‘Did you get that?’ said Aurelian turning to Meredith. ‘Is there enough there to work with?’
Meredith could only nod. It would take a mage several hours to prepare a barrier like that. Falco had done it with barely a thought. But Meredith had been watching closely and although he could not put it into words, he had a sense of what Falco had done. He could see how, with some small adjustments, that force could be manipulated and controlled.
They spent the next two hours testing the limits of Falco’s new ability.
‘The next step is to shape your defences and project them so that you can use them to protect others,’ said Aurelian.
The defensive field that Falco was able to produce seemed to match the contours of his body like an invisible shield sitting a few inches above his skin. Meredith could see how Falco might begin to fashion this barrier into any shape he chose but the subtle changes in the mind were not easy to describe.
‘Try to imagine a sphere,’ he said. ‘A sphere is a natural form of nature. Once you can do that we can work on producing a sphere at a distance.’
Falco nodded but he was too tired to try anything else just now. He was accustomed to physical exhaustion but this mental tiredness was something else entirely.
‘It’s like anything else,’ said Aurelian. ‘It’ll get stronger with practice.’
He patted him on the back and Falco was surprised at the satisfaction he felt at finally being able to please the cantankerous old veteran.
‘We’ll leave it there for today. You rest this afternoon and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start again tomorrow. Here,’ he said when he saw just how exhausted Falco was, ‘Nicolas will give you a hand back to the barracks.’
Dusaule appeared at his side and Falco gave a weary nod as the tall Crofter escorted him out of the crucible. Stumbling with fatigue Falco was in something of a daze as they made their way down the slope. He was dimly aware of staggering a couple of times but Dusaule was always there to catch him. He did not remember falling asleep on his feet or Dusaule picking him up and carrying him the last two hundred yards to the barracks before laying him down on his bed.
He woke some time later when the rest of the cadets returned from the afternoon’s training. He opened his eyes feeling tired but rested. The cadets were noisy with excitement as they bustled into the sleeping quarters. Still feeling groggy Falco eased himself up and sat on the edge of his bed.
‘You look shattered,’ said Bryna as she and Alex returned with the others.
‘I’m fine,’ said Falco, although he could quite happily have gone back to sleep.
‘I’m starving,’ said Alex. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got for dinner.’
Falco nodded getting to his feet and yawning.
‘I could eat a horse...’
‘Two pigs and a chicken,’ said Alex, completing the phrase that had grown up among the cadets, all of whom had noticed an alarming increase in the amount they were eating.
They moved through to the dining hall and Falco leaned his head on his hand, slowly stuffing his face with boiled potatoes, roasted parsnips and braised lamb while Bryna and Alex discussed battlefield orders and the chain of command. The buzz of excitement was slowly giving way to a replete murmur when the door flew open and a cadet burst in.
‘The knights are here!’ he exclaimed. ‘The épreuve du force is over!’
The dining room emptied in something of a stampede as the cadets charged through to the arched entrance of the quad. In the torch-lit darkness they could see a group of figures approaching. They looked filthy, bowed and utterly exhausted. It was raining and cold and the bedraggled knights seemed to have just one thing on their minds, to get to the barracks and bed.
The cadets began to recognise friends amongst the group and running out to meet them they helped them back inside. As they entered the sleeping quarters the cadets wrapped them in blankets and drew them to the fires, pouring hot drinks and hovering in the hope of hearing some account of what they had been through. But the trainee knights were in no fit state to regale them. Some of them simply staggered over to collapse onto their beds, wet clothes and all.
Falco, Alex and Bryna watched anxiously as the last of them returned but there was still no sign of Quirren or Malaki. Then, just as they were about to go in search of Lanista Deloix, another figure appeared out of the night. It was the big Beltonian, Huthgarl and there just behind him was Quirren, but Quirren was not walking alone. Together with a heavily built Acheronian youth they supported another cadet between them. The cadet’s arms were draped over their shoulders, his head was bowed and his legs were trailing behind him, stumbling over the muddy ground. His long brown hair was hanging down over his face but then Falco noticed that his left forearm was bound with a wet and dirty bandage.
The cadet being dragged back to the barracks was Malaki.
Bryna must have realised at the same instant because she suddenly ran out into the rain to help bring him in. Alex went too.
As they reached them, Quirren’s strength gave out and it was left to Bryna to help the broad shouldered Acheronian get Malaki inside. Despite his own weariness, Falco went out to help Alex with Quirren. The big Illician looked up at them, his stoic face slack with exhaustion.
‘We did it,’ was all he said.
Falco and Alex each drew an arm across their shoulders and hauled him up to his feet. Then together they staggered through to join the others. Bryna and the Acheronian had managed to get Malaki onto his bed before turning to enquire about Quirren.
‘We did it,’ Quirren said again as Falco wrapped a dry towel round his shoulders.
‘I... have... no... doubt!’ said Alex, tugging hard as he struggled to remove his brother’s boots.
Quirren laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and Alex raised his head to look up at him.
‘They have chosen me for the Orden Des Schwarzen Adlers,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion and disbelief.
Alex ceased pulling at Quirren’s boots and rose to hug his brother. ‘Father knows,’ Falco heard him say, his voice muffled against his brother’s shoulder. ‘He knows and he is proud.’
Falco turned away as Quirren cried quietly against Alex’s shoulder. He had no idea what ‘the Orden Des Schwarzen Adlers’ meant, only that schwartz was the Illician word for ‘dark’ or ‘black’.
He turned back to find Bryna tending to Malaki. He helped her to remove his wet clothes and went to get him a hot drink while she dried his hair with a towel. Of all the trainee knights Malaki was in the worst shape. He seemed barely conscious as Falco set down a cup of hot coffee beside his bed. Bryna covered him with a warm blanket and stroked his brow as they tried to ascertain if he was all right.
‘Tired,’ Malaki mumbled like a man on the edge of sleep. ‘Just tired.’
At the foot of his bed stood Huthgarl. The large Beltonian was staring down at Malaki with an unreadable expression on his dour looking face. Suddenly a smaller figure appeared beside him.
‘I should have known!’ spat Jarek Snidesson with vicious glee. ‘Should’ve known the épreuve du force would be too much for a common blacksmith.’
Falco felt his hackles rise as Jarek shook his head in contempt.
‘Look at him, our poor little Berry, utterly spent. That’s what you get for having ideas above your station.’
Falco saw Bryna start up from the bed, but before she could do anything Huthgarl gave a snarl. Spinning round he wrapped a massive hand around Jarek’s throat and slammed him back against one of the sturdy wooden pillars. Jarek gave a strangled cry and pulled at Huthgarl’s arm but there was no way he could break that powerful hold. For a moment Huthgarl just stared at Jarek and Falco was worried that he might do serious harm. But finally he relaxed his grip.
‘No more,’ was all he said and with that he let Jarek fall, retching to the floor. He turned to look at Falco and Bryna, and finally down at Malaki. Then, without another word he turned and walked away.
&nbs
p; For a moment Falco watched him leave, wondering just what had happened on the épreuve du force to bring about such a change in the Beltonian’s allegiance. He looked down at Jarek, who was slowly getting to his feet, batting away the hands of two of his cronies who were trying to help him up. Jarek’s eyes were dark with hatred, made all the hotter by this second humiliation of the day. Falco felt a stab of sympathy but there was nothing to be done. Spite bore its own bitter fruit.
With a sigh of regret he turned back to his friend.
Bryna was still muttering under her breath as she held the cup of hot coffee to Malaki’s lips. He sipped slowly and some of the dark liquid ran down his chin. His face was pale with cold and fatigue, and several nasty bruises stood out starkly beneath his skin but slowly he began to revive. He reached up to enclose Bryna’s hand with his own, holding the cup to his mouth so that he could drink more deeply.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Falco moved to stand beside Bryna as Malaki struggled to focus on their faces. He smiled as if he had woken from a bad dream and a flush of colour returned to his pallid cheeks.
‘You survived then,’ said Falco.
‘No problem,’ replied Malaki with a grin.
Bryna gave a sigh of exasperation at the lightness of their tone then raised Malaki’s hand to her lips, clearly relieved that there did not appear to be anything seriously wrong. Malaki reached out an arm to pull her closer and she leaned down to kiss him properly.
‘You frightened the hell out of me,’ she said in a scolding tone and Malaki laughed.
‘So, did you pass?’ asked Falco and slowly Malaki nodded.
‘Only four of us dropped out. The instructors say it’s normally more.’
Bryna stuffed another pillow behind him as he struggled to sit up.
‘So which order of knights has been foolish enough to sign you up?’ said Falco as Malaki had another sip of coffee and took a bite from a piece of fruit cake that had magically appeared on a plate beside his bed. ‘Order of the Swan?’ he suggested. ‘Or the Order du Croissant, perhaps?’
Malaki laughed and shook his head. Falco’s crude pronunciation made it clear he meant the curved patisserie and not the ‘crescent’ for which the order in question was actually named. But then his expression grew more serious.
‘Well it can’t be the Beltane Heavy Horse,’ said Falco. ‘There’s no way Huthgarl would allow that.’
Again Malaki shook his head and Falco gaped at him in disbelief.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been chosen by the Adamanti!’
‘No,’ said Malaki, his deep brown eyes shining with disbelief. ‘They want me for the Knights of Wrath.’
38
Archives of the Magi
Later that night the first of the winter storms blew in. Clouds of snow swirled around the tall tower of the magi but deep in the bowels of the tower there was no sign of howling wind and pelting hail. Like the depths of a fathomless lake it was calm and unperturbed.
Meredith Saker took another sip of blood red wine and placed the silver cup to one side, careful that it should not spill on the ancient books and scrolls laid out on the black stone table at which he sat. It was well after midnight and apart from the low harmonic drone of distant chanting the repository was quiet. The dark arching catacombs were lit not by torches but by small irregular plates of pale purple onyx, fixed to the wall with black iron spikes. The plates glowed with a faint luminescence, providing just enough light to read by.
Meredith had spent much of the last few weeks in these dark womb-like chambers, setting out the specific aims of his studies. In communication he had developed an idea for connecting mage towers with a live link of communication. Yes, a quintet of skilled mages could project a simple message from one tower to another but this was not the same as holding a conversation. He was convinced his idea could be of immense strategic value in the war against the Possessed.
When it came to history there were numerous things to which he could quite happily dedicate years of study, but for now he had decided to restrict himself to the rise and return of the Possessed.
And finally, even though Galen Thrall had dismissed it, he was determined to learn more about dragonkind. Not only had he always been fascinated by these enigmatic creatures, he was convinced that the madness of black dragons was connected to the Great Possession. If he could find out what made dragons vulnerable to Possession then maybe he could glean some insight into why black dragons were mad. And there were two questions that kept repeating in his mind.
Had the magi known that dragons were susceptible to Possession?
And if so, why did they not warn the people of Wrath?
He knew such questions were controversial but he would not rest until he knew the answers.
Meredith looked up and gave a nod of thanks as one of the archivists placed a new scroll on the table.
‘Will you be requiring anything else?’ asked the bald-headed man.
‘No, thank you,’ said Meredith. ‘I just want to cross reference the decadal timeline with chronicles from the other kingdoms.’
The archivist gave a disinterested nod and was just moving away when Meredith’s eye was drawn to the only other figure in the repository, a figure who had been present ever since Meredith first visited the catacombs four weeks ago.
The old man was sitting in a chair, beside a simple cot laid out near the entrance to the chamber of records. His face was wrinkled like that of a wizened monkey with a fringe of sparse white hair encircling his liver-spotted scalp, and his small rheumy eyes stared into space with a pronounced squint.
Had he known better Meredith might have said he was in a state of conjuration, a trance-like state where the mage’s attention was focussed on creating a specific aura or state of mind, but no one could remain in that state for so long and Meredith perceived no hint of a spell being performed.
‘Does he live here?’ he asked, nodding to the diminutive figure.
‘Sometimes,’ said the archivist. ‘Brother Serulian was a great scholar in his time.’
Meredith nodded slowly. For some reason ‘Brother Serulian’ made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. The old mage never looked at him, never even acknowledged his presence, but nevertheless, Meredith had the distinct impression that he was being watched. Maybe his father had arranged for the old man to keep an eye on him, watching in case he stepped out of line or tried to study anything of which his father did not approve. Well, he would find out tonight when he went through to the fifth chamber. If his father somehow learned that he was studying dragonkind then Meredith would know that Brother Serulian was a spy.
‘Will that be all?’
Meredith looked up at the archivist who was still hovering at the end of the table.
‘Yes, thank you.’
The archivist departed, disappearing through the broad archway at the entrance to the chamber. For a moment Meredith continued to stare at Brother Serulian then he turned back to the table and unfurled the scroll that the archivist had brought him. He scanned through the dates on the timeline, checking them against his notes, from the pivotal battle of Erlangaen in 828, through to the Inquisition of Ossanda in 845, when the magi were cleared of withholding information before the Great Possession, which occurred two years earlier.
Twenty minutes passed until, with a soft snort of surprise, Meredith sat back and let the scroll furl back upon itself. The timeline confirmed that he had not missed anything of significance. The Great Possession had taken place in the year 843 Anno Ira (in the Year of Wrath). Naturally, the chronicles of the 84th decade had been among the first he looked at and yet he had learned nothing of any great significance, nothing that he did not already know.
With a sigh of frustration he furled the scroll. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there simply was nothing more to learn about the Great Possession. Rising from his seat he drained the last of his wine. Then, checking that there was no one else present in the repository, he pushed himself up from
the table and moved through to the fifth chamber, where the information on dragonkind was stored. He shuddered slightly as he passed through the vacant gaze of Brother Serulian but the old mage seemed oblivious to his presence. He continued to stare into space through the cataracts in his watery eyes but in his mind there lay the echo of the Grand Veneratu’s command.
‘The son of Saker must be denied the details of the 84th decade.’
‘He must not know the truth.’
Feeling only a vague prickle of disquiet Meredith Saker continued to the fifth chamber to begin his study of dragonkind.
39
Emergence
Deep within the Forsaken Lands an area of tortured rock began to buckle and bulge as something forced its way up from below. The Enlightened set down their tools and gathered round the pit ready to adorn the new arrival in the regalia of war. The surface of the pit cracked open as a shape emerged: powerful shoulders and a monstrous head, bowed by the effort of being born into a new and unfamiliar realm. The demon planted its hands on the sides of the pit and hauled itself free of the molten earth. Its eyes burned with a blood red fire as it struggled to stand on two back-bent legs that seemed to be wreathed in smoke.
Around it the blackened remains of the supplicants hung in the air then one by one they began to descend until they sank into the riven earth. They had served their purpose in guiding the demon through, their suffering a beacon for it to follow. Now the same rift would serve to deliver them from the human world into the greater realms below.
As the last of the supplicants disappeared beneath the shifting crust of rock the transition was complete. The Slayer was now a denizen of this world. Almost immediately the rock began to cool and solidify until all that was left was a tracery of glowing cracks and the smell of scorched rock and burning flesh. But the supplicants were gone. They were not buried in the earth. They were gone. You could dig a thousand feet beneath the pit and never find their bones. They were in a different place now, a place of suffering from which they would never escape. Not unless the Marchio Dolor himself were slain and there was no one in the world with the strength to kill such as he.
Battle Mage Page 36
