Armies of the Silver Mage (43 page)

Fennic thought otherwise. “We still should have tried.”

“To what end? You’d be dead and Sidian would still have the rest of us. Remember, Phaelor chose you for a reason. Your time is yet to come.”

“Just give me one swing and I’ll end his terror forever,” Fennic announced.

Dakeb watched the boy with growing concern. Phaelor was consuming him and he didn’t know how to stop or even slow it. “I’ve already told you what will happen if you strike Sidian. Has this rage consumed you beyond reason?”

“Listen to him, boy,” Norgen growled.

He liked being caged least of all, but he also knew how foolish resisting was. Besides, the mage had a plan. Norgen recalled his father’s words. Fight with your head, not your emotions. Don’t ever give the enemy the upper hand. They were sound words and he wished he could drive them home with Fennic.

“This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. Think about it,” Norgen continued. “The sword is still in our possession and we’re being taken to the heart of the enemy.”

Delin watched his best friend with fright. This was the first time Phaelor had taken so strong a hold on him. He was afraid for Fennic’s soul. The sword was dangerous, and everyone could see it but Fennic. He clutched Tarren’s hand for support and was comforted when she returned the gesture. Times were bad enough without fits of insanity or delusions of grandeur. He hoped and prayed the end wouldn’t come down to him having to chose who to save, because he truly didn’t know anymore.

The wagon rolled deeper into the night.

“Dakeb, now that we’ve been given this opportunity, how do you intend on using it to our advantage? There’s not much we can do with these chains on,” Celegon asked.

There was a twinkle in the old mage’s eyes. “I do happen to be a mage you know. How good would I be if I gave away all my secrets? Predictability is a crutch. Do the unexpected when they’re looking the other way, I say.”

“So we can assume you’re not going to tell us what to expect,” Hallis added.

Dakeb chuckled.

“You have to admit, despite the situation, this is easier than riding the way ourselves. Maybe we should have taken a wagon from the beginning,” he brought up after a few hours had passed. “We certainly could have loaded more to eat. I’m starving. I’ll have to remember that for the next time.”

“The next time?” Scarn asked skeptically.

“There’s always a next time.”

Scarn fell silent and kept to himself, every so often stealing glances at Tarren. She was convinced she knew who he was, and that troubled him. He desperately needed to do something about her before the others found out and turned on him. But what? He didn’t know. Hopefully time would play out in his favor. That was providing the Silver Mage and the Hooded Man were one and the same.

Tarren burrowed her head into Delin’s shoulder and tried to sleep. Thoughts of home strayed into her dreams. A month ago she’d been a simple girl from a small town most of the world never heard of. She didn’t know what she wanted out of life nor where to find it when she figured it out. She hadn’t even known her love for Delin until now. She had always thought of him as a good friend, but the love didn’t reveal itself until he and Fennic left on their quest. Tarren’s heart nearly broke that day.

Since then she’d found herself growing in every sense of the word. Her mind and spirit evolved the further into this dark journey she traveled. She’d gone from a naïve village girl to a young woman wary of the world. Her body was changing as well. She was steadily developing into a full grown woman. Maybe that was why Scarn kept eyeing her and making her uncomfortable. Maybe, but she knew better.

Tarren regretted it all. She hated the reasons she was forced to grow up and the split second decisions that brought her to this foul land. All she wanted was the chance to go home and never leave again. Delin just being there gave her strength and hope, but the taint of evil here was so strong. She felt things inside her changing. She was more callous than she used to be. Her body often flashed hot for no reason at all. Dakeb remained ever secretive and she was sure he was hiding something from her. Tarren wanted to know what.

The moment passed, and Tarren let it go with a sigh. There was too much she didn’t have control over. She finally pulled her head away from Delin’s shoulder and wasn’t surprised to see Scarn’s cold eyes staring back at her.

The Elves sat huddled together in the back of the wagon talking in their own language. They all knew the risks involved with joining Dakeb. Many of their kind had fallen during the Mage wars and their quests over the centuries. But never before had the task been so dire.

“This isn’t looking good,” Llem said. “We’ve been in tight places before, but none this bad. Too much can go wrong.”

Celegon dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “The mage knows what he’s doing. Besides, a thousand things could have already gone wrong. Events are developing according to the mage’s plan. Soon enough we’ll be inside Sidian’s keep. Then we can finally end his reign.”

“And these manacles?” Derlith asked, raising his bound hands. “I too have doubts. It’s one mage against another. Shouldn’t their magic cancel each other? This battle could well destroy the foundations of the world. Can we so confidently trust him with our lives so recklessly?”

“Dakeb has been a friend for centuries. Our lives have been in his hands since we arrived at Ipn Shal. Two more days can’t hurt,” Celegon said.

A pair of Goblins snarled at them.

Llem eyed them casually and asked, “what about weapons? Providing we can make it to the throne room without losing our heads, we’re going to need a way to defend ourselves.”

The Elf prince shrugged.

“You’re not very inspiring,” Derlith scowled. “And then there’s that one. The so called ranger. He’s becoming a liability. We should finish him before we reach Aingaard.”

Scarn shifted in his sleep and started to snore.

“Dangerous,” Celegon agreed. “but the mage claims we all have a part to play. Killing him now may upset that balance. I’ll not take the chance. Not yet.”

Night gradually turned into day. Distorted sunlight reflected off the snow capped peaks of the Gren Mountains, turning the snow a soft pink. A flock of geese in a v formation honked in passing. Tarren watched until the clouds swallowed them. One of the guards tossed a stale loaf of bread into the wagon. Depression settled back in. a few more hours and they’d be in Aingaard. The pace quickened.

Spendak glanced back at the wagon from time to time. Only the mage disturbed him. He should have at least put up a fight, but the old man calmly accepted his fate. What game was he playing at? Sidian didn’t bother explaining who the other prisoners were, only to be wary of the mage. He could easily tear the Goblins apart with the flick of his wrist. Spendak contemplated the future as they rode on.

Norgen came awake with a loud snore and shielded his eyes from the dim glare of the sun. He was sore and angry, much as he’d been for the last few weeks.

“Good morning,” Dakeb cheerfully told him. The smile on his face was remarkably bright considering the situation.

“At least one of us is in a good mood,” Norgen replied in a sour tone. “I’d give anything to get my hands on a good axe and cleave a few Goblins necks.”

“How much longer until we get there?” Hallis asked. There were too many eager ears nearby to let Norgen keep talking like that.

“Sometime after dusk I should think. Probably nearer to dawn. It’s been a long time since I was last here,” Dakeb answered.

Hallis wanted to ask the obvious question but held his tongue. Some secrets weren’t meant to be shared. Instead, he said, “that’s cutting it pretty close to Winter’s Day.”

“So it is,” Dakeb agreed. “But the ritual must be performed at the last minute of the last hour on Winter’s Day. Otherwise Sidian must wait another hundred years. It’s a complicated issue but I’ll do my best to explain.”

By the time he finished, they all wished Hallis had never approached the subject. The sun was going down and not a one of them had a clue about what Dakeb had said. A few of them fell asleep somewhere during the telling, much to the mage’s distaste. Tarren’s sneeze brought the lecture to a close. Delin and Fennic smiled and winked at her, silently thanking her for ending the torment. Another loaf of molded bread was tossed in and the wagon stopped long enough for them to relieve themselves. Then the wagon rolled on with a series of metallic groans and creaks.

The violent sound of thunder and lightning awakened sometime during the night. Fires raged in tune with the madness in the skies and a sleeting rain attacked them. The Goblins marched on under the whip. Fissures and crevices opened around them, inviting them with certain doom. Rock formations broke the ground like jagged teeth waiting to impale angels should they descend. Gren had suddenly turned into a vicious place.

And there, silhouetted against the pale orange glow of the horizon, sat the ruined city of Aingaard. Dawn was still some hours off, making it look like Hell had come to Malweir. Blue tinged lightning struck not far away, sending a shower of sparks into the wagon. Hairs stood on end. Electricity tainted the air. Their flesh became goose pimpled. A metallic taste stuck in their mouths. Heavy winds rushed in, buffeting the fragile wagon to the point of destruction. Even the assurances of reaching the enemy citadel was stolen now. Hope diminished.

The storms became increasingly violent the closer to the city they got. All around was a world gone mad. The Silver Mage had managed to destroy the balance of nature. The world was collapsing in on itself as it played closer to oblivion. The city of Aingaard was somehow untouched. Dakeb attributed this to magic, a serious misuse of magic. When the Silver Mage perished, so to would this nightmare.

The wagon clattered across the cobblestone bridge spanning a fire laden chasm ringing the city. The gates were open, for no enemy had attacked in centuries. Dozens of Goblins and Trolls lined the way, all were dressed in sparkling dark armor. They had malicious glares and polished weapons. A trumpet sang to all, announcing the enemies of Gren had come. There was cheering in the streets from the massed crowds. Threats and promises of death rose from the myriad voices. In twelve hours the gateway to the under-world would be open and Gren’s ascension to the domination of Malweir would begin.

FIFTY-FIVE

The combined armies of Averon and Harlegor marched towards Gren in a long, winding column singing cadence and traditional battle hymns. Advance units had already made contact with the enemy in the ruins of Gren Mot and were in the process of cleaning out the fortress. On the lower plains, the last scatterings of Goblins were being hunted down and destroyed. Few of the dark host remained in Averon. Still, Steleon and Maelor were cautious in their approach on Gren. The victory on the Thorn River was a gift and it wouldn’t do to squander this one chance in a fool’s charge.

Bodies lined the walls of the mountain pass. Steleon sent squads of pikemen forward to ensure the dead were just that. Goblins often used deceit to gain the upper hand and with quarters so tight in the pass, the potential for disaster was high. The northern winds blew strongly for most of the morning and early afternoon. Snow powder drifted down from the ragged peaks. Golden sunlight reflected off the slopes, though little of the warmth actually made it to the bottom of the pass. Halfway through their march, Steleon spied an omen. A lone eagle, large and inspiring, followed their progress as it soared majestically through the eastern skies. The men took heart and marched faster.

But not even the coming of an omen was enough to stay their nervousness long. Shadows and cold draped over the column. Soldiers quickly complained from the bone numbing chill and a prolonged lack of sleep. The campaign had been tiring and demanding. Hundreds of their comrades and friends were already dead, and hundreds more would soon be joining them. Vengeance pushed the survivors on.

Steleon felt their pain, for he was suffering too. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and the long years of battle and campaign were wearing him down. Still, he knew they had to move quickly if they had a chance at defeating the Silver Mage. Speed was the key. The sheer boldness of their plan hadn’t been done in military history for centuries, not since the last time the Elves went to war against the northern Goblin nations. They simply had to reach the Nveden Plains and be arrayed in battle formation in time or else the entire gamble was a failure. Either way, one of the great nations in Malweir was going to fall. he just wasn’t sure which one.

It was close to dusk when he first spied what remained of Gren Mot. The smell was sickening and many soldiers heaved their stomachs up. Long dried blood stains added to the morbidity of the place. Bodies lay in ruined heaps, some having been chewed and eaten. Worst of all was the huge pile of heads in the center courtyard. hundreds more were impaled on long poles along the parapets. Steleon fought to contain his emotions. He pushed the men harder, ordering them to clear the fortress and press on into the plains of Gren. He silently hoped they would use what they saw here and bring that fury down on the enemy.

“Keep them moving,” he barked to Melgit. “Push them down onto the plains before this place has the chance to affect them.”

Melgit only nodded. He couldn’t speak. The horrors of seeing so many men he served with and knew personally ate at his soul. He knew that his head should be in that pile along with better men. It took a concentrated effort to bring him from his daze.

“Move out!” he finally yelled to his men as they trudged past. “We march down to the plains and await our enemy! Move out!”

Steleon sighed with relief. He’d been afraid of how Melgit would react upon returning to this dead place. The danger was passed for the moment. Now he needed to worry about getting his full army down through the mountains.

Drinking deeply from his canteen, Steleon stopped long enough to wipe away some of the sweat and grime from the long day’s march. He, Maelor and the rest of the key leaders were assembled in a small cut off the main path beyond the fortress. Banners of dozens of units went by. Soldiers cheered their king and commander. The spirit of the army was still strong, despite the nightmares witnessed in Gren Mot. The tired commander hoped it would last long enough.