Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  *

  Falco was not sure if he could maintain the flow of energy into his blade. In both body and mind he had never felt so weary, but he refused to let up. If they were going to defeat the Slayer it would require all his strength, anything less simply would not be enough. And so he poured his soul into Malaki’s sword, trusting that the blade would be strong enough to contain it. Finally the singing of the steel disappeared into silence just as the Slayer turned back towards him. Without a second thought Falco lowered his guard and the Slayer’s blade leapt instantly for his throat.

  Malaki or Quirren would never have fallen for such an obvious feint, but the Slayer had not trained at the Academy of War and so it did not recognise the danger until it was too late. At the last possible moment Falco twisted out of the way and brought his sword whipping round in an arc that severed the Slayer’s weapon at the hilt. The blade went cart wheeling through the air but even as the Slayer growled in frustration his second blade scythed towards Falco’s head. Falco had no strength left to fortify his helm against the blow and it would surely have killed him had Sidian not chosen that precise moment to land a massive blow on the Slayer’s neck.

  The blow knocked the demon to one side and instead of carving into Falco’s helm the Slayer’s blade simply left a deep gouge in the engraved steel. Bellowing in fury the Slayer kicked Falco between his legs and he collapsed at the demon’s feet. A second kick broke his collar bone and he slumped forward, his neck exposed to the Slayer’s remaining blade. The curved sword began to fall but Sidian grappled the Slayer from behind, desperately trying to restrain the deadly blade.

  Quick as a striking snake the Slayer twisted in the dragon’s grasp and stabbed out with its sword. The sharp point slipped between the armoured plates on his chest and Sidian let out a hiss of pain, grabbing at the Slayer’s arm as he fought to prevent the point of the blade sinking closer to his heart.

  Snarling through clenched and jagged teeth the Slayer grabbed the dragon round the back of his neck and flooded his blade with the searing heat of hell. Then, snarling with exertion, he tried to press the blade further into the dragon’s chest. For all his strength Sidian knew he could not match the demon’s unholy might. In desperation he opened his mouth and breathed a stream of fire into the Slayer’s face.

  Not even during its recent penance had the demon known such agony. The cinder black flesh of its face began to peel away but still it refused to relinquish its hold. As his flames subsided Sidian felt the Slayer’s blade inching towards his heart. The dragon knew that he was close to death but then the demon stiffened and the strength went out of his powerful limbs.

  Still reeling from the vicious kicks Falco had struggled up from his knees. In front of him Sidian was wrestling with the Slayer and he could see that the demon had him in an embrace of death. Falco shied away as a jet of fire streamed out from Sidian’s jaws, but still the Slayer held on. Limping from the sickening pain in his groin Falco stumbled forward and, even as Sidian’s flames died away, he struck.

  With a final effort of will Falco infused his blade with magical force and thrust it deep into the Slayer’s armoured back. The armour of the Enlightened was strong but it was no match for Falco’s sword. The glowing blade sank almost to the hilt and the strength went out of the Slayer’s limbs. Still spitting hot bile into Sidian’s face the demon slumped forward and the dragon was able to twist free of the blade that was embedded in his chest.

  The Slayer’s eyes glowed with a furious light but Falco sent a final pulse of energy flowing through his sword and finally the livid hatred faded from the Slayer’s gaze. The muscular body went limp and a final searing breath escaped its sharp-toothed maw. Sidian moved to one side and the demon’s armoured body collapsed to the floor.

  As the assassin fell so Falco withdrew his sword and sank to his knees. Both he and Sidian were utterly spent and they could only stare in disbelief as the Slayer’s corpse slowly cooled beside them.

  *

  Far to the south, in the Forsaken Lands of Beltane, the Marchio Dolor stopped in his tracks and turned his burning gaze to the north. Someone had achieved the unthinkable. Someone had slain the Slayer. A ripple of disquiet spread through the Possessed as they sensed their commander’s rising fury. The entire army ground to a halt while the Marchio’s attention lingered in the north.

  A Defiant and a wyrm had killed his assassin and the shame of this defeat resonated through the upper planes of hell. At so great a distance he could discern little of the Defiant’s identity and yet he had the sense that this particular soul had troubled them before. Its origins were shrouded and indistinct and yet it possessed the unmistakable stench of Clemoncé, that accursed Kingdom, with its accursed queen. Even now, when victory was so close, the bitch queen managed to stall their advance.

  Still staring north the Marchio Dolor slowly turned until his body faced the direction of his gaze. He was just two days away from crushing King Osric in the mighty stronghold of Aengus, but no... He would leave the humbling of the Beltonian King in the capable hands of his new general. Vercincallidus would lay waste to Aengus and deliver the soul of Osric Goudicca unto darkness.

  The Marchio would go north to deal with Clemoncé himself. The mewling sow and her fawning Defiants had frustrated the Faithful for long enough. It was time to crush their resistance once and for all.

  Dropping to one knee the Marchio Dolor thrust his fists into the earth and began to pray. He prayed until the underworld thrummed with his rage, until he held the attention of every demon that moved within the Forsaken Lands of Illicia. And then he gave his orders.

  ‘Move west,’ he told them. ‘Forget the pockets of resistance and forego the pleasures of torment. Turn your thoughts to Clemoncé and bring your legions west.’

  To those demons in the north of Beltane, and to all the gaolers and reapers collecting souls along the border, he told them to cease their incursions and meet him at the western edge of the ‘great lake’. There he would gather such an army as would sweep across Clemoncé like a plague. He would drive through the heartland to Wrath itself, where he would crush Queen Catherine’s throat with his own two hands and claim her soul as his own.

  And to the people of Clemoncé he sent a message.

  ‘Your time of grace is over.

  I am coming.’

  91

  The Cost of Defiance

  Malaki could not tell what had stunned him more. Was it the impact of the avalanche or the thought of leaving Quirren and the children behind? Either way he was struggling to come to terms with what had just happened. As they stumbled along the gully it was the older men of the Exiles who coped with the trauma best. Somehow they were able to operate through the anguish and the wailing cries of the refugees, while Malaki and Huthgarl merely followed after them in a cocoon of numbness.

  They had barely gone a hundred yards before the Dalwhinnies came careering down the crumbling slopes to join them. After witnessing the avalanche they had abandoned their lofty position and come down to join the rescue party.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Bryna as she saw the terrible expression on Malaki’s face.

  Malaki could not answer. He could not even bring himself to hold his wife.

  ‘Did you not see?’ asked Huthgarl and Bryna shook her head.

  ‘We withdrew when the fear became a threat.’

  Looking through the mix of soldiers and refugees she tried to see if someone was missing. Then suddenly she caught sight of Alex and felt a stab of pain in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘‘Quirren?’ she gasped and Huthgarl bowed his head.

  As Bryna clasped a hand to her mouth Alex moved towards the rough path that led up to the cliffs.

  ‘It’s not safe,’ said Patrick Feckler. He reached out a restraining hand but Alex pushed past him and started up the path.

  Bryna’s eyes were filled with tears as she watched Alex scrambling up the route down which the Dalwhinnies had just come. She started to call him back but
then Malaki moved past her, following after Alex.

  ‘Malaki, wait!’ she said. ‘It’s too dangerous!’ But then Huthgarl also started up the path.

  ‘We have to see what became of him,’ said the big Beltonian.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do!’ cried Bryna. ‘There’s no way down on the other side.’

  She looked imploringly at Paddy but the grizzled man simply shrugged.

  ‘Past caring,’ was all he said.

  Bryna gave a gasp of exasperation and started after them with Paddy following close behind.

  *

  Quirren’s arms were aching with exertion and the ground around him was littered with the bodies of Sciritae. Emerging from the bushes he had killed the Toxitae that had discovered them and then he had stood in the middle of the shallow river as more Ferocian warriors came to cut him down. They failed.

  Quirren was a tall and powerful man from the kingdom of Illicia. Already skilled before arriving in Wrath his abilities had now been honed and hardened. He would show the Possessed how such a warrior could fight.

  The Sciritae had attacked in twos and threes and he had defeated them with ease, but as the clouds of dust dissipated Quirren saw the white skinned demon emerge from the gully.

  He felt a deep sense of relief at having saved the children from its malice, but this offered little comfort beside the fear that was now reaching an unbearable pitch in his mind. His only hope was to die quickly and so he picked out a group of heavily armoured Kardakae and made directly for them. With luck they would kill him before the demon could claim his soul.

  Maybe he should have dropped his guard and offered his throat but Quirren was a warrior at heart and it was not in his nature to go down without a fight. Surrounded by three of the dark warriors he fought with heroic strength, cutting down the Kardakae as if they were mannequins on the academy training field. But as the first three fell so more came forward and these were now forewarned of his skill.

  They came in hard and it was only a matter of time before Quirren succumbed. He killed one more before another struck him a savage blow in the side of his knee. His armour prevented his leg from being severed but still there was a horrible crunch as something gave way. A second blow glanced off his shoulder pauldron and grazed his skull, but still he refused to give up. But then a guttural command echoed through the canyon and the dark warriors stepped back from Quirren who stood there, breathing heavily and struggling to stay on his feet.

  With a sickening sense of despair he looked up to see the white-skinned demon walking towards him. Tall and powerful it strode forward, dragging its train of misery through the rocks and icy water of the shallow river. Its vaguely human face was misshapen and its black eyes looked at Quirren with unsettling interest.

  The Gaoler had seen the way this young warrior fought. Far too good a soul to waste. But the Gaoler’s train was full. Twelve chains trailed from the iron belt about its waist. At the end of each the tortured remains of a human being kept alive by the unholy power of the Possessed. Held in a state of permanent agony, they were reservoirs of devotion, stores of suffering to be used by the Faithful.

  With a low growl the gaoler gave the Kardakae an order. They rushed forward and Quirren no longer had the will to fight. He was quickly disarmed and then they stripped him of his armour until he stood there, helpless and paralysed by fear.

  Slowly the gaoler drew in one of the tethers on his belt. The body at the end of it was beyond recognition, just a mass of raw flesh and dark congealed blood. This was the first soul that this gaoler had claimed on this current excursion. It was almost beyond his ability to keep it alive. Driven insane by the constant pain the pitiful soul had passed the peak of its usefulness. Only in the fiery pits of hell could its suffering be renewed and so the gaoler held it up and the corded muscles in its arm bunched as it sent its infernal energy coursing through the iron links that encased it.

  Formed from a net of chains the bag suddenly flared as the human remains were consumed by fire until nothing remained but white ash and a sticky residue that clung to the chains like tar. The person that had been bound into the bag was gone.

  In some corner of his mind Quirren might have imagined a distant wail of despair as the tortured soul was delivered into hell. The bag that it had occupied was now empty and Quirren began to tremble with fear. Unable to move he closed his eyes as members of the Possessed came forward, not warriors but half naked humans with pale skin and milk white eyes. Some carried heavy steel hammers, others chisels and tongs as might be found in a blacksmith’s forge. Standing more than six feet tall Quirren was far too big to fit into the chain bag. He would need to be broken before he could be bound.

  As the first of the ‘body-breakers’ raised his hammer so an arrow thudded into Quirren’s chest. Just inches from his heart, it might have killed him, had the gaoler not reached out a gnarled fist to hold him up. The demon’s power would not permit the demise of Quirren’s flesh and any hope of a quick death was cruelly quashed.

  Held up by the Gaoler’s will Quirren swayed on his feet like a marionette, groaning through clenched teeth at the pain of the arrow protruding from his chest. Meanwhile the demon looked up to see where the arrow had come from. It could not see them, but it could sense the humans hiding in the bushes that crowned the cliffs overlooking the canyon. It had thought it too much trouble to scale the landslide and pursue those that had fled through the gully, but now it could feel the strength of the watching souls. Maybe it would be worth it after all. He would add a few more prime trophies to his belt before delivering his catch to the Marchio Dolor.

  With a dismissive snort he signalled for the hammers to begin their work.

  *

  Up on the cliffs Quirren’s friends watched in anguish as he was stripped of his armour. They had witnessed the last minutes of his fight against the Kardakae, but it was painfully clear that there was nothing they could do. In the end it was Malaki who had broken the horrified silence.

  ‘You have to kill him,’ he said, turning to Bryna.

  Bryna had looked at him in disbelief, but she knew that he spoke the truth. Hardly able to see through her tears she had nocked an arrow and taken aim. But it was not Bryna’s arrow but Paddy’s that had struck Quirren in the chest. Bryna’s arms had been shaking too violently and her arrow had struck the stony river bed two feet to his right, while the arrow of Patrick Feckler had taken the young man cleanly in the chest. Horrific as it was they all felt a sense of relief as Quirren staggered, but then the demon intervened and any hope of a clean death was crushed.

  Now they watched in dismay as Quirren was literally broken by the Possessed. The sight was too much for Huthgarl and Bryna, both of whom brought up the contents of their stomachs, while Malaki and Paddy fought to restrain Alex from leaping from the cliffs.

  ‘But he’s still alive!’ the younger brother cried. ‘He’s still alive.’

  Weeping in despair they dragged him back and Malaki thought his cries might have gone unnoticed but then the demon’s attention switched to them and he knew that they were discovered. As Paddy wrestled Alex back the way they had come Malaki looked down one last time. The Possessed were stuffing Quirren’s broken body into the loose chain bag and Malaki felt a terrible surge of panic at the thought of what Quirren must be going through.

  Finally the half naked Possessed bent in close. There was a brief glow of light as the bag was closed with red hot rivets and then their work was done. Pleased with its new acquisition the gaoler stepped forward until Quirren’s chain fanned out with the rest of its sadistic skirt.

  Malaki was about to turn away when the demon raised its face to look at him. At the same time Huthgarl appeared beside him.

  ‘We should go,’ said the big Beltonian.

  Malaki knew that Huthgarl was right although it felt like they were abandoning Quirren all over again.

  ‘We must track it,’ he said. His voice sounded hollow and distant. ‘We must track the demon until F
alco returns.’

  ‘No need,’ said Huthgarl. ‘Look! The demon is coming for us.’

  With a flash of dread Malaki saw that he was right. Even now the demon was heading towards the gully. It would tear its way through the landslide and hunt them down.

  ‘We must go!’ said Huthgarl and Malaki could hear the rising panic in his voice.

  The fear wafted up towards them like a scorching wind but just as they were about to turn away the demon stopped. It stood in the middle of the shallow river, its head cocked to one side as if listening.

  Far to the north Falco had just killed the Slayer and far to the south the Marchio Dolor had reacted with fury. Thrusting his hands into the earth he had sent out his orders, some of which applied to the demon now standing in the canyon. To all the gaolers and reapers collecting souls along the border he had said this...

  ‘Forsake your current incursions and meet me at the western edge of the great lake.’

  To ignore such an order was unthinkable and so the gaoler had turned away from the bright souls that cowered on the cliffs. Had it wished to travel by the normal means it would have headed back down the canyon, but the urgency in the Marchio’s command had been clear and so the demon opened a rift in the fabric of reality and stepped down onto the swifter byways of the underworld.

  To Malaki and Huthgarl it seemed as if a dark cleft had opened in the world and the demon had simply disappeared into it. One minute it was there and the next it was gone. For a moment the Possessed just milled about as if confused by the gaoler’s sudden disappearance but then, in the absence of a guiding mind, they turned west, following the canyon towards the distant glow of human life in the heart of Clemoncé.

  Up on the cliffs Malaki felt a great wave of relief at the gaoler’s departure. But this was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of dismay. The gaoler had departed from the world, but it had taken Quirren with it. There was no way they could track it now, no way they could save their friend from his torment. The thought was too much for Malaki and he simply fell to his knees in shock. It had been his idea to try to save the refugees, his idea to risk getting close to a demon when they all knew how dangerous it could be. Such guilt was enough to drive a person mad and it took all of Malaki’s strength to hold the despair at bay.