‘Soldiers of the Queen’s Irregulars,’ he said. ‘My name is Sir Malaki de Vane of the Knights of Wrath and I am here to offer you a choice.’ General Forbier began to struggle as the pain in his groin was eclipsed by the desperate need to breathe but still Malaki refused to let him go.
‘You can either waste your lives following men like this,’ Malaki leaned back on his hold and General Forbier rose up on his tip toes. ‘Or you can follow a soldier’s calling and honour the Queen, whose name you bear.’ He paused as eight thousand soldiers shifted to get a better view of what was taking place.
‘You have a chance to make a difference and take some pride in what you do. It will not be easy and many of you will die. But those who survive will be able to look their loved ones in the eye and not feel ashamed when people ask to which army you belong.’
Finally he let General Forbier fall at his feet.
‘So what will it be?’ he called out, his voice echoing across the training grounds. ‘Will you fight? Or will you remain the butt of every soldier’s joke, with so little dignity that you would follow a man like this.’
He looked down at Forbier and a wave of disquiet swept through the army of the Irregulars. Not all of them had heard, but the question was quickly passed through the ranks. This knight with the birthmark face was serious. He was actually asking them to make a choice.
‘What gives you the right?’ asked a man from a block of soldiers that had the same mercenary look as the commanders. ‘What makes you think you can come here and start throwing your weight around?’
He began to walk forward and forty similarly disgruntled men moved with him.
‘You attack the General and the Major, when they thought you were here to talk.’ The mood was turning ugly and this block of soldiers was beginning to look like a mob. ‘We know you ain’t gonna start killing people, so how’s about we give you a good kicking and then we’ll see how cocky you are.’
The men continued to advance and Malaki stood his ground as if he were ready to take them all on. Sergeant Hickey began to laugh, but then the block of mercenaries stopped. They looked suddenly uncertain and afraid. Malaki thought perhaps that Quirren’s blade or Huthgarl’s great size had made them think again but behind him Falco turned in the saddle and smiled. Walking up the slope behind them was Lanista Magnus and Lanista Deloix with twenty more instructors from the Academy of War. Gone were the instructor’s black surcoats with their white horse head motif. They were dressed in the armour of the soldiers that they were and their faces were grim as they came to stand beside their students.
‘I’m glad to see that the academy lessons on diplomacy didn’t go to waste,’ said Lanista Magnus.
Malaki looked a little sheepish and Lanista Magnus smiled.
‘Welcome back to Wrath, Sir Malaki.’
Together they looked at the angry mob that had suddenly come to a stop. Even with the instructors, Malaki and his friends were still heavily outnumbered but they exuded an intimidating confidence that the thugs and bullies could never hope to match.
And so, with a little moral support, Malaki explained to the Queen’s Irregulars that from today they would be following the orders of the academy’s newly graduated cadets, the rest of whom would be arriving in a few days’ time. General Forbier and Major Gazon were duly relieved of duty, as was Sergeant Hickey and a number of officers with close ties to the commanders.
Over the next few nights some four hundred ‘soldiers’ would quietly leave the capital, deciding that they were not comfortable with the new state of affairs, but most simply accepted it as yet another twist of fate in their often chequered lives. But there were also many who felt a great thrill of excitement to think that they might finally be part of an army that was worthy of its name.
This was why they had joined the Irregulars in the first place; naive or troubled young men and women without the skill or training to pass muster for a regular army, but still with a desire to fight for their Queen. Well now they were to be given the chance. As Malaki had suggested it was not going to be easy and a good number would surely die but what were such things beside a life that actually meant something.
Still sitting on his horse Falco smiled as he watched Malaki and the others begin to impose some order on the stunned ranks of the Irregulars. This day was not turning out the way any of them had expected. He thought back to the way Bryna had mastered the Dalwhinnies and thought that she and Malaki were indeed a perfect match.
Leaving his friends to their new duties he turned his horse towards the slope leading up to the Crucible. They had all returned with challenges awaiting them. Malaki and the others had made a good start in meeting theirs. It was time for Falco to face his own.
*
Looking down from the mage tower Galen Thrall watched as Falco made his way up to the Crucible before veering off towards the short row of cottages where the two defunct battle mages lived.
‘He has returned to attempt the Rite?’ he asked, the small pupils of his waxy green eyes following Falco with the intensity of a hawk.
‘I believe so,’ said Morgan Saker beside him.
‘Are we prepared?’
‘We are.’
‘And still no sign of offensive capabilities?’
‘No,’ said Saker. ‘Although the reports suggest that his defences are particularly strong.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Thrall. ‘Together you have more than enough strength to crush him. Besides,’ he added, the pupils of his eyes shrinking further still. ‘Brother Pacatos will begin his assault before the young falcon is even aware that he is under attack.’
Morgan Saker cast a sideways glance at the Grand Veneratu. Despite spending the last few months preparing for Falco’s Rite of Assay he still had not met Brother Pacatos.
He did not question the Grand Veneratu’s judgement, but the Rite of Assay was not to be taken lightly. The amount of magical energy being stored up in preparation could be a hazard to anyone involved.
Putting aside his doubts he watched as Falco rode towards the small row of cottages overlooking the plateau. He still believed that it was dangerous to let Aquila Dante’s son become a fully fledged battle mage and he was determined to stop him, but not knowing the full details of the Torquery made him uneasy. Back in Caer Dour he had been the veneratu of his own tower. He was not accustomed to being kept in the dark.
*
Falco found Aurelian in the Crofters’ cottage where he lived with Nicolas Dusaule. They sat beside the stove as he told them everything that had happened since he left on the training campaign. It seemed that some news had already reached the capital so Aurelian knew something of what had taken place. He knew about the Possessed attack on the village, the failure of the mage army and Malaki’s charge against the demon. He also knew that an especially dangerous demon had killed Wildegraf and Jürgen and almost Nathalie too. But he did not know the details and he listened in grim silence as Falco described the Slayer and the single-minded focus of its violence.
‘It was summoned specifically to kill battle mages,’ said Aurelian when Falco had finished. ‘Is this what you sensed during the strategy meeting?’
‘I think what I sensed was the gap waiting to be filled by it,’ said Falco and Aurelian nodded.
‘And when you fought it, you’re certain you didn’t feel the stirring of any fire? Not even when things became so desperate?’
Falco shook his head. He knew Aurelian had been hoping that his offensive powers might be unlocked if the need to survive became so great.
‘No matter,’ he said, although Falco could sense his disappointment. ‘You defied the demon and saved the lives of Nathalie and Ciel. We must all be grateful for that.’
Falco appreciated the words of encouragement, but the fact remained that without the ability to harm the demons of the Possessed he would always be on the defensive, avoiding confrontation. This was one reason why he was determined to complete his training. If he could succeed and summon
a dragon then at least together they could mount some kind of attack. Unless the dragon he summoned turned out to be black in which case Falco would have to add the killing of a dragon to the shadows that stalked his soul.
‘So,’ said Aurelian. ‘You’re determined to attempt the Rite?’
‘I am,’ said Falco and there was not the merest hint of compromise in his eyes.
Aurelian gave a sigh of resignation.
‘Then I will send a note of your intentions to Thrall.’
‘Can he refuse?’
‘No,’ said Aurelian. ‘It’s merely a formality. He will confirm that all the preparations are in place and provide a list of the mages on the Torquery, but ultimately the decision is yours.’
Falco nodded, relieved. He could not imagine being denied the Rite now that he had made up his mind.
‘Then I suppose we’d better see about getting you a sword.’
*
Nearly a hundred miles northwest of Le Matres Meredith Saker was drawing close to the magi retreat of Solace. The journey had taken him much longer than he expected but now they could see it, perched on the far side of the valley with snow capped mountains rising behind. Surrounded by gardens and open woodlands it looked the very picture of tranquillity, but Meredith felt anything but tranquil. His mind was full of questions and tomorrow he might finally get some answers.
73
Sinner
The following morning Falco ate breakfast with Malaki, Quirren and Huthgarl before going up to meet Aurelian. The other cadets would be arriving in a few days but the young knights were determined to make a start on the Irregulars.
‘There’s a lot of work to be done,’ said Malaki. ‘And no time to waste.’
Falco admired their enthusiasm. He felt much the same way himself. Bidding them good luck he made his way up to meet Aurelian. Today they were going to speak with Master Missaglias about the forging of Falco’s sword. He found the one armed battle mage waiting for him outside the cottage. He was sitting in the early morning sunlight with Dwimervane stretched out along the wall beside him.
‘Just heard from the tower,’ he said, shaking out the grainy dregs from his morning cup of coffee. ‘Thrall will meet us in the Crucible this afternoon to formerly endorse your Rite.’
Falco felt a sudden rush of uncertainty and Aurelian clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Only a fool would not be nervous,’ and with that they made their way down from the plateau.
The workshops were already busy with noise as they entered. An assistant led them through to the fitting room where they were met by the hunchbacked master himself. The artisans had now completed their work and Falco stood in awe as Antonio drew back the curtain. The armour was there on its stand, as it had been the first time he saw it, but now it was finished and lined with leather and quilted silk. The surface was covered with the finely etched patterns that Meredith had designed and the steel was now polished to a dark satin sheen. Falco had seen gaudier and more impressive looking suits of armour before, but never one like this, never one that married so perfectly the elements of function and form.
‘Beautiful,’ breathed Aurelian but Falco was too entranced to speak.
Fortunately Antonio took his silence as a sign of approval and his scarred face softened with an immodest smile. Falco tried the armour on and sure enough it fitted even better than it had the first time he had worn it.
‘Hopefully there’ll be no more of this,’ said Aurelian, pointing to a fading bruise at the base Falco’s neck where the edge of the breastplate he had worn for the training campaign had dug into his flesh.
‘Sometimes I think the armour causes more damage than it deflects.’
Falco had numerous other marks on his body, caused by the less than perfect armour, but he could not agree with Antonio. He remembered the impressive dent in his helm and was thankful for the protection even this armour had provided.
‘So,’ said Aurelian as Falco finished getting dressed. ‘Have you had a chance to think about the sword?’
A troubled look crept over Antonio’s face and he led them through to the forge at the far end of the workshops.
‘I have the steel,’ he said, indicating a number of rectangular billets each embossed with a stamp certifying that the metal was of the rare quality required for a battle mage’s sword. ‘But I’m still not sure about the idea of a third party supplying the heat.’ He turned to Falco. ‘You still have no fire of your own?’
Falco shook his head and the master frowned.
‘Perhaps if I knew you better or we had that young mage who designed the patterns for your armour.’
‘What difference would that make?’ asked Falco and Aurelian motioned for him to sit down on a block of fire blackened wood.
‘A smith gets used to the way metal behaves,’ said Anotnio. ‘The heat, the colour, the way it feels beneath the hammer. Skill can take you so far but there’s a point when only instinct can guide you.’ He paused and Falco could hear the soft crackle of cinders from the forge. ‘Making any decent sword requires skill, but the sword of a battle mage is more than just sharpened steel. It is the manifestation of faith, and it is intimately matched to the personality of the battle mage who will wield it. I could make a sword to match your physical stature but I don’t know you well enough to match it to your soul.’
‘But will you attempt it?’ asked Aurelian. ‘I’ve asked Dusaule and he is also willing to help.’
Still Antonio seemed unconvinced.
‘Nicolas might provide an element of control,’ he conceded. ‘But I fear that if we get it wrong then the sword will fail, either here in the forge or during some critical exchange with the enemy.’
‘But will you do it?’
For a while the master remained silent in thought.
‘Come back in the morning,’ he said at last. ‘There’s someone I would like to talk to before I give you an answer.’
As they left the workshops Aurelian could see the disappointment and uncertainty on Falco’s face.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Nicolas and Dwim will be waiting for us in the Crucible. We’ll get in some training before Thrall arrives. And try not to worry,’ he added. ‘I’ve never known Antonio to give up on a challenge. If he can think of a way to make you a sword, he will.’
Heading back up to the Crucible they spent the next few hours testing Falco’s skills and trying to anticipate what the mages on the Torquery might throw at him.
‘Some will try to stop you with pain,’ said Aurelian as they took a break to eat some food. ‘Others will use cold or fire, or sheer mental force.’
Falco dunked a piece of bread in a cup of soup that Dusaule had brought to the Crucible. The silent battle mage was now sitting in his usual place with Dwimervane and for a moment Falco felt as if he had never been away.
‘There’s normally an element of animaré,’ Aurelian went on. ‘And trust me... it feels very weird to fight a suit of armour with no one inside.’
‘I’ve not heard of that before,’ said Falco. ‘Surely that could be useful on the battle field.’
‘Fat chance!’ scoffed Aurelian. ‘It takes the magi months to prepare for just a few minutes of combat.’
‘At least that doesn’t sound too dangerous?’ said Falco and Aurelian almost choked on his soup.
‘It’s the Rite of Assay!’ he cried. ‘Of course it’s bloody dangerous! One strike from an animaré’s icy blade and you’ll wish they’d hit you with steel. Two will send you to your knees. Three or four and the magi will have to carry you out of the labyrinth.’
Falco hung his head and Aurelian took pity.
‘Their goal is to try and stop you,’ he said. ‘And a part of that is the threat of actual harm.’
‘Has anyone ever died?’ asked Falco and there was an uncomfortable silence as Aurelian glanced up at Nicolas before he spoke again.
‘You can always concede,’ he said. ‘The magi will do every
thing they can to stop you but it is not their intention to kill. Just call out, cedo and the magi will desist. Even to think it will be enough to stop them.’
The prospect of submitting to the magi brought an edge of steel to Falco’s gaze.
‘But it’s the fear that will be your greatest challenge,’ said Aurelian.
Falco frowned. Surely no fear generated by the magi could compare with that experienced in the presence of a demon.
‘It is not the fear of burning alive or being disembowelled that will stop you,’ said Aurelian. ‘It’s not even the fear of failure, which for many battle mages is particularly great. It’s the fear we take in with us. The darkness in there is black with the stench of it, the secret fears of every battle mage that ever trod its ways.’
Falco followed his gaze to the dark portal at the far end of the Crucible. And even from here he could sense the creeping whispers of terror that waited for him in the labyrinthine depths of L’obscurité. He felt a strange sense of vertigo as if he were being drawn towards the darkness but then he looked up as he sensed the approach of several magi.
‘Ah... Here he is! The greasy haired tosser!’ muttered Aurelian as a group of purple clad figures appeared at the edge of the Crucible.
Falco recognised Thrall from the hearing in the Chamber of Council. He was the most powerful mage in all of Wrath and yet Falco was more affected by the sight of the man beside him. He felt a familiar wave of disquiet sweep through his body as Morgan Saker descended the broad steps of the training arena. With them came two other mages in their dark purple robes.
As the magi came down so Dusaule and Dwimervane withdrew leaving Falco and Aurelian to face the magi delegation alone. Falco found himself staring at Galen Thrall. He was not a man of great stature and his hair certainly did appear greasy. And yet, despite his slender pale-skinned body, Falco could sense the great reserves of power held within, like a dangerous animal lurking beneath the milky surface of a calm subterranean pool.
Thrall did not once look at him, but Falco knew that he was being studied and appraised. The sensation made his skin crawl and he found himself moving towards Aurelian.
Battle Mage Page 59
