Cloak & Dagger: Book II of The Dragon Mage Trilogy

by Carey Scheppner

  General Larsen turned to the scout and braced himself for what he expected was bad news.

  Jim Farnsworth stopped in front of his general and saluted. With a grim face, he said, “They’re coming.”

  General Larsen needed no further information. He looked up to a soldier atop the battlements and bellowed, “Sound the Horn!”

  The lone trumpeter raised his shiny brass trumpet to his lips and blew the dreaded notes that signaled everyone it was time to prepare for war.

  Soldiers ran to the armoury to obtain their weapons, while clerics rushed to bring the most critically ill people into the shelter of the courtyard. Civilians were directed away from the construction sites to several tents housing various types of implements designed for construction and farming. These tools were now distributed with a different purpose in mind - battle.

  Things appeared a bit chaotic at first, but everything became more organized as lieutenants saw to it that everyone knew what they had to do.

  Skink warriors, grey mages, and clerics paced along the battlements, the last line of defense for the Tower of Hope. Many of the mages wished they had been assigned to the ground force to fight alongside their comrades. It was luck of the draw that they wound up here. But their job was just as vital as anywhere else.

  General Larsen’s archers were occupying hastily erected towers along the moat to assist the ground forces where needed. The towers were vulnerable near the front lines, so a cleric was positioned with each contingent of archers to provide a shield from opposing magical forces.

  The ground forces were set up so that at least one soldier was accompanied by three or four civilians. There was also at least one mage, grey or white, among every six groups of soldiers and civilians. Some people argued that by splitting forces like this they were weakening themselves too much, but both General Larsen and High Cleric Malachi knew that the large scale magic the lizardmen were capable of could easily damage a strong, tightly grouped fighting force. Splitting them up would force the lizardmen into using individual magic to eliminate opposition one at a time, making it harder and more time consuming for them to advance. There would be more one-on-one battles fought, giving the white and grey mages a fighting chance.

  Malachi observed the commotion from the optimum vantage point along the battlements. The ranks of soldiers and fighters formed rapidly, and their formations looked impressive from above. Malachi grew even more impressed as the forces continued to gather. In a matter of minutes, the thousands assembled below swelled to tens of thousands. The high cleric had to use his looking glass just to see the forces making up the front lines. It was the biggest force he had ever witnessed since becoming a cleric many years ago. Even the war a decade ago was on a smaller scale. It was enough to make him feel confident about the upcoming battle.

  Of the civilians gathered below, many were given extra rations of freshly brewed dwarven ale. The dwarf who made the stuff had graciously offered the tower his recipe so the ale could be made in mass quantities. With the assistance of magic, the grey mages were able to speed up the fermenting process greatly. No one asked what handsome amount the dwarf was offered for the recipe, but speculation abounded amongst those who consumed the liquid. For now the ale was in abundance, and its effects allowed people to take part in the battle when they would otherwise be too weak to stand.

  High Cleric Malachi felt somewhat out of place among the skink warriors. He was not going to be fighting alongside them. He would not even be watching the battle commence. His job was to manage the tower inside, where the halls would surely fill to overflowing as the injured and dying were ushered in for healing. Many women, children, and older folks were milling about in front of the main gates, anxious about their task of transporting injured people to the tower using makeshift cots. They knew that lives hung in the balance, and that everyone had a part to play in the defense of the tower.

  Meanwhile, in the front lines, Rebecca fingered her hand axe nervously. She was grouped with a handful of farmers who looked too feeble to be of any use in battle. Two of them staggered under the influence of the dwarven ale. One was equipped with a pitchfork while another wielded a pick axe. Rounding out her team was a farmer with a wood axe and another one with a picaroon. The only consolation for the dwarf was that Cyril was in an adjacent group.

  The cyclops’ team was as debatable as Rebecca’s. Two old men, one young man in his twenties who could barely stand he was so drunk, and one old woman whose wrinkled face was almost fearsome to behold. She held a vicious looking spear.

  Some other groups near the dwarf and cyclops fared better, with able-bodied civilians accompanying soldiers and a couple of grey mages. But one thing that was common among all that were assembled were their grim expressions of determination. They were united in their cause, regardless of age or ability.

  For Rebecca, this was not her battle. But honour, a value highly regarded by dwarves, demanded that she help these people in their time of need. Perhaps her contribution would go unnoticed and her life would be lost with no one the wiser in the dwarven realm. But to abandon them would mean certain disgrace if she were found out. Even if no one ever found out, it would nag at her for the rest of her life. She would never be able to live with the shame.

  Cyril’s motives were slightly different, yet similar. This was the perfect opportunity for him to prove that he was a good person. By fighting the forces of evil and by fighting his own kind, he could show that he was more human than cyclops. He didn’t fear death; he almost welcomed it. By dying on the battlefield, he would be remembered as a hero. Besides, the Tower of Hope was his home. It was worth dying for. The only drawback about dying was that Vera would be deeply grieved. Cyril didn’t want her to suffer that way. It was the only reason not to die, but it was enough to make him desire to live. Thankfully, the cleric was not taking part in the fighting. Cyril could concentrate on fighting without having to protect her at the same time. Of course, she was the one better equipped to protect him. Nevertheless, Cyril could now devote all of his attention to offensive tactics. The cyclops took a deep breath and flexed his muscles. He would give it his best shot. He would not let his guard down if he could help it.

  One thing both the dwarf and cyclops wondered was where Alric had disappeared off to. They had no doubt he would be using his invisibility skill in this fight. They hoped he fared well wherever he was.

  The welfare of his companions was the farthest from the elf’s mind. Alric was sorely disappointed upon his arrival at the Tower of Hope. The fact that the lizardman army hadn’t arrived yet meant that Alric’s encounter with the lizardmage was delayed once again. He had no doubt the evil lizardmage was a big player among his own kind. If there was going to be a war, the lizardmage would surely be involved. Alric was rapidly losing hope of getting back at the lizardmage when word arrived of an approaching army. With his hopes rising, the elf made plans and preparations for his renewed opportunity. He needed to find a way to penetrate the ranks of enemies in order to gain access to the lizardmage he sought. His invisibility cloak was essential in achieving this objective. The next thing he did was bathe in the cool waters of North Lake, as well as wash his clothing. The sensitive noses of orcs would have a harder time sensing his presence that way. Alric’s agility was inherent, and there were some spells that he could cast that would aid him in his quest. Excitement stirred in his blood as he waited just out of visual range of the tower. The enemy would undoubtedly pause near here before attacking. That would give him time to scout for his intended victim. All that remained now was to wait.

  Malachi was part way to the stairs down to the courtyard when everyone first felt it. It was a minor shuddering at first. After a short pause, it continued. Then another pause. Each time it occurred, it was louder and more noticeable. It was a deliberate pattern, shaking the ground like a heartbeat. Everyone looked northward in anticipation, wondering what was causing that noise.

  A good five minutes of tremors cycled through the assem
bled forces before the first of the enemy finally appeared on the northern horizon. The first few were soon flanked by many. Those many quickly expanded across the horizon like a shadow. The shadow swelled, devouring the land like a black cloud.

  One figure appeared to grow as it neared. The shadow grew with it, matching the steps of the monumental creature. It towered above the other minions, making them seem like ants in comparison.

  Within the next few minutes, the oncoming force grew to match the size of the defending forces. And still they continued to advance. Little by little, the defenders grew more discouraged as they saw the number of enemies increase. Now the sound of the attackers could be heard, their march matching that of the gigantic creature. It was terrifying to behold. The hearts of the defenders pounded, but the marching of the attackers drowned it out. Mortar even fell in white puffs as the tower’s battlements shook.

  When the attacking force finally called a halt, they outnumbered the defenders by five to one. A lizardman dressed in chain mail stepped forward from the sea of darkness and used magic to amplify his voice. “As you can see, you have no hope of winning this war. Surrender, and we will give you fresh water and let you live. Join us and you will be richly rewarded. Resist, and you will die!”

  Lieutenant Farnsworth stepped forward and spoke with the assistance of a grey mage’s ‘amplify’ spell. “We would never join you! You have poisoned the water and land! If we surrender, you will continue to destroy everything in your path! That we will not allow!” He turned and stepped back into his spot in the front center of the defenders.

  “You are fools! You deserve to die!” bellowed Slong. He returned to his spot at the front of his forces. Then he signaled the giant creature. The creature - the earth elemental - raised a leg and stomped the ground with such vehemence the shock wave knocked friend and foe alike to the ground. Two of the archer towers collapsed, drawing first blood in what looked to be a one-sided war. With a blood-thirsty cry, the attackers surged forward. The defenders braced themselves, grim determination and fear on their faces.

  The attacker’s momentum was momentarily hampered when the front lines fell into hidden pit traps in random places across the battlefield. Bodies piled into these holes in droves as those in front were pressed from behind. But numbers didn’t seem diminished as the attackers navigated around these obstacles.

  The next thing caused the attackers to falter again as a war cry could be heard originating from North Lake. Unseen previously because of a ‘mirror image’ spell cast by a group of grey mages, were legions of sailors lining the shores of North Lake. The spell hid them because it mirrored the shoreline of the lake and made it appear to be empty. Newly invented cannons, mounted on the sides of the ships, and supplied by the grey mages, made their debut. The cannons were cylindrical wooden carriers made from trees harvested from the southern borders of the Black Forest. Those trees were harder and more durable than any other and were suitable for the high pressure of this application. Boulders were tucked into one end and magical fire sticks were inserted into the other end of these specially designed tubes. The boulders were then ejected at high speed with a few words of magic. As the rocks flew from the cannons toward the enemy, they exploded into hundreds of tiny, lethal fragments in the enemy’s right flank. Orcs, goblins and ogres were torn to pieces. Lizardmen among them weren’t ready for this diversion, and subsequently were unable to cast any defensive magic. These cannons were an invention of the grey mages, spearheaded by the grey mage Jerrin himself.

  The attackers were further hindered when hidden archers raked their front row with arrows when they were close enough. The archers each got up to three shots away before they backed up to avoid the inevitable clash between the front lines.

  Yells, cries, and sword clashes sounded all across the battlefield. The defenders were pushed back somewhat but still held firm, unfazed by the numbers they were pitted against. The attackers were caught off guard by this determination. They expected the ill-trained civilians within the ranks to break and run. For the defenders, it became apparent the dwarven ale had another positive effect - courage. Many people who were already dying fought with wild abandon, knowing they would likely be dead soon anyway. At least this way they died a meaningful death.

  Rebecca swung her hand axe valiantly. The orcs who charged into her were quickly slain. Surprisingly, her team fared well with the initial onslaught, taking care of their opponents in quick succession. But they didn’t have time to enjoy their momentary victory as an ogre suddenly barged into them with a vengeance. It killed one of the farmers, but couldn’t avoid an attack from two sides as the other drunken farmers stabbed it and hacked its arms from its body. The ogre sagged to its knees while the remaining farmer sliced its head from its body with a wood axe.

  Cyril’s team didn’t fare as well, losing the two older farmers with the first clash. The drunken young man fought like a maniac and effectively held off a couple of orcs singlehandedly. The old lady wielded her spear effectively, stabbing an orc and an ogre in vital spots, killing them instantly. Cyril swung his mace with equal effectiveness, taking down an ogre and two goblins. Then he swung it at the orcs who had killed the old farmers. It was then that he noticed a new feature to his enchanted mace. As he swung it at the orcs, he missed them, yet the mace seemed to send a surge of magical power radiating outward from it. The surge struck the orcs like a jolt of lightning, killing them on the spot. On the back swing, another orc pushed into range and was struck by another magical jolt. The old woman noticed the strange effect of the weapon and stepped behind the cyclops to give him more room to swing.

  Some lizardmen approaching the fighting cast some fireballs into the front ranks of the humans. Most of the fireballs bounced harmlessly aside as they struck the shields of the sporadic grey mages and clerics. The few fireballs that managed to penetrate the unshielded areas did minimal damage. It appeared that the strategy of spreading out the magic users was working.

  Another strategy that played itself out well was when General Larsen appeared on the defenders’ right flank with his full complement of cavalry. His task was to prevent the attackers from circling around the moat on the east side where moat construction had ceased. He charged the enemy’s left flank at full speed, taking out a large swath of enemies. The cavalry did a sharp U-turn and continued their attack at full speed. As quickly as the cavalry appeared, it vanished around the back of the battlements. A hidden doorway constructed within the walls opened up, allowing the cavalry inside. The door closed again, any evidence of an opening vanishing entirely. General Larsen planned sporadic attacks like this as the war raged on. He had to use the cavalry wisely to make them last as long as possible.

  Unfortunately, the numbers of attackers were still too great. The humans were still being pushed back toward the moat.

  The youth fighting alongside Cyril was openly bleeding in several spots, but didn’t seem to notice as he slashed at a sea of green ugly creatures. Cyril continued swinging his light magical mace with ease, killing monsters without even touching them. Any creatures that got too close had to contend with the old woman’s spear. She repelled attackers so Cyril could swing his mace to full effect.

  Rebecca lost two more farmers, leaving the drunken one with the pick axe. He was a big man who had little difficulty swinging the pick axe, but he was still sweating with exertion. Both his size and the fact that he was sweating meant the ale’s effect was quickly wearing off. His blows were becoming more accurate, and any creatures who approached were wary of his fierce expression. With hardly anyone on either side of her, Rebecca discovered more and more creatures pressing in on her from all sides. She withdrew her dagger and was forced to fight with the hand axe in one hand and the dagger in the other. Her training at home had covered one-handed attacks, and she was grateful for every technique she had learned. Her axe and dagger were a blur of motion as the dwarf danced and spun with amazing agility. Every time the dagger penetrated the flesh of her enemies, the
blinding flash and blood curdling screams of orcs, goblins and ogres rang across the battlefield.

  Meanwhile, Cyril was having fun killing several opponents at a time with his magical mace. He didn’t notice the fireball intended for him until he staggered off balance, stumbling over a dead body. The fireball whizzed past him and struck the drunken youth in the chest. The youth fell down and lay still. Angered, Cyril turned to face the spell caster who stood only a few feet away. The lizardman scowled and prepared to cast another spell. Cyril growled and moved toward the lizardman, staring at its ugly expression. It wasn’t until his third step that Cyril noticed something interesting. The lizardman wasn’t moving. He was paralyzed! The cyclops stopped and turned to the old woman. Without looking at her directly, he said, “He’s all yours.”

  The woman pursed her lips and thrust her spear into the lizardman’s chest. The spell caster fell to the ground silently. The old woman gave Cyril a satisfied expression but the cyclops had turned to face some new adversaries. These opponents were what Cyril had been waiting for - fellow cyclops.

  There were two of them and they were both bigger and stronger than Cyril. Cyril didn’t care. He almost laughed when they intoned, “Look into my eye!” Did they actually think he was susceptible to that magic? With a lightning quick lunge, he launched himself at the closest one. It caught the cyclops off guard. In the collision, Cyril and the cyclops fell to the ground. Cyril thrust his elbow into the cyclops’ throat and sprang to his feet. With his trusty mace still in hand, Cyril jabbed its handle into the standing cyclops’ midriff. Then, while the cyclops was gasping for air, Cyril brought his mace down hard on the first cyclops’ head. The skull caved in like a melon. Then Cyril swung his mace around to do combat with the second cyclops. That cyclops brought its own club up to parry Cyril’s mace and the weapons came to a dead stop. Then the cyclops with the club gurgled and blood trickled from the corners of its mouth. It had a surprised expression as it looked down at its chest. Protruding from between its ribs was a spear. Cyril didn’t hesitate long, and clobbered the cyclops over the head with his mace, putting it out of commission for good. The old woman stepped forward and retrieved her undamaged spear. Cyril marveled at this old woman’s skill and bravery but said nothing.