Armies of the Silver Mage (45 page)

“Do you plan on reporting or am I to guess what you have to say?” he ground out in metered hatred.

“Sir, the enemy is down from the mountains. They are taking up positions along the plains and preparing for battle.”

So it was finally time. “How many do they bring?”

“It looks like his entire army, sir. Tens of thousands at least.”

Eorgis dismissed the boy with a wave and went back to his generals. He had a battle to plan.

The mighty war machine of Gren groaned to life. Battalions of Goblins and Trolls streamed up from their caves and laagers with fire in their blood. They sang as they marched, for the prospect of havoc was too strong to be denied. It had been long since they fought the hated Elves and Dwarves. Trolls and Goblins howled with excitement. Doom marched on the winds as the gap between armies closed.

* * *

“Damn this country,” Slephen cursed, wiping the sweat from his brow for the third time in as many minutes.

Ordein chuckled. “Aye. It’s the perfect place to wage a war.”

“Why would you say that?” Slephen asked him.

“No one will care if this place is destroyed. Not like fighting back in the streets of Paedwyn or in the halls of Breilnor,” the Dwarf replied.

He’d never thought of it that way. Just being in Gren was more than enough for him. Slephen was actually from a small village near Rellin Werd and Fel Darrins. This was his first taste of such vast emptiness, and it disgusted him.

“Well, if they don’t make a move soon, we’ll be at Aingaard before long,” he said.

“Won’t be much of a fight.”

The winds continued to pick up. Riders started coming in, driven on by the strength of the approaching storm. All wore grim looks. Ordein gripped his axe haft a little tighter. He was sure something terrible rode on the winds. The moment he’d been waiting for was fast upon them. He knew it.

“The enemy is moving this way!” one of the scouts reported with a grimace.

Slephen failed to see the excitement in it. “From where and how many?”

“They’re coming from due east and it looks like they’re bringing everything they have. We’re outnumbered, sir.”

Slephen frowned. With the riders of Harlegor and the Dwarves they numbered around thirty thousand. If they were outnumbered, the mage must be throwing his entire reserves at them. It was a time of desperation for both armies.

“Take word back to the main body with my compliments,” he ordered.

Ordein asked, “what are we going to do?”

Slephen still wasn’t sure. He eyed the Dwarf with a deadpan look and said, “we’re going to try and slow them down until Steleon is ready.”

Melgit and Steleon listened to the scouting reports with growing interest and distaste. They’d been expecting opposition, but nothing on the scale being reported. This was developing into a losing situation and neither liked it.

Maelor brushed a hand through his coal black hair. “It seems were not going to gain Aingaard before Winter’s Day. The fight is here.”

“We could draw back into the canyon. Deploy the lines and bring up the artillery,” Melgit offered. “Give the enemy a smaller front to engage us on.”

“That won’t work,” Steleon immediately said. “Seventy percent of our combat strength would be bottled up in the pass and we don’t know how many tunnels they have leading up behind us. They could come in from the west and cut us in two before we

knew what was happening. Reinforce the lines and put your cavalry in reserve on the left flank. I want those catapults emplaced to be able to range the entire front. Seal the gaps. No one gets behind us or we’re ruined.”

General Melgit strode confidently off and began barking orders. Maelor and Steleon looked at one another with doubt.

Pikes lowered and arrows nocked at the first signs of advancing Goblins. Four thousand Men howled once and made a mad dash towards the Averonian lines. The catapults were loaded and awaited the order to unleash their specific brand of hell upon the foe. Melgit watched the developments through his looking glass. He held the order to fire. The small, dark shapes grew larger. But at such a distance he couldn’t make out friend or foe. Then he noticed the first of the shapes in plain view. The short bodies brandished battle axes and bore fierce looks. They were breathing hard and covered in blood and gore. It was the vanguard! He’d had no word from Slephen in some time and was beginning to fear the worst. From the looks of it, they’d already been engaged. If he guessed correctly, a host of enemy would be hot on their heels.

“Open the lines and prepare to attack!” he shouted.

They listened without comment as Ordein and Slephen recounted the first battle in Gren. Greatly outnumbered, they stood their ground and attacked. The enemy army hadn’t been expecting such and complete surprise was in Slephen’s favor. The vanguard split into two wedges and drove into the heart of the attackers while they were still unorganized. The attack was a rousing success.

“We didn’t abandon the assault until they brought their full weight to bear on us,” Slephen explained. “Any longer and we would have been cut off and destroyed.”

Maelor listened with growing interest. Even one friendly casualty was too many. “How many did we lose?”

“Close to a thousand all told, sire. Most were killed but some were taken prisoner,” he replied with a heavy heart.

“They are dead either way,” Jin replied. The newly appointed commander of the cavalry still felt uneasy in the king’s council.

No one disputed his comment.

“And the enemy?” Maelor pressed. He already knew they were outnumbered by at least three to one and hoped the vanguard managed to whittle that number down some. As it stood, the potential for slaughter was all too real.

“Three, maybe four thousand,” Ordein answered with a scowl. Clearly he’d been hoping for more.

“Sire, we must also take into account that we did catch them off guard. I doubt we’ll find success so easily the next time. They know we’re here now,” Slephen added.

Steleon rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Thank you, Commander. I’m placing you in reserve. Take your troops and try to get some rest while you can.”

Slephen saluted and left them.

“What do you think?” Steleon asked Maelor once the two of them were alone.

Cracking his knuckles in anxiety, Maelor calmly replied, “this is your war, Steleon. I trust your decisions completely.”

Steleon barely managed to conceal his surprise.

Winter’s Day dawned with unusual ceremony. Lightning wreathed the purple sky with malicious intent. Heavy shades of red and orange marked the rising sun, adding seriousness to the affair. Storm clouds rolled across the Nveden Plains. Dormant volcanoes rumbled awake from far away. Fire and smoke spit into the sky. Then came the drums. The sound was incredible. Hordes of Trolls and Goblins howled and cheered as they advanced. The very ground trembled at their approach. Already angered at having been blooded so deep in their own lands, their army surged forward with vicious thoughts. They wanted the blood of every man standing before them. Once that was done, they intended to slaughter every man, woman, and child in Malweir.

The combined armies of Averon, Harlegor and the Breilnor rallied under their flags. The sheer size of the enemy hordes were intimidating. Lesser opponents would have thrown down their weapons and fled. But these were veterans now. They stood on the wall and won the day. Now came their most difficult task. Steleon watched the armies of Gren march closer. They were more than a league away and moving slowly. This was done no purpose, of course, to inspire fear and doubts in the waiting ranks. Steleon sent runners up and down the lines with orders. The wait was going to prove as hard as the assault. He hoped that Delin and Fennic finished what they set out to do. The alternative made him shudder. The commander of Averon turned to his generals. It was time to finish the war.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Jervis Hoole was forced to stop much sooner than he wanted to. His horse was lathered in a thick sheen of sweat and was breathing too heavily. If he didn’t slow now, he’d be moving on foot through enemy held territory. Hoole begrudgingly dismounted and led the poor beast to a nearby stream. A full day and night had passed since the disaster at the river. So far there hadn’t been any signs of pursuit. He refused to be fooled though. His list of enemies was long and no doubt included a fair amount of his own soldiers. That made every gulley or depression the perfect place for ambush.

For the first time in his life he had no direction. He couldn’t return to Gren or his life was forfeit. All of the dreams and visions of the future were smashed in a single ill fated battle. Never again could he go home, and that pained him. He had a sinking feeling that all of his friends and family were being systematically rounded up and executed on Sidian’s orders. The Silver Mage didn’t tolerate failure.

Careful not to let the horse drink too much, Hoole led them to a stand of ash trees. He dropped a handful of oats and let the horse feed while he took care of his own needs. The caw of a crow shook him. He hadn’t realized until now how quiet it was. Almost deathly quiet. Hoole immediately recognized the danger and began saddling his horse again. There was no time. Any illusions were gone. His life was in jeopardy.

The southern tip of the Gren mountains were almost in sight now, gradually petering out into sloping foothills more manageable for both the weary horse and rider. Open plains gave way to lightly forested areas. All he had to do was make it to the forest another day’s ride away and Hoole was confident he could disappear successfully.

The arrow biting into the tree next to his head changed all that. He didn’t see where it came from, but there was no mistaking the origin. Hoole sneered at the short Goblin arrow. A pair of feathers, dislodged from the fleeing crow, drifted down among the loose snow knocked off the branches. Another arrow sped by, this one inches from his face. Hoole swore he caught the sounds of a foul laugh.

Easing into the trees a little deeper, he carefully plotted his next move. Running too soon risked certain ambush and death. Goblins and Trolls weren’t noted for their tactical prowess, but there was no end to their tenacity and thirst for revenge. In addition, he had no idea how many Men of Grelnor were hunting him. Two more arrows whistled past before he decided to flee. Kicking his horse hard in the sides, Hoole launched from the stand of trees and rode for his life. Arrows struck all around, and he wondered if an entire legion of archers was after him. Then a spray of blood, hot and steaming, erupted from his horse’s throat. The beast screamed and fell dead.

Hoole managed to roll clear before the massive animal crushed him. He rose to a knee and tried to spy his enemy. Not that it mattered, he mused. He was caught and knew it. Mud and snow dirtied his face and hands. He was tired and worn down by weeks of war. At last Jervis Hoole understood. It was time. He slowly rose to his full height and drew his long sword. A pool of crimson spread violently from the horse’s body.

“Come out and face me, cowards!” he bellowed in challenge.

A lonely wind howled across the fields.

Hoole struggled with the emotions threatening to consume him. Anger, hatred, and humiliation ate at the edges of his soul. He knew he was surrounded. A single man emerged from the nothing before him and halted a goodly distance away. They stood still and eyed one another for a time. Neither seemed in a great hurry. A light snow began to fall.

Hoole broke the silence. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, Nintel. You are a disgrace to our people.”

Nintel laughed, his voice ragged and piercing. The former adjutant eyed Hoole with open malice. “I disgrace our people? Take a cold, hard look at yourself before making those accusations, Hoole. How many good men lay dead because of your ambitions? These are your last few moments, I suggest you make better of them than to throw empty threats. You betrayed us, and for that you shall pay.”

Hoole spit. “Everything I did was for Grelnor! I have no shame in that. But you, worm, you have sold it all to be a puppet for the mage. Gladly will I trade my life for that.”

An Ogre inched into view to his left, as did a pair of Goblin archers behind Nintel.

“You shall die content then. I aim to tear your heart out and send it back to Sidian. Don’t run, it will spoil the thrill of this,” Nintel said dryly.

He drew his sword and stalked forward to meet his foe. The knowledge of immediate death made the battle easier for Hoole and he fought with ruthless abandon. His thrusts pushed Nintel back so far the archers had a clear shot. They took it. Two arrows thumped into Hoole’s chest. He dropped his sword as pain shot through his body. The once proud leader of the Grelnor dropped to his knees and gasped for breath. Blood poured from the wounds to mingle with the already drying pools from his horse.

Nintel walked up and kicked away the now useless sword. He was fully aware of the level of treachery in Hoole’s heart and wasn’t willing to take chances. Jervis Hoole leaned forward, placing one hand on the ground. Blood trickled down the shafts in his chest. His chest was tight. He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore. He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t form. Nintel laughed again.

“Oh how the foolish have fallen, eh old friend?” he asked, leaning as close as he dared. Hoole now lay prone on his back. Empty eyes stared back at Nintel.

“You always thought you were so much smarter than the rest of us. Too bad you couldn’t see past your own ignorance.”

Nintel collected his band of assassins and left the body for the vultures. The reign of Jervis Hoole was ended.

FIFTY-EIGHT

The smell was worse than anything Delin ever experienced. It reminded him of the day he and his father stumbled upon a family of rabbits drowned in a well. He’d vomited three times and never forgot how awful it was when his father pulled the water logged carcasses from the water. The skin peeled away, making the task twice as difficult as it normally would have been. The memory remained unpleasant, especially since they’d been cast into Aingaard’s foulest dungeons.