Cloak & Dagger: Book II of The Dragon Mage Trilogy (23 page)

General Larsen was worried. His men had their hands full dealing with the sick and dying, delivery of water and herbs, and the security of the tower. Should there be an attack by creatures from the mountains, they would be overrun in minutes. The tower didn’t stand a chance.

Larsen looked up at the battlements and spotted several skink warrior guards. Proficient with crossbows, these frog-like lizardmen were unaffected by the poison. If they were immune, could their lizardmen relatives in the mountains be immune as well? If so, the lizardmen could easily subdue the Tower of Hope using magic. The black mages had suffered a severe blow of their own, and it was unlikely they would be able to come to the tower’s aid should a war break out. The dragon mage, Kazin, was said to have been away from the Tower of Sorcery when the disease broke out there, but could one lone arch mage, even if he was able to change into a dragon, do enough to save them? General Larsen grunted. Probably not. The general arrived at the gate and his men pushed back the crowd so he could ride through. The gate opened briefly and he rode through. During this time, a commotion arose as civilians tried to burst through the guards and enter the tower’s grounds while the gate was open.

The noise dissipated as the gate closed behind Larsen and the general rode his horse to the stables. Once there he dismounted, wincing as he put weight on his left leg. An injury sustained a decade or so ago at the battle near the Tower of Sorcery had left him with a slight limp. While fighting his way back to a safer location, several high-ranking clerics had spotted him and immediately went to work on his injury right in the field of battle. He had never let them finish their healing before barging back into the battle when he saw his men losing ground to the undead legions they faced. Now he paid the price, with an injury that would nag him for the rest of his life.

As Larsen limped back to the tower, he saw more of the skink warriors moving into position along the battlements. He didn’t trust these creatures, but High Cleric Malachi was adamant to the contrary. The skink warriors used to be noncommittal when war broke out, opting to fight for the losing side in order to even the odds and prolong the battle. Then, when the upper hand was achieved for the side they fought on, they would switch sides and shoot their former allies! This side-changing would continue indefinitely until the war was over.

According to Malachi, a special deal had been reached between humans and skink warriors. Apparently, Arch Mage Kazin had done them a favour, and the skink warriors had pledged allegiance to the Tower of Hope. Now they always fought for the tower. In exchange, their injuries were attended to by the clerics. Nevertheless, the general did not like or trust these creatures. But he tolerated them for now. He was expected to.

He was at the tower’s entrance when there was once again a commotion back at the gate. A messenger was let through. General Larsen recognized him as an outpost messenger, so he waited for the man to approach.

Actually, the messenger was barely a man; he was probably only fifteen years old. But General Larsen needed new recruits, and he wasn’t choosy in this day and age. He also knew that training from a young age could produce a superior soldier. This boy was young and agile, and both traits were valuable.

The messenger spotted the general and ran up to him breathlessly, his blonde hair bouncing on his head as his feet touched the ground. “Sir!” he called, slowing to a halt in front of his general. He gave the customary salute.

“Ensign.” General Larsen returned the salute, pleased that the boy had remembered to salute him. Too many new recruits either forgot, or didn’t have the proper respect to follow through on that formality. “Status report?”

Still out of breath from his run, the boy began his report on the goings on at one of the outposts near the Old Dwarven Mountains. “We have a problem, Sir.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Two days ago outpost two failed to send a runner to outpost three at the designated time. A dispatch was sent out from outpost three to investigate. When they got there - to outpost two that is - they found that it had been overrun by orcs. There were signs of battle, but the bodies had been removed.” The boy paused.

“Is there any possible motive for the attack?” asked Larsen.

“All of the food and water supplies were taken,” said the boy, “along with a few weapons.”

General Larsen cursed. “Is there any indication as to the orcs’ whereabouts?”

“Yes, Sir,” said the messenger. “It appears that the orcs have returned to the mountains again. Despite the heavy rain and perpetual darkness, our trackers have confirmed this by following the tracks.”

“Were they only orcs?” asked Larsen. “No lizardmen or ogres?”

The messenger shook his head. “Only orc tracks could be seen.”

Larsen nodded.

“Sir!” said a voice suddenly to Larsen’s right. Larsen turned to see one of his lieutenants saluting him. Larsen returned the salute, as did the messenger. “Lieutenant Breen.”

The lieutenant was a young, able-bodied man with a wiry build and dark hair. Larsen had promoted him to lieutenant after he had proven his mettle in the battle by the Tower of Sorcery. Unscathed after the battle, Breen had tirelessly helped to carry the injured back to the healing tents. As a result, many lives were saved both on and off the field by this man’s fortitude.

“Am I interrupting?” asked the lieutenant.

“Actually, your timing is impeccable,” said Larsen. “I have a task for you to perform.”

“I am always at your service,” said Breen, standing to attention.

“I need you to gather a contingent of soldiers to replace the guards in outpost two,” said Larsen. “They were overrun by orcs two days ago.”

Breen’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

“So far it appears to have been a random attack,” continued Larsen. “They targeted the food and water supplies. It seems they have bad water to contend with just like us. Whether they take our water to weaken us or to supply themselves, we must be wary of another attack. You must proceed with caution.”

“Yes Sir,” said Breen

“I also want you to assign a grey mage to each outpost,” added Larsen.

“Sir?”

“I want them to set wards around each outpost to warn of any intruders. That way everyone can be aroused and a surprise attack can be averted.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Breen.

“Send two extra soldiers to escort the grey mages to the outpost towers and they can supplement the forces stationed there upon arrival.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Larsen turned to the messenger. “You have done well, ensign. Report to the barracks and inform the next messenger on the roster to report to Lieutenant Breen. You are off messenger duty for now.”

“Yes, Sir!” shouted the ensign excitedly. He saluted the two men and hurried off for the barracks.

“He needs a rest,” said Larsen.

“It’s just as well,” said Breen. “The duties around here are starting to become repetitive. The messenger and soldiers will welcome the change.”

“I’m sure they will,” said Larsen. “Just remember it’s much more dangerous manning the outposts these days. If things continue the way they are, there could be a delay in supplying the outposts with supplies or reinforcements should the need arise.”

“I suggest we change shifts at the outposts more frequently,” suggested Breen.

“I agree,” said Larsen. “That will get more men away from here more often and keep morale up.”

“When do I leave?” asked Breen.

General Larsen considered. “If you can get water and supplies together for all nine outposts before dark, you can get started at first light. A heavier contingent of soldiers is less likely to be ambushed, and supplies will get safely delivered to each outpost.”

“Understood, Sir,” said Breen, saluting.

General Larsen saluted back and dismissed his lieutenant. Breen had not taken two steps when Larsen suddenly called out. “Breen?”

Breen turned. “Sir?”

“Tell the grey mages to wear black robes, will you?”

“Sir?”

“They’re magic users, and if the orcs think they’re black mages, it might catch them off balance. That would put the element of surprise back in our favour.”

“Very good, Sir,” said Breen, saluting again.

Larsen knew Breen liked the idea when he saw the momentary grin at the corners of the lieutenant’s mouth before he turned and left to carry out his orders.

* * * * *

William Farnsworth, known by his friends as Billy, sat in his favourite worn out chair watching the flames in the fireplace as his dwarven guest, Henry Woodworker, poured a couple of glasses of homemade dwarven ale. He handed one glass to Bill and sat down in another worn out chair beside him.

“This stuff is made from pure wildhorn leaves,” said Henry proudly. “I made it myself, using my great granddad’s recipe. It’s the cure for what ails ya.”

Billy took a sip of the brew and smacked his lips. “Well, I’ll be, Henry! This stuff’s better than your last batch!”

Henry chuckled jovially. “It’s the same batch, Billy-boy! It’s just aged a little more.”

Billy looked at his brown-bearded friend in surprise. “Really? I can’t believe it!”

Henry nodded. “‘Tis true, Billy, ‘Tis true!”

Billy took a good sized gulp of the ale. “You’re in the wrong profession, my friend.”

“Aye,” muttered the dwarf. “Carpentry ain’t as fun as it used to be.” He downed his glass and refilled it with more ale.

“It’s more profitable than farming,” said Billy, allowing Henry to refill his glass even though it wasn’t empty yet. The room was getting warmer.

Wildhorn leaves grew on the side of the mountain, and many were aware of its special sight-giving ability in dark conditions. Most humans ate the leaves to be able to see their way through the perpetually dark tunnels in the mountains. This freed their hands of torches, which were cumbersome to carry, particularly in cramped conditions. Carrying a stockpile of wildhorn leaves would get you farther, faster, than having a torch with a limited life span. Elves and dwarves, however, were able to see exceptionally well in the darkness, and did not require the use of wildhorn leaves. For them, if they ingested these leaves, it could lead to blindness. The same fate would result for the humans if too large a quantity was consumed at once. Remarkably, in a fermented state, wildhorn leaves were safe to consume. Thus, some brave dwarves found a use for the leaves more to their liking in the form of one style of dwarven ale. Unfortunately, the sight giving property of the leaves was lost in the brewing.

“How many head of cattle do you have left?” asked Henry, breaking into Billy’s thoughts.

“Less than one third of them are still alive,” said Billy sadly. “Those that live don’t look so good.”

Henry shook his head. “That’s too bad. I wish there was a way that I could help.”

“Don’t fret about it,” said Billy. “There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. Even the clerics are unable to help.”

“Aye, it’s a mess,” said Henry. He downed his glass again and rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “I’d better be headin’ home. There’s still some work for me to attend to come morning. You finish off the rest of the ale. I reckon you’ll be needin’ it.”

Billy raised his glass to his friend. “Take care, my friend.”

“You too,” said Henry, staggering toward the door. Donning his coat he added, “Say hi to the missus for me.”

“Will do,” said Billy.

“I hope she gets well soon.”

“So do I, Henry, so do I.”

The dwarf left and Billy rose, glass still in hand. He added some more ale to it and climbed upstairs to check on his wife, Elsie.

There were two lit candles on either night stand when Billy entered the bedroom. Elsie lay in bed, almost motionless. Billy approached the bed and leaned over to kiss her glistening forehead. Perspiration from her face had made her pillow damp so he changed it for a dry one. This caused her to wake up momentarily.

“Bill.” The word was barely a croak as her parched lips opened to speak.

“Hush,” said Billy gently. He laid a gentle finger to her lips. “You rest. I’ll take care of you, don’t you fret now.” He reached over to the night stand for the glass of water but it was empty. The water jug was empty too. Billy cursed under his breath. He had forgotten to refill it. He looked around helplessly for a moment and almost spilled his ale.

“Water,” moaned Elsie.

Billy didn’t want to keep his wife waiting while he ran downstairs for more water, so he held his glass of ale to her lips. “It’s the cure for what ails you,” said Billy calmly, quoting Henry’s earlier remark.

Elsie drank the liquid slowly, coughing slightly as it went down her parched throat. She drank nearly half the glass before stopping. Her lips betrayed a slight smile as she drifted off to sleep.

“Good night, dear,” whispered Billy quietly. He kissed her again and put his glass on the night stand. Then he took the empty water jug and turned to the bedroom door, berating himself for not keeping the jug full of the fresh water that his son had brought from the Tower of Hope. He was startled by the presence of someone standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, father. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s O.K, son.”

“How’s mom?”

Billy led his son, Jim, from the room and closed the door behind him. “Still weak, I’m afraid.” He spoke softly, so as not to disturb Elsie.

Father and son went downstairs to continue their conversation. Billy went to the water keg to refill the water jug and Jim followed.

“When do you return to duty at the tower?” asked Billy.

“First thing in the morning,” said Jim.

“Then you’d better go back to bed. You’ll need your strength to deal with all that rabble at the tower.”

“I wish I could stay and help you here,” said Jim.

“There’s nothing you can do here, son. You’re more useful at the tower. Besides, you have to bring us some more of the tower’s clean water. You can’t do that moping around the house, can you?”

“I guess not,” admitted Jim. He yawned. “Good night, father.”

“Good night, son.” Billy gave his son the water jug. “Could you bring this to up your mother’s room for me? I’ll be up shortly.”