Armies of the Silver Mage

Christian Warren Freed

15 Eisenhower Dr

Cornwall, NY 12518

[email protected]

845-534-3102

ARMIES OF THE SILVER MAGE

2003

CHRISTIAN WARREN FREED

ONE

The day began much the same as every other day did for the people of Fel Darrins. Dew coated the blades of long, green grass. Birds flew from tree to tree. Forest animals moved about in search of their next meal. The townsfolk gradually awoke and went about their daily business as if there were no greater world surrounding them. Herders and farmers were up before the first light of day and in the fields. Bakers already had the town smelling of freshly baked honey glazed bread and pastries. Butchers and chandlers opened their shops. All in all, life wasn’t bad for the people of Fel Darrins.

A half a day’s walk from the great forest of Relin Werd, Fel Darrins was a haven of tranquility and prosperity. It had been years since the last war had ravaged the land, so long in fact that none but the eldest of them could even remember those dark times. The lands actually belonged to the king of Averon, but few bothered traveling through those distant parts of the kingdom, not out of fear or spite, but from the lack of needing to go so far. Annual taxes were collected by the king’s men, but Fel Darrins remained largely unnoticed. If you’d asked any of the townsfolk they’d say it was a good thing.

The sun was just beginning to creep across the morning sky by the time Delin Kerny and Fennic Attleford started moving through the woods. They were born just a few months apart and were quickly approaching their coming of age, much to the admonishment and denial of their mothers. Seventeen summers came and passed, yet the eighteenth was proving rather elusive to them. Best friends since birth, Delin and Fennic could hardly ever be separated. Delin was apprenticed to Ferd the chandler, while his best friend worked hard to learn the ways of a miller.

As with most men, nothing they did was satisfying. Days drudged on with little real chance of change. Town elders warned that change led to strife and war thereafter. That day, the two friends snuck away from work and responsibilities to go fishing. Summer was getting on and there was plenty of time for work later, especially during the cold winter months. Sadly, work was the only thing there was always time for.

“We’re going to catch him today, Fennic,” Delin laughed, as they got closer to the pond. “He doesn’t stand a chance this time!”

Fennic joined his friend in a deep laugh. “I couldn’t have said it better. Just hope old man Wiffe doesn’t find out. He might not take kindly to it.”

They both suppressed a shudder. Old man Wiffe owned half of the lands between the town proper and Relin Werd. No one really knew much about him though. Rumors said he stood with King Baeleon during the Dwarf Wars, nigh on forty years ago. People spoke of a terrible battle where the king fell and Wiffe lost his arm. Few had seen him since he returned home. Mostly, they caught a glimpse of a passing shadow in the forests. He was more legend than man these days; a legend neither Delin nor Fennic cared to find out more about.

“Now why’d you bring him up?” Delin scowled. His voice was barely a whisper.
Both youths stood motionless, watching the surrounding trees. Birds chirped and whistled. Animals could be heard scuttling down trails. There was no sign of old man Wiffe.

“Do you want to head back?” Fennic asked.

Delin shook his head. “We’re already going to get it for skipping work, might as well enjoy the day and catch Big Tom.”

Everyone in town knew about Big Tom. He was the biggest fish ever seen in this part of the world and no one had been able to catch him. That was going to change this morning. A cool breeze drifted through the trees, slightly chilling them. The hours before dawn always seemed the coldest.

Fennic grabbed Delin’s arm and hurriedly asked, “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

Fennic pointed towards the nearest trees. “Over there. I thought I saw something move.”

“You’re imagining things. We’re the only ones out here,” Delin reassured him.

He wanted to portray a solidity his best friend lacked. It was clear from early on that Delin was the risk taker, the leader. Fennic was more reserved, relying on knowledge and his ability to read and write to get them out of a bind. All of their friends knew he’d be a scholar one day, perhaps even in the marbled halls of Paedwyn, court of the king of Averon. For now, he wasn’t sure he’d make it that far.

The world was a dangerous place. That much was no big secret. Goblins and other foul creatures hid in dark places, roaming the world freely east of the Gren Mountains. The occasional dragon flew in to steal hard wrought treasures. Ghosts and spirits haunted old battlefields. Elves and Dwarves moved here and there and, it was said, a Great evil was arising in the east. Troubled times were falling on the world of Malweir.

“There it goes again,” Fennic pointed.

Alarmed, Delin decided it was time to go. “Come on. I don’t like this. Big Tom can wait.”

They had just turned back towards Fel Darrins when a great rustling erupted behind them. Both boys took to their heels and ran. The harder they ran, the closer the monster they had heard came. Then it was in front of them. Delin grabbed Fennic by the shoulder and turned left. Had they stopped then, they would have seen it was only a herd of large deer running by.

They ran until both of them were out of breath and exhausted. Fennic stumbled and dropped to his knees. He wasn’t half the athlete the taller Delin was. Spit drooled from his mouth. His lungs burned. The only consolation came from seeing his friend heaving against a tree. It wasn’t long before they were both laughing at their flight.

“What’s so funny?” Delin asked, wiping his mouth.

“Us!”

“What do you mean?”

Fennic stopped laughing long enough to explain. “There was nothing there. Nothing but a bunch of deer. If there was, we never would have gotten away.”

Delin balled his fists as if to argue. He was just about to snap off a rude comment when he noticed the small cottage on the far side of a clearing.

“Look over there,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone lived out here.”

“Do you think it’s..?”

Delin shrugged. “It has to be. Let’s find out.”

The sun was out now, drying the dew and warming the forest. The clearing was a good hundred meters away, but the light green grass and ferns bathed in golden sunlight led them to believe that they were well off the beaten path. Fennic hated to be the one to try and explain all of this to their fathers. White flowers highlighted in red clung to vines snaking up tree trunks. There was a fresh smell, as if nothing unnatural had ever been here. A nagging sensation crept down his spine.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he urged.

The desire to go home and accept his punishment far outweighed his need to discover if this was indeed old man Wiffe’s cottage.

“Scared?” Delin chided. Truth be told, he was just as scared, but he was determined not to let it show.

Fennic nodded. “And you should be too.”

Delin pressed forward. Now was not the time for him to show any hesitation, not after his best friend had been trying to show him up. Most of those who knew him considered Delin a stubborn boy, hardheaded and overconfident. Yet, he was far from dumb. He knew how far to take things and when to quit. This morning just happened to be one of those occasions when good judgment abandoned him. Afraid of alternative, Fennic hurried to catch up.

“What happens if he’s in there?”

Delin shrugged again. “We’re about to find out, huh?”

The clearing was enormous. Old oak trees lined the way, dotted with a host of saplings and underbrush. A rabbit bounded off at the sound of their approach. Somewhere in the forest a crow cawed. The subtle gurgling of running water led them to a small stream cutting the clearing in two. The only thing missing was a small pond. By now the cottage was in plain view. It was humble as far as homes went. Faded blue shutters framed the windows. The chimney was still and unused. There were no lights from within. Moss was growing in great clumps along the aged stone walls. The thatch roof was barely serviceable. Judging from the size of the cottage, it couldn’t have contained more than two rooms. Delin was almost disappointed when he noticed the front door was slightly ajar. Curiosity seized him.

“What are you doing?” Fennic whispered. Delin ignored him and kept walking towards the door. As tranquil as the setting was, he had no desire to be caught breaking in to someone’s home, especially after their earlier scare.

“Just a quick look and we can leave,” Delin smiled.

The clearing was empty, almost lifeless, but Fennic wasn’t at ease. “I’m not going in there.”

“Suit yourself,” Delin casually replied. “I’m going to see what’s inside.”

In a moment, Fennic was alone. The slightest sound was amplified tenfold. The clearing suddenly grew cold. Fennic couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, certain that a hundred pairs of eyes marked his very breath. The forest was alive and waiting for the chance to strike him down. The deep hoot of a hidden owl was more than enough to send him running inside. A gust of wind slammed the door behind him and he was alone in the darkness of the cottage. He could scarcely make out his own hands.

“Delin, where are you?” he whispered.

“You can stop whispering,” came the reply. “Letting the door slam was a fool mistake. I could be dead by now if anyone was home.”

“You shouldn’t have left me out there like that!”

Delin actually laughed. “You shouldn’t have stayed.”

His eyes growing used to the dark, Fennic overcame his fear and started to explore. The main room was sparsely decorated, even for a hermit. There was a rickety old rocking chair next to the empty fireplace, and a small round table by the window. The shelf on the wall held a few colored vases and a handful of real books. A brilliant silver sword was mounted on the mantle behind it.

“I’d say that confirms that this is his house,” Fennic said. “What’s in the other room?”

He knew he should still be afraid, but the sword held his complete attention. Great tales and high adventure lay within the steel, and Fennic Attleford found himself wondering what it would be like to live that life. The fear of old man Wiffe was fading.

“Nothing much. A plain cot with a half filled wardrobe. There are lots of herbs and spices and stuff over there where the kitchen area is. The pantry is stocked with jars of food and dried meat. Are you listening?”

Fennic wasn’t. Instead, he was reaching for the shining sword. It called to him, begged him to draw it from the sheath and carry out their destiny together. What deeds they could accomplish! All would remember his name and know the true meaning of courage.

“You shouldn’t mess with that,” Delin warned.

Nonsense. “Who’s going to know?”

His words were sharply cut off by the sudden baying of an old hound dog. Old man Wiffe was coming home. Delin ran to the door in time to see the recluse entering the clearing. They were trapped. He turned and was astonished to see Fennic brandishing the sword like a professional arms man.

“Put that back! We need to get out of here now.”

Fennic marveled at the way the sword cut through the air, whistling with superiority. What a wondrous thing this silver sword was. Delin snatched him by the wrist, breaking the spell. Wide eyes stared back at him.

“Didn’t you hear me? Wiffe is back!”

Panic struck Fennic. He hurried to replace the sword, lest he was caught with it in his hands. What would Wiffe think? That he was stealing the sword? Chances were that he would kill both of them. He ran to the window and peered out. There was nothing out there. No dog, no sign of the old man.

“I think it’s safe. I don’t see anyone,” he said.

The door groaned open and the old hound snapped at them. A heavy shadow fell over the boys.

“Well, well. What have I here? Would be thieves come to rob an old man? I don’t think so,” grated a towering one armed man.

TWO

The cackling fire reminded them of a cold winter night with hot spiced cider and drifting snow. It was anything but. Delin and Fennic sat across from each other, watching as old man Wiffe finished stoking the fire and made his breakfast. His hound sat at their feet with a perpetual scowl. Apparently it was as mistrusting as its master.

Wiffe was a proud, strong man. His lack of an arm meant nothing to him. His demeanor drew men to him in times of crisis and his skill with the blade surpassed that of most. He had a light beard and moustache accompanying the lines on his weathered face. There was nothing about him which suggested weakness. Sixty some years old, Wiffe was in prime condition. There was a certain wariness in his eye, a hint of potential danger. Decades of sword play and a hard life had left him with a heavily muscled body. He turned his attention on the boys.