Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  Ris put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “ware those who would be your friends. What you carry holds all our fates. Farewell my friends.”

  FOURTEEN

  Tolis Scarn had only been to the sleepy town of Feist once before and remembered less than he cared to. Much the same as every other want to be big city, Feist also had a darker side. Enemies of the king met in secret lodges safe from prying eyes. There they plotted Averon’s downfall and a return to the revolutionary times of the Mages. The Silver Mage stretched his influence this far away through rumor alone. Scarn didn’t really care. The silly war between Averon and the dead kingdom wasn’t his business. His sole focus lay in finding the shard of the Cracked Crystal of Tol Shere that crazy old Dakeb had. Political ambitions and empirical desires were well beyond the scope of his future.

  Apart from harboring radicals and society’s miscreants, Feist was a very good place to stop for ale and go unnoticed for a few hours. Just the place Scarn felt comfortable in. he rode past a hastily assembled gate guard and into town shortly after nightfall three weeks since leaving Fel Darrins. Three long weeks and he was no closer to finding the shard than when he was hired. The Hooded Man hired him over four months ago. Scarn knew time was running out. His instructions were to have the shard before Winter Day and that was a mere four weeks away. He was frustrated at the lack of success and in need of a day off.

  Scarn decided to put business to the side for the night and guided his horse through the busy streets to an inn. He had every intention of enjoying a few good drinks before resuming the hunt. Four soldiers marched by without so much as passing a glance. To them he wasn’t more than another rider in a city of strangers. Certainly not a threat to the security of Feist. That didn’t surprise him much. Most soldiers garrisoned in the smaller cities stopped paying so much attention to the solemn oaths implied in their duties. Talk of the gathering darkness in the ancient land of Gren cluttered the streets. Enemy armies were massing, threatening to spill across the border and condemn Averon under a foul blanket.

  Scarn, having found a place suitable enough for his liking, took a chair close to the fire and warmed his hands while he awaited his drink. There were a handful of other patrons spread throughout the common room. Two Dwarves sat by themselves in the opposite corner while a trio of local youths enjoyed the warmth offered by the ale. Scarn received a few suspicious looks that lasted only as long as it took him to return them. No one wanted trouble it seemed.

  “Your ale, sir.”

  He looked up at the serving girl and smiled. Her cheeks blushed as his fingers brushed against hers.

  “Thank you, pet.”

  Giggling as she went off, the plump girl secretly wished he’d order another.

  “Not from around here are you boy?” asked an old voice from behind.

  Scarn felt that familiar twinge. “I don’t know as how that’s any of your concern.”

  The old man ignored Scarn’s sour attitude and took a seat opposite him. “Just like everyone these days. Can’t take the time to be friendly. Not like there’s harm in it. Folks just aren’t polite anymore. Reminds me of the dark times.”

  “I’m a little young to remember those days,” Scarn replied between swallows. “A bit before me.”

  “Aye, as well they were. Many a good man died during those days. But it’s our doom that we forget. Thousands died and for what? To establish puppet thrones in case the evil returned. Ha!”

  Agitated, Scarn finished his ale and ordered again. “Strong opinions, but I could really care less. Why don’t you go bother someone else before I get angry?”

  The old man ignored him and continued to ramble. “That’s the problem with youth. Never takes the time to listen. You just may be surprised one of these times. Especially now with all these strange things going on. Very strange indeed.”

  Now that he found interesting. Against better judgment, Scarn paid for the ale and decided to ask questions. He’d been through this scenario a hundred times already and knew how to play the game. Scarn discovered most people warmed to him after a few drinks but this guy was almost there now. Chances were he wouldn’t remember the conversation come morning.

  Scarn leaned forward and smoothly asked, “What do you mean by strange?”

  “Eh? Decided to join the conversation have we?” He smiled and took another drink.

  “We’ve all seen many a strange moment as of late. Dark beings in the streets late at night. I myself have heard terrible wailings coming from the forests outside town. The sounds of demons some say.”

  “I’ve heard them myself on the road from Alloenis. They’re enough to frighten a simple trader out of business.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Surely there has to be more than that? It doesn’t seem like there’s any shortage of business here,” Scarn pressed.

  “Secrets. Too many secrets. Folks been disappearing for no reason and the authorities don’t see concerned. Everyone’s more focused on the coming war with Gren. Myself, I don’t care. I’ve already lived too many winters and seen my share of battle. A few more don’t matter much.” He paused long enough to let out a shallow belch. “A trader you say? What brings you to Feist? We’ve already got plenty of your profession.”

  “I’m supposed to meet with an old friend. I wonder if you’ve seen him?” Scarn went on to describe Dakeb, but the old man shook his head. “Maybe he got delayed in the storm or I missed him.”

  “Could be, friend. Plenty of things like that happen in bad weather,” the old man agreed. “Was it business or pleasure?”

  “Does it matter? You can’t tell the difference once you’ve been at it for so long. As a matter of fact, he found this rare purple stone and was wondering how much it was worth. Who better to ask than a close friend?”

  “Haven’t seen this old man of yours. But then again, we all look alike after a while. I do seem to recall two young men with an odd purple stone. Saw them going to Loenx’s smithy. They had a Dwarf with them.”

  A Dwarf? This was news. He just couldn’t figure out why two boys had the shard. Dakeb must have gotten spooked and given it to them in Fel Darrins. So what happened to the old man? The grave in Rellin Werd was empty and could have been a decoy to throw him off the trail. No one he passed from there to here remembered seeing an old man traveling alone. They did recall a pair of boys heading north. Dakeb must have come upon them in the forest and gave them the stone. He had to have.

  “Does anyone know where they are now? It’s possible my friend couldn’t make it and had them come in his place.”

  The old man offered a doubtful scowl before quickly accepting another tankard of ale at Scarn’s expense. Scarn sat in disappointment as the old man downed his drink and mumbled something about going to bed. It was obvious there was nothing more to learn here. Tolis Scarn yawned and walked off.

  Dawn was extremely short in coming, much to Scarn’s dislike. He was already bordering exhaustion from countless weeks on the road and empty nights trying to gather information. Sometimes he wondered what a normal life would be like. A boring cottage with the same woman and children running under foot didn’t seem right to him. He was a free soul, bound eternal to roam the world in search of one more job. Satisfied with his lot,

  Scarn strapped on his weapons and went back to the common room for a quick bite to eat before searching for Loenx the smith.

  He asked around for directions and was only mildly disappointed it took so long to find someone who actually knew of the man.

  “Loenx? Yeah I know him,” said an ex-soldier with one arm. “Down the road on the right. Owns a green smithy. But what you want with him is beyond me. There’s no talent in his work.”

  Scarn thanked the old cripple and entered the green smithy. A greasy looking man stepped out to greet him. His smile was false and misleading. Scarn took an instant dislike to the man.

  “Greetings friend. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Loenx asked.


  “Perhaps you’d care to see what I have working in the forge?”

  “That would be perfect,” Scarn replied.

  He’d been in far bigger and better smiths over his life, but there most were in the bigger population centers. Still, what Loenx lacked in talent he made up for in cleanliness and layout. Assorted swords in various stages of completion line a row of stone benches. There was a small pile of coal in the far corner with a torn leather bellow next to it. Scrap iron sat in buckets at the foot of the forge. Scarn was almost impressed.

  Loenx saw his obvious approval and made the mistake of turning his back to fetch a sword nearing completion. Scarn eased back to lock the forge door and draw his dagger. The smith stared in shock

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he sputtered.

  Scarn moved closer. “Relax and we’ll both walk away from this. Anger me and I promise your blood will stain the floor. Do you understand?”

  Loenx nodded.

  “Good. I have a few questions I want to ask you. You’re going to be very truthful with me, I can feel it. A pair of boys came in here a few days accompanied by a Dwarf.”

  “Yes, I remember them,” Loenx replied.

  “Who were they and what did they want?”

  Loenx started shaking. “Please sir, take what money I have in my purse and go. I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a simple smith trying to make a living.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Using his lightning reflexes, Scarn pounced on him. He kicked out Loenx’s knee and dropped the smith with a sharp cry of pain.

  “You’re making this very painful,” he growled. “Answer my questions and you’ll never see me again. I’m not the kind of man you want as an enemy.”

  Scarn had to stretch once he left the smith. It had been a long time since he actually tortured a man. Loenx took a bit of work to break, but the man wouldn’t shut up once his resistance broke. He’d told much more than Scarn cared to know. In the end it all came down to liability. Any man who willingly talked so much was dangerous. Scarn knew if he could make the smith talk so easily someone else might get the same results. He noticed a small blood stain on his sleeve and frowned. This was a brand new riding jacket. If Loenx weren’t already dead Scarn would have gone back inside.

  FIFTEEN

  “Fire!”

  The catapult battery launched a dozen flaming projectiles into the massing Goblin ranks less than a mile away. Tired men hurriedly reloaded their weapons until they had to be replaced by fresh men from the fortress. A battalion of archers came marching down from the rear of the pass to join the ranks aching for battle. Cavalrymen and infantry were already in place behind a trio of pitch filled ditches.

  Hundreds of Goblins were already dead yet still the army pressed forward. Huge Mountain Trolls towered over the Goblins, pulling great siege engines towards the front lines. Tens of thousands more waited on the vast plains of Gren. Once the ancient fortress was conquered the way into Averon would be wide open for invasion. All the vanguard had to do was bring down the walls of Gren mot and slay her defenders. Commander Fynten watched Goblin engineers with their blackened wooden walkways move closer to the front ranks. They carried more than enough to breach the ditches.

  “Archers ready! Third rank. Strike the flames!”

  A page ran along the rank of bowmen, setting fire to the small line of pitch. The archer captain walked to Fynten and removed his conical helmet. The commander of Gren Mot nodded slightly. Fynten had dark hair with a thick moustache. He was lightly muscled and nearing the end of his third decade. Ahead of his peers in practically every category, the King saw fit to entrust him with the mounting responsibility of defending Averon’s eastern approach.

  “I was wondering when your boys were going to join us, Wiln,” he said with a smile.

  A cold wind tussled his thick, black hair. “We’ve been having all the fun thus far.”

  Another catapult salvo rocketed overhead. A massive cheer rose from the Goblin ranks. Fynten turned to see their engineers rush towards the first obstacle.

  Wiln grimaced at their numbers. “I thought it would be a better entrance to arrive just in the nick of time.”

  “That you have,” Fynten agreed. “Are your men ready?”

  “We await the order.”

  The catapults fired again. Fragments of oil and brimstone drifted into stretching trails across the sky. Fynten judged the front Goblin ranks in range. He turned to his friend.

  “You have it,” he said. “Let’s just hope they can strike their marks.”

  Wiln replaced his helm and gallantly strode back to his men with sword raised high.

  “Ignite!”

  Four hundred tiny flames simultaneously sprang to life along the Averonian lines.

  “Draw!”

  Archers drew back, aiming in on the Goblin foe.

  “Loose!”

  The burning missiles whistled through the purple-black sky. Some hit only dirt and rock while the majority burned into Goblin flesh. A handful dropped into the trench filled with pitch. A wall of flame erupted on the battlefield. Not even the roar of Fynten’s men was enough to drown the screams of the roasting Goblins.

  “Ignite and take aim! Second target. Loose!”

  The second volley struck the confused mass of Goblins. Hundreds fell while their comrades trampled over the still warm corpses. Fynten watched the display in disgust. He hated war, but fully understood the necessity for it. If he failed here a doom would befall his beloved Averon. Everything he stood for and believed in would meet a violent demise. No, this was the only way.

  “Captain Surnish!” he roared. “Move those catapults three hundred meters back and engage.”

  The Goblins breeched the final ditch halfway through the second night and halted. Fynten summoned his captains to his tent to discuss the coming fight. All were blackened from ash and fire and covered in sweat despite the growing cold of winter. Outside, the catapults continued their brutal assault. Hundreds died with each volley.

  Wiln wiped the exhaustion from his brow. “We’ve killed thousands of them and to what end? Still they press us without regard for casualties. We cannot win this battle.”

  “Where would you have us retreat to?” asked the disgruntled cavalry captain, Melgit.

  “My horses are of no use in the keep.”

  Fynten let them argue for a time. It did good to get the angst off their chests and clear their minds. He knew they merely expressed what everyone of the soldiers was feeling. Sooner or later something had to give. Fynten hoped it was the enemy’s will.

  “Gentlemen, how many of us have families on the other side of the mountains?” He already knew the answer, but by asking it put their minds in the right place.

  “Because none of them will survive should we fail. Make no mistake; this is the beginning of the much dreaded war. The Silver Mage has grown discontent with his rotten kingdom and seeks to enslave Malweir under his foul wizardry and dark armies. Those we killed thus far are insignificant compared to what yet awaits us.”

  “None doubt you, Commander,” Wiln conceded, “but how long can we realistically hold this position? And at what cost? We can only push our men so far before the first wall is taken.”

  “My scouts have seen more Goblins and other foul creatures than all of Averon can hope to withstand. What we accomplish in the pass will be minimal at best,” Melgit said. He’d spent the majority of his adult life fighting one war or the next and had never left the enemy in control of the battlefield.”

  “We need hold until King Maelor has an army large enough to invade Gren and put the mage’s head on a pike. Don’t tell me what we can and can’t do or why. Give me solutions to the problems at hand. What you must realize, is that it is expected we die in the defense of our country should the need arise. My orders, issued by the king’s own hand, state that the keep will be held to the last man.”

  A low murmur spread through the captains.

  Fynten held up his ha
nd. “I have no intention of dying in these mountains.”

  Surnish slammed a gnarled fist into the table. “Nor do I! What do you need of me?”

  “Keep firing as long as the catapults hold. I’ve already authorized one company at a time to be replaced. This stands for everyone but you archers, Wiln. I need as many shafts in the air as I can get,” Fynten explained. The artillery was the least of his concerns. Besides, catapults weren’t much good once the Goblins closed on his infantry.

  “You’ve been exceptionally quiet so far, Prellin.”

  The one eyed infantry captain nodded. “Aside from Melgit, my men have seen the least action. We are rested and ready to fight.”

  “You’ll have your fight much sooner than I’d like. My instincts say they’ll hit the wall before sunrise. The pikes and archers will keep them at bay long enough but some are bound to break through,” Fynten said. “Melgit, that’s where you come in. Swing your cavalry in from the flank. Don’t stop until you’re clear the far side and back behind the wall again.”

  “The wounded…” he began.

  Fynten suppressed a grimace. “There will be no wounded. You know this as well as I. archers will provide cover before and after your charge. I want the Goblins confused. Expecting another attack. Captain Jeurle, is all ready for our surprise?”

  “All is,” Jeurle replied. He was the youngest and most eager of the group. He was also one of the brightest engineers in the royal army. “Hopefully we can take some of those Trolls down as well.”

  “The battlements in the keep have the Troll killers already in place. They’re not my main concern,” Fynten turned back to Melgit. “Is there a way to fire their siege machines?”

  “The danger to the cavalry will be great.”

  “And unacceptable I wager,” Fynten agreed.

  A single trumpet call rang out across the mountain pass. The Goblins were preparing to attack.

  “Gentlemen, to your posts. My guess is they’re already too close for your catapults so aim for the siege machines. Every little piece will buy us and Averon time. Good luck,” he told them.