Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Dragons... Magi... Possessed... The sea...

  Dragons... Magi... Possessed... The sea...

  Such was the rhythm of Falco’s thoughts. He could not imagine a body of water that seemed to go on forever but somehow he found the notion deeply comforting and so, by degrees, he fell asleep.

  25

  Journey’s End

  The west coast of Clemoncé possessed a wild and rugged beauty. The rich forests of the interior gave way to windswept hills of grass, gorse and bracken with just the occasional stand of trees, bowed and contorted by the relentless persuasion of the wind. But if it was the wind that painted this landscape it was the sea that carved it. From the towering cliffs and jagged rocks to the broad sweeps of soft white sand, everything was shaped by the sea and Falco never tired of looking at it. He gazed at it now as they rode along a hard-packed grassy path that followed the line of the cliffs.

  The morning air felt fresh and clean, just as it did in the mountains, but the wind that came off the sea was seasoned with salt. Falco could smell it on the breeze and taste it on his lips as he rode with Malaki and Bryna. They were nearing the end of their journey and their thoughts had turned to what would happen when they finally arrived in Wrath. The emissary had dropped back to join them and they took the opportunity to ply him with questions.

  ‘We don’t even know where we’ll be staying,’ said Bryna.

  ‘You’ll be housed in the academy barracks,’ said the emissary. ‘And then you’ll go through selection.’

  ‘I thought we’d already been selected,’ said Malaki and Falco smiled at the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Indeed you have,’ said the emissary. ‘But we still need to decide how to make best use of your skills.’

  ‘He makes a good stew,’ said Falco. ‘I’m sure they could use him in the kitchens.’

  It was a measure of Malaki’s nervousness that he did not retort with some quip of his own.

  ‘It’s an important job,’ said Falco relentlessly. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’

  The emissary laughed and even Bryna grinned at Falco’s teasing. She was still coming to terms with the humour of common folk and often found it difficult to tell when they were joking and when they were not. Early in the journey she had been appalled when they teased one of the cadets for pissing himself during the battle.

  ‘Why would they joke about such a thing?’ she had whispered to the emissary.

  ‘Why would they not?’ answered the emissary, smiling as he saw the young man’s embarrassment washed away in a wave of good humoured banter.

  Now Bryna looked sideways at Malaki waiting to see how he would react to Falco’s jest. Fortunately the emissary came to his rescue.

  ‘I’m sure he would make an excellent cook but I think Master de Vane’s destiny lies elsewhere.’

  Malaki cast Falco a withering look then smiled at Bryna who found herself strangely moved to realise that she was now included in their friendship.

  ‘At the academy you will be trained as officers,’ said the emissary in answer to Malaki’s question. ‘The selection process simply decides which units you will get to command. And of course, those wishing to become a knight will be invited to attempt the épreuve de force.’

  ‘Is that how you came to join the Adamanti?’ asked Falco.

  The emissary inclined his head modestly. ‘I was chosen in Illicia. But the process is just as demanding and not one I would care to repeat.’

  Falco and Bryna looked suitably daunted but Malaki’s chin came up as if he relished the opportunity to test his strength. He seemed about to ask another question when the cadet at the front of the line called out, his arm extended to point ahead of them.

  Rising up in his stirrups Falco saw a rider appear over the hill, surging down the slope and heading straight for the unmistakable figure of the emissary.

  ‘Sir William,’ said the man, bowing in the saddle, as he pulled up his horse beside them.

  The emissary inclined his head.

  ‘I was dispatched to find you, although I did not expect to encounter you so soon.’

  ‘The road has been clear and the weather kind,’ said the emissary.

  The rider nodded, glancing round at the people in the party. The glance was cursory but Falco could tell that he had just made an accurate count of their numbers.

  ‘Will you be making directly for the capital?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the emissary. ‘Is the Queen in residence?’

  ‘She is, my Lord.’

  ‘Then you can tell Her Majesty that we should arrive in the city tomorrow morning.’

  The scout gave a shallow bow and took up his reins as if to leave but the emissary raised a hand to stall him.

  ‘What news of the war?’

  ‘Nothing good, my Lord,’ said the scout, his face dropping as if he were personally responsible. ‘Fear grips the eastern border and yours was the only victory we have learned about of late.’

  ‘Has the Fifth Army returned?’

  ‘Three weeks ago, my Lord. The Queen rode out to meet them, as is her custom, but now she has sent forth two more.’

  ‘Two more?’

  ‘Yes, Lord. The Third Army was dispatched to the south east from Toulwar.’

  The emissary nodded. He had already known about this deployment.

  ‘And the First Army now marches to support the Illician forces around Hoffen.’

  The emissary frowned and the rider looked concerned.

  ‘I could stay a while if your Lordship would like to know more. We have little news from the front but I will tell you what I know, if you wish.’

  ‘No,’ said the emissary. ‘I will attend the councils on my return and the Queen will be eager for news of our arrival.’

  The scout laid his right hand across his chest and bowed low in the saddle, a gesture that the emissary returned and then, with a final look of satisfaction, he was off.

  Falco saw the expression in the man’s eyes. He was pleased to be able to carry back good news but more than that, he was clearly relieved by the emissary’s return. Falco glanced across at the man who had led them since they left Caer Dour.

  ‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘Certainly more than just a simple emissary of the court.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ asked Malaki as the scout disappeared over the hill. ‘That the Queen should deploy the First Army?’

  ‘Not bad, in itself,’ said the emissary distractedly. He waved to those at the front of the line to continue. ‘But I’m surprised that things have reached such a pass.’

  ‘Does that mean things are going badly in Illicia?’ asked Bryna. Their anxiety over the details of their training suddenly seemed selfish and trivial.

  The emissary gave a grim laugh. ‘Things have been going badly in Illicia for many years,’ he said. ‘This just means that they are getting worse and the danger is moving closer to Clemoncé.’

  ‘How many armies does Clemoncé have?’ asked Malaki.

  ‘Five. Not counting provincial forces,’ replied the emissary as they continued along the grassy hillside. ‘Then there’s the Queen’s Irregulars, the Légion du Trône and the new mage army, although that doesn’t fall under the Queen’s command.’

  ‘Then who commands it?’ asked Falco.

  ‘The magi,’ said the emissary, making no attempt to conceal the tone of disapproval in his voice. ‘Or more particularly Galen Thrall, Grand Veneratu of the magi.’

  ‘Do they fight with swords or magic?’ asked Malaki.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I thought only battle mages fought in battle,’ said Bryna.

  The emissary gave a soft snort of derision. ‘A perception the magi are eager to change.’

  ‘Are they powerful?’ asked Falco.

  The emissary gave him a sideways glance as if it pained him to answer. ‘I have only seen them in training, but yes, they are powerful.’

  ‘Then we should welcome their efforts,’ said Bryna somewhat haughtily. Coming from
the noble class she was not so inclined to be distrustful of the magi.

  ‘Maybe we should,’ said the emissary with a diplomatic smile.

  Falco and Malaki exchanged a quick look but there was no point in arguing. For all they knew an army of mages might be enough to tip the balance in the war against the Possessed.

  ‘What about the Légion du Trône?’ asked Falco. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  The emissary nodded, mindful of the way Falco had changed the subject.

  ‘The Légion du Trône does not foray abroad,’ explained the emissary. ‘It is charged with the defence of the capital.’

  ‘And the Queen’s Irregulars?’ asked Malaki.

  The emissary inclined his head with a smile of some fondness on his lips. ‘Not every soldier who journeys to Wrath is of the standards required by the Academy of War.’

  ‘So they’re not very good,’ said Malaki.

  ‘To say so would be unkind,’ replied the emissary and Malaki looked embarrassed. ‘But no,’ he continued with a laugh, ‘they’re not very good.’

  They all smiled and for a while they rode in silence. It was a beautiful autumn day, cold and bright with white clouds scudding swiftly across a blue sky. They had almost reached the summit of the hill when the emissary tapped Falco on the arm and pointed up into the sky ahead of them. At first Falco saw nothing but then he saw a small dark shape emerge from behind a cloud, moving across the sky towards the mountains in the distance. Malaki and Bryna had now seen it too.

  ‘A dragon?’ asked Malaki.

  The emissary nodded. ‘They used to be a common sight in the capital. Now most are abroad, fighting the Possessed.’

  Falco was mesmerised by the distant speck that slowly dwindled and was lost again among the clouds.

  ‘And there,’ said the emissary as they reached the crown of the hill, ‘is the port city of Wrath.’

  The view opened out before them and there, still some miles away, was a great expanse of grey stone reaching inland from the coast. Falco had thought the forest city of Toulwar large but it was nothing compared to this.

  The entire city was enclosed by a double curtain wall, the crenelated line of battlements punctuated by guard towers and barbicans. Beyond the walls they could see towers, spires and domes rising above the terracotta roof tiles of the city’s normal buildings, the bright ochre adding a touch of warmth to the imposing fortifications of the city.

  ‘You can see that the city walls are extended to protect the harbour,’ said the emissary as the Cadets crowded forward to see. ‘Then, towards the centre, you can see the citadel rising over the city.’

  ‘Where’s the academy?’ asked one of the cadets.

  ‘On the plateau behind the city,’ said the emissary. ‘That’s where you will find the Academy of War, the training fields and the towers of the magi.’

  ‘And what’s that pale stone building to the left of the citadel? The one with all the flags?’

  ‘That’s the palace,’ said the emissary, pointing to a structure at the very edge of the cliffs. ‘The home of Queen Catherine herself.’

  They gazed in wonder at the huge city, lying with the sea to the west and the snow-capped mountains to the north and east. They could almost imagine the pale blue and turquoise of Clemoncé’s colours but the flags were too far away to make out the horse head insignia of the Queen.

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Bryna.

  The emissary looked at the youngsters, their eyes alight with anticipation, but he offered them no answer. Instead he only smiled.

  26

  The Queen of Wrath

  Standing at the balcony of her chambers, Queen Catherine de Sage looked out over the bustling city of Wrath. She had been away from the palace for several days and was glad to be back despite the backlog of issues that required her attention. There were a dozen pressing matters to be dealt with but all she could think of was the small pile of letters lying neatly on her writing desk. Cyrano had brought them to her earlier, his expression giving nothing away. although she knew for a fact that he would have read them.

  ‘How many replies?’ she had asked her advisor.

  ‘All of them, Majesty.’

  The Queen raised an eyebrow. She had not expected the other monarchs to reply so soon and some of them not at all. Another sign of just how bad things had become. She felt a shudder run through her. The midday sun was bright but her gown was light and the sea breeze felt cold upon her skin. Folding her arms against the chill she raised a hand to the black velvet choker that encircled her neck. Crudely embroidered with the royal monogram, it was a symbol of the forces that shaped her life: duty, grief and love. It was the first thing she donned each morning and the last thing she removed each night but now it was getting a little threadbare and she wondered how long it would be before the stitching came loose or the clasp gave way. It was a reminder that she could not remain in mourning forever. Sooner or later she would need to give Prince Ludovico an answer.

  ‘But not this year,’ she thought with a determined smile. ‘And Fates willing, not the next.’

  With a sigh the Queen put aside such thoughts as she gazed out over the city that her forebears had founded more than twelve hundred years ago. It looked safe and serene but the safety, she knew, was an illusion.

  Her father King Philip II had always taught her that peace was a transient thing. Plague, drought, famine, war... shadows on the landscape. They all pass with time. It was their job as sovereign, he told her, to limit the times of shadow and embrace the times of light. Her father had been the wisest person she had ever known but now she feared that he might be wrong. The shadow of the Possessed was not one that would pass with time. If they were not stopped the darkness of the enemy’s reign would last forever.

  Their only hope was to stand together but the kingdoms of Wrath were not united. Illicia and Beltane were on their knees. Valentia floundered under the rule of an idiot king. Acheron revelled in its singular might, while the King of Thraece had been laid low by a stroke, his rule usurped and his son denied accession by the machinations of the Thraecian magi.

  It was hopeless.

  And yet she clung to hope.

  It was in the spirit of hope that she had written to the other kings. And now they had replied. Would they come together as they had done in the past or would they continue in isolation, denying the horror that threatened them all?

  The answer lay in the letters on her desk and with a sigh of resignation she turned away from the window. Her mind was buzzing with the minutiae of running the city but if the kingdoms could not come together then food shortages and anxiety over the number of refugees would be the least of their concerns. Sitting down at her desk she looked at the collection of letters, each one bearing the royal crest of the king who had sent it.

  But which one to read first?

  Hesitating for just a moment she decided to read them in the order she had written to the kings. Picking up the first letter she untied the crimson ribbon and noted the dragon seal of the King of Valentia.

  From Vittorio Tristis, King of Valentia, to Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Wrath

  Caer Laison would like to thank Your Majesty for her concern about the Ferocian army which recently entered our domain to the north. Initial reports did indeed suggest that the force was significant and marched with a demon at its head, but we have since learned that the brave people of Caer Dour were able to defeat the demon in the mountains before it could pose any threat to the Kingdom of Clemoncé.

  So Your Majesty need not have worried. We have many such stalwart towns in the northern reaches and I am quite sure that, had they needed any help, they would have first called upon their king. In Valentia we have a proud history of victory against the Possessed, unlike Her Majesty’s kingdom which, being bordered by greater realms, has been spared the danger of such assaults.

  As to your other request, we have opened the border with Beltane only to find our cities swamped with refugees. H
owever, with regard to sending forces abroad, we must decline. We deem it more important to keep our armies and our Great Souls close to the capital, the defence of which must be our primary concern.

  If Your Majesty has resources to spare we suggest she send them east to bolster the Illician forces who allowed the enemy to slip through in the first instance.

  Cordially yours

  Vittorio Tristis, Lord of Caer Laison and Sovereign King of Valentia

  The Queen shook her head at Vittorio’s arrogance. Valentia deserved better. Brief as it was, the Chevalier’s report from Toulwar had told the real story of what had happened in the mountains. She had not intended to send him into danger. It was only after he left that they had learned of the threat and there was no way of knowing that the demon would move into that particular valley. Besides, the Queen thought with a smile, even had he known, she suspected her emissary would still have insisted on visiting this town, which seemed to produce more than its fair share of exceptional warriors.

  Sir William Chevalier was her subject and servant but over the years she had learned to value his council and she would be glad when he returned to the royal court. Only this morning she had dispatched a scout to see when he might arrive. The emissary’s report from Toulwar had contained some intriguing points of interest, including the fact that he travelled with the son of Aquila Danté.

  The Queen smiled indulgently. What she would not give to see the faces of the magi when he rode into town. Putting aside such thoughts, she lay down Valentia’s reply and reached for the next letter in the pile. Slipping off the ribbon she recognised the flame seal of Beltane and drew an apprehensive breath before beginning to read. She could not think it held anything in the way of good news.

  From Osric, King of Beltane, to Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Wrath