battle cry that echoed about the valley as they neared their destination. The obvious unpreparedness of the Zeltacs boosted the confidence of Dalvid and his fellow Pentaurs.

Dalvid saw the first Pentaurs cross the camp perimeter. A few fell to the Zeltac archers, but nothing could stop the flood of soldiers behind them. Dalvid himself jumped over the makeshift perimeter brush fence and headed toward a group of four archers trying to reload. One saw him, dropped his crossbow and drew his sword. But instead of raising the blade to fight, he flung it with a sideways throw. This strange act caught Dalvid off-guard and his momentary hesitation was costly. The short flat blade tore threw his uniform and bit into the flesh of his side with a burning sensation. Dalvid’s shock turned to anger and he continued to charge the Zeltac, who drew the sword of a comrad and pointed it at Dalvid’s head. Upon reaching him, Dalvid knocked the Zeltac’s sword sideways with a strength that he did not know he was capable of. He then brought his sword back across his opponent’s torso leaving a lethal wound. Dalvid stepped back. The Zeltac looked blankly at him, dropped his sword, then fell straight backwards.

Upon turning, Dalvid encountered a second Zeltac and began to exchange sword blows with him. They fought for several seconds, neither one gaining the upper hand until a Pentaur arrow landed in the Zeltac’s side. He sunk to his knees and a second arrow pierced his neck. Dalvid saw the other two Zeltacs in the group had also been slain, as well as two Pentaurs. Dalvid looked down to where the thrown sword had done its damage. His left side was soaked with blood, but at the moment he felt no pain. He and the other Pentaurs around him then turned their attention to the rest of the battle.

Rounding a tent, sword raised, Dalvid confronted another Zeltac. By the intricate gold insignia on his breastplate, Dalvid could tell that this one was an officer. The officer was quick and roughly the same size as him, but Dalvid’s strength proved too much for this one. As Dalvid struck his final blow, the officer fell sideways. Lying on the ground, alive but too wounded to move, the Zeltac grinned. A sick feeling grew in the pit of Dalvid’s stomach. Something wasn’t right. Not just about the officer’s grin, but about the whole battle. The ambush was going too perfectly against these Zeltac strategy wizards.

Sounds of the battle faded as soldiers from both sides stopped fighting. Distant horns had captured the attention of the Pentaurs. As Dalvid watched the grinning, dying officer, a distant roar arose all around the valley. Terror filled his mind. It was light enough now to easily see the ledges surrounding the valley, and the grim truth they now held: Zeltacs. The roar increased as more and more became visible. Three quick horn blasts signaled their attack and thousands of warriors swarmed down the valley walls, encompassing the panic-stricken Pentaur army.

THE FLIGHT

Dalvid opened his eyes to find darkness. Low voices and footsteps around him were the only sounds. He was laying in a puddle of something that had soaked his shirt and his helmet was twisted, giving him a poor view of his surroundings. He decided that laying completely still was the best thing to do until he was aware of what had happened. This turned out to be a good choice since the voices around him, he soon discovered, were of the unfamiliar dialect of the Zeltacs. So they had won the battle. Fear turned the queasiness in his stomach into nausea and he had to fight the urge to vomit.

The sounds around him faded a little, and he carefully tried to turn his helmet to get a better view. Pain shot through his skull as an indentation on his helmet rubbed against a sore, swollen spot on the back of his head, but he succeeded in turning it a little. Blood. The puddle he was laying in was blood. The distant sounds and darkness convinced him it was alright to turn his head and get an idea of what was around him. The blood was from a slain body lying directly behind him. From the color of the uniform he could tell it was a fellow Pentaur. The darkness prevented seeing little else other than forms layng on the ground around him.

Dalvid’s heart quickened as sounds of footsteps suddenly grew closer. He lay completely still and prayed that they had not noticed his movement. A loud, anxious voice barked out what sounded like several commands, and shuffling noises soon followed. The occasional clanking of steel on steel led him to believe they were gathering up weapons. Dalvid was relieved at the sound of a horse and wagon, and the clanging sounds of metal objects being thrown into the wagon. It was well known how the Zeltacs melted down the weapons and armor of their foes to forge new weapons of their own. The Zeltac homeland offered little metal ore to be mined. This gathering of weapons informed Dalvid that the Pentaurs had been defeated, but that also the main Zeltac force had probably moved on. The Zeltacs were also known to leave all casualties where they had fallen. It was an honor in their culture to die in the midst of battle. Dalvid knew his only chance of survival was to wait until everyone had left and hope to remain undiscovered.

Hour after hour passed as wagons and soldiers moved by in the darkness. It must have been around midnight when the Zeltacs ended their gathering for the night. But Dalvid was pretty sure they would resume their chores in the morning, as he could see the light of campfires about two hundred feet away. Now he was faced with a grim choice: stay where he was and take his chances on being discovered in the morning, or risk moving in the darkness. He decided to wait about an hour, giving all but the sentries time to get to sleep, then chance his escape. If he could get to the rocks on the ridges surrounding the valley and hide until daylight, he would have a good chance of making it to freedom.

The time had come. Dalvid slowly lifted his head and looked around in every direction. He could see nothing except for the dull glow of the fading campfires. He knew that sound was his greatest enemy tonight. He carefully removed his helmet and laid it beside him. The cool night air felt good to the hot, throbbing welt on the back of his head. He prayed for wind or any other noise to mask his movement on this calm night.

Dalvid raised up to his hands and knees, then slowly continued to a crouched stance. The change in position made his head throb even worse, and dizziness overcame him for several seconds. Again he scouted his surroundings. No new noises or sights convinced him to slowly begin making his path away from the campfires. It was hard going; too dark to see even down to the ground beneath him and there were obstacles everywhere. He had accomplished no more than a hundred feet when he felt a powerful hand grab his ankle. Fear momentarily paralyzed him. When he regained control he tried to yank away from its grip, but to no avail. Beginning to panic, he raised his other foot to stomp on the hand. This was a wrong move! A slight pull from the hand threw him off balance and he crashed full force into an armor-clad body behind him. Shouts and movement could immediately be heard from where the campfires were. Dalvid frantically kicked the hand away from his ankle and scurried to his feet. There was no time for being careful now. Torches bouncing towards him from the enemy camp showed their quick response to his mishap, and he knew he would not get a second chance at being overlooked by the Zeltacs. He ran as fast as he dared to in the darkness, and lifted his feet high to avoid tripping. Soon he came to where the ground sloped up. The obstacles were gone now and he knew that he was at the edge of the valley floor.

Dalvid dug in his toes and pushed off with his legs as if he were jumping three steps at a time up a long staircase. At the top, his heart was pounding fast and loud in his ears and he felt as if his lungs would explode, but he had made good time. The torches of his pursuers seemed to be at the base of the slope and he had to move a little more slowly now through the rocks on the ridge, but he at least had a good lead.

Soon he was past the ridge and making his way into the forest. The sounds of his pursuers continued to grow fainter. The moon made its way out from behind the clouds and provided him with a little light to travel by. Dalvid continued moving for at least two more hours, keeping the moon at his left so as not to move in a circle. Hearing and seeing no more of the Zeltacs, he decided to find cover. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and he wanted to make sure he was travelling in the right direction. He found a group of thick evergreen bushes, crawled inside, and collapsed. His head wound pounded and his side ached from the movement, but sleep was the most powerful force right now.

His sleep was filled with dreams of Zeltacs chasing him. They were the kind of dreams that he knew were only dreams, but could not control. No matter how fast he ran, their whistles and shouts followed him. He was awakened from his deep sleep by a whistling noise. Anxiety welled up within him, but his fear was soon eased when he realized it was caused by a gentle breeze passing through a group of large, nearby rocks.

Dalvid scanned his surroundings as he slowly stood up. Other than the rocks to his right and the bushes close around him, there was nothing. Only the yellowed field grass of the late fall season gently swaying in the soft breeze. His body was stiff and awkward from the activities of the previous day, so he tried loosening up his muscles by stretching. The throbbing in his head was gone and he felt like he could think much more clearly now. He had a long journey ahead of him, and he wasn’t even quite sure of which direction to travel.

Dalvid knew that the next objective of the Zeltac Army would most likely be the Pentaur capital of Auquera, which was almost due east from yesterday’s battle. He had no idea of which way he had headed out of the valley, so he did not know where he was now. He had not seen any signs or tracks last night of the enemy, so he knew he was at least not directly behind them. He decided to travel south towards the major seaport city of Texxal. Judging from the morning sun’s climb from the east, he picked a distant tree as a southerly landmark and headed out towards it.

He began to feel better physically and mentally the more he moved. It was fairly easy going and the peacefulness gave him some amount of security and time to put things in perspective. His self-confidence was also boosted as he realized how successful he had been at his escape.

Soon he came upon a patch of pearberries and their sight reminded him of how he hadn’t eaten for over a day. He tore through the patch eating as fast as he could pick them. Being late in their season they were somewhat gone by, but the ones that had not yet shrivelled were full of sweet flavor and tasted like honey to his parched mouth. Nearby trickled a brook, and as Dalvid knelt to drink from a calm spot in it, he studied the reflection it gave. A troubled, serious look seemed branded upon his broad face, but his wide nose and square chin and cheekbones showed no signs of battle other than small cuts. He carefully washed the wounds on the back of his head, and on his side. The gash on his side was deep, but remarkably seemed to be almost healed, despite his pressed travel.

It was nearly noon when Dalvid crested a hill and had full view for many miles further ahead. In the distance was a large dark group. It must be the Zeltacs. Even though they were too far to have noticed his singular form, he instinctively crouched and held his breath. They were moving away from him and to the left, so he had fled the valley in a northeast direction. He knew he had to keep moving to avoid the cleanup patrols from the battle, as they would soon be coming to rejoin the main force.

He scouted the remaining horizon and the slope directly in front of him, then headed down it at a jog. At the base were several trees and he began making his way through them toward the trail