Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Still seated in front of him the young boy quailed against his chest and beside him the boy’s mother cowered down, gathering her other two children into her arms. Falco brought his horse to a halt. He stroked the boy’s hair and looked down at the mother.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said.

  Slowly the mother looked up and Falco could read the dread in her eyes.

  ‘The enemy knows you love them,’ said Falco, looking down at her children. ‘He sees it as a weakness, a way to break your faith.’ He looked back at the woman and a hint of fire burned in his bright green eyes. ‘Let it be your strength.’

  The woman frowned as if confused by the authority in his voice but slowly she straightened up. She gave Falco a brief nod, then she wiped her eyes and bid her children walk on.

  ‘You’re starting to sound like me,’ said a voice and Falco turned to see Simeon pulling up alongside him.

  ‘I’ve heard you say as much,’ said Falco, feeling strangely self-conscious.

  ‘That’s because it’s true,’ said Simeon with a smile.

  They rode in silence for a while and the boy, Tarran, jumped down to walk with his mother. Falco kept glancing back, looking for signs of the latest rearguard. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said. ‘They should be back by now.’

  Simeon nodded then he raised his head, turning his blind face up ahead where some of the leaders were coming back down the trail.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked as the leaders pulled up beside them.

  ‘Some of the nobles have fled,’ said the emissary. ‘Bellius Snidesson among them.’

  Falco gaped but Simeon just bowed his head.

  ‘Seventeen knights and forty members of their households,’ said Morgan Saker.

  Falco began to speak but Simeon raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘Do not judge them too harshly. Others would do the same if they had swift horses for all their loved ones.’

  Morgan Saker seemed about to object when several things happened at once.

  First, riders from the latest rearguard came into view, forging their way up the path to speak with the leaders.

  ‘The demon is on our heels,’ said the captain with an edge of panic in his voice. ‘They stopped for a while and something happened that we did not see, but now they come on faster than ever.’

  Lord Cadell’s face was set as he tried to fathom what this might mean but then they noticed the line ahead of them had stopped. People on the path began looking back as one of the forward scouts came galloping down the line.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Lord Cadell as the breathless scout struggled to form his words.

  ‘The enemy is in front of us, my Lord. The way ahead is blocked!’

  Falco looked from one anxious face to the next. It seemed that Bellius had made his escape just in time. Not only had the enemy caught up with them it had done the unthinkable. Somehow the army of the Possessed had overtaken them. The people of Caer Dour were cut off. There was no way they could reach safety now.

  17

  A Message in the Reeds

  ‘How could they possibly get ahead of us?’ exclaimed Lord Cadell.

  ‘The demon has gated them through,’ said the emissary who had experienced this phenomenon before. ‘If a demon is powerful enough it can tear a rift in the fabric of reality and send a small number of troops from one place to another. The demon that follows us must be gaining in strength.’

  The people of Caer Dour looked at him aghast.

  ‘How many?’ asked Simeon.

  ‘Enough to stop us in our tracks,’ replied the emissary, looking at the path ahead which was now choked with hundreds of frightened people running back towards them.’

  ‘And how long before the demon catches up to us?’

  ‘Three hours, maybe less.’

  The muscles in Simeon’s jaw bunched.

  ‘Can we break through?’ asked Falco.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the emissary. ‘But by then the enemy would be upon us. The last thing we want is for the Possessed to catch us on the path.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Our only chance is to look for a defensible position and hope that we can hold out long enough for help to arrive.’

  Falco’s blood ran cold. They were trapped in the mountains and they still did not know if the riders had made it through.

  ‘There’s a valley a little way back,’ said one of the scouts. ‘Steep sides, with a line of low cliffs that would be easy to defend.’

  ‘Good,’ said the emissary. ‘We shall make our stand there.’

  *

  Captain Reynald de Roche stared at the tracks on the ground. They did not make sense.

  ‘The horse was startled here,’ said one of his men, a man called Francois, one of the finest trackers in Toulwar. He was bending low over the ground, pointing out the line of hoof prints. ‘Here you can see the gait is steady, the horse is being ridden.’ He walked forward. ‘And here the ground is churned up as if there was a fall or a collision.’ He straightened up shaking his head. ‘But there is only one set of prints and no sign of a fall. From here the tracks become erratic, heading on towards the trees. It makes no sense.’

  Captain de Roche gazed down at the ground. He looked back along the path and forward to the trees. It was as if the rider had vanished into thin air.

  ‘Sir!’

  He turned to see one of his men walking towards him with a brown leather dispatch tube in his hands.

  ‘It was lying in the grass beside the lake,’ said the man, handing over the tube.

  Captain de Roche gazed at the lake which was calm and quiet and dotted with birds. Then he opened the tube and slid out the message that was furled inside. Handing the tube to one of his men he began to read. As he did so a frown creased his brow and his men watched as their captain’s face grew pale.

  ‘What is it, Captain?’ asked one of his men.

  ‘The people of Caer Dour,’ said Captain de Roche, folding the message and tucking it into a pouch at his belt. ‘They have been forced into the mountains, pursued by a demon army of the Possessed.’

  The men looked at him in disbelief. To them the Possessed were an abstract threat, the nightmare menace of distant lands.

  ‘Mount up!’ snapped Captain de Roche. ‘Their fate lies with us.’ His harsh tone broke through the shock and the chasseurs leaped into action. Within seconds they were galloping down the trail towards the city of Toulwar. However, they had not gone far when Captain de Roche turned onto a smaller trail heading to the south of the city.

  ‘Captain!’ called out Francois as small branches whipped across their path. ‘This is not the quickest way to the city.’

  ‘I know,’ cried Captain de Roche.

  He was not heading for the city. He was heading for a small retreat perched on an outcrop of rock where certain ‘visiting warriors’ and their mythical creatures were known to stop. The army from Toulwar would never reach the people of Caer Dour in time. They needed help that came on swifter wings and Captain de Roche could only hope that his gambit would pay off; that the person he sought would still be at the retreat when they arrived.

  Meanwhile, behind them, the body of a young woman lay face down in the dark waters of a forest lake. Her mortal remains would never be laid to rest and yet her soul might have found some comfort in the knowledge that the message, for which she had given her life, had reached its goal at last.

  *

  The people of Caer Dour streamed into the steep sided valley. There were no paths leading out and only the most nimble had any chance of scaling the cliffs that surrounded them. This then would be their fortress and may yet become their tomb.

  The mouth of the valley was level and flat but as it narrowed it was cut across by a series of low cliffs. It was a good place to make a stand, allowing the army to block the entrance to the valley, keeping the people safe until the last possible minute.

  It had taken them an hour to get the people into the valley and Falco watched as the last of the famili
es were escorted in. He was doing his best to be helpful although he found the effort exhausting. Heçamede had given him a small pot of ointment for Tobias. Being strapped to a horse for several days had left the crippled boy with terrible pressure sores and the ointment would ease the pain and help them to heal.

  ‘At least it’s not raining,’ said Julius Merryweather as Falco handed over the ointment. Merryweather had already cleaned his son’s sores and he wasted no time in applying Heçamede’s remedy. Tobias looked up and Falco blushed. He had not meant to stare. The boy studied him for a moment, his watery eyes strangely penetrating then slowly he began to smile.

  ‘Ballymudge better now.’

  Falco snorted softly and smiled in turn.

  ‘And how are you Tobias?’ he asked.

  ‘Hurts like a bathtard,’ said Tobias, flinching as his father clipped him round the head.

  ‘What have I told you about your language,’ said Merryweather, clearly delighted by his son’s enduring spirit.

  Falco smiled at the bond of love between them but his smile was tinged with sadness. Despite his father’s best efforts Falco could see that some of Tobias’s sores had become infected. He glanced at Merryweather and the expression in the big man’s eyes said it all.

  If only they could live long enough for Tobias to die from infected wounds.

  And so the day drew to an end. After all their efforts they had been overtaken and now they were trapped in the mountains. Their only hope was to hold out as long as possible and that meant keeping Simeon alive. The significance of this had already been explained to the army. Sitting beside his master, Falco now listened as the emissary talked to the parents and the elders of the community.

  Dressed now in the mail hauberk and armoured boots of a cavalryman, the emissary crouched down among them. People gathered close about him, away from the main body of the people so that the children could not hear what was being said.

  ‘While Simeon lives the army will be able to fight,’ the emissary told them. ‘His presence will keep the fear at bay.’ He paused. ‘But Simeon’s strength is not what it was. We will do what we can to support him. But if he falls...’

  The emissary stopped and people looked down at the knives that had been handed round, knives sharpened to a razor’s edge, knives that could end a life with as little suffering as possible.

  The emissary’s tone was hard and uncompromising as he continued.

  ‘If Simeon falls the end will come quickly.’ He looked into their faces. ‘Whatever happens, you must not let your children be taken by the Possessed.’ He waited for this message to sink in. ‘The enemy will try to prevent you. He will fill your mind with promises and lies. Do not believe him. If Simeon falls then end it quickly, before your courage fails.’

  The parents’ faces were pale and grim but they were also calm and resolved. They would do what was necessary.

  A horn suddenly sounded and everyone looked up. One of the sentinels on the cliffs had sounded the alarm. The enemy had been sighted.

  The parents returned to their children and Falco followed Simeon and the emissary as they went down to join the army. The sun had set and they stared out to the west where the last light of day was fading. In the distance the mountains cast a dark silhouette against the sky but the craggy outline shimmered and swam as if from the heat of a hot summer’s day. Falco could actually feel the warmth of it on his face.

  ‘It is the Possessed,’ said Simeon, guessing his thoughts. ‘They carry the heat of Hades with them.’

  In the sky behind them the bloated disk of a full moon was just rising and in its pale light they caught their first glimpse of dark, unearthly steel. Even at that first glance the fighting men of Caer Dour took a step backwards but the blind old man that was Simeon le Roy took a step forward and with him went Sir William Chevalier, the Queen’s emissary from the court of Wrath. Falco stood at Simeon’s shoulder. He knew he could not fight like Malaki or the emissary but neither would he flee. The fear held no thrall over him. He had mastered that long ago.

  Then Lord Cadell came forward and Sir Gerallt Godwin and others, and slowly the defenders advanced to the edge of the low cliffs. Falco remained with Simeon as he took up position on a broad expanse of rock some fifty yards behind the front line. This was where he would make his stand. From here he could hold the entire army in his mental embrace.

  With Simeon in place the emissary went to mount his horse.

  ‘Easy there, Tapfer,’ he said as the horse shifted beneath him.

  Bred for war, the smoke grey Percheron recognised the tension that came before a battle and the proud stallion’s blood was up. The horse’s flanks were now covered by a leather flanchard while a plate chanfron and segmented crinet protected its head and neck.

  The plan was to let the Possessed come forward and then to hold them at the cliffs. The cliffs were not high. In places they were no more than a rise in the ground but they provided a defensible position and Lord Cadell would make the most of it. He positioned his greatest concentration of troops where the cliffs were lowest, flanking them with ranks of archers. Behind them the remaining cavalry had been divided into two groups where they could quickly respond to any breaches in the line. The remaining troops were deployed along the line of cliffs; a thin line of sword, shield and spear.

  As Falco watched the army take up its positions he saw Bryna Godwin joining the ranks of archers to the right. And there, standing with the powerful men at the centre of the line, was the armoured figure of Malaki. The big youth was about to don his helmet when he seemed to sense Falco’s gaze. He turned around and their eyes met. The two young men exchanged a brief and sorrowful moment then Malaki gave a slow nod and turned away.

  Falco had never felt more alone, more useless. He bowed his head, staring down at his weak and bony hands.

  ‘There is more than one way to fight.’

  Falco looked up at Simeon.

  ‘Go to Fossetta,’ said Simeon. ‘Show the people you are not afraid. That will help them more than you can know.’

  Dejected, Falco turned to go but Simeon reached out to stop him, his rough hands tracing Falco’s features as if to memorise his face.

  ‘I have loved you Falco Danté,’ said the old battle mage gruffly. ‘As I did your father. As I would a son.’

  Falco looked into the scarred face of the man who had raised him. His throat was tight with emotion.

  ‘Promise me you will go to Wrath,’ said Simeon. ‘If you live to see the dawn. Find your place in the world, Falco. And find out why I had to kill the finest man I ever knew.’

  Falco nodded and Simeon drew him close.

  ‘Don’t lose faith,’ he breathed. ‘Whatever happens, don’t lose faith.’

  Lost in Simeon’s embrace Falco could only nod then slowly he turned away from the army of Caer Dour and walked instead towards her people. He found Fossetta sitting with the sick and injured on the west side of the valley where the tall cliffs rose up into the mountains. Wiping his eyes he took a seat and listened as Julius Merryweather tried to distract a group of children with a series of amusing tales, but for once the jolly man’s humour had deserted him and the children seemed unconvinced.

  Falco saw the young boy Tarran coming towards him.

  ‘The older boys are saying we won’t live the night,’ said Tarran.

  Falco looked up to see a host of people waiting to hear what he would say. He drew Tarran forward.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I happen to know that Fossetta has a goose egg, three strips of bacon and a juicy pear squirreled away in her backpack. Isn’t that right Fossetta?’

  Fossetta held up four fingers.

  ‘Four strips of bacon actually,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘There you go,’ said Falco. ‘No way I’m missing that breakfast.’

  Tarran smiled and the people nearby found some of the fear lifting from their hearts. Falco looked up to see Heçamede staring at him, her dark eyes shining with approval
.

  All day they had been trying to calm the fears of the people, and all day the fear had grown deeper. Until he came to sit with them. He was pale and skinny and weak, and it still wasn’t clear if he would survive the infection in his lungs. But at least now he stood a chance.

  ‘Strong,’ thought Heçamede. ‘Like his father.’

  She remembered arriving in Caer Dour with a handful of refugees from the war in Illicia. She had been little more than a girl at the time; a young healer swept up in horrors she could barely have imagined. The people of Caer Dour had welcomed them and she had been invited to stay at the home of Eleanora Danté, the wife of a nobleman who also happened to be a battle mage. It was her patience and enduring compassion that allowed Heçamede to come to terms with the nightmares that haunted her dreams and she could still remember the intensity of the woman’s bright green eyes.

  ‘And gentle,’ she thought, remembering the tragic night of Falco’s birth. ‘Like his mother.’

  Horns suddenly echoed off the nearby cliffs, a last defiant call to arms.

  Falco stood up and looked down the valley. In the light of the moon they could see the vanguard of the Possessed approaching, dark shapes in the deepening night shining dully with the glint of steel. Behind him he was aware of parents gathering their children to them and Falco thought of the hidden knives that each of them held.

  Parents forced to kill their own children?

  Falco gritted his teeth at the prospect of such horror. Then, pushing Tarran behind him, he stared down at the jagged figures of the Possessed, and in the dim light his green eyes burned.

  18

  The Possessed

  The Possessed came on with the slow certainty of a nightmare but this was just the vanguard. The demon, with its full strength, was yet to reach the valley.

  Standing with the other men, Malaki watched as the enemy emerged from the gloom. They looked human but he knew that such a description no longer applied. They were both more and less than ordinary men. They were lost souls, people plucked from the bosom of humanity, baptised in the fires of hell and reborn in darkness.