Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  Roln laughed even harder. “You always did take yourself too seriously. No. Steleon feels the enemy has spies running in the army and didn’t want to take a chance. The Men of ancient Gren march alongside the Goblins and Trolls, they say.”

  Norgen yawned. He enjoyed the casual banter between warriors as much as the next man, but he was tired and hungry.

  “Seeing there’s no foe to cleave, I’d like a bite to eat and a mug of ale,” he told them. Truth be told, he hated riding horses as much as fighting Gnaals and it showed.

  Roln laughed again. “Don’t fret, Master Dwarf. We’ve food and drink aplenty. Let’s take care of your mounts and see about filling your stomachs before Steleon discovers you’re here.”

  One hour and a good pipe later, they pushed away from the table and stretched and yawned. Not even midday and the skies were darkening. Passing soldiers saw this as a bad sign and made wards to protect themselves. Steleon, being a warrior all his life, recognized the danger and ordered huge barrels of ale to be opened. Older and wiser men knew the real reason and it did the trick. The camp was saved from demoralization.

  “I wonder what it’s going to be like,” Fennic said to Delin. He had intended on stopping eating after his second plate of roast pheasant but couldn’t help it. It was too good to pass up and reminded him of home.

  Delin just looked at him and shook his head. He was afraid to find out now that he was here.

  “This is very exciting. The battle. The war. I want to know, Delin.”

  Delin eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not the person I knew back in Fel Darrins. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”

  His words were harsh and not altogether unexpected, but Fennic did his best to take them in stride.

  “It’s Phaelor, Delin. I can feel it changing me, folding me into something I never wanted to be. What’s worse, I think I like it,” Fennic told his best friend.

  Delin shook his head and silently wept for his friend.

  And so it was few people saw the lone rider in purple and black with the horns of an elk emblazoned on his banner ride into camp. He’d been riding for nearly a week to deliver an important message to the king. After tonight, he could return with the answer.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Fennic walked along the river bank watching the sun rise slowly over the jagged peaks of the Gren Mountains. The sky was alive in shades of orange and red, appearing as if the very underworld had opened up and unleashed hell. That was exactly how Fennic felt. A fever raged deep within his innermost mind. Too many dark and wonderful thoughts collided to torment him. He’d barely been able to sleep.

  The top of the sun poked over the highest crag and he was suddenly reminded that his birthday was just two weeks away. Eighteen years old and already a man. Winter’s Day was fast approaching and would normally be cause for celebration in Fel Darrins. This year he saw no reason to celebrate. Not even his birthday was cause to ease the trouble in his soul. He raised a hand to shield the sun’s glare. Then it came to him. An unspoken whisper in shadows of his mind. Fennic knew what he had to do. It was the only way.

  He knew there was simply no way to slip in to Gren alone. He needed friends. Fennic clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked back to the tent. His mind fumbled over the right words to convince the others of the importance of this quest. In the end it wouldn’t matter if they said yes or no. Phaelor would not be denied.

  Handfuls of stragglers and volunteers walked or rode into the three main camps throughout the day, steadily building up the numbers. Most had little or no formal military training and were sent to the reserves. Steleon ordered instructors to go over the basics with them. He hoped it was just enough to keep them long enough to matter. They were farmers and shopkeepers, peasants without land claims. They were the very soul of what Averon had come to be over the long course of its history. Many a mother and wife were left behind with tears in their eyes. Others chose to come along to see their husbands and sons sacrifice themselves if need be. They cooked and cleaned for the troops, selflessly giving to the men who defended them. Steleon was careful to keep them away from the regular army. They could ill afford any distractions at this point.

  Tolis Scarn was in one of the last groups to arrive. He was hooded and carefully disguised on the off chance someone recognized him. After all, he was unpopular in many lands. More than one ruler had put a price on his head and that made him an inviting target for would be mercenaries and bounty hunters. He was spending more time running for his life than working to fix things these days.

  So when the Hooded Man came to him one night after heavy drinking with a sinister proposition it didn’t take much convincing. Now here he was. He’d been tracking the stone for almost three months and was almost right back where he started. The closest he’d gotten was in Rellin Werd but all he found was the empty cairn. The Hooded Man was increasingly becoming agitated at his results and now he was in the middle of a war. Lady Fortune seemed to have abandoned him completely.

  A sergeant came out to the assorted rabble barking orders and asking questions. Those with weapons experience were herded to the right while the rest were sent back to the reserve compound to get what training they could before the enemy arrived. Scarn and a group of experienced men were marched over to one of the newest recruit regiments for integration.

  Half of them were already bloodied, having served with Sergeant Hallis on his way back from the western lands. They were almost legendary by now, for no one had ever slain a Gnaal. The meager band suddenly found themselves a focal point for the army. The quiet heroes in shadows remained Delin and Fennic. The common man’s friend and role model. Most of the recruits were much older than the boys. A sigh escaped Scarn upon seeing them. He just knew he was going to die here. Yet there was a strange sense of determination in him. Tolis Scarn settled down and eased himself into his new role as a soldier in the armies of Averon.

  * * *

  Melgit watched with minor interest as his cavalry drill on the vast plain. He was normally enthralled by the sleek tactics and the thunder of hooves, but the precision held no joy for him this day. He was tired of war and seeing friends and subordinates fall. Nightmares of Gren Mot continued to plague him. He did his best to put them in place during the day but he also knew Steleon wouldn’t hesitate to relieve him on the field if he showed adequate reason. Melgit was convinced the only way to exorcise the demons was by leading his men back into the fray. His cold, blue eyes were shrouded in pain and de-termination.

  Most of the others were already assembled in the command tent by the time he arrived. His eyes sparked when he noticed the ragged man with a travel beard dressed in purple and black. Graeme stood off by the map pointing and talking excitedly. One of the boys sat off by himself fondling an extravagant sword. Another was with Hallis and the Dwarf. Melgit had heard most of the stories by now and was hardly impressed. Too many of his comrades lay dead for him to care much about a pair of boys from some distant village few had heard of.

  Steleon came from one of the smaller side tents dressed in a dull and dented set of training armor. Young Jin was with him. Neither said a word. Everyone watched as the bearded man got up and followed Jin from the tent. Questions raged throughout the tent and only Steleon had the answers.

  “Our scouts have reported enemy movement at last,” he said in a low grating voice.

  “The dragon is nowhere in sight, but the threat is too real to ignore. The army of Gren has recovered from the sting at Gren Mot and are moving down through the pass. The Dwarves have not come and no other land has sent troops to our aid. The hour grows dark yet hope still flickers. Come forward, Fennic.”

  Awkward with addressing a group of people, even ones he was familiar with, Fennic slowly made his way to the middle of the tent. He slowly wrapped his hand around the hilt of Phaelor and drew the ancient and mighty weapon. A gasp went up from those who hadn’t seen it before. Even Steleon was impressed.

  “This is Phaelor, the s
tar silver sword of legend. How it came to me is a tale in itself and I will not go into details here. It has been my guiding hand for weeks now, pulling me towards whatever destiny the Elves created it for.” He cleared his throat. “Only recently has it become clear to me what I need to do. I must take the sword to Gren and destroy the Silver Mage. There is no choice.”

  Silence dominated the tent. Graeme stood with his mouth agape. Disbelief stung his eyes. Steleon rose slowly. He had a vague notion of why they were there, but this went beyond those assumptions. He didn’t expect a task so dire.

  “Foolishness!” spat Melgit. “You’re but a boy. Barely old enough to join the army. Surely we don’t expect to put the fate of Averon in his hands? I don’t care if he holds the cursed sword or not. No child can do what great armies have failed to.”

  Steleon held up a staying hand. “You forget, he is the Gnaal slayer. I won’t judge him by his age. There are many strange powers in this world. Who are we to decide what is clearly beyond us all?”

  “All Averon is at stake,” Melgit argued.

  “Calm down, Melgit,” Steleon warned. “Let them speak.”

  Hallis stood up and eyed them with a stern gaze. “I am no prophet nor scholar, but I know strength when I see it. This boy almost single handedly killed the Gnaal where a company of men could not. If his path leads him into the foulness of Gren he shall not go alone.”

  Melgit rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious. I’ll have no part in this. Trusting our land to a mere boy!”

  “No one is asking you to go,” Steleon replied. There was a hushed urgency in his voice. Sound traveled far at night and this plan was too important to be heard while still in the fledgling stage. Several spies and infiltrators had already been caught and hung. He wasn’t willing to take the chance of discovery.

  “You were summoned here for your knowledge of the dread land, nothing more. All I ask is you remain silent to everyone outside of this council. The fate of all us now rides upon secrecy. As far as Fennic’s youth and inexperience, well, anyone capable of slaying a demon of Gren has earned the right to risk his life in the name of us all. I will not hinder the quest.” He paused to eye Fennic softly. “What support I can lend, I will. You have my word.”

  “This is all well and fine, but I’ll not let the glory of victory fall solely on Men,” Norgen growled and moved to stand beside Hallis. His heavy battle axe rested on the ground.

  Delin let out a long, controlled breath. He was as afraid of uttering his next few words as he was with the troubles in his heart. “We’ve been friends for a long time, and a real friend will stick by your side through the good and bad. Besides, you’ll need someone to look after you properly along the way.”

  The bitter Melgit stopped shaking his head long enough to stare thoughtfully at the group. Four fools throwing their lives away on a whim. He hooked his thumbs into his belt when he stood. A tender peace hovered in his eyes.

  “This is madness to be sure. I do not approve of this plan at all, but I can see a fire in you all. Perhaps Averon has a future if others of this caliber can come together. My best and fastest steeds are in your service. May they carry you far.”

  Steleon smiled. “Indeed, all the way to Aingaard and the keep of the Silver Mage should the way prove kind. Draw your supplies, as much as you need. That won’t be an issue. I think it best you leave as soon as possible, under the cover of darkness. Your one hope lies in traveling up river through the Old Forest up to Thuil Lake. From there turn east to Gren. Aingaard will be easy enough to find. I do not envy your task. You have the hardest jobs of us all, if there were any way…”

  His voice trailed off and Steleon suddenly found himself looking at each as if they were his own children. The pain in his heart was hard to bear, but he understood the need for sacrifice during war. Even if they failed, Averon would fight on until the last peasant was slain or made slave.

  He went to each and laid a loving hand on both boys shoulders.

  “Take your rest these coming days. Gather as much strength as you can for there will be little time for such along the way. Good night my friends.”

  * * *

  Already assigned to guard duty on his very first night in the army, Tolis Scarn tried as best he could to keep his growing disappointment to himself. This was not the life he ever wanted to lead. Let the two lands slaughter each other to ruin. He didn’t care. He also knew there would be fresh jobs aplenty in the aftermath no matter who was the victor. The thought warmed him against the chill night. Then he heard the distinct rumblings of a Dwarf. Recognition sparked and a whisper of success crept back.

  Scarn crept from his post to follow the small group of four. One of them had the stone. He knew it. One of them held the key to his freedom and untold riches. He would like nothing better than to kill them now and escape. Then he’d be rid of the Hooded Man and free to do as he chose. If only it were so easy. One of them had the stone, but which one? As much as he hated to admit it, Scarn needed them alive until the one with the prize revealed himself. He quietly followed them back to their tent, content in the knowledge that he was very close to freedom.

  * * *

  Ten leagues from the encampment and the security of the Thorn River, hidden among the rolling foothills of the Gren Mountains, waited a pair of Averonian scouts. They’d been deployed on rotating watches by Steleon since the first day in the field. For a week and a half scouts ranged the wild lands, searching for likely avenues of approach. They remained hidden in case the enemy also had spies.

  There had been no sign of Gren until now. Sparse torches cast a flickering light among the dark rocks, turning shadows into restless demons devouring the night. A great and terrible rustling followed close. Goblins in full body armor. Finished with their plunder and reorganization, their dark master had given the word to invade. His very life seemed bent on it. And now the war machine marched. The scouts listened in horror at the confidence in the Goblin war chants as they marched. The two fled into the night as the marching got closer. War had finally come to Averon.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The smell of rotting flesh and destruction was thick in the air. Heavy clouds plagued the skies and refused the sun. Jervis Hoole couldn’t have asked for a better day to begin the invasion of the lowlands. Tiny flakes of snow were already falling on the mountaintops and the higher reaches of the pass. He knew the wrath of winter was close and it spurred him harder. Not even the Mage’s magic was enough to deter the weather long enough for him to bring his army down.

  The dragon was gone, much to the relief of his Goblins. They, like most creatures, were in fear of the great wyrm. Hoole didn’t care. He wanted out of the mountains. Gren Mot was taking too long to clear. His stringy, black hair flipped about in the restless breeze. Instinct stirred inside, ones he never knew he had. He longed to gaze upon the forests and emerald grasslands of his foe. To see the sparkling blue rivers and field of golden wheat. These had always been denied to him.

  His war horse carefully picked its steps while taking them further down the mountain pass. Soon he would be king of Averon and punish those who called themselves his betters. Soon they would come to understand the pain and suffering of Gren.

  * * *

  Sunrise brought a freezing chill. Frost blanketed the lands and little stirred. It wasn’t so cold as to freeze the river just yet. Everyone knew it wasn’t long off. Winter was coming faster. Steleon stood next to the small fire burning from the pit in the center of his tents, calmly warming his hands. It was already midday and the temperature had barely risen from the morning. Compounding this misery was the disturbing lack of sleep he’d had lately. Fennic’s plan lay at the heart of his worries. Tens of thousands of lives were unknowingly depending on an eighteen year old boy to defeat a centuries old wizard with enough power to eternally condemn the world. Steleon wondered if it was going to be enough, magic sword or no.

  The tired commander thought of his own family and suddenly found himself thinking
of retirement. He was getting to old for battle. But he wasn’t foolish enough to believe a world of peace could exist. Man seemed intent on destroying each other. And if that be the way of the world, then he would do his best to preserve what life he could. His thoughts turned back to Hallis and Norgen. Both seemed capable enough in the field and showed a genuine interest in the boys. He wished he could spare more for this venture, but too many would be easily detected and secrecy was their only hope for success.

  A runner approached. He was wearing the royal gold and green of the state. Steleon gestured his guards to let the man through and then went back into his tent.

  “Greetings from King Maelor,” the runner said with a deep bow.

  Steleon eyed him, sternly sizing him up. “What news from Paedwyn?”

  “The king and a full regiment of the royal guard left this morning under cover of darkness and are heading this way.”

  “What! Does the king no longer value his life? Tell me boy, why would he wish to come to this tragic place?”

  Steleon stood there stunned. This was disturbing news at best. Most of Averon was too young to remember the last time their king had willingly gone in to battle, or even when he had lost his life. Steleon wasn’t. he remembered it vividly. He was there when they stood the line against the evil tide. He remembered the father’s of both boys. And he remembered Wiffe and that terrible Star Silver sword. What carnage he reaped that day. The three of them gave up the rich life of Paedwyn and left for some minor village on the border in the hopes that their children would never have to see the things they had. Steleon snorted at the bitter irony of it.

  The runner shook his head fervently. “No sir. King Maelor decided that it was his day and was going to stand the line with you and the army as a king should. His own words, sir.”