Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘What about the Possessed?’ someone called out.

  The anger evaporated as people were reminded of the terrible danger that was moving up the valley towards them. With dizzying swiftness they switched their attention back to Bellius and Morgan Saker.

  ‘What about the demon?’

  ‘What about the Possessed?’

  ‘Who’s going to fight them now?’

  Bellius held up his hands to quieten this new wave of anxiety, but he looked nervous and uncertain.

  ‘We should send to Caer Laison for help,’ said one of the nobles.

  ‘It is too late for that,’ snapped Morgan, and even the great mage looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘But, the Possessed... the demon... without Darius...’

  ‘We are lost!’ said Meredith Saker.

  Morgan glared at his son, but it was too late. Meredith had spoken the truth. Without Darius their army had no chance of defeating the Possessed.

  ‘We should call the army back to the town,’ said one of the nobles. ‘Man the walls at the head of the valley. Surely we could hold them there.’

  Bellius nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to meet them in the field. We could shore up our defences. Hold them at the valley’s head until help arrives.’

  ‘Help!’ said Morgan with more than a touch of scorn in his voice. ‘There is no help that can reach us now.’

  ‘But we can still fight,’ said one of the other nobles. ‘Surely with help from the magi.’

  ‘Magi are no use on the battlefield,’ growled Morgan. ‘That’s why we need a battle mage. Only they have the power to shield an army from the fear that flows out from a demon. And we have no battle mage.’

  His eyes settled on the prostrate figure lying in Malaki’s arms. He waited until Falco opened his eyes and turned to look at him.

  ‘We have no battle mage, because of you.’ He spoke as if they were the only two people in the square.

  Once again the people of Caer Dour turned to look down at the weak and injured figure of Falco Danté. There was no pity in their eyes, no sympathy for his suffering. There was only a growing sense of fear. People began to speak all at once as they tried to quell the rising tide of panic.

  ‘We could muster more troops from the outlying regions,’ suggested someone from the crowd.

  ‘We could arm the townsfolk,’ said another. ‘The people would fight to save their homes.’

  ‘We could attack them from the cliffs before they reach the town.’

  The murmur of conversation rose to an enthusiastic pitch as the people of Caer Dour tried to think of ways to defeat the Ferocian army. Still standing on the memorial, Bellius began to look more confident as he conferred with the nobles. He looked pompous and self-satisfied as if it would be down to him and his powerful friends to save the town. But the people of Caer Dour paid him no heed. They were talking themselves into a frenzy when a new figure climbed the steps onto the raised area.

  ‘Wait!’ cried the clear strong voice of Sir William Chevalier. ‘People of Caer Dour, wait!’

  The crowds slowly quietened as they turned to see what the Queen’s envoy had to say. If they had hoped for support and encouragement they were disappointed. The emissary looked out across the mass of faces and there was a deep sadness in his eyes.

  ‘You cannot fight,’ he said at length.

  The people in the square bridled at this as if he were questioning their ability or resolve.

  ‘You cannot fight a demon army,’ the emissary said. ‘Not without a battle mage.’

  ‘We can field an army more than two thousand strong,’ said Bellius. ‘Many more if we call up every man of fighting age.’

  The emissary gave a pained sigh.

  ‘But how many of them have faced a demon before?’ he asked. ‘How many have even fought the Possessed?’

  Bellius gave a dismissive sniff and turned away. In all the town there was barely a handful of people who had ever fought in the war against the Possessed. The very name sounded like something drawn from the annals of history, a newly awakened threat that had ravaged the kingdoms of Beltane and Illicia, terrible and tragic but distant, the scourge of other people’s lives. Only in recent years had the effects of the war been felt in Valentia, only as the strength of those other kingdoms had begun to fail.

  The emissary nodded slowly. There was no judgement in his eyes. He did not blame the people for their innocence.

  ‘You cannot fight,’ he said again. ‘And it is too late to call for help.’

  ‘Then what must we do?’ asked someone from the crowd.

  ‘You must withdraw,’ he said. ‘You must withdraw and hope that you can reach a place of safety in time.’

  ‘But that would leave the town undefended,’ scoffed Bellius as if the idea was ludicrous. ‘Do you really think the fighting men of Caer Dour would retreat and simply hope that the demon army would leave our families in peace.’

  Sir William looked Bellius dead in the eye.

  ‘You mistake me, sir,’ he said. ‘It is not only the army that must flee.’

  Bellius Snidesson began to frown.

  ‘The army of the Possessed will move up the valley until it reaches the town and then it will kill or claim every living thing that it finds. And it will find anyone who is foolish enough to remain.’

  The crowd began to murmur once more as the full ramifications of what he was saying slowly dawned on them. The emissary paused a moment to let his point sink home.

  ‘Let the children sleep tonight,’ he said. ‘But come the morning, every man, woman and child must be ready to flee into the mountains.’

  ‘But where will we go?’ asked a woman from the far side of the square and the emissary searched the crowd to see her face.

  ‘We shall make for Clemoncé,’ he said as if he spoke to all the mothers of all the children asleep in their beds that night. ‘We shall make for Clemoncé and hope that we reach a place of safety before the demon can overtake us.’

  ‘But this is madness!’ said Bellius. ‘We can’t uproot an entire town and move it into the mountains by morning.’

  ‘It would be madness to stay,’ replied the emissary.

  ‘But what about our homes? What about our land?’

  ‘Homes can be rebuilt. Land can be reclaimed.’

  Bellius threw up his hands in exasperation and looked to Morgan for support, but the mage seemed to look straight through him and the emissary turned back to the crowd.

  ‘People of Caer Dour,’ he called out. ‘We cannot change what has happened here tonight and we have no time for grief.’ The people watched him in silence. ‘Go back to your homes and prepare for a journey into the mountains,’ he went on. ‘Pack only what you need. Take nothing that will slow you down.’

  The mood of the crowd sobered as they began to accept the reality of their predicament. The thought of taking their families into the mountains was daunting but they were people of Valentia. They would not shrink from trial and hardship.

  ‘Speed, food and shelter,’ said emissary. ‘Let these be the thoughts that guide you. Speed, food and shelter, but the most important of these is speed.’

  He waited until he was sure that the people understood.

  ‘There is a rocky plateau,’ he went on, ‘just outside the town on the road to Clemoncé. Tell your friends and your family. Tell everyone you know that we shall assemble there at sunrise tomorrow morning.’

  He gazed at their faces a final time.

  ‘No one must be left behind,’ he said. ‘If there are people who need help, help them. If there are people who need persuading, persuade them. By sunrise tomorrow the town of Caer Dour must be empty of every living soul.’

  11

  Regret

  Slowly the crowds dispersed and the leaders of Caer Dour retired to discuss the plight of their people. Simeon went with them for there was no one who knew more about the Possessed than he. Their discussions went on for some time and i
t was well after midnight before the old battle mage finally returned home.

  Malaki had carried Falco back to the villa and made him as comfortable as possible while Fossetta set about preparing for the journey into the mountains. When she had done all she could she returned to relieve him.

  ‘You should be getting home,’ she said. ‘This is going to be a busy night and your father will need all the help he can get.’

  ‘Maybe I should...’ Malaki began but Fossetta cut him off.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on Falco,’ she said. ‘Best thing for him now is sleep.’

  Malaki nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. As he rose to his feet Fossetta put a hand on his arm then she stood on her tip toes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘You were magnificent in the trials,’ she said with sudden tears in her eyes.

  Malaki smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said, although the events of the day now seemed distant and insignificant.

  Fossetta watched as he left the room then she moved to take his place beside Falco. The flame from a single lamp filled the room with a soft orange glow but still Falco’s skin looked as pale and grey as stone. He twitched and moaned, his throat rasping with every indrawn breath.

  ‘Darkness,’ muttered Falco, lost in the grip of fever and delirium. ‘Darkness in the deep. Darkness on the hills.’

  Fossetta felt a shadow of fear fall across her heart. It was many years since she last heard Falco mention the ‘darkness’ in his sleep. His condition must be bad if his dreams had drawn back to that tortured place in his mind. Often when he spoke of the darkness he would mumble about other things. Fossetta and Simeon had never been able to tell if it was a place with three hills or three imaginary friends that seemed to bring him comfort.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Simeon had told her. ‘Anything that helps him fight the nightmares is good.’

  Hoping he might find some comfort now, Fossetta brushed a strand of dark hair from Falco’s face. She checked his fever and leaned down to kiss him before retiring to the chair across the room. It was some time later when she stirred at the sound of the door opening.

  ‘How is he?’

  Fossetta stood as Simeon came into the room. ‘Not good,’ she said and Simeon could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Stronger than he looks,’ he told her. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve always said?’

  Fossetta smiled at her master’s kindness.

  ‘Is everything decided?’ she asked.

  ‘As much as can be,’ replied Simeon. ‘We’ll make for the city of Toulwar. That is the nearest place that would see us safe.’

  ‘Does it have a battle mage?’

  ‘It will,’ said Simeon. ‘It’s a staging point for armies moving into Illicia. A battle mage has been assigned to join the latest army before it leaves the city at the end of the month.’

  ‘But that’s only nine days from now!’

  Simeon did not answer. Everyone at the meeting had shared Fossetta’s concern. The city of Toulwar was more than a hundred miles away and the mountain path was not an easy route. There was no way an entire town of people could cover that distance in nine days.

  ‘We’ll send out riders,’ said Simeon. ‘The people of Toulwar will learn of our plight. The army will ride out to meet us.’

  ‘And what about those who cannot flee?’ asked Fossetta and here Simeon bowed his head.

  ‘They will be given the means to decide their own fate.’

  Fossetta raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Heaven help us,’ she breathed.

  Simeon placed a hand on her arm. ‘Is everything ready?’ he asked, trying to bring her thoughts back to the practicalities in hand.

  Fossetta nodded, tears standing in her eyes. She knew of several people who were too ill or too old to venture into the mountains.

  ‘I’ve had Davis make up loads for the pack horses,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. ‘There’ll be plenty of people who won’t look beyond the first day,’ she added. ‘We must be prepared to share what we have.’

  Simeon nodded and smiled. ‘Get some sleep,’ he told her. ‘I’ll sit with him for a while.’

  Fossetta looked down at Falco, the expression on her face a mixture of concern and pity. ‘Heaven help us,’ she said again and with that she left the room and Simeon settled himself down in the chair.

  An hour passed and the flame in the lamp was but the smallest bead of amber fire.

  Falco opened his eyes.

  Across the room he could see the vague outline of Simeon sitting in the chair. It seemed that he was sleeping and Falco was relieved. He had no desire to speak to anyone. His chest ached and his shoulder burned with a terrible pain. He was just trying to shift into a more comfortable position when Simeon spoke.

  ‘Why?’

  In the dim light Falco could just make out the scarred mask of Simeon’s face.

  ‘I had to see,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I had to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What it was that he died for,’ said Falco. ‘What it was that drove him to it.’

  ‘And did you find your answers?’ asked the old battle mage.

  ‘No,’ said Falco. ‘The dragon was mad and my father was mad to side with it.’

  Simeon gave a low sigh. He seemed almost disappointed. Maybe he too had hoped to find some explanation for the actions of Aquila Danté.

  There were a few moments of silence.

  Falco stared up at the ceiling and his tears were those of a son grieving for his father. The last hope of his father’s redemption had died in the blind rage of the dragon’s fire. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Simeon bowed his head at the remorse in Falco’s voice. He did not blame him for what had happened. The entire town might have been doomed by Falco’s actions, but Simeon did not see it as Falco’s fault. He knew the urge that had driven him to enter the Castle of the Winds, that desperate need to know. Indeed Falco could not have done otherwise.

  ‘Try to sleep,’ he said. ‘You will need your strength in the days to come.’

  ‘Sleep,’ thought Falco. He would find no peace in sleep.

  And as for strength... Falco almost laughed.

  Strength was for the living. He had no need of strength.

  12

  Into The Mountains

  The next morning saw six thousand people assembled on the broad expanse of rocky ground to the west of the town. On a cold autumnal day it was a bleak and desolate place with nothing to dull the biting wind that blew in from the north. The sun had barely risen but still it found the town of Caer Dour all but deserted.

  The people had taken heed of the emissary’s words and only a handful remained in the town. Most would be able to follow before it was too late, but there were also those who had been ‘helped on their way’ and there was a haunted expression in the eyes of the people. They stood in groups, huddled together against the cold and clutching satchels of food and whatever personal items they had decided to bring. Many had horses or mules laden with provisions or carrying those too young, too old or too infirm to walk. They looked wretched and lost, but then the emissary appeared over the edge of the plateau and the mood lifted like the grey mist rising from the valleys.

  Sir William rode a beautiful smoke-grey Percheron, a warhorse favoured by the knights of Illicia. He did not smile at the people as he moved onto the plateau, but there was something in his bearing that gave them comfort. It was not confidence exactly but a kind of calm, as if he had experienced events such as this before and was living proof that they could be survived. Beside him, on a black horse of similar size, came Simeon le Roy. Despite his age and hollow-eyed blindness the old battle mage possessed the same kind of reassuring presence as the emissary, and the people of Caer Dour began to feel a faint glow of hope.

  But behind them, on a horse of considerably lighter build, came a smaller figure, hunched and bowed and swaying in the saddle. He wore a fur-lined cloak of slate-grey, but even
with the hood pulled down over his face the people knew who it was.

  It was Falco Danté, son of Aquila Danté, the mad battle mage, the traitor. He was the reason why they were fleeing their homes. He was the reason they were standing in the cold.

  Falco felt like he was moving through a nightmare. People who the day before would have greeted him with a smile now looked at him with hard, unforgiving eyes. He could barely cope with the pain that wracked his body. He had no strength for the enmity that cut through him more keenly than the scything north wind. He bowed his head as two horses drew up alongside him.

  ‘Don’t look at them,’ said one of the riders in a gruff voice.

  Falco glanced to his left. It was Balthazak de Vane, Malaki’s father.

  ‘Just keep your eyes on Simeon,’ said Balthazak.

  He did not look at Falco. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  Falco turned to see Malaki riding close on his right. Both father and son were now wearing their blue steel armour with warm cloaks cast about their shoulders. They looked strong and dignified, more like knights than the town’s blacksmith and his son. Falco felt a great surge of love for them quickly followed by a black wave of guilt. He did not feel worthy of their kindness. Even when Malaki gave him a furtive grin he could not bring himself to smile.

  The strength of Falco’s escort deterred many from openly glaring, but the looks and whispers persisted as they made their way towards the group of nobles gathered at the centre of the plateau.

  ‘Good,’ said Malaki, nodding towards the nobles. ‘Heçamede is with them.’

  Glancing up Falco could see Heçamede watching them as they approached. He could not say that he was pleased to see her.

  Malaki and his father fell back as they reached the group while the emissary dismounted to speak with Bellius and Morgan. Simeon remained on his horse and Falco’s mare came to a gentle halt. Behind him Fossetta dismounted from one of the pack horses. She had watched anxiously as they made their way up the trail, trusting more to the horse’s good sense than to Falco’s wakefulness to keep him in the saddle. Now she came forward to join Heçamede at Falco’s stirrup.