Armies of the Silver Mage (9 page)

“Demon gods!” he hissed.

Gone. The body was gone. Rage seethed deep inside. He’d already wasted four months on the trail of the old man and came up empty handed time and time again. Growling and cursing, Scarn flung a rock into a nearby tree and mounted his horse. He started to believe the powers that be were working against him. A wolf bayed in the night as the lone rider took off for Alloenis.

ELEVEN

Darkness swelled and grew for as far as the eye could see. Sunlight hadn’t fallen on the ill land of Gren since the Silver Mage returned to proclaim his quest to rule Averon. His armies were growing by day, so fast the armies of Paedwyn would be no match from sheer weight of numbers. Tribes of Trolls and Goblins poured down from the mountains to his banner. Scores of Gnaals were already scouring the countryside in search of the one item capable of thwarting him. Even a red dragon answered his call. All was slowly coming into fruition.

From his tower high above the keep of ancient Aingaard, deep in the rotten land men knew only as Gren, Sidian, the Silver Mage, watched his darkness push towards the mountains. Once the ancient fortress of Gren mot was enshrouded by his will the invasion would begin. He had no intent of joining the battle. It was still early enough to let his captains oversee matters. The loss of Trolls and Goblins meant nothing.

Sidian was a tall man, thinly built and resilient beyond measure. He was over five hundred years old, the last of the first rebellion to steal the world. The others were long dead, leaving him alone to carry on. Long, white hair flowed past his shoulders. He had deep eyes, piercingly hollow and colorless. They made his face appear gaunt and withdrawn. Some said he was more dead than alive, though no one living could say. Certain people had a way of disappearing around him.

He waved his hand, changing the scene before him. Clouds were replaced by the vision of Gren Mot. Maelor’s men were admirable at best, and constantly improving their battlements and defenses. It was going to be a hard fight, even with the dragon. Sidian noticed rows of trenches filled with pitch. Sharpened spikes designed to skewer horses and advancing infantry lay beyond. Battlements capable of holding hundreds of archers sat within range. This had the capability to delay the advancing army and inflict massive casualties. Sidian had little doubt that every meter of ground in the pass was already ranged by Maelor’s catapults.

Sidian released the image. He wasn’t overly concerned with the defenses. Bold as they were, all would prove a useless, pathetic attempt to stave destiny. His armies already outnumbered the western races by five, with more swelling the ranks daily. His main worry stemmed from the Gnaal’s lack of progress. He needed to find that man; else all he’d worked for was for naught. Dakeb and his purple stone were the only things capable of stopping his quest.

Less than pleased, Sidian turned from the storm darkened skies and went back to his study with much on his mind. The halls were empty and without decoration. He was never one for flowery paintings or tapestries. Instead, Sidian’s heart was dark and volatile, void of pleasantry and kindness. He was the future of Malweir. Robes flowing behind, Sidian entered his receiving room where two Goblins stood waiting with bowed heads.

Their bodies were gnarled and abused. Their skin was a mottled green-black. Hatred seethed from their eyes. They carried black weapons, cruel and serrated. Their armor was thick with leather plates. Each had sparse hair and disfigured teeth, threatening and razor sharp. The larger one stepped forward.

“Master, the first army is assembled,” he growled in a deep, hissing voice.

Sidian smiled. Their progress was better than he anticipated.

“More come daily. Soon we shall have enough to range the world.”

“Indeed we shall,” laughed the Silver Mage. “But all is not in place yet.”

“What are your orders, Master?”

Sidian’s body tensed. “Go. Open the gates and march on Gren Mot. Clear the mountains so the invasion of Averon can begin.”

“We will need the dragon if we’re to break the walls. Gren mot runs deep into the ground. It will take much to conquer.”

“You will have the dragon. Now go.”

Deep drums echoed thunder throughout Aingaard and the surrounding plains of Gren. Every Troll, Goblin and foul creature heard the rumbling and felt rage grow. The time was finally at hand. Battalions formed ranks. Swords and cudgels, axes and knives, were drawn and sheathed. The drums beat louder, inspiring the foul masses into frenzy. Slowly they surged towards the gates.

The gates of Aingaard opened with a horrific groan. The front rank of the army marched out. Sidian watched it all from his sacred tower. Companies of horsemen rode through after the infantry in black armor and dark horses. They were the men of ruined Gren. Torchlight gleamed off their spears until they were but mere specks in the distance. Thousands of campfires lined the valley floor. Finally the day had come when their ilk could spread through the world. Gren would be mighty once again.

Dusk turned to night and the gates of Aingaard still were open. The Silver Mage watched until he lost interest and retired for the evening. It would take almost a week for the armies to get ready for the assault on Gren Mot. Time enough for him to continue his search.

* * *

The drums were deep and resounding. The very rock of the earth trembled from their awesome sound. Every living creature for leagues around heard the noise and knew fear. War had come to the free world. Herds of deer and elk fled up into the mountain crags. Bears burrowed down in their dens and even the eagles fled to the south. All that remained were three riders in smoke darkened armor. The leader stared down at the diseased city of Aingaard through a looking glass. His heart despaired. The van of the army was setting forth and their numbers far outweighed the meager hosts of Averon.

They were the last patrol Commander Fynten was going to authorize. With the armies of Gren on the move, it was simply too dangerous for the riders. The leader prayed help was coming. He didn’t want to think of what might happen if they were forced to stand alone.

“The enemy is moving. Back to the fortress,” he told the others.

Just then a great howl went up, closely followed by a dozen more. They’d been spotted! Soon Goblins and wolves would be swarming over the slopes searching for them.

“Quickly! Back up the trail and ride for Gren Mot,” the leader ordered. “Don’t stop until you gain the defenses. Ride!”

They fled for dear life, even as the first horn blasted the chill air. Night was falling and it was a long ride back to the fortress. The leader knew it was next to impossible for all three of them to make it back alive. But so long as one man returned to warn Commander Fynten all was not lost. The wind began to howl.

TWELVE

Norgen stretched out the sleep with a mighty roar. The boys were just now waking. Cramped in a single cot room, there was neither room to move or stretch out properly. It was, however, warm and dry. Another storm hit shortly after they reached the small town of Feist. Ice and sleet savagely attacked them, forcing them to dash from building to building to escape the fury. Large chunks of hail pounded the wooden walls for much of the night. Norgen wasted no time in finding an inn and purchasing a room for the night. They dined on a fine meal of roast duck and potatoes with fresh dark bread and ale. The Dwarf enjoyed a long smoke from his pipe before they retired for the night. It was the first real night of comfort they’d had since leaving Alloenis, some six days back.

“Up now lads!” Norgen said as he yanked the heavy wool blanket away. “We’ve got a full day before us and you two dandy’s are wasting time. Get up!”

Delin barely cracked an eye open. “Don’t Dwarves ever sleep?”

The deep laugh was the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Not when there’s work to be done. Come on, breakfast is waiting.”

Fennic groaned. “Breakfast? Lunch would be better suited to our needs.”

Norgen dunked his head in a bucket of cold water. Droplets splashed across the floor, some striking the walls and cot. He let out a long breath of satisfaction and smiled.

“You snored so loud I don’t think I slept more than a few moments at a time,” Fennic complained to Norgen.

Delin agreed. His eyes were bloodshot and sore.

“Nonsense!” Norgen fumed. “Dwarves don’t snore.”

“I’d like to disagree with that,” Delin laughed. “You were shaking the bed!”

Norgen shot them a scowl and headed out the door for the common room, taunting them that breakfast would be over long before they made it out of bed. Halfway through the meal Fennic pretended to snore, sending the boys into a fit of laughter while Norgen scowled a little deeper.

“What’s the name of this town?” Fennic asked between mouthfuls of large, country style hotcakes.

“This is Feist, young sir,” answered the serving girl. She set down three steaming cups of coffee. “Be not the biggest town west of Paedwyn, but you’ll always find a good show.”

Norgen shrugged, leaving them to wonder what her definition of a show was.

“Storm might stick around for a few days,” the Dwarf offered at the end of the meal.

“I don’t think we should spend more time here than we need to,” Fennic hesitantly said. “Something’s not right.”

“He’s been like this since Phaelor came to him,” Delin explained upon seeing

Norgen’s confusion. “It’s almost as if the sword’s guiding him where it needs to go. I’ve never seen the like.”

The Dwarf grunted. “Powerful is that sword, make no mistake. I’ve heard tales of the star silver sword and ever have they revolved around battle. I fear it leads your friend to a dark place.”

Delin leaned closer and whispered, “do you think there are Gnaals near?”

“Do not speak that name unless you must. Evil things happen when evil thoughts are had. But no, I fear my premonition goes well beyond the dark stalkers. War is fast upon us, my young friends, and it will take all of us to see through to victory.”

“I thought you were just here to check things out?” Fennic asked.

Norgen smiled and shook his head. “It’s too late to turn back now. I am just as committed as you. This war is mine as well.”

They spent the next few days talking of the past and future. Norgen entertained them with tales of days long past. There was no limit to the amount of stories he could spin, and he had no hesitation in the telling of them. They were sure he’d exhausted his supply of tales by the time the storm finally passed.

“We need to look in to arming you if we’re to continue east,” he told them the day after the storm. “The last thing you want is to be caught without a good axe. I’m surprised your parents let you leave as such.”

Delin quickly explained how they’d snuck away during the night and no one knew where they were. The Dwarf listened intently, grunting through the highlights. His dark eyes questioned their motives, but said nothing on the matter.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a battle,” Fennic told them. “I can barely manage Phaelor.”

“Indeed,” Norgen replied. “I suggest daggers and short swords to begin with. Not many of my folk have much knowledge in blade, but there are armsmen aplenty in Paedwyn. You’ll get your turn and probably more.”

Delin rubbed the purple stone in his pocket for reassurance.

“Now shall we go and find a smith? Something about the feel of steel gets my blood flowing,” the Dwarf laughed.

Feist was unlike any other town they’d been through. Peddlers and trinket makers did their swindling, obviously the norm for civilization. The streets were paved with reddish-brown stones, the same stones used in the making of the great houses on the main boulevard. Awning covered streets announced the start of the market district. The smells of fresh fish and vegetables waxed the air. Fishermen from the Northern Ocean sailed the seven hundred leagues south down the Sibit River, hitting every major town and city along the way. Southerners, especially landlocked countries like Averon were willing to pay well for the freshest catch.

Norgen told them an arena lay on the far side of town. Gladiator combat was mostly forbidden in the west but Feist held annual games. Competitors from every country in Malweir gathered once a year to determine the best of the best. Folks paid dearly to watch the event and the kingdom flourished during that time. They asked Norgen when the next games were held and he merely shrugged.

Halfway through town they were forced to stop as a band of men escorted a small group of giraffes across the street. Not even Norgen had seen such before. All three stood in awe of the long necked beasts. Strange white horses with black stripes stood in pens on the far side of the road. There were monkeys in cages and exotic birds chirping and whistling from assorted hanging cages. Women far more exotic moved here and there. Each was heavily tanned with flowing black hair and slender bodies. They walked about in silk clothes that hid most of their bodies. Delin and Fennic quickly found themselves staring at the strange beauty.

“Come lads, these women are more danger than either of you are willing to find,” he cautioned before leading them to the first smith.

Personal weapons were tricky to choose. The boys discovered this the hard and went through three smiths in a half day. They stopped for a quick bite to eat and continued the search. Norgen warned them about the lack of quality from several more smithies during the course of the day. The boys began to lose hope as the sun dipped beneath the distant mountaintops

“Well,” Norgen said. “This is the last one in town. I hope he’s a man of talent and a degree of honesty.”

“I hope so. My feet can’t take much more of this,” Fennic complained.

The Dwarf said, “Nonsense. There’s many leagues left to Paedwyn. You’ll have feet like leather by the time we make it.”

“Welcome friends,” announced the smith. He wiped his blackened hands off on a well used apron and shook each theirs. “Can’t say as that I get too many Dwarves here, but I’m always willing to help where I may. What can I do for you lads?”