Armies of the Silver Mage (44 page)

“Impressive,” Ordein commented. “I’ve been a warrior all my life. I’ve seen many wars and battles, armies marching off to join steel with the foe. This is the first time I’ve seen an army so grand and proud. The Silver Mage ought to tremble in his dark tower at the thought of this mighty war machine. By Gru! How can we fail?”

Maelor weighed the question carefully for a moment. Although he wholeheartedly agreed with the stout Dwarf, he had doubts over Sidian’s preparedness for their invasion. “This war is far from over. We’ve won the first battle, true, but the enemy is vast and full of deceit and surprise. We should not take the mage too lightly.”

“That’s defeatist talk. My folk came here to fight,” Ordein snarled in response.

Steleon saw the fight brewing and moved to cut it off. It wouldn’t do them any good to fight amongst themselves with the enemy so close. “There’ll be plenty of fighting ahead, I can promise you that. Let us use caution a while longer. At least until we see what surprises the Silver Mage has in store for us.”

“Bah! We have them on the run now. It’s been two days since we last saw sign of the foe. Let me take my Dwarves and finish this. The very road to Aingaard may lie open and you speak of caution. I say we press the attack.”

Steleon shook his head. It appeared a Dwarf’s blood contained as much steel as his axe. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple. The enemy still has his magic. Not even the tenacity of your folk is enough to best such.”

“What of Fennic and the sword?” Melgit asked. His newly appointed general’s rank glittered in the fading sun.

Lord Flonish of Harlegor added, “I think we need fear the worst. If they’ve been gone this long and we’ve heard no word disaster may have befallen them.”

“Whether they’ve fallen or not, I know not. But should they fail we’ll be all that stands between Malweir and the horrors of Gren. The very conquest of the world is at our door. It’s a fine line we walk, my friends,” Steleon said.

“Dead or not, we keep moving. Winter’s Day is only three days away and I have a strong desire to see this through. The Silver Mage will have the same notion. It’s a matter of time now,” Maelor said.

He looked around and focused on the passing men. “Leave a battalion of engineers back at Gren Mot. I want them to take care of our dead and begin rebuilding the defenses. I’m sure word of our coming has already reached Aingaard. Make sure the cavalry and siege machines are in the flatlands before this army stops moving for the night. Set up the picket lines and post my colors in the center of the field. I think it’s time for Sidian to know who comes calling.”

“Sire, this is a haunted place. Many a good man won’t risk his life to Gren and the ghosts both,” Melgit cautioned.

“Then we exorcise those ghosts with steel,” Maelor replied and rode off.

Ordein smiled brightly.

Melgit rode back to the ruins in middle of the night to confront his nightmares. He stood in the remnants of the command tower and surveyed what remained. The view to the east stretched a good half league, with the occasional glimpse down onto the Nveden Plains. This was the place he had watched the beginnings of the war unfold.

He could still his friends. Fynten steaming over the map table. Wiln and Surnish arguing over tactics. The sour look constantly marring Prellin’s scarred face. Even quiet Crespith and that damned fool dagger he always carried. Melgit fought back the tears as long as he could before succumbing finally. He hadn’t realized how much he lost that day. Kicking at the piles of soot, he sat on a window bench and cried away the pain. He had a feeling he’d soon be joining his friends.

* * *

“My bones tell me snow is coming,” Flonish said. Total darkness surrounded them. Heavy clouds swept in, low to the ground and hateful. The promise of storm rode with them. It sat ill on his fears.

Ordein nodded hasty agreement. “Winter in Gren is not a healthy thought. Should we wait until the storm passes?”

Steleon listened to the useless conversation. They all knew that the Silver Mage wasn’t going to postpone his war until spring. Each of them understood the seriousness of the situation yet persisted in arguing over non-factors. They had less than three days before the dark mage was going to do what he intended. That was it. The redundancy of their arguments was numbing. Steleon wondered how they could be expected to fight as one and actually win this war. Matters were much simpler when he was the sole voice of the army. He closed his eyes and prayed that Delin and Fennic were close to finishing their quest.

“We continue the march,” he finally said in a stern, controlled voice. “I’ll not sit idle and let this fine army lose all momentum at the threat of snow. Should we become trapped in Gren we ride south past the mountains and into Antheneon. Remember gentlemen, if we can’t ride the pass neither can they. If it comes to retreat, we make the dark mage pay with every foot of ground.”

“I’m not so sure the Antheni will appreciate our advance through their lands,” Melgit said. “Rumors have it they deal with the Silver Mage.”

Maelor smashed his fist into the small table. The candle flickered softly. “Damn them all. They should be fighting alongside us. Their policy of non-commitment will be the ruin of the east. If needs be, we’ll slam through them as well. I will see this war finished. By the gods I will.”

Ordein nudged Flonish and beamed, “he’d make a good Dwarf.”

The Dwarf lord rose slowly, his four foot frame somehow impressive in the confines of the small tent. “It’s clear to me that we have lost focus with that one victory on the river. The Silver Mage seeks to open the paths to the underworld, just as he has in the past. Either we stand and fight, or we run and die. There are no other choices. My folk will gladly lend a hand in rebuilding your fortress once this war is done. Gru knows the world needs more beauty created by the Dwarves. We push on and fight. Here, now.”

He sat back down with a smug look. Their argument was effectively finished.

Steleon smiled for the first time in a week.

“Ordein has the right of it,” he told them. “Stopping the mage is a task appointed to others. Ours is to destroy his armies. Have all units form battle lines and prepare for the attack. We march like that until we meet resistance. The enemy will be caught off guard. Let them die that way. General Melgit, how long before the army is ready to advance?”

“The majority have been on the plains for about two hours now,” he said after a moment. “Say another two before they’re rested enough to do the job.”

“Will that give enough time?” Flonish asked. “My cavalry need little enough to deploy but I think the infantry and artillery will need longer. Nine thousand riders make a handsome opponent, but won’t stand long if the enemy attacks too soon.”

Steleon said, “you’ll have the men of the vanguard with you should it come to it. And the might of the Dwarven Hammer. Though I doubt the enemy will attack.”

“How do you figure?” Maelor asked skeptically.

The old warrior explained, “their army was shattered at the Thorn River. What units did survive most likely turned south to skirt around the mountains rather than stay in our path. The Silver Mage will know this. He’ll be more cautious about sending his forces in. The majority of their leadership can be presumed destroyed. Goblins don’t fight well without a leader. Any that did survive more than likely took to ground rather than risk the wrath of the mage. That makes the rest of the army potentially blind to our moves. I believe we can be arrayed in battle ranks and ready to fight before the enemy has the chance to react.”

Melgit added, “sir, I’m taking a small staff forward with the van. That’ll give me better control of the situation. I don’t want to be caught with my pants down again.”

The Dwarf lord quit tugging on his beard long enough to say, “what happens if we’re wrong? The army needs good leaders. Soldiers will do as their told, and sergeants will hold units together under the darkest conditions. Officers are hit and miss, but true combat leaders are special. Those we need more than anything. To put yourself at risk like that is brash, boyo.”

“There is danger in any move we make. I wouldn’t mind getting a glimpse of what’s in store for us myself,” Maelor said suddenly.

“Absolutely not, sire,” Steleon bit out. “You are Averon. If you fall we shall to. A general can be replaced. The king cannot. General Melgit, though I disapprove of the mission I see the necessity in it. Request granted, but keep your staff small. You may leave at your discretion.”

Melgit gave a sharp nod and exited the tent.

“I think I’ll head down there as well. Wouldn’t mind stepping in front of the lads for a while,” Ordein said. “Might even get to wet my axe in the process.”

Two hours later the army groaned to their feet again. They complained and griped the way good soldiers are supposed to and struck the camp. Quickly they were packed up and moving again. They could feel the end drawing near. The final battle of this terrible war was upon them. Anticipation buzzed through the ranks. There were no cadence or cheers this march, for the once defenders had become invaders and required stealth.

Light snow was falling, coating the outcroppings of rock and dead trees lining the road. Moonlight painted the clouds a ghastly color. The brunt of the storm was still hours away and already the Nveden Plains were changing for the worse. Banners fluttered in the wind. The mixed colors of three nations united to end an ages old evil. The soldier’s faces were grim, determined to see this through so that they may return to their families and loved ones. Soon, very soon, the army would meet the enemy in battle, and the fate of Malweir would at last be decided.

FIFTY-SIX

Gren was a ruined land. Broken and abused beyond the limits of nature and imagination. Dark magic transformed a world once rich in greenery and wildlife into utter desolation. Waters were poisonous and leaden. The very air was hard to breathe. Purple-black skies dominated by lightning and ominous thunderheads shrouded the land. This was the place of nightmares.

Melgit’s first true glimpse of Gren abhorred him. He’d heard all the stories and tales grandmothers told at night to keep the children in line. Until now he’d never put much stock in them. These visions of ruination would forever scar his memory. A small part of him now understood why the Grelnor hated the men of the lowlands. It wasn’t hate. It was envy. This was the very birthplace of death and decay. How many generations were forced to grow up and only dream of color and warmth? Too wish for the one thing they couldn’t obtain, a world free from the yoke of tyranny. It was a forgotten dream.

He closed his looking glass and shook his head in disgust. Beside him, Commander Slephen yawned. He was undaunted by the sights. He’d been a soldier all his life and had seen his share of blood and horror. Gren presented a new challenge, to be sure, but they were all the same when it came down to winning and surviving.

“Lovely place to wage war,” he casually remarked through another yawn. “At least we don’t need to worry about snow.”

Melgit forced a laugh and eyed his adjutant oddly. He didn’t understand how the man was so calm. “Nice to see one of my commanders still has a sense of humor.”

Slephen shrugged. “It helps. Besides, with magic and dragons, we need something to keep us going. This war is nasty business.”

“I wonder if your king will appreciate such candor when the blood flows,” Ordein asked.

For the hundredth time Melgit wondered if he was trapped amongst madmen. “Have your scouts found anything significant yet?”

“We captured a few Goblins,” Slephen replied. “I think we’re about to catch them off guard and take the day, General.”

“Don’t be too hasty. This land is riddled with underground caverns connected by a massive tunnel complex. There’s plenty enough room to conceal an army until the time is right,” he paused. “Commander, deploy your forces along that crevasse to the right about six hundred meters out. That should give you enough maneuverability in case they launch their own assault. The rest of the army will form on your flank.”

“Would you like my personal or professional opinion, sir?” he asked.

A raised eyebrow was his response.

“It’s not my choice of ground, but it’s a damned sight easier than most we’ve had to fight on. I’ll have the boys moving and in place within the hour,” Slephen told him.

The man saluted and rode off. Melgit watched him go. Slephen was actually whistling.

* * *

King Maelor and the lead elements of the main body slowly moved into battle position. Guides came forward and began issuing orders for emplacement and the order of battle being passed down from Melgit.

“So far so good,” he said as the army marched by. “I think we’ve taken them by surprise after all.”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Steleon found himself agreeing. Aside from limited Goblin scouts, it appeared Gren was caught off guard. “It appears so, sire. I recommend caution nonetheless. We’ve been tricked before.”

“We’ve also beaten back everything thrown at us,” Maelor reminded him.

Steleon remained quiet. Too many dark thoughts were going through his head. He stood and watched the occupation of Gren proceed.

* * *

Fierce winds howled across the barren plains, battering the single story stone buildings. A pair of Goblin sentries stood by the door of the largest, braving the hazardous weather. Inside sat three Men. Generals of the armies of the Silver Mage, they quietly discussed their next move. Arms folded across his chest, General Eorgis took in his peers with a foul look. A spider web of scars ran down the side of his face, ending where his left eye once was. A proven veteran, he’d been given command of the defense of Gren upon hearing the news from the Averon. With Jervis Hoole missing, and the dragon no longer under the mage’s control, Eorgis and his forces were all that stood between the enemy and Aingaard.

“Enter,” he bellowed at the sound a heavy knock.

A young soldier walked in. he was covered with sweat and out of breath. Eorgis eyed him disgustedly. Hoole’s lack of training had ruined too many good young men and he was being forced to pick up the scraps.