Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 23
The Wizard Unveiled

SHORTLY BEFORE THE dawn, Del left Brielle sleeping in the soft clover to begin his long and disheartened trek back to Mountaingate. A gentle rain had come up during the night and it fell still, tapping rhythmically on the leafy canopy and hissing through the mist that rode in off of the pond. When Del had gained the top of the slope, before he crossed through the pine grove, he looked back to the knoll and the fair witch, and dismay found him, despite his joy in loving her. For though he would carry memories of Brielle into the battle with him this day and forever after, his heart told him that he would never look upon her again. Yet then he left her of his own accord, compelled by a responsibility he did not want but could not escape.

Soon after, Brielle awoke from a vivid nightmare. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she recalled with frightening clarity an image of Del dying on a charred and bloody field, the head of a cruel spear buried deep in his chest. “This cannot be!” she cried out desperately and helplessly to the heavens. As if in answer, a vision appeared unto her: a small black staff, iron-shod on both ends, twirling about in the air. The sheer wrongness of the thing assaulted Brielle’s every sense, a perversion against nature itself. It terrified her and pained her, but she composed herself in angry determination and knew she had found a link to the day’s events.

Dawn came as a dulled blur of pink behind the unbroken cover of dreary gray clouds. Fitting weather, Del noted, for such a day as this. The rain had stopped, but the air hung oppressively thick with moisture.

Del found the elven camp astir in the north, though no signs of the Calvan force were yet apparent in the south. Slowly, head down, he walked across the field, indulging himself as he went with one final fantasy of the way he wished things could be.

The clear note of the watchman’s horn announcing his arrival brought the weight of reality back upon his shoulders.

Two horsemen trotted out toward him from the chaos of the bustling camp. Billy Shank rode in the lead, outfitted in chain-link mail and a shining shield and sword, but the other rider, so marvelous, dominated Del’s vision. Arien Silverleaf, unmistakably the elf-lord of all Illuma, paced his steed easily. He wore a forest-green cloak pulled back from his shoulders and a light green tunic woven of some fine material. Under the sleeveless edges of the shirt, Del saw closely meshed links of shining mail, much finer than the heavy rings of Billy’s armor. Arien wore no helm, but a silver gem-studded crown with a golden inset of a quarter moon, the symbol of Lochsilinilume. Strapped to his left arm was a polished shield bearing the same emblem, and sheathed on his hip in a gem-encrusted scabbard hung a broadsword unequaled in workmanship by even the crafted weapon Calae had given to Del. Its hilt gleamed all of silver, and intricate carvings resembling the head of a dragon adorned the pommel, inlaid in gold all down the neck to the crosspiece of the weapon.

“I didn’t realize that your people kept such weapons,” Del remarked.

“Gifts from Ardaz, mostly,” Arien explained, tightening his heels to calm his spirited steed, a great muscled stallion, its coal-black coat glistening from the wetness of the morning mist and from the sweat of its own tense anticipation. “And some of our own making.” He smiled at Del’s unyielding sarcasm. “The mountains are wild and dangerous even now, friend DelGiudice. Would that we could hang these devices above a mantle and use them only to enhance fanciful tales!”

The Eldar’s face turned serious again as he grasped the hilt of his sword. “This is Fahwayn,” he told Del. “The Silver Death.” He drew the sword from its scabbard slowly, reverently, and raised it high above him. It gleamed brightly and sharply, in spite of the dim light. “It was forged with great care many years ago when Aielle was young,” he said, and he lowered the sword and ran his hand along its polished blade, absorbing the sensations of unrivaled craftsmanship and magic, that they might invoke images of the past and allow him to wander back to the security of his memories of the early days of Illuma.

With sudden and frightening speed, Arien thrust the sword above him. It shimmered with power, and extension, the focal point of the strength that was Arien Silverleaf. The great stallion, caught up in the ire of the elf-lord, reared, and Arien cried aloud, “Bayr imine eyberg ai’l anais I Sylv Fate-aval!” He looked at the startled men and cried again with equal fervor, “By their own wickedness do they bring the Silver Death upon them!”

His burst of energy satisfied by the proclamation, Arien flashed a calming smile to the astonished gawks of Billy and Del and dropped Fahwayn to his side, swinging the blade in a slow arc. “At times when talons were abroad, her cut was smooth and sure,” he remarked. “But now she sits awkwardly in my hand. I have no thirst for the blood Fahwayn shall spill this morn.” He sheathed the sword with a sigh and turned his steed back to the encampment.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Billy said to Del. “I only wish that Ardaz were here, too. With his tricks, I think we’d have a chance.”

“Ardaz hasn’t returned?” Del asked with surprise.

“No,” Billy replied. “But Arien is sure that he’ll be here when we need him.”

Arien wheeled his horse around and faced them. “Even if the wizard does not come,” the Eldar growled, his face stern and uncompromising, “we will teach the humans respect for our people. The might of justice flows through our veins.”

“A comforting thought,” Del said a bit sadly. “But I’d rather be dancing on the shaithdun.”

Helpless against the relentless assault of Del’s chiding, the Eldar could not deter the smile that softened his grim features. “Come,” he said. “We must find a horse for you.”

Arien led them to the base of the cliff on the western edge of the field, where Erinel stood, hands on hips, defiantly eyeing a white mare. He turned when they approached and smiled broadly.

“DelGiudice!” he called happily. “Your return brightens this cursed morn!”

“Do you have a horse for our friend?” Arien asked.

Erinel’s smile disappeared. “I am truly sorry, but I forgot to keep one for him. We sent the remaining horses running into the foothills after the last of our people were outfitted. Perhaps we have time to find another.”

“What about that one?” Del asked blankly, his attention held by the sheer beauty of the small mare.

“That one?” Erinel laughed. “She will take no rider. Several others had the same idea, but she quickly dissuaded them.” He displayed a bruise on his arm and laughed again. “She rewarded my futile efforts to bridle her.”

“Then whose is she?” Del asked.

“I do not know,” Erinel replied. “I have never seen her before this morning. She must have strayed from the Calvan camp, though, for she is too well groomed to be wild.”

“She’ll let me ride her,” Del declared as he started toward the mare.

“Be wary!” Erinel called after him. But even as he spoke, the mare nuzzled her nose in Del’s neck. He stroked the pure white coat with equal affection.

“How did he do that?” an astonished Erinel asked. All about them several other elves who had witnessed the small mare’s antics stared in disbelief.

“She will take no saddle,” Erinel called to Del.

“Doesn’t need one,” Del replied, and hopped up on the mare’s back. “You won’t let me fall, will you, girl?” he asked softly as he patted the strong neck.

Some of the elves began to chuckle and Erinel blushed deeply. “Or a bridle!” he insisted stubbornly.

In response, Del grasped the mare’s snowy mane.

“Will you allow this?” Erinel asked Arien. “He is an inexperienced rider and she is obviously unpredictable.”

Arien studied the mare’s reactions to Del’s petting. “She is his to ride,” he replied. “It is not our place to interfere with their love.” With a knowing laugh, the Eldar spun his great mount and sprang away to check on other matters.

Barely minutes later, the watchman’s horn sang out and all the elves and two human allies turned their eyes to the south.

Like an endless swarm of insects, the Calvan army spilled onto the field, stretching across the breadth of Mountaingate. They formed into ranks several deep, as still more soldiers appeared through the mountain pass.

“We’re going to die,” Del stated through his gasps.

“Easy, buddy,” Billy said to comfort him, but Billy, too, verged on panic. The force facing them, uniformed in black and silver, marched in a manner precise and disciplined, was fully mounted, and already ten times the size of the elven army.

Finally, mercifully, the procession ended and the Calvans held their positions in patient silence, thousands of spear tips motionless in the air.

Ryell walked his horse over to Arien. “Five thousand?” he whispered.

“Perhaps,” the Eldar answered. He looked around at his disheartened troops. They had known from the beginning that they were doomed, but had held out hope for some sort of miracle. The sight of this huge force arrayed against them brought home the full impact of their hopelessness. Yet they had a mission to accomplish, a duty to their kin who had fled into the mountains that would give meaning to their deaths. Boldly, Arien took command. “Form a line!” he shouted.

Barely three hundred strong, the elves heeded the order of their Eldar. And when they had completed their formation, Arien drew Fahwayn from its scabbard and walked his horse the length of their rank to address each of them individually, reminding them of their purpose and rallying them around the basic precept of justice that had dictated their stand on this field. Del noted hopefully that the face of each elf brightened as Arien rode past.

Still, Del wondered how that could make a difference against the overwhelming odds they faced. He took his place alongside Arien and Ryell in the middle of the Illuman line and kept quiet his doom saying.

But, distinctly, he heard Ryell mutter, “Twenty to one,” and Arien, intent on his personal preparations for what was to come, did not reply.

Then a fanfare of trumpets sounded from the Calvan lines, and Ungden, Overlord of Pallendara, Commander of the Calvan Empire, made his grand entrance onto the field, bedecked in plated armor, shining golden in the dim light of the cloudy day, and a great gem-covered helm with feathered plumes. His mount, a fine white gelding, pranced gracefully in white-furred boots and wore similar shining armor.

A score of the Warders of the White Walls surrounded Ungden protectively with their own white chargers, well muscled, finely bred stallions specially trained for the elite guard of the Overlord. The Warders wore their traditional white uniforms and skyblue cloaks, with white-plumed helms and shields adorned with a gauntleted fist clutching a sword above four bridges and four pearls, the original standard of Pallendara.

Some traditions even the arrogant Ungden did not dare to challenge.

Del grimaced in anger when he recognized the two riders within Ungden’s protective circle. Mitchell, his chest puffed out in gloating pride, rode at the Usurper’s right. Reinheiser followed, continually looking from side to side as if he was searching for someone.

On the ledge overlooking the field, Sylvia notched an arrow to her bow as Ungden’s entourage moved to the center of the field in front of the first rank of Calvan soldiers. The Usurper was within her range, though his fine armor would probably deflect any arrow at this long distance. Her shot would have to be perfect to penetrate. And if she missed her mark, the plans for an ambush would be ruined.

“Stay your hand,” came a voice behind her. “Ungden is too well protected for any such attempts.”

Startled, Sylvia spun around and, seeing the speaker, obediently lowered her bow and ducked back to the safety of the cliff wall.

Ungden absently waved a gloved hand, and a standard bearer rode out from the Calvan ranks toward the elven line. He crossed the narrow field at a gallop and, spotting Arien’s arrayments, pulled his horse up a few yards in front of the Eldar, his wide-eyed amazement in confronting the legendary night dancers at odds with the deadly serious business of the day.

The Calvan studied the elven forces for a moment, noting their number, and addressed Arien with arrogant confidence. “Do you speak as leader of your people?”

Grim-faced, Arien did not reply.

Undaunted by the imposing stare, the soldier continued, addressing them all. “Night dancers, heed my words!” he called. “While it would be but a small task for the army of Pallendara to defeat you by the sword-clearly, you cannot hope to win-it is not the wish of the Overlord to see you destroyed. Lay down your weapons and accept Ungden as the true and sole king of Ynis Aielle and your lives will be spared.”

Not an elf stirred or softened the set of his visage, showing no room for compromise, Arien noted proudly. They were a free people, and were more than ready to die in defense of that freedom. Ungden and his cocky charges apparently didn’t appreciate their resolve.

They would teach the Calvans better, Arien believed, though their deaths would surely be part of the scenario.

“What say you?” the messenger demanded. “Will you yield to the will of the true king?”

Ryell, next to Arien, spat on the ground in front of the Calvan. For the first time in a long while, he and Arien were in complete agreement.

Arien stepped his horse out from the elven line, and the Calvan, despite his outward arrogance, backed off an equal distance in cautious respect.

“Why are you here, serpent?” Arien asked. “You have no quarrel with us, nor do you have any claim over us. We are free, our land is our own, and we recognize no self-proclaimed ruler. Now be off, else you shall be the first to feel the cold edge of my blade.” In a flash he had Fahwayn drawn and readied, its blade shining with the inner glow of its magic.

Terrified by the calm confidence with which the elf-lord promised his death, the messenger wheeled his horse around and fled back across the field.

Ungden laughed when he was informed of the elves’ defiance. With a wave of his hand, he sent the messenger back to his place in the ranks and set his war machine into motion.

A horn blew. On cue, the sergeant of the elite guard drew his sword and raised it high above him. Man and elf alike tensed.

A second horn blew. The commanders of the Calvan forces walked their groups into position in front and at the sides of Ungden’s entourage.

Del was sweating now, and finding it difficult to breathe.

A third horn blew. Ungden let a few more tantalizing seconds pass, then motioned to his sergeant. The blade fell and the thunder of twenty thousand pounding hooves shook Mountaingate to its core. Screaming battle cries and clashing their weapons against their shields, the Calvan army fueled its frenzy with every charging stride.

Under the leadership of Sylvia, the archers waited patiently for the best possible moment to spring their ambush. As the Calvans passed the midpoint of the field, reaching their closest point to the ledge, the elves sprang from their concealment and loosed a shower of arrows, concentrating their fire on the front riders. Horses and riders tumbled to the earth, and those directly behind trampled them or were tripped up. The Calvan line wavered and nearly broke down altogether in confusion, their battle formations shattered by the deadly surprise attack.

Arien surely recognized the prime opportunity to release his warriors, but for some reason, almost as if some other will imposed itself upon him, he couldn’t speak the command to charge.

With professional efficiency the Calvan leaders swung the army in a loop and short retreat to reform the battle groups and regain their composure. Many Calvans had gone down under the flurry of arrows, though not nearly enough to give the Illumans any hope of victory.

“We should have attacked!” Ryell insisted.

Arien could not rebuke the scolding. He still did not understand what had held back his command. He couldn’t believe that he had frozen under the pressure.

“Their ranks seem not at all thinned. If we ever had even a slight chance, it is gone now,” Ryell moaned.

The Calvans prepared to resume their attack. Now knowing the danger from the cliff, they moved to the western side of the field and covered their flank with their shields. The arrows wouldn’t hinder them this time.

Yet even as they kicked their horses into motion, a bearded old man in a light blue robe and a pointed cap walked out among the archers. Sylvia and the others lowered their bows.

“Ardaz!” Del cried when he noticed the wizard. “On the ledge, Arien!”

It was true, the Silver Mage of Lochsilinilume had come. He held his arms outstretched, one hand clutching his oaken staff and the other reaching for the power of the heavens, and chanted in the enchantish tongue the invocation of fire.

“Now we get our fight!” Ryell yelled to his comrades.

“Hold, my friend,” Arien commanded with a knowing smile, understanding now the will that had stayed his charge. “Ardaz is come. He will have a trick or two for Ungden.”

“Again you act the part of a fool, Arien,” Ryell retorted. “The antics of that buffoon will not stop the Calvans. We must meet their charge.”

The Calvan force closed in quickly, but Arien put his full trust in the wizard and held his troops at bay.

Ardaz’s invocation reached a feverish pitch. A red flame sprang from the top of his staff, flickering, yet not consuming the wood. He pointed the staff across the field and spoke the final rune. Instantly a wall of flames, stretching the breadth of the field, ignited in front of the charging riders. Those that could not stay their mounts plunged headlong in, bursting into white flame, and fell as charred corpses just a few feet on the other side.

This time the training and expertise of the Calvan commanders could not prevent a panic. Horrified by the bared power of the wizard, the surviving Calvans swung back wildly in full retreat.

But Ardaz wasn’t finished.

“This business must be ended here and now,” he explained to Sylvia, almost in apology for his next action. He raised his arms again and called out in a voice godlike in power, “Ungden, Usurper! Too long have you imprisoned the peoples of this land with your unlawful rule! By the fires of the sun above, I purge Aielle this day of your evil stain!” He aimed his deadly staff again and a second flame barrier sprang up, directly behind Ungden and his guard, boxing in the entire Calvan host.

On command from Ardaz, a tear of sorrow in his eye, the killing walls began to converge.

Trapped Calvan riders spun wildly and banged into one another, some falling from their mounts only to be trampled into the dust. Crazed horses, blind to the urgings of their masters, rushed for the western ledge, the only escape route, and plummeted hundreds of feet to Blackemara.

Relentless, merciless, the fire walls closed in.

Though horrified, Sylvia and the other archers watched the grisly spectacle, believing it to be their responsibility to bear witness to the momentous tragedy of this day, and they realized that Ardaz, nearly broken by the slaughter he had invoked, would soon need their support.

In the rank of elven horsemen, outside the fire wall, Del and the others could not see what was happening to the Calvans. But the screams and wails of their dying foes told them all they needed to know.

“The antics of a buffoon,” Del echoed somberly to Ryell.

“I apologize,” Ryell replied, his words reflecting both awe for the mage and pity for the tortured Calvans within the fires. “There is perhaps more to Ardaz than I have believed.”

“Call him not Ardaz,” Arien said. “Call him by his true name.” He extended his hand toward the bent figure, now leaning heavily on his staff. “Behold Glendower. Woe be to those who invoke the wrath of the Silver Mage!”

Calvans died by the score in the panic, some caught by the wizard fires, others trampled, and still more leaping to the swamp. Then there came a barely audible buzzing sound, and as suddenly as it had started, the riot ended. Barren of all emotion it seemed, almost zombielike, the remainder of the Calvan army moved back into battle groups.

Still the walls converged.

But not a man screamed.

And not a horse reared or snorted in terror.

Only the crackling of the rolling fires consuming grass and flesh disturbed the eerie stillness.

Ardaz understood and was afraid.

A swirling cloud of red smoke floated out from the Calvan line, growing more tangible as it moved. Soon it resembled a rider and horse, and then it was; a red-cloaked man, cowl pulled low to hide his face, atop a gaunt, yellow-eyed black stallion that snorted smoky flames through its flared nostrils and pawed the ground as if it hated the living grass below it.

“Istaahl?” Sylvia asked Ardaz, but the distracted wizard did not reply.

The red-cloaked rider reached his bony arm toward the west, clenching and unclenching his fist as if gathering up the air from the distant expanses. Then he swung his arm at the cliff, as if throwing something, and a great gust of wind smote Ardaz, extinguishing the flame atop his oaken staff.

And the fire walls were gone.

“The wizard of Caer Tuatha?” Ryell cried when he saw the red-cloaked mage.

“It cannot be,” Arien replied, surprised. “Istaahl gathers his power from the sea. This mage is too far inland.”

“The master is come,” hissed an evil voice from under the red cowl.

Ardaz’s face went bloodless.

The red-robed wizard pulled back his hood, revealing his pallid, hairless head, and the many-faceted black sapphire that was his mark.

Ardaz groaned audibly, though he had already guessed that Thalasi had come.

“May the Colonnae be with us!” Arien gasped, for he, too, recognized the mark of the Black Warlock. “Angfagdul, the utter blackness, is come again!”