Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘The fools,’ breathed Fossetta.

  ‘You can’t blame them,’ said Falco. ‘Some of them might make it through.’

  As they watched they saw two more figures begin the climb. Falco recognised one of them, and by the sudden tone of her voice, so did Fossetta.

  ‘Tarran Dahoolie! Come down here at once!’

  Fossetta strode to the foot of the cliff and grabbed the young boy’s ankle before he could climb out of reach.

  ‘Does your mother know what you’re up to?’

  Tarran hung his head.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ said Fossetta still holding onto his sleeve.

  ‘But the others are nearly safe,’ grumbled Tarran.

  The three of them looked up and it was true. Four of the climbing figures were almost there. They were within a few feet of the cliff top when Falco felt a shadow fall across his heart.

  A moment later a real shadow rippled across the rock face.

  ‘Dark angel!’ someone cried and suddenly everyone’s attention was fixed on the cliffs and the demonic shape stooping down towards it.

  *

  Bryna heard the cry of alarm but it seemed to come from a long way off. She had no idea how she had come to be sitting beside people who muttered and moaned in pain. Her bow and quiver were lying on the ground at her feet and in her hand was a clump of bloody hair. A feeling of revulsion swept over her and she made to drop it but somehow she could not bring herself to let it go.

  ‘Dark angel!’

  The cry went up again and Bryna raised her eyes for the first time. She saw people standing and staring, pointing up to the cliffs that towered over them. As her eyes adjusted she could make out people clinging to the rock far above the ground. Then she saw a shape in the sky, a winged shape, dark and frightening.

  As if in a dream she saw the winged creature swoop towards the cliff and pluck one of the clinging figures from the rock. For a moment it held the figure’s weight before letting it fall towards the watching crowds. On its way down the figure struck the rocks, flopping and tumbling like a doll made from rags.

  The body of the fifteen year old boy landed just twenty feet from Bryna. His clothes were torn and his arms and legs were strangely twisted but his face was unmarked except for a single bead of blood running down across his brow.

  It took Bryna a moment to realise he was dead.

  There was a scream and Bryna looked up. Another figure had been torn from the cliff and cast down onto the rocky ground. The remaining figures now began a frantic retreat, desperate to get down from the cliffs before the dark angel could pull them to their deaths.

  Bryna looked down at her hands then carefully, almost tenderly, she tucked the bloody clump of hair into her jerkin.

  *

  ‘Light preserve us,’ sobbed Fossetta, the awfulness of the scene was too much for her. She grabbed hold of Tarran and pressed his face into her apron to prevent him from witnessing any more horror.

  Falco’s jaw ached with fury. For all his weakness his hands were clenched in bone crushing fists. Like everyone else he felt completely helpless. Even as they watched they saw the dark angel closing in on another victim. The young boy was backing down the cliff with reckless speed but there was no way he could escape.

  Talons outstretched, the dark angel was reaching for him when something shot into its side, just below the joint of its wing. With a piercing cry it lurched away from the boy. Hovering in the air it turned its gaze on the people standing at the base of the cliff. Its eyes seemed to fix on something or someone and it gave a terrifying scream. The scream seemed to promise pain and suffering but then...

  Thunk!

  An arrow took it squarely in the chest.

  The creature screamed again but this was a scream of pain and it beat its wings in an attempt to flee.

  Thunk... Thunk!

  Two more arrows found their mark and the dark angel fell from the sky. Its ash-grey wings flapping as it dropped like a stone.

  In the silence that followed Falco turned to see Bryna Godwin standing a few yards behind him, bow in hand, another arrow already on the string.

  Slowly she walked towards them. She gave them a brief nod then looked down at Tarran who had his face buried in Fossetta’s skirts. Slowly the young boy emerged and Bryna placed a gentle hand on his tear-stained cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The army of Toulwar is on its way to save us.’

  There was no humour in her voice. It was as if she did not remember Tarran speaking the exact same words to her. She looked him in the eye, tousled his hair and turned away to rejoin the army.

  *

  As gaps appeared in the line of battle so the units of cavalry came into their own. The Possessed forced a breach to the right of Simeon but the emissary’s cavalry were well placed to meet it. With a sudden charge they forced the Possessed from the higher ground and slowly the infantry was able to reform the line. The emissary had just given the order to withdraw when he heard the horns sounding the call to rally.

  Wheeling his horse about he stared towards Simeon. In the cold light of the moon he could see a solid block of dark warriors marching straight for the old battle mage. They were Kardakae, the shock troops of Ferocia, and behind them a towering bestial figure, all darkness and searing heat.

  The demon was making its move.

  The emissary looked at the mass of dark warriors driving forwards. Even the heavily armoured troops of Simeon’s bodyguard could not hold off that assault. They needed cavalry support.

  ‘Cavalry, to me!’ he called above the tumult. ‘Lancers to the front.’

  He was impressed by the way the mounted troops responded and within moments they were back in formation and ready to charge once more. He brought them forward slowly, waiting for the Kardakae to gain the rise. In the distance he could see Lord Cadell’s cavalry forming up on the left flank. They too must have spotted the danger. The emissary allowed himself a grim smile.

  If they could strike the Kardakae on both sides...

  He raised his sword, gave the order to charge and a hundred horses surged forward with a hundred more coming from the opposite side of the valley.

  *

  Malaki watched as the Kardakae forced their way onto the higher ground and drove directly towards Simeon. Clad in black armour these huge warriors smashed through the lighter troops on the front line, but the men in Simeon’s bodyguard had been chosen for a reason. To a man they were big and strong and covered in the best armour that Caer Dour had to offer. They would not easily fold and now Malaki stood with them. Flanked by the more experienced men he swallowed hard as the Kardakae advanced but still he raised his shield and gripped his sword. No matter their size and strength, they were the enemy and he would fight them.

  Behind him he felt a sudden breeze as if a fierce squall had blown up around Simeon. Glancing back he saw the old battle mage standing there, sword in his left hand while his right was balled into a tight and trembling fist. He was frowning as if his hollow eyes were tightly shut. His entire body was wrought with tension but his hair flew up around him as if a torrent of air was rushing up from the ground at his feet. As he tore his eyes away Malaki had a sudden sense of just how dangerous Simeon could be. He was gathering energy to himself, energy that was about to be unleashed.

  Malaki had no more time to watch, the Kardakae were upon them and he barely had the chance to brace himself before they struck. He raised his shield as a heavy blade swung down towards him. The impact sent shock waves through his entire body but he managed to stay on his feet. A series of heavy blows almost drove him to his knees but then Malaki caught his balance and struck back.

  With all his strength he struck at the Kardakae’s helm. The attack drew no blood but it must have dazed the Possessed warrior and before it could recover Malaki rammed the rim of his shield into the face of its helm before hacking down at his opponent’s leg. The Kardakae staggered forward as something in its knee gave way and Malak
i thrust his sword into the gap between its helm and the neck of its breastplate. The powerful warrior fell at his feet but then Malaki was forced to leap back as another took its place.

  Simeon’s bodyguard was being driven back and there was nothing they could do to prevent it. Despite the relentless brutality of the Kardakae’s assault Malaki continued to defend himself, but then a dark blade skipped off his shoulder guard and glanced off his temple. Stumbling back Malaki thought he heard the command to ‘retreat to flank’ but he was too stunned to respond. Then someone grabbed hold of his armour and hauled him aside.

  Struggling to stay on his feet Malaki turned to see that the men of bodyguard had retreated to the sides. The Kardakae advanced towards Simeon and not a single man of Caer Dour stood between them. Blinking blood from his eyes Malaki started forward but someone caught hold of him.

  ‘Stay back!’ screamed a voice in his ear, but Malaki could not bear to see the old battle mage standing there undefended. Breaking free, he was about to attack when Simeon thrust out his hand and a ferocious burst of energy slammed into the Possessed. The powerful Kardakae were blown apart as a great hole was blasted in their ranks.

  ‘Now!’ called the voice in his ear and the warriors of the bodyguard charged forward to re-engage the Possessed. At the same moment the cavalry of Lord Cadell and the emissary struck the Kardakae from both sides.

  Malaki was carried along by the momentum of the charge but he had little idea of what was going on. As good a fighter as he was, he had never been a part of the army, never spent hours repeating drills and exercises in preparation for battle. The older men responded instantly to commands whereas Malaki felt as if he were taking part in a dance for which he barely knew the steps.

  However, the impact of the combined attacks stopped the Kardakae in their tracks and the tide of battle seemed to be turning in their favour, but then Malaki became aware of a shadow rising up at the edge of the cliffs. A new wave of fear seemed to ripple along the front line then Malaki saw something fly through the air above the heads of the embattled troops. He only caught a glimpse and it took him a moment to register what it was. It was the upper half of a man’s body, no legs, just a torso with arms flailing as it cart wheeled through the air.

  *

  The combined cavalry charges had almost split the Kardakae in two and the emissary was at the heart of the fighting. Beside him he saw one of his mounted knights go down, his horse literally cut out from under him. But they had done it. They had broken the momentum of the Ferocian shock troops and gained the advantage. But then a huge shape climbed up onto the higher ground and any glimmer of hope was extinguished.

  Standing fully ten feet tall the demon stood on two back-bent legs like those of a monstrous goat. Its powerful torso was of human form, the muscles clearly defined by the ruddy glow of its internal heat. Its head was more akin to a bull’s with great downward curving horns and teeth like those of a ravening hound, and its silvery eyes shone like molten lead.

  Rooted to the spot with fear, the men of the front line froze before this abomination of the underworld, while the emissary simply stared at the demon in horror. He had seen demons before of course but the sheer force of their presence always came as a shock and he wondered what they could possibly do to stop it. He had never heard of cavalry bringing down a demon but still they had to try. Simeon’s magical attack had been surprisingly powerful but he was aging and blind. He could not fight like a battle mage in his prime. It was down to them to keep him alive for as long as possible and if that meant attacking the demon then so be it.

  He gave the command to disengage and noticed that Lord Cadell had already done the same. The cavalry would form up and charge again but this time they would choose a different target. This time they would aim directly for the demon.

  20

  Great Soul

  The army of Caer Dour was on the verge of collapse. Only Simeon’s presence prevented them from throwing down their weapons in despair. At the centre of the line, the men of Simeon’s bodyguard were struggling to hold the Kardakae at bay. Without cavalry support the dark warriors were pushing them back once more, driving ever closer to the battle mage. To either side the cavalry had withdrawn. Their numbers had been depleted during the charge on the Kardakae, but now they wheeled about looking for a line of attack to the demon.

  On the left flank, Lord Cadell’s route to the demon was almost clear, while on the right the emissary found his way blocked by a mass of Sciritae. If there was going to be an assault on the demon it would be Lord Cadell who led it.

  The focus of the fighting was now centred on the demon and the man who stood against it. On the right side of the valley a small group of Sciritae broke through the line and sprinted up the valley towards the people. Fortunately a unit of archers were stationed nearby and the Possessed were brought down before they got too far. However, one of them fell into a shallow gully and disappeared from view. An arrow had pierced its leg, but that was not the kind of injury to stop one of the Possessed. The archers turned their attention back to the front line and no one noticed as the injured Sciritae got back to its feet and continued up the gully, a gully that led directly towards those people in the care of Heçamede and Fossetta.

  *

  Falco looked on in horror as cracks began to appear in the line of defence. The fear had risen to a new pitch and Falco turned to look at the people cowering beside Heçamede and Fossetta. Beside him were a number of soldiers from the front line. Many of the injured had been patched up and returned to the fight but these man lay silent or groaning softly, the extent of their injuries too great for them to rise. He saw Julius Merryweather raise himself up on one elbow as he lay beside his son. Tobias seemed agitated and Merryweather did his best to calm him but the boy refused to quieten down. Barely able to sit up he gestured urgently towards Falco with a wavering arm.

  ‘Ballymudge!’ he slurred as if trying to warn Falco.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Merryweather.

  ‘No!’ insisted Tobias, still pointing in Falco’s direction. ‘Bad!’

  Falco frowned at the determined note in Tobias’s voice.

  And then he felt it too... an evil presence behind him as if something from beyond the grave was emerging from the shallow gully that opened up nearby. He turned just in time to see the Sciritae rise into view not fifteen feet away.

  There was a collective gasp of shock from the people behind him, closely followed by a flurry of activity. Julius Merryweather struggled to his feet, snatching up his walking stick before moving to stand protectively over his son, while Fossetta grabbed a long handled frying pan from beside the fire. As for Falco, he moved slowly to one side, reaching down to take up a sword from one of the injured soldiers. He did not take his eyes off the Sciritae which looked at him with a kind of wariness.

  Straightening up Falco stared into the creature’s bone-white eyes. For a moment the Sciritae followed his movement and then the expression in its eyes changed from uncertainty to hate and it charged forward.

  Falco saw the creature surge towards him. He saw its blade rise up for a downward strike. He knew what he needed to do, but the sword in his hand felt impossibly heavy. As a young boy he had been every bit as good as Malaki, but now his body was too weak to obey the commands flashing through his mind. He barely had time to raise his sword before the Ferocian blade was slashing down towards his head. He staggered from the blow and almost dropped his sword, but somehow he held on. He parried another attack, but then the Sciritae smashed him in the face with its shield and Falco’s knees buckled beneath him as the creature moved in for the kill.

  For a split second Falco had a vision of it dead, cut down by an arc of incandescent fire, but the power of the vision terrified him more than the thought of death and so he only stared. He saw the blade begin to fall but one of the injured soldiers crawled forward and grabbed the Sciritae’s ankle and the attack went wide. The creature killed the man with a stab to the chest but th
en a stone clanged into the side of its helm, quickly followed by several more.

  Shaking off the dead man’s hands the Sciritae started forward, raising its shield as people pelted it with stones. Still on his knees Falco swung his sword at the creature’s legs but it blocked the attack with ease and would have killed him had Julius Merryweather not smacked it round the head with his stout walking stick. The Possessed swung at the portly man and Merryweather cried out as the blade cut a gash in his belly.

  The Sciritae turned back to finish Falco just as a large frying pan slammed into its face. Staggering from the blow the creature struck out again and Fossetta dropped the pan as its blade slashed her upper arm. The Sciritae would have killed all three of them but more people rushed forward. Two men and three women threw themselves at the hellish creature, wrestling it to the floor. The creature fought with a frenzy and two more people were injured before it was finally killed by a large rock that caved in the side of its helm.

  Gasping for breath Falco struggled to his feet and staggered over to Fossetta.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said the housekeeper, gripping her upper arm as blood seeped between her fingers.

  They turned to look at Merryweather.

  ‘Julius!’ gasped Fossetta when she saw the dark stain on the ground.

  The large man was down on one knee, a bloody hand clutching at his belly.

  ‘Heçamede!’’ called Fossetta.

  She helped Merryweather down onto his back. His normally red cheeks looked deathly pale in the moonlight.

  Falco collapsed to the ground beside Merryweather staring at the large wound that gaped just above the waistband of his trousers. Feeling sick from the exertion of the fight he reached forward and laid his hand over the dreadful injury, trying to stem the bleeding.

  ‘Ah, Falco, my boy,’ said Merryweather like a man waking from sleep. ‘That’s better. That’s much better.’