Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  “Which of you has been tampering with my steel?” he asked in a plain and forceful tone.

  “I did, sir,” Fennic quietly admitted.

  Old man Wiffe turned on them, a grave look etched into his features. “Come forward, young man.”

  Fennic slowly complied. He was unsure what his punishment was going to be. His father always frowned on his natural curiosity. More often than not he was in trouble for this or the other.

  “What drew you to this blade?” Wiffe asked. He had the sword in hand, golden fire light dancing on the immaculate silver.

  Fennic’s eyes locked on the mystical weapon, mesmerized by the simple perfection of it. “I don’t know. I just felt pulled to it, as if it were.”

  “Enchanted?”

  He nodded. The urge to reach out and seize the magnificent weapon was almost too much to resist. Fennic failed to understand why he was so drawn to it. It was just a sword after all. Where was the supernatural desire coming from? All knew was that the sword seemed to call his name. It wasn’t until Wiffe slapped his hand away that he realized what was happening.

  “Careful lad. This sword has seen the best and worst of men.” He eased it back into the sheath. “Enchanted it is. The Elves made it long ago out of friendship with Man. It’s said that only one in every generation may use it, and the sword always chooses who that person is.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “All items of power have names and legends surrounding them. This one’s name is Phaelor. It means “Heaven’s Eyes” in Elvish, and it’s made of pure star silver. Phaelor has been around for a thousand years. I’ve had it for almost fifty of them. At last I can give it to another. My time has come to an end.”

  Delin interrupted. “What do you mean?”

  “Young Fennic has been chosen to safeguard the sword,” Wiffe announced.

  “Your father is going to kill you when he hears about this!”

  Fennic wasn’t listening. Every slumbering desire throughout his short life was culminating in the folded grain of this weapon. Scholars argued it belonged in a museum for the world to see, magicians laid claim to its inherent powers. Regardless of what the more civilized folk believed, Phaelor was a tool of war and had a role in the shaping of the future of Malweir. Whether he wanted to or not, Fennic was now part of that legacy. What was more important, he wanted to be a part of it.

  If he looked close enough, he could just make out the pure crystal gemstones for which it was named. They grabbed the light and radiated a confidence and power seldom seen in this quiet part of the world. He could see the wrath laid out by the blade. The blood and horror. He saw brave men die, begging for their lives, and kingdoms topple while the sword remained cold. And he discovered fear.

  The sword had claimed him, bonding them until another came along, and that frightened Fennic. He’d always had dreams about what the world was like, but had never had the inclination to find out for himself. Phaelor wasn’t going to give him the choice. Wide eyed, torn between the quiet home life and high adventure, Fennic suddenly became aware of whispered urgings.

  “You have been accepted by Phaelor, and I pass it to you freely,” Wiffe said in a voice mixed with relief and sadness. “Though I warn you, do not let the sword consume you as it has others before. It can neither show you the right path nor solve your problems with a sharp swing. I looked long and hard for someone, anyone, capable of unlocking its secrets, and every time I came away empty handed. Ware the future, my young friend, for Phaelor is destined for greatness and ruin, as are all who dare hold it.”

  Fennic remained quiet almost the entire way home. Every time he touched the naked steel, a host of memories assailed him. He watched men go mad with power and be consumed by fire. It was one of the trappings of the magic, Wiffe had explained. The sword was neither good nor evil, it simply was. Man was responsible for determining greatness or despair. Delin left him to face his father’s wrath, and even through the long lecture given to him, all he could think about was another time and another age. Delin and Fennic both went to sleep wondering what life might be like if they weren’t in Fel Darrins.

  THREE

  Passing weeks saw summer begin to fade. Leaves turned the hillsides into paintings rich with fall’s colors. The last of the crops were harvested and stored for the coming snows, and life in Fel Darrins continued as it always had. That was how the townsfolk wanted it. Many of the old had already seen other parts of the world and the turmoil that came with them. Locked away in this forgotten town, they had a chance to live peacefully. Soon it would be time for the harvest Ritual, a grand festival rival to those rumored in the king’s court at Paedwyn. The mood was bright and cheerful.

  Fennic, however, was of a different mindset; a sense of foreboding told him that something was going to happen. He didn’t know what or when, but events were well beyond his control now. Phaelor whispered secrets to him late at night when only

  shadows roamed the lands. He found himself wanting to see the legendary smiths of the Dwarves, the great mountain fortress of Gren Mot where his grandfather had lived and waged war. Most of all, he wanted to see the sparkling whiteness of the royal palace under a moonlit winter night.

  The desire became almost torturous. He was the one who had never wanted to go any further than the pond. one morning and a chance meeting with a crazed old man and his life was changing forever. Work kept his days filled, but they felt empty to him. He hardly saw Delin as the time of the festival approached. Their parents thought it best to keep them apart for the time being, lest they find any more trouble. Try as they may though, neither boy could forget the events of the forest, or the portent the future held.

  Fennic stepped into the early autumn morning and regretted not wearing a heavier shirt. He clutched his jacket tight and walked to work as fast as he could. A heavy frost covered everything and his breath came out in thick vapors. The bitter cold this early in the year meant winter was going to be brutal. Unfortunately for Fennic, the mill was all the way across town.

  He spent the day in relative misery. Phaelor seemed bound to hundreds of mystical thoughts and mysterious dreams. Wiffe had tried to warn him about the possessive powers of the sword but had not mentioned how to combat them. The sword demanded his attention. It beckoned with horrors and riches. Fear and elation blended convincingly enough for Fennic to feed his desire. He wanted to ride into battle with Phaelor held high and an army at his heels. Parents and friends spurned his newfound wants, dismissing them as adolescent dreams. This did little to dissuade him. Fennic knew he would be leaving Fel Darrins soon.

  He spent hours coming up with a rough plan. When he decided it was sufficiently worked out he met Delin for dinner at the Tavern. The success of his plan lay in whether or not he could convince his best friend to come along. Still, the hope far outweighed the gloom. Fennic entered the common room and looked around for his friend. He spied Delin sitting at a corner table close to one of the fireplaces, talking to Tarren Brickton. They’d been flirting for seven years though neither of them had actually realized it until recently. The only question was when the wedding would take place. Tarren offered him a flashing smile so simple it melted his heart and for an instant he was jealous of his best friend. She danced off to make her rounds of the tables, leaving them to their business. Fennic was immediately glad for the fire. The frost was permanent, with occasional light snows.

  “What are you so glib about?” asked Delin.

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the weather.”

  “I can’t see what about snow would make you this cheery. All this means is that your little sword is warping your mind.”

  “Much like your pretty girlfriend, no doubt,” Fennic replied with a rueful smile.

  “Leave her out of this!” Delin scowled. “She doesn’t have anything to do with your queer behavior.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she has. I’m sorry.”

  Delin smiled. “Forget about it.”

  “I’ve bee
n thinking. All this stress about old man Wiffe and the sword and then our parents. Maybe we need a change of scenery for a while?”

  His voice was quiet and he sounded tired. He’d languished for hours trying to think of how to best put the idea before Delin. The onset of an early winter dealt him a severe setback, but did not discourage him. They’d grown up with snow, but had never traveled more than a few leagues before going home again. If things worked out right, they wouldn’t be going home for some time. This storm was going to be their toughest obstacle.

  “What are you saying?”

  “The same things you have for years. Everything about you has been looking for a different place in a different time. I’m starting to share that dream. I’m tired of being the miller’s apprentice. There’s a better world out there. One in which we can make a name for ourselves.”

  Delin’s eyebrows peaked. “We? Or you and that sword? What’s happening to you? You were always the voice of reason. Even the elders would condemn this as insane. Think about it! Why now? Why after that crazy old man filled your head with impossible stories?”

  “Why anything? Can you explain why the sun comes up or winter comes early? I can’t,” Fennic protested. “I don’t know why or how, but Phaelor has already changed my life, and for the better. I want to see those things we’ll never have the chance to once we get older, Delin.”

  “What are you two being all secretive about?” asked a sweet voice.

  Delin blushed, much to his friend’s amusement. “Nothing Tarren. We were just talking about work and the like.”

  “I’ll bet,” she replied. The twinkle in her eyes suggested otherwise. “More like two young boys plotting mischief.”

  “Miss Brickton, I’m shocked you’d even suggest such!” Fennic announced in mock surprise.

  Tarren giggled and joined them. “Well don’t let a silly girl stop you. I’m off duty now and don’t plan on leaving until I get to the bottom of this scandal.”

  The boys exchanged wary looks. It was going to be a long night.

  Tarren began drumming her fingers on the table. “I can wait just as long as you.”

  “We weren’t talking about anything,” Delin insisted.

  She knew better. The game went on for a while, the boys doing everything they could to avoid her questions. Truth be known, Delin was still too unsure of what he wanted to do. He’d always been the one to want to see the world, but he had lacked the initiative to do anything about it. Fennic’s willingness to pick up and leave came as a shock. Winter promised to arrive early, making this a bad time to try and fulfill any dream of glory. His defense for the sudden weakness was the solace of Tarren’s beauty. She was the same age as them, and had grown up next to them since her parents had moved to the village twelve years ago.

  Delin quickly became enthralled with her. Everything about her enchanted him. Her smile, the way her golden eyes warmed him on a winter night. What he enjoyed most was the way she made him feel. There was completeness whenever they were together. He didn’t know how to explain it, but every part of him wanted to be with her.

  She had rich, dark hair that flowed well past her shoulders. Her body was trim and supple in all the right places, perfect in its youth and health. Not only was she pleasant to look at, as were most girls her age, she was by far the smartest girl Delin knew. Her parents owned and ran the tavern, making them some of the most popular folk in town. They had been able to afford a private tutor all the way from Paedwyn to ensure their children had the very best education possible. Tarren was the youngest of three daughters and the only one to show a genuine interest in the earnings and day to day business of the tavern. She already had designs to add a small wing for weary travelers to rest. The only problem with this plan was the lack of travelers in Fel Darrins. Few people bothered coming so far off the main roads.

  Tarren brushed a shining locket of hair from her face and Delin fell in love with her all over again. Her eyes were brilliant amber. She had high cheekbones, lending her an air or regality. The way her hair framed her smooth, tan face was melting his heart. She wore a green dress that, while simple and modest, betrayed a curvy, strong body. Delin couldn’t help but stare.

  “Like what you see?” she giggled.

  He gulped in embarrassment. Fennic burst out with laughter.

  “I’d say that was a yes,” he confirmed. The whole village knew about their unspoken romance.

  A punch in the shoulder was Delin’s answer. Tarren saw her opening.

  “If you like it that much,” she soothed, reaching a hand out to touch him, “perhaps you can tell me what you were talking about?”

  Delin had finally reached his breaking point. He opened his mouth to speak when a sudden commotion saved him from giving it all away. Three hunters burst into the common room and headed straight to the bar. They wore the usual leathers and furs marking their trade, but something about them was different. Their beards, normally blond and brown, were coated in a black substance, as were their clothes. Their sudden arrival sent ripples through the gossipy crowd. Conversations spread from table to table. Gilley Brickton came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel.

  “Can I help you?” he asked with his deep, rumbling voice.

  Gilley was a strong and proud man with little fear. He was just as gentle as his wife, despite his burly features and menacing appearance. Folk often complimented him on his willingness to hear them out when times were rough.

  The lead hunter dropped his coins on the bar and said, “Ale. Three of the strongest.”

  Gilley nodded. “Rough day?”

  “Aye,” the hunter answered. “We were out hunting near Ellif Pond.”

  “Out by old man Wiffe’s?” Gilley asked.

  “Not anymore,” the man on the far end said in a hushed voice.

  A dozen heads turned towards them.

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’d come out on the far side of the pond just past noon. Was on the trail of a herd of black deer. Hadn’t seen anything but tracks so we kept moving. Nith here was the first to smell the smoke. By the time we made to the clearing, we could see the ruins of a cottage. There wasn’t nothing left but half a chimney and some scorched stones. A couple of skeletons lay out front. One was a dog and the other a man with just one arm.”

  “Old man Wiffe,” Gilley announced with a stunned voice.

  Rumors were already spreading. Wiffe was considered unfriendly and eccentric by some, but was generally known to be harmless. To think someone could kill the old man so malevolently was bound to change life in Fel Darrins.

  “We’re thinking he was robed first. That’s about the only reason I can think to kill him,” the hunter explained with a casual coldness. “Aside from that, I’d say whoever done it was looking for something.”

  Gilley’s eyes fell on Delin and the others. The boys had heard every word and sat mortified. They’d been to Wiffe’s scant weeks ago and now he was dead. Neither had much concern until the hunter mentioned a search. It was all Fennic could do to keep from going in to a panic. Phaelor! The killers were after the star silver sword. There was no doubt about it. And if they’d gone out of their way to Wiffe’s to look for it, he was sure he and Delin weren’t safe here in Fel Darrins. All of the dreams of adventure suddenly seemed like a sick fantasy. He had to get away. He had to leave before Wiffe’s fate befell his family.

  FOUR

  The world transformed into a dangerous place in just three short weeks. The village council sent a party out to the ruins of Old Man Wiffe’s in the hopes of learning what had happened. The only thing they could decide on was that the hermit was indeed murdered. No one knew what the killers had been looking for, or even if there was a reason for the crime. So the townsfolk gathered to bury him and his beloved dog in the peaceful clearing he loved the most. A quick prayer was mumbled over the small cairn and the people of Fel Darrins went home to ponder this sudden turn of events.

  For Fennic, life was growing i
ncreasingly more miserable. They’d managed to avoid telling Tarren their developing plans and the involvement with Wiffe, if just barely, but his dilemma was tenfold. The death of Old Man Wiffe hit him hard, sparking apprehension and latent fears. He spent long nights awake wondering if the killers had been looking for the sword, and if they were now coming after him. Day by day he grew more convinced it was time to leave Fel Darrins.

  Perhaps the worst part came from not being able to tell anyone his concerns. A magical sword. Who would believe such an outlandish story? He knew he wouldn’t if he hadn’t been there himself. Fennic knew in his heart that Phaelor lay at the body of this mess. He secretly began packing to leave before the same murderers found his family and did the same. He had no idea where to go, or how long it was going to take to get there, but he couldn’t let harm come to everyone he knew. Even if Delin decided not to come, Fennic was leaving home. Hopefully the town of Alloenis wasn’t too far of a march.

  The upside to everything happening was the weather. A series of heavy thunderstorms had blown through taking the summer heat and humidity and leaving Autumn wet, but not cold. It was perfect for traveling. Fennic sighed whenever he thought of Delin and Tarren. Their love was obvious, and had been for years. Even if neither really knew it. Fennic saw the pained look on her face every time she spied them talking quietly. As much as he wanted Delin to go with him, he wasn’t willing to steal his best friend away from his life and love. Then again, Delin had been to the old man’s house as well and that made him just as much of a target as Fennic was.

  His other concern was the sword itself. Wiffe never explained anything about it. He merely said the sword picked and chose who was going to bear it. As it was, Fennic knew nothing about swords. Maybe someone in Alloenis could help, or an Elf. They were the ones who created it after all. If not Alloenis, then perhaps one of the king’s vaunted advisors would know in Paedwyn, the grand capital of Averon.

  Another day came and went, rising tensions coming hand in hand. Messengers were riding through much more than ever before, stopping just long enough to tend their mounts and spread the word to the cautious. War was coming to Averon! The Silver Mage was raising great armies in the east and King Maelor was hard pressed to gather levies from all territories. The Elves were keeping silent, unwilling to commit to another of Man’s wars. No word had yet returned from the Dwarves. All signs pointed towards Averon standing alone.