Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

‘Think I’d rather face a hoard of Kardakae,’ said Alex.

  Falco laughed softly but Malaki was watching Bryna intently. It was not easy for him to see her treated in this way. They watched as she tried to engage some of the men in conversation without success. Finally she walked over to one of the ranges and began to shoot.

  The Dalwhinnies watched her with a mixture of amusement, indifference and lust. Over to one side they could see the large figure of Patrick Feckler surrounded by a dozen similarly rough-looking individuals. These were men who had carved out their lives in the shadowed quarters of the world: poachers, mercenaries, debt collectors and worse. They were not about to be told what to do by some slip of a girl, no matter how pretty she was or how well she could shoot.

  ‘How’s she getting on?’

  The boys turned to see the emissary leading his horse, Tapfer, towards them.

  ‘Not well,’ said Falco.

  Below them Bryna had just finished a round. They saw her collect her arrows before making her way back up towards them. As she drew close they rose to their feet and Malaki offered her a napkin full of food, but Bryna shook her head and turned back to look down at the company of archers that were causing her so much trouble. Now that she had left them the Dalwhinnies began to practice as Paddy walked up to the shooting line.

  ‘They do that just to spite me,’ said Bryna and Falco could tell that she was close to tears.

  Malaki tried to slip his arm around her waist but Bryna just shrugged him off.

  ‘Have you managed suivez cinq or dix?’ asked the emissary.

  Bryna shook her head.

  ‘I take it then, that you haven’t even begun practicing the traverser.’

  Once again Bryna shook her head. The boys looked at each other as an uncomfortable silence settled around them. From below they heard a wave of laughter as Patrick Feckler glanced up towards the small group of people looking down at his Dalwhinnies.

  ‘They just don’t respect me,’ said Bryna.

  ‘And why should they?’ asked the emissary and Falco was surprised by the harshness of his tone.

  ‘I...’ began Bryna but the emissary cut her off.

  ‘You’re just a piece of skirt from a small provincial town. Some of these men have whored girls like you for a living. Do you really expect them to respect you just because you can shoot straight?’

  Beside him Bryna shook her head and a single tear ran down her cheek.

  Falco glanced at the emissary. He could be a stern man but it was not in his nature to be cruel. He was taking a hard line with Bryna for a reason.

  ‘The Dalwhinnies do not have to respect you, Bryna Godwin. But they do have to respect your rank.’

  Bryna turned her face to look at the emissary but there was no hint of compromise in his eyes. For a moment she just stared at him and then she smiled. Reaching for Malaki’s hand she gave him a light kiss on the lips, an apology for brushing him off a moment ago. Then, slinging her bow across her back she started back down the slope.

  A new wave of appreciation rose up from the Dalwhinnies at Bryna’s spirited return and her friends watched as she walked into the midst of the rowdy men who parted as she made directly for the large figure of Patrick Feckler.

  ‘Oh blades,’ cursed Malaki softly. ‘What the hell’s she up to now?’

  Falco did not know. From where they were standing they could not hear what was being said.

  Bryna’s heart was thumping in her chest as she made her way up to the man who controlled the Dalwhinnies. Paddy The Feck turned to watch her advance, a look of genuine amusement in his deep set eyes. Bryna walked up until she stood directly in front of him and many of the men laughed to see her slight figure squaring up to Paddy’s broad-shoulder bulk.

  ‘This afternoon we will perfect the manoeuvre known as suivez cinq,’ said Bryna. ‘And tomorrow...’

  ‘Forgive me, little mistress,’ interrupted Paddy in an apologetic tone. ‘But this afternoon the men will be...’

  SLAP!

  Bryna smacked Patrick Feckler across the face with all the force she could muster. The big man reeled from the unexpected blow but he smiled a wicked smile as he turned back to look at her.

  SLAP!

  Another slap, every bit as hard as the first and now Paddy winced at the pain, any trace of amusement gone from his eyes.

  ‘Why, you...’

  SLAP!

  The Dalwhinnies gave a collective gasp of pure astonishment as Bryna slapped their leader for a third time. She tried for a fourth but Paddy caught her arm in one large calloused fist. His other hand came up, quick and threatening, but Bryna lifted her chin as if she were daring him to strike her. For a moment Paddy’s dark gaze burned into Bryna’s face with murderous fury, but his hand stalled and he looked suddenly at a loss. He knew the penalty for striking a superior officer and whether he liked it or not, Bryna was his superior officer.

  A tense silence settled on the scene and still Paddy did not move. Then Dedric Sayer started towards Bryna and there was no mistaking the violence in his eyes. He also knew the penalty for striking an officer, but he was not about to let Bryna humiliate their leader. He would take the lash for Paddy and his standing among the Dalwhinnies would be greatly enhanced.

  Striding forward he raised his hand and Bryna flinched in anticipation of the blow but at the last minute Paddy let go of Bryna and punched Sayer in the side of the face. He dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes and the atmosphere was so thick with shock that you could have cut it with an axe.

  Once again silence descended until Bryna broke it with a voice that was surprisingly strong and steady.

  ‘Now,’ she said, looking round at the host of dark eyes staring at her. ‘This afternoon we are going to master suivez cinq. And tomorrow,’ she added, looking at Patrick Feckler and daring him to speak. ‘We are going to master suivez dix.’

  Unslinging her bow she turned to look at a group of four men standing on the shooting line, the tips of their bows resting casually on their boots.

  ‘You four,’ she said, drawing an arrow and nocking it to the string. ‘On the command of suivez cinq you will each hit the target I choose.’

  One of the men instinctively turned to look at Paddy but quick as a flash Bryna drew her bow and shot an arrow through the man’s right boot.

  ‘Don’t look at him, damn you!’ she cried. ‘I am the commander of the Dalwhinnies and by the stars you will look at me!’

  The man winced as the arrow nicked the flesh of his calf, but Bryna already had another on the string and it would have been a brave and stupid man who looked away from her then. With a face like thunder she stepped ahead of the four men on the shooting line.

  ‘Suivez cinq!’ she called out and shot an arrow into the second target from the left.

  Behind her four bowstrings sang and four arrows thudded into the target that Bryna had hit.

  ‘Suivez cinq!’ she said again, this time hitting the furthest target to the right.

  Behind her there came another collective twang but this time only three of the arrows found their mark. The fourth one had missed the boss completely, but the man who fired it was limping on an injured leg with an arrow sticking through his boot.

  ‘Right!’ shouted Bryna, rounding on the Dalwhinnies. ‘The rest of you split into groups of five and fill the shooting lines. I want every last one of you to be able to perform this before the day is out.’

  The Dalwhinnies stared at her, too stunned to move, then...

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for you black hearted bastards?’ roared Paddy The Feck. ‘You heard the commander. Groups of five, on the line... Go!’

  The Dalwhinnies leapt into action and, with a terrible commotion of squabbling, confusion and the odd violent scuffle, they divided themselves into groups of five and began to practice the archery technique known as suivez cinq.

  Amidst the confusion and the growing thrum of bowstrings Bryna turned to see Patrick Feckler standing in front o
f her. The big grizzle-faced man was looking at her with an unreadable expression in his deeply shadowed eyes.

  Bryna had been surprised when he added his voice in support of hers but if nothing else, Paddy was a pragmatist. He knew that Bryna had played the one card to which he had no answer. In that moment he had lost his place as first man of the Dalwhinnies. However, with the instincts of a survivor he realised he could still claim the place of second, even if the first man was now a woman.

  Face flushed and feeling faint, Bryna waited for him to speak.

  ‘By shite girl, but I bet your father’s proud of you.’

  Bryna felt a lump rise in her throat.

  ‘My father was killed by a demon in the mountains,’ she said. ‘But yes. He was proud of me.’

  For a moment Paddy just looked at her but then he nodded.

  ‘You still got that cup we gave you?’

  Bryna dipped her head.

  ‘Then bring it along to the Irregulars’ mess tonight and we’ll give you a proper Dalwhinnie welcome.’

  Bryna gave the smallest of nods and Paddy stepped aside to let her pass.

  ‘Oh blades,’ she thought as she left the shooting range in search of somewhere to throw up. ‘Now they’re expecting me to drink with them.’

  As she walked away she heard Paddy’s coarse voice ring out as one of the men nearly shot his companion in the back.

  ‘Not like that, Harper, you sheep worrying sodomite! Move your feet if you have to!’

  *

  Back on the slope Bryna’s friends breathed a sigh of relief as it finally became clear that she was not going to get beaten to a pulp. Falco glanced across at Malaki who was staring down at Bryna with a fierce intensity in his eyes. At one point he had been on the verge of charging down to take on the Dalwhinnies single handed, but the emissary held him back.

  ‘Give her a minute,’ he said as Bryna slapped Paddy for the second time.

  Now they watched as the Dalwhinnies scurried onto the firing line and Bryna faced Paddy before making her way towards the bowyer’s workshops where she disappeared behind the low wooden buildings.

  ‘Well you did say she’d figure them out,’ said Falco.

  Malaki looked at him and shook his head, smiling as the adrenalin slowly leeched out of his body.

  ‘And I thought Paddy the Feck was scary,’ said Alex.

  The three of them laughed and the emissary laughed with them. He might have given Bryna the secret of how to master the Dalwhinnies but it was Bryna herself who faced down their intimidating leader with two hundred grim faced men at his back. She had shown that when it came to leadership it was not physical strength that was important.

  It was strength of character that mattered most.

  It was strength of character that earned respect.

  47

  A Single Touch

  Three weeks later, on a cold winter’s morning, the Fourth Army departed and it seemed as if the whole of Wrath had turned out to see them off. The city was crowded with civilians as the army marched down from the plateau and made its way along the broad main streets of the city. People watched in respectful silence as the troops filed past and stared in fascination at the column of warrior mages who marched with them. The two forces would continue until they reached The Square of the Nameless Knight. There they would wait for their commanders to join them after a final audience with the Queen, a reminder that they went to war in Her name.

  However, before he went to meet the Queen, the commander of the Fourth Army made a point of stopping by the academy barracks to say a personal farewell to the cadets. The emissary spoke encouraging words to Malaki, Bryna, Alex and Quirren and to all the rest but not to Falco, for Falco was not there. He too had been summoned to attend the Queen and he stood with her now as they watched the column of soldiers winding through the city.

  ‘Always such a stirring spectacle,’ said the Queen as they stood on the high terrace overlooking the city. ‘Both glorious and sad.’

  She turned to look at Falco, making no attempt to hide the emotion in her eyes. Beneath her blue cloak and wolf fur mantle the Queen was dressed in armour, a sword hanging from the black horse-head belt that the emissary had made for her. It was quite clear that this was not armour of a ceremonial kind. This was armour designed for battle.

  ‘Absurd, is it not?’ said the Queen as she noticed the direction of his gaze. ‘As Commander-in-Chief tradition dictates that I dress accordingly, despite the fact that this armour has never known a day of war.’

  ‘There’s more than one way to fight a war, Your Majesty,’ said Falco and the Queen gave a wry laugh.

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like him.’ She nodded to one of the riders now making their way up towards the palace, a rider clad in mail and riding a beautiful smoke grey Percheron. Riding beside the emissary was the captain of the mage army, a man called Dagoran Sorn. The emissary wore a surcoat and cloak in the pale blue and turquoise colours of the Queen, while the warrior mage’s robes were deep purple over a shirt of close-knit mail.

  They caught glimpses of the riders as they made their way through the rising streets towards their parting audience with the Queen. They watched them until they disappeared beneath the outer palace walls and the Queen’s gaze moved back to the army.

  ‘They march beyond Le Matres,’ she said. ‘Towards the city of Hoffen.’

  She did not look at him, but Falco understood the anxiety in her voice. So this was why she had wanted to see him. The emissary marched towards the area where he had perceived a gap in the forces of the Possessed. Clemoncé had always prided itself on the quality of its military intelligence and the Queen was tormented by the possibility that she might have missed something, that she might be sending her people into unknown danger.

  ‘Is there nothing more that you can tell me about what you felt in the meeting?’

  Falco shook his head. ‘It was only a vague sensation,’ he said, feeling as if he had somehow let her down. ‘I nearly didn’t say anything at all.’

  The Queen paused for a moment and then she sighed, smiling slightly as if it was unfair to press him for more certainty.

  ‘Is there any word from the Illician battle mages?’ asked Falco.

  ‘No. But that’s not unusual. It will take some time for Nathalie to find them and even then they might not be free to investigate straight away. Even our great souls cannot be everywhere at once.’

  Falco took a discreet sideways glance at the Queen as she gazed down over the city. He could hear the weariness in her voice, the strain of coordinating a war that most people believed they could not win. He took in the clean line of her jaw and the pale expanse of her cheek, the contrast between the soft skin of her throat and the hard edge of her armoured breastplate. A gust of wind blew her dark hair back from her face and for a moment he saw her not as a queen but simply as a woman, strong and beautiful, yet filled with doubt and the terrible fear of letting her people down.

  Falco felt a sudden surge of love for her and he knew, in that moment, that he would do anything in his power to help her.

  ‘A gaze like that is enough to make a woman blush, Master Danté,’ said the Queen.

  Falco turned away, but when the Queen turned to look at him it was not she who blushed, but he. She smiled and Falco was spared any further embarrassment as Cyrano appeared behind them.

  ‘The warrior mage, Dagoran Sorn, and the commander of the Fourth Army, seek an audience with the Throne and the blessing of her Royal Majesty, the Queen.’

  The Queen squared her shoulders and lifted her face. Falco saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes as she gathered her courage. To resist the legions of hell was one thing. To say goodbye to the man she loved, in the full knowledge that she might never see him again, that was quite another.

  ‘Thank you, Cyrano.’ she said at last.

  The Queen’s advisor bowed his head and with nothing more than a look he made it clear that Falco’s audience was over.
<
br />   Falco turned to the Queen and bowed.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said as he waited to be released from her presence.

  ‘Perhaps we might speak again sometime. If your training permits it, of course.’

  ‘I would be honoured,’ said Falco, blushing once more.

  ‘Till the next time then,’ said the Queen and Falco knew that he had been dismissed.

  He walked over to where Cyrano stood at the archway in the palace wall. Beside him were two men. The first was the emissary, the second was a relatively small man with strong hawkish features and dark penetrating eyes. This was the man Galen Thrall had chosen to lead his precious mage army into the fray.

  ‘Lord Sorn,’ said Cyrano, inviting the warrior mage to come forward.

  Dagoran Sorn gave a stiff bow and allowed the Queen’s advisor to lead him forth.

  Falco and the emissary watched as the two men made their way towards the Queen who was now standing at the very edge of the terrace, in full view of the people gathered in the streets below.

  ‘Did she ask you about the Possessed?’

  Falco glanced at the emissary and nodded.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ said the emissary. ‘Every scout and captain who ever made a report wishes he could tell her more. Anything to ease the strain she bears.’

  Now Falco looked at him properly, amazed as ever by the way he saw through to the truth of things.

  ‘Did you get a chance to see the others?’

  The emissary nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Falco. ‘Alex was convinced you were going to leave without saying goodbye.’

  The emissary gave a soft laugh. ‘Aurelian tells me you’re progressing well.’

  ‘In some ways,’ said Falco and the emissary gave a knowing smile.

  ‘He says you’re struggling with offensive force.’

  ‘Not struggling, incapable,’ said Falco, his tone echoing the dismay he felt at not being able to summon even the smallest magical attack. ‘It makes no sense,’ he went on. ‘Given a sword I’d attack without a second thought.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you don’t associate a sword with murder.’