The four newcomers continued towards the left-hand-side where Lanista Magnus and several of the other Irregular commanders were now seated just a few rows back from the floor. The crowds began to disperse as people took their seats and finally the room was called to order. Only Marshal Breton remained standing. Accepting a slender wooden pointer from one of his aides he moved to a series of tables running the length of the floor.
Falco could now see that the maps portrayed the entire length of the front from the Bay of Barinthus in the south to the remote mountains north of Hoffen. These campaign maps were more detailed than the great floor map in Wrath, but this also made them more difficult to read and Falco found himself wishing he could go down to study them more closely.
‘Things have changed,’ began Marshal Breton, his Clemoncéan accent strong as he addressed the hall in the common tongue of Wrath. ‘The war of attrition that has tested our resolve is over. The enemy has made a sudden push towards Clemoncé and several cities have already been cut off by the speed of their advance.’ He proceeded to point out the locations of various cities and the enemy forces that had moved past them. ‘Our scouts are reporting a surge of movement from deep within the Forsaken Lands. And now we have learned that the great Vercincallidus has fallen.’
This news was met with a collective gasp of dismay and Huthgarl froze in his seat, his face a pale mask of shock.
To the people of Beltane Vercincallidus was a living legend. He was also the main reason why Beltane had been managing to hold ground against the Possessed. His death would be a savage blow, but Marshal Breton had not quite finished.
‘The death of such a great commander is a terrible loss,’ he went on. ‘But now our Beltonian allies have confirmed that our worst fears are true. The Marchio Dolor is heading in our direction.’
At this the hall erupted in fear and consternation. Marshal Breton raised his hands and slowly a semblance of order returned.
‘There is no longer any doubt,’ he told the room. ‘A large Possessed army has crossed the river at the western end of Lake Viegal. The Marchio Dolor is coming north.’
‘What about the Crown Prince?’ asked one of the Illician commanders. ‘Is the Capital in danger?’
‘As yet we do not know which way the Marchio Dolor will turn. He could turn east towards Seeburg, or veer north to Hertzheim. He might follow the river Türkis to attack us here in Amboss. But...’ and here the Marshal glanced in the direction of the Clemoncéan commanders. ‘He might also turn west to attack the forest city of Toulwar.’
‘Fossetta’s in Toulwar,’ whispered Bryna and Falco’s eyes narrowed as he replied with a grim-faced nod. The Marchio Dolor had slipped behind their main line of defence. The damage he could now inflict was unthinkable.
The room was silent as the ramifications of what Marshal Breton was saying sank in. For the first time a large Possessed army might breach the borders of Clemoncé. And not just any army, but an army led by the Marquis of Pain himself.
‘Can we oppose him?’ asked an old Illician commander.
‘The reports suggest his army is near a hundred thousand strong, with numerous bestiarum and several demons marching with the horde.’ Marshal Breton gave a weary sigh. ‘Even if we brought all our force to bear we could barely match his numbers and I will not break the Queen’s armies before the enemy has even reached the border of her realm.’
Around the hall there were gasps of amazement. No one had ever faced a demon army of so great a size.
‘Then we must retreat,’ said one of the Clemoncéan officers and suddenly the air was filled with a different kind of tension. ‘For years we have fought to preserve the Kingdom of Illicia. Maybe the time has come to think about the safety of our own.’
For their part the Illicians said nothing. To them the thought of abandoning their cities was anathema, but there was no denying that the only reason why anything of Illicia remained at all was because the armies of Clemoncé had fought and died beside them.
‘I agree,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘I think we need to establish a new front, but our greatest stronghold is here, in Amboss, and it would be a mistake to abandon it just yet.’
‘And what about Seeburg and Hertzheim?’ asked one of the Illician commanders.
‘Seeburg is compromised,’ said Marshal Breton, his tone heavy but resolute. ‘The supply lines to the city will soon be overrun. We can no longer hope to support it.’
‘And Hertzheim? Is our capital city to suffer the same fate?’
‘Hertzheim will soon be surrounded on three fronts,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘If we act quickly we could still evacuate the people before the city is cut off.’
‘And is that the opinion of our great souls?’ persisted the man. ‘To abandon our cities and flee from the Possessed?’
As the older of the two battle mages, people naturally turned to Dominic, which was just as well because Falco appeared to be in some kind of trance. He had been painting a mental picture of the situation in his mind... the burning shadow of the Possessed, creeping like a dark fire across a world that screamed in torment, the demons like hot embers and the Marchio Dolor, a tight knot of evil driving straight for their heart. It was like a scene from his nightmares but then Dominic spoke and the image in his mind was broken.
‘A battle mage would never abandon a city if there was a chance it could be saved,’ said Dominic. ‘But sometimes it is better to flee than to feed the enemy’s appetites and swell their ranks with legions of the damned.’
‘There you have it,’ said Marshal Breton as if Dominic had spoken in support of his own position. ‘We shall evacuate the cities of Seeburg and Hertzheim with all possible speed. And then we shall establish a new front along the Clemoncéan border, with Amboss as our last Illician foothold.’
‘And if the Marchio Dolor should reach Amboss?’
‘Then we shall make him pay a heavy price,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘But at least we will have the city’s walls to protect us.’
Finally the room was quiet, sobered by the thought that they had no choice but to fall back. Normally such strategic decisions would be made by an army’s most senior commander. However, in the alliance between Illicia and Clemoncé, such matters were decided by a show of hands.
‘So now we move to a vote,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘To withdraw our forces to the Clemoncéan border, while keeping the city of Amboss at our centre. All those in favour...’
Not surprisingly it was the Clemoncéan commanders who responded first, but even here it was not without reluctance. Slowly the hands in the hall went up and even the Illician commanders seemed to accept that the end of their kingdom was at hand.
Marshal Breton breathed a sigh of relief as the hall was filled with raised hands. Only a few of the older Illician commanders could not bring themselves to vote.
‘There is clearly no need for a count,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘The decision to withdraw is...’
‘Wait!’
The commanding voice came from the entrance to the hall and Falco turned to see the emissary standing there. Covered in dust and grime from his latest campaign he strode into the hall, but Falco’s eyes lingered on the darkened entrance. There was someone else waiting out of sight, someone who had no need of shadows to keep his presence concealed. Falco’s eyes narrowed in recognition, but he would not betray the mysterious visitor’s presence.
Despite the evening’s revelations it was fair to say that every person in the hall was pleased to see the emissary, everyone, that is, apart from Marshal Breton. The Marshal watched him approach with a guarded and bitter expression. He acknowledged Sir William’s many attributes, but this only made his popularity more galling.
‘My Lord’s pardon,’ began the emissary. ‘But I would like to hear Master Danté’s thoughts before the people of this hall decide.’
Marshal Breton gave a scornful snort. ‘Surely he’s too young to advise us on such matters,’ he said. ‘I understand it’s barely a month since he
passed the Rite of Assay. Perhaps a more experienced battle mage would be better placed to judge.’ His eyes moved to Dominic, but if he had hoped for the support of his countryman he was disappointed.
‘I saw Master Danté oppose a demon before he’d received a day of training and he has faced many greater challenges since then,’ said Dominic. ‘He may be young, but you must not think him too inexperienced to speak.’
Marshal Breton looked like he was chewing on some bitter fruit.
‘Very well. Let us hear the young master’s thoughts. What does he think we should do?’
For a second, Falco’s eyes lingered on Dominic then he turned his head to look at the emissary. A thread of tension and trust seemed to be stretched between the two men but then the emissary gave him a nod.
‘Speak your mind,’ that nod seemed to say and Falco turned to address Marshal Breton.
‘We must attack the Marchio Dolor.’
Marshal Breton gaped, while the rest of the hall gave a gasp of disbelief.
‘Has the young sir not being paying attention,’ said a moustachioed commander from across the hall. ‘The enemy’s army is a hundred thousand strong, with numerous demons and bestiarum. It would not be wise to confront such a force in the open field. Better to let them break on the walls of Amboss or Toulwar.’
Falco looked at the man but his gaze did not waver.
‘This demon gives strength to others,’ said Falco. ‘We must attack him, as soon as we are able.’
The room was filled with doubtful mutterings and even the Illician commanders balked at the idea of attacking the Marchio Dolor directly.
‘Madness!’ said Marshal Breton. ‘Suicide!’
Even Dominic seemed uncertain of this strategy, but the emissary had learned to trust Falco’s instincts.
‘Could we do it?’ he asked Dominic. ‘If we gather all our forces we could match him in number. But could we gather enough battle mages to oppose him?’
Dominic did not answer him at first. Instead he was staring at Falco as if he were trying to discern how he could be so certain of this risky course of action.
‘It would be difficult,’ he said at last. ‘Each of our battle mages is responsible for a territory. They cannot afford to leave these areas unprotected.’
‘But we could send word if a city comes under threat,’ said an Illician commander but Dominic shook his head.
‘It might take days for such a message to reach us. If our battle mages were to commit themselves in the south there would be no time for them to respond if word arrived that a city was in danger.’
‘And what if word could be sent more quickly,’ came another voice from the entrance.
Once again the people in the hall turned to look in the direction of an unknown speaker, but this time it was not a commander or battle mage who stood in the shadowed archway but three figures in the purple robes of the magi.
Falco looked down on the face of Meredith Saker, but like him the young mage had changed beyond all reckoning. His dark eyes were still warmer than his father’s, but any softness had gone from his gaze and the skin of his face was now disfigured by an ugly scar that curved from the corner of his right eye to his jaw.
By now everyone in the room had heard the story of the magi’s treachery and the atmosphere in the hall became distinctly hostile, but Meredith ignored it as he walked out onto the floor.
‘What if we could make sure you had time to react to an imminent threat?’ he continued.
‘And how could you do that?’ asked Marshal Breton. ‘It takes hours for the magi to send a message from one tower to another. And, in case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t many mage towers in the wilds of Illicia.’
Meredith did not flinch in the face of his obvious scorn. ‘Toulwar, Ville de Pierre, Voisier and Hoffen,’ said Meredith. ‘I could send a message to any one of these cities and receive a reply within minutes.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Marshal Breton, more from reflex than from any understanding of the magi’s art.
‘Is this true?’ asked Dominic, who had never heard of such a thing.
‘It is,’ said Meredith. ‘We have magi in each of those cities who have been trained to send and receive messages instantaneously.’
‘But the battle mages protect much more than just the cities. What if the outlying areas come under threat?’
‘Then a message can be sent to the nearest city,’ said Meredith. ‘And my fellow magi can then relay it directly to us.’
‘Could it work?’ asked the emissary and Dominic pursed his lips in thought.
‘If they could be sure of getting back if they were needed then there are several battle mages who would be close enough to join us.’
The emissary turned back to Marshal Breton.
‘There you have it, my Lord. If we combine the armies south of Amboss we can match the Marchio’s numbers and meet his demons with our battle mages.’
Once again the mood in the hall changed as the fire of hope was reignited.
‘But to risk it all on the word of one young man,’ said Marshal Breton and the emissary inclined his head as he conceded the point. ‘What is it that makes you trust him so?’
‘I do not know,’ said the emissary as if he had asked himself the same question. ‘But before you vote again I would ask if anyone here remembers a battle mage by the name of Aquila Danté.’
It was immediately obvious that this name struck a chord with many of the older commanders in the room.
‘I remember him,’ said one man with a long knightly moustache. ‘He defeated two demons to save a town east of Reiherstadt.’
‘I too,’ said another. ‘I was newly commissioned when our force was cut off in the Forsaken Lands. He fought for a week to bring us to safety.’
‘And I,’ said a third. ‘He was injured defending our city and his dragon never left his side. It was so fierce the healers were frightened to go near him.’
‘It was red,’ said one of the younger commanders. ‘I did not know him, but my father spoke of Aquila Danté. He said his dragon was red, like the deepest shade of blood.’
The emissary raised a hand to stall any further recollections. He looked across at Falco who was now hunched in his seat, head bowed by the tributes being paid to his father.
‘You may not know the young man sitting before you,’ said the emissary. ‘But you knew his father.’
For all his dark armour the hunched figure of Falco looked younger than ever. But then he lifted his head and raised his eyes and the years seemed to gather about him until one could not have guessed his age.
‘This is Falco Danté, son of Aquila Danté, and if he says we should attack the Marchio Dolor then I believe we should.’
The emissary’s conviction proved decisive and Falco watched as the allied commanders agreed to the course of action he had suggested. As they lowered their hands Falco felt again the heat of Marshal Breton’s gaze. There was anger and resentment in the Marshal’s accusing stare, but there was also a kind of pity.
For several seconds Falco held the Marshal’s eye. He felt no pride or satisfaction, only the terrifying weight of responsibility for what might happen if he was wrong.
97
The Dark, The Deep & The Grave
Falco could feel the eyes of the army upon him. They knew that he was the reason why they were marching south to confront the most powerful demon army ever assembled. They were now three days south of Amboss and the tension was rising as reports confirmed that the enemy was still heading in their direction, but even as the apprehension mounted so the confidence of the army seemed to grow.
On leaving Amboss they numbered barely sixty thousand troops. It would have been more but Marshal Breton refused to leave the city unguarded. However, within a day they were joined by two additional armies from Illicia’s southern Leagues, pushing their numbers close to ninety thousand, and now they had learned that Prince Ernest was bringing an army from Hertzheim to meet them. He knew
that the only way to save his capital city was to defeat the Marchio Dolor and so he marched with forty thousand troops and two battle mages.
Thanks to Meredith’s new method of communication, three other battle mages had also agreed to join them. Two had already arrived and the third would be with them soon. With Dominic and Falco, that put their number at five, plus the two that would come with Prince Ernest. Seven battle mages and one hundred and thirty thousand troops. Surely such a massive force would be enough. That’s what the commanders thought and even Marshal Breton was beginning to sound more confident.
But Falco was not so sure.
It was late evening and the army was spread out over a series of low hills. He and Sidian stood on a rocky promontory to the south of the camp. They had spent the day trying to clear the sky of dark angels. Ever since they left Amboss the enemy scouts had followed their progress in ever increasing numbers and their constant scrutiny made Falco nervous. The Marchio Dolor now knew of their strength and still he continued towards them.
Away to the south he could sense the Marchio’s army like a great storm gathering on the horizon. However, the demon’s army was not the only shadow converging on the land and the sense of it filled Falco with dread. Beside him, Sidian gave a low rumble of support, but there were some fears that he could only face alone. Something blacker than the Marquis of Pain was coming and Falco could not see what it was. It did not feel like the Possessed, but this fear was growing stronger and Falco was not sure how much more he could take. He wanted to shut it out, but somehow that felt like a betrayal and so he had no choice but to bear it as best he could.
Even now his fists were clenched with anxiety, but then his attention was drawn back to the present as Sidian turned his eyes to the north. Falco turned with him and there, descending towards the camp, was the distinctive shape of a dragon in flight. The final battle mage had arrived just in time for Marshal Breton’s nightly briefing.
Battle Mage Page 84
