Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  The chamber echoed with silence and the pupils of Galen Thrall’s eyes shrank down to tiny black points. His voice was tight with control when he spoke again.

  ‘This is not a matter of permission, but one of safety. You know better than most that the Rite of Assay is not to be taken lightly. More than one promising young life has been lost in the attempt. Besides... there is no evidence that Master Danté has what it takes to be a battle mage.’

  Thrall paused, confident that he had now regained control of the situation.

  ‘Aside from the obvious lack of physical strength,’ he went on with a contemptuous glance in Falco’s direction, ‘one would normally expect to see signs of the inner power, especially by his age, but in his case there is no...’

  Whoosh!

  Galen Thrall was cut off mid sentence as a fireball suddenly burst from Aurelian’s hand and streaked across the floor. The terrified constables leapt aside and Falco barely had time to wince before the ball of flame engulfed him. He felt a blast of searing heat and then it was gone.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ exclaimed Bellius as the members of the panel started back from the table, upending chairs and spilling goblets of water in their haste.

  ‘Oh relax,’ growled Aurelian. ‘It was only a little one.’

  He limped forward and grabbed hold of Falco, hauling him to his feet. Falco’s clothes were smoking, his hair was singed and his skin felt red raw but he appeared otherwise unharmed. The chair that he had been sitting in, however, was heavily burned and scorched.

  ‘No evidence?’ said Aurelian, repeating Thrall’s words. ‘That fireball could have killed a normal man. Well, given him some nasty burns at least,’ he added with a guilty look in the emissary’s direction. ‘This boy survived the breath of a dragon and stood against a demon while your magi were shitting their robes. What more evidence do you need?’

  He looked at Falco and gave him a shake as if to make sure he was able to stand before letting go of his shirt with a grunt.

  ‘Yes, he might look like a scrawny urchin but make no mistake. The boy has the soul of a battle mage. Only time will tell if he has the strength to see it through.’

  ‘We could refuse to perform the rite,’ said Thrall.

  ‘You could,’ said Aurelian, a dangerous glint in his ice blue eyes. ‘And what would the people say to that, if you refused the final forging of a weapon that could help to save them.’

  Galen Thrall hesitated. Even he was not so arrogant as to think he could ignore the will of the people. Indeed, he had worked for many years to change their perception of the magi. He could not afford to throw it away, not when the mage army was so close to proving itself in battle.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Master Saker will act as Danté’s guide, on the condition that it does not interfere with his training as a mage. I will not see his talent wasted on a fool’s sense of duty.’

  Aurelian answered with a low growl of consent before turning to take a proper look at Falco who shifted uncomfortably beneath the sharp rake of his gaze. He did not appear to be impressed by what he saw and he shook his head as he looked Falco up and down.

  ‘In the mornings you will train with the other cadets,’ said Aurelian, staring hard at Falco. ‘In the afternoon you will train with me.’

  Falco gave him a simple nod, wondering just what he was letting himself in for.

  Aurelian swept a last look around the people in the chamber. Finally he settled on the emissary who met his fierce gaze with a faint smile.

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Aurelian with another shake of his head. Then, muttering a string of obscenities, he began to limp out of the chamber. He was approaching an exit tunnel when he stopped and looked up towards one of the high entrances behind Falco.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said with a courteous bow of his head.

  Everyone turned to look. There was nothing to be seen in the high dark archway but it was clear that there had been another witness to the proceedings of Falco’s trial.

  ‘First hour of the afternoon, Master Danté,’ Aurelian’s rough voice echoed from the tunnel. ‘I’ll see you in the crucible.’

  And with that he was gone.

  *

  ‘Meredith!?’ said Malaki as he, Bryna and the Klingemann brothers huddled round Falco at one of the dining tables in the mess. ‘Blades, but that must have taken some balls.’

  ‘What did his father say?’ asked Bryna.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Falco. ‘But you could tell he was fuming.’

  ‘Who is this Meredith?’ asked Alex.

  ‘He’s the son of Morgan Saker, the senior mage from our town,’ said Bryna.

  ‘And do they hate you, like Snidesson?’

  Malaki and Bryna exchanged a look.

  ‘Morgan Saker was there when my father died,’ said Falco. ‘But I think Meredith is different.’

  The Klingemann brothers could tell there was a lot more to the story, but Quirren gave a small shake of his head and for once Alex held his curiosity at bay.

  ‘Well it doesn’t matter,’ said Bryna. ‘It’s done. They’re going to train you.’

  ‘In the crucible!’ said Alex, clearly awed by the thought.

  ‘We’ll walk up with you tomorrow,’ said Malaki, ‘when we break for lunch. We’ll be back before the afternoon session starts.’

  Falco smiled. He would be glad of the moral support. Across the room he saw Jarek cast a glowering look in his direction. The young noble was surrounded by a huddle of his own and it was clear that they too were now familiar with the details of Falco’s trial. The smile did not fall from Falco’s face but it did take on a grimmer and more determined cast. It seemed that he too had now earned a place at the academy, but something told him that he might live to regret it.

  *

  ‘You underestimated him.’ Galen Thrall looked at Morgan Saker with the cold dispassion of a snake.

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to have the support of a battle mage,’ said Saker, pacing back and forth across the polished floor of the Grand Veneratu’s chamber.

  ‘Not Danté,’ said Thrall. ‘You underestimated your son.’

  Morgan Saker gave a snarl of suppressed rage. ‘It’s the emissary,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘He’s behind this. He’s infected my son with some juvenile sense of nobility.’

  ‘Well, it is done,’ said Thrall. ‘But do not berate yourself too much. Aurelian Cruz might be there at the start of Danté’s training, but we shall be there at the end.’

  Morgan Saker ceased his pacing. ‘Yes,’ he said with sudden conviction. ‘Put me on the Torquery for his Rite of Assay. I will break his mind and leave him weeping in the dirt.’

  Thrall gave a slow nod of consent. ‘We have many here in the tower that could make him crawl.’ His smile was veiled and dark. ‘And one in particular that will hollow his mind out like a gourd.’

  *

  The chief physician of the mage tower infirmary leaned over to inspect the injured warden.

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘It is too early to say,’ said the surgeon. ‘We have sewn up his face but we could not save his eye.’

  The chief physician looked at the ragged line of stitching encircling the right side of the warden’s face.

  ‘How did Pacatos reach him? I thought they were given strict instructions not to enter his cell.’

  ‘Brother Pacatos did not reach him,’ said the surgeon. ‘The warden did this to himself.’

  *

  In the depths of the Clemoncéan mage tower a tortured soul rocked back and forth in the darkest corner of his cell.

  ‘Vino la mine micul meu soim,’ said Brother Pacatos, his eyes glazed over with the torpor of Possession. ‘Cei frații și toate deliciile lor sunt în așteptare pentru tine.’

  Come to me my little Falcon.

  The brothers and all their delights are waiting for you.

  35

  The Crucible

  The second day of training began
well for Falco. The cadets had woken to the sound of rain on the terracotta roof tiles, but by the time they made their way up to the training field the rain had stopped and the mountains looked unnaturally clear in the warm light of the rising sun. Once again they were kitted out with their weapons and invited to start the day with a climb to the Pike. This time Falco managed a good half mile at a decent pace. It was only when they reached the steeper winding path that he was forced to let Malaki and the others go on ahead. He was still a long way behind the last of the other cadets but today some of them were still eating their breakfast when he stumbled, exhausted back into the tent.

  Malaki clapped him on the back and handed him a bowl of hot porridge as he collapsed onto a bench.

  Falco nodded his thanks and waited for his breathing to calm before starting to eat.

  ‘I trust you beat Jarek again,’ he said, accepting a mug of steaming tea from Quirren.

  ‘Not today,’ said the big Illician, taking a seat beside Falco.

  Falco looked up but far from looking disappointed Quirren was actually smiling. Alex and Bryna were smiling too. They all seemed to find the fact that Jarek had beaten them highly amusing.

  ‘He was the first one back,’ said Bryna, nodding towards the entrance of the tent where Falco could just about make out the figure of Jarek. He was standing outside and clutching the heavy canvas for support. One of his followers went to speak to him but Jarek just waved him away.

  ‘I think the porridge disagreed with him,’ said Bryna and they all laughed.

  Jarek might have won the race today but he had needed to push himself to the limit and now his dignity was paying the price. Maybe it was this that made him especially vicious when it came to sparring later in the morning.

  After a couple of hours general training the cadets were directed to take a seat on the benches and Lanista Deloix came forward with a bag full of small wooden plaques each inscribed with the name a cadet. The cadets then took it in turns to pick out names to see who would fight each other.

  Much to Jarek’s delight Falco had been beaten twice, first by a young Clemoncéan sword master and then by a thick-set Acheronian youth by the name of Kleitos.

  Bryna’s first draw was against a tall Illician youth called Kurt Vogler but Vogler fought half-heartedly and the emissary had been forced to intervene.

  ‘Do you think the Possessed will go easy on Mistress Godwin because she is a woman?’

  Vogler shook his head.

  ‘Then do not insult her by doing the same.’

  The fight had resumed and within a matter of moments Bryna was flat on her back with a bleeding mouth and Vogler’s training sword pressed against her neck.

  ‘Much better,’ said the emissary.

  Clearly mortified by what he had done, Vogler reached down to give Bryna a hand up. Flushed with indignation she ran a tongue over her bloody gum.

  ‘I’ll have you next time,’ she whispered and Vogler smiled.

  Jarek was then drawn against a Thraecian spearman by the name of Arakios. Like many of the cadets, sword and shield was not his chosen discipline so it was easy for Jarek to outmatch him. However, he went much further than just beating him. After evading his every attack Jarek finished Arakios off with a flurry of blows which ended with a loud crack as Jarek’s sword struck Arakios on the arm with unnecessary force.

  The Lanistas frowned at this ‘lack of control’ but they said nothing as Arakios was led away to the infirmary with a suspected fracture.

  Seemingly oblivious to the instructors’ disapproval Jarek resumed his seat. Two more bouts were played out before his name was called once more. Wearing an arrogant smirk he moved to the front of the group, waiting for the name of his opponent to be drawn.

  ‘... and Malaki de Vane.’

  The smirk disappeared from Jarek’s face as Malaki stepped forward to face him.

  Falco suddenly found his heart beating faster. He looked across at Bryna who was biting her lip, her sword hand clenched tight against her thigh. There was an air of heightened expectation among the cadets. They all knew of the enmity that existed between these two young men.

  ‘Guard!’ said Lanista Deloix and the bout began.

  Jarek took the initiative and launched a series of complex attacks but Malaki evaded them with ease. Twice he outmanoeuvred Jarek so effectively that he could have easily landed a blow and yet he refrained. It was clear to everyone watching that Malaki was in control of the bout and yet, before it had the chance to become embarrassing, he feigned an opening and as Jarek lunged forwards Malaki guided him past with his shield before laying his sword across the back of Jarek’s neck.

  Alex gave a groan of disappointment as if he had been looking forward to seeing Jarek get the thrashing he deserved. Bryna also looked mildly disappointed while Quirren wore a faint smile of satisfaction.

  Falco shook his head despairingly. ‘You do remember he beat me unconscious,’ he muttered as Malaki sat down between him and Bryna.

  ‘Never take away a man’s dignity,’ said Malaki, quoting the first part of something his father used to say.

  I know,’ replied Falco. ‘And never allow him to take away yours.’

  His tone was that of the long-suffering pupil but he looked upon his friend with a deep sense of pride. One of the things he had always loved about Malaki was that he never abused his strength. Yes, he had won more than his fair share of fights but he had never done more than was necessary to prove his point.

  As the training continued Falco found himself growing increasingly nervous as it drew closer to the midday break. He felt ravenously hungry and yet he did not feel as if he could face any food. He was glad the others had offered to accompany him up to the crucible. The memory of Aurelian and his fireball was still painfully fresh and he did not relish the thought of stepping into the lion’s den alone. However, just before they were about to break for lunch the lanistas called the cadets together. They separated them into two groups, those who were to be trained just as officers, like Bryna and Alex, and the remaining thirteen like Malaki and Quirren, who were hoping to be accepted as knights.

  Then Lanista Magnus addressed the potential officers. ‘Today you will take your midday meal in the officer’s mess along with officers from the main armies,’ he told them. ‘They wish to meet you before we decide which units you are going to command.’

  ‘Command! Already?’ exclaimed Alex, and Lanista Magnus laughed.

  ‘And how else would you expect to learn?’

  Suddenly Alex and Bryna looked every bit as anxious as Falco. They bade the others a nervous goodbye before heading back to the barracks to wash and change.

  ‘I didn’t know they started command training so quickly,’ said Malaki as he, Falco and Quirren sat down to eat in the tent beside the training field.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Quirren. ‘Perhaps they need to move things on more quickly now the Possessed are so close.’

  Falco said little over lunch. He managed only a few mouthfuls of bread and half an apple before Malaki clapped him on the back.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s past midday and you wouldn’t want to keep Aurelian Cruz waiting. The next fireball might not be so little!’

  Quirren smiled but Falco looked distinctly queasy as they got to their feet. They still had plenty of time but Malaki was right, he did not want to be late. Together they walked out of the tent. They were just starting towards the slope that led up to the crucible when the emissary stepped in front of them.

  ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘We’re just going up to the crucible with Falco,’ said Malaki. ‘We’ll be back before the afternoon session starts.’

  The emissary shook his head and nodded towards the training field. Turning round the three youths saw a squadron of heavy cavalry horses approaching. The five leading horses were being ridden by knights. The remaining thirteen were riderless but still they followed the leaders in good order. Each of the five knights wore a differe
nt coloured surcoat and carried a tall lance from which a pennant of matching colours flew. Of all the emblems rippling in the wind, Falco recognised just one. Shining white, on a field of black, was the mountain insignia of the Adamanti.

  The cavalry came to a halt and one of the leaders urged his mount ahead of the rest. He was, without doubt, the most physically impressive man that Falco had ever seen. Tall and muscular with long dark hair he sat astride a magnificent bay coloured stallion. His brow was heavy and his solid jaw was swathed in a thick black beard. His surcoat was a pale silvery blue and the horse head insignia that lay upon his breast was black. He looked down upon the cadets as if they were children, which beside the likes of him, they were.

  ‘The fraternité of knights calls upon those wishing to attempt the épreuve du force to make their presence known,’ he called out, his voice a coarse Clemoncéan growl.

  Malaki and Quirren looked at each other before turning to look at Falco. It seemed they would all be facing a daunting challenge this day.

  ‘Can’t we just...’ began Malaki but the emissary shook his head.

  ‘You go now or not at all.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Falco. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Malaki had turned as white as chalk, the red birthmark on the left side of his face standing out more vividly than ever.

  ‘What if I fail?’ he said and Falco was surprised to see real fear in his friend’s deep brown eyes.

  ‘You won’t,’ he said with simple conviction and finally Malaki smiled.

  ‘Try not to get beaten up again while we’re away.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Falco as he turned to look at Quirren. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘And to you,’ said Quirren and still they hovered.

  ‘Go,’ said Falco. ‘They’re waiting.’

  Falco watched as Malaki, Quirren and eleven other cadets stepped forward, including the huge Beltonian who they now knew to be called Huthgarl. The cadets swung into the saddles of the thirteen riderless horses and the leaders prepared to depart. They gave a respectful nod to the instructors, and then the man wearing the black surcoat of the Adamanti looked over to the emissary and raised his lance in salute. The huge knight in the blue surcoat also looked in their direction. He did not salute, but he acknowledged the emissary’s presence with a bow of his head, a gesture that the emissary duly returned.