Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Verkir, verkir og eilíft verkir.

  Pain, pain and eternal pain.

  Such is the promise of the Possessed.

  *

  Even as Vercincallidus was being inducted to the Possessed so the assassin that the Marchio had summoned was preparing to re-enter the world.

  Far to the north, near the Illician city of Hoffen, an area of green heathland had now been reduced to a layer of white ash lying like snow on the black bedrock. As the sun sank towards the horizon the rock began to glow and split apart as something forced its way up from below. The assassin had wandered far in its atonement, but its penance was almost over. Soon the Slayer would be reborn.

  86

  A Sense of Foreboding

  Falco’s dreams had been troubled of late. The Irregulars were now more than two weeks out of Wrath and travelling through a series of canyons carved by the passage of three fast flowing rivers. Soon the deep valleys would open out onto a rocky plain where the rivers came together before spilling over an escarpment known as La Grande Cascade. The escarpment marked the border with Illicia and from there it was just thirty miles to the city of Amboss where the Irregulars would join the allied forces under the command of Marshal Breton.

  In just six days’ time Marshal Breton was due to hold his monthly strategy meeting and the Irregulars were hoping to reach the city in time to attend. They still had some way to go but they were making good progress. If they kept up their current pace they should reach the Illician city with a few days to spare.

  Tonight they were camped along the banks of the Tonnerre, the most northerly of the three rivers, and the noise of the rushing water echoed off the white cliffs with a sound like distant thunder. It was approaching dusk and hundreds of camp fires were springing up along the bank as the army settled down for the night, but around one such campfire there was a second source of light.

  Falco stared at the ethereal fire surrounding his right hand. He relaxed his mind and the flames died away leaving his armoured gauntlet completely undamaged. With ever increasing control he allowed the tingling sensation of power to flow down his arm and the fire returned, hovering around his hand as the flame of a candle hovers around the wick without actually touching it.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Malaki as he placed a steaming bowl of venison stew on the rock beside him.

  ‘No,’ said Falco distractedly. He was still fascinated by his emerging powers, but slowly he became aware that the others were also watching him. ‘Sorry,’ he said with a self conscious smile as the flames disappeared from his hand.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ said Alex. ‘Starting the camp fire has never been so easy.’

  The others laughed but it was quite unnerving, the way Falco could ignite even the dampest firewood with his mysterious powers. They all remembered the first night he had tried, when the carefully laid stack of wood had been blasted apart sending them all diving for cover as a shower of burning sticks rained down across the clearing. But Falco’s control had improved greatly. Not only could he now produce a fireball that would make even Aurelian proud, he was also learning to shape his power and ‘tune’ it to different levels of intensity. It was like trying to master a new weapon or musical instrument and Falco tried to remember what Aurelian had told him before he departed with the Irregulars.

  ‘Don’t think about it too much,’ the old battle mage had said. ‘Just trust your instincts and the fire will follow.’

  Falco missed the reassuring presence of his cantankerous friend. He remembered the night when he had brought Sidian down to the Crucible to meet him and Dwimervane. Aurelian had been awed and emotional, but Dwimervane appeared distressed and confused. She understood the revelations they had learned at the summoning, but hearing of a crime is not the same as experiencing it and her racial memory did not yet reach back far enough for her to witness the magi’s betrayal for herself.

  With Falco’s help Sidian had been able to master his feelings, but soon Dwimervane would also turn black and there was no telling how she would handle the grief and the hate and the rage? The blue dragon was still subdued when Falco came to say goodbye. Pressing his forehead to hers, he had tried to reassure her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Aurelian. ‘She’s a sensitive old mare but she’s got a heart of steel.’

  Falco found it surprisingly hard to say goodbye and he remembered the last words of advice that Aurelian had given him.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot in these last few months so take time to recover. Stay with the army and don’t be tempted to fly on ahead.’

  Falco simply nodded his understanding.

  ‘Learn to master your power,’ Aurelian told him. ‘Trust Sidian. And don’t lose faith. Whatever happens... don’t lose faith.’

  Falco remembered Simeon saying exactly the same thing in what seemed like another life. He felt a sudden wave of nostalgia and was grateful for the company of his friends on the march to the front. Their command duties now meant that they seldom ate all together so this was a rare treat. Picking up his bowl of stew Falco listened as they exchanged light-hearted insults, banal, inconsequential comments that somehow bound them together.

  To one side Alex suddenly started as something sploshed into his own bowl, sending a spatter of hot stew into his face.

  ‘What the!’ he spluttered, fishing out a small pine cone from his bowl before looking up to see where it had come from.

  Across the fire Huthgarl did his best to look innocent until Quirren started laughing, at which point the big Beltonian began to snigger like a boy of half his age.

  ‘A fine shot,’ said Quirren and Huthgarl gave a modest shrug.

  It was an entirely childish thing to do but also quite funny and Alex’s indignation only made it worse.

  ‘Oh, very mature!’ he said, and coming from Alex this made it funnier than ever.

  Malaki and Bryna joined in the laughter and Falco too. It felt good to be with his friends and turning away from the fire he gazed into the trees where Sidian was lying on a low outcrop of rock.

  When they first set out from Wrath Falco had kept the dragon away from the army but Sidian seemed to sense that Falco still needed the company of his friends and so they would often come down to the edge of camp so that Falco could spend time with Malaki and Bryna, and whoever else was gathered round the fire. The dragon was still wary of humans but he was also curious. He seemed fascinated by the sheer variety to be found in humankind and would often study those brave enough to come close, every bit as interested in them as they were in him.

  But Sidian was not the only curiosity that people came to view. They also came to see the ‘Knight of the Crimson Helm’ and to see for themselves the bright red birthmark that covered the left side of his face. They did not come to tease or taunt, they came in respect and awe.

  ‘That’s him,’ they could sometimes be heard to whisper. ‘He’s the one who killed a demon.’

  No one seemed concerned by the fact that it was Lord Cabal, and not Malaki, who had struck the crucial blow. They were merely satisfied with seeing his face, as if they could somehow share in his achievement or absorb something of the courage he possessed.

  For his part Malaki could have done without the attention, but this was quite difficult as his face constantly betrayed him, and even his helmet now bore the symbol of the victory that he and the Knights of Wrath had achieved.

  One day, while he had been training the Irregulars at the academy, his great-helm had mysteriously gone missing from the barracks. No amount of searching had revealed its whereabouts. It was not until the next morning that the helm reappeared on the chest at the foot of Malaki’s bed. Only now the left ‘cheek’ of the helm had been expertly coated with a shining layer of crimson enamel. Beside the newly decorated helm lay a small piece of parchment.

  By order of the Queen, to remind her subjects that with strength, honour and faith nothing is impossible.

  A. Missaglias

  So Malaki had no choice but
to endure the burden of fame as best he could. And it was no bad thing that the Irregulars had a hero and a dragon-mounted battle mage to accompany them on their march to the front.

  With every day that passed the sense of danger grew stronger and there were always new stories of woe from the refugees that they passed along the way. Some even spoke of a strange demon that had broken through the allied defences near Amboss. Thankfully the Irregulars had only encountered small forces of Possessed and a few bestiarum that emerged from shadowed rents in the fabric of the world. On each of these occasions Falco had sensed the impending attack and the damage had been contained, but the very threat of such unexpected violence kept them on edge and the army was clearly nervous as they settled down for the night.

  ‘I wonder how many we’ll lose tonight,’ said Quirren as the mood around the fire became more subdued.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Malaki. ‘But I’m not surprised. Some of them are just boys.’

  ‘Says the veteran campaigner,’ said Bryna, giving him a shove with her shoulder as they sat together on a crate of supplies.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Malaki, shaking golden liquid from his hand as Bryna’s shove spilled the tankard of honeyed ale he was holding. ‘I saw two boys the other day that couldn’t have been more than fifteen.’

  They all nodded, sobered by the thought of such young people facing the horrors of war.

  ‘But it’s not the youngsters leaving,’ said Alex. ‘It’s the older men who have some idea of what we’re marching into.’

  It was true. Every night they lost a few more to the steadily increasing sense of fear. They melted away under cover of darkness and come daylight they would simply join the endless stream of refugees travelling the road in the opposite direction.

  ‘It’s not happening with the Dalwhinnies,’ said Bryna. ‘Seems like hardly a day goes by without a new group of bowmen asking to join.’

  Somehow the reputation of the Dalwhinnies had reached even the most rural parts of the kingdom and many a wayward ‘hunter’ was eager to give up a life of dubious practise in order to join the Queen’s Fifth Company of Archers.

  ‘How do you decide if they’re up to it?’ asked Quirren.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Bryna. ‘I simply ask if they can be trusted then I leave it up to Paddy. If they can shoot he licks them into shape, and if they can’t then he puts them to work in the field kitchen.’

  ‘And a fine job they’re doing too,’ said Alex mopping up the last of his stew with a piece of bread. ‘Even if they are all thieves and poachers!’ He added, deliberately raising his voice so that several of the nearby Dalwhinnies could hear him as they sat together preparing a batch of goose feather fletchings.

  Bryna glanced up with an air of amused anticipation. Alex was now a well known character and taunting the Dalwhinnies had become one of his favourite pastimes.

  ‘Better check your snares, Fred,’ said one of the men without turning from his work. ‘I can hear a wee coney squealing.’

  ‘Nah,’ replied one of the other men. ‘That’s one of them boys from the poncey fighting school.’

  ‘Aye, the one with not a hair on his chin.’

  ‘Nor his arse, neither.’

  ‘Uppity gobshite!’ was their final word and with a shared smile of victory they went back to preparing their feathers.

  The cadets laughed and none more so than Alex who was clearly delighted by their insults.

  ‘They’re not all criminals,’ laughed Bryna. ‘Some of them just want to fight for the Queen.’

  The light-hearted mood died away as quickly as it had begun. Bryna’s reference to the Queen raised another issue that weighed heavy on their hearts.

  ‘She must be at the Navarian border by now,’ said Malaki as they bowed their heads in thought.

  They had been well into their journey before word of the Queen’s expedition reached them. The cadets wanted to turn back immediately but the older commanders disagreed.

  ‘No,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘There’s a reason why she didn’t tell us before we left, a reason why it’s taken so long for the news to reach us.’

  ‘She wanted to make sure we couldn’t turn back,’ said Bryna.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘She knew that if we were in Wrath the pressure for us to march south would have been overwhelming and Marshal Breton would be denied his reinforcements.’

  ‘But to lead the army herself...’ said Alex.

  ‘She’s commander in chief,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘In spirit as much as rank.’

  ‘But to think of her placing herself in such danger,’ said Malaki.

  ‘She has the Legion, and she has Aurelian Cruz,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘And I for one would not want to face him in anger.’

  The cadets responded with nervous laughter, glancing at Falco who knew Aurelian better than any of them. He agreed that, even old and one armed, Aurelian would prove a formidable foe.

  Falco also felt the urge to go to the Queen’s aid and, unlike the army, he might have been able to find her in time, but he knew that Lanista Magnus was right. The Queen wished them to continue to the front, but more than this he felt that it would be a mistake for him to turn back. He could not say why, he just had a growing sense of impending danger and somehow he must be ready to meet it.

  An awkward silence had settled on the command tent as they realised there was nothing they could do. Now they sat around the fire wondering what might be happening in the south.

  ‘Do you think she’ll enter Navaria without permission?’ asked Quirren.

  ‘To do so would be an act of war,’ said Huthgarl.

  The treaty between Clemoncé and Acheron forbade either kingdom from deploying troops in Navaria without explicit permission from the other.

  ‘Whatever happens it will be some time before we hear the news,’ said Malaki.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Alex. ‘No point worrying about things we can’t do anything about.’ It was a surprise to hear Alex taking such a philosophical view. ‘Well, I’d better go and see to the Exiles,’ he said, rising from his seat and rinsing his bowl in a nearby water butt. ‘We’re manning the riverside pickets tonight.’ And with that he bade them all goodnight and made his way off into the camp.

  ‘And I’ve got some things to sort out with the Dalwhinnies,’ said Bryna.

  Malaki also made to stand up but Quirren waved him back down.

  ‘Huthgarl and I will see to the horses. You finish your drink.’

  Malaki raised a hand in thanks and took another swig of ale. As the others moved away he came to sit closer to Falco. The sky above them was still blue but down here on the valley floor it was getting dark and Malaki could just make out the dark shape of Sidian lying beneath the trees a short distance away.

  ‘Do you think the Queen will cross the Navarian border?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course she will,’ replied Falco. ‘There’s no way she would just sit there and let Navaria fall.’

  Malaki nodded his agreement.

  ‘And how about you? Do you still think you should have gone to find her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions.’

  ‘Well Aurelian told you to take it easy and it’s been good to have you with us. The surprise attacks from the Possessed would have been far more damaging if you hadn’t been here.’

  Falco shrugged.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Malaki. ‘We’ll be at the front soon and I’m sure Marshal Breton will have a long list of demons for you to attack.’

  Falco gave a grim laugh but he still seemed troubled.

  ‘Are you sleeping any better?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Falco and Malaki smiled at the tone of embarrassment in his voice. All the cadets knew about his nocturnal struggles, but his dreams seemed to be growing more intense as they got closer to the front.

  ‘Well, you were muttering for a while again last night,’ said Malaki, trying no
t to make him feel too guilty.

  ‘Did I say anything in particular?’

  ‘Nothing that made much sense,’ said Malaki, remembering the way he and Bryna had watched Falco murmuring in his sleep.

  ‘So what was it?’ asked Falco with a sense of foreboding.

  Malaki shook his head as if to dismiss it but Falco would not let him get away with being so evasive.

  ‘Just the same old stuff,’ said Malaki. ‘Darkness is coming... darkness in the earth, darkness in the deep, darkness on the hills.’

  Falco felt a prickle of disquiet crawl up his spine.

  ‘The hills?’ he repeated. ‘You’re sure I said darkness on the hills?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Malaki. ‘But yes, I think so.’

  Falco bowed his head in thought.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Malaki.

  ‘I don’t know. But Simeon and Fossetta said I used to talk about three hills when I was younger.’

  ‘Is it a good thing?’

  Falco shook his head and shrugged in frustration. There were times when he remembered his dreams with terrifying clarity but there were other dreams that seemed to be wreathed in shadow. All he knew was that darkness was indeed coming.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe things will seem clearer when we reach the front.’

  Ever since the summoning Falco had experienced a growing sense of apprehension. At first he thought it was simply a case of getting closer to the enemy, but this was something different. He could sense the armies of the Possessed to the east, like dark clouds on the horizon. But there were also other nodes of fear and despair. There was one to the north, in the inaccessible mountains of Illicia, another far to the southeast on the remote Beltonian coast. And a third, so far south that it could only be in Thraece.

  The Possessed had not even reached these areas but one thing was certain, darkness was descending upon them and those who dwelt in its shadow were cowering in fear, afraid of something worse than the mere prospect of death.