Armies of the Silver Mage (31 page)

He stood on a low rise and watched as the last of his Goblins retreated from the icy water. So few had returned. No matter, he told himself. They were fodder anyways. The fewer Goblins he had to contend with once the war was done the better. His aide, a greasy man with the features of a weasel, narrowed his eyes.

“Shall I order the catapults to provide cover fire until they are safe?” he asked.

Hoole snorted a laugh. “To what point? I wasn’t expecting any of them to survive. The few who did now have a greater appreciation for their pathetic lives.”

“The Mage won’t be pleased,” hissed the reply.

Jervis Hoole squared on the smaller man. “Who’s going to tell him? This is my army, and mine alone.”

“Only when he’s not here. He will not be pleased with this.”

Moving faster than the aide could react, Hoole drew his dagger and slammed it to the hilt in the man’s stomach. A prolonged gasp escaped his as he clutched at the wound and fell to the ground. Dark blood trickled down onto the fresh snow. Hoole smiled, knowing it would take long for the man to die. He stood there watching the whole time. Finally, when the man was dead, Hoole blinked.

“Perhaps your ghost can tell him,” he whispered to the corpse.

He summoned a pair of Goblins to haul the body off and tried wiping some of the spattering of blood from his boots. Inside his tent he found his war captains arguing over the best way to attack the enemy. None of their plans particularly interested him. Nor did the men. They were a bitter lot, of which less than half fully supported his ultimate plans. Hoole let them argue and walked on to the rear of the tent where his private chamber was. He was surprised at the simple pleasure a cot offered.

But the night was different. Troubled dreams tormented his sleep, stealing away the pretense of normalcy. Monstrous faces hidden by disease and shadow leered back at him. The more he struggled, the tighter their grip became. He was soon at their mercy. Hoole screamed as their fingers dug into his flesh, sinking deep into muscle and bone. He was lost. The man’s clung tighter and Hoole knew he was going to die. The glory of tomorrow was a forgotten dream as the light left his eyes.

Jervis Hoole awoke in a cold sweat. His heart threatened to explode. His head throbbed in anguish. He was afraid. The dreams were steadily getting worse and more intense. Still shaking, Hoole decided to see if his captains were still there. A gleam danced in his eyes. Demented as his dreams were, they inspired new heights of torment. He now had a plan.

The battle lines of Gren formed not long past midday. Battalions formed ranks as deep as they were long. Men rode up and down the line with curses and promises of endless misery upon failure. Their whips cracked and lashed out at the diseased flesh. Goblins snarled and pointed their weapons. The hatred was mutual. A bugle trumpeted over the eastern shore and the army stepped forward in rolling mass of contempt. It was an awesome sight to behold. Tens of thousands of the squat Goblins bristling in black mail and arms chanting in their foul language. A cheer roared when they saw the Men of Averon blanch. The Goblins took strength from their fear as the river drew closer. None of them wondered why the enemy wasn’t opening fire yet, for they were engrossed in the myth of their strength. Another five hundred meters and the first ranks would be at the frigid waters of the Thorn River.

They were his heavy infantry, designed to smash through the defenses and let the lighter, more agile units past. If they could break a hole in the lines and reach the enemy command area, Hoole knew his odds at winning the war were unbeatable. He watched the battle develop through the looking glass. It was going almost too smoothly. Then he noticed why. The enemy wasn’t moving. They were just standing there. The time it took him to realize the problem and issue orders was already too late.

“Sound the halt!” he bellowed.

It was already too late. Hoole watched in horror as ranks of Averonian archers appeared on the berms with arrows nocked. The world slowed until he watched it all in slow motion. He saw every splendid detail as arrows plunged into his army. But it wasn’t Goblins being killed. They were aimed at the men of Gren. The Goblins continued to press the attack, oblivious to what was happening. All of the officers were being struck down. Without them, the advance would crumble. Hoole cursed and watched helplessly.

Then the distinctive whump of a catapult firing sang clear. Then another, and another. The air grew so thick with smoke and bodies he quickly lost sight of the slaughter.

* * *

A wave of black and gray desperately tried to turn and flee, but the rear ranks were still pushing forward. Maelor and Steleon watched the chaos closely. their gamble paid off. Hundreds were already dead and more fell every moment.

“Our gamble seems to have worked,” Maelor said.

Steleon agreed. “This time. Whoever leads them won’t be so careless again. The officers will lead from the rear, out of bowshot.”

“You take our success too lightly. Every one we killed today is one less to lead them. Goblins can’t fight without a leader,” Maelor scolded.

“Spoken like a politician,” Steleon replied. “What comes next? The dragon? All out invasion? We cannot hope to hold them forever. Soon they’ll set aside the feints and ploys and drive a stake through us.”

“Then we must beat them to it.”

“Attack them?” Steleon asked in shock.

Maelor emphatically shook his head. “Goodness no. That’s suicide and even I can appreciate that. Our allies will be here soon, old friend.” He paused.

“We’ve dealt them a heavy blow, Steleon. They’ll not be so eager to come at us again. Let as many men stand down as you can afford. This battle is going to end sooner or later and we’ll need all our strength to see it through.”

The aging king walked away to be with his men. Their love for him was apparent, though Steleon could see the cracks in his rigid foundations. He was afraid the man was going to break and lead them all to ruin. After all, no man was his own father. Baeleon’s reputation as king and soldier was harder than most to live up to. The general hoped Maelor was equal to the task; else the kingdom of Averon would perish.

FORTY-TWO

Fennic lay at death’s foot. His breathing was shallow and his skin had turned a waxy shade of pale. Delin knelt by his side, softly weeping for his best friend. The others stood around the boys in a loose circle. Elves watched the perimeter for another Gnaal, though none of them believed another was coming. After leaving the battlefield, they’d ridden until sunset and stopped only when they reached the security of the borders of the Old Forest. At first, a little fresh water and dried fruit seemed to help Fennic, but his condition worsened until he was but the shell of the boy he used to be. They dismounted in a soft clearing and tended their wounds. Most of them were unharmed, though Scarn was exhausted beyond measure. The thief silently wished he’d listened to his father those long years ago. If he had, he wouldn’t be in this dire predicament. From where he stood, another wished he’d listened to his parents.

Celegon frowned, his pointed ears barely visible under his flowing golden hair. He was by no means a healer. The son of a king and next in line to ascend to the throne, Celegon was trained in war and affairs of state. He’d never known love and often contemplated leaving for adventures. Family life never suited his desires. And now, he found himself in the middle of war he knew nothing about and the life of a boy slipping from his grasp.

“I cannot heal him. His ailments are of the mind, not body. There are many wicked weapons of Gren and the Mage,” Celegon said quietly. “Perhaps my father may help, but there is nothing I can do.”

“If he’ll see us at all,” Derlith spoke.

Hallis sensed the division between them and became irritated. “There must be some way. Why else would he be chosen to carry that damned sword..”

His voice trailed off as Phaelor began to glow. Hallis suddenly had an idea. He rushed over and pulled Delin up. The boy didn’t resist. If there was a chance to save his best friend then he would do what he could.

“Draw the sword, Delin,” Hallis told him.

Doubt flickered in his blue eyes. “Are you sure? I thought it chose Fennic?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Hallis admitted, “but I have an idea. Look at the way Phaelor glows. It is not the aggressive amber of combat. See, look how it turns an almost azure color. I think the sword wants to help.”

Delin eased mighty Phaelor from the scabbard, feeling a pleasant tingling move through his body. The sword talked to him. It sang of peace and joy, filling the tiny glade with new hope and inspirations. Even Scarn believed in the magic at that moment. A soft humming reached out to soothe them all.

“Now what, Hallis?”

Celegon slid forward. “Look for a wound. He has to be injured.”

The Elf prince knelt and started at Fennic’s feet. He rolled up the left pant leg and suddenly rocked back in shock. There was a foot long gash on his calf, dripping puss and a black fluid that smelled poisoned and rotten. Delin threw up.

“Quickly, touch the sword to the wound,” Celegon excitedly said.

There was a blinding flash as sword met flesh. A foul hiss tainted the crystalline air. Fennic cried out from unconsciousness and fell back. Pale green fog seeped up from the wound, evaporating as it touched the air of the forest. Phaelor lost its glow.

“Did it work?” Norgen asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since joining the Elves.

Celegon looked down at the Dwarf. His eyes were hard and unforgiving, as if Norgen committed some personal crime at some point in their lives. Old hatreds were hard to let go. “I cannot say. This is a different brand of magic. None but the Silver Mage knows its depth. Ah, look! Already the wound heals.”

Flesh knitted back together in an ugly scar. Fennic didn’t stir. His memory of the pain keeping him asleep for the time. The Elves went about making camp for the night. There was no way the boy was going to move anytime soon and the others needed the rest. A pair of hunters returned carrying a field dressed boar and a sack filled with wild vegetables and roots. Norgen’s stomach growled despite his worries. Dried meats and old cheese only went so far. He watched the Elves skin and clean the boar, already selecting which shank he planned on eating.

Delin felt a small measure of strength creep back to him. Maybe it was the heat from the roaring fire, or the thought of fresh food. Either way, he was slowly forgetting the horrors of the last battle. He knew, deep down inside, that there was no going back to his old life. He’d seen and done too much for that. He idly fingered the purple stone in his pocket and sat down to eat. With his stomach full and his mind at peace, Delin yawned and curled up on a bed of pine needles and went to sleep.

“Those boys have been through a lot,” Hallis said.

“We all have,” Norgen added. “They’re good lads.”

Celegon spoke to one of his warriors who simply nodded and disappeared into the night with three others.

“You have nothing to fear so long as you remain in our lands. Evil has no purchase in the Old Forest,” he assured them. “It was not always so. There was a time when Goblins and Ogres used to cross our borders regularly. The mages helped end that. Master Thellios established a ward around the forest preventing the Dweilfolk from entering. That magic remains as strong today as it did all those hundreds of years ago. You may all rest in peace here.”

“That may be well and fine, but we can’t stay hidden here forever,” Norgen said a little harsher than he intended.

“You quest is known to us, Master Dwarf. The full armies of my father will not commit to war, for he has long held the belief that we need not worry in mortal affairs. I and a few of my closest supporters can see different. My people are at your disposal.”

Scarn struggled to keep the feeling of disgust building in him from showing.

Hallis swallowed a mouthful of red wine and asked, “how many are in your army?”

Celegon was hesitant to respond, for his people were one of secrecy. If too much became known of them it would embolden their enemies. Even among those he’d just saved, he was ill advised to tell. But trust had to begin somewhere. The dilemma was more entertaining than he thought possible. His loyalty to his people was fierce, but he knew they had no hope of standing alone against the powers of the Silver Mage.

“We number in the thousands. They are loyal to the king and will not fight. I have three hundred with me,” he finally said.

Norgen snorted his disgust. “Three hundred against all of Gren? Stay in your trees, Elf. The end will come rushing to you.”

Surprisingly, Scarn entered the conversation. “I don’t remember seeing an army of Dwarves coming to the rescue.”

Norgen’s hand crept to his axe.

“There will be no violence here,” Celegon sternly commanded. He turned back to Hallis. “My does not believe we should involve ourselves in the affairs of Men. I think he fails to see what is truly happening. If the mage wins he will ruin the world in darkness. All races will wither and perish. Phaelor coming back to our borders confirms my worst fears. The Elves must play a part in winning this war.”

“Can the sword kill him?” Hallis asked.

“Very likely. The smiths who wrought it were a secretive bunch, the last of our druids. My own mother was one. They disappeared not long after the sword was finished and presented as a gift to the King of Averon. None can say what it was designed for, only that it is a dangerous tool of magic.”

Scarn listened to the conversation with a guarded interest. He didn’t really know what was going on, and didn’t really care. None of them had even hinted at the stone yet and that made him suspicious. He guessed one of the boys had it, but they were never left unattended. The Hooded Man was waiting and Scarn was running out of options. Very soon he knew he was going to have to kill them in their sleep and flee. If only the Elves would stop watching for a few moments. Their eyes never left him, nor did the silent knowing twinkle in them. Scarn felt afraid.