Armies of the Silver Mage (12 page)

FIFTEEN

“Fire!”

The catapult battery launched a dozen flaming projectiles into the massing Goblin ranks less than a mile away. Tired men hurriedly reloaded their weapons until they had to be replaced by fresh men from the fortress. A battalion of archers came marching down from the rear of the pass to join the ranks aching for battle. Cavalrymen and infantry were already in place behind a trio of pitch filled ditches.

Hundreds of Goblins were already dead yet still the army pressed forward. Huge Mountain Trolls towered over the Goblins, pulling great siege engines towards the front lines. Tens of thousands more waited on the vast plains of Gren. Once the ancient fortress was conquered the way into Averon would be wide open for invasion. All the vanguard had to do was bring down the walls of Gren mot and slay her defenders. Commander Fynten watched Goblin engineers with their blackened wooden walkways move closer to the front ranks. They carried more than enough to breach the ditches.

“Archers ready! Third rank. Strike the flames!”

A page ran along the rank of bowmen, setting fire to the small line of pitch. The archer captain walked to Fynten and removed his conical helmet. The commander of Gren Mot nodded slightly. Fynten had dark hair with a thick moustache. He was lightly muscled and nearing the end of his third decade. Ahead of his peers in practically every category, the King saw fit to entrust him with the mounting responsibility of defending Averon’s eastern approach.

“I was wondering when your boys were going to join us, Wiln,” he said with a smile.

A cold wind tussled his thick, black hair. “We’ve been having all the fun thus far.”

Another catapult salvo rocketed overhead. A massive cheer rose from the Goblin ranks. Fynten turned to see their engineers rush towards the first obstacle.

Wiln grimaced at their numbers. “I thought it would be a better entrance to arrive just in the nick of time.”

“That you have,” Fynten agreed. “Are your men ready?”

“We await the order.”

The catapults fired again. Fragments of oil and brimstone drifted into stretching trails across the sky. Fynten judged the front Goblin ranks in range. He turned to his friend.

“You have it,” he said. “Let’s just hope they can strike their marks.”

Wiln replaced his helm and gallantly strode back to his men with sword raised high.

“Ignite!”

Four hundred tiny flames simultaneously sprang to life along the Averonian lines.

“Draw!”

Archers drew back, aiming in on the Goblin foe.

“Loose!”

The burning missiles whistled through the purple-black sky. Some hit only dirt and rock while the majority burned into Goblin flesh. A handful dropped into the trench filled with pitch. A wall of flame erupted on the battlefield. Not even the roar of Fynten’s men was enough to drown the screams of the roasting Goblins.

“Ignite and take aim! Second target. Loose!”

The second volley struck the confused mass of Goblins. Hundreds fell while their comrades trampled over the still warm corpses. Fynten watched the display in disgust. He hated war, but fully understood the necessity for it. If he failed here a doom would befall his beloved Averon. Everything he stood for and believed in would meet a violent demise. No, this was the only way.

“Captain Surnish!” he roared. “Move those catapults three hundred meters back and engage.”

The Goblins breeched the final ditch halfway through the second night and halted. Fynten summoned his captains to his tent to discuss the coming fight. All were blackened from ash and fire and covered in sweat despite the growing cold of winter. Outside, the catapults continued their brutal assault. Hundreds died with each volley.

Wiln wiped the exhaustion from his brow. “We’ve killed thousands of them and to what end? Still they press us without regard for casualties. We cannot win this battle.”

“Where would you have us retreat to?” asked the disgruntled cavalry captain, Melgit.

“My horses are of no use in the keep.”

Fynten let them argue for a time. It did good to get the angst off their chests and clear their minds. He knew they merely expressed what everyone of the soldiers was feeling. Sooner or later something had to give. Fynten hoped it was the enemy’s will.

“Gentlemen, how many of us have families on the other side of the mountains?” He already knew the answer, but by asking it put their minds in the right place.

“Because none of them will survive should we fail. Make no mistake; this is the beginning of the much dreaded war. The Silver Mage has grown discontent with his rotten kingdom and seeks to enslave Malweir under his foul wizardry and dark armies. Those we killed thus far are insignificant compared to what yet awaits us.”

“None doubt you, Commander,” Wiln conceded, “but how long can we realistically hold this position? And at what cost? We can only push our men so far before the first wall is taken.”

“My scouts have seen more Goblins and other foul creatures than all of Averon can hope to withstand. What we accomplish in the pass will be minimal at best,” Melgit said. He’d spent the majority of his adult life fighting one war or the next and had never left the enemy in control of the battlefield.”

“We need hold until King Maelor has an army large enough to invade Gren and put the mage’s head on a pike. Don’t tell me what we can and can’t do or why. Give me solutions to the problems at hand. What you must realize, is that it is expected we die in the defense of our country should the need arise. My orders, issued by the king’s own hand, state that the keep will be held to the last man.”

A low murmur spread through the captains.

Fynten held up his hand. “I have no intention of dying in these mountains.”

Surnish slammed a gnarled fist into the table. “Nor do I! What do you need of me?”

“Keep firing as long as the catapults hold. I’ve already authorized one company at a time to be replaced. This stands for everyone but you archers, Wiln. I need as many shafts in the air as I can get,” Fynten explained. The artillery was the least of his concerns. Besides, catapults weren’t much good once the Goblins closed on his infantry.

“You’ve been exceptionally quiet so far, Prellin.”

The one eyed infantry captain nodded. “Aside from Melgit, my men have seen the least action. We are rested and ready to fight.”

“You’ll have your fight much sooner than I’d like. My instincts say they’ll hit the wall before sunrise. The pikes and archers will keep them at bay long enough but some are bound to break through,” Fynten said. “Melgit, that’s where you come in. Swing your cavalry in from the flank. Don’t stop until you’re clear the far side and back behind the wall again.”

“The wounded…” he began.

Fynten suppressed a grimace. “There will be no wounded. You know this as well as I. archers will provide cover before and after your charge. I want the Goblins confused. Expecting another attack. Captain Jeurle, is all ready for our surprise?”

“All is,” Jeurle replied. He was the youngest and most eager of the group. He was also one of the brightest engineers in the royal army. “Hopefully we can take some of those Trolls down as well.”

“The battlements in the keep have the Troll killers already in place. They’re not my main concern,” Fynten turned back to Melgit. “Is there a way to fire their siege machines?”

“The danger to the cavalry will be great.”

“And unacceptable I wager,” Fynten agreed.

A single trumpet call rang out across the mountain pass. The Goblins were preparing to attack.

“Gentlemen, to your posts. My guess is they’re already too close for your catapults so aim for the siege machines. Every little piece will buy us and Averon time. Good luck,” he told them.

One by one they filed from the tent to return to their troops. It was going to be dark for a while longer and the dark gray Goblin skin would be difficult to see. It might also work to Fynten’s advantage.

SIXTEEN

The ferocity with which the early winter storm sputtered and raged led Tarren to believe that she wasn’t meant to leave Fel Darrins. Hidden in a small cave, she and her newly found pony waited out the snows. It was the pony who saved them. Tarren would have been caught in the open when the storm hit. The pony’s insistence at following its own desires led them to a shallow valley filled with enormous boulders and broken trees.

Finding shelter was the easy part.

She noticed the pony’s natural stubbornness the moment she awoke in the clearing some days ago. Initially she didn’t want anything to do with the beast. But she was alone and on foot and hunting a dark man who was going to harm her one true love. What real choice did she have? Besides, there was something about the butterscotch colored pony that soothed here, comforted her enough to trust it. The decision to climb aboard came naturally.

They followed the main trail for another league or so before the pony ambled off through the lightly forested hills. No matter what Tarren tried, she couldn’t persuade it to turn back to the road. She felt the mow familiar tremor of fear sprouting. The forests were dark and dangerous and a simple girl from a small village shouldn’t have anything to do with them on the best of days. Again the pony offered her comfort, silently reassuring her that all was well. Strangely enough, Tarren found herself relaxing.

She didn’t like being without a choice any more than being alone in a foreign land, but her friends were in peril. Of that she was convinced. It became the one sustaining focus that kept her going through the seemingly endless series of blunders and setbacks. Add a stray pony that seemed to have its own issues and she was left wondering what she was supposed to do. They reached the valley an hour before the first snows fell. Winds were already howling by the time they found the small cave and the skies opened up with every foul thought as she started the campfire.

* * *

The new dawn was considerably less spectacular than the day prior as was the one before that. Winter was fast closing in. Soon the all Malweir would become a colorless land of grey and white. Now more than ever Norgen wished for a quiet mountain tunnel they could secretly travel through. Deep snows only served to leave their tracks easier to find. That meant the Gnaal would find them sooner than later. Norgen narrowed his eyes against the morning glare and watched for signs of ambush.

“He’s been in a sour mood all night,” Fennic whispered from their position a few meters behind the Dwarf.

Delin grunted. “You would be too if you remembered what happened last night. That Gnaal was nearly the death of us. Now I know why he’s so spooked.”

“Dwarves are never spooked,” Norgen growled over his shoulder. “Though we do have a superb sense of caution.”

Delin stifled a laugh. “Fine, oh mighty Dwarf. We won’t tell anyone your secrets.”

The banter raged back and forth until they stopped for a bite to eat. Norgen’s mood gradually lightened until he walked with a constant smile. Both boys looked at him in confusion for it was out of character for the Dwarf to be happy. When asked about his sudden mood swing, the Dwarf gave a mischievous smile and said, “You’ll see soon enough.” The intrigue went on until the following morning.

Norgen rushed them through breakfast and hygiene. They were back on the road to Paedwyn in no time. Morning mists took forever to clear, but when they did the boys were met by an awe inspiring sight. Norgen stood back and beamed with pride. At first all they could see were two massive snow covered mountain tops high above the world. Ever so slowly did the mountains take shape, changing from indistinctive bulks to majestic formations glowing a purplish-red. These were the tallest peaks in all of Malweir. Small foothills clustered around the bases, adding dimension to the bulk and importance. Norgen dropped to his knees with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Fennic asked.

As moving as the sight was to behold, Fennic felt their importance lost on him.

Norgen threw his arms open and exclaimed, “behold! The Twin Spires of Ragnash. The most holy of Dwarven places.”

Golden sunlight washed across the frozen peaks, bathing them in the light of the gods.

“What you see are the eldest mountains in the world. Every Dwarf must pay respect when he passes. This is where the first Dwarves came into being. There are gorgeous halls of jewels and gold therein, stretching deep into the living world. All of our power, our secrets and origins rest inside. Were time on our side I would take you there.”

The world suddenly became a much smaller place for Fennic. His empty feeling lessened somewhat. A peculiar kinship formed between himself and the taciturn Dwarf that he couldn’t explain.

“My kings lie entombed inside, all the way back to the beginning,” he went on. “No greater honor could ever be bestowed upon a Dwarf than to rest forever in the hallowed halls. I doubt I shall ever see such. My lot is already decided.”

“Perhaps not,” Fennic consoled.

“Nay, friend. I know my fate and it lies along another path.”

He wiped the tears away and attempted changing the subject. “Paedwyn is no more than a handful of days away. We should be there before the week ends if all goes well.”

“I don’t mean to be the pessimist of the group, but nothing has gone right since we left Alloenis,” Delin reminded them.

Norgen laughed. “Perfect! There’s nowhere to go but up.”

“Sure, now you want to be happy.”

The Dwarf scolded a finger at them. “Always take advantage of the situation no matter how you find it. There is still much ground to cover err we reach the city. Much can happen if we’re not careful.”

The boys nodded and resumed the quest. Farmer’s wagons and frightened villagers heading for the homes of western relatives dotted the roads. A wicked scare came from Gren and people fled just as fast as they could. Others chose to stay behind and defend their homes and still others dismissed the threat as immature. The Silver Mage was dead and rotted, they argued. Soon they would learn the error of their thoughts.