Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Surely not. But even so, he would not linger or slacken his pace. He could not take the chance of Falco attempting the Rite with a mage like Brother Pacatos on the Torquery.

  Two days later and Falco had just finished a last minute training session. It was the afternoon of the Rite and Aurelian had been focussing not so much on his protection or fighting skills but on the dangers that lay within.

  ‘The greatest threat will come from your own doubts and fears,’ said Aurelian. ‘Down there, in the darkness such things are magnified and laid bare.’

  Staring at the dark archway at the far end of the Crucible Falco could well believe it, but they had done everything they could for now. They were just gathering up their things when an apprentice from the workshop appeared to inform them that the sword was finished.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Aurelian when the apprentice hovered, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s the magi,’ he said. ‘They have already taken the sword.’

  Falco frowned but Aurelian just shook his head.

  ‘Bloody Thrall!’ he said. ‘He doesn’t want you touching the sword before the Rite.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I suspect it’s because he thinks it might unlock your powers.’

  ‘And could it?’

  ‘It might or it might not,’ said Aurelian. ‘But either way your sword now lies at the heart of the Labyrinth and the only way to reach it is to overcome the obstacles that the magi have placed in your path.’

  75

  The Rite of Assay

  Assay: from the Clemoncéan assaier meaning ‘to test’

  It was sunset and the Crucible was filled with a pale dusky light. The clear blue sky was darkening but the moon was now rising above the mountains.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Aurelian, handing Falco his barbute helm. ‘Always better if there’s some light when you emerge.’

  Falco could hear the anxiety in his voice, the effort to remain positive, but he was not really listening. His mind was focussed on the dark archway at the end of the arena.

  Dressed in the armour of Antonio Missaglias Falco looked lithe and formidable, the dark metal shimmering with the arcane patterns etched into its surface. He put on his helm and took up his shield which was now embossed with the subtle design of a dragon, the insignia of Valentia. Antonio had also given him a sword. It was a sword of good quality but it was not his sword, not the sword of a battle mage. Even so, Falco was glad to have it. He loosened it in the scabbard then stiffened as he sensed the approaching magi. He looked up just as Thrall and two other magi appeared over the lip of the Crucible.

  ‘About time!’ muttered Aurelian as they made their way down into the arena.

  Flanked by two senior mages, Thrall appeared calm and assured as they took their places on the lower steps. Aurelian gave them a curt nod of acknowledgement and Thrall inclined his head, a faint smile on his narrow lips. The smile made Aurelian nervous and he looked to the other side of the arena, where Dusaule and Dwimervane sat like spectators in some poorly attended games. Everything was now in place and the mage sitting to Thrall’s right rose to his feet.

  ‘Let the aspirant step forward,’ he called out in a voice that echoed around the arena.

  Falco looked up at Aurelian who gave him a grim nod of reassurance.

  ‘We’ll be here when you come out.’

  Without a word Falco dipped his head and walked to the centre of the arena where the magi spokesman looked down at him with cold dispassion.

  ‘Falco Danté,’ he began. ‘We are here tonight to complete your training as a battle mage, to see if you have the strength to protect the armies of Wrath from all the burning might of the enemy. Pain, guilt, anguish and fear, these are the weapons with which the enemy will try to strike you down. And so it is with these that you shall be tested. If you succeed then we will know that we can place our trust in you, that you are worthy of the title, battle mage.

  ’Do you accept this challenge?’

  Falco stared up through the T-shaped visor of his helm.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And do you attempt the Rite of Assay by your own free will?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then may the light have mercy on your soul.’

  The spokesman waited for some acknowledgment, but Falco did not bow or salute them. Instead he only stared. The spokesman bridled with indignation but Thrall’s smile only broadened. He wondered if the young pretender would be so bold when he was dragged weeping and broken from the labyrinth.

  Cedo.

  Falco heard the word as if Thrall had spoken directly into his mind, but he had no intention of conceding, no intention of even thinking the word. With a mental swipe he cast out the word and the smile dropped from Thrall’s face. Then, in a further gesture of defiance he drew his sword before turning away, his heart quickening as he walked towards the gaping archway at the end of the Crucible. For a moment he paused before the bare unguarded threshold then he stepped forward into the place they called L’obscurité.

  The darkness engulfed Falco like a close pressing fog, but slowly the blackness receded as the way was lit by a series of irregular crystal plaques, fixed at intervals to the walls with black iron spikes. The plaques gave off a pale green light and he could now see that he was in a passageway formed from close fitting blocks of stone. It was dim and thick with shadows but he was glad of even the meanest light.

  Outside the fear had been unsettling, now it was almost overwhelming and Falco felt a powerful urge to step back into the Crucible or even just to turn around, to prove to himself that the entrance was still there behind him. But the magi’s spokesman had been right. He had chosen this path. He would not turn away at the first hint of horror.

  Shield raised and sword at the ready he walked forward, fifty feet... a hundred. The sound of his breathing echoed off the walls as did the wary tread of his boots against the gritty flagstones of the floor. The air was cold and damp and filled with the musty smell of a tomb. He had only been in a matter of minutes but he could already feel the haunted miasma of this place closing around his mind, the foul demonic whispers and the sense that he was not alone, that there was something there, hovering behind him or lurking just beyond the edge of his vision.

  At first it was just fleeting sounds, some of which seemed to emanate from a distance while others sounded so close that he flinched from the sudden proximity. But as he moved deeper the whispers became more distinct, speaking in a language he did not understand. The words were alien but the malice behind them was not. Falco tried to ignore them. He told himself they could not harm him but he knew in his heart that they could.

  He passed openings and alcoves filled with shadow and at each one he expected something hideous to come screaming out. These empty voids began to play on his mind, as did the patches of darkness that lay between the widely spaced plaques. Had he fire, he could have illuminated the darkness and eased his fears, but without it he could only steel his mind and forge on. A little further and he reached a junction, the passage heading to left and right. He needed to choose which way to go but both ways faded quickly into blackness. There was no way to differentiate one way from the other. But for some reason Falco found himself being drawn to the passage on his right. He had no way to be certain, only the vaguest sense that it was this way that led to his sword.

  He started forward and for the first time he felt the opposing presence of the magi. It was as if the labyrinth suddenly saw him, as if the whispers knew the darkest secrets of his heart. The sensation made him feel vulnerable and exposed but this was only the start of their opposition and so Falco clenched his jaw and continued.

  Guided by nothing more than the vaguest sense of intuition he wound his way through the labyrinth while the whispers grew louder and more insistent. He began to glance back as if he could hear something following him. He tried to tell himself that it was all in his imagination, but as he proceeded down a long passageway he stopped. />
  Slowly he turned around. There was something in the passageway behind him. The whispers receded as if they too were awed by its presence. It was there, in the dark space between one green crystal and the next. Straining his eyes for any hint of what it might be Falco readied his sword and shield then tensed as a screaming shape loomed towards him. It grew larger and louder until the noise filled the entire passage and then it stalled, becoming silent and still the moment before it reached him.

  Heart pounding Falco leaned back from the disturbing presence, the light too dim to make out anything more than an unsettling and indistinct shadow. He started as he felt something brush against his cheek. The touch was light, almost negligible and he wondered how it could reach him through the metal of his helm. Shocked at how terrifying such an innocuous touch could be he began to back away but then the presence let out a low sound, half human, half demonic growl. The light from the crystal plaques suddenly dimmed, subdued by a smothering cloak of evil.

  In near total darkness Falco felt something sharp snag in the soft skin of his neck. It pierced his flesh and began to tear. With a cry he reared back and swung his sword but the blade met with nothing until it struck the stones of the tunnel wall. A flash of sparks illuminated a terrifying hooded figure and Falco stumbled back in fear. But the hooded wraith followed and he gasped as he felt two sharp points in the pit of his left arm and a hot stabbing pain in the deep crease of his groin. He gasped as the invisible claws gouged deep into his flesh then cried out as they tore free.

  In desperation he swung both sword and shield but all to no effect. Something began to claw at his throat and Falco started run. He stumbled blindly down sparse-lit ways, pursued by an angry spirit that cared nothing for armour, sword or strength. Falco had no way of fighting it, no way to banish it with light or fire. Instead he could only flee.

  Outside in the Crucible Thrall’s smile had returned. He did not know the details of what was taking place but he could sense the first cracks in the pretender’s resolve. Cracks that could now be exploited and driven wider until his mind shattered like a frost-riven rock.

  Across the arena Aurelian was gripped by concern. He could see the satisfaction on Thrall’s face. He knew of Falco’s acrimonious history with Morgan Saker, but he could not understand Thrall’s vindictive determination to see him fail. The magi always went to great lengths to test a battle mage, but he had never known it to become so personal. All he could think was that the magi had some way of knowing that Falco would turn against them, just as his father had done before him. Aurelian did not believe that this would be the case, but he could not rule out such a possibility. After all, if it could happen to Aquila Danté it could happen to anyone.

  But whatever lay in the future one thing was certain. Down there in the labyrinth Falco was now beset.

  Falco had lost all sense of time and space. He was trapped in a world of nightmare where he could no longer distinguish what was real from what was not. He had fled the sadistic wraith until he emerged into a chamber lit once more with a ghostly light from the green crystal plaques on the wall. In the centre of the room was a figure clad in steel and armed with sword and shield, it stood like a sentinel barring his way. But the figure was not human. Its body was formed from smoke, swirling beneath a skin of shimmering blue energy.

  It was an animaré, a conjuration of the magi, real armour brought to life upon an effigy of magical force. It radiated a sense of power and Falco realised that this was no clumsy marionette. The magi controlling it knew how to fight, but he had spent the last seven months training with the likes of Malaki and Quirren. He had fought the black armoured Kardakae and the twin bladed Slayer. He had become the warrior his early years had promised, something no mage could ever hope to match.

  Casting a fearful glance back towards the archway, Falco tried to calm his breathing as he moved into the room and dropped into a fighting stance. Here, at least, was an enemy he knew how to fight. Poised and balanced, he was ready for the attack but even so the speed of it took him by surprise. The animaré was fast and it fought with a precision he had never encountered before, but it was also predictable and slowly Falco began to take the upper hand. He blocked a well-timed cut and parried a series of perfectly executed thrusts before launching a counter attack of his own. He forced an opening and was about to deliver a ‘killing’ strike when the animaré suddenly turned into Alex. Falco almost sprained his wrist as he fought to pull his stroke.

  How could Alex suddenly be here and why had he wanted to kill him?

  Guilt and confusion suddenly clouded Falco’s mind, made him question why he was fighting. The hesitation cost him dearly and he reeled from an attack that glanced off his helm as the face of the animaré had returned to a featureless mask of shimmering energy. The fight continued and Falco regained his composure, but each time he was about to deliver a decisive blow the animaré would transform into a person he knew: Malaki, Bryna, Dusaule. The illusions were utterly convincing and a normal person would have been undone by confusion and guilt. But a battle mage is used to the lies of the enemy and they are subtler and crueller than anything the magi could devise. For all its perfection Falco began to recognise the magi’s deception for what it was.

  Despite this, it still took all his determination to deal the fatal blow and he felt a terrible stab of remorse as his sword bit down into the sun weathered neck of the emissary. A part of him knew it was not real but the dreamlike sense of guilt refused to fade, one more burden for him to carry through the soul sapping darkness of the labyrinth.

  At the far end of the room another archway beckoned and Falco forced himself back into the haunted pathways where unseen nightmares were waiting to tear at his sanity. The next time he emerged he was stumbling with fear and the searing pain of countless illusory wounds. He staggered from the labyrinth into a room that glowed with the flickering light of fire. Trembling with the strain he struggled to clear the latest flood of horrific images from his mind as he tried to take in his surroundings.

  The room was maybe fifty feet long and twenty wide. Flames rose up from the bare flagstones, covering the floor like some infernal maze. Falco thought he could see a way through but as he moved into the room the flames flared as if they were reacting to his presence, as if they somehow knew him. He suddenly remembered something Meredith had said?

  ‘If my father is on the Torquery he will try to stop you with fire.’

  Falco had no doubt that the next mind to stand in his way was that of Morgan Saker.

  Sheathing his sword he started forward, weaving his way between the flames as he focussed on reaching the archway at the far end of the room, but the heat soon became unbearable and he was forced to summon a protective wall around his body. There were no longer any gaps between the flames and he found himself pushing through walls of fire. Beneath his armour he was dripping with sweat and the hot air scalded his throat and lungs. His defence was strong and he knew that he could make it, but then he noticed a smell on the searing air. It was the smell of burning pinewood and Falco was instantly transported back to the last time he had smelled that acrid scent.

  He was a boy of about five years old and standing in the burning ruins of his home. His eyes and throat stung from the smoke but he was too numbed by grief to care. They had told him his father was dead. He did not want to believe them but a part of him knew that it was true. Racing home he found their villa in flames. He charged inside but the house was empty and in the blazing inferno the young Falco realised he was now totally alone.

  Of all the things that could happen in his life this was surely the worst, to lose the strong embrace of the man he loved. The man who took him to ride on dragons and taught him how to hold a sword. The man who laughed with him and chastised him and told him stories of a woman he had never met, a woman who had lived just long enough to hold her son. Even in death the woman loved him, or so the man had told him. But now the man was gone. His father was dead. And who now could make him believe
that she had ever been real?

  Falco let out a cry of anguish as the flames of grief curled round his heart. Fire now filled the room and the tears on his cheeks evaporated almost as soon as they were shed.

  But no.

  He was no longer that little boy trapped in a burning building. He had survived that grief and lived with that grief. He would not let it destroy him now, but the flames felt like a physical barrier and Falco realised he was pushing against the current of Morgan Saker’s mind. The mage’s will was as strong as ever and Falco was not sure he could overcome it, but he raised his shield and forced himself on until Morgan Saker struck him with yet more memories bound together by a twisted thread of fire.

  Darius burning as he pushed forward to kill the dragon.

  Darius burning as he and the dragon fell to their deaths.

  The smell of a forge’s fire and the tragic death of Malaki’s father.

  Simeon kneeling before the flames of Baëlfire, another soul that he had failed to save.

  Falco fell to his knees and the flames reached for him anew. His leather trousers started to smoulder and the skin on his face blistered as his resolve began to crumble in the face of all his guilt.

  ‘Cedo...’

  The voice of Morgan Saker came to him through the conflagration.

  ‘Simply concede and it will all be over.’

  Morgan Saker had been utterly ruthless in his preparations, certain that no human being could endure the trial he had prepared, especially one he knew as well as Falco. But he had erred in one crucial detail. You cannot defeat a battle mage by reminding him of the things he loves. You can torment him and cause him pain, but the memory of such things will only make him stronger.