“What of the mages?” an old man called out.
Jorem continued cleaning blades as he spoke. “Mages die like any other man. If you can distract them, break their concentration, a well thrown rock can incapacitate them. I have something set up that hopefully will keep them distracted for a while.”
Jorem shook out his rag and doused it with oil. Starting back at the first blade, he started wiping each blade down again.
“My scouts tell me that the enemy has no archers. This gives us an advantage at a distance. With the traps we’ve dug, they won’t be able to rush across the clearing, so we should have time to thin their numbers. What we haven’t got is an unlimited supply of arrows.”
Jorem paused a moment to let that sink in.
“We have to choose our targets carefully. Don’t waste an arrow on a shield. Aim for skin if you can see it. These men will be wearing armor, so pick out the gaps in their armor. When the arrows run out, take up whatever weapon you can find and defend yourselves. Throw rocks if you have to.
“The children have slings. I trust they will make good use of them. I have asked the children, and I repeat it now—before the enemy reaches the gates, find a place of hiding. Sling stones at the attackers if you can, but stay safe, at least as safe as you can. Those of us with swords will be at the gates to greet our guests should they choose to enter.”
As if on cue, a cry went up from one of the watchers on the wall. The scouts, Conrad and Braden, had been spotted emerging from the trees. Two men were dispatched to help remove the crossing planks and the marking flags.
In a few moments, Con and Braden came through the gates. Both men looked tired and worn. “Better worn than wounded,” thought Jorem. The crowd parted to allow the men to approach Jorem. As they drew near, he noticed Braden walked with a slight limp. He saw neither blood nor bandage on the man, but there was definitely pain involved.
“Are you all right Braden?” Jorem asked in concern.
“I’ll be fine,” Braden said gruffly. “Stepped in a snare and twisted my leg a bit. Nothing that will slow me down.”
“Never mind that!” Conrad interrupted. “We got half a mark, maybe less afore our new-found friends arrive. An’ they ain’t real happy with us.”
“Don’t know why they’d be unhappy,” Braden chimed in with a grin on his face. “You’d think someone had been keeping them up at night or had been messing with their sentries.”
“Either that, or they be tired of steppin’ in traps an’ trippin’ over wires,” Conrad stated. “There’s more of ‘em than we figured, though. Don’t know where they came from, but there’s maybe four hundred of ‘em now.”
“Great!” Jorem thought. “More good news.”
He quickly did a rough count of those in the courtyard. He came up with just under two dozen gray-haired adults and about the same number of children. All together they had about sixty defenders against four hundred armored soldiers.
“Well, I guess we’d best get on with it,” Jorem sighed. “Everyone, find a place where you can do the most with what you have.”
With practiced ease, Jorem began placing his blades back in the hidden sheaths about his person. By the time he was done, only a few people remained in the courtyard. Neth and Pentrothe remained at his side. Lady Bethania had gone to take up position on the wall. An odd excitement was building in Jorem—excitement coupled with dread.
“To the wall then,” Jorem stated.
“Indeed,” Pentrothe replied in his grating whisper of a voice. “Let us all play our part.”
Turning to Nethira, Jorem grasped her forearm and she his. A glint came to her eyes and a mild grin to her face. Jorem could only shake his head. The enemy was not yet in sight and she was already exuding battle lust.
“Fight well, my friend,” Jorem said firmly.
“Jorem, my friend, some people are born for song and dance, others to rule and reign. I was born for battle. There’s nothing else like it.”
They turned together and headed for the stairs to the top of the wall.
Chapter XIX
Jorem made a quick circuit along the wall. To each defender, he gave a word of encouragement or a reassuring pat on the back. They were all nervous and for that he could not blame them. Battle only sounds glorious in books, ballads and from a long way away, not when it’s knocking on your own front door.
Jacobs was standing next to the Power Bow. A stack of flame-hardened stakes were piled beside the bow. One of the stakes was already loaded, ready to fire. The contraption looked overly complex, with straps, cables, cranks and the like all over it.
“How accurate is this thing?” Jorem asked.
“You tell me what you want gone,” Jacobs said, lightly patting the top of the Power Bow, “I’ll see it’s taken care of.”
A murmuring of voices rose from those on the wall. Jorem turned to see the first of the enemy forces emerging from the trees at the far side of the clearing. As they came out of the trees, they moved to form a line parallel to the edge of the forest. When the line stretched the full width of the clearing, another line started to form in front of the first.
As the enemy’s forces continued to pour out of the forest, the murmuring on the wall increased in volume. Jorem raised a hand and the voices stilled. Four lines had formed and now a fifth. They were all dressed the same, impossible to tell one from the other—black-clad warriors with polished black armor covering their chests, shoulders and arms. Dark helms with narrow viewing slits across the front covered their faces.
Each soldier carried a shield, oblong disks reaching from chin to waist. So polished were the shields, the sun glinted off each one. Every shield had a black background with the image of a demented gray skull adorning the center. These were no ordinary soldiers gathered from farms and alleys. This was an elite group of highly-trained warriors.
Jorem had read of forces like the one facing him. The histories he’d read of kingdoms from ages past had spoken much of such as these. Men trained from birth to fight. Men whose sole purpose in life was to serve their master by destroying whatever lay in their path. Once given an order, they would not stop until the deed was done.
The lines of warriors parted long enough for a single figure to stride to the fore. Taller than the other ranks, this one wore the same armor as the rest except for the helm. His helm matched perfectly the demented skull emblazoned on each shield. The features of the skull were twisted and distorted, more beast than man. In a sea of black, the silver gray color of it shone like the moon on a cloudless night.
The tall skull-helmed warrior drew a sword from his side and held it up for all to see. Judging from the distance, Jorem figured the sword was nearly as long as he himself was tall. The lines of soldiers froze in place and silence reigned.
“We come by order of the Dark Mage!” Their leader’s voice, though diminished by the distance, was clear and strong. “Throw down your weapons. Surrender and you will die quickly. Stand against us and you shall suffer greatly before you die.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” Jorem said more to himself than anyone else. “Die kneeling or die fighting. I think I’ll add a third option.”
Glancing over, Jorem saw Jacobs sighting in the Power Bow. It took but a moment and Jacobs looked at Jorem.
“Jacobs,” Jorem said in deadly clam, “answer the man, would you.”
A sharp twang sounded and a wooden spike flashed across the clearing. The spike struck the leader with such force he was flung back into the trees. Jacobs immediately started reloading the Power Bow. The rows of soldiers didn’t even move. They stood in muted silence, just waiting.
No one at the Keep cheered at the demise of the tall warrior. The force standing across the clearing was too great for the falling of one to give hope. When the lines of soldiers parted once again, Jorem feared their leader had managed to survive. When instead the first mage stepped through the gap, he almost wished it had been the warrior instead.
Five spectral
figures emerged and stood side by side between the rows of soldiers. Clothed in robes of crimson red, they stood in silence. The hoods of the robes were pulled forward, shadowing the faces within. Jorem risked closing his eyes to check for magic. What he saw left him confused.
“Pentrothe,” Jorem whispered, “it’s like they’re all connected. There are lines of magic running between all of five of them. Each one has a line of magic running to each of the others.”
“That is unfortunate,” the old wizard replied. “Someone stronger than they had to have forced this connection upon them, melding them into a singular force. Each mage’s power is augmented by the others’, all of them controlled and dependent on the one who forged the link. It was how, long ago, man tried to gain power over dragons. Only a dragon would have the magic to defeat them.”
Several people on the wall gasped and pointed. A thick mist began seeping up out of the ground. At first, it hugged close to the ground, spreading to cover the entire clearing. Gradually, the fog rose higher and higher until the enemy disappeared behind the thick swirling mass of gray mist.
“Foolish,” Pentrothe muttered. “A gentle breeze will move this from our sight.”
“Wait,” Jorem said, putting a hand on Pentrothe’s upraised arm. “Let it be for now. This could be to our advantage. It could also be a test.”
A shouted order came through the fog and a war cry erupted from the far side of the clearing. Armor clanked and shields rattled. The army charged into the fog, their cry for blood ringing through the air. The cry for battle quickly turned to screams of pain and fear.
Unable to see them, the defenders at the Keep could only guess at the carnage created by the stake-filled trenches. Angry voices mingled with the cries of pain. Shouts and questions echoed from one side of the clearing to the other. The mist swirled and eddied as a breeze began pushing it from the clearing.
The soldiers had managed to cross two of the trenches, but at great cost. Several black clad figures lay crumpled on the ground; many more filled the trenches they had crossed. As the fog cleared, a few of the warriors crept forward. With each step they stabbed at the ground with their swords until they located the third trench. Then those capable backed away to the tree line.
“Pentrothe, if these mages are so powerful, why don’t they just strike us down and be done with it?”
“Even a great mage has a limit to his resources,” Pentrothe replied, musing. “There must be something they are reserving their magic for, something big.”
An idea came to Jorem. Destroying the Keep would require quite a bit of magic and they didn’t appear to want to use too much magic here. If these mages could be made to think there was someone of great power here, they might choose to retreat rather than use up their magic reserves. Then again, he could be wrong and such a perceived challenge could motivate them to simply destroy the Keep with everyone in it.
“Pentrothe, could you conjure up an illusion?” Jorem asked.
“I believe so,” Pentrothe answered. “As you know, illusions are far easier than reality. What do you have in mind?”
“Could you create the image of a great sorcerer, standing out in the middle of the clearing?”
“I’m not sure what a great sorcerer looks like,” Pentrothe mused. “At least not one who looks fearsome enough to discourage anyone. I’d need a fairly clear picture in my mind to make a convincing image.”
“Come now, my friend. Surely you’ve seen Zensa—that is, Lady Dragon Mage Zensa—when she’s angry,” Jorem chided.
“Ah, of course,” Pentrothe replied, amused. “I still think of her as a child.”
Pentrothe raised his hands high in the air. The sleeves of his robe slid down to his shoulders, revealing his thin, white, aged arms. Tilting his head back, the wizard began a sing-song chant, most of which was in a language Jorem did not recognize. His voice was quiet but steady. His eyes were closed in concentration.
The center of the clearing began to darken. Slowly, an image formed that was four, maybe five times the height of a man. She wore a dark blue gown that flowed all the way to the ground. Raven-black hair cascaded down her back like a river of midnight. She carried no weapon. Instead, her fists were planted firmly on her hips.
The soldiers on the far side of the clearing broke ranks and shrank back beyond the tree line. Even the mages took a step back. She was faced away from the Keep so Jorem could not see her face. But if she looked anything like she had when she’d appeared when he’d called her by breaking the amulet, flaming sword in hand ready for battle, he couldn’t blame anyone for showing a bit of fear.
One of the mages raised his hands. Lightning flashed from his outstretched arms toward Zensa. Because it was only an illusion, the lightning passed through the image with no affect. Again, the lightning flashed to no affect. The mage lowered his arms and turned to his cohorts.
“You are not welcome here!” Zensa’s cold, angry voice rolled across the clearing. Even Jorem cringed at her tone, and her words weren’t directed at him. “Turn back! Return to your vile leader or face the wrath of a Dragon Mage!”
The soldiers appeared more than willing to leave. The mages, however, did not. As one, the crimson clad mages turned to face Zensa’s image. One of them stretched forth his hand. The temperature all around plummeted, so much so that everyone’s breath came out in puffs of white mist. Two other mages thrust out their hands and fireballs sizzled through the air.
The fireballs passed through the illusion the same as the lightning had. Fortunately for those in the Keep, the mages had been aiming at the upper portion of Zensa’s image. The balls of flame flew over the buildings to disappear in the distance. Even so, most of those manning the wall were crouched down as low as they could get.
“Fools!” Zensa’s voice boomed. “Be gone!”
Slowly, Zensa’s image began to fade until the clearing was once more empty. Pentrothe sagged down to his knees. The wizard looked even paler than he had before, something Jorem hadn’t thought possible. Jorem went to his side in concern but Pentrothe waved him off.
“I’ll be fine,” Pentrothe sighed, “just getting old. They are very powerful,” he continued. “Not terribly bright, but very powerful. If that had actually been Zensa, the cold would have held her form solid while the fireballs took their toll. Apparently they are not familiar with the lesser magics.”
When Jorem’s attention returned to the clearing, he saw that the soldiers had once again emerged from the shelter of the trees. The mages seemed to be deep in conversation. One mage gestured at the stone building and the rest moved toward it. As they began entering the building, Jorem rubbed his arms to ward off the chill.
One mage remained outside. His face was hidden in the cowl of his robe, but Jorem could feel the malice of his gaze. Jorem turned and nodded to Jacobs. Another sharp twang and a deadly missile launched. The wooden stake flew across the clearing in a flash, then suddenly froze. A mere arm’s length from the mage, the projectile hung in the air.
The mage held up a hand and wagged a finger at those on the wall, like a mother admonishing a wayward child. Reaching out, the mage touched the tip of the stake. The full length of wood burst into flames, turning the stake to ash instantly. The ash drifted to the ground and the mage turned and entered the building.
Moments after all of the mages had entered the building, a semitransparent gray dome enveloped the structure. Pentrothe managed to get back to his feet. Nodding to the dome, the wizard’s shoulders slumped a little more.
“A Grathuran mage shield,” Pentrothe informed Jorem. “Nothing goes in, nothing comes out.”
Jorem nodded in understanding. He’d never actually seen one, but Pentrothe had spoken of such a shield. Normally, they were used to enclose battles between mages. Both mages went in, only one came out. The shield could only be taken down from the inside, unless both mages died. Then it would come down on its own.
Nethira walked over to Jorem. “Was that really a Dragon Mage?”
she asked skeptically.
Jorem smiled at her. “That was, as you would say, an empty shirt.”
“Nice trick,” she said to Pentrothe. “Now what?”
“Now we wait,” Jorem replied. “Wait and hope!”
************
Time trickled by. The enemy soldiers rearranged themselves into rows. Their wounded they left where they were. Those who could make it back to the rank and file did so. Those who couldn’t were ignored as though they were dead. Jorem watched the building inside the shield intently.
A trace of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney. Gradually, the flow of smoke from the stove pipe poking through the building roof increased. The smoke drifted up until it reached the shield then curled about, unable to escape.
“Jacobs,” Jorem shouted, “be ready. When you see red, don’t hesitate. They may recover quickly from the little surprise I left them, so as soon as they come out, let them have it.”
How long would it take for the wax to melt? Would they find the trap before it was sprung? Would it happen quickly enough that they would be unable to protect themselves? Jorem’s doubts and worries increased with each passing moment.
Looking back and forth at the people lining the wall, Jorem knew he was not the only one worrying. Their expressions ranged from grim determination to despair. White knuckles held to bows. All eyes were riveted on the rows and rows of black-clad invaders. So many of them and so few of us. The words were not spoken, but the thoughts were shared by all.
The wall suddenly shook, knocking several people to their knees. “The mages are attacking us!” someone wailed.
“Odd,” Jorem thought. Normally he could sense when magic was being used. He looked to the building only to see a flash of light and a towering column of smoke. Just then a tremendous “BOOM” assaulted them.
The devastation on the far side of the clearing was unbelievable. The building was completely gone. Bits and pieces of stone and wood rained down, some nearly reaching the walls of the Keep. The pillar of smoke reached high into the sky and started to spread. Was this explosion due to Pentrothe’s powder or to something the mages had been doing? If it was Pentrothe’s powder, this result needed to be recorded, or maybe not. Such knowledge in the wrong hands could be disastrous.
Honor Crowned Page 13