Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Colonel Laville,’ said the Queen as she turned to address her second in command. ‘The Legion will be ready to march at dawn.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said the veteran knight.

  And with that the Queen disappeared into the tunnel leading from the floor.

  Above her, Aurelian led Dusaule into one of the stairwells leading from the upper levels of the chamber. Like the nobles, he too thought the Queen’s plan was madness, but it was also their only option. Falco and the Irregulars were needed at the front. Besides, like the Queen, he too felt the strain on his honour, that others marched into danger while he remained safe in the Crofters’ cottage. Even Dwimervane, with all her scars and injuries had let out an ominous growl of anticipation at the thought of facing the enemy once more.

  In the morning the Legion du Trône would march to war and the Crofters would march with them.

  *

  More than two hundred miles to the east, the emissary scanned the sky for any sign of the enemy’s spies. Since leaving Hoffen their progress had been dogged by attacks from small forces of Possessed, emerging from nowhere to strike at his unsuspecting troops. For an allied army in the Forsaken Lands, such surprise attacks were to be expected, but they were always worse when the army had been scouted by a dark angel and so they marched with one eye on the sky looking for the telltale shape of the winged demons that might herald an attack.

  On this occasion the sky was clear and the emissary watched as the Fourth Army wound its way over the rocky moors of eastern Illicia. They were now ten days south of Hoffen and the emissary’s thoughts turned to what they would find when they reached the city of Amboss. The area around Amboss had been subject to a sustained assault and there were even reports that small forces and minor demons had managed to slip through the allies defences and push beyond the city towards Clemoncé.

  So far any breaches were thought to be small, but this was why Marshal Breton had called them south, to strengthen their position around the city while they still could. Once the area was secure he intended to drive south-east, keeping the supply routes to Beltane open and preventing the Possessed from encircling the north coast of Lake Viegal.

  By all accounts, the remaining strongholds in Beltane were still holding, thanks largely to the success of Vercincallidus. His hit-and-run tactics had allowed him to wear down the Possessed armies, a strategy the emissary had now employed in the north. The biggest problem was the lack of battle mages and the emissary found himself wondering how Falco had faired on his return to Wrath.

  Had he passed the Rite of Assay?

  Had he summoned a dragon?

  By now the Irregulars should be on their way to Amboss, but it was too much to hope that Falco was coming with them. Surely he could not complete his training in just a few short weeks. No. They must play their hand and not wish for cards they did not have. His one consolation was that Hoffen and Le Matres were standing firm, which meant the northern routes into Clemoncé were secure. The Possessed would not strike for the capital while these defensive strongholds still remained intact. The Queen was safe, for now.

  The emissary’s gaze was pensive as the lines of spear and swordsmen marched past. He was painfully aware that all of Clemoncé’s armies were now committed abroad. And it was just as well that its borders were safe, for he dreaded to think what the Queen might do if her beloved kingdom came under threat.

  He shuddered as a cloud passed over the sun then urged Tapfer forward, his grey eyes ever vigilant as the Fourth Army snaked across the land. There were no reports of Possessed armies in the area, but in these dangerous times they could not afford to be complacent. They must all be prepared to react to a threat, no matter how unexpected, or from which direction it may come.

  85

  Pain, Pain and Eternal Pain

  Vercincallidus looked out from the low crags as the enemy came into view. It was late afternoon and the breeze was cool but the air above the Possessed shimmered and boiled as if it were noon on the hottest of summer days. The host of dark warriors swept into the valley and he knew that a similar force was now closing on their position from the rear. After years of outwitting the enemy he had finally been cornered, but even now he looked for a way to escape.

  Rather than being hemmed in on both sides he would try to punch through this first Possessed army before the second could attack him from the rear. This was a tactic he had used many times before, but both of the armies now closing on his position were led by demons. Normally he would avoid a demon army at all costs, but today the Sons of Eldur were not alone.

  Vercincallidus turned to look at the man mounted on the deep crimson dragon beside him. Forged from a Beltonian alloy, his plate and lamellar armour had the lustre of antique bronze. His helmet was of a traditional design with nose and cheek guards and reinforced bands around the eyes. His sword was also of a tribal design and his shield was embossed with the boar motif of the Gullinbursti tribe.

  Vercincallidus had resisted sending for a battle mage for he knew how badly they were needed elsewhere, but if his army was going to survive this day it would need the protection that a great soul could provide. Over the years he had seen this man kill several demons but today was different. The entity that drove the Possessed towards them was something that neither of them had encountered before.

  Trying to ignore a growing sense of uncertainty Vercincallidus brought his thoughts back to the battle at hand. He had arranged his forces in the most aggressive formation possible. Their only hope was to kill the demon and break free before the second Possessed force arrived.

  He cast his gaze over his army, nine thousand of the finest troops in all of Beltane. Over the past few years they had faced the Possessed dozens of times, but now their general was filled with doubt and they could feel the garrotte of fear tightening around their throats. Baring his teeth Vercincallidus snarled at his weakness, but then his bowels turned to water as the demon appeared from a gully in a low line of cliffs.

  Clad in dark armour it was smaller than most of the demons he had seen, and walked like a man on two human legs, but the power of it was like nothing he had felt before. The general had seen towering behemoths that could crush a horse’s ribcage in their fists, and others that could bite an armoured knight in two. But he had never witnessed anything with the force of presence that this demon possessed. He felt the shock of it ripple through his army and thought for a moment that they would fold, but then he felt the will of the man beside him. It was like a shield of steel before the fragile vessel of his soul and Vercincallidus breathed a sigh of relief as the battle mage spread his cloak of faith over the army.

  Now they could stand.

  Now they could fight.

  Beside him the battle mage drew his sword as the dragon readied itself for flight. Looking down he saw the demon stop and lock eyes with the man who thought to oppose it. The crimson dragon shifted uneasily, rearing to fight but the battle mage held it in check and Vercincallidus knew he was trying to gauge the strength of his enemy, probing for weaknesses, trying to determine something of its nature.

  The general turned to look down at the enemy and to his horror the demon’s attention shifted to him. The force of its scrutiny was excruciating but he could not look away. The world seemed to recede as the demon held him with its infernal gaze and a sound began to rise up on the edge of hearing, like a distant cacophony of screams and pitiful cries. The sound grew louder until it filled his mind and then suddenly it was gone, replaced by an ominous silence. And into the silence there came a deep voice that spoke to him in the language of the tribes.

  ‘Verkir, verkir og eilíft verkir,’ said the voice and the fear clutched once more at the general’s bowels.

  ‘Do not listen to it,’ said the man beside him and Vercincallidus returned to the world around him. ‘No fate is set in stone,’ continued the battle mage as the dragon took two steps back from the crags. ‘The enemy tries to weaken us with his lies. But we will not listen.’<
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  The battle mage hunkered down, gripping the straps of the riding harness with his shield hand. He turned to look down at Vercincallidus, his dark eyes burning through the spectacled visor of his helm.

  ‘For the Tribe of One,’ he said, invoking the mythical tribe that had once united all the people of Beltane.

  ‘For the Tribe of One,’ echoed Vercincallidus and with that the great red dragon bounded forward and leapt from the crags.

  The general watched as the red dragon swept down the valley, the battle mage leaning low against its back. They attacked as a single entity and Vercincallidus was certain that nothing could withstand such an attack but then he remembered the words that had echoed in his mind and suddenly he knew the name of the demon they faced.

  The Illicians called it the Marchio Dolor, a name in the language of ancient Protégia. Here then was the enemy’s chief lieutenant.

  The Marchio Dolor.

  The Marquis of Pain.

  *

  The Marchio Dolor watched with scornful amusement as the wyrm leaped from the crags and swept down the valley towards him, the Defiant leaning low against its back, shield ready and sword pointing directly towards him. The Marchio could feel their strength and the power building inside them but he did not flinch. Instead he drew his sword and settled into a solid stance to meet them. He raised the shield armour on his left arm and readied the massive sword in his right hand.

  The sword was in the style of a Ferocian machaira, a single edged weapon with a heavy forward curving blade. Like his armour the steel of the sword was dark and shot through with a filigree of veins that glowed as the Marchio clenched his armoured fist.

  It was a long time since he had killed a Defiant. He would savour the moment well.

  *

  Even as the dragon streaked down the valley, Vercincallidus unleashed his troops and nine thousand warriors charged towards the Possessed. The valley shook with the drumming of hooves and the braying sound of the carnyx war trumpets. A storm of arrows flew towards the massed ranks of Sciritae but the battle mage and the dragon would be the first to strike.

  The Marchio Dolor braced himself and hunched forward as a lance of searing blue light burst from the battle mage’s sword. It speared towards him but the lethal barb was deflected by the shield armour on his left arm. The attack scored a deep gouge but failed to penetrate the enchanted steel.

  Before he could launch an attack of his own the Marchio Dolor was engulfed in flame as the dragon hit him with a jet of ferocious fire. The dragon’s flames burned hot but the Marchio was protected by a thousand years of devotion. His eyes blazed with fury as the flames died away and the dragon came in for the kill, jaws gaping and talons outstretched.

  However, a moment before the dragon struck the Marchio surged forward and swung his sword, delivering a blow that cut deep into the dragon’s chest. Still, one of the dragon’s claws caught a patch of exposed skin and tore a gash in his neck but the Marchio barely felt it as the mortally wounded dragon came crashing down.

  As the dragon went down the battle mage had leapt from its back and the Marchio turned as the man rolled on the ground before coming quickly to his feet. With no trace of hesitation he charged forward, unleashing a fireball as he came but the Marchio smacked the ball of flame aside and aimed a blow with his sword to cut the man in two. Ducking low the battle mage avoided the killing strike and sent forth a pulse of energy that knocked the Marchio’s sword from his grasp.

  Sensing victory the battle mage moved in for the kill but once again the demon was too quick. Blocking the attack he lunged forward and grabbed the man by the throat. Lifting him from his feet the Marchio forced him backwards and the battle mage dropped his sword as the demon unleashed his own infernal power. Baëlfire surged down his arm to engulf the battle mage’s head and shoulders. He tried to fortify his body but the Marchio’s power was too great. His tribal helmet began to glow and his flesh began to burn as the demon slammed his body into a wall of rock, and such was the heat of his fury that the face of the stone outcrop began to crack and melt. Still growling with rage the Marchio began to pray as he pressed the battle mage back against the tortured rock.

  Too far gone to make any sound, the battle mage beat at the Marchio’s arm, arcs of blue energy leaping from his hands as he tried to focus his power through the agony that enveloped him. But it was no use. The demon’s prayers were too powerful, his strength too great. The wall of stone was now glowing red as the Marchio Dolor forced the battle mage into the wall of molten rock. Still the man tried to resist but there was nothing he could do and slowly the magma closed around him, the demon forcing him deeper until just his hands and armoured boots remained in the open air, twitching and straining in spasms of unimaginable pain.

  Finally the Marchio released his grip and drew forth his arm, the molten rock dripping from his armour and his dark unearthly skin. He might not be able to claim the soul of this Defiant but he could make certain that he suffered. The demon’s unholy power would keep the man alive as the rock slowly cooled around him. The battle mage would suffer a tortured death of suffocating immolation, tormented by the fact that he had failed.

  His hand still glowing from the heat, the Marchio Dolor moved to retrieve his sword then he turned in the direction of the dragon. The demon’s blade had cut deeply and blood spilled from a gaping wound in the dragon’s chest but still it prepared to fight. Its eyes burned with defiance even though it knew that victory was impossible. This demon was simply beyond their power to defeat.

  As the battle mage was overcome the full weight of the demon’s malice filled the valley and Vercincallidus watched as his army began to fold. The fear beat against him like a scorching wind and he knew that he would not be able to resist it for long, but while something of his will remained he would fight. Drawing on his last reserves of courage he drew his sword and called forth his honour guard of Beltonian Heavy Horse.

  Their only chance now was to die before the fear claimed them completely. Only by virtue of a warrior’s death could they evade Possession and enter the halls of Hugrekki. The warriors around him knew this too but he could see the fear swimming in their eyes.

  ‘The Tribe of One,’ he cried and the men of his guard replied in kind.

  Descending a rocky bank, the general led his men in a final charge. They attacked where the enemy was at its strongest, the quicker to meet their end, but the demon saw their intention and with a sweep of his mind he commanded his minions to take them alive. He would not allow the Serthian Wolf the easy escape of death.

  For a while the Sons of Eldur fought on, but even these battle hardened veterans could not resist the fear for long and soon the valley was filled with the wails of their despair. As the last of any fighting died away they were corralled into a single group on the valley floor: the living, the dead, the dying, a pitiful mass of terrified humanity. Surrounded by the warriors of the Possessed they watched in terror as the Marchio Dolor stepped forward. Bowing his demonic head he raised his arms as if to embrace them. But there was no fondness in this gesture, only dark prayers of subjugation.

  A great moan of horror rose up as the defeated army was surrounded by a wall of Baëlfire. And then they were crying out and crawling over each other as the flames spread slowly inwards until at last they were all consumed.

  Dragged from his horse, beaten, bound and helpless, Vercincallidus wept as his brave warriors were baptised in the flames of Hell. The valley echoed to the sound of their screams and they seemed to go on for an eternity until finally the flames died away and the Beltonian warriors were reborn. All trace of their humanity had been expunged and even their Beltonian armour had been reformed in the mould of Ferocian steel.

  Through unbearable pain the pledge of their devotion had been secured, the heat of their armour a constant reminder of the punishment that awaited any who should fail. Such was the fate that had befallen the Sons of Eldur, and such was the fate that now awaited their general.

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sp; Vercincallidus shook with terror as the Marchio Dolor turned towards him. He knew that he was doomed, but he was a man of the Vísunduri Tribe and he was determined to resist for as long as possible. The Marchio Dolor seemed to sense his resistance and something like amusement crept into his burning gaze. Even now the last of the Beltonian army was emerging from the sacred flames. It was time for their general to join them.

  Kneeling before the demon Vercincallidus flinched as the Marchio Dolor reached down and placed one massive hand on either side of his helm. His breathing came in terrified snorts and flecks of spittle flew from his clenched teeth as he prepared to resist with every fibre of his being.

  The Marchio Dolor offered up a prayer and the general’s head was engulfed in Baëlfire.

  Vercincallidus was no stranger to pain and yet his resolve lasted less than a heartbeat before he gave himself unconditionally to darkness. In his worst nightmares he had never imagined pain like this, but finally his screams gave way to a guttural snarl and his eyes were seared white as he became Possessed.

  The Marchio looked down at his new general and his eyes narrowed in approval. He had not reshaped the wolf’s armour. Rather he had left it in the tribal style so that the people of Beltane might recognise the man who now moved against them. How ironic that King Osric’s kingdom should fall to the very man that he hoped would save it.

  Still trembling with the agony of revelation Vercincallidus climbed to his feet. It was late evening and the sun was setting behind the hills, but come the morning he would lead his army out once more. Only minutes before he would have gladly died to save the lives of his people. Now he relished the suffering he was about to visit upon them. In the deepest recess of his soul, the thing that had once been human wept tears that would never flow. The Serthian Wolf was about to tear the throat out of the kingdom that he loved and the people of Beltane would learn the cost of their resistance.