Armies of the Silver Mage (39 page)

Hallis didn’t argue. He felt it in his bones. He was exhausted. He quickly laid out his riding blanket and was snoring in minutes. Thunder rumbled across the distant horizon. The air suddenly had an acidic tang to it. Dark clouds rushed in. Celegon sighed. He didn’t relish the prospect of crossing Gren in a maelstrom. For the first time since witnessing the battle at Gren Mot he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Dakeb assured him they all had a part to play. They’d known each other for centuries and he chose to trust the old mage.

The Elf prince watched his sleeping companions. Men seemed to share a bond none of the other races had. They made as many friends as enemies and strife was a constant threat due to the sheer size of their populations. His own people, first to colonize here, were never so great. They built things of wonder and mystery, but never had the large numbers Man created. If only, he thought. Dwarves were another matter. Ill mannered and in your face, the Dwarves kept to themselves and were the least known about.

Celegon laughed at having one for a companion now. There were others of course. Sprites and Nymphs were a rarity that few living could remember. But of all the races he’d come across, Man offered unity. He looked down at the two boys huddled beneath their blankets and smiled. A strong gust of wind brought a chill to his bones and carried the sounds he hoped not to hear. Celegon melted into the shadows.

The column was a hundred strong and marching in files of twenty-five. A trio of blonde Men lashed them on with forked whips. Their very actions suggested pure hatred for the Goblin soldiers in their command. Celegon watched the Men of vanquished Grelnor and snarled. There was but one reason a unit this big was in the far north country. The Silver Mage was on their trail.

The Goblins groaned and cursed under the whip. Disgruntled and seething in violence, they marched on. Celegon drew his bow and set and arrow to string. He knew Derlith and Llem had done the same. Their situation was precarious. The protection of the rocks could easily be turned against them, ensuring a violent demise. He braced for battle. But the Goblins shuffled past without so much as a sidelong glance. Celegon exhaled a slow breath and released the tension on his bow. They were safe for now.

Thick mists swirled around Tarren’s ankles as she ran for her life. They tried to grab her and steal her away from reality. Footsteps echoed behind her, heavy and menacing. Tarren feared for her life. She knew if they caught her she was dead. She ran even harder. Trees sprang up to block her way. Rubber branches laced with thorns cut her as she ran past. Tiny trickles of blood leaked from a score of wounds. She didn’t slow down though. She knew she couldn’t. The footsteps got closer. Another heartbeat and…

She was seized by a powerful grip. Tarren screamed. A deep, booming laugh echoed across the nightmarish world. Her attacker wasted no time pinning her arms behind her back with a thick cord. Any hope of escape quickly left her.

“Just be still, pretty. This isn’t going to be as bad as you think,” a familiar voice crooned.

His breath was hot on her neck. His hair, greasy to the touch, fell across her blood stained cheek.

“What…what do you want from me?” she stuttered.

The more she struggled to break free, the deeper into bondage she fell. If she could just reach her dagger.

“That, is a surprise,” he replied.

Tarren’s eyes widened with shock. She suddenly knew her abductor. There was no way she could mistake Scarn’s voice. She knew then that she was doomed. A strong shove in her back kept her moving but towards what she didn’t know. The trees gradually thinned. Tarren saw glimpses of terrible, misshapen creatures crawling towards her. And out of nowhere there stood before her a man dressed in a concealing black robe. Emptiness beckoned from beneath the hood. A voice in her head whispered for her to approach.

Her feet betrayed her, shuffling her closer to the Hooded Man. He raised a hand and her bonds fell away. Tarren felt warmth through her body and her eyes glazed over. Rich laughter came from the depths of the hood.

“Kneel,” the Hooded Man commanded.

Tarren obeyed unquestioningly.

The Hooded Man bent down, revealing his eyes to her. They were tiny and a crimson red. They stared deep into the core of her soul. She felt him reach into her flesh and grip her weary heart in the palm of his hand. Terror coursed through her veins. All of her secrets were revealed to him and he laughed mightily. Darkness settled around her, forcing her to bow subserviently to his will. And when it seemed she was lost, a brilliant light surrounded her and drove the darkness away.

Tarren remembered nothing.

The golden light faded from Dakeb’s fingertips and the mage pulled his hands from Tarren’s forehead. The danger was past. Both sweated profusely and he was trembling. He relaxed from the strain of using so much magic. It wasn’t long after they went to sleep he found Tarren thrashing wildly in her sleep. He wasn’t really surprised, though it troubled him to great lengths. Both he and Celegon had been watching her closely since that night she and Scarn disappeared in the woods at the same time. Only now did he realize that Sidian wanted her mind. He’d barely been in time to save her, this time. The last spell Dakeb left on her would make her forget this nightmare. Or so he hoped. Either way, he didn’t leave her side for the rest of the night. Tarren woke to find the kindly mage sitting nearby with a smile on his face.

“Good morning, young lady,” he said.

A sharp pain lanced through her forehead. “What happened?” she asked, almost in a daze. “I feel so bad.”

“Oh I imagine it’s just the combination of the lack of sleep and riding so hard. It’s hard to stay hydrated and eat right on these kinds of adventures,” Dakeb lied. “You’ll be fine once you get a little food in your belly.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. But there was more. He was deeply concerned with the way Sidian had been attacking her and he didn’t know why. What games are you playing at, he asked himself as the rest of the group started to rouse. Soon enough they were on their way across the horrors of the Nveden Plains again.

FIFTY-ONE

The morning sun evaporated the mist rising off the frigid waters of the Thorn River. Dawn was just beginning to break, spreading tendrils of light through the veil of night. The battling armies rose late this day, as if the commanders knew what was going to happen. A light wind danced over the battlefield, taking some of the gruesome stench of death and decay away. Mounds of bodies were piled in the rear of the assembly area. There were too many to count. Not that it mattered. Continuous reinforcements were pouring down into the lowlands from Gren daily.

Thus far each attack had met failure. The riders from Harlegor nearly broke their backs, despite the numbers of Goblins. Jervis Hoole was losing his patience. Enemy catapults rained down mercilessly on his positions. Buzzards and crows flew overhead by the thousands. Hole looked out at his disheartened army with disgust. The memories of the victory at Gren Mot were already gone. Some of his forces were already bordering on mutiny. Apart from the outright slaughter of anyone seditious, Hoole had one plan in mind to raise their spirits and renew the battle. He smirked at the thought of the look of surprise on his foe’s faces when he sent in his battalions of Ogres. They’d arrived under the cover of darkness and were anxious for a brawl. Once his front line forces pulled back to retire for the day, Hoole was going to send the Ogres crushing into the heart of the enemy.

The throne of Averon was close now. One step away and all the lowlands would be his to rule. He briefly imagined how it would feel to be free of the Silver Mage and let it pass. Too much was at stake. Only one other knew of his seditious intentions and Hoole had been forced to promise the governorship of Gren to the man before he agreed not to run to the Silver Mage. In the end the idea was grand. One king with two lands. Hoole smiled as he returned to his tent.

* * *

“I don’t like this.”

Steleon clenched his jaw and stared off at the enemy camps. He was against the wall and he knew it. The battle was going his way for all intents and purposes, but the balance was fragile. All it would take is one concentrated push and his army would fold. The only way he’d been able to stay alive this long was through tricks and guerrilla tactics. Fortunately it kept the armies of Gren off guard and hesitant to take the offensive. Steleon knew that wasn’t going to last long. He needed a way to change that.

Melgit didn’t answer for a moment. He thoughtfully stroked his black beard. Young Graeme was standing at his side, as he had since the battle began.

“What’s to like?” he finally said. “This is war.”

“No,” Steleon replied. “This goes beyond just war.”

“It’s what we must weather and endure if Averon is to have a future,” Maelor said as he walked up the gentle slope to them.

Both snapped to the position of attention. “Sire.”

Maelor waved off the formality. “I don’t imagine this lull is going to last much longer.”

“No,” agreed Steleon. “They’re preparing their final assault. My scouts are reporting a massive build up. It won’t be long at all.”

“Are you sure?” Maelor asked.

“Yes. See how they’re forming up? They’re going to strike us with three prongs and try to drive us back far enough to gain the banks. Once they’ve established a crossing they can pour their full weight down on us.”

“How prepared is the defense?”

Steleon shook his head slightly. “I’ve ordered the front trench abandoned. We flooded sections of it and emplaced iron tipped stakes at the bottom. That should slow them down enough for the pikemen to get in place. The catapult batteries will start firing the instant their front ranks begin the advance. Archers and javelins will add fire to the far shore. The cavalry and infantry are in reserve until the time comes.

Maelor nodded approval. He’d always liked his field commander and knew why his father had spoken so highly of the man. “So we stop them on the banks. Why the despair then? I can feel it in the way you hold yourself.”

“Have you ever known a battle to go as planned?”

Maelor didn’t respond.

“There’s still the rumors of the dragon,” Melgit brought up.

Graeme repressed a shudder.

“Which no one has seen since the fall of Gren Mot,” Melgit added.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not out there. More than likely perched on some distant mountaintop awaiting instructions from the Mage,” Steleon snapped back. “I prefer to concentrate on what I see before me.”

“And if the dragon comes?”

“We die.”

The sun continued to sink over the horizon. A lone, baleful horn blow from across the shore. It was time.

Goblin arrows sailed across the river. The defenders ducked behind an interlocking wall of shields. Occasionally one fell with an arrow in him. The rate of fire gradually slackened as the first battalions began the lunged towards the river. War drums pounded on the night air. The moon hadn’t risen yet and eastern Averon sat in darkness.

Steleon’s catapults opened fire, throwing death and vengeance into the enemy ranks. The drums beat harder. The Goblins inched closer. The defenders nervously waited in position. Sweat ran down their faces. Their hearts roared. Each of them knew what awaited. The actions on this night meant the future for their kingdom and quite possibly the rest of Malweir. Each of them made peace with their personal deity and readied for the worst. The differences between veteran and recruit were gone. They were all the same now.

The Goblin army marched closer. Their dark shapes slowly came into sight. A brutal realization dawned on Steleon. The shapes were much larger than Goblins.

“No,” he whispered.

His fears were realized a moment later when the front ranks came into plain sight. Trolls and a lot of them. Steleon knew he had nothing capable of beating back such an assault. He snatched Graeme by the shoulder and tried to prevent a total disaster.

“Run to the catapults. Tell them to shift their fire to the river. It’s the only chance we have at slowing them,” he shouted.

The boy ran for his life, and the lives of every man, woman and child in Averon. Trolls splashed into the river. Steleon joined the ranks of pikemen waiting in the second trench.

“Stand the line!” he yelled above the approaching clamor. He raised his sword in challenge to the enemy. “Even Trolls have weakness. Fight for your lives!”

Pikes lowered. Steleon wanted to believe in his words, but he’d be damned if he knew where a Troll was weakest. They were going to need a miracle if they were going to survive this. Arrows would be wasted on their armor like hides, so he reserved them for the small Goblins. At speeds greater than a horse could run, the arrows would make short work of the foot soldiers. Steleon resolved himself not to retreat. It was here or nowhere. The front lines were going to bear the full weight of the storm.

“For Averon and King Maelor!” he roared.

His army echoed the cry.

Icy waters poured from the Trolls massive bodies as they climbed from the frozen river and onto the western shore. Balls of flaming pitch sizzled overhead, dripping down on the defenders. Fire exploded on the nearest Troll’s chest and he staggered. The Troll dropped his weapon in the river and fell to his knees. Another round hit, and then another. The Trolls were massed so closely it was impossible to miss. Unfortunately, the pitch wasn’t stopping them. The Trolls kept coming. Cudgels and mighty tulwars hammered down on the defender ranks, crushing and battering them aside. Pikes thrust back with little or no results. Occasionally a Troll did fall from wounds, but the defenders paid a heavy toll. Little by little the line was driven backwards. Steleon saw the doom of Averon approaching. Hope was fading.

It took the Trolls practically no time to break through the lines and strike at the heart of the infantry. The soldiers fought bravely and hard, but they were no match for the battle hardened Mountain Trolls. Steleon took his infantry into the heart of the battle. A horribly scarred Troll swung for his head, flakes of burned skin peeling off his ruined flesh. Steleon tried to step back but tripped over a body and fell. The cudgel came crashing down.