Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Heçamede!’ he called.

  Seeing that no real damage was done Heçamede left Fossetta to see what had caught Malaki’s attention. He pointed to Falco’s brow. The leading edges of the rash had turned from crimson to black.

  ‘It works,’ said Heçamede. ‘The fumes are killing the fungus. This could cure him.’

  ‘If it doesn’t kill him first,’ said Malaki.

  ‘He is dying already,’ said Heçamede. ‘At least this way he has a chance.’

  Conceding the point, Malaki helped Falco into the saddle and handed him a flask of water. Falco gulped it down as if the water could quench the burning pain in his chest and throat.

  ‘Can you ride?’ asked Malaki.

  Falco gave him a nod as he took the reins and gripped the pommel of his saddle. As the people climbed out of the valley so the army came down, moving with the strength and speed of a disciplined force. They formed up on the flat river valley and waited for the leaders to speak to them.

  Lord Cadell stood in the huddle of nobles with Bellius, Morgan and Simeon but it was the emissary who came forward to speak. He climbed onto a stand of boulders so that they could see him more clearly.

  ‘Men of Caer Dour, and women,’ he added, for there was more than a handful of women’s faces staring up at him from the ranks of the army. ‘We have learned from Lord Cadell that the demon army is closer than we had thought.’ He paused. ‘If the Possessed continue to advance at such a rate then the people will have no chance of reaching safety. They will be overtaken.’

  Grim faces grew a shade grimmer. They knew what the emissary was going to ask of them.

  ‘We must find a way to slow their advance,’ the emissary said. ‘Small forces of mounted troops to fall back and slow the enemy. Not to stand and fight,’ he added quickly, ‘but to harry, to make them pause, to give us more time.’

  Everyone looked to the soldiers on horseback. Only they had the speed to attack with any hope of retreating from harm.

  ‘We are looking for forces of a hundred,’ said the emissary. ‘And we will need officers to lead them.’

  Without exception the officers urged their mounts forward, their troops standing firm behind them. There were almost three hundred horses in the Caer Dour cavalry and it seemed that all of them were willing to volunteer for this most dire of tasks. The emissary smiled grimly, but his satisfaction was tempered by caution. How many would volunteer once they had looked into the bone-white eyes of the enemy.

  Falco looked across to see Malaki talking to his father. After a brief exchange he saw Malaki’s head droop forward and Balthazak reached out to embrace him. With this simple farewell Balthazak left his son to join the volunteers.

  The first one hundred were chosen and once again the emissary stepped forward.

  ‘Be careful,’ he told them. ‘Do not try to make a stand. Attack and fall back. When the fear becomes too great withdraw before it claims you. Every hour that you can buy us is precious. Every hour brings us that much closer to safety.’ He looked at them a final time. ‘Have faith, and come back safely. Farewell.’

  And with that they left, a small contingent of men riding back down the trail to face the demon and the two thousand warriors of the Possessed. Falco watched them go and a piece of him went with them. He did not need Bellius to accuse him, he knew he was responsible.

  With the first rearguard detachment on its way the army set off to follow the people. Falco’s horse fell in behind Simeon’s once more and another long day of travel began. The steady rain did not let up and by midday the refugees were drenched and miserable. As the day wore on Falco felt that his breathing was a little easier. He was not sure if it was just his imagination, but the tight feeling of slow suffocation seemed a fraction less.

  As the path widened Malaki drew up alongside. His father had not been selected for the first detachment, but Balthazak had chosen to ride with the rest of the cavalry, bringing up the army’s rear.

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Malaki. He noticed the way Falco was now holding the reins and not clinging to the pommel in an exhausted stupor.

  ‘Sore,’ said Falco. ‘And wet.’

  Malaki smiled. Falco still sounded weak, but even a despondent response was better than none at all. They rode on in silence for a while, the rain falling in a slow and steady drizzle. Turning in the saddle Malaki peered back down the trail.

  ‘I wonder how long before they meet the Possessed,’ he paused and Falco could sense his anxiety, his doubt. ‘Do you think you would have the courage to stand?’

  Falco looked into his friend’s deep brown eyes.

  ‘It’s the fear,’ said Malaki. He nodded towards Simeon and the emissary. ‘They talk about the fear as if it were an actual force, something that could reach out to devour us.’

  ‘It is,’ said Falco. ‘It could.’

  Malaki stared across at his friend but Falco just hunched forward pulling the hood of his cloak down over his face. The wind had strengthened and the rain was angling towards them. It was going to be a long and miserable afternoon.

  *

  Thirty miles ahead of them, four riders were picking their way down a steep rocky slope. Since leaving the townsfolk the riders had grown close. They rode together as a single unit, measuring their pace to cover the difficult ground as quickly as they could. They had been charged with a great responsibility and yet they were enjoying the challenges that the mountain path laid in front of them.

  They smiled now as they left the rocky slopes and raced along the flat expanse of a river valley, a rare chance for the horses to show their speed.

  Anwyn looked back as her horse, Deneb, tore through a rivulet of sparkling water. She had reached the valley first and was determined to beat the men to the other side. Her heart sank as she saw Godfrey coming up hard behind her. Altair, his magnificent black stallion, stood a full hand taller than her own chestnut mare and never seemed to tire. Even as she watched they thundered past her, Godfrey whooping with delight and Altair straining forward, revelling in his own strength.

  ‘Ok,’ thought Anwyn, gritting her teeth. ‘You, but not the others.’ She gave a light tap with her heels and Deneb surged beneath her with a renewed burst of speed.

  Smiling, she looked back once more. Gareth and Dylan were thirty lengths behind. There was no way they would catch her now. She was about to look away when she caught sight of a black shape in the sky behind Dylan.

  Deneb whinnied in protest as Anwyn pulled the horse to a sharp halt. She wheeled about, her heart suddenly filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding. The dark shape was falling from the sky, heading straight for Dylan. Anwyn had the impression of dark wings and a body like that of an emaciated man, the skin a dark mottled grey. She caught a flash of teeth and shining claws and then the creature swooped down, slamming into both horse and rider and dragging them to the ground.

  Lying on its side the horse thrashed in the shallow river. It gave a sudden, horrible scream and became still. Trapped beneath it, Dylan was lying in the cold water. The creature was hunched over him, its talons hooked in his chest. It bent down over Dylan and when it straightened up its teeth were dripping with blood.

  Anwyn felt as if the breath was locked in her chest. She could only stare as the creature fixed her with black eyes that shone like orbs of polished marble. Its face was almost human but with the nose of some hellish bat and a mouth filled with sharp teeth like dark points of steel.

  A shower of water splashed Anwyn’s face as Gareth pulled up beside her. He reached over to grab her arm. ‘Ride on!’ he cried. ‘Anwyn!’ he screamed when she did not respond. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Ride on!’

  With a last look at Dylan’s body lying in the river Anwyn turned away from the angel of darkness and raced for the far side of the valley where Godfrey was waiting for them, shock and fear written large upon his face.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Something took Dylan,’ said Gareth. ‘We must go on.’
<
br />   Gareth seemed calm, but there was a tremor in his voice that suggested he was only just clinging to some level of control. Without another word he turned his horse up the rocky slope and began to climb out of the valley. In a state of shock Godfrey and Anwyn followed but they had not gone far when an inhuman cry echoed around the valley.

  Looking back they saw the creature rising from its prey, its dark wings beating the air as it rose into the sky. The creature would not attack again, not while they were ready and waiting for it. Instead it climbed higher until it disappeared among the clouds.

  Checking the leather dispatch tubes that hung across their backs the three remaining riders pushed their horses hard up the slope. Ahead of them lay the highest part of the mountain path and beyond that the trail led steadily downwards.

  Being raised in Caer Dour, the mountains had always seemed to offer security but now they felt dangerous and exposed. And so they pushed their horses hard, anxious to leave the mountains and find some cover on the forested pathways of Clemoncé.

  14

  Rearguard

  Falco’s spittle was flecked with blood. It was the morning of the third day since leaving Caer Dour and it was raining. It was still early but they had already been moving for three hours and it was time for the first rest break of the day. Falco leaned against a boulder while Fossetta and Heçamede examined a gobbet of his sputum in a small ceramic bowl. The phlegm was streaked with red and their expressions were grim. There had been no evidence of blood until Falco started taking the Corros pine infusion.

  ‘It’s not as thick as normal,’ offered Fossetta. ‘Not as dark either.’

  Heçamede nodded but her expression remained grave. ‘But the infusion is damaging the tissue, and that will make him more vulnerable to the infection.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then we shall see which is stronger,’ said the healer, ‘the infection or the son of Aquila Danté.’

  Heçamede placed a hand on Falco’s brow. Her face was stern but slowly her expression softened and she stroked his cheek before removing her hand.

  Fossetta reached out to help Falco down into a seated position but he waved her away. ‘Try to eat something,’ she said and Falco gave her a half-hearted nod.

  He did not like to admit it but in a strange way he was feeling better. The burns on his neck and shoulder still hurt terribly and his lungs felt like they had been scoured with shards of glass, but his breathing definitely felt easier. He glanced over to a nearby pool where Malaki was watering the horses. Further up the trail the townsfolk were already walking again but the pace had slowed. People were cold and miserable and the impetus of the first two days had given way to a dreary trudge.

  His gaze drifted in the other direction towards the army. There was tension in the air as everyone waited for the first rearguard to return. They had been gone for almost a day and people were anxious for news of their fate. Falco could see the concern on the soldiers’ faces as they talked in low voices. Closing his eyes he leaned back against the boulder. This was the first time in three days that he had stood upright and his back felt like it had fused into a permanent stoop. Still, he did his best to straighten his spine, turning his face up into the rain and wincing as he drew the cold air into his lungs.

  ‘I swear you look an inch taller.’

  Falco looked over as Malaki returned with the horses.

  ‘No, really,’ said Malaki. ‘And you’ve got some colour in your cheeks. Either that or you’ve been using Fossetta’s rouge again.’

  Falco turned away to hide the beginnings of a smile. ‘Fossetta doesn’t wear rouge,’ he said.

  ‘She does when she’s down at the Hoof and Horn.’ Malaki raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

  Finally Falco laughed. The Hoof and Horn was an ale house of dubious reputation and the thought of Fossetta wearing rouge for the benefit of its bawdy patrons was actually quite funny. He tried to adjust his stance but he slipped on the wet rocks and stumbled to the ground, biting back a curse as his shoulder brushed against the rock.

  ‘Easy there,’ said Malaki, helping him into a more comfortable position.

  Falco pushed him away and Malaki settled back on his haunches. ‘Seriously though, you are looking better. The potion is working. You just have to stay under a bit longer. It’s like Heçamede says, the fumes have to penetrate deeply otherwise the infection will come back worse than ever.’

  Falco averted his eyes. Breathing that stuff was almost impossible. Three times now he had drawn the corrosive steam into his lungs and each time the effect had been the same, a paroxysm of painful retching. Malaki might have pressed him further but their attention was suddenly drawn to a ripple of activity moving up the line towards them.

  ‘It’s the rearguard,’ said Falco.

  ‘Thank the stars,’ murmured Malaki.

  They watched as the mounted troops advanced, making their way towards the leaders at the head of the army. As they rode past, Malaki spotted a friend of his father, a big man on a great warhorse. ‘Marcus!’ he called out.

  Catching sight of the blacksmith’s son the man drew his horse over. His face was wet with rain but even so they could see that he had been crying and this simple observation seemed to unsettle Malaki more than anything else.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘Further back,’ said Malaki. ‘With the main body of the army.’

  Marcus nodded. He looked lost, confused.

  ‘So few,’ said Malaki, looking at the small number of men moving past them.

  ‘We lost only seven,’ said Marcus. ‘The rest are being cared for.’

  ‘Are they badly hurt?’ asked Malaki but Marcus just stared.

  ‘Not wounded,’ he said. ‘Undone.’

  Malaki stared up at the big man, an expression of puzzlement on his face.

  Slowly Marcus turned his head to look at Falco.

  ‘You’re the one from the dragon stone,’ he said. ‘The one from the summoning.’

  Falco felt cowed by the desolation in the man’s gaze.

  ‘You have done us great harm,’ said Marcus, and such was the look in his eyes that Malaki actually took a protective step forward.

  Finally Marcus raised his eyes.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘The others must be warned.’ And with that he urged his horse on.

  Malaki blew out his cheeks with relief as the big man moved away. He had been surprised by the tension and confused by Marcus’s comments. ‘Undone,’ he said turning to Falco. ‘What does he mean, undone?’

  Falco did not answer. He understood the darkness in Marcus’s eyes; he knew what it meant to be undone by fear.

  Beside him, Malaki’s gaze turned inward as the poisoned flower of doubt bloomed in his heart. Like most Valentians, Malaki had grown up to accept the fear of battle, the fear of injury and death, but this was something different. This was the fear of eternal darkness and despair, the fear of something that you could not fight. Falco had lived with this fear his entire life but now it was seeping into the real world and his heart ached to see the effect it was having on his friend.

  They managed a few mouthfuls of food while the officers finished giving their report and then it was time for the second rearguard to assemble. The two youths climbed back onto their horses to watch as the men chosen for the second force came forward.

  ‘That’s Bryna’s father,’ said Malaki as Sir Gerallt Godwin joined the group.

  The regal looking man brought his horse forward to stand with the common soldiers. He would be one of the officers leading them. Falco looked back to see if he could see Bryna. She had been walking with the healers, and yes, he could see her now, standing with Heçamede on a low promontory. Her complexion seemed a shade paler as she watched her father take his place at the head of the small force. And then, beside him Malaki stiffened as another rider moved out to join Sir Gerallt and the others.

  It was Balthazak.

  Falco glanced at h
is friend but Malaki’s eyes were fixed firmly on his father as the blacksmith took his place behind Sir Gerallt, both men staring straight ahead, their minds fixed on the task ahead of them.

  Finally they were all assembled and without further ado the second rearguard disappeared back down the trail. Riding quickly, it might take them as little as six hours before they encountered the Possessed.

  The enemy was closing fast.

  There was a sense of discomfort in the air as the army prepared to move on. It was not easy to watch your comrades ride into danger while you marched in the opposite direction. Falco felt the guilt more keenly than any and now Malaki’s father was among those paying the price for his actions. He looked around uneasily only to find that people were looking at him, staring at him as Marcus had done with dark unsettling eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ they seemed to say. ‘That’s him. He’s the one that sided with the dragon.’

  Falco bowed low in the saddle. He cast a worried glance in Malaki’s direction, frightened of what he might see, but his friend was absorbed in his own thoughts, his eyes downcast, his face tight with anxiety. In silence they turned back onto the trail. The healers had already started walking and with the second force on its way the army resumed its march.

  A few soldiers were sent ahead to spur the townsfolk onward. They could not afford to be slowed by lethargy. Lunch was eaten on the move, people travelled in silence and by early afternoon they had reached the flat expanse of a river valley. Ahead of them they could see the path winding steeply up the far side, rising towards the highest part of the route to Clemoncé.

  As they rode out onto the floor of the valley they became aware that the line of people was being diverted around something that lay in the river beside the path. Malaki rose up in his stirrups but he could not see what was causing the obstruction.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ he said.

  People ahead were beginning to look back, staring at Falco. One of them looked directly at him and spat on the ground. Malaki glanced at Falco, concerned at how this open display of hostility might affect his friend but Falco was more concerned with what it was that lay in the river. He felt a shiver of dread at what it might be, but when the leaders went to investigate Falco went with them.