R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

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.