The Goblin stepped back. “But my troops.”
“Are expendable,” Hoole spat. “Never once believe the life of your kind is half as valuable as a Man. I want those prisoners alive.”
Hoole walked across the charred battleground relishing the smell and visions of perpetual torments before him. The lone attack of the dragon managed more damage than his entire army in over three years of skirmishes and battle with the enemy. He wished he could control such power and greatness once before he died. Hoole stared at ancient Gren Mot and laughed. The walls held a power beyond his comprehension. Built when the mountains were still young, Gren Mot was fashioned from the living stone. A part of the world died today and he was here to see it.
Even in desolation Gren Mot remained impressive. Ornate stone buttresses arched over a hundred feet in the air. Broken gargoyles and other statues of half forgotten heroes graced the overhangs and courtyards. Jervis Hoole stared in awe at the still pristine statue of a tall warrior striding forward, sword raised in challenge. The artist captured the life of it. It showed a frosted muscle tone and the anguish of knowing too much war. It wore the helm and body armor of ancient Gren. Before the Silver Mage. Hoole felt a stirring deep inside.
“The prisoners have been collected as you ordered, Sir,” the Goblin returned to report.
“What do we do now?”
Hoole ignored the contempt in his voice. “Line them up. Segregate the officers and senior sergeants.”
The Silver Mage’s orders were clear. It was Hoole’s job to ensure they were carried out. Once the fortress was entirely pacified his armies could focus on their own dead. This was more important. For a moment he considered clearing his army from the pass and letting the dragon fly by and burn the corpses of his dead. It would be far easier in the long run. But that would clue King Maelor too soon.
The line of battered prisoners was escorted into the rubble strewn yard amidst the howls and cheers of the conquering Trolls and Goblins. Hoole watched the fear in their eyes. Averon was a lazy land, consumed by its own sloth and lack of vision. The Silver Mage was going to take back everything they’d stolen from Gren and it began here.
Hoole held up his hand and silence settled.
“Soldiers of Averon, you have been found guilty of taking up arms against the great nation of Gren, murdering her people and contaminating the world with your heathenism. There can be but one sentence for such crimes. You are hereby sentenced to spend the remainder of your days as slaves for the Silver Mage.”
He watched as a near broken captain stepped forward. Wiln was close to death, a goodly portion of his body burned from the dragon’s breath. His right arm was broken. Despite all this, he remained defiant.
“Averon will never bow,” he said and spat at his captors.
A thin smile crossed Hoole’s face. Goblins drew their swords and readied to attack. “Indeed,” he replied. “Though I fear you won’t live to find out.”
Hoole nodded and his Goblins swarmed over Wiln, hacking him into pieces. Satisfied, Jervis Hoole walked up to few survivors and snatched the youngest by the collar. He dragged the boy next to Wiln’s corpse and shoved his face in the gore.
“Go back to your king, boy. Tell him what you saw and what awaits. Tell him what fate is coming for Averon and then find a place to hide. You will die the next time I see you.”
A whip cracked and the frightened boy took off running. Laughter followed.
“Put the rest in chains and take them to Aingaard,” Hoole ordered.
Having seen enough, Hoole turned towards the lands of his mortal enemies and sneered. Soon, soon your day will come, he thought.
THIRTY
The night life Paedwyn offered went beyond anything either of the boys imagined. They were used to the lone tavern in a simple town where half the population crowded inside once a week to sing songs and talk. Paedwyn, on the other hand, held over a hundred thousand people, not to mention several army regiments and the headquarters.
The city seemed to stretch forever. Taverns, inns, gambling halls and all manner of entertainment were available in every direction. Theaters and circuses drew throngs of people daily and there was never a lack of stories waiting to be told. Actors and playwrights came from the world over to study and apprentice with the masters. Music was played with the most basic of instruments to a degree unsurpassed in all Malweir. The streets of Paedwyn were every youth’s dream.
Yet along with the lighthearted mirth there came a darker underside most public administrators were reluctant to admit. Pickpockets and murderers waiting for the unsuspecting drunkard stumbling into a dark alley hid in the shadows. Civic patrols constantly found and removed bodies of the less fortunate. Everyone from the king on down knew of the troubles and no measure of control had been effective. It was reasoned that such would always happen in high concentrations of people. Even so, Maelor wanted it to end. Delin and Fennic had been here just over a week and were still enamored with the capitol city. Norgen was often with them in their daily wanderings. Tonight however, they found themselves along in the inn of the Dragon Tail. Two mugs of hot cider sat before them.
Delin rubbed the beard he’d started growing. He had a rue smile on his face.
“What’s so funny?” Fennic asked. “I haven’t seen you laugh in a long time.”
There was a sparkle in his eye. “What do you suppose they’re doing right now?”
“What who are doing?”
“Our families. I’ve been thinking about them for a bit. This is the time of year my mom starts baking her pumpkin pies. Dad comes home with a fresh killed stag. Friends and family come over for the feast. I miss them, Fennic.”
Fennic Attleford stretched a reassuring hand to his best friend. “I miss them too. Part of me wishes I never took the sword, but Phaelor is pulling me. Forcing me in the direction it needs to go. I know what needs to be done but I’m afraid. All your dreams and stories of being a soldier and seeing the world used to sound so good. Now look where we are.”
“In the middle of a war,” Delin replied. “I haven’t seen Hallis in a few days. I wonder what he’s up to. With all those Gnaals and Goblins roaming the wilds I shouldn’t doubt he’s out there somewhere.”
Delin paused long enough to finish his cider and order another. They’d run out of the money they brought from Fel Darrins a long time ago but were handsomely rewarded by the treasury of the king for their actions in the name of Averon. They were now also in the employ of Maelor. He’d named them heroes and given them the station according to such. All in all, he treated them as if they were his own sons.
“I can think of another smile I want to see again,” Delin admitted with a blush.
It was Fennic’s turn to smile. “And does she have a name?”
“Who said anything about a she?” Delin protested. “You know full well who it is.”
Fennic suddenly found himself jealous of his friend. True love was a fickle thing and always eluded him. It just didn’t seem fair that Delin would fall so hopelessly in love and he was left with nothing but a cold pillow on long winter nights. Still, Fennic knew love would find him in its own due time. At least that’s what his father often said. Right now he wasn’t so sure.
He watched the way Delin and Tarren looked at each other and it burned a hole in his heart. Now, with Phaelor in his life, Fennic was beginning to doubt the future. He’d been with a girl only once and neither of them really understood what they were doing. Her father found out about it and forbade him from ever seeing her again. Fennic was hurt to be sure, but not as much as by seeing his friends shamelessly holding hands and walking through town.
“Aside from you,” Delin said, “Tarren is my only friend.”
“I’m sure she’s working in the tavern hoping you’re all right. You should send her a dispatch,” Fennic suggested. He was anxious to change the subject.
Delin snorted. “I would but I don’t think anyone here has even heard of Fel Darrins.”
&nbs
p; “I’m thinking that is a good thing about now,” Fennic replied.
The tavern door burst open, followed by the rush of cold autumn winds and a light flurry of snow. Few patrons bothered to pay the stocky Dwarf entering any attention. Both boys were glad to see Norgen again. The Dwarf’s beady eyes narrowed as he sought out his two friends. He wasn’t smiling. Picking his way through the crowd, Norgen finally sat down with them and motioned for a bar maid.
“What’s wrong?” Fennic asked. Phaelor burned lightly against his thigh.
“There’s a column of several hundred horsemen heading this way. Hallis wants us to join him,” the Dwarf said in a hushed growl.
Delin’s heart froze. “Are they enemy?”
“No. The Silver Mage doesn’t look fondly on cavalry. They ride from the east. Finish your drinks and let’s go.”
“I think I lost the stomach for it,” Fennic said.
Norgen shrugged. “Suit yourself. I want you both to remember one thing during the coming months. Do not neglect yourselves during this war, be it for food or sleep. Your strength is all you have.”
Fennic reluctantly finished his cider and followed them out into the chill night. A pair of women in heavy, dirty cloaks stood waiting by the door with inviting looks. One was old and well past her prime while the other was especially young. Street urchins, Dwarf silently cautioned. They walked briskly by. No one on the streets was even aware of the coming riders. Norgen feared the worst. He had a good idea where they were coming from but wasn’t about to be the one to incite a panic in the city. Times were hard enough with the threat of war and a harsh winter coming on.
They found Hallis waiting on horseback just on the near side of the Geise bridge. His look told them the worst. Disaster had come to the mountain fortress. Norgen led them to the spare mounts.
“We must hurry,” the sergeant said. “Steleon wants all key personnel with him when they reach the city.”
“What happened?” Delin asked.
“It is not my place to say.”
They rode at a goodly pace, past the eastern gates and out to a makeshift camp halfway to the river. Steleon and a handful of commanders were already pacing and developing battle strategies inside a large white tent trimmed in gold. Sentries and infantrymen patrolled the general area. Fennic half expected to see the entourage of the king.
Hallis dismounted and entered the tent.
Steleon looked up and nodded. “I apologize for the sudden summons, but war often follows its own schedule,” he told the boys. “Border scouts reported this large body of riders coming from the direction of the Gren Mountains. All indications are they belong to us, which means the worst for Fynten. We’ve received no word in some time and the trains of wounded all but stopped coming. Four hundred horsemen can only mean ill.”
Fennic swallowed hard. “But wouldn’t that mean there’s no hope left to defend the mountains? Fynten and all those men…”
“Are as good as dead,” Steleon finished grimly. “We must look to the defense of the lowlands now. We are all that is left standing between Paedwyn and the Silver Mage.”
“Is there any news from Harlegor?” Hallis asked.
“None.”
“Our list of allies grows thinner,” Norgen said. He gently tugged on his beard. “This will be a dark winter.”
Steleon nodded. “Winter is the one thing we have going for us. The mountains are a formidable place, even in summer. The passes are slick and treacherous in the winter months. Not even the Mage can delay the seasons. He has less than a month before the snows set in. if we can hold him until then we just might have a chance.”
Delin and Fennic exchanged doubtful looks. There were too many ifs in the plan. What little they knew of war came from firsthand experience and that was a matter of Fate. Or so Hallis once told them. He said a good general can plan until his hair turns gray and it would do little good. Plans had a tendency to go awry once the first arrow flew. Hopefully the Silver Mage was going to be a product of his own cunning.
“Riders are approaching!”
Steleon spun, his bear skin cloak twirling in the torchlight. “Arms! Prepare for battle!”
“I thought they were friendly?” Delin asked Hallis.
Soldiers marched into battle lines. The clamor of steel on steel echoed on the still night air.
“Be they friend or foe, we can ill afford to be caught with out guard down. A handful could be ours, while the rest might easily be imposters hoping to sneak in an wreak havoc. The enemy is crafty so we must keep our vigil.”
Delin was confused. “But Goblins don’t look anything like us.”
“You forget, Master Kerny,” Norgen cautioned, “the Silver Mage has more than Goblins under his spell. Many tribes and lands of Men have fallen to his will. They now willingly serve his dark cause.”
“I wish I never left home,” Fennic whispered. “Life was so much simpler.”
“Simple or not, we would still be at war and your precious Fel Darrins would be in even greater danger, for no one would have any knowledge of the coming horror,” Hallis tried to reassure them. “You being here is a testament to all the hamlets and villes the people of Paedwyn have never known. You and the Star Silver sword have the chance to shape the outcome of the war and that is no small task. None of us know what will happen tomorrow or the week after. We can merely react to the events of the moment. Hold your heads high for you have rightly been named heroes of the realm.”
Fennic felt a stirring in his heart, similar to when he first touched Phaelor. He pushed aside the dread thoughts of war and tried to focus on a better world. The world he was fighting to preserve. He still wasn’t sure it was a good idea to tell the others of his intent on going into Gren though. They’d do their best to talk him out of it, not seeing what was really happening. Sadly, Phaelor controlled destiny and that of the free world. What choice did Fennic really have?
A cold breeze danced over the half frozen plain. The men shivered and their teeth chattered noisily. Delin immediately found winter to be a horrible time for a war. Then a great commotion in the west arose and stole his dreams of heat and warmth. The riders had arrived.
Steleon and Hallis stood shoulder to shoulder as the first ranks came into sight. The old veterans were surprised to see Melgit at the head of the formation. Steleon had always taken Melgit as a man who never retreated. Seeing him now meant certain doom for the garrison at Gren Mot. Fatigue oozing from every pore, Melgit rode up to his commander and saluted. His shoulders were slumped and there was a new hollowness in his eyes. The siege had taken a heavy toll on him and his men. His armor was blackened and battered and blood stained his equipment.
“Commander,” Melgit bowed in the saddle.
“How many did you bring back?” Steleon asked. He already knew the fate of the others.
“Just over four hundred. I lost ten on the way home and the rest in battle.” His voice lacked its usual edge. Delin stood in awe of this grizzled warrior and knew it would not be the last time he would be in such a presence.
“All our tricks worked and reaped a terrible toll on them,” the cavalryman continued.
“The enemy lost many thousands and still they advanced. Fynten ordered us to fall back to defend Paedwyn once the last outer defense line was breeched. Thousands more fell before we were forced back inside the walls.”
He let out an involuntary shudder. “They marched over their dead without care. I’ve never seen the like. They had an army of Trolls bringing great siege machines. The Silver Mage isn’t going to stop until the western world lies at his feet. This is going to be a terrible war.”
It was then he noticed the two boys and their Dwarven ally.
“Have the Dwarves come at last?” he asked in shock and hope.
“Master Norgen is an envoy for his people,” Hallis said. “”They will come.”
THIRTY-ONE
There was a tiny sliver of moon out by the time Hallis finished bedding down Melgit’s men
. All four hundred instinctively began caring for their mounts before seeing to their own needs. Though he wasn’t much for horses, Hallis admired the cavalrymen’s dedication to their partners. Slowly the troopers gathered around the growing fires to shake off the chill and share a bite to eat before heading off to sleep. Melgit and his commanders went into Steleon’s command tent.
The tent smelled of pipe smoke and oil. Detailed maps of the Gren mountains and eastern Averon lay sprawled across the tabletops. Additional tactical maps hung from one of the walls. Steleon was already making this his home. Fresh brewed coffee was brought in, much their appreciation. Outside, the noise was dying down. The camp was going back to sleep.
“I’m glad you made it out of there,” Steleon told his friend. You’ll be sorely needed soon enough, he kept to himself.
“It wasn’t my decision,” Melgit replied with a dour look. Fynten and I fought for two days over this. His logic finally won. Besides, my forces are better suited to the open plain. We would have been all but worthless cooped up in that fortress. Still, leaving them behind was the hardest thing I have ever done.”
No one spoke for long moments.
“I had every intention of going back to their aid. We even took our time moving through the pass. At the base of the mountains we made a hasty camp and began planning. Three days later young Graeme here stumbled into our sentries. My story ends there. Graeme, please tell them what you told me.”
Graeme was young in every sense of the word. He sat humbled in the presence of the army’s senior commanders and was at a loss for words.
Steleon sensed his hesitation and did his best to ease the youth’s nerves. “Forget that I am your superior right now. Think of me as a friend and brother.”
The boy took a deep calming breath and began. He stopped more than once to wipe a stream of tears from his eyes as the horrible memories came rushing back. When he finally finished he had a steeled look to him. Part of him wanted revenge for his friends. Steleon politely excused himself and stumbled outside. He was an emotional wreck. His heart bled for those poor men burned alive and their families. So many friends had been recklessly slaughtered. Dragons were near invincible, but none had been seen in a hundred years. That Sidian held one in his sway was an ill omen for Averon.
Armies of the Silver Mage Page 18