Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  And now the quest was almost finished. The final shard was almost in his grasp. If it hadn’t been for Dakeb stealing it all those years ago, Sidian would never have been forced to hire Tolis Scarn. Sidian hated the man. He found Scarn incompetent and a small time thief and murderer. His value depreciated over time until Sidian was ready to kill the man himself and find someone else. It was only blind luck that Scarn managed to stumble onto the shard and the damned Elven sword. Sidian idly toyed with the thought of turning Scarn into a Gnaal or something worse. Perhaps he’d just have Hoole slit his throat.

  Winter’s Day was only ten days away. If the crystal wasn’t complete by then he’d be forced to wait another hundred years to open the gateway to the nether world. Sidian wasn’t entirely confident he had a hundred years remaining. His enemies would rally together and invade Gren in a wave of unsuppressed fury. Aingaard would be destroyed and he would die. That much was certain for those same armies made that mistake once before and let him live. He made all of them pay but one, Averon. Their time was now and Sidian was going to make it bloody.

  He let his eyes focus on the dark vermillion glow coming from under the door to his right. Sidian carefully stepped towards the chamber where the crystal was. Even now he was wary of the raw power. Not all of its secrets had been discovered. Thousands of years passed since its creation and he knew there was still much to learn. He felt the energy coming from it. It spoke to him. The crystal wanted to be remade. The dark light throbbed in his old heart.

  A heavy rapping on the main door disturbed his ecstasy. Sidian crossed the chambers and opened the door with a wicked glare. Before him stood a man flanked by a pair of Goblin guards. He was dressed in the traditional furs of his people and was lean and hard. His features were angular and vile. There was no shortage of weapons on him. Rage flickered in Sidian’s eyes.

  “You know not to disturb me when I am in here, Spendak,” he growled.

  The man, Spendak, bowed curtly. “Forgiveness, Master. But word has come from the front.”

  “Speak.”

  One of the Goblins twitched nervously. Sidian noticed this and whispered dark words. The Goblin burst apart into mist with a muted scream.

  “Lord Hoole is making the initial assault. All units are in battle positions and awaiting further instructions. The war is proceeding as planned.”

  Sidian wasn’t particularly interested in that. It was what Spendak didn’t say that he wanted to know. “There is more you are keeping from me,” he seethed.

  Not wanting to go the way of the Goblin, Spendak cleared his throat and said, “a Gnaal has returned with news of the stone.”

  Sidian beckoned the man into his sacred chamber and closed the door.

  FORTY-ONE

  Black smoke billowed thickly from scores of fires on both sides of the river. Sparks and ash clogged the air making it nigh impossible to breath. The very land had become death for hundreds of meters. The very world was strewn with carnage and hundreds of mangled corpses. Soldiers for both armies ran to put out the flames before they burned the camps to the ground. Heavy clouds completely blocked the light of the moon. Thankfully, it also kept the temperature from dropping below freezing.

  Steleon walked up and down the lines offering encouragement and praise. As much as he was doing, he knew there was so much more needed. Fighting the Goblins was one thing, and now he had to contend with the burst of winter hammering them. Steleon knew he would lose more than one man to frostbite. Surgeons and field medics were in place and ready, but knew they’d be swarmed soon enough. Steleon wondered how many men would die waiting to be seen by one of the surgeons. It was a grim thought.

  The roar of catapults firing overhead brought him from his daze. The assault had begun anew. Steleon drew his sword and bellowed threats at the enemy. His men took heart from it and joined in. Rocks and burning pitch exploded throughout the camp. Soldiers took cover as best they could while commanders growled for them to stand fast. It was ungainly to show fear in the face of the enemy. Steleon was proud of them all, but he couldn’t let that distract him now. He knew what was coming next.

  Battalions of Goblins massed just beyond the range of sight and waited for the horn that would signal their attack. Ten thousand of the gray warriors huddled together in the darkness and readied to advance. There was a latent fear rippling through the ranks. The same fear any army felt on the verge of battle. Son bodies would be pierced and torn apart in a brutal bombardment of arrows and catapult fire. The survivors would impale themselves on the outer defenses of the enemy bank and then push through to meet pike and sword. They’d seen it before, and knew they would see it again.

  The horn blew deep and hollow. As one, the Goblin battalions chosen for the initial assault rose and advanced on the river. They struck the icy water at its lowest point and waded through. Dozens of bodies fell in the counterattack. The Goblins didn’t stop. Survivors trampled over the fallen, using the bodies for traction. They had a rage. The people of Averon had made them suffer too many times and it was time now for revenge. They met the defensive line and roared. Pikes dropped, skewering scores more while arrows continued to rain down into their massed ranks. The attack withered and finally died. Those few hundred that survived turned and fled for their lives.

  Steleon finally fell back from the front rank of defenders. His sword arm was sore and he was exhausted. War was definitely a game for the young. Men clapped him on the back and cheered his name as the grizzled commander left the line. He had much planning to do and needed as many able bodied commanders in the command tent at once. He had a feeling the Goblins would be throwing themselves at them like that all night. The king was waiting for him not far from the line. There was a patch of drying blood on his armor. Steleon knew it wasn’t Maelor’s.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a fight like that,” Maelor said, offering a small flagon of red wine to his friend. “Good weather for it. I never liked fighting in the heat. Too much work for limited results. The men tire too easily in summer.”

  Steleon had to agree, though the king’s presence made him nervous for obvious reasons.

  “Sire, we’re outnumbered four to one with more coming down from the mountains every hour. Not to mention the dragon we haven’t seen yet. The enemy is focusing on this camp from all reports. It is dangerous for you to be here. I have a feeling the Silver Mage knows you are among us.”

  Maelor scowled slightly. “We are not having this discussion again. I am king, and my decision is final. Where else would I belong if not with my army at their darkest times? I stay.”

  Cool winds snuck under the tent flaps, rustling around just enough to chill their legs. Tongues of flames leapt up to lick at the fresh air.

  “The winter will be cold this year. I often wonder how my father handled such times. It’s a hard life, that of king. If only things were different. Maybe the weight wouldn’t be so oppressive.”

  Flames reflected in the king’s deep eyes, though Steleon was sure a tear formed.

  “I think you’ve had the better of it,” he said. “You’re a lucky man, Steleon. No politics or politicians pulling you away from your intended course. Just a soldier with an army. Just a man.” The old king fell silent, suddenly feeling much older than his fifty-four

  Melgit burst into the tent with urgent news. His eyes were bloodshot and he had dark rings around them from the lack of sleep.

  “Word has reached me that the enemy is more cunning than we presumed. It appears they are led by a man, not Goblin. Our scouts returned with confirmation of a tall man directing the movements and attacks. His peers whipped the Goblins into ranks and pushed them forward in a foul language none should remember.”

  A shudder passed through the king’s heavy frame. “The language of ancient Gren, before the mage irreversibly contaminated it. Once they were no different from us, then generations of servitude corrupted them. They are his prime power holding the throne for him. They are worse than any Goblin or
Troll. These men represent what each of us has buried inside.”

  “This complicates matter,” Steleon said. “I have a feeling that we are in a far more perilous place than we were five minutes ago.”

  “We’ve fought men before,” Maelor reminded them. “They bleed and die the same as us. All it takes is a longer spear.”

  Maelor placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I believe our priorities have changed. Pass the word to our archers. I want them to kill every man they see walking among the enemy first. If we kill their officers, the army might crumble.”

  * * *

  Lord Jervis Hoole stepped from his tent and lifted his long, pointed nose to the acrid smoke clinging to the air. Normally he took comfort in the odor. It helped him sooth when times grew trying. This morning there was a different taint to it. The air wasn’t quite so bitter. Something new rode the morning winds. Perhaps it was merely being so far from his ruined homeland that weakened his senses. Or just perhaps it was the Silver Mage at his weakest. He was finally exposing his plans to the world.

  The thought warmed Hoole. He so hated the mage. The throne of Averon was already promised to him, but Hoole wanted more. So long as Sidian breathed, that wasn’t going to happen. Thoughts of the mage dead or in shackles amused him. His hatred ran deep for the man that turned his once proud civilization into a mass of murderous slaves. Hoole wanted Gren. His darkest heart wanted to see the world burn for the damnation of Gren. Burn for the wrongs committed against his people. Jervis Hoole hated life and could think of no better way for it to end than in flame.

  He stood on a low rise and watched as the last of his Goblins retreated from the icy water. So few had returned. No matter, he told himself. They were fodder anyways. The fewer Goblins he had to contend with once the war was done the better. His aide, a greasy man with the features of a weasel, narrowed his eyes.

  “Shall I order the catapults to provide cover fire until they are safe?” he asked.

  Hoole snorted a laugh. “To what point? I wasn’t expecting any of them to survive. The few who did now have a greater appreciation for their pathetic lives.”

  “The Mage won’t be pleased,” hissed the reply.

  Jervis Hoole squared on the smaller man. “Who’s going to tell him? This is my army, and mine alone.”

  “Only when he’s not here. He will not be pleased with this.”

  Moving faster than the aide could react, Hoole drew his dagger and slammed it to the hilt in the man’s stomach. A prolonged gasp escaped his as he clutched at the wound and fell to the ground. Dark blood trickled down onto the fresh snow. Hoole smiled, knowing it would take long for the man to die. He stood there watching the whole time. Finally, when the man was dead, Hoole blinked.

  “Perhaps your ghost can tell him,” he whispered to the corpse.

  He summoned a pair of Goblins to haul the body off and tried wiping some of the spattering of blood from his boots. Inside his tent he found his war captains arguing over the best way to attack the enemy. None of their plans particularly interested him. Nor did the men. They were a bitter lot, of which less than half fully supported his ultimate plans. Hoole let them argue and walked on to the rear of the tent where his private chamber was. He was surprised at the simple pleasure a cot offered.

  But the night was different. Troubled dreams tormented his sleep, stealing away the pretense of normalcy. Monstrous faces hidden by disease and shadow leered back at him. The more he struggled, the tighter their grip became. He was soon at their mercy. Hoole screamed as their fingers dug into his flesh, sinking deep into muscle and bone. He was lost. The man’s clung tighter and Hoole knew he was going to die. The glory of tomorrow was a forgotten dream as the light left his eyes.

  Jervis Hoole awoke in a cold sweat. His heart threatened to explode. His head throbbed in anguish. He was afraid. The dreams were steadily getting worse and more intense. Still shaking, Hoole decided to see if his captains were still there. A gleam danced in his eyes. Demented as his dreams were, they inspired new heights of torment. He now had a plan.

  The battle lines of Gren formed not long past midday. Battalions formed ranks as deep as they were long. Men rode up and down the line with curses and promises of endless misery upon failure. Their whips cracked and lashed out at the diseased flesh. Goblins snarled and pointed their weapons. The hatred was mutual. A bugle trumpeted over the eastern shore and the army stepped forward in rolling mass of contempt. It was an awesome sight to behold. Tens of thousands of the squat Goblins bristling in black mail and arms chanting in their foul language. A cheer roared when they saw the Men of Averon blanch. The Goblins took strength from their fear as the river drew closer. None of them wondered why the enemy wasn’t opening fire yet, for they were engrossed in the myth of their strength. Another five hundred meters and the first ranks would be at the frigid waters of the Thorn River.

  They were his heavy infantry, designed to smash through the defenses and let the lighter, more agile units past. If they could break a hole in the lines and reach the enemy command area, Hoole knew his odds at winning the war were unbeatable. He watched the battle develop through the looking glass. It was going almost too smoothly. Then he noticed why. The enemy wasn’t moving. They were just standing there. The time it took him to realize the problem and issue orders was already too late.

  “Sound the halt!” he bellowed.

  It was already too late. Hoole watched in horror as ranks of Averonian archers appeared on the berms with arrows nocked. The world slowed until he watched it all in slow motion. He saw every splendid detail as arrows plunged into his army. But it wasn’t Goblins being killed. They were aimed at the men of Gren. The Goblins continued to press the attack, oblivious to what was happening. All of the officers were being struck down. Without them, the advance would crumble. Hoole cursed and watched helplessly.

  Then the distinctive whump of a catapult firing sang clear. Then another, and another. The air grew so thick with smoke and bodies he quickly lost sight of the slaughter.

  * * *

  A wave of black and gray desperately tried to turn and flee, but the rear ranks were still pushing forward. Maelor and Steleon watched the chaos closely. their gamble paid off. Hundreds were already dead and more fell every moment.

  “Our gamble seems to have worked,” Maelor said.

  Steleon agreed. “This time. Whoever leads them won’t be so careless again. The officers will lead from the rear, out of bowshot.”

  “You take our success too lightly. Every one we killed today is one less to lead them. Goblins can’t fight without a leader,” Maelor scolded.

  “Spoken like a politician,” Steleon replied. “What comes next? The dragon? All out invasion? We cannot hope to hold them forever. Soon they’ll set aside the feints and ploys and drive a stake through us.”

  “Then we must beat them to it.”

  “Attack them?” Steleon asked in shock.

  Maelor emphatically shook his head. “Goodness no. That’s suicide and even I can appreciate that. Our allies will be here soon, old friend.” He paused.

  “We’ve dealt them a heavy blow, Steleon. They’ll not be so eager to come at us again. Let as many men stand down as you can afford. This battle is going to end sooner or later and we’ll need all our strength to see it through.”

  The aging king walked away to be with his men. Their love for him was apparent, though Steleon could see the cracks in his rigid foundations. He was afraid the man was going to break and lead them all to ruin. After all, no man was his own father. Baeleon’s reputation as king and soldier was harder than most to live up to. The general hoped Maelor was equal to the task; else the kingdom of Averon would perish.

  FORTY-TWO

  Fennic lay at death’s foot. His breathing was shallow and his skin had turned a waxy shade of pale. Delin knelt by his side, softly weeping for his best friend. The others stood around the boys in a loose circle. Elves watched the perimeter for another Gnaal, though none of them believed a
nother was coming. After leaving the battlefield, they’d ridden until sunset and stopped only when they reached the security of the borders of the Old Forest. At first, a little fresh water and dried fruit seemed to help Fennic, but his condition worsened until he was but the shell of the boy he used to be. They dismounted in a soft clearing and tended their wounds. Most of them were unharmed, though Scarn was exhausted beyond measure. The thief silently wished he’d listened to his father those long years ago. If he had, he wouldn’t be in this dire predicament. From where he stood, another wished he’d listened to his parents.

  Celegon frowned, his pointed ears barely visible under his flowing golden hair. He was by no means a healer. The son of a king and next in line to ascend to the throne, Celegon was trained in war and affairs of state. He’d never known love and often contemplated leaving for adventures. Family life never suited his desires. And now, he found himself in the middle of war he knew nothing about and the life of a boy slipping from his grasp.

  “I cannot heal him. His ailments are of the mind, not body. There are many wicked weapons of Gren and the Mage,” Celegon said quietly. “Perhaps my father may help, but there is nothing I can do.”

  “If he’ll see us at all,” Derlith spoke.

  Hallis sensed the division between them and became irritated. “There must be some way. Why else would he be chosen to carry that damned sword..”

  His voice trailed off as Phaelor began to glow. Hallis suddenly had an idea. He rushed over and pulled Delin up. The boy didn’t resist. If there was a chance to save his best friend then he would do what he could.

  “Draw the sword, Delin,” Hallis told him.

  Doubt flickered in his blue eyes. “Are you sure? I thought it chose Fennic?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” Hallis admitted, “but I have an idea. Look at the way Phaelor glows. It is not the aggressive amber of combat. See, look how it turns an almost azure color. I think the sword wants to help.”