Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Standing eight feet tall the Slayer looked down as the Enlightened moved around it. On the black contorted rock they set down two swords with broad curving blades and sharp wicked points. For a moment the Slayer looked down upon the blades as if it had no use for such crude and simple tools but then it sensed the power and servitude with which they had been made.

  The Slayer went down upon one knee and slowly took hold of the blades, one in each enormous fist. While it was bowed low the Enlightened moved around it, laying armoured plates upon its arms, chest and shoulders. Finally one of them lifted the great ridged helmet and settled it on the demon’s head. As they stepped back the Slayer bowed its head and closed it eyes and its black flesh began to glow. It glowed like cinders in a fire, rising in temperature until the enchanted steel fused to its foul demonic flesh.

  The demon and its protection were one.

  Slowly the Slayer rose to its feet. Its massive chest expanded as it breathed the air of the human world. It closed its eyes and the blades weighed in perfect balance at its sides, extensions now, of its black assassin’s mind. It had been summoned here for one purpose and one alone.

  To kill.

  To slay the Defiants and their conceited wyrms.

  And it would.

  40

  Nay Shed a Clout

  The trainee knights slept for almost two days after returning from the épreuve du force, and even after that the instructors insisted that they take several more days to rest and recover their strength. None of them seemed to want to speak about their ordeal, which frustrated the curiosity of the other cadets and added to the air of mystery surrounding the infamous selection process.

  ‘Too slow to defend my left side,’ was all Malaki would say about the cut on his arm.

  But whatever had happened during the trial by force it had formed something of a bond between the would-be knights. Falco would often see them exchange a nod or a handshake and even, occasionally, a laugh. He felt a surprising pang of jealousy that Malaki had undergone such a profound experience without him, but then Falco had his own story to tell.

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d seen that,’ said Malaki when he heard about the hit Falco had scored against Jarek.

  At first Malaki had been too exhausted to notice much of anything but as he returned to normal he began to notice the changes that had taken place while he and the others were away. Several of the cadets now laughed and joked with Bryna as if, in his absence, they had suddenly become friends.

  ‘Gonna beat you three nil today, Godwin,’ said Kurt Vogler one morning as he passed them in the barracks.

  ‘Only if you get a bigger sword,’ said Bryna, with a meaningful look and several of the other cadets laughed along with Vogler.

  Falco smiled while Malaki just raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘I’ll have him one of these days,’ said Bryna, sighing as Malaki’s eyebrows shot up even higher. ‘In a sparring match,’ she clarified, whacking Malaki round the head with her gloves.

  However, by far the biggest change that Malaki observed was in Falco.

  ‘Are those muscles I see?’ he asked in a tone of mock disbelief as Falco drew off the shirt in which he slept.

  ‘More like swelling from all the bruises,’ said Falco self-consciously. He was still by far the thinnest of all the cadets but he was secretly pleased that his arms and chest no longer had the skinny appearance of the sickly boy he had always been.

  ‘And I swear you’ve grown,’ said Malaki, blocking Falco’s path as he stood up from his bed.

  Falco still fell short of Malaki’s six-foot-two but not now by much.

  ‘Oomph!’

  Malaki hunched over as Falco jabbed him in the solar plexus.

  ‘Out of my way, page,’ he said, using the term for an adolescent knight in training.

  Malaki swung for him but Falco stepped smartly out of reach. Alex and Quirren laughed while Bryna shook her head and muttered the all too familiar refrain.

  ‘Boys!’

  Heading for the showers, Falco glanced back at Malaki with a smile then stopped short as he ran straight into Lanista Deloix. The dark skinned instructor looked at him and for a moment Falco thought he might be in trouble but then the lanista held up a letter.

  ‘From the small town of Lavandier,’ he said, handing the letter to Falco.

  Falco looked at the folded parchment, bound with string and sealed with a blank press of red wax. He read the writing on the front.

  Falco Danté

  Academy of War

  Wrath

  The others crowded round as Lanista Deloix departed.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ asked Bryna.

  ‘It’s from Fossetta,’ said Falco as he noted the sender’s name on the reverse of the letter.

  ‘Well open it,’ said Malaki.

  Sitting on the chest at the end of his bed, Falco snapped the seal and discarded the string. His hands shook ever so slightly as he opened the letter and began to read.

  To my dearest Falco

  I hope this letter finds you well. Indeed, I hope it finds you at all. I did not know where else to send it. And forgive me for not writing sooner but we have been travelling hard, trying to reach a small town called Lavandier before the winter snow comes in. There is talk there of a boy beset by nightmares and of objects being ‘damaged’ when he is in distress. He will be the fourth child that we have seen since leaving Toulwar but as yet Tobias has only used the word ‘Ballymudge’ for one of them!

  Tobias and I are keeping well and enjoying the chance to see more of this beautiful land. He has embraced the role suggested by the emissary and the responsibility has been good for him. As it turns out Heçamede also decided to accompany us on our journey. Many of these remote villages are without a proper healer and we are both grateful for her company.

  From Lavandier (weather permitting) we will continue east, towards the Illician border. It is no surprise, perhaps, that a greater number of ‘disturbed children’ seem to come from that direction. Even here, in the centre of Clemoncé, the shadow of the Possessed is being felt. I cannot imagine what it must be like, living near the front. Or, yes, perhaps I can.

  Anyway. Enough of our adventures. How are things with you?

  Heçamede was very encouraged by your recovery in Toulwar. I do so hope you have continued to improve. How is the chest? No sign of the infection returning, I trust. Heçamede says to eat well and breathe deeply. I know Wrath is on the coast but from what I’m told it can still get cold so I don’t want to hear that you are going round in nothing but a shirt! Remember...

  “Nay shed a clout till oak be out.”

  Has a decision been made about your training? Don’t be disappointed if you are unable to follow in your father’s footsteps. You have a good heart and a quick mind. There are many other ways that you can help.

  Oh, my dear. There are so many things that I want to ask you. What is Wrath like? And the sea? Have you seen the Queen? Did Malaki and Bryna actually get to meet her? Is the emissary still with you? Does Bellius really have connections with the royal court?

  I would love to hear all your news but I’m afraid I can’t give you an address to write back too. We rarely stay in one place for long but if we ever do I will try to let you know.

  Please give my love to Malaki and Bryna. Not an hour goes past that I do not think about you all.

  Farewell for now, my dear. I will write again in the spring.

  And remember that whatever happens, and whatever you do. You will always be in my heart.

  All my love

  Fossetta

  (and Tobias)

  (and Heçamede)

  P.S. Do not worry for our safety. We are being accompanied on our travels by two soldiers from the Toulwarian Royal Chasseurs - a captain by the name of de Roche, and another man who seems to know the forest as if it were his own garden path. I’m not sure of his rank. We know him only as Francois.

  They make for pleasant, if quiet, travellin
g companions. Unlike the two men who drive the cart. They quarrel incessantly (although it has to be said, in the most entertaining way). Tobias, in particular, enjoys their company. I think their good humour reminds him of his father.

  Now that really is all

  Till spring

  Take Care

  Malaki and Bryna had been looking over Falco’s shoulder but now he stood up from the chest and handed the letter to them so they could read it properly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Malaki.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Falco, as he pulled on a clean shirt and trousers. ‘Just dawned on me how much I miss her.’

  Malaki nodded and Bryna reached out to take his hand. Falco gave them a wan smile and gently squeezed Bryna’s hand before heading out to wash before breakfast.

  ‘She’s all right,’ he thought as he crossed the frost covered courtyard. ‘And even found time to nag me!’

  Before leaving Caer Dour Falco would never have imagined Fossetta traipsing round the Clemoncéan countryside with armed soldiers to guard her. But why not? She was one of the strongest people he had ever known and he felt sure she would be revelling in the experience. And somehow, just the reminder that there were people like her in the world was deeply reassuring. The cold mist of dawn lingered in the courtyard and Falco smiled as he entered the steamy warmth of the bathhouse.

  41

  A Passing Shadow

  In the Forsaken Lands of Illicia the Slayer watched as the sun rose over the mist covered hills to the east. The humans viewed the sunrise as a symbol of hope, but how then would they explain his presence? He had already killed several creatures, but only the humans offered any sense of satisfaction. The animals were simply sparks of life to be snuffed out, but the humans could be tormented far beyond the ephemeral moment of death. There was something almost divine in the amount of pain they could be made to suffer. The Slayer had relished their anguish but he had been summoned for something more. He had been summoned to travel north to kill the Defiants and wyrms who fought there, souls so arrogant as to believe they could challenge the Faithful.

  He rolled his armoured shoulders and the swords in his hands glinted in the morning sun. The light did not concern him but he much preferred the dark and so he would sink beneath the crust of this world and skirt the surface of the infernal plane. Offering up a prayer he opened a gate and disappeared from view. Anyone watching would have seen the demon walk forward, slowly descending into darkness that left a fire-blackened scar upon the earth. And all that could be seen of his passing was a vague shadow that moved across the land.

  Now, concealed from any watching eyes, he continued on his journey. Far to the north he could sense one of these great souls and he was eager to claim it as his own. His awareness told him the Defiant was alone, with no wyrm to share the penalty of death. But no matter.

  For now he would kill a Defiant. The pleasure of slaying a wyrm would have to wait.

  42

  Paddy The Feck

  The Academy of War was now firmly in the grip of winter and the plateau was covered in the first proper fall of snow. It crunched beneath their boots as they made their way through the darkness and up to the training field.

  ‘So you can actually cast a protection?’ said Malaki as they entered the tent.

  ‘Still only round myself,’ said Falco. ‘But yes.’

  Malaki nodded, impressed. There was an odd expression in his eyes that Falco could not quite make out. Then he remembered seeing a similar expression on Balthazak’s face the first time Malaki beat his father in a fight. It was a mixture of pride and wariness, the realisation that the balance of power, which had existed for so long, might be about to change.

  They ran together as a group that morning. Malaki was still regaining his strength and Falco was continuing to get stronger so an easy pace meant they could stay together. Besides, it was now so dark in the mornings that no one could run full speed up and down the rocky path. It was only beginning to get light as they returned to the tent for breakfast. As the cadets finished eating they became aware of a growing clamour of noise outside. It sounded as if half the Fourth Army was moving past the tent. There was a knowing expression in the eyes of the instructors as one by one the cadets moved outside to see what was going on.

  Falco and the others emerged from the tent to see a great number of troops now forming up into ranks on the training field. There were blocks of cavalry, spearmen and infantry armed with sword and shield, along with several units of archers. All together there were almost two thousand men, with a scattering of women, now staring at the open mouthed cadets. The emissary waited until the last of the cadets emerged from the tent before leading them onto the field.

  ‘Academy cadets,’ he called out, raising an all embracing arm. ‘Meet the army at your command.’

  The gathered troops gave a resounding roar, the effect of which was only spoiled by a ragged formation of archers at one end of the field. Their half-hearted cheer, died away long after the main shout had come to a well-coordinated end. Far from seeming embarrassed by their lack of discipline however, the rowdy group continued to mutter and laugh and then the cold still morning was split by a resounding fart that could only have been produced with considerable and deliberate effort.

  There was something of an apology in the emissary’s smile as a fresh wave of laughter broke out among the group. All the cadets turned to look sympathetically at Bryna who had the horrible feeling that she had just been introduced to the Dalwhinnies.

  With this dramatic unveiling concluded, Lanista Magnus stepped forward with a list. As each name was called out, the cadet in question walked forward and the emissary introduced them to their new command. They were all nervous but none more so than Alex Klingemann. He looked pale and Falco wondered if he was going to throw up. When his name was called he followed the emissary until he stood before a block of infantry each wearing a black surcoat bearing a design from one of the seven Illician Leagues.

  The most senior member of Die Verbannten stepped forward to greet his ‘new commander’. His eyes, like the rest of the Exiles, were glazed with trauma and he looked upon Alex with bleak indifference as if it was of little consequence that the academy had chosen a child to lead them.

  The emissary began to introduce him but Alex stepped forward before he had a chance. For a moment he met the senior’s hollow gaze then he dropped to the ground and prostrated himself, his arms spread wide and his face pressed down into the snow.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Bryna whispered to Quirren. Even for Alex, this gesture seemed a little melodramatic.

  ‘It’s a display of humility,’ said Quirren with a note of surprise in his voice. ‘He knows he is not worthy to lead such men. He will only take the position if they accept him.’

  The senior member of the Exiles looked down at Alex as if he did not know what to do. The gesture seemed to make him distinctly uncomfortable. He looked to the emissary but his uncompromising expression offered no way out. He then glanced round at his fellow Exiles before turning back to Alex. Finally he crouched down and laid his hand on the back of Alex’s head. He closed his eyes and his mouth moved as he spoke a few words that no one could hear then he stood back and Alex rose to his feet.

  ‘About time,’ he said, rubbing the tip of his nose. ‘Thought you were going to leave me down there to freeze.’

  The emissary smiled while the senior raised an eyebrow, but then he placed his right hand across his chest and gave Alex a bow. Behind him the rest of unit followed his lead. The Exiles had accepted their young commander and Quirren gave a soft laugh.

  ‘They will teach each other,’ was all he said.

  A few minutes later it was Bryna who followed the emissary out onto the training field. All the cadets watched her progress and none of them envied the cacophony of laughter, whistles and jeers that accompanied her approach to the Dalwhinnies.

  As the emissary came to a stop, the front rank began jostling and nudging each
other as if they had not even decided who was going to represent them. Finally a tall dark haired man was singled out and propelled forward. His face was pockmarked and his hair looked like it had been cut with a saw. He smirked as he walked out to meet the emissary, looking back and tossing his chin at the crude comments of support from his comrades.

  ‘He’s not the one you have to watch,’ said the emissary quietly as the man approached.

  He nodded to one side where a broad shouldered man, with two braids at the left temple of his sandy brown hair, was staring at Bryna. His weathered face was grizzled and grim but there was a spark of intelligence in his deep set eyes.

  ‘Patrick Feckler,’ whispered the emissary. ‘Otherwise known as Paddy the Feck.’

  Before he could say any more the pock faced man was standing before them.

  ‘Cadet Bryna Godwin,’ said the emissary by way of introduction. ‘Now Acting Captain of the Queen’s Irregulars, Fifth Company of Archers.’

  ‘Dedric Sayer, at your service,’ said the man in a mocking tone, looking Bryna up and down with bare faced appreciation.

  ‘At your service, Captain,’ said the emissary, his tone hardening.

  ‘At your service, Captain,’ repeated Dedric, blushing and casting a sharp look behind at the taunts that followed his capitulation.

  Before he turned back, Bryna saw him look to the man known as Paddy the Feck, as if seeking his permission. Patrick Feckler flicked a final glance over Bryna and gave a small nod. Dedric turned back to Bryna then he raised his hand and called out in a loud voice.

  ‘Three cheers for the new captain. Dalwhinnies...’

  ‘HO!’ came the resounding reply.

  ‘Dalwhinnies.’

  ‘HO!’

  ‘Dalwhinnies.’