Armies of the Silver Mage (8 page)

“The boy’s smart. Let me tell you a little tale to ease your young minds. Last year a rider came to our might hall in Breilnor. He spoke of a coming war between the free races of Malweir and the dark realm of Gren. He didn’t want to tell us, but we worked it out that the Elves were going to sit this one out. They are tired of the wars of Men and want no part in this new one. My people debated long and hard before deciding on sending a token party to Paedwyn. We were going to see how bad the situation was before committing the strength of our armies.

“We made it halfway to Alloenis when we were beset by a Gnaal.” He ignored their confused looks. “Nasty things, Gnaals. One hasn’t been seen since the last war against Gren. Now they roam the countryside. The night belongs to them and it takes much to kill one. Magic some say. We fought hard, as only Dwarves can, but in the end I was the only one to walk away. They all died that night. I suffered a broken arm and deep wounds across my back, but the Gnaal left me for dead before stalking off into the darkness.

“I wanted to return home and warn my people, but two things stopped me. The halls of Breilnor are well guarded and deep within the mountain base. The Gnaal was also between me and Breilnor. The second, and more important of the two, is when a Dwarf gives his word he keeps it until the end. We may be reclusive, quarrelsome and generally foul tempered, but we love our freedom. Gren threatens to rob that from us. I cannot return home until the Silver Mage is vanquished.”

Fennic found himself sympathizing with him. All three of them were far from the comforts of home. War threatened the world. This was the time for all allies to band together and move past differences. Despite Delin’s initial reservations, the boys soon took a liking to the Dwarf. Norgen went on to explain his decisions and intentions. His task was to deliver the message from his king and survey the battlefield. Averon was alone until then. They talked long into the evening and finally decided to end their meeting. All promised to meet in the common room again on the morn.

They found Norgen awaiting them not long after the sun broke.

“Good morning to you, young sirs,” Norgen said.

Fennic yawned. “Good morning to you, Master Dwarf. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough considering I had a double handful of beer in my belly! Will has a good rack of left over mutton by the fire. It’s especially good with a hearty hang over.”

They spent the rest of the day talking. The conversation gradually turned to Phaelor and what to do. Norgen confessed he knew little of magical weapons or their whims. He offered to help them find one who could help. The recruiters came again that night, snatching one more for the cause. This time they announced that they were departing for the garrison at Paedwyn at the end of the week and would not be returning. His last minute theatrics snared another but no more. The fact of the matter was that most people didn’t tend to worry or think of war until it was on their door. Delin noticed the silent soldier’s piercing eyes with a far away look. He would have given anything to know what that man was thinking.

Another day came and went with a deeper exploration of Alloenis. Thus far they hadn’t found anyone trustworthy enough to mention the sword. Hope started to diminish. Norgen brought up the subject of escorting them to Paedwyn. His wounds were fully recovered and he was ready to get back on the road. The boys finally caved in and agreed. In two days time they’d begin the trek for the golden halls of Paedwyn. The morning before they left they watched three full companies of recruits marching out under the fluttering banner of the king. The boys were highly impressed though Norgen passed them off as disorganized rabble. Dwarves, he explained, were brilliant tacticians and professional soldiers much envied throughout Malweir.

“You should retire early tonight,” Norgen said after pushing away an empty dinner plate. “We’re in no hurry to get there, but you can never tell when a war happens. Very complicated matters.”

They nodded in compliance, but neither believed for a moment that they’d be able to sleep easy again until they returned to Fel Darrins. Gnaals and armies of green and gold filled their dreams.

TEN

“What’s Paedwyn like?” Fennic asked. He lazily tossed aside the freshly cleaned grouse bone he’d been gnawing on.

Norgen was spinning his own fowl over the small fire. “Much the same as every other Man city I should say. Oh, there are some impressive buildings and statues. Done by Dwarves more than likely. Men seldom create things of beauty. Too bent on conquest and destruction they are.”

“You sound as if you don’t care much for us,” Delin commented with a slight scowl.

“That all depends on how you mean. My folk often come to the aid of the kings of Averon. Darkness threatens us all whether the Elves choose to see it or not.” His speech left them wondering if he held more contempt for Men or Elves. All in all, Dwarves appeared to have lower opinions of just about everyone but themselves. “They’ve already come out and said they weren’t going to fight. Bah! You’ll never see a Dwarf run from a good fight. That I can assure you.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but we know almost nothing of Dwarves or any of the other races for that matter. Why do the Elves feel that way?” Fennic asked. Phaelor had shown him much over the past few weeks, just enough to keep him wanting more. “I’d have thought it was everyone’s responsibility to rid the evil threatening us.”

The Dwarf grunted. “Well spoken. It’s a complicated matter. Folk say that most of the

Elves are thousands of years old and tired of battles and war. Those are the main ones pushing Elfkind into seclusion. A shame the whole world is being made to suffer through the complacency of a few.”

Delin was confused. “What makes a Dwarf so different? The people in our village haven’t gone to war in decades.”

Rage surged across Norgen’s face but quickly faded. “Dwarves know their responsibilities and don’t run from them! We may not put much faith in any but our own kind, but our strength and fortitude in unmatched throughout the lands. All the great monuments and statues in Averon and the lands beyond were painstakingly crafted by Dwarven artists. We’ve mined the precious stones and ores from the deepest mountains. The finest blades and suits of armor have been crafted by our smiths. Never, never doubt the will of a Dwarf.”

He paused to take a deep breath. “My friends, the world is a darker place than you ever imagined. There are no glories to be found. No heroes or quests left. All that remains is petty squabbling between the Free Peoples. That’s how the Silver Mage came to power. No one was watching while he amassed an army and stole a kingdom.”

He fell silent, casting his hood over his head before adding another log to the fire. The smell of roasting fish filled the small clearing. They’d caught a trout in a nearby stream and Norgen wasted no time in cleaning and cooking it while the boys rummaged for nuts and berries in the forest. Soon all three sat back with full bellies. The smell of Norgen’s pipe smoke made Fennic sneeze.

“You said that Dwarves crafted the great swords?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

Norgen nodded. “Aye. That we did. But not the sword you bear.”

Disappointment hit Fennic. He was hoping… Still, he drew Phaelor and showed it to the Dwarf for the first time. “I was told the Elves made it long ago. Do you think you could tell me anything about it?”

Norgen reached out with an unsteady hand and grasped the hilt. The world around him erupted into light and song. Amazement filled his eyes, certain the boys saw what he was witness to. His heart filled with hope and joy. At that one moment in time there was no violence or strife. Life was in perfect harmony.

“This is beyond a wonder!” he exclaimed. “Dwarves are the first to sing praise of our own work, but this exceeds anything we’ve ever done. How did you come by it?”

Fennic replied, “One of the men in our village. He was murdered not long after.”

“Does it have a name? All items of magic have names to mark their greatness. Surely this is magic as I’ve never seen. Tell me the name.”

“Phaelor.”

“Heaven’s Eyes,” Norgen whispered.

Delin balked. “You know Elvish?”

“Boy, this sword is a legend of the world. The blade is wrought of star silver, and a finer weapon there never was. Many have died in search of this sword”

The clouds parted enough for the moonlight to strike the blade, revealing a long line of deeply carved runes along the center of the steel. Norgen’s eyes opened in astonishment.

“Look at this,” he uttered. “Can you see them? Ancient runes. No one has used them in generations. You have been blessed to receive so fine a weapon. They speak of great, great power. You could well lose your life by wielding wrong. No smith in Alloenis has the knowledge to end your quest. The craftsmanship goes well beyond the scope of Men.”

Fennic went into the tale of how they found the sword in Old Man Wiffe’s home and their long, strange journey since. Names and places meant nothing to the Dwarf though he clung to every word. He suspected they knew more than they were letting on, but he wasn’t going to pry the information from them. A darker part of him hoped the boys had only good intentions. Else the world was lost to the growing night. Finally having heard enough, Norgen suggested they all get some sleep. It was still a long way to Paedwyn.

They breakfasted on quail eggs and a rasher of salted pork. Norgen made a pot of coffee. Dark clouds were coming in from the west, threatening to overtake them before long. Lighter grey clouds were already filling the sky, stealing away the warmth of the autumn sun. The Dwarf’s compact size and build served as natural protection from all but the harshest weather. The boys, on the other hand, were forced to pull out their winter cloaks before they finished eating. A light drizzle was falling by the time they broke camp.

No one spoke until they were well on the way.

“How is it you don’t know how craft metal? I was under the impression all Dwarves could smith?” Delin asked. He was fingering the strange purple stone. Thus far he’d managed to keep it a secret. His one fear, and a growing one at that, was that they would try and kill him for it once he mentioned it.

“Not all Dwarves forge steel or even live under the mountains. There are many places throughout Averon that my folk live in thriving hamlets and villages. Never far from the mountains, mind you. We do enjoy the feel and comfort the hard earth offers. You haven’t lived until you’ve had Dwarven hospitality, my friends. Well brewed mead, meat of all kinds and tales lasting long into the night.”

“Many in my family forge. I have never had the touch for it. No. I’ve been a warrior all my life, and a trader beyond that. Long we’ve taken pride in our military prowess, but I fear now it won’t be enough to stop the armies of Gren.” Sadness filled his voice.

“Perhaps one day you can come to Breilnor and see how a Dwarf treats his friends!”

They smiled and readily agreed.

Conditions worsened throughout the day. Rain turned to snow. Temperatures dropped. Winds picked up, making it nigh unbearable to continue. Delin and Fennic wanted to stop for the night and find shelter but Norgen merely laughed it off. The worst of the storm wasn’t even close he told them. Besides, the road was in the open for at least another league, leaving them exposed.

His predictions rang true. They gained an orchard just as the heavy snowfall hit. Huddled together beneath closely grown berry bushes, the three friends did what they could to ignore the growing cold and howling winds. Ice pelted their exposed areas and not even their blankets were enough to keep them warm. The storm gained strength long into the afternoon before easing back.

Norgen combed the ice and snow from his beard with a hearty laugh and said, “That wasn’t so bad. I’ve seen much worse.”

The boys exchanged looks, uncertain of their newfound friend. Their confusion made him laugh harder.

“Winter will be bad this year. Not very good conditions for fighting a war. Come, we’d best hurry along. There’s a town not far from here. I’d like to make for it before the storm decides to turn back on us.”

They couldn’t have agreed more.

* * *

Threatening skies were closing across southern Averon, but were still far enough out to be inconsequential to everyday life. Especially for what Tolis Scarn had to do. He didn’t care for this part of the country. The people were overly friendly and open and the lands offered practically nothing for a man of his nature. He enjoyed a good drink and an unsuspecting victim with a fat purse. The only way he was going to get that was by reaching Alloenis.

The tracks he was following suggested his prey was heading for the western trade town. Probably hoping to get lost in the crowd, Scarn guessed. He wasn’t relishing the thought of scouring an entire city to find one man he didn’t care about to begin with. His employer was most adamant about finding him though. Judging from the Hooded Man’s tone of voice and menacing glare, Scarn swore to do his best and be rid of the job.

A flock of crows erupting from a nearby oak tree broke his train of thought. His horse snorted displeasure, sidestepping around a hole in the trail. Scarn’s senses were screaming in warning. Danger was near. Darkness was closing in and he was barely at the edge of the Great Rellin Werd. Many times he’d passed under the majesty and awe the forest offered, and just as many times he hated coming back. Not that the forest was a bad place, but there were Elves in the deep heart and they disapproved of his kind. The tracks left him little choice this time. He had to go in.

An unnatural pile of stones caught his eye. He wouldn’t normally have given it a second thought but there was something odd about it. Scarn slid from the saddle and drew his sword. Further investigation showed some of the stones were disturbed. Probably by forest predators. Scarn peered closer and felt his heart surge. Buried under the rocks, he caught a glimpse of a plain robe. Could it be? This could be the end of his troubles. Scarn furiously tore the cairn apart and at last felt desperation.