Armies of the Silver Mage (22 page)

Part of her felt defeated by the bleak prospects of tomorrow. “Tell me, why does this wizard care so much for me? I’ve never met him.”

“He may well be our strongest hope for success against the dark. As I’m sure you overheard last night,” he said with a grin. “He has many names in different lands, but I only know him as Dakeb.”

The scouts returned then, storming back into the loose perimeter. Vinz took his time to catch his breath and report.

“They are coming. A league, maybe more away, but they do not stop to rest,” he said.

Ris scowled. He’d been hoping for a longer rest. “That gives us less than an hour. We need to get moving. Tell the others we leave in five minutes.”

Adrenalin eased through her veins again. She really didn’t want to see another Goblin. Fate had other ideas.

“Feel like going for a ride?” Ris halfheartedly asked.

She already knew there was no choice. Staying meant death. Tarren accepted his hand and resumed her place on his back. And the tiny band was away. He tried to belay her suspicions of Goblins tracking them all the way to the ruins. He had a few tricks left to play and Goblins weren’t overly bright.

The game of cat and mouse went on for the next three days. Ris and his friends ran hard and managed to put good distance between them and the enemy. It gave them enough time to eat and relax before moving again. He sent two teams of two out each night before dusk to sneak upon the enemy and reduce their numbers. And each night they returned with positive results. Another twenty Goblins fell to their cunning, but the war band was much too strong to face head on. Tarren and Ris became friends during those long rides. Their conversations ranged from the simple smell of the golden dragon flower to the first war against the Silver Mage. She found herself liking the Centaur more and more as the time sped. She finally found someone to talk to and decided to make the most of it.

Another two days went by, with the band of Centaurs zigzagging across the endless plains. More Goblins died and the gap between them steadily widened. Ris assured her he knew where he was and that Braem was near. She had no choice but to accept it. They crossed many tracks along the way. Most were normal forest animals and wildlife yet some were intensely puzzling. Booted feet and heavily weighted. Ris had no explanation. His mood darkened and he insisted they proceeded with extreme caution. Something about the type and frequency of the tracks disturbed him. The Goblins must have noticed as much too, for they pulled back into the shadows of the foothills just east of the Sibit River and remained.

Twilight fell upon them, bringing winter one day closer. Ris halted at the top of a small rise overlooking a quaint town.

“Braem,” he announced. “You should enter tomorrow morning. The dark is always dangerous regardless of the where. You’ll be safe enough with us in the meantime.”

“But still no fire or a hot meal,” she teased.

Ris tossed his head back. They’d had no fire since joining company. Goblins had an excellent sense of night vision and smell. Fire and roasting meat were more than enough to draw the attention of even a lone Goblin.

“No. No meat. It looks like another night of berries and dried deer meat. we don’t want to take unnecessary chances.”

Her stomach growled at the thought of having to eat more of the bland travel rations. That being said, Tarren settled down for another cold night.

TWENTY-NINE

Thunder so loud it trembled the ground and blasted the Gren Mountains. Men and beasts felt the awesome power and knew fear. Soldiers scrambled to their positions atop the walls of the beleaguered fortress in alarm. The thunder wasn’t natural. Another attack had begun.

Fynten emerged from his chambers, naked from the waist up and sword in hand. His eyes were half closed from sleep. Days of constant battle sapped his strength until he found himself at the edge of his stamina. Last night was the first time he’d managed uninterrupted sleep since the siege began. Tens of thousands of enemy soldiers lay dead and rotting on the fetid battlefield. So many, that the defenders of the mountain pass felt sure Gren would not attack again so soon.

The stench of death was fierce. Soldiers heaved their stomachs over the battered walls from the intensity of the carnage. The army of Gren didn’t care. They trampled their dead under foot, crushing them into an expensive highway from the wicked kingdom. Ever so slowly the defenders were pushed back towards their last lines of defense. Time was almost up.

“What’s happening?” Fynten demanded from a young soldier rushing past.

“We’re… we’re under attack, sir.”

Fynten regarded the boy with a sour look. He’d already guessed as much, but then again, most of his men had never seen such reckless slaughter. The commander of the fading fortress of Gren Mot ducked back into his meager quarters long enough to don a tunic and armor. Dents and blood stains had ruined the once magnificent shine. It was like so much his world had become. The old veteran headed towards the sound of fighting.

“Commander Fynten! You need to get to the tower at once!” Surnish shouted after running into him in a darkened hall.

Thunder violently rocked the castle foundations. The roar was deafening.

“What in the world was that?” Fynten asked.

Surnish shrugged. I don’t know. The others are already in the command post waiting.”

Grim stares met him when they entered the tower. He knew at once this was the final assault. His mind went over recent events and Fynten was glad he’d made some of the decisions he had. He’d sent Melgit and his surviving cavalry back to Paedwyn days prior. He knew that they were next to useless in this kind of warfare and King Maelor would have need of the chargers in the coming war. Melgit, of course, sputtered and fumed at being dismissed, but in the end the long column of riders left the fort. Jeurle, his eyes bloodshot, merely shook his head in frustration. He was on the verge of tears.

“Report.”

Cpt. Wiln saluted and said, “This has been going on for the past hour. None of the look outs have seen anything, but that means nothing considering the heavy cloud cover. I suspect another trick from the Mage.”

Again the boomed thunder, followed closely by a large shadow sailing overhead.

“Dear gods,” Prellin whispered.

Fynten stepped forward to reinforce his command and take their minds from the horror about to be unleashed upon them.

“Archers and infantry to the walls. I want every bow and arrow in this fortress ready to use. Surnish, I need those two remaining catapults primed and ready. Jeurle, provide back up. I don’t need to tell any of you that this is going to be rough. But always remember that no matter what happens here this day we are the defenders of our country and our people. Go with the Gods, my friends.”

The older Surnish was about to answer when a fifty meter section of the inner walls erupted in flame. Burning men fell screaming. A dark shadow raced overhead again, carrying with it the acrid smell of sulfur and acid. Fynten felt his heart fall. A dragon! A handful of arrows sped into the sky in reply, but the commander knew it was a futile gesture. No arrow had ever pierced the armor hide of a flying serpent. The shadow wheeled about and bore down on the tower.

“Everyone down!” Fynten screamed.

The heat washed over them first, blistering their flesh inside their armor. Fynten’s last sight was a thick wall of flame rushing towards him. If he screamed, no one heard it.

Columns of smoke funneled into the early morn. Gray skies and heavy clouds threatened snow. The smell of burnt flesh filled the mountain pass. Vultures perched atop the jagged crags waiting for the living to leave so as that the feast could begin. Drumming pounded through the pass, dominating the snarls and curses of the hundred Goblins trying to tear down the gates. Ladders and scaling ropes were already covering the walls, allowing hundred of Goblins and Men of Gren to enter the fallen keep. Those few survivors from the dragon attack were no match for the bloodthirsty enemy. A great cheer erupted when at last the mighty stone gates came crashing to the ground in a storm of dust and rock. Captains and sergeants reformed their companies to enter Gren Mot. Now nothing stood between them and the richness of Averon.

A lean man with the hungry features of a wolf elbowed through the throngs, pushing his way to the very front ranks. Goblin and Man alike bowed and gave him a wide berth. The man had doom in his eyes. Few knew him by name, though his dark reputation ran rampant through the armies. He was the incarnate of evil itself.

“Lord Hoole, the keep has fallen. We now control the pass,” a blood stained Goblin snarled.

Jervis Hoole felt his eyes light up. He was born a poor farm boy who decided to join the army the day his parents were killed. His ruthlessness and barbarism were of a special sort and it quickly propelled him through the ranks. He was twice decorated by the Silver Mage for his actions in battle. Man, woman, and child alike fell beneath his steel and he held no regrets. Life was suffering, plain and simple.

He wore a wolf skin cloak over a wool jerkin and leather breeks. There was no trace of fat on his body. Long years of war and sacrifice made him lean. Scars and burn marks covered most of his upper body. They served as a constant reminder of his personal weaknesses and overcome ordeals.

“Is it?” he asked in a wicked voice. “Then why do I still hear the sounds of fighting inside?”

The Goblin hesitated to answer.

“I want all survivors brought alive to the main yard. Do not kill another unless I order it.” he commanded.

The Goblin stepped back. “But my troops.”

“Are expendable,” Hoole spat. “Never once believe the life of your kind is half as valuable as a Man. I want those prisoners alive.”

Hoole walked across the charred battleground relishing the smell and visions of perpetual torments before him. The lone attack of the dragon managed more damage than his entire army in over three years of skirmishes and battle with the enemy. He wished he could control such power and greatness once before he died. Hoole stared at ancient Gren Mot and laughed. The walls held a power beyond his comprehension. Built when the mountains were still young, Gren Mot was fashioned from the living stone. A part of the world died today and he was here to see it.

Even in desolation Gren Mot remained impressive. Ornate stone buttresses arched over a hundred feet in the air. Broken gargoyles and other statues of half forgotten heroes graced the overhangs and courtyards. Jervis Hoole stared in awe at the still pristine statue of a tall warrior striding forward, sword raised in challenge. The artist captured the life of it. It showed a frosted muscle tone and the anguish of knowing too much war. It wore the helm and body armor of ancient Gren. Before the Silver Mage. Hoole felt a stirring deep inside.

“The prisoners have been collected as you ordered, Sir,” the Goblin returned to report.

“What do we do now?”

Hoole ignored the contempt in his voice. “Line them up. Segregate the officers and senior sergeants.”

The Silver Mage’s orders were clear. It was Hoole’s job to ensure they were carried out. Once the fortress was entirely pacified his armies could focus on their own dead. This was more important. For a moment he considered clearing his army from the pass and letting the dragon fly by and burn the corpses of his dead. It would be far easier in the long run. But that would clue King Maelor too soon.

The line of battered prisoners was escorted into the rubble strewn yard amidst the howls and cheers of the conquering Trolls and Goblins. Hoole watched the fear in their eyes. Averon was a lazy land, consumed by its own sloth and lack of vision. The Silver Mage was going to take back everything they’d stolen from Gren and it began here.

Hoole held up his hand and silence settled.

“Soldiers of Averon, you have been found guilty of taking up arms against the great nation of Gren, murdering her people and contaminating the world with your heathenism. There can be but one sentence for such crimes. You are hereby sentenced to spend the remainder of your days as slaves for the Silver Mage.”

He watched as a near broken captain stepped forward. Wiln was close to death, a goodly portion of his body burned from the dragon’s breath. His right arm was broken. Despite all this, he remained defiant.

“Averon will never bow,” he said and spat at his captors.

A thin smile crossed Hoole’s face. Goblins drew their swords and readied to attack. “Indeed,” he replied. “Though I fear you won’t live to find out.”

Hoole nodded and his Goblins swarmed over Wiln, hacking him into pieces. Satisfied, Jervis Hoole walked up to few survivors and snatched the youngest by the collar. He dragged the boy next to Wiln’s corpse and shoved his face in the gore.

“Go back to your king, boy. Tell him what you saw and what awaits. Tell him what fate is coming for Averon and then find a place to hide. You will die the next time I see you.”

A whip cracked and the frightened boy took off running. Laughter followed.

“Put the rest in chains and take them to Aingaard,” Hoole ordered.

Having seen enough, Hoole turned towards the lands of his mortal enemies and sneered. Soon, soon your day will come, he thought.

THIRTY

The night life Paedwyn offered went beyond anything either of the boys imagined. They were used to the lone tavern in a simple town where half the population crowded inside once a week to sing songs and talk. Paedwyn, on the other hand, held over a hundred thousand people, not to mention several army regiments and the headquarters.

The city seemed to stretch forever. Taverns, inns, gambling halls and all manner of entertainment were available in every direction. Theaters and circuses drew throngs of people daily and there was never a lack of stories waiting to be told. Actors and playwrights came from the world over to study and apprentice with the masters. Music was played with the most basic of instruments to a degree unsurpassed in all Malweir. The streets of Paedwyn were every youth’s dream.