Armies of the Silver Mage (16 page)

Norgen planted the head of his axe on the ground and bowed low. “Would you and that sword have been there when we first set foot from Breilnor.”

“The light to counter the growing darkness. Fennic Attleford, you have given Men reason to hope again,” Hallis exclaimed.

The light against the darkness. That’s the reason why I must go to Gren, Fennic thought to himself. Where he should have been feeling elation and pride, he felt only a gnawing bitterness. The Gnaal was but a prelude of darker dreams to come. Delin, on the other hand, was finally an important piece of the puzzle. He rechecked his pocket for the purple stone and relaxed. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Twilight was upon them, spreading shadow and night in a protective blanket. Hallis nervously pushed them away from the battlefield. He wasn’t an overly superstitious man, but having seen more than the common man he wasn’t about to take any chances.

TWENTY-ONE

The nightlife of Feist left much to be desired. A handful of rundown bars and taverns drew the usual crowds of derelicts and aspiring thieves. Good and honest folk went to the old theater on the main road for a live show. Most of the talented performers crowded the towns around Paedwyn and Alloenis. Tolis Scarn didn’t particularly care for any of it.

He was more comfortable alone. Scarn found people too petty and intrusive. They all wanted more, always complaining how unfair life was. Most weren’t any better than cattle being drawn to the slaughterhouse. People too afraid to go and take theirs. Scarn looked upon them all with disdain, for he never lacked in taking what he wanted. Born to parents who died from the flux when he was quite young, Scarn learned how to find and collect the necessary elements of life the hard way.

He lost count of the times he was caught by angry farmers and merchants. They broke his bones, busted his lips and left him covered in bruises and still he persisted. Time and experience conspired to make him better. To hone his skills until the beatings stopped.

Until he stopped getting caught. Not long after his second decade he found time to stop and think about what could have been. His parents had been decent and hard working farmers from Braem, a quaint northern border town. That life never came to be and he turned to crime. His entire basis for being was a contradiction to his parents beliefs.

Water under the bridge, he told himself and never looked back. Perhaps those were the reasons he was here in Feist, drinking cheap ale in a second rate inn and hunting a pair of boys halfway across Averon for an employer he didn’t know.

“Cheers,” he said to no one in particular as he downed the last swallow of ale.

He wasn’t much of a drinker, and the poor quality offered by this inn was twisting his stomach horribly. So Scarn passed a few coppers to the bar maid and left the common room for the night. A pillow with a heavy down blanket offered much more than the dreary crowds of Feist. Besides, days and weeks of hard traveling and investigating had taken their toll. A few days rest and relaxation were just what he needed before taking up the road again. He wasn’t sure his employer would appreciate the delay, but at the moment he didn’t care.

Tolis Scarn was many things. A killer, spy, and thief. He’d even done a bit of assassination in his time. But he was not naïve. His employer had secret motivations, a common factor among those he chose to work for. Only a fool would believe otherwise. No student of history, Scarn was keen enough to understand the significance of the purple stones. He sighed halfway up the stair, cursing himself for thinking about work during his self imposed break.

Floorboards groaned underfoot, marking his passage down the poorly lit hall. Cobwebs plagued the upper corners and ceiling and a thin film of dust coated the floor. True, he might have found a classier place, but this suited his purpose. Scarn turned the key in his door and stepped inside. The hairs on his neck raised instantly. Instincts drew the short sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Still too dark to see the danger, he knew stood stone still and waited. A low, erratic breath came from across the room.

“Show yourself or I’ll kill you where you stand,” Scarn growled.

A rasping voice replied, “You’ll have no need of those weapons with me, Tolis Scarn. I am beyond the limits of your imagination.”

The lantern above the small table sprang to life, temporarily blinding him. Bright flashes burned his eyes. Scarn raised his weapons higher and readied for the attack. But the attack did not come.

“What do you want?” he asked, blinking the flashes away.

With a power like that, Scarn knew he was dead.

“Look at me closely and answer your own questions,” came the answer.

And he did. There was an unsettling familiarity in the voice that worried him. Finally able to focus, Scarn looked upon the hunched over man in a dark robe. His face and hands were completely concealed, leaving no doubts as to his identity. Danger screamed at Scarn.

“How did you find me?”

The Hooded Man let out a hissing laugh. “Did you truly think I wasn’t going to follow your every move? Your every action? Perhaps I haven’t made myself fully clear?”

Dark fear pulsed forward, sweeping the room. The fear gripped Scarn and threatened to drive him to his knees.

“A war is coming. One that will shake the foundations of the world. Everything you have ever known will be torn asunder. The darkness is stronger but not undefeatable. There are certain weaknesses exposed.”

Scarn shook the demons from his head. He didn’t much care about wars or darkness. He didn’t care about anything but finishing this job and putting it all behind him.

“Where is the stone?” the Hooded Man pressed.

“Not far. I’ve been tracking…”

“You’ve been tracking a whisper. Nothing more.” the Hooded Man drew to his full height. “The old man no longer holds the stone.”

“I know. I came upon his grave in Rellin Werd.”

The Hooded Man cocked his head in thought. “Where then did he go? I have not felt him for some time now. Winter’s Day is soon upon us. I need that stone, Scarn.”

“The current keepers can’t be more than a day away. Two young boys have it, and the travel with a Dwarf,” Scarn said.

The same two who killed the Gnaal? This was unexpected.

“They are more than three days from here.”

Scarn didn’t ask how he knew. He wanted the man to leave.

The Hooded Man began to pace. “This is becoming more dangerous than I thought. You must leave at dawn, for our enemies will soon be in Paedwyn. Take the King’s Road and ride hard. The only way to succeed is to get ahead of them and reach the city first.”

“What do I do then?”

“Leave that to me.”

The window flew open and a stiff wind blew out the lantern. Tolis Scarn waited until he knew he was alone before closing the window and relighting the room. His mind was filled with questions. The most prominent being why was Winter’s Day so important? Too disturbed to think, Scarn strapped his weapons back on and headed for the common room.

* * *

Sidian, the Silver Mage, slumped back into his throne of dragon bone. Cold sweat poured down his face. His old body felt used and broken beyond the strain of his years. His weathered hand caressed his aching temple. The magic was taking more out of him these days. He felt more alone. More fragile since the war began. His fires weren’t enough to keep him warm anymore.

A heavy knock took away the pain and weakness.

Two slender Goblins with mottled skin eased their way to his feet and bowed. Behind them walked a strong man with evil eyes.

“Milord,” the man said. “We are making progress against the enemy forces in the mountain pass, but our losses are mounting. We need the dragon.”

Sidian’s eyes flashed. “I will use the dragon at the time and place of my choosing, not a moment before. Am I clear, Grelnor?”

Grelnor bowed. “Forgiveness. I do not presume to overstep my bounds, but losses are heavy. The enemy is much craftier than we believed.”

“The lives of Goblins and Trolls do not concern me. They are easy enough to come by. Have the reinforcements come in from the east yet?”

“I’ve heard nothing. Only recently did I return from the front lines,” Grelnor told him.

“Wagon trains full of wounded leave daily and there are few enough healers here in Gren. We could well lose this war with the outcome of the siege.”

Sidian didn’t ask for a progress report. Daily reports and random visions showed him the carnage of the pass. War was an uncivilized affair and it sickened his stomach. With the two largest kingdoms in Malweir embroiled in conflict, his personal task went unnoticed. The continued self destruction kept the world’s concentration, allowing him the time needed to complete his task.

“The eastern clans have yet to march,” the taller Goblin rasped. “My runners return with word of cowardice. Their leader claim to be waiting for the final thrust into Averon.”

The speech was slow and broken, for most Goblins had a limited grasp on the common tongue.

“Perhaps they need… persuasion,” Grelnor offered.

Recent losses meant little in the terms of manpower to Gren, but the more Goblins killed were going to cause serious problems when the war moved down onto the open plains.

“I will dispatch my Gnaals to hasten their preparations. Commander Grelnor, we will be out of the mountains in less than one week. Do not stop the attack and do not fail me,” he told the once proud man. “Redouble your efforts and break their will.”

“As you command,” Grelnor bowed again and stormed from the chamber, the Goblins

fast on his heel.

Sidian resumed rubbing his forehead but the ache only grew stronger.

* * *

“Where are you leading me I wonder, pony?” Tarren asked through a light yawn. She was tired of traveling and sore from riding so much. She cursed her decisions for the thousandth time. The pony merely snorted as if to say trust me.

Tarren supposed matters could be worse. She shuddered to think what might have been if she were caught by the storm in the open. Winter Day was three and half weeks away and already the weather changed for the worse. Her motivation for finding Delin and Fennic grew sharply with each passing day.

They stopped occasionally so the pony could browse on the last of the fall grasses and Tarren could relieve herself. They had no shortage of water, which was much the opposite of her food stores. Food was a serious issue and seeing how the pony stuck to grass and berries, Tarren wondered how much longer she was going to make it with the pony in the lead before she found herself starving.

“We need to find food soon. I don’t want to starve out here,” she told the creature while stroking its muzzle. “Oh, I wish you understood me.”

The pony swished its tail.

Tarren stretched awake with a mighty yawn. After ducking behind a boulder, she came back to find the fire stoked and a large bundle close by. The pony was nowhere in sight. She knew better to question a helping hand so she went to the sack, hoping her pony was coming back. Inside were dried fruits and meat, venison from the smell, and a large wedge of cheese buried under a loaf of dark bread. All told, there was enough to last her another four days, five if she rationed carefully. Tears of gratitude clouded her shining blue eyes.

The pony returned shortly, tail swishing and walking with the same carefree attitude. It was all Tarren could do to run up and wrap her around the soft neck and cry.

TWENTY-TWO

Thunder and lightning pushed out from Gren. The wicked land grew stronger, spreading evil with the passing hour. Dark clouds filled the red and black skies. Lightning wreathed the jagged mountaintops and hidden crags. Howling winds tormented the world down to the foundations. The Gren Mountains were dangerous any time of the year. War and invasion merely increased that threat. Mountain Trolls worked beneath the surface to bring down the ancient rock and dirt while the armies battled.

High above, lodged in a forgotten pass, stood two slender figures in green cloaks. Each had a full quiver and a bow strapped across his back with long rapiers at the hip. Dangerous as they were intelligent, the Highland Elves watched the battle play out in secrecy.

Catapults barraged the surging ranks of Goblins and Men, destroying troops and equipment at an unprecedented pace. Fires burned and raged behind the enemy lines. The Elves keen eyes spied a long line of wagons laden with wounded moving back down the pass. Human losses seemed considerably less though they were far outnumbered. The Elves saw evidence of a tremendous landslide leaving a trail into the invading army. Bodies and siege machines were wiped out in an instant.

“The humans have no chance,” the younger Elf remarked dispassionately. “Not even with the weight of our people behind them, Celegon.”

His long blond hair flowing in the strong winds, Celegon said nothing.

Another major assault was beginning. Human archers slew scores of Goblin foot soldiers. Many tried to break and run, and would have succeeded if not for the three battalions of Ogres pushing them forward. Arrows darkened the skies. Return fire struck down many of the defenders. Celegon caught sight of a mass of heavy cavalry waiting off to the side of the main avenue of approach. They looked tired, both horse and rider.

“We shall see, my friend,” he finally said. “These humans are most resilient. I see thousands dead, and how many more have already been taken back to Gren? The humans are deserving of our help.”

“Alsenal has said the Dwarves are ready to commit. Our people aren’t needed here.”

Celegon smiled. “I disagree. Man isn’t strong enough to handle the fate of the world alone. And the bearded folk were never many. We need to help.”

“As we always have,” the Elf replied. “Man cannot grow if we continue to hold his hands. They must unite and be held accountable for their actions.”

“And must we sit by and watch this evil spread across Malweir until even we are no longer safe? Or have you forgotten the horrors of the Mage War? I have no desire to see my children’s children buried before me,” he argued back.