Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Reaching a clear space, Sidian spread his wings. Sinking back onto his haunches he reached his pinions high and with a powerful spring he launched himself skyward, drawing his wings sharply downwards as he propelled them both into the air.

  The Queen staggered back as the downdraft beat against her face. She blinked her eyes and squinted up as the dragon climbed higher and higher, lofting twenty feet with each mighty wing beat. Behind her the people began to get to their feet. Their gasps turning to mutterings of awe and amazement, and then the old man from the front of the crowd whispered something, more to himself than to anyone else.

  ‘Cœur noir,’ he murmured, echoing the derisive description one of the magi had used for Falco. But now, as the people watched the black dragon and its dark rider rise above them, the name seemed deeply appropriate. The man had spoken to himself but not so quietly that those around him had not heard. Beside him a woman repeated the words.

  ‘Le Cœur Noir,’ she said, and the name spread like a mantra through the crowd.

  ‘Le Cœur Noir,’ they murmured.

  The Black Heart.

  *

  On the slopes leading up from the Crofters’ cottage Aurelian and Dwimervane watched as Falco and his dragon disappeared into the clouds. Their hearts had ached as they saw the people offer up their collective sorrow, while on the opposite slopes Malaki and the cadet knights were joined by a man they recognised as the Queen’s advisor.

  ‘Well,’ said Cyrano as he pulled up on a horse beside them. ‘It looks like we might not be needed after all.’

  Malaki glanced over his shoulder where a hundred city guard cavalry were shifting nervously as they waited to hear if they would be deployed. Cyrano had kept the troops below the brow of the slope and now, with a sigh of deep relief, he gave the order for them to retire. He had respected the Queen’s foolhardy decision to handle the situation in her own way, but he would have been remiss in his duties if he had not taken steps to guard against a more unfortunate turn of events. With a bow he took his leave and Malaki and the others turned back to the sky where Falco had now disappeared from view.

  ‘I remember the night you arrived in the barracks,’ said Huthgarl in his strong Beltonian accent. ‘I couldn’t wait to fight you. But I felt insulted by his presence, that we should have to share a room with one so weak.’ He gave a deep snort, laughing at his own folly.

  ‘Did you know what he would become?’ asked Quirren.

  ‘No, and yes,’ said Malaki. ‘For most of my life I thought he would die before his twenty first birthday.’ He paused, thinking of the disease that had blighted the major part of Falco’s life. ‘But I always knew he was different.’

  ‘Aldrei vanmeta a Valentian,’ said Huthgarl in his native tongue.

  Malaki looked at him in confusion but Quirren just laughed.

  ‘Never underestimate a Valentian,’ he translated. ‘We say the same in Illicia. Although I think the real phrase is, never underestimate the stupidity of a Valentian,’ he added, and the others smiled at his attempt to make a joke.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell Bryna you said that,’ said Malaki but Quirren shrugged off the threat.

  ‘I’ll just tell her it was something Alex said.’

  ‘And she’d believe you,’ laughed Malaki and together the young knights rode back down to the Irregulars.

  *

  Later that afternoon the Queen stood at her balcony once more, watching the smoke over the city slowly fade as the fires were brought under control.

  ‘Things are beginning to settle down,’ said Cyrano as the last of the officials were escorted from the audience room and the Queen’s chambers were once again her own.

  The Queen said nothing, only giving her advisor a sideways look and raising a hand to her dry and aching throat. The last few hours had been spent trying to minimise the effects of the riots and discussing how to stop others from taking advantage of the heightened sense of anxiety. Sixteen people were now confirmed dead and despite the tentative peace that had been achieved the anger and reprisals reverberated through a city that was already feeling the strain of the rapidly encroaching war.

  Moving to a side table Cyrano poured the Queen a glass of honey and lemon water from a silver rimmed decanter. He came to stand beside her and she took the glass with a grateful nod before looking up towards the mountains where Falco and his dragon had disappeared.

  ‘And to think I almost declined the emissary’s request to train him,’ she mused, sipping her drink.

  ‘Maybe it would have been better if you had,’ said Cyrano and the Queen half turned towards him, an eyebrow arched in surprise.

  ‘This news will spread to every city in the land and not every tower will be so lucky. It’s bad enough that we should have the Possessed on our doorstep without such troubles weakening our cities from within.’

  ‘The magi can send word quicker than any dockside gossip,’ said the Queen. ‘They will have a chance to prepare themselves. And Master Saker has already begun work on a magically binding oath.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Cyrano. ‘There will be trouble, and there will be death, and you will not always be able to prevent it.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the Queen sounding suddenly weary.

  Cyrano gave a nod and for a while they stood in silence.

  ‘Well?’ said the Queen as her advisor was about to excuse himself. ‘Are you going to show me the note that’s burning a hole in your pocket or not?’

  Cyrano put a hand to his doublet pocket where he had secreted the brief message from Valentia. He would rather the Queen had a good night’s sleep before reading it. Slowly now he withdrew the crumpled rectangle of parchment. Placing it in her hand he took two steps back to afford her a modicum of privacy then watched as she unfolded the note and began to read.

  For a moment she just held it in her slender fingers, the corners trembling ever so slightly, and then she folded the note and crumpled it in her fist. Cyrano’s heart went out to her. The Irregulars were desperately needed at the front, their numbers essential to support the armies of Marshal Breton and the emissary. He could only imagine what she must be feeling, knowing that she could no longer allow them to leave, no longer send them to aid her Chevalier.

  Finally the Queen spoke and Cyrano had never heard such detached and steely determination in her voice before.

  ‘You will not mention this to anyone until the Irregulars have departed the city,’ she said.

  ‘But Your Majesty!’

  ‘On your honour, Cyrano!’ said the Queen, turning a stone cold gaze upon her advisor. ‘Not until the army of the Irregulars are on their way.’

  Cyrano began to protest but he could see that it was pointless.

  ‘As you command,’ he said at last, though every instinct told him that what she had in mind was a mistake.

  Torn between obedience and safeguarding his charge, he waited for her to dismiss him. All it took was a slight raising of her chin and with a bow Cyrano moved towards the door. Outside her chambers the two palace guards stood to attention but he did not even acknowledge their presence. In his mind he saw again the message that had arrived this morning. The ramifications of which now filled him with dread.

  Valentia has withdrawn its forces

  Demon armies have entered the Pass of Amaethon

  Navaria will fall within a month

  Southern border now under imminent threat

  Recommend Ruaen be reinforced with all possible speed

  The writer of the note clearly did not know that there were no armies left to reinforce the southern city of Ruaen. Only the Irregulars remained and in a matter of days they would be heading east. The only other force of any size was the Legion du Trône, the Commander of which was none other than the Queen herself.

  Cyrano paused at the head of the stairs. The Queen had always hated sending others off to fight her wars and now it seemed she had a legitimate excuse to lead a campaign of her own. Cyrano remembered the promise he
had made to her father... to keep her safe. For nearly twenty years he had kept his promise but now he feared that he might fail.

  How could he save the most powerful woman in the world from herself?

  84

  Unexpected Threats

  Following the departure of the Irregulars the Queen waited just four days before calling an emergency meeting of the district’s most powerful nobles. The Chamber of Council was far from full, but there were still more than a hundred men and women seated on the terraced steps, each with a small retinue of personnel from their estates. The magi’s fall from grace had significantly weakened the position of those who opposed the Queen but even so, they were not about to let plans to leave the capital unprotected go unchallenged.

  ‘The sole purpose of the Legion du Trône is to protect the capital of Clemoncé, not the capital of Navaria,’ said Lord Brosse a middle aged man with silver hair and a club foot.

  His comments raised a chorus of agreement and the Queen waited for the noise to subside before continuing.

  ‘And what if the best way to protect the capital is to march to the aid of Navaria?’ she asked.

  ‘How can you even suggest such a thing?’ asked an elderly count whose flamboyant robes reflected his incredible wealth. Clutching at a gold mounted walking stick he hauled himself to his feet. ‘Thanks to your policy of intervention, all of Clemoncé’s armies are now committed abroad. And what have they achieved? Nothing,’ he added, when no one else seemed inclined to answer. ‘We sacrifice our soldiers in other people’s lands and still the enemy draws closer. Rumour has it that Hoffen and Le Matres will be the next to fall. And what then?’ he asked. ‘Voisier? Ville de Pierre? Toulwar?’

  ‘No,’ said the Queen. ‘If we do not act, the next Clemoncéan city to fall will be Ruaen.’

  Behind her the officers of the Legion du Trône looked on with grave expressions. To them the thought of one of their own cities falling to the Possessed while they remained safe in the capital was unthinkable, but the nobleman in the fancy robes remained unconvinced.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You said yourself that the demon armies in the Pass of Amaethon are not large.’

  The Queen sighed. Could these people really be so ignorant and naive? Without turning she addressed one of the officers standing behind her.

  ‘Colonel Laville. Would you be so kind as to educate the Comte du Savere in the ways of the enemy?’

  With a stiff bow Colonel Laville stepped forward, a chiseled featured man of middle years. His hair was streaked with grey but his thick eyebrows and groomed moustache were black. He made no attempt to hide the contempt in his ebony eyes as he addressed the count.

  ‘The two demon armies currently moving through the Pass of Amaethon are relatively small, with only about fourteen thousand troops between them. But Navaria has no army of its own. Fully half of the state’s population lives in the capital city of Sophia, which has a garrison of just one thousand troops. When they are defeated most of them will be reborn as Possessed.’

  The Comte du Savere pursed his lips. An additional six hundred Possessed did not sound too threatening but Colonel Laville had not finished.

  ‘The garrison might only be a thousand, but the city of Sophia has a population of almost sixty-thousand,’ he went on. ‘If Navaria falls, and it will fall, then many of its citizens will also be subsumed. We estimate the army that crosses our border could be forty thousand strong.’

  The nobles looked at him as if they could not quite believe what he was saying.

  ‘The provincial army at Ruaen will not be able to resist them and the demon army that moves north will have grown by another twenty thousand benighted souls.’

  The Queen stared around the chamber and few escaped the touch of her granite gaze. ‘Dumonté and the Porte du Château will be the next to fall. And with them a thousand farms and vineyards, razed and ruined as our beloved country becomes part of the Forsaken Lands.’

  Finally she took a breath and her eyes were filled with grim determination.

  ‘The truth is this,’ she said at length. ‘If the Legion du Trône is to protect the capital then it must ride out now. If we wait for the Possessed to come to us then we are lost.’

  ‘But danger might come from another direction,’ said a softly spoken nobleman to the Queen’s right.’

  ‘Yes, it might,’ conceded the Queen. ‘But other armies are fighting to prevent that. We cannot hide behind our walls, waiting for the threat of future years. We must address the danger that threatens us now.’

  ‘We should recall the armies from Illicia and Beltane,’ said a dark haired man with a ducal crest hanging from a gold chain about his neck. ‘The army of the Irregulars departed only days hence. Why were they allowed to march east when we knew of this danger to the south?’

  The duke’s tone was accusing and he turned to the Queen’s right, looking to Prince Ludovico for support. But the Prince remained unmoved, sitting forward with one hand resting on his velvet clad thigh while the fingers of his other hand stroked his chin in thought.

  The medallion-wearing duke seemed momentarily thrown by the Prince’s unwillingness to support what he clearly saw as common sense, but the Queen just gave a weary sigh. These men had no idea of the enemy’s strength, no idea of the horror and the struggle that had been raging at the front for decades.

  ‘And what about the demons?’ persisted the duke. ‘If I am not mistaken, the last battle mage in the city departed with the Irregulars. Would Her Majesty care to explain how she intends to fight demon armies without the support of a battle mage?’

  ‘She will have the support of two!’ came a gruff and angry voice from the higher seats of the chamber.

  Everyone turned to look as Aurelian and Dusaule stood up from their seats.

  It had been late evening on the day of the Irregular’s departure when the Queen herself arrived at the cottage to speak with them. Dusaule had only just returned from his tormented wanderings and Aurelian had wondered if it would send him back out into the night. But the silent Crofter had only listened as the Queen outlined her plans to save the Navarian capital. Aurelian needed no persuasion but Dusaule seemed uncertain.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to fight,’ said the Queen, aware of the vow he had sworn. ‘But with your protection and Aurelian’s fire...’

  The Queen’s voice faded away. She had no wish to add to Dusaule’s suffering. However, after a few moments of shadowed thought Dusaule had answered her with a simple nod.

  Now the two men stood before the astonished gaze of the gathered nobles.

  ‘What?’ said a sour faced man with oiled hair and shiny skin. ‘Are we to trust the safety of the Legion to a cripple and a mute?’

  Aurelian stared at the man as he would an obnoxious drunk who had just pissed on his boot. There was no need for a show of power, the force of his contempt was enough.

  ‘Battle Mages Cruz and Dusaule have agreed to accompany us, and we are grateful for their protection,’ said the Queen. ‘The latest intelligence suggests the two Possessed armies are moving separately. If we engage them one at a time...’

  ‘Enough!’ blustered the medallion duke. ‘This is madness! We must recall our armies from foreign lands and task them with the defence of our realm.’ He paused. ‘No,’ he continued and here he had the temerity to wag his finger at the Queen. ‘We cannot allow you to deploy the Legion while other options remain.’

  ‘You mistake me, sir,’ said the Queen and behind her Cyrano tensed as he recognised the steely tone in her voice. ‘I did not call this meeting to ask for your permission.’ The Queen threw back her cloak to reveal the armoured breastplate she wore beneath.’ Her hand moved to the pommel of her sword as she turned to face the man who dared to think he could command the Queen of Wrath. ‘I called this meeting to tell you that I am taking the Legion south and to ask Prince Ludovico if he would do me the honour of governing the city in my stead.’

  There was a collective gasp o
f astonishment and Prince Ludovico sat up straight, his face filled with surprise and confusion. Eyes narrowed, he looked down as the Queen turned towards him.

  ‘I offer no promise or concession, my Lord,’ she said as the Prince’s gaze flicked to the black sword belt at her waist. ‘You must know by now that our houses will never be joined.’

  The Prince’s jaw bunched. His face flushed and the chamber echoed with disapproval at the Queen’s public renunciation of the second most powerful person in the kingdom.

  ‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ said the Queen. ‘But my heart is already cleaved, first to the people of Wrath and then to the Chevalier, whom I can no longer deny.’

  The Prince’s dark eyes were hot with mortification and for a moment it appeared he might refuse, but the Queen did not release him from her gaze.

  ‘So, my Prince,’ she asked again. ‘Will you be the steward of this city and care for the people in my absence? For I know you love them too.’

  For the longest time the prince just stared at the Queen but then, quietly.

  ‘I will.’

  The Queen’s chest heaved with a great breath, part relief, part gratitude, and part fear of the path she had chosen. For a moment she could not find her voice, but then she swept an all embracing arm around the room.

  ‘All hail the Prince of Wrath,’ she said and the nobles echoed her words as if under some kind of spell.

  ‘Hail the Prince of Wrath.’

  Still frowning from a barrage of emotions Prince Ludovico rose to his feet and bowed to the Queen who returned the gesture with genuine respect.

  ‘Master Cyrano will supervise your investiture,’ she said, and the Queen’s advisor stepped forward.

  From his outward composure no one would suspect the anguish tearing at Cyrano’s heart; the effort of will it required to release the Queen from his charge and not scream at these ‘nobles’ to lead the army in her place. But the Legion was sworn to the Throne of Wrath and she was the Throne personified.