‘I’m not sure the two of you have been properly introduced,’ said Aurelian, turning from Thrall to Falco and back again. ‘Galen Thrall... Falco Danté. Falco Danté... Galen Thrall, Grand Veneratu and Worshipful Master of the Mage Tower of Wrath.’
For the first time Thrall’s eyes met his and Falco was struck by the unnaturally small size of the pupils in his pale green eyes.
‘So,’ said Aurelian. ‘Are you going to share the names of the magi against whom this young man will test his strength?’
Falco could tell from the satisfaction in his dark eyes that Morgan Saker was one name that would certainly be on the list.
*
In the mage retreat of Solace, Meredith Saker sat on the terrace waiting for the orderlies to see if Brother Verde was feeling well enough for a visitor.
‘Some days are better than others,’ they had told him.
The retreat was bright and picturesque but the residents left Meredith feeling far from serene. Many were just old and suffering from the diminished capacity of age, but others were clearly disturbed. One white haired old mage seemed particularly intrigued by his arrival and followed him out onto the terrace. He seemed uncertain as to whether to engage Meredith in conversation and merely hovered nearby muttering half sentences as if he were talking to the wall.
‘It’s the alkaloids, you see. Very dangerous. Poisons everywhere.’
Meredith gave a sigh of relief as two mages appeared, pushing a withered old man in a wheeled chair.
‘Come now, Brother Dinas,’ said one of the men, leading the white haired man away. ‘Why don’t you show me all the lethal flowers we have in the garden.’
The second mage gave Meredith an indulgent smile and he was suddenly struck by their compassion. The towers of the magi were invariably cold austere places and Meredith had often wondered if mages possessed such qualities at all. He found it deeply satisfying to know that at least some of them did. He watched now as the orderly leaned in to speak with the old man in the wheeled chair who sat looking disorientated while running his fingers along an old scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to the base of his ear.
‘Brother Verde... this is the man we just spoke of, Lord Saker. He has come to ask you about your writing. But only for a short while,’ he added turning to Meredith. ‘He gets breathless and easily tired.’
Meredith gave a nod of understanding and adjusted his chair to face the old scholar.
‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me,’ he said.
‘Writing,’ said Brother Verde brightly, ‘I used to write books.’ His speech was a little marred by the scar that tugged at the side of his mouth.
‘That’s right,’ said Meredith. ‘It’s one of your books I’d like to ask you about.’
‘History!’ said Brother Verde. ‘It’s all there, you know, in history. From the first kings of Thraece to the Treaty of Wrath. Did you know...’
The orderly put a hand on Brother Verde’s arm.
‘Lord Saker would like to ask you about one book in particular.’
‘Oh?’ said Brother Verde. ‘The Unification of The Tribes, perhaps? The Fall of Protégia? The Viemann Heresy...’
His words fell over each other as he listed the books he had written.
‘It’s a book called ‘The Last Surviving Witness’,’ said Meredith and Brother Verde looked suddenly lost.
Gone was the enthusiasm for a lifetime of study, instantly replaced by a welling of emotions that played across his face: confusion, sadness, suspicion and fear. Meredith was shocked by the dramatic change and had no wish to cause the old mage distress but he desperately needed some answers.
‘The book is supposed to be a firsthand account from someone who witnessed the Great Possession,’ he said. ‘But that event took place over four hundred years ago.’ He paused, trying to catch Brother Verde’s eye, but the old mage refused to look at him. Beside them the orderly began to look concerned. ‘Is it a story passed down through time?’ asked Meredith. ‘Could there be a mistake in the records?’
Brother Verde suddenly fixed him with a vehement eye.
‘A mistake!’ he spat. He raised a quavering hand to the scar on his cheek. ‘Is this a mistake?’
‘But that would make the witness four hundred years old,’ said Meredith trying to get Brother Verde to accept something that was clearly impossible, but the old monk simply held his eye.
‘Evil does not die,’ he said. ‘The witness was a bad man, a powerful man. Even death refused to claim him.’
Meredith found himself backing away as a shadow seemed to fill the room and Brother Verde began to cry.
‘Sinner!’ he said and Meredith felt the fear oozing like sweat from the old man’s pores. ‘Sinner...’ he sobbed again, his thick knuckled fingers clawing at his cheek. ‘Sinner...’
‘That’s enough,’ said the orderly, pulling Brother Verde’s chair away from Meredith. ‘We don’t want a relapse of what happened last year.’ He waved the second carer over.
‘What happened?’
‘He was calm when he first came to us,’ said the carer as the second orderly tried to calm the distressed old man. ‘Then one night, just as winter was setting in, he started weeping uncontrollably... He said the sinner had awoken.’
‘Nothing else?’ asked Meredith.
‘No,’ said the orderly. ‘Just that... The sinner has awoken. Just that and the weeping.’
Meredith looked down at the old mage, the tears streaming down his face. Despite his age the orderly was struggling to contain him, but then suddenly the old man became still. His eyes took on a blank and distant expression and suddenly the room was filled with a voice, but it was not the voice of a frail old man it was a voice of deep and unsettling power.
‘Vino la mine micul meu soim, Cei frații și toate deliciile lor sunt în așteptare pentru tine.’ said the voice and with a terrible feeling of dread Meredith realised he had heard this voice before.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the orderly. ‘He has done this before. We believe it is the language of the enemy but no one here can speak it.’
But Meredith had studied the language of Ferocia and he knew what the old man had just said.
‘Come to me my little falcon
The brothers and all their delights are waiting for you.’
Meredith closed his eyes as he realised the truth.
‘Sinner,’ the old man had said.
In the language of Ferocia the word for sinner was pacatos.
Brother Pacatos, the mad old mage, locked away beneath the mage tower of Wrath was the last surviving witness of the Great Possession.
*
Falco stood to one side as Aurelian looked at the names of the mages who would be on the Torquery.
‘Of course the mage who helped to train the battle mage should really be here,’ said Thrall, his eyes angling back towards Morgan Saker.
‘Well he isn’t,’ said Aurelian. ‘So you will have to deal with me.’ He glanced down the list of names. He had heard of most of the names on the list, but there were two that were unfamiliar.
‘Brother Daedalus?’ he asked. ‘I’ve not heard of him before.’
Ah, yes,’ said Thrall. ‘He is one of our youngest members.’
‘And Brother Pacatos?’
The pupils of Thralls eyes shrank to tiny points of darkness and a smile crept across his face.
‘Let’s just say that he is one of our oldest.’
74
The Sword of a Battle Mage
Falco’s mind was filled with new anxieties as they returned to the workshop the following day. After the meeting with the magi the Rite of Assay now seemed more intimidating than ever. Thrall would not be on the Torquery himself but Morgan Saker was a mage of formidable knowledge and power. The prospect of facing half a dozen mages of similar stature was truly daunting, but Falco tried to push all this to the back of his mind as they entered the gloaming warmth of the forge.
Master Missaglias
was alone but there were several large men standing in the adjacent tool room as if they were waiting to use the forge. Falco’s hopes dipped and the ambiguous expression on Antonio’s face did little to raise them. Aurelian too looked more than a little apprehensive as he asked the question once more.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Enough stalling. Will you make him a sword or not?’
‘I will not,’ said Antonio and Falco’s heart sank.
Aurelian flushed with indignation but Antonio held up a hand and turned to Falco.
‘If you had your own fire I would do it without hesitation,’ he said. ‘But without it I cannot take the chance. I simply don’t know you well enough.’ He paused. ‘But there’s a blacksmith here who does.’
Master Missaglias turned to the large men who were now emerging from the tool room. Falco had never seen the first two before but he had known the third man since he was a child. He had the broad shoulders of a blacksmith, and the strong hands of a blacksmith, and a bright red birthmark down the side of his face.
Falco felt his eyes brim with tears.
‘As if I don’t have enough to do!’ said Malaki.
Aurelian muttered a curse while Falco seemed embarrassed by his emotional reaction, but Antonio Missaglias only smiled. The making of a sword should be an emotional experience and he remembered a verse his own master had often quoted during his apprenticeship.
Some say oil and some say blood
Some say the temper of the years
But there’s no blade stronger
Ever forged by man
Than a sword that’s quenched in tears
*
Meredith had not even stopped for food before setting off on the return journey back to Le Matres. If he could get back to the city he could use the communication link to send a message, warning Falco not to attempt the Rite of Assay until he returned. He would not reveal the tower’s secret, not until he had given Thrall the chance to explain why he had kept Brother Pacatos ‘confined’ in the Capital’s tower, although Meredith had his suspicions.
He was kept secret because he knew the truth of what happened during the Great Possession, and he was confined because he was insane, driven mad by what he had witnessed on that terrible day. And now Meredith was convinced the magi had lied. They had known that dragons were susceptible to Possession. They had known this could lead to disaster and yet, in their obsessive lust for power they had said nothing. Their silence had condemned an entire generation of battle mages and scores of magi to death at the claws of dragons driven mad by Possession.
Meredith could only imagine what the people would do if they ever learned the truth. There would be riots and murder and ruin. But for now his thoughts were only for Falco. He must not attempt the Rite with a mage like Brother Pacatos on the Torquery. Meredith was fairly sure his father would not wish for Falco’s death, but he could not say the same for Thrall. And so he rode with reckless haste for the city of Le Matres.
*
Falco spent the first day in the forge watching Malaki work on the design with the other craftsmen who would be helping to make his sword. He watched him now as he sat with the master responsible for creating the sword’s hilt. Falco smiled as Malaki took the man’s pen and made several adjustments to the sketch he had prepared.
‘The blade will be shorter and the handle longer,’ he said. ‘So you can reduce the size of the pommel. Also the quillons need to be curved and the design should be simpler, more subtle. So you don’t see it all at once.’
A less confident man might have taken offense but the master simply took back his pen and made several new sketches.
‘That’s it,’ said Malaki, glancing at Falco as if to see how well the design would suit his friend. ‘That’s perfect.’
Falco was intrigued and eager to see the design but he did not want to intrude. The sword they were making was for him, but the making of it was Malaki’s responsibility and he had now been consulted on everything from engraving and polishing to binding and leatherwork. Even the workshop’s gold and silversmiths had asked if their services would be required but Malaki had declined. There would be no exotic inlays on the sword of Falco Danté. Indeed most of the master craftsmen had left the forge with modest demands upon their skill. Balance and strength were the two things that Malaki was most concerned with.
And so, even on the first day, a great deal of progress was made. Working alone it could take a master swordsmith several months to finish a complex piece but Antonio had placed the resources of his entire workshop at Malaki’s disposal and he assured Falco that, if everything went well, his sword would be ready in little more than a week.
Falco and Aurelian would remain in the workshop with Malaki until the forging of the sword was finished. Antonio had cleared a space and made up three cots where they could sleep. It was noisy and smelly but it allowed them to share in the experience.
The following day they had begun in earnest and Falco watched the sledgehammers fall in a rhythmic cycle of blows as the two large smiths laboured to draw out the blade. Standing before them, and guiding the lengthening block of steel, was Malaki, back bent and hands clenched around the rod which had been welded to the specially prepared billet.
Master Missaglias had insisted that Malaki choose the block of steel from which the sword would be forged.
‘It all begins with the steel,’ he said. ‘This is where we start to match the character of the blade to the character of the man.’
‘Will we be folding it?’ asked Malaki, referring to the technique where the metal was hammered out and folded to produce thousands of layers within the finished blade. Such a technique was said to produce a weapon of exceptional strength but the master had shaken his head.
‘Folding helps to even-out the flaws in poor quality steel. It does nothing to increase the strength.’
‘So which would I choose?’
‘That’s up to you,’ said Antonio laying the heavy billets out on the bench, each of which was stamped with the master’s mark of quality. ‘This is the hardest but also quite difficult to work. While this has the greatest flexibility but won’t take an edge quite so well. They are all of equal quality and most of it comes down to the final treatment. It all depends on what you are looking for in a blade.’
‘What about this one?’ asked Malaki and Antonio raised an eyebrow.
‘That combines the best qualities of all the rest. But it’s also a capricious bastard. If you get it wrong it will explode in your face and even at the end it can shatter in the final quenching. But if you get it right...’
Malaki paused in thought. He had made a number of swords back in his father’s forge, but that was the problem. He knew enough to know just how little he knew.
‘If you could guide me.’
‘But of course,’ replied the master.
So now Falco watched as the glowing rectangular billet grew longer and thinner under the relentless pounding of heavy hammers. Falco had been surprised when they used the forge to heat the metal.
‘I thought you were going to supply the heat,’ he said, turning to Aurelian who was sitting beside him.
‘That comes later,’ said Aurelian. ‘For now the heat of the forge is more than sufficient.’
It took all day to draw out the blade and by the end of it Falco’s ears were ringing from the noise and Malaki was exhausted, his back aching and his hands numb from gripping the steel.
The following day the heavy hammers were not required and Malaki spent the time slowly shaping the emerging blade. The day was warm and Falco watched the sweat dripping from his face but Malaki stopped only to eat and drink, constantly examining the blade for line and thickness. Antonio was never far away and Malaki would often seek his opinion.
‘Cherry red for normal steel...’ he said as the rough blade rested in the forge. ‘But for this alloy you need to go a shade or two hotter... There!’ he said. ‘You see that flush? That will normalise the steel and release any stresses
that might be building up.’
Malaki allowed the blade to cool in the air before heating it again and continuing to shape it with the hammer. By the end of the day he was happy with the shape. He had now drawn in the shoulder, extended the tang and shaped the point. As the late spring sky began to darken he coated the blade in a special clay before bringing it back up to a heat that would allow the elements in the steel to properly combine.
‘What’s the clay for?’ asked Falco as they stared into the scalding heat of the forge.
‘The Beltonians call it onæling,’ said Malaki. ‘It stops the blade from cooling down too quickly. This way the metal will be soft enough to grind into the final shape.’
‘I thought a sword was supposed to be hard.’
‘It will be,’ said Malaki, laughing at Falco’s ignorance. ‘But that comes in the final heating. For now we need to be able to file it down and make sure the balance is right.’
‘Do you two washer-women plan on sleeping at all tonight?’ came Aurelian’s bad tempered voice.
Malaki and Falco exchanged an amused look.
‘He’s right,’ said Malaki. ‘There’s nothing more to be done for now. It’ll need the best part of a day to cool.’
So Falco lay down to sleep, listening to the faint ticks and pops as the encased blade slowly gave up its heat.
*
It was dark when Meredith arrived in Le Matres but he wasted no time in heading straight for the mage tower. However, when he got there he was dismayed to find that the communication link with Wrath was no longer in place.
‘What do you mean it was broken?’ he said, his temper frayed by tension and fatigue.
‘A stomach upset, I believe,’ said the tower’s veneratu. ‘The mage in contact with Wrath had tried to maintain the link but he succumbed to a bout of vomiting and the connection was lost. I am sorry,’ he said although Meredith failed to detect any real sincerity in his tone. The master of the Le Matres tower had never shown any enthusiasm for his idea, but Meredith was determined to get a message through to Wrath.
Battle Mage Page 60
