Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Emerging into the paved plaza surrounding the Chamber he was met by two palace guards who escorted him into the building. The enormous domed chamber was lit by more than a dozen great oil lamps, their shiny brass cowls designed to fill the space with a warm yellow light. With a bow the guards left him in the centre of the floor and Falco gazed around. With no people crowding the terraced seats the huge building looked bigger than ever. The carpet had been rolled back and the great marble map was covered once more with the pewter figures that had been used during the public strategy meeting.

  Swallowing with nervous anticipation, Falco looked around the empty chamber but then his eyes focussed on one of the unlit side entrances. Someone was watching him.

  ‘Uncanny, the way a battle mage can do that,’ said the Queen as she emerged from the darkness of the tunnel.

  Falco immediately offered a hasty bow but the Queen waved aside such formality.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Master Danté. I know that you have other things on your mind.’

  ‘Not at all, Your Majesty,’ said Falco. ‘It is an honour and a pleasure.’

  ‘Please,’ said the Queen. ‘If we must use titles then let it be, my Lady.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady.’

  ‘Better,’ said the Queen with a smile. ‘I had hoped to speak to you when you returned from the front but I didn’t want to disrupt your preparations for the Rite.’

  Falco bowed his head in appreciation and the Queen cast a critical eye over the armour that she had commissioned in the autumn.

  ‘I see the skills of Master Missaglias have not diminished with age.’

  Falco blushed, mortified that he had not even thanked her for this princely gift.

  ‘Yes, thank you, my Lady,’ he mumbled. ‘It is far more than I had ever dreamed.’

  The Queen smiled at his discomfiture.

  ‘The least I could do,’ she said as if she had commissioned nothing more than a new pair of riding gloves.

  Releasing Falco from her gaze she turned away to look at the pewter figures strategically placed on the map. The layout had changed since the public meeting and the situation looked worse than ever. She walked slowly over the map, following the line of the front and pausing wherever a concentration of pieces indicated that the fighting was particularly fierce.

  As she moved slowly across the floor Falco could not help but look at her, long dark hair worn loose but for a silver ribbon holding it back from her face, her smooth skin radiant in the golden glow of the oil lamps. She wore a long gown of dusky peach silk, bound at the waist with the emissary’s belt, the silver horse-head buckle bright against the black braided leather. About her shoulders was a cloak of emerald green, the crushed velvet of which seemed to cast shadows and highlights over her form. Once again he was struck by the captivating duality of her presence, the symbol of her as the Queen and the simple beauty of her as a woman.

  ‘It appears there is nothing we can do to stop them,’ said the Queen and Falco moved onto the map, the spell of watching her broken.

  ‘We seem to be holding here,’ he said, looking down at a group of figures in Beltane.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the Queen, coming to stand beside him, ‘Vercincallidus. As cunning a general as ever there was. Somehow he has managed to outmanoeuvre the enemy for years, but see here.’ She gestured towards the largest demon figure on the map. ‘It appears the Marchio Dolor is moving against him and I can’t help thinking that time is running out for the Serthian Wolf.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘But let us hope that I am wrong.’

  Falco gazed at the figure representing the demon known as the Marquis of Pain, and sure enough, it had definitely moved towards the area where Vercincallidus played his deadly game of cat and mouse with the armies of the Possessed.

  ‘And what of the situation further north?’ asked the Queen taking a few strides up the map towards the cities of Hoffen and Le Matres. ‘Do you still get the sense of something amiss?’

  Falco followed her and looked down at the enemy lines.

  ‘Not like before,’ he said. ‘Our forces look thinly stretched and the demon that attacked Nathalie isn’t dead, but I don’t see anything that suggests it is about to return.’

  The Queen was clearly relieved.

  ‘I understand that Nathalie would have been killed by the demon assassin, if you hadn’t intervened.’

  Falco bowed his head self-consciously.

  ‘And the entire Fourth Army would have been lost if you and the cadet knights had not arrived when you did.’

  Shifting awkwardly, Falco did not know what to say. He had done what he had to do. It had never been a matter of choice.

  ‘We are in your debt, Battle Mage Danté,’ said the Queen. She seemed to derive a deep pleasure from using Falco’s official title, but she could see that such praise made him uncomfortable.

  ‘Has there been any word from Nathalie or the emissary?’ asked Falco, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Nothing for a week or so,’ said the Queen. ‘Nathalie and Ciel are currently stationed in Hoffen. They are both still recovering, but their presence is a great comfort to the troops now housed in the city. And as for the emissary...’

  She paused and the catch in her breath did not go unnoticed.

  ‘Following your victory with the Fourth he has been able to establish a new front, but more demon armies are emerging from the Forsaken Lands. The Possessed are now pushing towards the city of Amboss and Marshal Breton has just sent orders for the Fourth Army to move south.

  She tried to make it sound as if this were just another battle report, but Falco could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Falco. ‘If anyone can survive a campaign, it’s the emissary. I’ve never known anyone like him.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said the Queen. Her eyes glistened but she smiled at the kindness of Falco’s words. ‘You should have seen him when he first came to Wrath, so young and serious, filled with grief and desperate to fight. My Father recognised his potential but he also knew that men who bore such grief rarely lived long in battle. They would often seek out death in the hope of finding peace. And so he forbade the young Chevalier from returning to war and appointed him as my tutor, my instructor in the art of war.’

  She raised her eyes and smiled.

  ‘He wasn’t happy with the appointment, of course, but even then he was a man of honour and he performed his duty well. He taught me how to fight and how to wage war; how to deal with kings who thought me a girl and how to speak to normal people who could only ever see me as a Queen. All the things my father had been trying to teach me for years. But somehow, hearing it from this sad and serious young man was different. And in return... I taught him how to smile again.’

  She paused, staring across the map as if she were looking back across the years.

  ‘I had no idea that we were falling in love. Not until the day of my betrothal to Prince Philip, the day the Chevalier told me he was returning to war.’

  The Queen’s smile was beautiful and sad.

  ‘Have you ever known love, Master Danté?’

  ‘No, my Lady. Not in the way you mean it.’

  ‘But you shall...’ The Queen’s tone was hopeful but Falco shook his head.

  ‘I have friends that I love, but I don’t think I could ever share my soul. It would not be fair.’

  ‘Are the dreams of a battle mage really so terrible?’

  Falco did not reply. The darkness in his gaze was answer enough.

  ‘Then you have my pity. For your sacrifice is far greater than mine.’

  For a moment they held each other’s gaze.

  ‘But, come now,’ said the Queen. ‘Let us look at the world and see what can be done, for I refuse to believe that we are yet beyond hope.’

  Falco moved to stand beside her and together they looked down at the map. Growing up in a small mountain town he could never have imagined such an intimate meeting with the world’s most powerful monarch.
At the same time he was amazed at how comfortable he felt in her presence. Despite his youth and lack of experience the Queen spoke to him as if he were an equal. She shared her concerns over the fate of Beltane and Illicia and asked his opinion on the potential collapse of Valentia.

  ‘Do you think King Vittorio will stand?’ she asked as they looked at two demon figures threatening the eastern border of Valentia.

  Falco shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He will abandon the north and withdraw his forces to defend the south.’

  ‘And what of the two demon armies gathered on his border?’

  ‘They will go west,’ said Falco without any trace of doubt. ‘They will try to reach the coast, driving a wedge between the kingdoms that still stand against them.’

  ‘And what of Navaria?’ asked the Queen.

  Falco did not answer. The outcome of such an attack against an unguarded state was obvious.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Queen as if she had read Falco’s thoughts. ‘It will fall. And the Possessed will sit upon both our borders.’ She gave a sigh and her gaze shifted to the great expanse of Acheron. ‘If only the Bull could be roused to fight,’ she breathed and Falco was certain that she had not intended him to hear.

  For another while they discussed the fate of the world and Falco was surprised by the sense he was able to form of the enemy’s intentions and movements. It was as if the Possessed were an animal that he understood, or a forest fire driven on by winds and appetites that he could somehow comprehend, and the wave of destruction did indeed seem unstoppable. If only Acheron and Thraece could be persuaded to join the fight.

  ‘There is always the chance that they will join us,’ said the Queen as they contemplated the two great kingdoms to the south. ‘The failure of Thrall’s mage army has undermined the position of the Thraecian magi but there is little that can be done while King Cleomenes remains under their control.’

  For a moment more she stared at the map before lifting her head and offering him a smile.

  ‘But come now...’ she moved to take his arm. ‘I have already taken up too much of your time. You need rest and time to gather your strength.’ Gently she led Falco off the map where one of the palace guards was waiting to escort him from the chamber.

  ‘Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Master Danté,’ said the Queen as Falco prepared to leave.

  ‘My deepest pleasure, my Lady.’

  The Queen smiled at his courtesy.

  ‘May the dragon you summon be strong and bright,’ she said.

  Falco nodded his thanks and offered a final bow. It would be amazing to think he might summon a brightly coloured dragon like Ciel, but his heart told him not to hope for too much.

  For Falco, the day of the summoning passed in something of a haze. He did not know if his mind was clouded by the aftershocks of the Rite or the apprehension of what he was about to do. Aurelian was still concerned that it was too soon but Falco would not be deterred. As the afternoon wore on he joined Malaki and the other cadets in the barracks for a final meal, although he ate little and said less. Most of the cadets were in awe of what Falco was about to attempt, but Malaki and Bryna knew what had happened the last time he attended a summoning. They could barely imagine what he must be feeling now.

  As Falco got up to leave, the cadets became silent. They might not appreciate the significance of this summoning but they had all experienced what his presence could mean on the battlefield, and so they wished him well. Even Jarek Snidesson gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Huthgarl, Quirren and Alex came round the table to embrace him and Bryna kissed his cheek before Falco turned to Malaki who clasped his hand before pulling him into a tight embrace.

  ‘We’ll be here when you return,’ he said.

  Falco could find no words to say. His mind was retreating into a guarded space somewhere deep inside of him, a dark place where emotions were dulled and the contrast between hope and fear was almost bearable. Feeling strangely detached he left the barracks and made his way back up to the cottage where Aurelian was waiting for him with two horses saddled and ready.

  Despite his initial objections Falco had finally agreed to let Aurelian accompany him to the summoning. Without offensive powers even the sword that Malaki had made would struggle to cleave a dragon’s scales. If the worst did happen then he would need someone to infuse the blade with energy and Falco could not bear the thought of leaving this to the magi.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Aurelian and Falco gave him a nod.

  Dusaule was nowhere to be seen but Dwimervane was there, standing a little way back, so as not to frighten the horses. The dragon’s blue scales were noticeably darker than when Falco had first met her. She looked at him with a curious intensity but there was no judgement in her flame yellow eyes. To normal dragons the madness of the blacks was a sad and shameful mystery, but their violence and hatred was undeniable and so they must be stopped.

  Falco could sense the conflict in Dwimervane’s mind but there was a hint of darkness too, like clouds on the distant horizon. At some point, in the not too distant future, she too would turn black and Aurelian would be faced with an unthinkable proposition.

  Guessing something of his thoughts Aurelian placed a hand on Falco’s shoulder.

  ‘Summon with a true heart and I’m quite sure it will be answered in kind,’ said the old battle mage and Falco’s resolve almost wavered.

  Aurelian’s kindness cut through his defences and vapours of doubt began to rise in his mind. He thought of Dusaule, his spirit broken by the guilt of what he had done. Could he be about to suffer the same fate?

  No.

  It was a black dragon that had killed Darius, and a black dragon that had led to his father’s death. If a black dragon answered his call tonight, he would kill it.

  77

  Hunter and Hunted

  In the dusky wilds of Beltane, Vercincallidus frowned as the scout finished her report. It seemed the demon she had been sent to watch was much closer than he had thought.

  ‘It moves with a purpose,’ she said. ‘It knows we are here. The enemy bends his will towards us.’

  Vercincallidus said nothing as he looked across at the Ferocian army now hemmed in against the river. The latest Possessed force was beaten, but it would take time to finish them off and time was the one thing he did not have.

  The general’s lip curled in frustration.

  This was the third time in the last few weeks that he had been forced to call off an attack before the enemy was annihilated. The scout was right, this was not happening by chance, this was the result of a coordinated campaign. Most demons were predictable and thus fairly easy to avoid. Some were cunning but this recent turn of events spoke of much greater control. There had been rumours of a powerful demon moving south, a demon the Illicians referred to as the Marchio Dolor. Vercincallidus feared no man that walked the earth but the thought of such a demon filled his bowels with ice. He clenched his fists, refusing to allow such fears a foothold in his mind. For now he had the lives of ten thousand warriors to save.

  Turning away from the scout he surveyed the field as he considered his options. At the start of the battle he had used the river to his advantage but now it cut off the quickest line of retreat. His only other option was to retreat north through the gully, but he needed a way to hold the Possessed back while the army made their escape.

  With his decision made, Vercincallidus turned to his aide-de-camp.

  ‘Sound the call for the Revered,’ he said. ‘I need three hundred to hold the gully while we retreat onto the plateau.’

  The aide gave his commander a grim nod and turned to the nearest musician who raised his carnyx to summon the volunteers who would lay down their lives for the sake of the army and the general who led them. For five years he had used his skill to outwit the demons and hunt the Possessed, but now the enemy’s chief lieutenant was moving against him and he realised that it was he who was now being hunted.

  Meanwhile
in the northwest of Illicia, near the newly established front line, an area of green heathland started to wither as something in the netherworld began to stir. In the merciless fires of hell the Slayer had completed its penance. Skin burned to blackened cinders, and twin blades glowing white with infernal heat, it began its slow ascension, up through the many planes of hell. Soon it would be reborn into the world of men and the only thought in its hateful mind was vengeance.

  78

  Answers

  Meredith watched as the summoning party left the tower. Mounted on horses they headed for the winding path leading up into the mountains. There were still three hours until sunset, but Thrall would want to make sure everything was in place before Falco and Aurelian arrived. Meredith waited until the Grand Veneratu disappeared from view before turning away from the window.

  It would have been foolish to try to speak with Brother Pacatos while Thrall was still in the tower, but now he would be away for several hours and Meredith would never get a better chance.

  Returning to his chambers he spent a few minutes meditating in final preparation then, clearing his mind of all distractions, he made his way to the stairs leading to the infirmary. With his heart beating wildly in his chest he focussed his mind and began to weave a complex cloak of concealment around himself. Even his father acknowledged his gift for concealment. Now it was time to put that gift to the test.

  The world seemed to recede and the sound of his own breathing changed as Meredith was cocooned in a muffled shell of magical force, his movements slow and deliberate as he climbed the few remaining steps to the infirmary. As he emerged onto the landing he could see the four wardens standing guard, rigid and vigilant. Fortunately there appeared to be just enough room for a person to pass between them. Hardly daring to breathe he started forward then stopped as one of the men looked directly at him. Had the man seen something? Heard something?

  Meredith paused and the warden’s gaze moved on. He remained undetected and slowly he continued his approach. He knew that the challenge would grow more difficult the closer he got. In addition to sight and sound he would need to mask his own body odour and somehow account for the movements in the air that might otherwise betray his presence. But his preparations had been thorough and he conducted his passing with a skill beyond his years.