Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Blades,’ said the big youth. ‘And I thought you were skinny before the battle.’

  ‘Up yours, smithy!’ said Falco as he flopped back onto his pillows.

  Malaki perched on the edge of the bed while Falco made himself more comfortable. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Knackered.’

  Malaki smiled but then his gaze shifted to the burns on Falco’s neck and shoulder. ‘That still looks sore.’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt like it used to,’ said Falco, raising a hand to touch the raw-looking skin.

  ‘Heçamede’s been keeping an eye on you. And the healers here are pretty good too.’

  The skin had been treated with some kind of ointment and Falco caught the smell of comfrey as he rubbed the herbal residue between his thumb and fingers.

  ‘And how’s the chest?’

  Falco was suddenly surprised that he had not noticed before. His chest felt clear, with only a vague hint of discomfort. He breathed deeply and Malaki nodded in appreciation.

  ‘Heçamede says you should be fine. You might feel some tightness and maybe a burning sensation and headaches if you try to do too much. But apart from that she thinks you’re pretty much back to normal.’

  Falco raised an eyebrow at his friend’s detailed prognosis.

  ‘They didn’t always shut the door properly,’ said Malaki, blushing.

  ‘And how are you? How’s Bryna.’

  Malaki’s blush deepened but there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his eyes. ‘She’s well, considering.’ He gazed down at his hands. ‘Bit quiet, cries a lot. Like the rest of us. No one’s quite the same as they used to be.’

  Falco understood what his friend was saying. This was the first battle that they had known but it was also their first experience of the Possessed. The reality of their world had been shaken and they would never be the same again.

  ‘Still bossy, though?’

  ‘Hell, yes!’ said Malaki and the two boys laughed.

  They talked for a while and Falco learned about everything that had happened since the end of the battle, how they had buried the people in a communal grave, with Simeon in a separate plot facing the mouth of the valley, watching over them in death as he had done in life. He told Falco how the emissary would not let them burn the Possessed until words had been spoken over the piles of stinking corpses.

  ‘He said they were just as much a victim as anyone else who fell,’ said Malaki.

  Falco learned just how close he had come to death and how it was only the healing powers of the battle mage that saved him. Finally he learned how the army of Toulwar had arrived just two days later and led them gently down to the city.

  ‘And what about Bellius,’ asked Falco. ‘Did he make it through?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Malaki. ‘Even managed to make himself look like a hero. Like he’d risked everything to come and get help.’

  ‘But he knows the truth and it won’t be easy for them, knowing they fled to save their own skins.’

  ‘That’s not going to bother a tosser like Bellius,’ said Malaki. ‘He’s probably in Wrath already, lording it up with his ‘royal cousins’.’

  They talked about the people of Clemoncé and the city of Toulwar, which sat on the shore of a great lake surrounded by forest. Falco was just beginning a second round of questions when there was a knock on the door and one of the orderlies leaned into the room.

  ‘Pardon, my lords. Two men to see Master Danté.’

  Falco gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Sir William Chevalier of Eltz and Dominic Ginola, battle mage from the southern city of Ruaen.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Falco, trying to sit more upright in his bed. He felt suddenly nervous. He would be pleased to see the emissary again but he wondered how another battle mage would react knowing that he was Aquila Danté’s son. Trying to feign some semblance of dignity he watched as the two men entered the room.

  The emissary’s familiar face was marked by several newly healed cuts and Falco noticed a slight limp but apart from that he seemed fine. The other man was just as tall with dark, shoulder-length hair and a lean face only marred by a nose that had clearly been broken several times.

  The emissary walked straight up to Falco and shook his hand warmly.

  ‘You’re looking better,’ he said with a smile.

  There was something about the emissary’s presence that spoke of security and continuity. Falco gave a shy smile and turned as the battle mage held out a bottle.

  ‘In Clemoncé it is customary to bring a gift to those in healing.’ The man’s voice was deep, with the tuneful fluidity of the Clemoncéan dialect.

  Falco took the bottle and turned it to look at the brown paper label, which bore the name ‘Marceneu’ and a woodcut picture of grapes.

  ‘From the vineyards of Ruaen,’ said the battle mage. ‘It might help you sleep.’

  Feeling deeply self-conscious Falco mumbled a few words of thanks and handed the bottle to Malaki who placed it on the table beside his bed.

  There followed something of an awkward silence.

  ‘Malaki says you saved me after the battle,’ said Falco.

  The battle mage inclined his head. ‘I did what I could. And what you did was no small thing,’ he went on. ‘There are few that can walk into the storm of a demon’s mind.’

  Falco lowered his eyes.

  ‘Simeon was like a father to me,’ he said as if this explained everything.

  There was no false modesty in Falco’s voice. He simply did not realise just how extraordinary his actions had been.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked the emissary.

  ‘I’ll go on to Wrath,’ said Falco. ‘I would like to train as a healer. If they will have me.’

  Malaki and the emissary laughed but the battle mage just frowned in confusion.

  ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’ asked Falco, confused and embarrassed by their reactions.

  ‘If you go to Wrath it will not be to train as a healer,’ said the emissary.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘A battle mage,’ said Malaki and Falco stared at his friend as if he were speaking gibberish. ‘It seems Tobias has a gift for picking them out, even as a four year old child.’

  Falco continued to stare at him blankly.

  ‘Ballymudge,’ said Malaki.

  ‘That’s what he calls me,’ said Falco as if this explained nothing. ‘That’s what he’s always called me.’

  ‘He calls me the same thing,’ said the battle mage.

  Falco’s expression hardened.

  ‘You want me to become a battle mage. Like my father?’

  He looked at Malaki as if to say, ‘You should know better.’

  ‘You have the potential to become a battle mage,’ said the emissary. ‘Only time will tell if that is to be your destiny.’ He placed a reassuring hand on Falco’s shoulder. ‘Now, try to get some rest. In a few days time we will be leaving for Wrath.’

  Falco nodded distractedly as the two men took their leave. They paused at the doorway looking back at the thin figure lying in the bed.

  ‘The magi will never agree to train him,’ said the battle mage.

  ‘Maybe they shouldn’t,’ replied the emissary and the battle mage looked at him sharply.

  ‘The war is going badly. Another Aquila Danté would certainly help.’

  ‘Not if he turns against us too.’

  The battle mage frowned and looked at Falco with an appraising eye.

  ‘And will he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the emissary and with that he quietly closed the door to Falco’s room.

  ‘Will he turn against us?’

  The Queen would ask him the same question and he would give her the same answer. William Chevalier had a gift for seeing into the hearts of men but in the case of Falco Danté he simply did not know. All he knew was that when everyone else had been laid low by the demon, this thin and sickly boy had walked into the
very face of evil. If he could do that at the lowest ebb of his strength what could he do at its height?

  Falco was far too weak to attempt the Rite of Assay, and Dominic was right, the magi would never agree to train him but if the Queen was to ask his opinion then he would say yes, Falco Danté should be trained as a battle mage. The only question that then remained was how.

  23

  A Meeting of Minds

  Falco was lying in bed. It was after midnight and he could not sleep. Soon they would be leaving for Wrath. He was trying to picture the capital city when there was a quiet knock on his door. He sat up as one of the orderlies entered his room, a brass candle holder held in the crook of his finger.

  ‘Pardon, Master Danté,’ said the young man. ‘Your presence is requested on the north tower.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The battle mage, Dominic Ginola.’

  Surprised and suddenly nervous, Falco swung out of bed, dressed quickly and grabbed the sheepskin coat that lay on a chair beside the door. Five minutes later he emerged from the stairwell of the north tower. The battle mage stood in the centre of the wide open space, a small torch burning in his hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Falco gave him a self-conscious nod of acknowledgment.

  ‘There’s someone who would like to meet you.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Falco but the battle mage did not answer.

  He just smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Falco’s shoulder then he crossed the open space and disappeared down the dimply lit stairwell. More intrigued than ever Falco pulled his coat close against the cold autumn air. Clouds drifted across a starry sky and far below he could see a scattering of lights in the sleeping city. He checked again to make sure he was alone, wondering who might want to speak to him in the middle of the night.

  Before he had the chance to get impatient he felt a presence, not from the stairwell, but from the sky above. He looked up and there, against the starry sky, was a shape, a winged shape descending quickly towards him.

  Falco took several steps back as the dragon alighted on the paving stones. It landed with exquisite composure, no sound, just a powerful gust of wind as its massive wings arrested its decent. Falco’s heart was hammering in his chest and yet he felt no fear. The dragon stood five feet at the shoulder but its head rose high above him. It looked down upon him and Falco was transfixed by the intensity of its gaze. Even in the darkness he could see the sheen of its golden yellow scales. It was magnificent, a creature of power and grace.

  For a moment the two beings looked at each other and Falco had the sense that he was not looking at an animal but a creature of intelligence and nobility. It was strange but he felt as if he were in the presence of a knight. But there was something in the dragon’s demeanour that spoke of discomfort and Falco had the sudden revelation that the dragon was nervous.

  As they continued to look at each other Falco found images surfacing in his mind. He saw the black dragon in the Castle of the Winds and felt again the sense of power, hatred and grief. He remembered the horror of seeing it fall; the shame he felt at his part in its death. Then he looked at the dragon standing before him and was amazed to see the same emotions shining in its eyes.

  Shame and grief.

  The dragon grieved for the loss of its brother but it was also ashamed. It could not comprehend how one of its own kind could ever come to harm a human being and it was looking to him for answers. Falco shook his head. He had none.

  Feeling as if he had somehow let the dragon down Falco bowed his head. For a moment the dragon looked down at him then it moved closer and lowered its own head until its scaled brow came to rest against Falco’s forehead.

  Falco was overwhelmed. This was so different to his encounter with the black dragon in the Castle of the Winds. Despite the yellow dragon’s size he felt no sense of danger. Somehow he knew that he could trust this creature absolutely. With a liberating sense of abandon he closed his eyes and opened his mind as the dragon’s scent wafted around him. It was a strange and complex smell like fresh leather, hot metal and pine trees.

  He could hear the deep flow of her breathing and, just below the reach of hearing, he could feel the percussive beat of her mighty heart. Slowly he reached up to touch her. The dragon’s scales felt hard like enamelled steel and yet, even in the bitter chill of midnight, they were warm. He pressed his hand against the dragon’s cheek and felt it move beneath his touch. She might be encased in armour but she was a creature of flesh and blood.

  Finally he removed his hand and the dragon raised her head. For another minute she looked down upon him then slowly she backed away and spread her wings. She bowed her head in a final gesture of respect then reared back on her hind legs and launched herself into the air. Falco swayed in the force of the downdraft and watched as the dragon lofted into the dark sky unaware that he was not the only one who saw it disappear into the night.

  *

  Across from the citadel two men looked out from a high window of the city’s mage tower. One was Morgan Saker, the other was the tower’s Veneratu, the Master of the Toulwarian magi.

  ‘Does he know?’ asked the Veneratu.

  ‘No,’ said Morgan Saker. His eyes fixed on the north tower of the citadel where the small figure of Falco Danté had now disappeared from view. ‘He was too young. He knows nothing.’

  The Veneratu seemed unconvinced.

  ‘The dragon paid him homage.’

  Morgan nodded slowly, wondering what such a show of respect might mean.

  The two men stared out from the balcony.

  ‘He must not be trained!’ said the Veneratu.

  ‘He would never endure the Rite of Assay.’

  ‘But if he did...’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘He would win the right to a summoning.’

  ‘We cannot allow that to happen.’

  ‘He might not form the same bond with his dragon,’ said Morgan. ‘His father took many years to grow so close.’

  ‘Are you willing to take the chance?’

  Morgan’s black eyes glinted in the darkness. He was not thinking of what might come to pass, he was thinking of what had gone before, of something that had happened when Falco was just a child. He remembered the small boy standing in the midst of the burning building and he remembered forging his way through the flames to save him. At the time he had considered it an act of compassion. Now he knew it for what it was, a moment of weakness that could lead to their ruin.

  ‘No,’ he said, in answer to the Veneratu’s question. ‘I am not.’

  ‘Then let us send word to our brothers in Wrath. Danté’s son is not to be trained, no matter what pressure the Queen might bring to bear.’

  Morgan nodded but his mind was still distracted. He found himself thinking of something Bellius Snidesson had said back in the town square of Caer Dour.

  ‘First the father and now the son.’

  Doubt gnawed at Saker’s heart. Why had he saved the child? It would have been so much easier to let him die, so much easier to kill him as they had killed his father. With a deep sigh Morgan followed the Veneratu from the balcony. They would summon a quintet to the chamber of discourse. It would take five mages several hours to send even a short message to the capital but that would be enough.

  By sunrise the magi of Wrath would be warned.

  Falco Danté must not become a battle mage.

  *

  Meredith Saker moved into the shadows as his father and the Veneratu swept along the corridor and disappeared from view. They were heading for the chamber of discourse at the heart of the tower. For several moments he stood staring after them, wondering what could be so important that they needed to send a message at this late hour.

  He turned back to the window and looked across to the north tower of the citadel. He too had witnessed Falco’s meeting with the dragon but unlike Falco it brought him no satisfaction. He felt only conflict in his heart and he could not escape the feeling that he
was spying on his father.

  But why?

  For as long as he could remember, there had been a shadow in his mind, a seed of doubt that told him all was not right in the world. In the Castle of the Winds, it had begun to grow. It had no form and he could not put a name to it but it had something to do with Falco Danté and his strange affinity with dragonkind.

  Meredith closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He would find no answers in vague suspicions. Instead he would employ the oldest of all magi disciplines - contemplation.

  Through contemplation the nature of any shadow could be unmasked.

  *

  Falco did not remember returning to his room. He did not remember getting into bed. All he could think of was the gentle pressure of the dragon’s head pressing against his own, the deep bellows of its breathing and the incredible warmth of its inner heat. All his life he had wanted to see a dragon, as if somehow it might help him understand his father’s death, and now he found that they too were looking for answers. But for now Falco was content. He had stood in the presence of something powerful and pure. The Possessed might threaten their world but they would not do so unopposed.

  Feeling a deep sense of peace Falco closed his eyes to sleep. In two days’ time they would leave Toulwar and set off on the road to Wrath.

  24

  The Great Possession

  After having woken, Falco recovered quickly. In an ideal world they would have given him more time to regain his strength but disturbing reports had been coming in about a growing sense of fear and even some sporadic attacks along the eastern border of Clemoncé, small forces of Possessed that appeared out of nowhere to attack in the night. The emissary seemed to find these reports deeply troubling.

  ‘It is a sign of the enemy’s influence,’ he told them one night as they sat together in the citadel’s dining hall. ‘The main battle front is still many miles from Clemoncé but as the shadow creeps closer cracks open up and the evil of the Possessed bleeds through.