Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  They wore the armour of Ferocia: breastplates, round-shields and open-faced Hoplite helms, dark steel with a sheen of bronze. The very look of it conveyed an impression of brutality. And it glowed, dimly, like metal heated in a fire. Malaki could feel the heat of it on his face. He looked around and from the expressions of uncertainty he could see that the other men could feel it too.

  Malaki tried to swallow but his mouth was suddenly dry. He felt the fear rising up inside him but he clenched his teeth and pushed it down. His father had not succumbed to the fear and neither would he. With a trembling hand he drew his sword and couched his shield, a great round-shield that covered his body from shoulder to knee. Almost subconsciously he shifted his weight to a fighting stance and noticed that the men to either side did the same.

  Lord Cadell had placed his finest warriors at the centre and Malaki had come to join them. If the front line was threatened they would rally around Simeon, forming a bodyguard of steel. Whatever the cost it was their job to protect him and even Malaki was prepared to give his life to keep the battle mage alive.

  Slowly the Possessed drew closer. In the cold light of the moon Malaki could see their skin, ashen grey and blotched with bruise-black markings. Closer and he could see their eyes, like orbs of wet bone and filled with malice. They knew that he was afraid and the knowledge made them stronger.

  This same terrible realisation was repeated all along the line of the cliffs as people came face to face with the Possessed. How could they win? How could they possibly win?

  Malaki turned back to look at Simeon but the old battle mage seemed to be lost in concentration then he bowed his head and Malaki felt a strange sensation in his chest, a prickling light that seemed to flood his body and surge up into his mind. He found the fear lifting and turned back to face the enemy.

  This then was the power of a battle mage, to give back to men the hope and courage that the enemy would otherwise take from them. Then, away to the right, Malaki heard the emissary’s voice.

  ‘Archers, ready...’

  Malaki held his breath. The Possessed were almost at the foot of the low cliff, moving forward with slow deliberation. Then, with a sudden rush, they charged forward. Malaki heard the emissary call, ‘Loose!’ and a hail of arrows shot down from the cliffs.

  *

  Bryna Godwin watched as the arrow leapt from her bow. It struck one of the Possessed in the chest and the shaft splintered as the arrow failed to pierce its breastplate. Within a second she had another arrow ready but her hands were shaking so badly that she could not set it to the string. That first volley had checked the initial charge of the Possessed but it did not stop them. Many of the arrows had found their mark, stabbing into arm and leg, but still the Possessed came on.

  In that moment Bryna Godwin learned two things.

  The first was that pain and injury were not enough to stop the Possessed.

  The second was that she was nowhere near as brave as she thought she was.

  For several frantic seconds she tried to nock her arrow, while from the corner of her eye she could see the Possessed getting closer, clambering over the rocks of the low, sloping cliff.

  Finally the arrow gave a little tick as it clicked onto the string and Bryna raised her bow. She saw a group of the Possessed climbing up towards her. Two of them fell back, pierced by many arrows but three came on. They were Sciritae, the light infantry of the Ferocian army and they moved with frightening speed. They looked up at the young girl with a terrifying hunger in their eyes and Bryna’s shot went wide. She reached for another arrow but one of the Possessed had gained a narrow shelf near the top of the cliff and Bryna recoiled as it tried to vault up the last few feet to reach her.

  There was a twang from beside her and the Sciritae fell back with an arrow in its face. Bryna glanced to her side to see ‘Old Man Reese,’ a wizened old man with only one eye.

  ‘Slow your breathing,’ said Reese in a voice like an old door creaking. ‘Aim for the face or throat if you can.’

  He loosed a second arrow and the next Sciritae toppled back with an arrow in its throat. The third was scrambling over the edge of the rise when a young spearmen rushed forward and began stabbing downwards. It was their job to protect the archers if the Possessed got too close.

  ‘They can be stopped,’ creaked old Man Reese. ‘You just have to keep on shooting.’

  He did not smile. He did not even look friendly but Bryna found his words comforting beyond belief. With a concerted effort she calmed her breathing and nocked an arrow to the string. She looked up to find a target just as the young spearman cried out. Two more Possessed had lunged forward and grabbed the spearman’s ankles.

  Acting on impulse Bryna slung her bow and reached down to help him. She grabbed the first things she could reach, the shoulder of his jerkin and a handful of his thick black hair. Being so close to the Possessed was terrifying and Bryna could feel her mind becoming distant with fear. She could smell the stench of their rotting bodies and she flinched from the searing heat that seemed to emanate from them. She felt as if the world was tumbling into chaos.

  And this was only the vanguard.

  Beside her Old Man Reese pulled a long knife from his belt and began hacking at the Possessed. He had almost severed the creature’s arm when a Ferocian blade stabbed up into his belly. The old man gave a wheezing cry and pitched forward over the cliff. Beside herself with fear Bryna strained to keep her grip on the young spearman. Part of her mind was screaming to let go, to fall back before she too felt a hot blade sliding into her belly but she could not. The thought of the Possessed pulling this young man to his death was just too awful. She could hear his desperate pleas as he tried to pull himself free.

  Bryna pulled with all her strength but just then the Possessed yanked him down and the young spearman disappeared from view. The last thing that Bryna saw was the expression of horror in his eyes. And then he was gone.

  Hands pulled Bryna back from the edge of the cliff as more spearmen came to repel the Possessed but it was too late. Bryna looked down at her hands. The left was open and empty while the right still held a bloody clump of the young man’s hair. Feeling suddenly vague and distant Bryna crawled away from the fighting. Behind her she heard the horrible commotion of battle, the clash of steel, the snarls of the enemy and the screams of pain. The battle had only just begun and already it was too much.

  Bryna Godwin curled up in the shadow of a boulder and began to weep.

  *

  Malaki felt sick with anticipation. To either side he could see soldiers fighting to keep the enemy from reaching the higher ground, but the Possessed seemed to be avoiding the area around Simeon. Looking along the cliffs Malaki could see places where the Possessed were attacking on mass. The archers to his right had suffered a heavy attack and he edged forward hoping to catch a glimpse of Bryna.

  ‘Hold your position,’ said one of the men beside him and it was only then that Malaki realised he had moved out of the line. Suitably chastened he glanced back at Simeon but the old man’s brow was creased in a frown, his face moving back and forth as if he could sense the approach of some new impending danger.

  Then, quite suddenly, the Possessed stopped fighting and withdrew from the cliffs, fading like wraiths into the cold moonlit night.

  Malaki followed the line of their retreat and away down in the valley he saw a greater spread of darkness with a deeper shadow burning at its heart. Here then was the reason they had fled their homes. Here was the embodiment of the evil that threatened all of humankind.

  A demon from the seventh plane of hell.

  *

  Even before the shadow of it appeared in the valley Falco felt the approach of the demon. From his slightly elevated position he could see the line of the army strung out along the cliffs, shifting nervously, glancing back to see if they had permission to flee.

  Falco pitied them.

  To see their loved ones facing an eternity of suffering and to know that they did
not have the courage to save them. They were indeed pitiable but they were not alone. The intangible glow of Simeon’s presence spread across the valley. Although they might not know it, the army of Caer Dour was bathed in it, suffused by it.

  Falco gazed down at the figure of Simeon, the man who had been both master and father to him. Wracked with age and disfigurement, Falco could not imagine how anyone so diminished in body could yet remain so strong. He turned to look at the people who lay behind him, the sick and the injured, the children and the old. They too could feel the cloak of Simeon’s faith. They did not understand it but still it gave them comfort.

  A battle mage stood with them.

  Surely there was hope yet.

  *

  The demon stopped at the mouth of the valley. To its eyes the world of humans appeared weak and fragile, a thin veneer over the greater realm from which it came. This was a place to be defiled, a place to fill with suffering and despair. This was its mission and it was an easy one.

  There was but one thing that gave it pause, the presence of a soul that did not quail in fear. There, in the midst of armoured flesh, a Defiant. The only thing of humankind that could challenge the demons of the Possessed.

  The demon paused, holding in check the rabid appetites of its minions. It paused while it gauged the strength of its adversary. And then it smiled.

  The Defiant was old and withered, a shadow of strength that once was great.

  It smiled, a gesture which on its unholy features was more animal snarl than any expression of pleasure. It smiled and a drop of black saliva dripped from its massive jaws, the hot leathery skin drawing back from fangs that shone like pitted lead and yet were harder than any tempered steel.

  It smiled and brought its army on.

  *

  Simeon relaxed as he felt the demon withdraw its gaze. It had taken all his will to conceal his strength from the creature’s hellish mind. Let it think that he was old and weak. It would learn its error soon enough, and that might just give them a chance. The demon’s strength was terrifying, both physical and mental. No wonder it had broken through the Illician defences.

  Simeon felt the urge to turn to the west, to look in the direction from which help might come but he clenched his jaw against the temptation. He must bury such hope. The demon would perceive it as a weakness and it would be right.

  He was the only thing that could save the people now.

  *

  Falco watched as Bryna was brought to join the sick and injured. It was deeply saddening to see such spirit reduced to a trembling wreck of nerves. He tried not to stare as Heçamede drew her gently to the fire.

  ‘Sit here,’ said the healer. ‘I’ll find you something to drink.’

  Falco was about to look away when he saw the young boy Tarran run up with one of his friends. Tarran was holding Bryna’s bow, while his friend clutched her quiver, still full of arrows.

  Tarran laid the short, recurved bow across Bryna’s lap while his friend stood the quiver beside her. Bryna gazed down at the bow as if she had never seen it before. Her eyes flitted to the quiver of arrows before rising to look at the youngsters. Her expression was dull and distant but then she focussed on the boys and began to cry.

  The younger boy found the experience too distressing and ran away, but Tarran stepped forward and laid his hand on Bryna’s knee.

  ‘It’s all right, mistress,’ he said. ‘The army of Toulwar is on its way to save us.’

  Bryna’s crying showed no sign of lessening and Tarran’s conviction seemed to waver. He stood there uncertainly until Fossetta appeared beside him.

  ‘Come away now,’ she said. ‘Go and find your mother.’ Gently she turned the young boy and sent him on his way. For a moment she watched him go then she turned to look down at Falco who looked dreadful.

  ‘You should rest.’

  Falco nodded. He had found great satisfaction in helping out but he was still incredibly weak and the pain in his chest and shoulder still burned. Turning away from Bryna he raised his eyes to the west, gazing up at the cliffs in the direction of Toulwar. He was just wondering if Tarran might be right when the night was split by a piercing shriek.

  ‘The dark angel’ whispered Fossetta gazing into the sky.

  They could not see the hellish creature but they knew it was up there. The shrill cry of the lesser demon was answered by a bellowing roar that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The demon had issued its challenge. The battle for the soul of Caer Dour had begun.

  19

  Simeon

  The Possessed surged forward like a dark wave of steel and rotting flesh. First came the lightly armoured Peltae, or Pelts. Armed with short javelins and long knives, these were the skirmishers of the Ferocian army. They swarmed up the cliffs with rapid jerky movements. The speed of their attack caught the defenders by surprise but the warriors of Caer Dour stood firm.

  The Pelts struck at the defenders and many fell but the line held. Next came the main body of the Ferocian army, the Sciritae. They came with shields raised against the arrows that stabbed down at them. The Possessed had been stripped of their humanity and robbed of their own volition, but they were not mindless and they were controlled by a demon which, for all its evil, was still shrewd and cunning. Quickly the Sciritae stormed the low cliffs and the fighting began in earnest and Malaki was in the thick of it.

  Somehow he had lost his helm and now he twisted as a Ferocian blade stabbed towards his ribs. He threw up his shield as a second blow arced down from above. Two Sciritae were pressing him hard and he stumbled backwards over the rocky ground. He blocked several attacks but as the Possessed warriors continued to push forward, Malaki lost his footing and fell with one of the Sciritae landing on top of him.

  Having dropped his sword he was now trapped beneath his own shield with the weight of the Sciritae bearing down on his chest. Its face was just inches from his, snarling over the rim of his shield, while the second struck down at Malaki’s head.

  Malaki lurched to one side as the sword threw up a shower of sparks from the rocks beside his head. Meanwhile he grappled the sword hand of the Sciritae still lying on top of him. He was suddenly aware of the terrible heat emanating from the enemy and as the fear grew so did the heat. Panic surged in his belly as all his fighting experience seemed to count for nothing, but then the Sciritae on top of him was thrown aside, kicked in the face by an armoured boot. Several figures forced the other Sciritae back and Malaki looked up to see a large man standing over him. It was Marcus, the man from the first rearguard, the one who had spoken so coldly to Falco.

  ‘Try to stay on your feet,’ said Marcus. He pressed Malaki’s sword back into his hand and then he was gone, returning to the fray with the two other men at his side.

  Fighting raged all about them and for a moment Malaki just stood there. This wasn’t how he had imagined battle would be. This was no contest of skill. This was chaos. He felt sick and tearful but more than anything else he just felt young. For all his size and strength he was a boy pretending to be a man.

  But then, just yards to his right he saw a man stumble to a slash across his thigh. The man dropped his guard and was about to die but somehow Malaki closed the distance between them and raised his shield to block the blow. He did not even remember moving his feet but the sound of the Sciritae’s blade clanging against his shield broke the spell and he returned to the present.

  Sweeping his shield aside he brought his own sword round in a horizontal arc that glanced off the Sciritae’s armour. The creature raised its sword to attack but Malaki kicked the inside of its knee and rammed the rim of his shield into its throat. The Possessed warrior gave a strangled snarl before Malaki’s sword bit down into its neck.

  Black blood sprayed into the air and Malaki closed his eyes as the burning fluid splashed across his face. He spat the vile stuff from his lips and looked down at the man he had just saved.

  The man looked at him in awe.

  In the cold light
of the moon Malaki’s brown eyes looked black. One side of his face was slick with dark, oily blood. The other flared bright red with the birthmark that had cursed him as a child. Reaching out a hand Malaki pulled the injured man to his feet.

  ‘Go to the healers,’ he said.

  Still staring, the man just nodded then he turned and hobbled away to get his injured leg stitched up.

  Malaki was just turning back to the fight when horns sounded the call to rally. The men of the front line struggled to close their ranks while the warriors of Simeon’s bodyguard fell back into a defensive formation in front of the battle mage. Malaki found himself shoulder to shoulder with Marcus.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked the older man.

  ‘Kardakae,’ said Marcus. ‘Ferocian heavy infantry. The demon is trying to break through to Simeon.’

  Malaki nodded, surprised at how calm he felt, while Marcus glanced at him in surprise. It was no longer the good-natured boy from the forge who stood beside him.

  It was a man of Caer Dour.

  And strong.

  *

  Falco needed to rest but he could not tear his eyes away from the fighting. He saw brief flashes of blue light where the magi were trying to help, but their power was of little use in a battle and the clean line of defence began to look more ragged as small groups of the Possessed broke through to the higher ground.

  As horrific as it looked Falco longed to join the fight, but even the thought of it made his heart beat more quickly. His head grew fuzzy and his legs almost gave out. He might have fallen had Fossetta not reached out an arm to steady him.

  ‘I thought I told you to rest,’ she said, taking his weight and leading him over to a bed roll.

  ‘Now, stay there and rest.’

  Weariness flooded his body but as he lay back Falco saw shapes moving on the cliffs high above them. He raised himself up on one elbow.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fossetta following the line of his gaze.

  In the moonlight they could see figures scaling the cliffs, trying to escape the valley. The climb was treacherous but there was many a nimble youngster who could manage it. Some of them had almost reached the top, nearly a hundred feet above them.