Armies of the Silver Mage

by Christian Freed

  Ordein tugged on his beard in disbelief and began barking orders. “All right you bloody bastards! Back in ranks and ready to fire!”

  * * *

  Adrenalin coursed through Jervis Hoole. This was the day he was supposed to become king. He’d spied Maelor’s colors on the field and knew it was over. All it was going to take was his Trolls crushing into the enemy and the battle was his. Hoole howled with glee as his army attacked. Then his world faded. Had he been closer to the front they might have averted the disaster, but he wasn’t. And the army of Gren was quickly turned on its heels. He struggled to see what was happening and why his forces were turning to run. He saw massive Trolls on fire and trampling the smaller Goblins in their fright. The moonlight finally allowed him to noticed the small figures charging recklessly into his ranks. Dwarves! Hoole spat the name. Where did they come from? An aide rushed to his side.

  “We must flee now,” he yelled. “Back to Gren Mot where we might have a chance! We cannot hold here anymore, Lord Hoole.”

  Jervis Hoole slid the tip of his dagger at his aide’s throat in the blink of an eye.

  “Run if you wish. Sound the retreat, though I doubt they’ll listen. See how the enemy cavalry already race to block our exit? We are all of us doomed this night. Go and run. We’ll see how far you get before death comes to claim you. Be gone from my sight before I kill you myself.”

  The aide carefully stepped back. A foul look scored his face. “Wait until the Mage learns of this. You’ll pay for leading his army to ruin.”

  Hoole crossed the distance between them and ran the dagger deep into the aide’s chest. Snarling, Hoole drew his sword and struck the head from the shoulders. Blood fountained as the body fell.

  “You had your chance,” he told the corpse.

  Hoole wiped the blood from his sword and went off in search for a horse. He had to flee if there was to be a chance for the future. His future. Jervis Hoole fled for his life.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The retreating Goblins stopped upon seeing the great dragon fly overhead. Little by little they turned back towards the plain to watch the beast blow his kiss of death. The devastation of Gren Mot was still strong in their memories and out here was a much easier killing ground. A great cheer rose from their haggard ranks. The enemy had nowhere to escape the dragon’s fury. Odors of sulfur and brimstone contaminated the battlefield. Men and Dwarf doubled over and wretched from the smell. Arrows raced up to meet the wyrm and bounced harmlessly away from the heavy scales. Rocks and burning pitch followed and met with the same results. Some swore they heard the dragon laugh. Heavy ballista missiles came next and the dragon barely had to swerve to miss them. Then the beast tucked its wings in and dropped low over the field, sweeping hundred from their feet. Flames spit out and turned man and beast to ash.

  Steleon picked himself up and watched as the dragon circled around for another pass. Soldiers ran in fear while others tried to extinguish the flames murdering their friends. Still others tried to form some semblance of defense. Steleon knew it was futile. The dragon wouldn’t even need to try to thoroughly destroy them. He noticed something strange when the dragon turned. The sun caught the flying beast at the right moment and a glint of something shiny sparkled. He didn’t know what the significance might be, but it kept his attention. Steleon grabbed for Ordein.

  “Did you see that?”

  The Dwarf had a certain wildness in his eyes, as if he knew he was about to die. “Aye, tis a terrible way to die.”

  “No. Look at the throat. There’s something different about it,” he insisted.

  The dragon swooped in for another pass. This time they both saw the object clearly before jets of flame washed over more of their forces. It was a jade amulet wreathed in silver and clasped on an iron chain.

  “It’s the amulet! We need to break the amulet around his neck!”

  Ordein scowled, “why?”

  “That has to be the source of the Mage’s power. You said it yourself, no dragons have been seen in hundreds of years. Break it and we break the spell,” Steleon said.

  Ordein looked at him skeptically. He was afraid the man had lost it. Black smoke curled up from the tips of the flames spreading throughout the army. The dragon attacked again and more died. Steleon didn’t wait for Ordein to make up his mind. He got up and ran to the archers that were left.

  “Aim for that jade around his neck!” he shouted to them.

  One by one they raised their bows and took shaky aim.

  “It’s coming back again!” Ordein shouted before diving to the ground.

  The great serpent barrel rolled, spitting flames a hundred feet through the air. Noxious fumes made them swoon. Some dropped unconscious while others were roasted alive. Arrows raced back, striking the wyrm in a hundred places with no effect. Steleon saw the gleam of recognition in the wyrm’s eyes as it rolled over and came straight for them. Steleon looked back into those cold eyes and saw rage and confusion. The dragon landed in front of them and reared back. The wingspan was well over a hundred meters. His body was covered in rust colored scales. Wicked fangs dripped acid and the very air was one of twisted malevolence. The single horn sloping from the top of his head shook with fury. Slowly the dragon drew a deep breath and readied to strike.

  A single arrow whistled back Steleon’s head, brushing his hair and kissing his cheek as it went. He watched the tip strike the jade jewel perfectly in the center. The explosion of brilliant green light pulsed from the dragon’s heart and knocked them all to the ground. Steleon slowly tried to pick himself up and looked in time to see the dragon shake off whatever spell once held it. He’d been right. The Mage was controlling the dragon through sorcery. Freed from the curse, the dragon stared down his opponents one last time and took to the skies. It was heading back to Gren. Steleon whistled under his breath. Ancient legends whispered that dragons were among the smartest of all races. If that were the case, woe be to the slave masters in Gren.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ordein exclaimed. His axe rested over one shoulder. “A single shot.”

  “No one could have done that in one shot,” Steleon said. “Whoever it was deserves our highest praise and award.”

  King Maelor casually walked up to them, an ash bow in his left hand. “Save the decorations for those soldiers out there.”

  He dropped his bow and walked to where the remains of the amulet had fallen. He had a grimace of disgust when he picked up the cursed jewelry. An uneasy feeling coursed through him at the slightest touch. He felt as if the Silver Mage was staring into his very soul, stealing the warmth. Maelor handed it off to the nearest soldier.

  “Take this to the smithy and have it smelted and poured into the river. It is an evil thing and I’ll not have it stain my lands again,” he ordered.

  “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it,” Ordein told him as Maelor rejoined them.

  Maelor offered a weak smile. He was as worn down as the others but knew he couldn’t let it show. “Years of hunting excursions and a hard task master when I was growing up are to thank for that. I’ve spent more time on the archery range than I care to recall. I think this just might be cause for celebration.”

  Ordein said, “I like how you think, king. Let us discuss the future over a pint of beer.”

  Steleon shook his head in defeat. Recollections of drinking with Norgen disturbed him and he had no desire to repeat the performance with his brother. Besides, there were more pressing issues at hand. Melgit and the cavalry were still running down the enemy and if they got too far from the main body there was the potential for disaster, especially among the boulders and crags of the foothills.

  The whoosh of fresh flames hit before the actual fires burned into the retreating Goblins. The dragon was taking revenge and in a cruel way. Thankfully, Melgit had ordered a halt and even now formations of riders were doubling back away from the combat zone. No one had the desire to see even their enemies flamed alive.

  “Sire, I believe we’ve won
the field. Do we now follow the remnants of their army back into Gren and end the threat for good or do we trust that a small band of heroes can actually defeat the Mage?” Steleon asked.

  Maelor placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the carnage around them. A great sadness welled inside. So much death and chaos and for what? One man’s greed. He wanted nothing more than to plunge his father’s sword into the Silver mage’s cold, dead heart.

  “See to the dead and wounded. Give the men rest for a day. They earned it. Break out the ale and mead. But no one is to get drunk or I’ll them flogged for it. We are still at war, my friends. Set the picket lines and bring the camps forward. I want all field commanders in the tent in two hours.”

  “My Dwarves will take the front lines,” Ordein volunteered. “We’re the most rested and ready for what might come in the night.”

  Maelor nodded. “Thank you.”

  The group broke up, each going their different ways. The sun was dropping by the time the commanders assembled for Maelor. A little at a time, the soldiers from Averon, Harlegor and the Bairn Hills settled down and relaxed. The tension and anxiety remained, as it would for days to come. Many fell asleep the moment they sat down, too tired to even enjoy the king’s ale. Up in the mountains, the orange glow of the dragon’s hell continued.

  Alone at last, Steleon dropped onto his cot and stared at the tender flames in the fire pit. He placed his head in his hands and cried for all those lost today. He suddenly felt very old. The weight of his days bore down heavily on his tired shoulders. Graeme reentered his thoughts and haunted him with his bravery. He’d been only a boy, and should have been home with friends and family. Not out here. He wasn’t the only one, Steleon lamented. Somewhere out in the wilds were Delin and Fennic. Images of the boys being tortured and killed tormented his mind. For the thousandth time he wished he hadn’t let them go so easily. A guard entered with a bowl of stew. Steleon wordlessly took the bowl.

  He knew then what needed to be done. Finished eating, he gathered himself and went to the king’s meeting.

  “Ah Steleon,” Maelor said. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”

  He agreed after a moment of silence. “Yes, sire. It has indeed.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Ordein offered in casual dismissal. “Though that wyrm was nearly the end of us. You have a fine army. It just my axes to get you moving again. Ha! I name you Dwarf friend, Steleon. You’ll forever be welcome in the halls of my people.”

  Steleon smiled back. “I’d be more than happy to take you up on that offer once this business is finished. But we have much to do before the end.”

  Melgit and a dark haired man of middle age entered the tent just then and all eyes turned to them.

  “Sire, this is Lord Flonish, captain of the Harlegor cavalry,” he told those assembled.

  Ordein eyed the newcomer skeptically. Dwarves had a natural mistrust for horsemen. Steleon clasped Melgit’s hand with a genuine relief.

  “Glad to see you made it through,” he told them both. What are our losses?”

  Melgit shrugged. “They’re manageable. We lost a few hundred altogether but are still in good shape. A lot of horses went down and broke their legs when the dragon attacked. That’ll give you more infantry at least.”

  Flonish agreed. “This little war of yours is proving costly. There is a decided lack of interest across the world. Antheneon refuses to get involved and my kingdom is already stretched thin. We’ve heard rumors of smaller kingdoms joining forces with Gren and have been forced to double the watch on the southern borders. But my men are here to see it through. What is the next step?”

  The truth in his first statement was painfully clear. Only three nations rallied to fight the Silver Mage. Three out of more than a dozen. Steleon doubted it would be enough.

  “I don’t think anyone understands the seriousness of the threat this time. We cannot afford to fight a war on two fronts. This battle here nearly finished us,” he said. “We have to find a way to end the war now, before they regroup and strike again.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Maelor as he warmed his hands on the fire.

  “Is there any choice? This is our best chance at invading Gren, while their armies are in full retreat. Strike now while we have the advantage,” he replied with a cold voice.

  “Go into Gren?” Melgit exclaimed. “I don’t think you understand what you say. No one here has ever been to that foul land. We would be effectively blind and at a disadvantage. This puts the army at grave risk.”

  “We are in grave risk to begin with,” Steleon bit back. “Remember that we are not the only ones going to Gren.”

  Only Flonish looked confused.

  “As much as I’m inclined to agree with you, we need to assess the situation more carefully. The weather is already changing. I believe a storm in coming in from the east. Mountain crossings are dangerous enough in good weather. But to do so in a winter storm is suicidal. Even if we do make it through before the storm hit, we’ll be cut off in Gren and without follow on supplies or reinforcements,” he told them.

  Many heads nodded in agreement.

  Steleon said, “Sire, we need to do something to help Hallis and his group. They are the only ones capable of winning this war for us. Let us take the armies and create a diversion so they can reach Aingaard and put an end to the Mage once and for all.”

  The idea was less than appealing, but they knew how important that tiny group of insurgents was to winning the war. Maelor knew he had to give them every chance for success. It was the only way.

  “Sound the call to march,” he said in a measured voice. “We go to Gren. This is a momentous occasion for all our peoples. Not in a hundred years has a combined army gone to war. I leave the details to you. Gentlemen.”

  They rose and bowed as he left them to their war games.

  Steleon turned to Melgit. “I want scouts out immediately. Have them sweep the plain all the way to the edge of the pass. Take nothing for granted. The enemy may be regrouping as we speak. No one rides alone either.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Melgit replied. “We’ve already got roving patrols out. Redirecting them won’t be an issue.”

  Flonish folded his thick arms across his chest. “Let me know how many men you need. We will cover down.”

  “And I suppose there’s no place for my Dwarves in all of this?” Ordein growled in outrage at being excluded.

  “On the contrary,” Steleon said. “We have need of every able bodied soldier. I just as soon keep your forces consolidated and near the front just in case the Goblins return.”

  Beaming with pride, the Dwarf lord exclaimed, “now we’re talking. I’ll lead the march all the way to Aingaard myself.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” Steleon cautioned. “We have five days until Winter’s Day. Can we make it in time to stop the Mage?”

  “Depends on the weather,” Melgit replied. “It’ll take four days to gain the Nveden Plains if the way is clear and we’d be ready to fight by that afternoon. I don’t think we’ll be able to move any quicker.”

  “That doesn’t leave us much time.”

  “It’s the best we can hope for,” Melgit answered.

  * * *

  Locked in the security of his inner sanctum, Sidian paced restlessly. Unanswered questions torments him greatly. The strain of maintaining the war and his spells was wearing him thin. And now the defeat in Averon added to his misery. Sharp pain racked his bony frame, forcing him to his knees as he screamed in horror. Not even his command of magic was enough to stop the pain. He lay writhing on the floor for over an hour before it stopped. He knew then that his plans for Averon had failed. The dragon was free from his spell and wreaking terrible havoc on the Goblin army.

  Sidian cursed Jervis Hoole and his incompetence. The army was broken and his greatest asset was lost. The path into Gren lay exposed. He didn’t doubt Maelor would wait long before coming. It was inevitable. As depressing as that seemed, Si
dian had a greater concern. The final shard was in Gren and coming to him. Plots and counterplots at work in his mind; Sidian finally pulled himself from the floor and opened the door for Spendak.

  The warrior eased uncertainly into the sanctum.

  “I have a task for you,” Sidian croaked out. “You will personally lead a company to the town of Greeth and awaited our enemies. The enemy has passed the swamps and made it past your soldiers. You will be awaiting them when they arrive. Once you have them in your possession, take their weapons and bring them back to me alive and unspoiled. Go now and do not fail me.”

  Spendak bowed curtly and was gone. The danger was increasing and he worried about the stability of Sidian’s mind. More than once he considered running a sword through him and being done with the whole affair. Perhaps King Maelor would accept terms for surrender. Either way, the hourglass was draining on this whole, horrible affair. The end was coming quickly.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Heavy winds slashed mercilessly across the barren Nveden Plains. Dust and ash hammered into the tiny band, forcing them to huddle together. Darkness had settled in, though in comparison daylight wasn’t much different. The smell of death permeated the air. An occasional rotten corpse lay in a ditch or crevice. Such was the land of Gren, and they wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home. Dakeb, of them all, frowned in sorrow at what was once a beautiful land. His guilt knew no limits.

  The village of Greeth lay less than an hour away. Smaller than either Feist or Alloenis, Greeth was Gren’s second largest city. The disorganized rows of buildings were primitive at best, most with broken doors and cracked walls. Few buildings had windows and the ones that did were fragile and shattered. The villagers were mostly men. They were the last remnants of the ancient Grelnor. Goblins and other foul creatures preferred the dark caverns running underground and in the mountains. Tales of cannibalism revolved around the broken village.

  “And we’re going there why?” Norgen asked accusingly once Dakeb finished speaking.