‘No matter,’ he snapped. ‘Summon a quintet to the chamber of discourse. I need to send a message to the capital about a forthcoming Rite of Assay.’
‘Forgive me, young master,’ said the veneratu. ‘But I cannot assemble a quintet tonight. Indeed, not for several days.’
Meredith stared at the man, trying to determine if he was being deliberately obstructive.
‘All the magi trained for such a task were called to Hoffen. To help convey orders down the newly established front. They should be back within the week.’
‘A week!’ thought Meredith. He could be back in Wrath himself in a week. By which time Falco might have already attempted the Rite of Assay.
Taking a breath he tried to clear his thoughts... It was too late to set out tonight but the sun would be rising early and if he pushed himself and changed horses at the staging posts he could certainly do it in a week. Bidding the veneratu a terse goodnight he went in search of a bath and a bed. He was already weary and aching but tomorrow, at first light, he would set out again.
*
The veneratu of the Le Matres mage tower waited until Meredith was gone before descending to a secret chamber at the base of the tower, a chamber that was now guarded by two mages with orders to deny any but those authorised to enter. They stood aside as the veneratu approached. He entered quietly so as not to disturb the mage who was currently in contact with Wrath.
‘I have a message for Grand Veneratu Thrall,’ he said.
The mage closed his eyes as he conveyed the message then opened them before speaking.
‘A moment,’ he said. ‘Lord Thrall would hear this message for himself.’
There followed several minutes during which the veneratu shifted uneasily. He was already uncomfortable using this new form of communication and now he would be using it to address the Worshipful Master of the Clemoncéan magi. But the orders had been unambiguous.
The apprentice mage Saker must not know of the link’s continuing existence.
His movements, thoughts and intentions must be conveyed to Wrath without delay.
Suddenly the mage in the centre of the chamber spoke and there was no mistaking the authority in his voice.
‘You have word of Saker?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said the veneratu, trying to accommodate the pause in conversation as his words were conveyed across so many miles. ‘He has returned from his venture and wishes to send a message to the capital.’
‘Do you know what he learned in Solace?’
‘No, my Lord. But he said something about a forthcoming Rite of Assay. I believe he intends to prevent it. He is setting out for the capital at first light.’
There was a longer than normal pause and the veneratu wondered if the Thrall was still present but then the mage before him spoke again.
‘You have done well. You will inform us when Saker is on his way.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said the Veneratu and with that the conversation was over.
*
In the mage tower of Wrath Thrall turned to Morgan Saker.
‘I see your son has inherited his father’s persistence.’
‘He has been influenced by the undisciplined minds of common folk,’ said Saker. ‘This would not have happened if I had been able to complete his training in the mage tower of Caer Dour.’
Thrall gave a transparent smile at Saker’s excuses.
‘It matters not,’ he said. ‘He believes the link is broken and will need to ride back to the capital. We must therefore make sure the Rite takes place before his return.’
‘Do you know what he might have learned in Solace?’ asked Saker.
‘No,’ said Thrall. ‘But I suspect it is something to do with the Great Possession and we all know the events of that time must never be made public.’
Morgan Saker nodded but there was a disquiet in his eyes that was not present in Thrall’s. Despite their collusion in keeping the secret, most magi bore some degree of shame for what happened on that terrible day. Regardless of his hard and ruthless heart, Morgan Saker certainly did while Thrall, it seemed, did not. He wore a cold smile as if Saker’s doubts were a weakness he did not share.
They had done what they needed to do.
The magi would always do what they needed to do.
*
It would take all day for the blade to cool and the onæling process to be complete. So while Malaki went to supervise the other elements of the sword Falco and Aurelian walked up to the Crucible to get in some training.
Aurelian was amazed by the way that Falco had grown. His defences had always been good but now his control was confident and assured. He was also more serious, more focussed, as if he finally understood just how important it was for him to succeed, whether he had fire of his own or not.
They had just finished an intensive session and Nicolas was spitting grit from his mouth after Falco had sent him sprawling in the dirt but Aurelian just laughed.
‘You know what, old friend,’ he said, patting his fellow Crofter on the back. ‘By Thrall’s withered plums I think he might do it!’
Laying down his training sword and shield Falco smiled at Aurelian’s irreverent compliment, but it was time for them to go. Taking their leave of Nicolas and Dwim they made their way back down to the forge. It was now late afternoon and Malaki was just about to break the blade out of the clay. A few taps on the anvil revealed a slender piece of black metal. It was still warm but not too hot to handle and Malaki wasted no time in taking it through to another part or the workshop filled with numerous files, whetstones and grinding wheels.
Under the watchful eye of Antonio, he then began the final shaping of the blade.
‘Slow and steady,’ said the master. ‘It’s a lot easier to take it off than it is to put it back on.’
Malaki remembered his father saying much the same thing but the grinding wheels made the laborious task far quicker than filing it all by hand. Even so, his right leg soon felt numb and shaky from working the treadle that drove the spinning disks of stone. The noise was relentless and the air was filled with the taste and smell of hot metal and cooling oil, but slowly the black surface was ground away to reveal the bright face of the steel beneath.
As the shaping continued Malaki moved to more specialised stones for grinding the bevels and cutting in the fuller, a broad groove running down the length of the blade. The fuller was designed to reduce weight without compromising strength. It was not to ‘let the blood out’ or to prevent the blade being ‘trapped’ in the body of an enemy, as some people continued to believe.
It took two days to finish the shaping, during which time Bryna and the rest of the cadets arrived back in Wrath. Having learned what was going on, Bryna immediately went to see Malaki in the workshops, although her reaction was not perhaps as warm as he might have hoped.
‘Ugh! You’re filthy!’ she said as Malaki gathered her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss. ‘And you stink too!’ she added as she emerged from his embrace.
Malaki smiled and tried to wipe a smudge of oily dust from her cheek but his hands were equally dirty and he only succeeded in making it worse.
‘Enough!’ said Bryna, pushing him away. ‘I’ll see you in a few days. When you’ve had a bath!’ she gave him a disapproving glare, but her eyes were shining and her cheeks were flushed. ‘Master Missaglias,’ she said by way of introduction as she turned to go.
‘My lady,’ said Antonio with a bow and they watched as she left the forge, the curls in her auburn hair bouncing as she went. ‘Never known a smith with a wife like that!’ said Antonio with a meaningful smile.
‘They should count themselves lucky,’ said Malaki and Antonio laughed although it was patently clear that he was delighted to see her.
And with that they returned to their work. The shaping was painstaking and slow, and Malaki did the final stages by hand but finally it was done and Antonio leaned over to inspect his work.
‘I think you’re just about the
re,’ said the master with a smile of amusement on his scarred face. The work might not be up to the normal standard of his workshop but he was confident Malaki’s father would not be turning in his grave.
‘I think it needs a little more off the tip,’ said Malaki but Antonio just laughed and clapped him on the back.
‘Have courage,’ he said. ‘You cannot put it off forever.’
Malaki gave a sigh and ran a rag down the blade to wipe away the final layer of dust.
‘You’ve done a good job,’ said the master. ‘Now it’s time to have some faith.’
Malaki gave a nod and Falco looked up as Dusaule entered the workshop. For now the work of normal smithing was done. It was time to temper the blade in the forge of a battle mage’s fire.
Antonio led them back to the forge where a kind of bench had now been set up in the centre of the room. Mounted on two great anvils the bench was covered in a large black and white cow skin. Antonio drew back the skin to reveal a slab of smooth dark stone, five feet long and about a foot wide, the surface shining like mirrored smoke.
‘Fortissite,’ he said. ‘The only thing that magical force can’t damage.’
Falco reached out to touch it and despite its dark glassy surface it actually felt warm.
Beside the forge three large ceramic tubes had been set upright in a wooden frame. Each was filled with a different liquid and Antonio explained each one to Malaki who was still holding the newly shaped blade.
‘Acid to remove any grease or impurities... Water to remove the acid... And oil for the final quenching.’
Pointing to the last tube his expression took on a more meaningful look. After all Malaki’s hard work this was the stage when it could all go wrong. Even if it survived Aurelian’s chaotic fire the blade could still shatter when it was finally quenched in oil.
Using a pair of tongs Malaki picked up the blade by the tang and lowered it into the bath of acid, just a quick dip to burn off any impurities without harming the metal. Next he transferred it to the water and let it drip dry before laying it down the centre of the fortissite slab.
Now Antonio leaned in close.
‘The blade will be heated beyond the limit of any forge,’ he said as he explained this final part in the process. ‘At this heat the metal would normally disintegrate, but there’s something about the energy that holds it together. Aurelian will heat the blade until Falco feels it is enough.’
‘How will I know?’ asked Falco.
‘The metal will start to sing,’ said Aurelian. ‘Somewhere deep inside of you it will resonate. When you recognise the note, you will know. That’s if I can control the heat,’ he added with a less than certain grimace.
Antonio turned to Malaki and for the first time there was genuine tension in his voice.
‘The fortissite will absorb the heat,’ he said. ‘Much quicker than you might imagine. After only a few minutes the blade will return to normal forge heat and then you must be ready. You know the colours of a differential temper... bruise blue down the centre, sun-kissed wheat along the edge. The moment you see it you must act. But have a care. You will only get one chance.’
‘And what if I’ve made a mistake with the sword?’ asked Malaki.
‘If the sword doesn’t match the man then it will either explode or shatter in the oil,’ said Antonio. ‘But you made it with Falco in mind, did you not?’
Malaki nodded.
‘Then I guess we’ll find out just how well you know your friend.’
Malaki’s jaw set with resolution and Antonio gave him a smile. This then was the responsibility of those who would forge a sword for a battle mage.
Antonio turned to Aurelian and the one armed battle mage came forward with Dusaule at his side. Feeling dizzy with nerves Falco stood too. Malaki moved to the head of the fortissite, a large pair of metal tongs held ready in his hand. Antonio stood at his shoulder while, just outside the room, several of the workshop’s master craftsmen looked on. The forging of a battle mage’s sword was a rare and special event. It offered them a further glimpse into the endless mysteries of steel, mysteries that normal men could never hope to understand.
*
Outside the forge, in the pale shadows of an early summer’s night, stood a mage who was trained to hear the song of a magically heated sword. He was there to report on the outcome of the forging and Grand Veneratu Thrall was keen for it to be a success. He was insistent that the Rite should go ahead without delay. And so the magi waited for the sword to be completed, at which point they would take possession of the blade and remove it to L’obscurité where it would be placed at the centre of the labyrinth as a goal to aim for, a prize to be won, a statement that the magi held the power for which the battle mages strove.
*
Falco watched as the metal began to glow, a dull red that grew deeper and brighter until it became orange then yellow. Glancing to one side he saw the effort and concentration on Aurelian’s face as he tried to maintain a steadily increasing level of heat. This was very different to the explosive conjuration of a fireball. This required control and restraint, two qualities for which Aurelian was not renowned. But he was doing his best and beside him Nicolas Dusaule was concentrating too. Together they channelled their power into the blade and from yellow the steel rose to white. And still they drove it hotter.
Eyes half shut against the brightness Falco returned his focus to the blade. Aurelian had spoken of the metal beginning to sing and now he could almost hear it... a sound, like the ring of steel but continuous and faint as if it were coming from some great distance deep within the blade. The sound grew louder until it really was like a musical note, a high ringing note that was strangely beautiful, beautiful and yet not quite right.
‘Hotter,’ said Falco and he felt Aurelian redouble his efforts to raise the heat higher. He became aware of people watching him, waiting for him to say, ‘yes, that’s it.’ He was still not sure exactly what Aurelian meant about him ‘recognising’ the note but some instinct told him they still had some way to go.
Standing at the end of the fortissite table Malaki was shielding his eyes from the intense heat of the blade, his face dripping with sweat.
‘More,’ said Falco and from the corner of his eye he saw Aurelian shoot him an anxious glance as he struggled to sustain the flow of energy.
‘Nicolas!’ he gasped.
Nicolas Dusaule had made a vow never again to use his powers for destructive violence and for a moment he frowned in indecision but, perhaps this was something he could do and so, even as he tried to smooth out the fluctuations in Aurelian’s fitful power, so he added his own. And the blade brightened to a blinding, incandescent white.
‘More,’ said Falco as the note within the steel rose until it was more akin to a scream.
‘Falco!’ said Antonio and the master was actually backing away from the blade but Malaki held his ground.
‘It... will not... take much more,’ gasped Aurelian through clenched teeth.
‘Higher,’ said Falco and now all his thoughts were on the sword.
The note began to remind him of something, but still it was not quite right.
‘Higher,’ he breathed and the note rose to an impossible pitch before suddenly, it disappeared. It had gone beyond the point of hearing and become a kind of silence, a silence filled with loss and grief and guilt and fear. But also something more. For somewhere, in this place of endless space, the silence echoed with faith and hope and love.
In all creation there are but three things that contain a soul
A human, a dragon, and the sword of a battle mage
‘There...’ breathed Falco and Aurelian sank to his knees. Malaki and Antonio were shielding their eyes from the scalding light but slowly it began to fade. The black fortissite had taken on a ruddy glow and the colour of the blade receded from silver white to searing yellow. Antonio stepped to one side and Malaki brought up his tongs, edging forward ready to grasp the cooling blade.
The point and the edges cooled most quickly, while the thicker steel down the centre of the blade was slower to give up its heat, but slowly the colour faded until the centre was a bluish shade of purple, while the tip and edges shone with a faint golden hue.
Bruise blue and sun-kissed wheat.
Without hesitation Malaki grasped the tang of the blade, lifted it high and plunged it into the oil-filled quenching bath. The liquid bubbled and flames leapt up but Malaki did not waver as he moved the blade slowly in the cooling oil. He had no way of knowing how long to leave it or whether, even now, the stresses would be too great and the blade would shatter, but Malaki had grown up in a forge and somehow the instincts of the father had been passed down to the son.
Just a few seconds more and he drew it forth, black with scale and dripping dark oil, he laid it down on the warm edge of the forge. It was not pretty but it was straight and true and had survived a baptism of fire that would have destroyed any normal blade.
But this was not any normal blade.
It was the sword of a battle mage and its forging was complete.
*
On hearing the news Galen Thrall wasted no time in arranging the Rite. At daybreak the following morning a messenger arrived from the tower.
‘Two days!’ cried Aurelian. ‘He’s having a laugh!’
But the messenger from the tower insisted that Grand Veneratu Thrall was not joking and the Rite would take place at sunset in two days time. Aurelian was clearly furious but Falco just turned to Malaki.
‘Can you do it? Can you finish the sword in two days?’
Malaki looked uncertain but Antonio pursed his lips.
‘It might not be the most perfect job. And we might not get much sleep. But yes, we can do it.’
And so began the final grinding, polishing and sharpening of Falco’s sword, and with only two days left to prepare Falco and Aurelian left the workshop to spend their time in the Crucible.
Meanwhile, at a wayside inn not three days from Wrath, Meredith Saker ate an early breakfast before climbing back into the saddle for another day of punishing travel. Still concerned that he might arrive too late he did a quick mental calculation. Falco would have returned to the capital shortly before he had arrived in Solace, which was now almost two weeks ago. Knowing Falco he would have immediately insisted that they prepare for the Rite, which meant forging a sword. Meredith was not sure if it was even possible to make a battle mage’s sword in two weeks.
Battle Mage Page 61
