The Battlemage

by Taran Matharu

  A glow of white light suffused Ignatius’s body. Fletcher felt the demon’s pain receding, and before his eyes, the wounds began to fade, shrinking and healing over as if time were in reverse. The wound on his arm was wiped away.

  All the while, the demon watched him. The white light dimmed, and the Caladrius stroked his cheek with the edge of its beak. Then it was gone, gliding away to mourn its loss among the clouds above.

  Fletcher had once heard that part of a summoner’s soul lived on through their demons—that their consciousnesses merged upon death. It was an old wives’ tale, one that Major Goodwin had scoffed at when Seraph had asked about it in one of their lessons. He had replied that the character of their masters might rub off on their demons over the years, but that was all.

  Yet now, as they flew east, Fletcher was not so sure. His gaze wandered to Athena, who had loved him unconditionally from the moment they had met. Did his father live on within her? Had the Caladrius’s healing been a parting gift from Atilla?

  He took solace in that sentiment as Athena led the way, using her hearing to guide them toward the booms of cannon fire that echoed over the rugged lands beneath them. With every minute the sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, its tone turning the world sepia with its rays.

  It was only now that the enormity of his task began to settle on his shoulders—and the fate of an empire weighed heavy. Could they do this? Did they even have a chance? Doubts plagued his mind.

  Before long, Fletcher could hear the distant echoes of battle, carried by the warm evening breeze. Worried about finding himself behind enemy lines, Fletcher angled Ignatius’s flight north.

  They flew on, blindly now, hoping to see Corcillum somewhere in the distance to orient themselves. But instead, he saw something else.

  A great herd of deer, spread out over the green fields below him. On their backs, armed with bows and long-handled swords, were the elves.

  They were divided into clans, each one delineated by the color of their armor. Leading the way, Fletcher could see the red of Sylva’s family, a moose-riding elf at their head, a tall, straight-backed figure who could only be her father. Behind him, powerful elk tossed their branching antlers, eager for battle.

  Even as he watched, the cavalcade broke into a gallop, bounding along the ground. Fletcher could see their target, a nearby cloud of smoke, beneath which were flashes of light and the crackle of gunfire.

  Then his eyes widened. In the center of it all, he could see the outline of an ancient castle, stark against the horizon. It was Vocans. Somehow, the orcs had forced Hominum’s army deep into the empire. Corcillum, with all its innocent inhabitants, was no more than a few hours’ march away. The very future of their world now lay on a knife’s edge.

  A flash of warning from Athena pulsed through Fletcher’s mind. Below, a creature was flying up toward them. A Griffin.

  His heart leaped.

  Sylva.

  Within moments she was beside him, the long, curved blade of her falx sword held aloft. She wore the red lamellar armor of her clan, and her hair was braided into a bunch at the nape of her neck.

  “Fletcher,” she shouted, guiding Lysander closer. “You’re alive. I thought … I’m glad you’re okay.”

  He could see the relief in her face, lips half-parted, eyes wide with emotion.

  Despite the fear that gripped him, Fletcher could not help but smile at the sight of her. With her by his side, perhaps he had a chance.

  She looked fiercer than he had ever seen her, with a rouge of war paint highlighting her cheeks. He wanted to reach out and hold her, tell her how he felt, politics be damned.

  But there was no time.

  “We thought you were Khan on his Dragon,” Sylva said, her voice raised to cut through the rush of wind between them. “Our scouts are reporting that all is lost, that it’s decimating the battlefield.”

  “He’s out there,” Fletcher replied, pointing at the cloud of smoke that drew ever closer. “I’m going to fight him.”

  “Well, let’s go, then,” Sylva said, pushing Lysander on in a burst of speed.

  “It’s up to me,” Fletcher yelled. “I’m immune to the flames.”

  Sylva turned back and yelled over her shoulder.

  “Try and stop me!”

  And with that, she disappeared into the smoke.

  CHAPTER

  61

  THEY WERE EVERYWHERE. Thousands of orcs, more than Fletcher thought existed, sprawling in a great horde across a smoking landscape, the villages and trees behind burning like funeral pyres.

  And a few hundred feet in front of them, spread in a thin red line in front of Vocans’s gates, were the remains of Hominum’s army. Perhaps a thousand men were left, garbed in red uniforms with a patchwork of a few hundred others, survivors from noble regiments that had been decimated in the fighting. And a single platoon of dwarves, strewn along the center in twos and threes.

  “So few,” Fletcher choked through the smog.

  The stench of brimstone was thick in the air—a heady mix of gunpowder and smoke from the burning buildings of the hamlets that had been put to torch a mile away. The entire world was tinged orange by the distant flames, merging with the red glow of the setting sun. It would be night soon.

  As the world below them smoldered, Fletcher was aware of Sylva’s every move beside him and he couldn’t help but wish they could remain here, together, far above the fighting. Sylva’s braided hair streamed behind her as Lysander hurtled through the air, his wing tips brushing Ignatius’s. She looked glorious in the setting sun, her face drawn with determination, falx sword held ready for battle.

  “We can do this,” Sylva said, her eyes meeting his.

  Fletcher held her gaze, daring to share in her hope. With renewed resolve, he turned back to the scene below.

  Flashes now, streaks of lightning and fire in the no man’s land between the two armies. There was a battle being fought there. Beasts, tearing into one another in shuddering clashes of claws, scales and fur. Hundreds of demons were waging war below him, the preamble to the final clash of civilizations.

  He saw a row of battlemages scattered in front of their men, hurling fireballs and lightning at shamanic counterparts across the smoldering remains of the land. Harold and his father stood at the front of it all, a shield like a glass dome around them as they ordered a fresh pack of Lycans and Anubids into the fray.

  Ahead of them, the Dragoons fought in the midst of the battlefield itself, their mounts lashing out at lumbering humanoid Onis and sharklike Nanaues in the center of the war-torn turf. Arcturus’s dark hair streamed behind him as his Hippalectryon reared, leading a countercharge toward the embattled western front. Pride swelled Fletcher’s chest as his mentor struck the enemy lines, holding his own against insurmountable odds. Even from a distance, Fletcher could see Hominum’s demons were outnumbered.

  Above, a roar.

  Ignatius was moving before Fletcher could think, shooting upward into the haze of fumes and mist. It was dark, the smoke-tinged mantle of vapor blocking the red rays of the setting sun below. All was silent now.

  No. Wing beats. Like the slow pulse of a beating heart, somewhere to his south. In his scrying crystal, Athena hovered beneath the cloud bank, searching for clues of the Dragon’s whereabouts. Nothing.

  And then it was there. Swooping out of the clouds, a dark mass on leathery wings. Talons stretched out and gouged the earth itself, ripping through a pack of Hominum’s Canids and snapping one up in its beak. Gliding the length of the battlefield, it swallowed its quarry in a single gulp and began a long, looping turn for a second pass.

  As it swung around, Fletcher saw it was a Drake in all but size and skin, its body covered in armored scales. It might have been as large as three Phantaurs combined, with a wingspan that eclipsed the sun as it wheeled across the horizon.

  “Fletcher!” Sylva’s voice called.

  Lysander emerged from the cloud bank with a screech of frustration, h
is wings rotating in the air.

  “The Celestial Corps are all dead or hiding,” Sylva spat derisively. “They took out the Wyverns, but only Captain Lovett and Ophelia Faversham are still fighting. They’ve been trying to blindside Khan in the clouds, but the Dragon flames at them whenever they get close.”

  Behind Sylva, Fletcher could see the shadows of the pair, floating just behind the clouds.

  But before he could greet them, there was a flash of light, and Fletcher turned to see.

  The great demon was swooping again, a vast tidal wave of fire scouring the earth along the front of Hominum’s lines. Dragoons scattered out of its way, Arcturus just escaping the scorched trail of destruction with a flying leap from his mount. Behind, the less fortunate screamed, until only charred skeletons remained.

  A roar of triumph erupted from the Dragon’s jaws. Fletcher could see the pale figure of Khan on its back, riding astride its neck. The orc waved his long macana club. Once. Twice.

  It was a signal. In a great rolling surge, the orc ranks crashed forward, running through the flame-burned earth with a ululating chorus of war cries that chilled Fletcher to the bone. Sweeping around the edges, rhino riders charged in, horns lowered in preparation for impact. An unstoppable wave of barbarians.

  Gunfire rippled down the line of men. Orcs spun, jerked and fell, but still they came, never faltering, never slowing. Fifty feet. Forty. Lightning and fire blazed from the battlemages and demons as they fell back to the lines, tearing holes in the hordes. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  But there was something else. A rumbling could be heard. A thundering of hooves, and … singing. Voices, raised in harmony, sending elven words swirling across the landscape.

  And then, galloping gracefully around the thin line of desperate men, came the elks, curling in like a ram’s horns, meeting the flanks of the orc attack.

  Antlers swung down and tossed orcs aside, while bows thrummed arrows into oncoming ranks, whistling into skulls and necks with deadly accuracy. Falx swords swept left and right, cleaving tusked heads from their shoulders.

  Rhinos and deer clashed in bone-shattering impacts, riders from both sides flying from their seats in the melee. And down the center, Hominum’s muskets swung inward to concentrate their fire where the elven pincer had not met. Twenty feet.

  Orcs were thrown back by the ferocity of the gunfire, the closest hurled back like puppets jerked on strings. Staggered and fell, ragged with a dozen wounds. The charge was faltering.

  To Fletcher’s east, the Dragon roared, circling in a long arc for an attack. And he could see what was about to happen. The flames, crashing over the thin line of men. The mass of elves drowning in a sea of fire. This was what Khan had been waiting for. He had been toying with them before. Waiting for the allied armies to meet.

  Yet, as Fletcher watched the slow wheeling of the great beast, he knew what he had to do.

  One last throw of the dice.

  “Get Lovett and Ophelia and hide in the clouds above it,” Fletcher yelled to Sylva, digging his heels into Ignatius’s side. “Wait for my signal.”

  Ignatius dove, and Fletcher heard Sylva’s response before it was snatched away.

  “What are you doing?”

  But he was committed. No time to respond.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Fletcher breathed, hugging the demon’s neck close. He felt a pulse of love from the brave demon as they hurtled toward the Dragon, the wind tearing at his hair and watering his eyes. They would either win or die together. There was no other outcome.

  On they flew, over the screams of battle and the crackle of gunfire. He could see the Dragon complete its turn ahead and begin its pass toward the massed allies. A cry from Athena, warning him of the danger.

  It was now or never. He etched the amplify spell on his neck, squeezing the last trace of mana that he had left.

  “Khan!” Fletcher bellowed, his voice booming out over the plains.

  Even through the turmoil of battle, the albino orc heard his words. The Dragon looked up as Fletcher plummeted through the sky toward them, his khopesh outstretched.

  Khan shook his head, ignoring him. The target beneath was too tempting. Thousands of his enemies, packed in a long strip along the battlefield.

  “Face me, coward!” Fletcher taunted, attacking the orc leader’s pride.

  Now Khan looked up, his lips drawn back over his tusks with a snarl. He raised a hand, and Ignatius jerked aside just in time. A lightning bolt sizzled by. Still they plunged toward their enemy.

  “Where are your Wyverns, great Khan?” Fletcher shouted. “Did you lose the rest of them on your way back from the ether?”

  Now the Dragon was angling upward, its enormous wings throwing dust along the battlefield below. It was working. Khan spoke, his words drifting up.

  “I am the redeemer,” he said, his voice tinged with religious fervor. “I am the chosen.”

  “Prove it,” Fletcher bellowed back. “Fight me! Or is ‘the Chosen’ scared of a single boy?”

  A roar, so loud that Fletcher felt it in his chest. And then the Dragon was flying toward them, its maw gaping wide. Within, Fletcher saw the roil of flame.

  “Do it,” Fletcher whispered.

  Ignatius pulled out of the dive with a howl, the speed creating a gale-force wind that nearly tore Fletcher from his perch. Then they were beating for the clouds above, Ignatius lunging with every flap of his wings. Too slow.

  Khan was laughing madly now, swinging his club-sword in anticipation. Seconds raced by as the Dragon gained on them, the draft of its wing beats pulling them down. Almost there. He could feel the moisture of the clouds in the air, see the gray-white bank a stone’s throw away.

  Beneath, the demon’s mouth stretched open like a snake’s. Fire pooled within, casting Ignatius in an orange glow.

  “Now, Sylva!” Fletcher screamed.

  Three figures burst from above, hurtling toward them. He caught a glimpse of Lovett’s Alicorn. The antlers of a Peryton. Lysander, screeching an eagle’s cry.

  Light flashed over them as the flames tore through the air.

  “Now,” Fletcher breathed.

  Ignatius unfurled his wings, holding them dead still in the sky. Fire rushed up to meet them. Flames beat at Fletcher’s body, smashing him into Ignatius’s back. He breathed in the inferno, felt the dry heat in his chest. His shirt and jacket were torn away.

  He cracked open his eyes, saw the blaze part around them and twist into the sky, blocked by Ignatius’s outstretched wings. A vortex of flame—with three demons flying down the empty tunnel in its center.

  The fire stopped, the Dragon’s attack petering out. He heard the sizzle of heat on his skin. And a scream of hatred as Lovett, Sylva and Ophelia whipped over by them. Then they too were falling, Ignatius’s wings pinned back as they joined in the attack.

  Already, Ophelia was gone, the Peryton limp in the Dragon’s beak, the battlemage’s body twisting as it plummeted to the ground below.

  Lovett’s lance shattering on the Dragon’s cheek as she was nearly thrown from her saddle, tumbling away in a jumble of wings and hooves. And then Sylva, leaping, her falx outstretched. The Griffin snarled in the beast’s wing, tearing at the delicate membrane. A roar of pain as Sylva’s blade buried itself in the demon’s eye, and she hung on for dear life.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Ignatius crashed into the Dragon’s head, his claws tearing at the armored scales for purchase. Fletcher was hurled from the Drake’s back by the impact. He spun through the air, hitting Khan in a tangle of limbs.

  They were falling. Spinning. He could see Vocans, rushing up to meet them. The dome of glass at its center. Shattering.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER

  62

  THE ATRIUM SWAM IN FRONT of Fletcher’s eyes. There was so much pain, crushing his skull like a vise. Ignatius. He had to find Ignatius.

  The leathery surface beneath him had tempered his fall: a broken wing, splay
ed across the length of the cavernous hall. He staggered to his feet, stumbling along the uneven ridges of the shattered appendage.

  The Dragon was dead. Its neck was twisted back on itself at a grotesque right angle, its beak half-open, tongue lolling. And near the base of its shoulders, Fletcher saw a limp, burgundy shape.

  “Ignatius,” Fletcher cried, stumbling toward him. Above, the soft echoes of the battle outside drifted down.

  The Drake lifted his head as Fletcher approached. He mewled and tried to get up. Then he collapsed, the pain too much for him. The agony in Fletcher’s mind redoubled its intensity, and Fletcher fell to his knees. Shards of glass had embedded themselves in the Drake’s neck and sides, each one as wide and deep as any sword. Curled up against the demon’s chest, Fletcher saw the unconscious form of Sylva. The brave creature had protected her with his body as they fell through the dome above.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Fletcher whispered, laying a hand on the demon’s side. “Sylva will wake up and heal you.”

  He shook the elf, but she remained still and lifeless; the only sign of vitality was the slow rise and fall of her chest. He could see a bruise spreading along her forehead. And Ignatius’s blood dripping on the marble floor. The demon had no mana to heal himself. He was dying.

  “I was wrong,” a voice spoke.

  Fletcher’s heart filled with horror.

  Slowly, a pale figure emerged out of the darkness. Khan.

  He strode into the light of the broken dome above, his long, white hair shining like silver in the dim glow of the evening sky. He was clad in nothing more than a simple loincloth, its coloring as pale as its wearer’s skin.

  The orc raised his macana sword and pointed it at Fletcher.

  “My Salamander was not the one prophesied. It was yours.”

  Fletcher’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for a weapon. His khopesh was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere in the depths of the atrium. Then he saw a gleam behind the enormous orc. It was Sylva’s falx, buried deep in the Dragon’s eye. He had to get to it.