Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  “Kneel,” the Hooded Man commanded.

  Tarren obeyed unquestioningly.

  The Hooded Man bent down, revealing his eyes to her. They were tiny and a crimson red. They stared deep into the core of her soul. She felt him reach into her flesh and grip her weary heart in the palm of his hand. Terror coursed through her veins. All of her secrets were revealed to him and he laughed mightily. Darkness settled around her, forcing her to bow subserviently to his will. And when it seemed she was lost, a brilliant light surrounded her and drove the darkness away.

  Tarren remembered nothing.

  The golden light faded from Dakeb’s fingertips and the mage pulled his hands from Tarren’s forehead. The danger was past. Both sweated profusely and he was trembling. He relaxed from the strain of using so much magic. It wasn’t long after they went to sleep he found Tarren thrashing wildly in her sleep. He wasn’t really surprised, though it troubled him to great lengths. Both he and Celegon had been watching her closely since that night she and Scarn disappeared in the woods at the same time. Only now did he realize that Sidian wanted her mind. He’d barely been in time to save her, this time. The last spell Dakeb left on her would make her forget this nightmare. Or so he hoped. Either way, he didn’t leave her side for the rest of the night. Tarren woke to find the kindly mage sitting nearby with a smile on his face.

  “Good morning, young lady,” he said.

  A sharp pain lanced through her forehead. “What happened?” she asked, almost in a daze. “I feel so bad.”

  “Oh I imagine it’s just the combination of the lack of sleep and riding so hard. It’s hard to stay hydrated and eat right on these kinds of adventures,” Dakeb lied. “You’ll be fine once you get a little food in your belly.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. But there was more. He was deeply concerned with the way Sidian had been attacking her and he didn’t know why. What games are you playing at, he asked himself as the rest of the group started to rouse. Soon enough they were on their way across the horrors of the Nveden Plains again.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The morning sun evaporated the mist rising off the frigid waters of the Thorn River. Dawn was just beginning to break, spreading tendrils of light through the veil of night. The battling armies rose late this day, as if the commanders knew what was going to happen. A light wind danced over the battlefield, taking some of the gruesome stench of death and decay away. Mounds of bodies were piled in the rear of the assembly area. There were too many to count. Not that it mattered. Continuous reinforcements were pouring down into the lowlands from Gren daily.

  Thus far each attack had met failure. The riders from Harlegor nearly broke their backs, despite the numbers of Goblins. Jervis Hoole was losing his patience. Enemy catapults rained down mercilessly on his positions. Buzzards and crows flew overhead by the thousands. Hole looked out at his disheartened army with disgust. The memories of the victory at Gren Mot were already gone. Some of his forces were already bordering on mutiny. Apart from the outright slaughter of anyone seditious, Hoole had one plan in mind to raise their spirits and renew the battle. He smirked at the thought of the look of surprise on his foe’s faces when he sent in his battalions of Ogres. They’d arrived under the cover of darkness and were anxious for a brawl. Once his front line forces pulled back to retire for the day, Hoole was going to send the Ogres crushing into the heart of the enemy.

  The throne of Averon was close now. One step away and all the lowlands would be his to rule. He briefly imagined how it would feel to be free of the Silver Mage and let it pass. Too much was at stake. Only one other knew of his seditious intentions and Hoole had been forced to promise the governorship of Gren to the man before he agreed not to run to the Silver Mage. In the end the idea was grand. One king with two lands. Hoole smiled as he returned to his tent.

  * * *

  “I don’t like this.”

  Steleon clenched his jaw and stared off at the enemy camps. He was against the wall and he knew it. The battle was going his way for all intents and purposes, but the balance was fragile. All it would take is one concentrated push and his army would fold. The only way he’d been able to stay alive this long was through tricks and guerrilla tactics. Fortunately it kept the armies of Gren off guard and hesitant to take the offensive. Steleon knew that wasn’t going to last long. He needed a way to change that.

  Melgit didn’t answer for a moment. He thoughtfully stroked his black beard. Young Graeme was standing at his side, as he had since the battle began.

  “What’s to like?” he finally said. “This is war.”

  “No,” Steleon replied. “This goes beyond just war.”

  “It’s what we must weather and endure if Averon is to have a future,” Maelor said as he walked up the gentle slope to them.

  Both snapped to the position of attention. “Sire.”

  Maelor waved off the formality. “I don’t imagine this lull is going to last much longer.”

  “No,” agreed Steleon. “They’re preparing their final assault. My scouts are reporting a massive build up. It won’t be long at all.”

  “Are you sure?” Maelor asked.

  “Yes. See how they’re forming up? They’re going to strike us with three prongs and try to drive us back far enough to gain the banks. Once they’ve established a crossing they can pour their full weight down on us.”

  “How prepared is the defense?”

  Steleon shook his head slightly. “I’ve ordered the front trench abandoned. We flooded sections of it and emplaced iron tipped stakes at the bottom. That should slow them down enough for the pikemen to get in place. The catapult batteries will start firing the instant their front ranks begin the advance. Archers and javelins will add fire to the far shore. The cavalry and infantry are in reserve until the time comes.

  Maelor nodded approval. He’d always liked his field commander and knew why his father had spoken so highly of the man. “So we stop them on the banks. Why the despair then? I can feel it in the way you hold yourself.”

  “Have you ever known a battle to go as planned?”

  Maelor didn’t respond.

  “There’s still the rumors of the dragon,” Melgit brought up.

  Graeme repressed a shudder.

  “Which no one has seen since the fall of Gren Mot,” Melgit added.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not out there. More than likely perched on some distant mountaintop awaiting instructions from the Mage,” Steleon snapped back. “I prefer to concentrate on what I see before me.”

  “And if the dragon comes?”

  “We die.”

  The sun continued to sink over the horizon. A lone, baleful horn blow from across the shore. It was time.

  Goblin arrows sailed across the river. The defenders ducked behind an interlocking wall of shields. Occasionally one fell with an arrow in him. The rate of fire gradually slackened as the first battalions began the lunged towards the river. War drums pounded on the night air. The moon hadn’t risen yet and eastern Averon sat in darkness.

  Steleon’s catapults opened fire, throwing death and vengeance into the enemy ranks. The drums beat harder. The Goblins inched closer. The defenders nervously waited in position. Sweat ran down their faces. Their hearts roared. Each of them knew what awaited. The actions on this night meant the future for their kingdom and quite possibly the rest of Malweir. Each of them made peace with their personal deity and readied for the worst. The differences between veteran and recruit were gone. They were all the same now.

  The Goblin army marched closer. Their dark shapes slowly came into sight. A brutal realization dawned on Steleon. The shapes were much larger than Goblins.

  “No,” he whispered.

  His fears were realized a moment later when the front ranks came into plain sight. Trolls and a lot of them. Steleon knew he had nothing capable of beating back such an assault. He snatched Graeme by the shoulder and tried to prevent a total disaster.

  “Run to the catapult
s. Tell them to shift their fire to the river. It’s the only chance we have at slowing them,” he shouted.

  The boy ran for his life, and the lives of every man, woman and child in Averon. Trolls splashed into the river. Steleon joined the ranks of pikemen waiting in the second trench.

  “Stand the line!” he yelled above the approaching clamor. He raised his sword in challenge to the enemy. “Even Trolls have weakness. Fight for your lives!”

  Pikes lowered. Steleon wanted to believe in his words, but he’d be damned if he knew where a Troll was weakest. They were going to need a miracle if they were going to survive this. Arrows would be wasted on their armor like hides, so he reserved them for the small Goblins. At speeds greater than a horse could run, the arrows would make short work of the foot soldiers. Steleon resolved himself not to retreat. It was here or nowhere. The front lines were going to bear the full weight of the storm.

  “For Averon and King Maelor!” he roared.

  His army echoed the cry.

  Icy waters poured from the Trolls massive bodies as they climbed from the frozen river and onto the western shore. Balls of flaming pitch sizzled overhead, dripping down on the defenders. Fire exploded on the nearest Troll’s chest and he staggered. The Troll dropped his weapon in the river and fell to his knees. Another round hit, and then another. The Trolls were massed so closely it was impossible to miss. Unfortunately, the pitch wasn’t stopping them. The Trolls kept coming. Cudgels and mighty tulwars hammered down on the defender ranks, crushing and battering them aside. Pikes thrust back with little or no results. Occasionally a Troll did fall from wounds, but the defenders paid a heavy toll. Little by little the line was driven backwards. Steleon saw the doom of Averon approaching. Hope was fading.

  It took the Trolls practically no time to break through the lines and strike at the heart of the infantry. The soldiers fought bravely and hard, but they were no match for the battle hardened Mountain Trolls. Steleon took his infantry into the heart of the battle. A horribly scarred Troll swung for his head, flakes of burned skin peeling off his ruined flesh. Steleon tried to step back but tripped over a body and fell. The cudgel came crashing down.

  Steleon saw death coming and was surprisingly calm. Then he noticed a small figure dart in and slash the Troll across the back of the hand. The beast roared back and slapped the soldier hard. Bones crunched and organs burst fro the blow. The soldier landed a few meters away and didn’t move.

  “Strad cu grashk!”

  The battle cry was echoed by thousands of gravely voices. Steleon and the Troll looked up at the same time in bewilderment. All of the Trolls up and down the line did the same. They knew the cry and felt fear for the first time since entering the battle. They slowly began a disorderly retreat across the river. Many of them slipped and fell into the trench and were impaled. The enemy line broke. Trolls turned and fled as thick, wooden missiles whistled into their ranks and struck them down. The smaller Goblins were crushed and trampled to death without a chance.

  Steleon rolled to his feet and readied for a trick. None came. The Trolls were terrified of this new threat and had lost the will to fight. More of the wooden missiles struck home. Steleon’s heart filled with hope. He didn’t know what was happening but wasn’t about to complain. He watched the enemy retreat and finally breathed in relief. A great clamor arose from the center of the burning camp. The sound of steel and boots marching closer echoed across the plain. All around his men cheered. Then the first of the Dwarven army came into view, bloodthirsty axes hungry and restless. The Dwarves marched past the broken lines of defenders and met the enemy. Blood and mayhem raged. The Dwarves fearlessly drove into the Trolls. Axes hewed flesh and cudgels smashed down. The battle was swift and vicious. Trapped against the river, the Trolls fought hard for their lives. Dozens fell from both sides. The Dwarves quickly advanced to the bank.

  Steleon regained his senses and immediately ordered his cavalry back across the river. Infantry and reserve units were ordered behind the Dwarves. This was his one chance to end the siege and relieve the pressure on Averon. He looked about for council. Now was not the time to get carried away like his opponent. The battle was far from being decided. Catapults fired as fast s they could be loaded and archers shot arrow after arrow.

  A half moon was rising over the peaks of the Gren Mountains, giving many their first views of the developing slaughter. Rank upon rank of the Dwarven army marched past the battered men of Averon. Melgit’s cavalry, strengthened by the riders from Harlegor, wheeled around the battlefield and made ready to drive through the retreating masses. The army of Gren had no defensive positions prepared and they were exposed to the combined fury of Man and Dwarf. Hundreds died in the first moments. Steleon watched the battle develop with interest until he noticed the body of the man who’d saved his life.

  Part of him was reluctant to see who it was. He felt a shadow in his soul whispering names and possibilities. Dead bodies weren’t new to him. He’d had a long and storied career in the military. Dying was just another aspect of the job. Steleon knelt down and slowly turned the body over. Sorrow gripped his heart as he looked into the twisted face of his savior. It was Graeme. Steleon wanted to cry. The boy had survived a dragon attack, capture by the Goblins and endured the mental anguish of watching his entire friends die around him. And here he lay. Steleon stopped the two closest soldiers and ordered the body taken back to the command area. There’d be a hero’s burial when this night was done.

  Then he noticed a stout Dwarf with sharp eyes approaching.

  “You be the one in command?” the Dwarf asked with a rough tone.

  “For what it’s worth, I am,” Steleon answered. “High Commander Steleon, at your service.”

  The Dwarf bowed slightly. “I am Ordein, brother of Norgen and commander of the Bairn army.”

  “You came at the right time. I fear we were about to break,” Steleon replied.

  Ordein had a knowing look in his black eyes. “Timing is critical in war against Trolls. If we came sooner they wouldn’t have committed to the fight. A Troll can be formidable, but we’ve had long wars with them and they know us as well. I think they were more surprised than your own folk.”

  “How did you come so quickly? The last time I saw your brother he doubted if word even reached your halls.”

  The Dwarf lord laughed deep and rich. He explained how his brother sent a carrier pigeon from Alloenis explaining everything. The warning gave the Dwarf army ample time to form and march on Paedwyn. They’d been harried along the way, but avoided any serious engagements. No one was fool enough to attack a force of over two thousand battle thirsty Dwarves, not even a Gnaal. The two commanders quickly conferred, telling each what they knew of the situation. By the time they finished, Steleon figured they’d be able to drive the enemy back into the mountains.

  Steleon sent runners to every major command with instructions to get on line and push forward. Surgeons, cooks, and the rest of the support personnel busied with policing up the battlefield and trying to save as many lives as possible. The stacks of corpses continued to grow. The battle edged further and further from the river. Ordein’s Dwarves were pushing the Goblin army back towards Gren.

  “By Gru! This is a glorious night,” Ordein howled with delight. Triumph laced his words. “I was beginning to think we’d never cross your lands.”

  “Let’s hope the Silver Mage doesn’t have any tricks left to pull while the three armies are strung out like this,” Steleon added. His voice lacked the fire or fervor of his stout counterpart.

  “What more can he possibly have? Nothing worse than Trolls.”

  Steleon barely whispered, “a dragon.”

  Ordein faltered. “Hasn’t been a dragon in the world for centuries.”

  They left it at that and continued the battle. Steleon called for his horse while Ordein followed his army on foot. Both were eager to see the night done.

  Blood boiled and temperatures ran hot, but the rout was finally brought to
a halt just before the dawn. Dwarves and Men shouted curses and taunts at the fleeing Goblins hordes. Hardly an inch of ground was left uncovered with either blood or body parts for nearly half a league back to the Thorn River. Weeks would pass before anyone got an accurate casualty count. For now it was enough. Averon held the field. Picket lines were established and the men formed ranks to await fresh orders. Most of them could barely stand.

  The physical toll was almost as great as the emotional one. They all knew what was coming next. The enemy was beaten here, but far from broken. The invasion of Gren was the only logical next step. Steleon and Maelor trooped the line, speaking to as many of the men as possible. Cook fires soon ranged the field and a crude gruel was prepared to warm them some on the cold winter dawn. Steleon almost ordered kegs of mead brought up, but it was too soon for that. They needed rest first.

  “This was a good fight,” Ordein announced when they rejoined him. His axe blade was buried deep in the chest of a dead Goblin. “It’s been a long time since my folk were able to whet our appetites like this.”

  “This was a costly battle,” Steleon quietly drew out. “We cannot thank you enough. Those ballistae saved the day.”

  Maelor readily agreed. “Indeed. We are in your debt Master Ordein. I hope this war ends quickly so that we may begin a new era of trade and peace between our two peoples.”

  “Sire, there’s still the small matter of an enemy army on Averonian soil. This war is far from being over,” Melgit said. His left arm was slung in a bloody bandage.

  Maelor was about to respond when a loud boom raced across the sky. Everyone looked up, shielding their eyes against the rising sun. a great, dark shape came speeding towards them from the mountains. Steleon felt the color drain from his face. The Silver Mage had finally released his wyrm. Flames spouted from the dragon’s nostrils and mouth and even from a distance the defenders knew it was over.