Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Madame

  Some months ago Your Majesty made a generous offer of support which, in our arrogance, we chose to decline. Now events have progressed in the manner of your fears and pride is a luxury we can no longer afford. Our attempts to drive the enemy back have failed and only the efforts of the great general Vercincallidus save us from complete collapse. The Possessed have cut off the area around Svarthaven and our forces are now divided. Nårothia and Estånia are lost while the people of Serthia are retreating to the fortress cities of Aengus and Agrona. We shall make our stand in the heart of Veåst. But we are failing.

  The demons are growing in strength and number and we do not have sufficient battle mages to hold them. King Vittorio has finally opened the border and our people flow like a river into Valentia but he is afraid. There are reports that a dåmon army laid waste to some of his northern towns and so, like Acheron and Thraece, Valentia is looking to its own defences.

  We are informed that things fare no better in Illicia and that you are committed to their aid but, if it is still within Your Majesty’s power, then we would humbly ask for the support of any Great Souls that you can spare. Without them the Fires of Beltane will surely be extinguished.

  With deep respect, your friend and ally.

  Osric Goudicca

  King of Beltane and Chieftain of the Nine Tribes of Eldur

  The Queen felt her chest tighten with concern. Osric was a great and proud king. She knew how much it would have cost him to write such a letter. Things must be ill indeed. Most of her own battle mages were fighting in Illicia but she would speak with Marshal Breton to see if any could be spared.

  With a sigh she reached for the next letter on the tray and her expression remained one of concern. The letter was from Illicia and, as with Beltane, its contents were unlikely to bring her any comfort. Her own grandmother had come from that great kingdom and she steeled herself against the likelihood of bad tidings as she unfolded the cream coloured parchment.

  From Ernest of Festunthron, Crown Prince of Illicia, to Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Wrath

  Dear cousin.

  How does one say thank you for an army (again)? I fear Duke Friedrich of the Ceraton League does not share my gratitude. His pride might never recover but he is ever a practical man and your troops are now helping to secure the area east of Hoffen. I am only sorry that I declined your earlier offers of assistance. Had I listened to your advice we might have prevented the breach in our lines south of Amboss.

  I do not need to tell you that the war continues to go badly here and I fear that I am ill equipped to deal with it. I cannot help thinking that my father would have held the Possessed at Coburg. I know what you would say to that, and in moments of doubt I cling to your words of encouragement, but such doubts are not easily dispelled.

  But now, to other matters...

  I am pleased to hear that you are keeping well and managing to abide the relentless ambitions of the magi (your father would have been proud). Is it true that the mage army is almost ready to enter the field? How full of himself Galen Thrall must be.

  And how is our friend? I miss his council but I know that you need him more than I. The Adamanti continue to honour him. Please convey my regards next time you see him.

  Stay strong, dear cousin. The world of Wrath needs you, even if some are slow to realise it.

  I will write again soon, hopefully with better tidings.

  Ever your humble and loving servant, Ernest

  Queen Catherine smiled, her eyes pricking with tears. Ernest was such a gentle soul. He had the heart of a poet and yet despite his doubts his character was every bit as strong as his father’s. The responsibility might well have come too soon, and too harshly, but he was learning to become a leader of men. Indeed he had no choice. With a sigh she put down the letter from her cousin and stared at the remaining two.

  Acheron and Thraece...

  Would they join her?

  Would they mobilise for war?

  As she reached for the letter from Acheron her heart told not to hope for too much.

  From Tyramimus Kthénos, King of Acheron, to Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Wrath

  My dear mikró Queen.

  It was with some surprise that we received your latest entreaty for the might of Acheron to become embroiled in the wars of the East. We thought our position plain but it is clear that Your Majesty is cursed with the same weakness of sentiment that afflicted your father. One suspects it is weakness of a similar kind that has resulted in Beltane and Illicia surrendering so much of their territory to the Possessed. Had they followed the example of Acheron and remained strong, they would surely have enjoyed more in the way of victory instead of calling on the strength of other nations to make up for their own short comings.

  So, at the risk of repeating ourselves, let us be clear.

  Acheron answers only to Acheron.

  We will not press Valentia to allow passage of our armies.

  We will not instruct Admiral Navarchos to release the Acheron fleet.

  And we will not allow our battle mágos to risk their lives in the defence of lands other than our own (although it is my understanding that some have already disobeyed our commands in order to engage the Possessed in Beltane).

  If Your Majesty would take our advice then we would suggest that Clemoncé cease its meddling in the affairs of other states and garner its strength for its own defence. If reports are to be believed then it shall soon have need of it.

  Yours

  Tyramimus, King, and Lord High Protector of Acheron

  Mikró queen... Mikró queen!

  Queen Catherine took a deep breath and let the tension go out of her jaw. Then despite her annoyance, she laughed. Beside the massive bear-like figure of Tyramimus maybe she was a ‘little queen’. In person, he could be the most charming of men but in matters of state he postured like a prized fighting bull. She forgave the comment about her father. She happened to know of the deep regard in which they held each other. But she could not forgive his stubbornness. How many lives could have been saved if Acheron had joined the fight a year ago? How many towns and cities that now lay in ruins?

  What would it take to make them understand that they could not stand alone?

  Once more the sense of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm her but she pushed it aside and prepared herself to read the letter from Thraece. However, she had not read more than two words before she closed her eyes in frustration. Veneratu was the title given to the leader of a magi tower. After months of trying in vain to reach the King of Thraece she had addressed her latest letter to his son, Cleomenes the younger. But her gambit had failed. Her message had been intercepted by the magi. With a sigh of resignation she raised the letter and read on.

  From Veneratu Ischyrós, on behalf of Cleomenes Vari, King of Thraece, to Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Wrath

  Majesty

  Once again the King’s illness prevents him from replying to you in person but he has asked us to convey his disappointment that you would address your correspondence to his son and not to the monarch himself. Had it not been for the vigilance of the magi this letter might not have come to his attention at all. But let me assure you that the King’s position has not changed. His primary concern is for the safety of his people, which is why he has entrusted the governance of Thraece to the wisdom of the magi. Perhaps Your Majesty would be wise to do the same.

  It is our belief that she places too much faith in her precious battle mágos. History has shown that they are not enough to defeat the Possessed. They failed in the past and we have no reason to believe that they will save us now. Their numbers are declining and only last month we were forced to slay another black dráko̱n during a failed summoning.

  No... the age of the battle mágos is over. It is time for the pure magi to take over the governance of Wrath and to lead its armies to victory. We are informed that the training of the Clemoncéan mage army is almost complete and then we are quite sure th
at Your Majesty will be convinced. Till then we must decline your requests for support.

  The Thraecian armada will remain in Thraecian waters. Thraecian spears will remain on Thraecian soil and any battle mágos leaving Thraece to risk their lives in the defence of other lands will be deemed a traitor.

  As one who bears the responsibility for the safety of a Kingdom we are quite sure you will understand.

  In the hope that Your Majesty’s wisdom will prevail

  Veneratu Ischyrós, Worshipful Master and First Servant of the Thraecan magi

  The Queen crushed the Thraecian reply in her slender fist, the parchment trembling with pent fury. Curse the magi and their relentless drive for power. Why could they not work in concert with the royal courts instead of always trying to prove their supremacy. She thought of the army mentioned in the letter, an army of mages, a thousand strong. It was her late husband who had granted them permission to raise such a force. Poor Stephan. He had been too weak to deny their incessant requests, his resolve eroded by the fear of failing their people. And now he was gone, taken by a wasting disease that killed him in less than a month, and she was left to rule alone.

  No, not alone. Her hand drifted again to the black velvet choker. No, she was not alone but neither was she free to rule as she would like. She was not free to appoint a new king of her own choosing and she was not free to deny the magi when they offered something that might be able to save them.

  An army of mages. It sounded like a good idea but still she had her doubts. The magi were men of knowledge and power. They had never been warriors. And yet Ischyrós was right. The battle mages might not be enough. Maybe an army of mages was the answer. Their success would further their ambition and diminish her rule but she would gladly give up power to save the people of Wrath.

  The sense of hopelessness returned and she went to stand at the balcony once more.

  The people of Clemoncé had always filled her with hope. Only yesterday a new batch of recruits had arrived to train at the Academy of War. Young people travelling far from home to fight in her name. She had ridden out to greet them, as she always did, an idea the Chevalier had first suggested. As a young queen she had not understood the importance of such a gesture but now that she had seen the shattered bodies and broken minds of battle she knew.

  To be a Queen was not to be above the people. It was to be daughter, sister and mother to a nation. And as such she would love them and protect them and grieve for those who fell. It may well be impossible to stop the Possessed but she was the Queen of Wrath and she would not despair.

  Her eyes watered as she stared out across the sea then a movement near the southern gate caught her attention. She gazed down at the distant streets and yes... there it was again... the mottled travelling clothes of a scout, the same scout she had sent out only this morning. His swift return could only mean that the Chevalier was close.

  Trying not to seem too desperate for news she moved through to the parlour and busied herself with the latest reports from the city administrator. It was a thoroughly annoying six minutes before Cyrano knocked on her door to announce the scout’s return.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Queen’s advisor, ushering the mud spattered scout into the room. ‘News of the Chevalier’s return.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the scout dropping to one knee and bowing low.

  ‘Please,’ said the Queen. She motioned for the man to rise. ‘You have news of our emissary?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said the scout. ‘I found him just south of the River Denier. He asked me to tell you that he should arrive in the city tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Does he look well?’

  ‘Very well, Ma’am.’

  ‘And the people of Caer Dour?’

  ‘Better than I expected,’ said the scout. ‘After the stories we’ve heard.’

  The Queen nodded her understanding and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, er...’

  ‘John Pierre, Ma’am,’ said the scout, clearly overwhelmed that the Queen should want to know his name.

  ‘Thank you, John Pierre. Please convey the news to Marshal Breton and Lanista Magnus at the academy.’

  The scout gave a nod and bowed low before backing away and turning to leave the room. The relief on the Queen’s face was clear to see and Cyrano graced her with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ she snapped. ‘You’ll be glad to see him back too.’

  ‘Indeed I will, Ma’am,’ said the advisor. ‘The Fourth Army is almost ready for its next rotation. We can hardly send them off to war without their commander.’

  The Queen narrowed her eyes and gave her advisor a sour faced scowl.

  ‘Be quiet, you miserable harbinger. Tis several months before the Fourth is due for deployment. Besides, you read his report. It seems the Chevalier wishes to resume his duties as an instructor.’

  ‘And will you grant his request?’ asked Cyrano. He too had been surprised by the Chevalier’s request. There must be something very particular about the cadets from Caer Dour if Sir William wanted to oversee their training in person.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the Queen. ‘We will wait to hear what he has to say. For now we will just be thankful for his safe return.’

  Cyrano nodded his concurrence. ‘Will you be riding out to meet them?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Queen indignantly.

  ‘The stables will have your horse ready at sunrise.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Queen. ‘Now, how long do we have before the meeting with the Navarian Ambassador?’

  ‘The consul should be arriving with him shortly. We have a little time, at least.’

  ‘Then tell me everything you know about Aquila Danté.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’

  ‘And when we are finished with the Ambassador have Jarnac meet me in the pommeraie. I will take some instruction before I listen to the evening petitions.’

  ‘Perhaps the great hall would be a more suitable...’

  ‘Am I some delicate flower to wither at the first touch of winter’s chill?’

  ‘No, Ma’am. I only...’

  ‘Then do as I say.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said the royal advisor, duly cowed.

  Cyrano’s family had served the royal court for seven generations but he had never known a sovereign like the Queen and he had always struggled with the notion of royalty venturing into public places. It was her father, King Philip ‘The Commoner’, who had begun the tradition, insisting that the gates be left open and that no one should be denied access to the palace. A younger Cyrano had objected, arguing that the gates kept them safe and without them any brigand would be free to enter the palace. The King’s daughter had been inclined to agree.

  ‘Locking the gates places a barrier between the people and the throne,’ her father had explained to the ten year old princess. ‘And denying them entry to the palace only shows the people that we do not trust them.’

  The King had laughed at the doubt in his daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Set yourself apart from the people and they will serve you out of duty,’ he told her. ‘Trust them and they will claim you for their own.’

  Her father’s words echoed in her mind as the Queen gazed at her advisor and finally she took pity.

  ‘I’ll be back in the palace before sunset.’

  Cyrano bowed his head at this concession. He knew she was in no danger, not even in the darkest corner of the city. She was not a perfect woman, not a perfect queen. As the letters from the other kings had illustrated she was meddlesome, arrogant, sentimental and naive but she placed her trust in the people of Clemoncé and for this reason, more than any other, they loved her.

  27

  As The Eagle, So The Falcon

  It was late afternoon and the city of Wrath now dominated the landscape before them. The city itself was still some three miles distant but they had already passed several outlying ‘villages’, temporary settlements consisting
of tents and wooden huts with people milling about in the makeshift streets.

  ‘Refugees,’ said the emissary. ‘More arrive every month.’

  Falco looked at the people who, like themselves, had been displaced by war. In their eyes he saw the same uncertainty that haunted the people from Caer Dour. They had no idea what the future might hold for them.

  Despite being so close to the city the emissary had begun to lead them inland believing that the bridge on the main road was impassable. However, the local people assured him that the bridge had been repaired and so they turned back, heading down a gentle slope to a river where a host of men were working on a stone bridge.

  ‘But you told the scout we’d be arriving tomorrow,’ said Malaki.

  ‘That was before I knew they’d repaired the bridge,’ said the emissary. ‘When I left, the central span had been brought down by heavy flooding and without the bridge we’d have another two hours up to the Ford of Garr.’

  Falco gazed at the impressive structure that strode the river in five great arches.

  ‘This way we’ll be in the citadel before the sun goes down. Unless you’d rather spend another cold night in a lumpy bedroll.’

  ‘No, said Malaki. ‘It’s just...’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the emissary. ‘She’s not as scary as her name suggests. Unless you make her angry,’ he added with a smile.

  The workers on the bridge cleared the road to let them pass. Many of them doffed their soft caps or greeted the emissary with a bow and Falco noticed the easy manner with which he met these gestures of respect. The city now loomed large before them. The great expanse of the double curtain wall stretched out to either side and the main gate was crowded with people flowing in and out of the city.

  ‘I think we’ll enter by the harbour gate and come up to the palace through the gardens,’ said the emissary.