Armies of the Silver Mage (49 page)

Authors: Christian Freed

The column wound through the crumbling streets. Lightning strikes blasted around them, destroying more with each bolt. A building exploded, showering that part of the city in debris and flame. Tarren clutched her reins tighter and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to die in this maze of endless streets and gutters. At last they came to the decaying marble bridge spanning the chasm. A wall of flame rose on each side of the bridge, pushing the tiny group harder. Hallis led them to a full gallop and the buildings soon gave way to a ravaged landscape caught in the grip of the netherworld. They had returned to the Nveden Plains.

* * *

Tremors rocked Gren. Lighting attacked friend as well as foe. The battling armies stopped then. Dead and dying littered the plains. With the death of Sidian, the armies of Gren broke and fled to their underground lairs. Men and Dwarf cheered briefly until they realized the gravity of the situation. Gren was destroying itself around them. Steleon lowered his sword and watched as gaping wounds opened in the ground. Molten fire spit from the holes and the land bled. nature raged out of control and threatened to claim them all unless they escaped. Violent rains began to whip down on them and the call for retreat was raised. Steleon only prayed it was in time to save what was left of the armies.

* * *

Hallis kept the pace until dawn. Their course was due south and most of the damage was lost behind them. The world was less turbulent here. Soon they would reach the mountain border with Antheneon and hopefully freedom beyond. With all of the chaos and confusion there seemed little chance of being caught by the enemy so he begrudgingly slowed them. Night gracefully turned to day. Feelings of dread evaporated. They stopped to tend to their wounds and try to eat, but none of them could stomach the food. The pain of last night was too sickening.

Eventually they left Gren, entering Antheneon’s supple farm lands. The air was easier to breathe. Once again the sky was blue and laced with clouds. The oppression of Gren was behind them. Even though snow blanketed the lands, their spirits were rising. The western lands offered hope and promise. But despair still lurked. The further they traveled the more their grief grew. Llem and Fennic lay dead. Norgen was on death’s door and all of them had wounds needing care. Dakeb could do only so much.

One night, not far from the border of Averon, they sat around a small fire and tried to forget the misery of Gren. There was little conversation in the flickering light, though all had much weighing on their minds. Delin snuck off to be by himself. He sat alone on a ice covered boulder and cried his pain away. Tarren heard his sobs but left him to his lament.

“Another few days and we should be at the border,” Dakeb announced after finishing the last shreds of meat on the rabbit leg he’d been gnawing on.

“We shall take our leave soon,” Celegon told them, firelight reflecting in his jeweled eyes. “My father will wish to know of these events.”

Dakeb nodded thoughtfully, looking up to see Tarren stalk off in solitude. He found her not far away with her head in her hands. She looked up at the twinkling stars and remembered. Dakeb held back, sensing her desire to be alone, but he knew that doing so wouldn’t be good for her. Of all them, she’d been through the worst. He came to stand behind her and watched the stars in silence for a time.

“When I was a boy the world seemed so bright,” he told her in a soft voice. “Nowhere I looked could I find darkness. That is the gift of youth, my dear. It is a dream all of us should strive to maintain. Let me show you something wonderful.”

She hesitantly turned. Dakeb slipped a hand into one of his deep pockets and withdrew a butterfly of beautiful light. The colors of the rainbow danced on its wings. Tarren giggled as it flew to her and landed on her shoulder. She sighed as it dissolved into her skin. Dakeb immediately felt the tenseness leave her. A warmth returned, beating back the cold of what she’d done under Sidian’s spell.

“You should go and rest now,” he told her.

She smiled and left him alone. Dakeb suddenly felt old.

“No one should suffer at such an age,” he whispered to her retreating shadow.

The night wore on.

The Elves left them at the border. Celegon promised to send their healers to Averon for Norgen and the other victims of the war. An excitement surged into the group. They were close to home and the end of the road. Almost fifty days ago they’d set out from Paedwyn and gone to war. Fifty days of struggle and misery that would never be

forgotten. Now they were almost home. The days trickled by slowly until they found themselves son the last ridge overlooking the white towers of mighty Paedwyn. At last, the adventure was over.

SIXTY-TWO

Time went on much as it always did. Days turned into weeks and then seasons. Scars healed. Spring replaced winter, and then summer came. People came to forget the war. Painful memories were slowly laid to rest. The world returned to what it once was. True to his word, the Elvish healers Celegon promised came to Paedwyn. Skilled as they were, they found Norgen’s wounds particularly hard to heal. They spent the better part of a year tending the dying Dwarf. He eventually recovered, but it was through great effort and once he was well he was back to his ornery self. Word of his recovery was sent to Breilnor and his brother, Ordein. A five hundred Dwarf procession was sent to Paedwyn under the banner of friendship. The majority were engineers who boasted they would have Gren Mot rebuilt and better than before. Plans called for additional defenses that would deter even a Dwarf.

Norgen became his people’s ambassador to King Maelor. Averon had become a land of tolerance and acceptance. They’d even gone so far as to send representatives to the Goblin nation, though no response was returned or even expected. Despite this amplified schedule, Norgen held true to his promise and traveled to Fel Darrins. He and his entourage arrived under much fanfare and celebration. Never before had Dwarves been seen there. He met old friends and Fennic’s family. After a night of hard drinking and discussion, Fennic’s father relented to letting the Dwarves bury his son in the halls of their great kings under the Twin Spires of Ragnash. The original adventurers joined them and for the first time another race was privileged to the splendor of the hall of heroes and kings.

Celegon became an ambassador for his people as well. He and King Alsenal settled their differences and traveled to reclaim Phaelor. They believed with the Silver Mage gone and the threat of the crystal ended, Phaelor had no more calling in Malweir. Celegon and Norgen became fast friends over the years, strengthening their bonds until their dying days. Once a year they paid homage to Fennic at the base of the mountains. Slowly the division between their races closed and a new age of trade and prosperity dawned on central Malweir.

The Elves welcomed this change with open arms. Many were tired of the imposed seclusion and eager to see part of what used to their world again. Trade bloomed. Military improvements were made. Before Maelor died he created a joint army command that responded to threats when they arose. But wars were few and far between. Hundreds of years passed before rumors of a new, dark evil surfaced. A small group was launched to find the source of the troubling and was never heard from again. But that is another story.

Hallis ended his life in the army without fanfare or thanks and disappeared from Paedwyn. He’d seen enough of war and was ready for a quiet life. Fennic’s death proved the catalyst that changed his mind. He’d missed too many precious moments by being out on campaign or suffering in the dead of winter in a foreign land. His beloved Chella deserved better. Years of loneliness had taken their toll on both, making them older than their years. One day, during her solitude there came a knock on the door. Chella made her way to the door and gently opened it. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked upon the bedraggled face of her husband. Hallis smiled weakly and embraced her with all his love. He was finally home. For twenty-three years he never left her side. And then, late one winter night, they went to bed and never woke up. Happy at last, the lovers died in each other’s arms, entering the afterlife hand in hand.

Three years after the battle at Aingaard, the adventurers gathered together in the tiny town of Fel Darrins. Dakeb had never been happier. He and Delin stood overlooking the small creek than flowed through the town.

“This is a fine day, my boy,” Dakeb told him through a mouthful of roast pheasant.

Delin agreed. He and Tarren had just been married. The sounds of celebration echoed through the streets and homes. Folk from all over Averon were in attendance, including a surprise visit from King Maelor himself. The people of Fel Darrins were overawed by the amount of such high and noble people in their quaint town. Elves, Dwarves and Men from all over had come to pay respects to the lovers.

“I wish Fennic were here,” Delin replied. “He would have liked to have seen this.”

“Some things are often beyond our control. Fennic saved us all with his courage. Never take that from his memory. I think even now he is watching down on us,” Dakeb said thoughtfully.

“I won’t.”

They were quiet for a time. Then Delin looked over and asked, “what do you think the future will bring, Dakeb?”

Much of the pain from the war was gone. Tarren had been relieved of her dark memories thanks to the mage. It took a great deal of effort, but he was rewarded not long before the wedding.

The old man clapped his hands on his knees. “Oh, I don’t know. Very hard to predict. The Fates may have a grand design, but they’ve never been inclined to tell me of it. All we can do is live day to day, mind our own affairs and ask for a long, healthy life. All that I think you are about to discover. There are a great many things I know nothing of, but I do know this. Your adventures across Malweir are over. Enjoy this life, Delin Kerny. You’ve earned it.”

Delin and Tarren went on to have three children. Aptly, they named their first son Fennic. He was the pride of their lives. All told they spent nearly eighty years together.

Fel Darrins was never the same again. Pilgrims came from all over to see the birth place of one of Averon’s greatest heroes. Taverns and inns sprang up. Monuments were erected. Roads were improved all the way to Alloenis. The population grew, rising dramatically in the span of a decade. Generations were born and passed and soon the world forgot about the events of King Maelor’s day. The tales of Phaelor and the cracked crystal of Tol Shere faded into legend.

And of Dakeb? Well, no one rightly knows. He simply stopped coming. They never saw him again. Many times through the years people came upon a wild looking old man in one place or another who disappeared as fast as he came. No one ever learned his name or found out where he went.

EPILOGUE

A lone man dressed in riding leathers and a light cloak urged his horse to a stop. He’d entered the forest a day ago and still hadn’t found what he was looking for. Exhausted and filthy, he practically cried when he saw his reflection in the silver stream babbling nearby. He’d been on the trail for almost a month, all because of a silly dream. He had no money left and was starting to feel dejected. He was also feeling foolish for following the whim of a dream.

The rider dunked his head in the cool water and instantly felt refreshed. He ran his hands through his wet hair, relishing the simple relief from the summer heat. His horse snorted, making the young man to look up in alarm. Three archers stood before him, bows drawn and ready to fire. He looked up in the hardened eyes of the Elven hunter and wondered if he was going to die.

“Why have you come into our lands? This is a secret way by which none shall pass. Who are you and why have you come?” the Elf asked harshly.

“My name is Braeden Kirth. I’m here because a dream told me to come and seek out a sword made of the finest silver,” he stammered, shocked and awed at the slender Elves that appeared out of thin air.

Easing the tension on his bow string, Celegon passed a wary glance to Derlith. Six hundred years after the destruction of Gren, it was happening again.

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ARMIES OF THE SILVER MAGE