The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books)

by Matthew Sprange

“Aye, just a fence but it completely rings their camp, too high to jump. They seem set in for some duration, pitched up those big tents they use when they mean to stay somewhere for a while.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Against us, at least two to one, possibly more.”

  Alhmanic was not going to blindly trust the eyes of a scout he had not handpicked himself but felt at least a little encouraged by that. The fence could be a problem though.

  “Any notion of what they are doing there?”

  The scout shrugged. “They seem to be building something inside the camp. Big piles of dirt everywhere, saw some stone blocks. Couldn’t see what though. Maybe some kind of fort, but in the centre of a valley is an odd place for one.”

  “Think carefully, soldier,” Alhmanic said. “Do you think they are really building something... or is it possible they are digging something up?”

  Caught between frowning in thought and gulping in nervousness, knowing that the wrong word to the Preacher Divine could have unfortunate consequences on his career, not to mention his life expectancy, the scout seemed almost comical.

  “I had not considered that, Lord. It could be they are digging something up, yes.”

  Alhmanic swore under his breath, an unwieldy diatribe that encompassed Pontaine, the Territories and the demands of the Anointed Lord.

  Sighing, he calmed down a little. So, he had to assume that someone in Pontaine knew what he was after and had beaten him to it. Perhaps that was all for the better, especially if they could capture one of the officers. Alhmanic might just be able to save himself a little trouble in rooting out the artefact from whatever dungeon the Pontaine force clearly thought it was buried within.

  “Sergeant, take Otto and half your men,” Alhmanic commanded. “Circle round that valley and wait for my signal – you’ll know it when you see it. Then charge. Otto?”

  A sniff at his shoulder indicated the mage had joined the discussion.

  “You’ll blast the fence apart, letting the horses through, understand?” He did not wait for a response, instead turning back to the sergeant. “Wipe out all resistance, but if you see a decent officer, grab him. I want at least one alive.”

  The sergeant banged his fist against his chest then extended his arm in salute, then wheeled his troops as he shouted orders for the force to split.

  “The rest of you,” Alhmanic shouted as he stood in his stirrups, “with me. We’ll show these Pontaine dogs that they need a damn sight more than a force twice our size to stake any claim in the Anclas Territories. Let us remind them of what happened to their men during the war!”

  The horsemen raised their spears and called out in salute as they goaded their beasts into action. Alhmanic grinned as he unslung his staff, the large blue stone mounted at its tip clasped by silvered claws. Despite everything that had happened, he was going to enjoy what happened next.

  With half a dozen Pontaine scouts dispatched by outriders, Alhmanic felt confident enough to dismount as he approached the brow of the hill. Looking down into the valley, he saw the Pontaine soldiers within their camp as they scuttled about, lighting lanterns to ward off the growing darkness. He could make out the perimeter fence, a crude but effective wooden construction reaching perhaps six feet high in some areas, and there were obviously many tents within its circumference. However, he could not pick out any details of the digging his scouts had reported.

  Some of his horsemen had voiced concerns about an attack in the dark, but Alhmanic had waved them aside. When the battle started, he assured them, there would be plenty of light for them to slay the Pontaine force by and while the initial approach to the camp would be brisk, there was no reason for them to engage at full tilt.

  Directing his men forward with his staff, Alhmanic led them at a walking pace to a point just below the crest of the hill. Looking about him, he took a deep breath. His soldiers gripped their spears and swords firmly, anticipating the coming battle, while a few grinned at one another, perhaps hoping for a rich Pontaine officer who could be captured then ransomed.

  Across the other side of the valley, the sergeant would be waiting for Alhmanic’s signal.

  “Quiet on the way down, and follow my lead,” Alhmanic said. “Our comrades will be going in slightly ahead of us, so we will have complete surprise. We charge only at the last moment, when you see a gap in their fencing. Stay close to me until then, and we’ll be among them before they know it.”

  A few quiet murmurs told him they understood.

  Raising his staff to the sky, Alhmanic closed his eyes and briefly conjured the image of the Anointed Lord into his mind, feeling the familiar rise of reverence and devotion to the Final Faith.

  Fuelled by his passion and belief, the staff shuddered with divine power, and the blue stone at its tip blazed fiercely for a few seconds before releasing its energies. A bolt of blue light shot up into the sky to hang, motionless, directly above the camp. It began to pulse, slowly, growing a little brighter with each flicker.

  Cries from the far side of the valley told Alhmanic that the other half of his force had started their charge. With a wave, he directed his own men to make their way carefully down into the valley.

  A flash of orange light and a giant crack echoed around the valley as a great ball of fire slammed into the fence on the far side of the camp. Otto had, at least, done his duty in breaking a path through the fence for the sergeant and his men. Through the dying fires of his magic, Alhmanic could see the first horsemen charging for the Pontaine soldiers who scrabbled to their feet to meet the oncoming attack. The quickest of them died at the point of a Vos spear while the others were simply ridden down under the hooves of a score of charging horses.

  Alhmanic raised his staff once more and shouted to the men he led.

  “In the name of the true and Final Faith, in the name of the most Holy Anointed Lord – attack!”

  His men needed no other encouragement, and they kicked their horses into a gallop. The fence loomed before them, a solid barrier impossible to jump with the weight of their weapons and armour, but Alhmanic could feel their faith behind him, and he felt the thrill of pious devotion sweep through his body. He channelled the energy, from his heart to his staff, and he felt the shaft begin to hum as power built up within the relic.

  Levelling the staff at the fence they rushed toward, Alhmanic cried out a single word in a language long forgotten outside of the Final Faith, a word that was part prayer, part pure exaltation.

  The staff throbbed once in his hand, then bucked as if trying to free itself from his grip. Its stone shone brightly, then winked out as a pulse of divine energy leapt forward to smack against the fence with irresistible force.

  The effect was spectacular. Thirty feet of the fence line exploded in a flash of bright blue light, with earth and wooden posts spiralling high into the night sky. A strong gust of wind swept past the horsemen, as if the air itself were trying to escape from the magical explosion. However, the full force of the magic was directed inside the camp, and the wind became a brief but howling gale that knocked men off their feet, threw lanterns through the air and blasted tents apart.

  As Alhmanic galloped the last remaining yards to the camp, he vaulted his horse over the wreckage of the fence, now barely more than a shallow crater filled with stone and wooden shards. One Pontaine soldier reacted a little quicker than his friends and stood up to face the charge. A single swing across the temple with Alhmanic’s staff, aided by the speed of the horse, caved in the skull of the man before he properly registered what was happening.

  Once inside, Alhmanic drew his horse up short, allowing his men to sweep either side of him as they speared and slashed their way through the Pontaine force, knocking over lanterns to start fires and trampling through tents to find more victims for their murderous attack.

  The Pontaine force was beginning to rally, remarkably quickly, Alhmanic thought. While the perimeter had crumbled swiftly, there was a strong core nearer the centre of the camp th
at was already forming into a tightly bound unit, its spears daring any horse to make a charge against them. It would be a hard nut to crack, Alhmanic could already see, and he kicked his horse forward, intending to lend support, hoping they could break the Pontaine soldiers before they became a problem.

  Raising his staff high over his head, he allowed its single blue crystal to shine briefly, its light pulling the Vos soldiers nearest to him along for the attack. Alhmanic allowed them to surge forward as they neared the line and the foremost riders drove into the Pontaine defence.

  Horses screamed in agony and men yelled in fear as the Pontaine spears sank deep into the flesh of the mounts. Seeing what was happening, Alhmanic jerked the reins of his own horse tight as he pulled up short but several of his soldiers did not see the danger until it was too late. They continued ploughing forward into the Pontaine line which by now had set their spears against the charge, the butts buried deep into the churned mud. The speed of the horses had been turned against them as they were impaled on the waiting spear points.

  Cursing under his breath, Alhmanic rode away, determined to find another weak point, as the remaining Vos soldiers drew their swords and attempted to hack their way through the bristling spear line. He knew he had to act quickly, or more of the Pontaine men would rally to this point and their weight of numbers, not to mention their spears, would begin to tell against his smaller mounted force.

  Desperately seeking an answer somewhere across the camp, his vision obscured by smoke, burning tents and men pitched in bloody battle against one another, Alhmanic gave a grim smile as he saw Otto cowering behind a line of his cavalry, clinging to his horse as though it would bear him away from this dreadful place.

  A FEW SCATTERED shouts roused Tellmore from his studies, as sleep had eluded him once again. Raising his head from another stack of scattered notes, the wizard frowned. Then he heard – and felt – the explosion; a deep bass note, followed by the ground shaking and men screaming. Powerful magics were weaving their way through the air, and that explosion had been no mere alchemist’s trickery.

  Gathering his cloak about him, Tellmore ran into the camp, the notes behind him scattering in the breeze. All about him was the confusion of men attacked when they least expected it. While some fought and died near the perimeter of the camp, others stumbled bleary-eyed out of their tents, only to find themselves staring at a lance point. Some broke immediately and fled, while others kept enough wits about them to reach for their weapons.

  Seeing a familiar face, Tellmore called out.

  “Renauld, call your men,” he ordered, directing the knight to an open patch of ground between tents they had used to parade the soldiers every morning.

  Tellmore was gratified to see that the knight had reacted quickly and had already gathered a handful of men to his side. Seeing what Tellmore was intending, Renauld began shouting at any Pontaine man he saw and, with painful slowness it seemed to Tellmore, the handful of men grew into a reasonable sized unit. Leaving their swords scabbarded, they opted for spears, bracing the long staves against the inevitable charge.

  The attackers did not keep them waiting for long, and a near score of horsemen began to charge the line. Having faith in Renauld’s ability to defend himself and hold the line, Tellmore trotted away, keeping to the shadows of tents as he sought to bolster the defences elsewhere. He imagined Renauld’s defiant stand as the only one in the camp and knew that if that were so, they would soon all be killed as more horsemen flooded in. Two soldiers came across his path, backing down between two tents as more horses thundered past.

  “You two,” Tellmore said. “Defend me. Let no one come within five yards.”

  He noticed the soldiers glanced at one another, but their natural instinct was to obey any commander and Tellmore’s authority was sufficient to bring them back into the fight.

  “As you say, my Lord.”

  He gestured them to follow as he ran down between the tents to a wider thoroughfare. Looking either side, he saw horsemen had broken into the camp from opposite sides of the stockade. Those to the west were making short work of hacking down some soldiers who had tried to flee through the camp’s entrance.

  Closing his eyes for the briefest second, Tellmore felt the power of magic flow through him and he fashioned its energy as a craftsman might whittle wood. With a single word of power, Tellmore stamped his foot into the earth, and fire erupted from the ground and streaked towards the horses, leaving a trail of guttering flames as it shot down the thoroughfare.

  One of the horsemen saw the incoming attack, its course an unerring bolt that flashed towards them far faster than any steed could gallop. He opened his mouth to cry out in alarm, just as the fire reached him. It flared suddenly, and a wave of flame engulfed both horses and men, their screams utterly silent as the air was sucked from their lungs by the intense heat. As quickly as they had appeared, the flames died away, leaving nothing but charred and smoking flesh scattered across the scorched earth. It was no longer possible to tell horse flesh from man.

  “My Lord!” one of his soldiers yelled, and Tellmore felt a hand on his back, shoving him roughly into the thoroughfare. Stumbling, Tellmore heard the dull sound of hooves impacting on wet mud, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a horseman riding through the narrow gap between the tents, bearing down on the three of them with a spear held wickedly at neck height.

  One of the soldiers grabbed Tellmore by the arm and spun him to one side, but the horseman adjusted the aim of his spear accordingly and his horse steered towards them. He did not see the second of Tellmore’s bodyguards, who had crouched down out of sight behind one of the tents and, as the horse tore past, swung his sword with both hands, slicing deep into the beast’s hind leg.

  Screaming in agony, the horse collapsed, taking its rider with it as they slid in the mud. Seeing his chance, the soldier that had grabbed Tellmore jumped back up and, raising his sword high, plunged it down into the writhing mass of man and horse. Standing up, Tellmore brushed himself down and looked appreciatively at the two soldiers.

  “That was good work,” he said, nodding his approval.

  “Thank you, my Lord,” one said, giving him a half salute. Tellmore was about to ask their names when he saw another small group of horsemen beyond them, riding for the centre of the camp.

  “Come on. We still have work to do.”

  “COME ON, OTTO, you worthless slug!” Alhmanic shouted at the cringing mage.

  He had found the wizard cowering behind a row of tents, clinging with fear to his horse as if trying to meld with its flesh and thus become invisible. Alhmanic had snarled as he grabbed the reins of Otto’s horse and pulled it bodily back into the fray.

  “Ready your spells, wizard,” Alhmanic said as they trotted into battle. “Our men have need of you.”

  He ignored the young wizard’s whimpering as the mage gathered his robe about himself and used its corner to wipe his nose.

  Hooves churning up the wet mud, they thundered towards the melee at the centre of the encampment that was growing in size and ferocity as both sides began to rally their men and engage in pitched battle. A flash of movement to his right caught Alhmanic’s eye and he instinctively pulled hard on the reins of his horse to veer it to one side.

  A sword intended to slash his mount’s shoulder instead bit deep into one of its hind legs, and the horse shrieked in pain as it collapsed in a torrent of mud, water and flailing limbs. Mindful to keep his staff close to his body, Alhmanic threw himself off the horse as it went down but, even so, the impact knocked the wind out of him.

  Using the staff to brace himself, Alhmanic staggered to his feet, ready to face his attacker. Instead, he saw two Pontaine soldiers pacing warily towards Otto who cowered before them on the ground.

  On his knees and desperately trying to slide through the mud to get away from his attackers, Otto seemed to be alternating between pleading for mercy and trying to formulate a spell. Arcane words of power, shaken and mis-formed, di
ed on his lips when one of the soldiers plucked up the courage to thrust his sword through the wizard’s neck.

  Yanking his sword free, the soldier tapped his companion on the arm and pointed towards Alhmanic. The Preacher Divine smiled at the two of them and waved a hand to bid them try their luck. As they took a step forward, Alhmanic thumped the butt of his staff into the wet ground and felt the glorious power of the artefact’s divinity begin to spread through his body. The soldiers checked their advance as the crystal in the tip of the staff began to glow.

  “Leave this one to me, my friends,” a voice said, and Alhmanic noticed a third man had joined them, one dressed in a dark tunic wreathed in a scarlet cloak, and sporting the broad moustache currently favoured by young Pontaine nobles.

  The newcomer had the poise of a warrior, thought Alhmanic at first, but he could feel a sense of power emanating from the man that spoke of wizardry.

  The two soldiers seemed somewhat relieved to have been recalled, though they did not retreat far, standing behind the wizard with swords still drawn.

  “I am Tellmore, advisor to the Baron de Sousse, and you have violated the neutrality of these territories,” the man said in a deep, calm voice.

  “I am Alhmanic, the Preacher Divine, and I claim everything here in the name of the Final Faith and the Empire of Vos.”

  That Tellmore sighed at his pronouncement set Alhmanic quivering, and as he made to respond, he almost missed the subtle movement of the wizard’s fingers, and the quiet incantation subdued by his moustache.

  A bolt of fire streaked out from Tellmore’s outstretched hand, building up speed as it crossed the short distance between them. How Alhmanic raised his staff to parry and absorb the spell, he would never know, but the Preacher Divine felt the hot flames blast his face as they smacked against the invisible shield of faith the staff generated.

  Scowling, Alhmanic whirled the staff in his hands so rapidly it seemed as though a fluttering fan span in front of him, the glowing crystal creating a pale blue sheen of light at its outermost edge. With a brief prayer, he unleashed the divine energy and a vortex of power shimmered towards the wizard.