Suddenly his body convulsed, and he turned with renewed energy to face the end of the crosswalk which was not far away. Nothing stood between him and the door. With super human strength, he bounded toward the doorway with incredible speed. As he yanked the door open, he could hear the shrieks and cries of dismay behind him. The sounds stopped abruptly as he stepped through the opening and slammed the door after him.
The daylight was blinding and it took a good five minutes for his eyes to adjust. He squinted at his surroundings. There was a low valley before him with some scrub brush dotting the landscape. He didn’t know where he was but didn’t care. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He had forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh air. Sir Galado’s mouth twisted into a distorted smile. He was alive again! It was now time to go and stop his untimely demise from taking place! With an insane laugh, Sir Galado bounded down into the valley.
No sooner had he gone a short distance when there was a deep rumble beneath him and the ground shook. He staggered to a halt and fell to his knees as an earthquake of significant proportions caused him to become unsteady. It lasted a good full minute before the quaking stopped. When it had subsided, he rose back to his feet and charged ahead again. But once again, his gait became unsteady and he tumbled headlong onto the ground. This time it was not a result of an earthquake. After he rolled to a stop, he sat up groggily and shook his head. Galado wondered what was going on. Where were all these strange thoughts coming from? Why was -? The world spun and he fell to his back as a sudden dizziness swept over him. A crooked grin appeared on his face again and a laugh that was not his own emanated from his lips.
At the same time, an earthquake rumbled across the valley.
Chapter 7
Arch Mage Gresham looked around at the drawn faces of the high-ranking mages around him. Sleep appeared to have abandoned everyone these days. The war was taking its toll on them all and there seemed to be no end in sight. They needed an advantage that would give them an edge. Something they could have that the enemy could not steal, buy, or duplicate. New magical items and inventions only lasted for a while before they were taken from the dead soldiers and used against those who had created them. If the item was particularly potent, it was studied by the enemy mages and duplicated or modified for their own purposes. Most of the magical items eventually came up against a powerful spell caster from either side, who used their magic to neutralize the weapon or shield. This resulted in an overconfident maneuver by the one wielding the magical item, only to discover its magic had failed. This often resulted in fatality, since the magic was no longer there to be relied upon. With the weapon, helmet or shield neutralized, they were no different from ordinary soldiers.
Magical rings, it turned out, were the most potent weapons. Giving the wearer super human strength, accuracy, courage, or speed, rings were the most practical invention for the battlefield. Enemy mages had a more difficult time stopping the advance of someone with magical enhancement generated by rings than any other form of magic. It was harder to isolate a ring-wearer than a magical weapon wielder. To confuse the enemy, the Black Tower mages handed out hundreds of identical rings to every soldier. Some contained magic, but most did not. The enemy could not tell the magically enhanced soldiers from the ordinary ones by just a glance at their fingers. They had to watch each soldier very carefully to ascertain who was magically enhanced. More often than not they used neutralizing magic to neutralize a soldier, only discover the soldier never wielded magic. This waste of magic was a strain on their own magical reserves.
Arch Mage Gresham sighed and removed his pointed dark blue hat. It was creased from continuous use and the tip was bent. He scratched his head with other hand and patted down his black wavy hair. He put his hat back on and cleared his throat. When he opened his mouth to speak, a hammering noise from somewhere within the building interrupted him. He waited until the noise stopped and proceeded to speak.
“The enemy has been pushed back for now. We have control of the west bank of the Jackal River again. However, I think it’s premature to celebrate. They keep coming up with more creatures to drive us back again. The various roving bands are beginning to join together into one force under the command of a powerful warlock. It’s still unknown who or what he is, but he seems to be rallying all of our enemies under one banner.”
“At least he hasn’t got the support of the dragons,” said a female voice. It was the voice of Arch Mage Penna, second in command next to Gresham. She was a middle-aged woman with brown hair and penetrating pale blue eyes.
“Yet,” muttered another mage. It was Arch Mage Toele.
Mutters echoed around the table as another round of hammering emphasized the point.
When the hammering ceased, another arch mage piped up, “My work with orb development is looking promising. We are another step closer to harnessing the dragon’s life force.”
“What will that accomplish, Brendan?” scoffed Toele. He was an older mage with grey hair and a long grey beard. His wrinkled face gave his sour disposition an almost cruel look.
Brendan frowned. He did not like Toele, and didn’t need to prove himself to the older man. Toele had a tendency to look down upon the younger mages among them.
“Go ahead,” urged Gresham. “I think we’d all like to hear of your progress with the orbs.” He gave Toele a withering stare and the old mage leaned back and raised his hand in a mock gesture of defeat.
Brendan shook off his anger and let his enthusiasm for his project take over. “We were able to successfully turn away a dragon that was intent upon razing a town to the south. It was just preparing to fry some cattle in a pasture when my associate held up the orb and cast the spell we had devised. The dragon lost its train of thought and failed to emit its fiery breath. Furthermore, it lost altitude and crashed into the ground!”
“Did you capture it?” asked another mage. It was Arch Mage Violet. She was a younger arch mage with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was very interested in Brendan’s project and Brendan was more than happy to receive attention from the attractive mage. He was himself handsome to the ladies with light brown hair and large brown eyes. He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.
“No. Unfortunately, the crash landing of the dragon caused my associate to lose his balance and he fell, dropping the orb and losing his concentration on the spell. The dragon regained its composure and flew away. It didn’t return. The farmer was very relieved, and invited my associate to a celebratory feast in his honour.”
“It sounds like you were able to at least distract the dragon,” said Penna.
“But do you really think the orb can control a dragon?” asked another arch mage. It was Arch Mage Belham, a chubby, balding man with a jolly disposition, especially when food was present.
“I do,” said Brendan resolutely. “It’s only a matter of time before we capture a dragon. We just have to establish a bond between the dragon and the orb.”
“I think I may spend some time working with you on this project,” said Gresham. “There may be a way to link the dragon to the mage via the orb, rather than to the orb itself.”
Brendan blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He recovered quickly. “I appreciate any assistance I can get.”
Gresham smiled. “Very well. We’ll let Violet help you as well. She has come up with unique ideas in the past. With both of you on the same project, you may make headway more quickly.”
Brendan blushed and Violet smiled.
Gresham turned to Arch Mage Belham. “How goes the ring production?”
Belham smiled. “Very well. We are churning out more magical rings than ever. Soldiers are lining up in droves to obtain one.”
“Is it still effective in confusing the enemy?” asked Gresham.
Belham laughed. “You bet! The generals that have returned from the front say they have seen enemy creatures stealing rings from the dead, thin
king they are all magical. When they do come across one with magical enhancement, they tend to fight one another for it. It distracts them from the fight and makes them an easy target for our soldiers. It’s probably the reason for our recent successful engagement.”
“Very good,” nodded Gresham. He turned to Toele. “How is the magical weapon production coming, Toele?”
The old mage straightened as though he were elsewhere with his thoughts. “What? Oh, yes. The magical weapons are coming along, but slowly. It doesn’t help that the caravans of goods from the Dwarven Mountains are frequently being attacked by roving bands of ogres. As most of you are aware, the dwarven convoys must pass through ogre territory to reach us. This requires increased numbers of security escorts to protect them. Although we have offered assistance in this area, the dwarves have declined to accept our help. It is a matter of honour to them to protect their own convoys. Our assistance would shame them into looking like they can’t deal with the problem themselves. Despite this, most of the dwarven crafted weapons are still backordered anyhow. Apparently, King Hammarschist wants more gold. Again. If he keeps increasing his prices, we’ll be broke before the war ends.”
“Can’t we manufacture the weapons ourselves, or obtain them from somewhere else?” asked Arch Mage Penna.
Toele shook his head. “Our weapons are not crafted with the same quality as the dwarven ones. As a result, most of the time our weapons are not capable of retaining magic. It takes a fair amount of magical effort to endow a weapon with magic. If the weapon is too impure, we are just wasting our time and energy. The magic will just not be absorbed. As for other weapons, the ones of elven manufacture would work, but they take longer to order because the elves are so far away. Moreover, they don’t generally manufacture very many from high quality tempered steel. They prefer to manufacture and use bows. We still have a number of bows to endow with magic, and another shipment will be arriving soon. The one disadvantage is that magic on wooden weapons fades over time. The only wooden weapons that retain magic indefinitely are the ones made from ancient trees, usually more than two hundred years old. The elves refuse to sell weapons of that grade since they consider such trees to be sacred.”
“That’s why we have to recharge our staves from time to time,” finished Arch Mage Gresham.
Toele nodded. “Correct.”
“Very well,” said Gresham. He looked around at the assembly. “Is there any other business to discuss?”
“When is the construction of the tower going to be completed?” asked another arch mage.
“There is still a long way to go,” sighed Gresham. “We keep having to stop work to fend off dragon attacks. The interruptions are causing inconveniences with the work crews, but the delays are unavoidable.” Gresham smiled grimly. “But once the tower is complete, the magical shield we set around it will repel any dragon attack. We will finally be able to work in safety.” As he finished talking, the hammering noise resounded around them again. “Meeting adjourned!” yelled Gresham above the din.
* * * * *
The warlock surveyed his army as he stood in front of his tent. Black, brown and drab coloured tents and shelters dotted the valley below him, interspersed with smoke and flames from cooking fires. A kind of mood emanated from the valley, a mix of anticipation, anger, revenge, and bloodlust. The assemblage consisted primarily of orcs and goblins, disgruntled human mercenaries, and lizardmen. More of their kind joined them daily, desiring the spoils of war and other benefits associated with the battle. A size of this gathering was more expensive for the human enemies they faced than for the warlock. It was fortunate that the orcs and goblins relished the taste of human flesh, and if there was not enough to go around, they would eat the corpses of their own kind who had fallen in battle. The warlock made sure to allow them the spoils of war to keep up morale. Besides, he was not interested in those things. What was important to him were power and success. The failure of the past few days irked him, but he was patient. The further west his forces were pushed, the further the humans were from their home bases. This stretched their supply lines to their limits. He could only hope that the ogres to the north would strike those supply lines soon, thereby cutting off the advancing forces of humans.
He clenched his teeth angrily. Why did the ogres have to operate independently? Why couldn’t they join forces with him? But he knew they weren’t intelligent enough to see that if he could coordinate their forces to move in unison with his own, he would be able to secure a victory that would benefit everyone. Even the smallest ogre was five times as powerful as a human, and one ogre armed with a club or mace could easily compensate for a well-armed human wearing a ring of strength. They were nearly twice the size of a human and built far more solidly. The warlord chuckled. So were their skulls. There wasn’t much room for a brain. So far, his calls to meet with the ogre chieftain had gone unanswered. Still, he would continue to try. Eventually he had to get through the chieftain’s nut of a skull.
Roving bands of trolls to the south were causing havoc with the humans as well, but those isolated raids were minor compared to what they were truly capable of. If only he could find their leader, if indeed there was one. He could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.
Another force the warlock was trying to rally to his side was the minotaurs. They had long had tensions with the dwarves, and were always looking for an excuse to go to battle. They loved to fight, perhaps more than any other race the warlock knew. They were just as big as the ogres, and fought with ten times more ferocity. They were also more intelligent. Their society was more structured than the rabble he now controlled. To have them join him would be a boon to his entire army. But they were east of the entire human colony. They were so far east, in fact, that they were on the other side of some impenetrable terrain. Separating them from the humans was a low jagged mountain range with gaseous vents that were unbreatheable to any who ventured too near, and a vast swampland that was virtually impassable. Any who ventured into this area rarely returned, and stories of what survivors had encountered bordered on the absurd and ridiculous, with stories of strange creatures to hallucinations and visions. To get to the humans, the minotaurs would either have to send a fleet of ships south into the Bay of Barlin, where elven and human patrols abounded, or circle north through a pass in the mountains patrolled by giants similar to humans. Then they would have to travel over a cave-riddled mountain range inhabited by the dwarves, right into the dense forested section just south of the mountains where the ogres were encamped. This meant the warlock had to have the ogres on board first, because otherwise they would regard the minotaurs as a threat encroaching on their territory. They would surely come to blows unless they had a common goal.
The warlock sighed and looked up into the sky. It was a dying shade of red as the sun faded, giving way to the moon and stars. From above was where this war would be decided. Whoever could get the aid of those infernal dragons would have the winning hand. He knew the humans were trying just as hard as he to control them. Whether they became allies or served him by some other means, victory would be his. He would gladly offer up his army as an offering to them for his victory. They could feast on all the combatants from both sides for all he cared. Too bad they didn’t like the taste of orcs and goblins.
A servant came out of the tent to contact the warlock. It was a creature half orc and half goblin. It had all the physical characteristics of an orc but the mind and attitude of a cowardly goblin. “Sir, the commanders are waiting.”
The warlock turned to him with a scowl. “I know that! I’ll be there when I’m ready!”
“But - what should I tell them, Sir?” asked the servant fearfully.
“I’ll be right there,” snapped the warlock, and waved him away.
“Yes, Sir,” answered the servant, who quickly disappeared back into the tent.
The warlock waited a few more minutes and then followed.
The tent was large and was sectioned off in several places. The front portion was fairly wide and had a table adorned with a map of the region. Seated around the table were various commanders of the forces in the valley below. There were four lizardmen commanders, three orc commanders, two goblin commanders, and one human mercenary commander. They all looked up as the warlock entered. To them he appeared large and intimidating. He was a good six and a half feet tall, with wide shoulders and muscular limbs. His facial features were rugged, with a long, pinched nose, an ugly scar on his right cheek, and eyes that were deep and black. His mouth was drawn in a scowl that left creases on his face which enhanced his dour expression. He had a black mustache and goatee, which he often stroked when deep in thought. His commanders knew better than to interrupt him when he did this.
The warlock looked around the torch-lit room and waited as each commander saluted him. Then he sat at the table’s head and folded his hands on the table.
“So, gentlemen,” he began, “what is the latest report?”
“The squabbles among my forces have subsided,” said one orc. He wiped his hand across his mouth as some spittle escaped his deformed face. He had the wide mouth of an orc, and his two bottom fangs pointed up at an angle, but his face hung at one side, evidence of an old battle scar. “The magical rings we recovered have been distributed by lot. Those who have one in their possession will keep them as long as they live, and are banned from acquiring more.”
“Good,” said the warlock. He looked at the others. “Has this worked for the rest of you?”
“Yes,” responded the commanders in unison.
“Good,” repeated the warlock. “We will use this method after each battle.”
“I still think the higher-ranking commanders should be entitled to one outright,” objected a goblin commander. He was particularly dark green for a goblin, and his pointed ears protruded from a shiny brass helmet undoubtedly acquired from the latest skirmish. The warlock found it odd that the creature could find a helmet that actually fit its tiny head.
Spirit Blade: Book III of the Dragon Mage Trilogy Page 8