Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  *

  The night passed, and the sun rose, and in the Forsaken Lands of Illicia the battle mage Wildegraf Feuerson listened patiently as the riders told their tale. They spoke in broken fragments of fear and shock and shame. How they had gone to look for family members trapped in the Forsaken Lands. How they had been scouring the woods when a shadow came upon them, a shadow of all-consuming fear that disgorged a demon of lethal strength and steel. Thrown from their horses they would have died had another figure not burst from the trees, a warrior on a horse... a battle mage.

  ‘He charged but the demon cut the horse from under him,’ one of the traumatised men told Wildegraf. ‘He attacked with fire and sword but it wasn’t enough. The demon was unhurt.’

  ‘He screamed at us to run.’

  ‘We ran.’

  ‘Mounted our horses and ran.’

  ‘There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘He told us to run.’

  ‘There was nothing we could do.’

  Wildegraf frowned at their stumbling account. It was true that there was nothing they could have done, but still they would carry the guilt for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Where was this?’ he asked them.

  ‘In the Keiler Valley,’ they said. ‘About four days south.’

  Wildegraf thanked them and gave them directions to the city of Hoffen where he knew they would be safe. Then as the men watched, he returned to his dragon, Berylian, who was just visible between the trees. The dragon’s emerald green scales shimmered in the dim light of the forest and the soldiers eyed it warily as they mounted their horses once more. The dragon was undeniably powerful but it did not terrify them as the demon had. Rather it brought on a feeling of awe and respect.

  Wildegraf was deep in thought as Berylian returned to the clearing where they could gain the sky. From their brief description he believed the soldiers spoke of Jürgen Focke, the only other battle mage in the area. Jürgen’s summoning had gone unanswered, but that had not prevented him from making a huge contribution to the war. The chances of him coming across the soldiers by chance was slim, far more likely that he was searching for the demon that attacked them.

  But Wildegraf was concerned. The soldiers’ account held worrying clues about the nature of this demon. It was not uncommon for them to cloak themselves in shadow, but he was surprised to hear that this demon shook off a battle mage attack without harm. Jürgen might not have been blessed with a dragon but he was anything but weak. As Berylian readied himself for flight, Wildegraf feared the worst. Why had Jürgen not returned to help the soldiers after his fight with the demon?

  Berylian turned his head and the images that swirled in his mind were dire.

  ‘Yes, my friend,’ said Wildegraf. ‘I fear you are right.’

  He gripped the riding harness as Berylian launched himself into the air. If this demon had killed Jürgen single handed then it was more dangerous than any they had yet encountered. He laid a reassuring hand on Berylian’s powerful neck. They would look for this demon but they could not afford to be away for long. The armies around Hoffen needed their protection. But if this demon was something new then Wildegraf needed to find it. And find it quickly.

  The emerald green dragon soared up into the sky and disappeared into the clouds. The Keiler Valley was not so far for a dragon but the rugged hills were clothed in ancient forest. If this demon was concealing its presence it would not be easy to find, but find it they would. And if Jürgen had indeed fallen, then the least they could do was avenge his death.

  55

  The Trials of Leadership

  The weather remained largely fair and the cadet army made good progress through the wooded heartland of Clemoncé. The campaign presented numerous issues for the cadets to deal with but, shortly after passing through one small town, Bryna was faced with a disciplinary matter of a more serious kind. One of her men had been caught stealing from a local house. Most of the camp was oblivious to the misdemeanour, but the Dalwhinnies were notably subdued as the guilty man was brought before their captain.

  ‘What do you think she’ll do?’ asked Falco as he and Malaki watched from one side of the proceedings.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Malaki. ‘But she’s absolutely fuming. Wouldn’t be surprised if she swung the whip herself.’

  Bryna was aware that everyone was watching, but she could barely look at the man standing at the centre of the clearing. Beside her Patrick Feckler held a many stranded leather whip known as a starter.

  ‘What should I do?’ murmured Bryna and Paddy gave a shrug.

  ‘You could order two hundred lashes or more,’ he said as the dejected man stood there with his head bowed. ‘Less than a hundred and the men’ll think you haven’t the stomach for proper discipline.’

  ‘Proper discipline,’ said Bryna, giving Paddy a look of disgust.

  ‘Men like this need a firm hand,’ said Paddy. ‘They feel more comfortable if they know where they stand.’

  Bryna gave a snort of derision. She glanced over towards Falco and Malaki, but then her gaze slid across to one of the assessors who was also watching from a discreet distance. Finally Bryna waved the man forward.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  The man glanced up, clearly mortified at being the centre of such adverse attention. ‘The house was empty. I didn’t think no one would notice, mistress.’

  ‘Captain,’ Paddy corrected him.

  ‘Captain,’ repeated the man, knuckling his forehead in some semblance of a salute.

  Bryna glared at the man, furious at being placed in such a position. She had seen men flogged before and had no wish to relive the experience. She paused in thought before speaking again.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Verinae,’ said the man. ‘A small town near the border with Valentia.’

  ‘Then to Verinae you shall return,’ said Bryna.

  The man looked at her, confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This is an archery unit of the Queen’s Irregulars,’ said Bryna, her face now a blank dispassionate mask. ‘I have no use for thieves.’

  ‘But mistress, I mean, Captain...’ said the man.

  He took a step forward but Paddy stopped him with a hand on his chest. Bryna ignored him completely.

  ‘Give him enough food and supplies for the journey,’ she said and with that she turned her back on the man and strode out of the camp.

  The man watched her go with something like despair in his eyes and even the Dalwhinnies looked shocked. Bryna’s cold dismissal had struck them more brutally than any strand of the lash. Across the way the assessor raised an appraising eyebrow, while Falco and Malaki watched Bryna disappear into the gloom of the surrounding trees.

  ‘That will have cut her deeply,’ said Malaki.

  Falco nodded, but he also felt sorry for the guilty man. He knew from experience that few things cut more deeply than shame.

  The following day Bryna chose to ride with Falco and Malaki. She was unusually subdued and rode in silence until she noticed that Patrick Feckler was not at the head of the Dalwhinnies, where she had left him. With a muttered curse she rode back to see where he was. Falco and Malaki gave each other a look before going to follow her. They found Paddy at the rear of the column, speaking to one of the Dalwhinnies who was walking beside another man who was clearly struggling to keep up. Paddy was remonstrating with the Dalwhinnie, and as they drew closer, they could hear what was being said.

  ‘I told you to put him in the wagon and keep him hidden!’ growled Paddy.

  ‘Stubborn bastard insists on walking,’ replied the man.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked Bryna as she drew up beside Paddy.

  Paddy gave the man a ‘now see what you’ve done’ look as Bryna spotted the man that was walking, or rather ‘stumbling’ behind the wagon. His head was bowed and the back of his shirt was dark with blood at various stages of drying. Falco recognised the man instantly but it took Bry
na a moment to realise what was going on. Finally the truth dawned on her.

  ‘I thought I told you to send him home,’ she said to Paddy in a hard accusing tone.

  ‘Quite so, Captain,’ said Paddy, glancing at the other Dalwhinnie to hold his tongue. ‘That was Jean Bonnot, the thief. I sent him away with my boot in his arse. This, on the other hand, is Jean Bonnot, an archer of the Queen’s Irregulars.’

  The man in question staggered as Paddy slapped him on the shoulder, his face was chalky white and dripping with sweat. They could all see that he was on the verge of passing out.

  Bryna flushed with fury but Paddy did not flinch. She seemed about to say something but then her gaze came to rest on the pitiful figure of Jean Bonnot. The man’s back had been whipped to a mass of raw and bloody flesh. Such a beating would normally put a man in the infirmary for a week, but here he was, refusing even to ride in the wagon. He had chosen to take the lash rather than be cast out of the Dalwhinnies in shame.

  Bryna’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Well it looks like Monsieur Bonnot has hurt his back,’ she said, her voice somewhat tight and husky. ‘You will take care that it does not become infected.’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ said Paddy, touching a finger to his brow.

  ‘And throw him in the wagon until he can keep up with the other men.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  Bryna gave her second in command a nod that confirmed the matter was ended then, with nothing left to be said, she turned to Falco and Malaki.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said and with that she urged her horse back up the column.

  The Dalwhinnies watched warily as she overtook them. To a man they knew what had taken place and they wondered how their captain would respond to such blatant defiance of her orders. But finally Bryna reined in her horse and resumed her position at the head of her unit. The Dalwhinnies breathed a sigh of relief and allowed themselves a satisfied smile.

  Falco and Malaki also breathed a sigh of relief. It would be easy to lose control over a unit as wild as the Dalwhinnies, but it appeared that the spell Bryna had cast over these rough hewn men was stronger than ever.

  Later in the day Falco was riding with Malaki and the other knights when he noticed three riders closing on the main road from a path that came in from the side. The two at the rear appeared to be boys of about fifteen while the rider leading the group was a large man on a war horse similar to Malaki’s destrier and sure enough, his surcoat displayed a black horse’s head on a field of silver blue, the colours of the Knights of Wrath.

  Catching Malaki’s attention, Falco nodded over towards the approaching knight. They watched as he joined the main column of the army and approached one of the temporary commanders. A brief exchange took place and the commander turned in the saddle to point back towards the trainee knights. The knight and his squires moved to one side until Malaki and the others drew level then he nodded the squires to the back of the group and fell in beside Malaki.

  The man was tall and broad shouldered but Falco noticed a freshly healed scar running from the man’s nose to his left ear. He also recognised the gaunt shadow on the man’s cheeks and the way the bones of his face stood out beneath his pale skin. Here was a man recovering from illness and injury.

  ‘La force, l’honneur et la foi,’ said the knight.

  ‘Strength, honour and faith,’ replied Malaki, honoured that the man should use the order’s motto as if he were greeting a fellow knight.

  As the knight joined them, Falco dropped back a little to allow Malaki some space, and for a while they rode on in silence.

  ‘So you’re the cause of the Lord Commander’s deliberation?’

  Malaki turned sharply, amazed that anyone outside of the Academy of War should know who he was. ‘It was never my intention,’ he began but the knight raised a hand to stall any further explanation.

  ‘Sir Garnier, of Ledorne,’ said the knight leaning across to offer his hand and glancing at the bright red birthmark on Malaki’s face.

  ‘Malaki de Vane, of Caer Dour’

  The knight nodded as if he already knew the name. ‘And this is your training campaign, from the academy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Malaki. ‘To the city of Le Matres.’

  ‘And from there?’

  Malaki looked at him, confused.

  ‘Will you be returning to Wrath or travelling south with the order?’

  ‘I will return to Wrath,’ said Malaki, surprised that the knight would even suggest leaving the academy before his training was complete. ‘I still have much to learn.’

  ‘We need every possible sword,’ said the knight. There was a faint note of disapproval in his voice as if he could not understand why a knight would turn from such an opportunity to join the fight. ‘The Lord Commander is mustering the third chapter to the south of Le Matres. I would be happy to have you ride with me.’

  ‘But the Lord Commander might not accept me,’ said Malaki, thrown by the prospect of actually riding to war.

  ‘With my sponsorship, he would,’ said the knight.

  Malaki glanced at the man as the full force of the proposition struck him. Was he ready to leave his friends and ride with the Knights of Wrath? Would they consider him a coward if he did not?

  Falco had caught the gist of what was being said and he too was shaken by the prospect of them going their separate ways, but he decided not to say anything. It was for Malaki to make such a decision for himself.

  As the afternoon lengthened a scout worked his way down the line, informing the commanders that they still had a little way to go before stopping for the night.

  ‘There’s a series of meadows two miles beyond the next village,’ the scout told Malaki. ‘We’ll be making camp there.’

  Malaki nodded and the scout moved on to the next unit.

  The light was fading as they caught sight of the village ahead of them, a scattering of maybe fifty houses nestled against a bend in the river.

  ‘Looks like it’ll be dry tonight,’ said Malaki as the army skirted the village.

  Falco nodded but he was not really listening. A cold prickle of foreboding raised the hairs on his neck and his gaze moved to the edge of the clearing where the shadows beneath the trees were growing steadily deeper. He could not shake off the feeling that something of malice was moving among them. Malaki tensed as he noticed the intensity in Falco’s gaze but then he relaxed as a procession of about a hundred villagers came into view. Many of them carried torches as they emerged from the trees, moving at an easy pace back towards the village.

  ‘Looks like a wedding party,’ said Malaki.

  With an effort Falco focussed his mind on the line of villagers winding their way back towards their homes before night fell completely. Near the front was a young woman in a long dress of cream and yellow with spring flowers in her hair. Around her people chattered and laughed and children chased each other around the adults. The soldiers of the cadet army smiled to see such a happy occasion, looking wistfully at the inviting houses of the village, but not for them, a soft bed and a warm hearth tonight. They would be spending another damp night under the canopy of the sky.

  At the sight of the villagers Falco began to relax, but then he noticed how some of the men at the back of the group were looking back nervously into the trees. One or two held swords or spears but all looked anxious and afraid.

  Without even realising, Falco moved out of the column and towards the villagers while the army marched on.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Malaki, riding over to join him.

  ‘Stop the column,’ said Falco.

  For a moment Malaki thought Falco was joking, but he recognised this particular tone of voice. The tone that was ageless and strong and spoke of things that normal people could not possibly understand. He looked at the line of revellers then he too noticed the men looking back into the trees.

  Turning in the saddle he gave the command to halt. Those within ear shot stopped accordingl
y while those further on simply continued along the road and disappeared from view. Alex’s Exiles and Jarek’s unit of Royal Hussars were close enough to stop, but Jarek looked irritated at being held up on Malaki’s command. He urged his horse towards them to see what was going on. Alex followed in his wake as Sir Garnier rode over to join them.

  ‘What’s the matter? Why have we stopped?’ asked the knight but Falco said nothing. The feeling in his mind was reaching a critical pitch as if a piece of fabric were being stretched to the point of tearing.

  ‘There,’ said Falco, pointing to the fringe of trees from which the wedding procession had emerged. The shadows beneath the trees seemed darker than the fading light could account for.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ said Jarek but they could all feel the tension now.

  Suddenly a dart shot out from the trees and one of the revellers fell to the ground with a black arrow in his back.

  ‘La possédé!’ screamed one of the villagers and chaos ensued as a group of about sixty Sciritae burst from the trees and went tearing after the villagers who fled in terror towards their homes. Behind the Sciritae came dozens of dark archers swathed in black rags with a piece of dark cloth bound across their eyes.

  ‘Toxitae,’ breathed Sir Garnier.

  ‘Knights, to me!’ cried Malaki and the trainee knights started forward, each now couching the spear they had been holding at rest.

  ‘No!’ said Falco, seeing how quickly the Possessed were closing on the villagers. ‘They’ll be in amongst the houses by the time you reach them.’ He turned to Jarek. ‘The Hussars would be better in the tight spaces.’

  Malaki looked annoyed and Sir Garnier gave Falco a sharp censorious look. For a second Jarek stared at Falco, torn between the satisfaction of having his unit’s skills recognised and the rancour of taking an order from Falco. But then...

  ‘Hussars,’ he cried. ‘First form with me. Second form swing left to engage the archers.’