Armies of the Silver Mage (30 page)

The Elves moved quickly to surround the monster. The Gnaal screeched from the intensity of the assault. Soon it dropped to its knees. A hundred small wounds took their vicious toll. Hallis stayed Norgen from charging in and likely getting himself killed by a stray bolt. Together they watched with amazement at the precision of the Elves.

They moved in a well rehearsed orchestra, like a pack of wolves. Their actions were slow and deliberate as if they’d done this a hundred times. The Gnaal sank lower to the ground. It saw death coming and welcomed the embrace. The Gnaal was tired and broken. Long centuries of fear and loathing left it cold. It wanted to die. The Elves drew the noose tighter and made for the killing stroke.

An Elf slightly taller than the rest left his kinsmen and walked directly to Fennic. He laid a tender hand on the boy’s forehead and whispered words none of them understood. When he finished, Fennic was awake and moving. His heart warmed at the Elf’s touch. The Elf nodded at him appraisingly.

“Now boy, finish this ere it has the chance to recover and come at us anew,” he told Fennic. When he spoke, the words were melodious and precise.

Fennic sighed and let the Elf help him to his feet. He drew Phaelor on his own and limped towards the fallen Gnaal. The Elf was beside him every step. Menacing eyes glared up at the pair. The sword. The Gnaal silently pleaded for a merciful demise. For reasons he’d never know, Fennic felt his contempt and fear ebb. The Gnaal was merely another of the Silver Mage’s pawns. It didn’t have a choice any more than he or Delin.

Fennic plunged Phaelor into the Gnaal’s heart with one swift stroke.

A gasp escaped the dying body and the Gnaal was no more. Ashes of the corpse drifted away on the morning winds. One by one the Elves disappeared until only the one remained. He stood beside Fennic like a father.

“Well done,” he praised. He then turned to the others, noting with interest the presence of a Dwarf. “I am Celegon, son of King Alsenal. You are safe here now.”

Hallis bowed his respect. He was about to reply when Fennic’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed.

FORTY

The Cracked Crystal of Tol Shere was a delicate myth for the majority of Malweir’s population. For Sidian, the Silver Mage of forgotten Ipn Shal, it was a lifetime of lust and desire. He’d spent decades searching for the shards. Only when all four were found and the crystal was remade would it unlock the secrets of magic long lost. His very will was bent by that desire. Sidian knew it was the lure of power and the unobtainable. The energy and magic spent to find them left him a haggard shell of the man he once was. Once the crystal was complete he would be new again. Whole to reign over the world with an iron hand. He shivered at the thought.

It took him one hundred and fifty years to recover the first three, with Dakeb hounding him at every turn. The first was the easiest to find. It was buried and warded by the dead in the Zurn Swamp at the base of the Acrafen Mountains in southern Antheneon. The wards set by his former brothers were simple, hardly problematic though more than enough to keep mortals away. Then again, the mages never counted on one of their own ranks to betray their trust.

The second he found protected by sea monsters in the Bay of Cuerlon. Again, it was only slightly more difficult than the spirits of Zurn. The third was the trickiest for it was hidden deep in the heart of the land of Chrysrar, home of the dragon men. The sentient saurians kept the shard deep in the Crystal Mountain where their queens hatched and dwelled. Many Men, Dragon and Goblin lost their lives that violent day.

He had the fourth in his grasp once, more than a hundred years ago, but was again stopped by the aging mage. Sidian bitterly remembered the battle in the Deadlands, far to the north when Dakeb slipped in and stole the fourth and final shard from under him. Perhaps it was because Sidian was in the process of subjugating Gren at the time, or just maybe Dakeb was that good. Either way, Sidian lost the shard and never came close again. Until now.

He cursed Dakeb’s name and all the man stood for. He once thought the goodness of Ipn Shal and the Order of Mages was destroyed. He knew for certain Dakeb had been killed during that fateful night when dozens of mages, dark and light, lost their lives. He was wrong. Dakeb returned again and again to foil his desires. How? He didn’t have the answer and it plagued his dreams.

Alone in his private tower, Sidian paced tirelessly. Worries creased his brow. There were too many unanswered questions bothering him. A pang of doubt surfaced. Every other person involved with the shards of the crystal were dead and gone. He’d made sure of that, one way or another. Two questions lingered above the others. How did Dakeb manage to survive time and again and how did he learn of his quest? Neither presented answers.

And now the quest was almost finished. The final shard was almost in his grasp. If it hadn’t been for Dakeb stealing it all those years ago, Sidian would never have been forced to hire Tolis Scarn. Sidian hated the man. He found Scarn incompetent and a small time thief and murderer. His value depreciated over time until Sidian was ready to kill the man himself and find someone else. It was only blind luck that Scarn managed to stumble onto the shard and the damned Elven sword. Sidian idly toyed with the thought of turning Scarn into a Gnaal or something worse. Perhaps he’d just have Hoole slit his throat.

Winter’s Day was only ten days away. If the crystal wasn’t complete by then he’d be forced to wait another hundred years to open the gateway to the nether world. Sidian wasn’t entirely confident he had a hundred years remaining. His enemies would rally together and invade Gren in a wave of unsuppressed fury. Aingaard would be destroyed and he would die. That much was certain for those same armies made that mistake once before and let him live. He made all of them pay but one, Averon. Their time was now and Sidian was going to make it bloody.

He let his eyes focus on the dark vermillion glow coming from under the door to his right. Sidian carefully stepped towards the chamber where the crystal was. Even now he was wary of the raw power. Not all of its secrets had been discovered. Thousands of years passed since its creation and he knew there was still much to learn. He felt the energy coming from it. It spoke to him. The crystal wanted to be remade. The dark light throbbed in his old heart.

A heavy rapping on the main door disturbed his ecstasy. Sidian crossed the chambers and opened the door with a wicked glare. Before him stood a man flanked by a pair of Goblin guards. He was dressed in the traditional furs of his people and was lean and hard. His features were angular and vile. There was no shortage of weapons on him. Rage flickered in Sidian’s eyes.

“You know not to disturb me when I am in here, Spendak,” he growled.

The man, Spendak, bowed curtly. “Forgiveness, Master. But word has come from the front.”

“Speak.”

One of the Goblins twitched nervously. Sidian noticed this and whispered dark words. The Goblin burst apart into mist with a muted scream.

“Lord Hoole is making the initial assault. All units are in battle positions and awaiting further instructions. The war is proceeding as planned.”

Sidian wasn’t particularly interested in that. It was what Spendak didn’t say that he wanted to know. “There is more you are keeping from me,” he seethed.

Not wanting to go the way of the Goblin, Spendak cleared his throat and said, “a Gnaal has returned with news of the stone.”

Sidian beckoned the man into his sacred chamber and closed the door.

FORTY-ONE

Black smoke billowed thickly from scores of fires on both sides of the river. Sparks and ash clogged the air making it nigh impossible to breath. The very land had become death for hundreds of meters. The very world was strewn with carnage and hundreds of mangled corpses. Soldiers for both armies ran to put out the flames before they burned the camps to the ground. Heavy clouds completely blocked the light of the moon. Thankfully, it also kept the temperature from dropping below freezing.

Steleon walked up and down the lines offering encouragement and praise. As much as he was doing, he knew there was so much more needed. Fighting the Goblins was one thing, and now he had to contend with the burst of winter hammering them. Steleon knew he would lose more than one man to frostbite. Surgeons and field medics were in place and ready, but knew they’d be swarmed soon enough. Steleon wondered how many men would die waiting to be seen by one of the surgeons. It was a grim thought.

The roar of catapults firing overhead brought him from his daze. The assault had begun anew. Steleon drew his sword and bellowed threats at the enemy. His men took heart from it and joined in. Rocks and burning pitch exploded throughout the camp. Soldiers took cover as best they could while commanders growled for them to stand fast. It was ungainly to show fear in the face of the enemy. Steleon was proud of them all, but he couldn’t let that distract him now. He knew what was coming next.

Battalions of Goblins massed just beyond the range of sight and waited for the horn that would signal their attack. Ten thousand of the gray warriors huddled together in the darkness and readied to advance. There was a latent fear rippling through the ranks. The same fear any army felt on the verge of battle. Son bodies would be pierced and torn apart in a brutal bombardment of arrows and catapult fire. The survivors would impale themselves on the outer defenses of the enemy bank and then push through to meet pike and sword. They’d seen it before, and knew they would see it again.

The horn blew deep and hollow. As one, the Goblin battalions chosen for the initial assault rose and advanced on the river. They struck the icy water at its lowest point and waded through. Dozens of bodies fell in the counterattack. The Goblins didn’t stop. Survivors trampled over the fallen, using the bodies for traction. They had a rage. The people of Averon had made them suffer too many times and it was time now for revenge. They met the defensive line and roared. Pikes dropped, skewering scores more while arrows continued to rain down into their massed ranks. The attack withered and finally died. Those few hundred that survived turned and fled for their lives.

Steleon finally fell back from the front rank of defenders. His sword arm was sore and he was exhausted. War was definitely a game for the young. Men clapped him on the back and cheered his name as the grizzled commander left the line. He had much planning to do and needed as many able bodied commanders in the command tent at once. He had a feeling the Goblins would be throwing themselves at them like that all night. The king was waiting for him not far from the line. There was a patch of drying blood on his armor. Steleon knew it wasn’t Maelor’s.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a fight like that,” Maelor said, offering a small flagon of red wine to his friend. “Good weather for it. I never liked fighting in the heat. Too much work for limited results. The men tire too easily in summer.”

Steleon had to agree, though the king’s presence made him nervous for obvious reasons.

“Sire, we’re outnumbered four to one with more coming down from the mountains every hour. Not to mention the dragon we haven’t seen yet. The enemy is focusing on this camp from all reports. It is dangerous for you to be here. I have a feeling the Silver Mage knows you are among us.”

Maelor scowled slightly. “We are not having this discussion again. I am king, and my decision is final. Where else would I belong if not with my army at their darkest times? I stay.”

Cool winds snuck under the tent flaps, rustling around just enough to chill their legs. Tongues of flames leapt up to lick at the fresh air.

“The winter will be cold this year. I often wonder how my father handled such times. It’s a hard life, that of king. If only things were different. Maybe the weight wouldn’t be so oppressive.”

Flames reflected in the king’s deep eyes, though Steleon was sure a tear formed.

“I think you’ve had the better of it,” he said. “You’re a lucky man, Steleon. No politics or politicians pulling you away from your intended course. Just a soldier with an army. Just a man.” The old king fell silent, suddenly feeling much older than his fifty-four

Melgit burst into the tent with urgent news. His eyes were bloodshot and he had dark rings around them from the lack of sleep.

“Word has reached me that the enemy is more cunning than we presumed. It appears they are led by a man, not Goblin. Our scouts returned with confirmation of a tall man directing the movements and attacks. His peers whipped the Goblins into ranks and pushed them forward in a foul language none should remember.”

A shudder passed through the king’s heavy frame. “The language of ancient Gren, before the mage irreversibly contaminated it. Once they were no different from us, then generations of servitude corrupted them. They are his prime power holding the throne for him. They are worse than any Goblin or Troll. These men represent what each of us has buried inside.”

“This complicates matter,” Steleon said. “I have a feeling that we are in a far more perilous place than we were five minutes ago.”

“We’ve fought men before,” Maelor reminded them. “They bleed and die the same as us. All it takes is a longer spear.”

Maelor placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I believe our priorities have changed. Pass the word to our archers. I want them to kill every man they see walking among the enemy first. If we kill their officers, the army might crumble.”

* * *

Lord Jervis Hoole stepped from his tent and lifted his long, pointed nose to the acrid smoke clinging to the air. Normally he took comfort in the odor. It helped him sooth when times grew trying. This morning there was a different taint to it. The air wasn’t quite so bitter. Something new rode the morning winds. Perhaps it was merely being so far from his ruined homeland that weakened his senses. Or just perhaps it was the Silver Mage at his weakest. He was finally exposing his plans to the world.

The thought warmed Hoole. He so hated the mage. The throne of Averon was already promised to him, but Hoole wanted more. So long as Sidian breathed, that wasn’t going to happen. Thoughts of the mage dead or in shackles amused him. His hatred ran deep for the man that turned his once proud civilization into a mass of murderous slaves. Hoole wanted Gren. His darkest heart wanted to see the world burn for the damnation of Gren. Burn for the wrongs committed against his people. Jervis Hoole hated life and could think of no better way for it to end than in flame.