Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Come on,’ said Falco. ‘We’d better go down to join them.’

  Climbing onto Sidian’s back he gripped the riding harness and together they flew down to a rocky knoll overlooking the command tent where four other dragons were already waiting. They greeted Sidian with a kind of reverence and Falco offered them a bow of respect as he turned in the direction of the tent around which the other battle mages were now gathered.

  As Falco approached, Dominic introduced the final battle mage, an Illician man by the name of Armand Dietrich. With the exception of Simeon he was the oldest battle mage Falco had ever seen. His hawkish face was covered with scars and his grey hair contrasted starkly with eyebrows and a long moustache that were surprisingly dark.

  ‘So you’re Aquila’s boy,’ he said in a strong Illician accent. He gave Falco a searching look and then his eyes creased in a smile. ‘Only battle mage I ever knew that was brave enough to marry,’ he added. ‘Your mother must have been an exceptional woman.’

  Surprised and deeply moved, Falco just stared at him as the man reached out to take his hand before turning back to the other battle mages who were now moving into the tent. One was a woman of middle thirty years with a fierce light in her hazel eyes. Her dark hair was cut short and the design of her armour also marked her as an Illician. Her name was Blas Schneider.

  Beside her was a Valentian man with deep blue eyes and a single scar crossing his right eye as it ran from hairline to jaw. His name was Lucas Vale and Falco felt a distinct surge of pride knowing that there were other Valentian battle mages contributing to the war against the Possessed.

  With Dominic and himself that put their number at five and Falco had never experienced such a concentration of strength. Their combined presence provided a tremendous sense of security, but it did nothing to alleviate the sense of fear and foreboding that was now so strong that Falco was finding it difficult to think.

  As he entered the tent he was relieved to see the familiar faces of Malaki, Bryna and Huthgarl. Across the way he could also see Alex standing near Jarek Snidesson. Jarek gave him a nod of acknowledgement but Alex was careful not to let his gaze drift in Falco’s direction. The distance between them stung Falco with a fresh wave of regret and he wondered if they would ever be friends again.

  ‘A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?’

  Falco turned to see the emissary standing beside him.

  ‘It’s not often you see so many gathered together in one place.’

  The emissary gestured toward the battle mages. They had moved to speak with Marshal Breton but every now and again they would glance in Falco’s direction as if they were intrigued by the strange mixture of youth and power.

  ‘I think you make them nervous,’ said the emissary and he smiled at the frown of disbelief on Falco’s face. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘The secrets you’ve uncovered. The things you’ve achieved.’

  Falco said nothing. As far as he was concerned any achievements had always come at a cost, and if anyone deserved credit for uncovering secrets it was Meredith. Looking across the tent he could see the young mage standing discreetly to one side.

  ‘I thought you’d be staying in Wrath,’ Falco had said to him when they finally had the opportunity to speak in Amboss. ‘I thought the Queen had asked you to help in reforming the magi.’

  ‘I supervised the writing of a new oath and the spells to bind it,’ said Meredith. ‘But I’ve spent most of my life shut away in a mage tower. If I have any knowledge I would like it to make a difference in the world.’

  Falco could not have agreed more and once again he was struck by the change that had taken place in Meredith. He thought back to the supercilious apprentice he had known in Caer Dour, a gifted but bitter young man, trying to find himself in the lightless shadow of his father. Now here he was offering his services to generals and training older mages to use the spells that he himself had developed.

  Coming back to the present Falco felt a hand on his shoulder as the emissary urged him forward.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The enemy is getting close and we must draw up a plan to meet him.’

  Together they moved to the centre of the tent where Marshal Breton was leaning over a campaign map.

  ‘The enemy is somewhere here,’ he said, indicating an area to the southeast. ‘He knows of the force that we have brought from Amboss, but still he comes on apace. Perhaps he isn’t aware of the army arriving from Hertzheim.’

  The Illician Commanders shared a grim smile of pride.

  ‘In two days we shall meet the Crown Prince here,’ said Marshal Breton, indicating the point where the road from Hertzheim joined the road they were on.

  ‘And how long then before the Marchio arrives?’ asked General Renucci.

  ‘It’ll be close,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘If we keep to our current pace we should meet the Prince in the early morning and that should give us several hours to choose our ground and deploy our troops.’

  ‘This area just south of the junction looks good,’ said the emissary as he moved in for a closer look at the map.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘The ground is level and the rough terrain to either side will guard our flanks.’

  The other commanders nodded in agreement.

  Suddenly the tent was filled with excitement as the commanders began to discuss their plan of battle. With Prince Ernest’s troops they would outnumber the Marchio’s forces and their hopes were high, but to Falco the light in the tent had suddenly grown dimmer. Looking down at the map his eyes fell on a small area between their current position and the road to Hertzheim, a high valley bordered by three distinct hills. As Falco stared at them it felt as if he was slowly being drawn into the map.

  Darkness is coming...

  Darkness in the earth, darkness in the deep, darkness on the hills.

  The air seemed to throb with the resonance of his nightmares.

  You would never have the courage.

  You would never have the faith.

  The growling voice of the Possessed was so loud that Falco was amazed that the other battle mages did not hear it. Everyone was listening to Marshal Breton but then the emissary noticed Falco’s strange fugue state.

  ‘Falco, what is it?’

  The emissary’s voice was full of concern, but for Falco the moment had passed. The light in the tent returned to normal and the demonic resonance was gone.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Malaki as he, Bryna and Huthgarl appeared at his side.

  Falco waved away their concerns and moved forward to the table.

  ‘What do they call this place?’ he asked, pointing to the valley with the three hills.

  ‘They call it Tal Der Drei Brüder,’ said one of the Illician commanders. ‘The Valley of the Three Brethren.’

  ‘So it was hills,’ thought Falco. ‘It was always hills.’

  ‘Here,’ he said out loud. ‘We will meet the Marquis of Pain here.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘It’s too remote and there would be no reason for the enemy to pass through that region. ‘No,’ he continued. ‘We will stop the Marchio here, just south of the road to Hertzheim.’ The other commanders certainly agreed but the emissary moved to stand beside Falco.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why must we meet him there?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Falco. ‘I can’t explain it. I just know we have to meet him there.’

  Falco put a hand to his head as if at a sudden headache or dizziness.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the emissary.

  The sense of fear in Falco’s mind was suddenly stronger than ever and he felt confused and disorientated, but before he had a chance to answer, the air in the tent began to vibrate with a rumble like the roll of distant thunder. For a moment the emissary frowned, but then a smile of pure joy broke out across his face. He raced outside and people moved quickly to follow him.

  As they left the tent Falco realised that the mounting noise was the sound of approaching
horses. The emissary had moved a short distance to where he could see down the slope of the hill. Always a tall and broad shouldered man, he seemed to grow in stature as he looked down on the mass of cavalry now surging up the slope towards them.

  Moving to join him, Falco could see what it was that had raised his spirits. Riding in broad columns were two squadrons of knights. And at the head of each they carried a banner. The first was the stylised form of three white mountains on a field of black, the insignia of the Adamanti. The second was a black horse’s head on a field of silver blue, the colours of the Knights of Wrath.

  In total more than eight hundred knights rode up the hill and the emissary’s eyes were shining as the leaders of each came forward to greet them. In keeping with military protocol they approached Marshal Breton, but neither could resist the instinct to acknowledge the Chevalier’s presence and the emissary smiled as the two knights gave him a non-too-subtle nod.

  ‘Look!’ said Bryna.

  ‘I know. It’s Lord Cabal,’ said Malaki as he recognised the leader of his order.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bryna. ‘But look at their helms!’

  Beside her she felt Malaki tense and she could almost feel the heat of his rapidly reddening face. The Knights of Wrath were dressed in full battle armour and the left cheek of every helm was covered in crimson enamel that shone like wet blood in the warm evening light.

  ‘Oh, blades!’ groaned Malaki as Bryna smiled and Huthgarl clapped him on the back.

  The two knight commanders spoke briefly to Marshal Breton, but then the leader of the Adamanti made his way over to the emissary. The two men were of similar age and both had the craggy face of a hard life well met. They embraced like old friends and then the emissary turned to Falco and the others.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Sir Konrad Osterna,’ he said. ‘Lord Commander of the Knights Adamant.’

  Sir Konrad’s gaze was blade sharp as he looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘The honour is mine,’ he said with a bow.

  His friends bowed in turn, but Falco was becoming increasingly distracted by the mounting sense of fear in his mind.

  ‘But how do you come to be here?’ asked the emissary.

  ‘We were returning to Hertzheim when we learned that Prince Ernest was marching from the capital to join you.’

  ‘And the Knights of Wrath?’

  ‘We are here in case our Illician brothers forget how to couch a lance.’

  They all turned to see the imposing figure of Lord Cabal standing behind them. It was the first time the emissary had heard the Lord Commander make a joke and the shock of it was writ large across his face. For a moment no one spoke as Lord Cabal cast his eyes over the emissary’s companions.

  ‘It would seem that your reputation for being able to tell the wheat from the chaff is not without foundation.’

  The emissary smiled.

  ‘It’s easy to recognise quality when it’s standing right in front of you,’ he said.

  Lord Cabal acknowledged this gracious reply and the two men clasped each other’s forearms.

  ‘We ride into a storm of hell,’ he said.

  ‘But we ride together,’ replied the emissary.

  The eyes of both men hardened at the thought of what lay before them and with a final look of mutual respect they moved apart.

  The two Lord Commanders remained on the hill while the rest of the knights rode down to the grazing fields in the valley. As they moved off so the meeting in the tent was reconvened.

  Nobody was surprised that Marshal Breton disregarded Falco’s suggestion and chose the original valley in which to make their stand. Even the emissary thought this location made better strategic sense. Falco could see the sense in what they were saying, but he could not get the image of the Three Brethren out of his mind. It was as if he had always known that it would end there.

  But Marshal Breton had decided otherwise. In two days time they would rendezvous with the army of Prince Ernest and together they would stop the Marchio Dolor. There were still countless demons and Possessed armies throughout the Forsaken Lands, but if they could break this army and kill the enemy’s chief lieutenant it could mark a significant turning point in the war.

  The knights’ arrival raised the morale of the entire army, but Falco felt more troubled than ever. The sense of foreboding was growing and he was now struggling to contain it. The soul crushing fear of a demon he could withstand, but this was something more.

  ‘Falco, are you all right?’ asked the emissary as they made their way down to the lower slopes where the Irregulars were camped.

  Slowly Falco became aware that people were staring at him, but he did not recognise their faces and he was suddenly overcome with the urge to run away and hide. He was breathing fast and his face was beaded with sweat.

  ‘Are you starting with a fever?’ asked Bryna but when she reached out to feel his brow Falco recoiled.

  His green eyes flashed dangerously and Malaki frowned at this uncharacteristic behaviour. Even in the worst of his fever and delirium he had never seen Falco behave like this.

  The emissary was watching him carefully. He could see that this was no ordinary affliction.

  ‘We should talk to Dominic and the other battle mages,’ he said.

  He reached over to take his elbow but Falco staggered away. He shook his head as if to clear his vision and raised his hands as if to fend off things that the others could not see.

  ‘Falco,’ said the emissary in a calming tone. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re with friends.’

  But Falco barely heard him. His voice seemed to come from a great distance and the world around him was suddenly filled with menacing shadows. He could hear a noise in the calm air of the night, but whether it was the breeze stirring the leaves of an olive grove, or the wind whistling over some lofty mountain peak, or the sea washing against the rocks of the coast he could not say. All he knew was that he could not bear it and he had to get away.

  He saw a shape closing on him and suddenly his right hand was engulfed in flame and bolts of energy arced around his fist.

  Thinking he might fall, Huthgarl had moved to catch him, but now he backed away as Falco’s powers flared into life. They were all trying to think what they could do when Falco suddenly turned and stumbled away. Malaki moved to intercept him but the emissary put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t try to stop him,’ he said. ‘Just follow him and keep him safe. I’ll get Dominic and the others.’

  Malaki nodded and started after him as Falco headed back towards the summit of the rocky knoll. Oblivious to Malaki’s presence he was lost in a storm of guilt and fear and there was only one thing in the world that was strong enough to see him safe. Half blind and barely able to keep his feet, Falco stumbled in the direction of Sidian.

  The dragon should still be waiting for him, but Falco felt like he was walking through a nightmare. He did not recognise the world around him and he could no longer remember in which direction the dragon lay. He tried to reach out with his thoughts, but they were confused and filled with self loathing. He began to panic, feeling lost and alone, but then a black shadow swooped down from the sky as Sidian landed beside him.

  Far from being relieved, Falco slumped to his knees in abject terror, but Sidian grabbed him with his powerful forearms and his friends could only watch as the dragon flew off into the deepening night.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ asked Huthgarl as they stared after the departing dragon.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Malaki and with nothing else left to do they went in search of the emissary.

  *

  The emissary was relieved to find that the battle mages were still gathered together in the command tent but as soon as he entered, he could see that something was wrong. Marshal Breton was there, but so also was Meredith and the young mage’s face was paler than normal.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s the enemy,’ said M
arshal Breton. ‘The Possessed are suddenly attacking all along the front.’

  ‘We already knew that,’ said the emissary. ‘They’re pushing towards Clemoncé.’

  For a moment the emissary was confused. What did it matter if the Possessed were no longer fixated on Clemoncé? Surely that was a good thing. But then he noticed that Blas Schneider was preparing to leave.

  ‘The Possessed are heading for the cities on the front,’ said Meredith and now the emissary understood. If the battle mages continued south then the cities in their care would fall to the Possessed, but if they returned to save their cities then Marshal Breton would not have enough battle mages to oppose the Marchio Dolor.

  ‘Do we know which cities are under threat?’

  ‘For now it’s just battle mage Schneider’s,’ said Meredith and Marshal Breton nodded in relief.

  ‘That still leaves us with four,’ he said. ‘Plus those that will arrive with Prince Ernest.’ The Marshal was clearly trying to reassure himself, but the emissary looked across at Meredith and he knew they were both thinking the same thing.

  The night was yet still young.

  *

  Fifty miles to the south the Marchio Dolor narrowed his eyes and his lip curled in satisfaction. Through the eyes of his dark angels he had followed Marshal Breton’s army as it marched south from Amboss. At first he had been scornful of its size, but as the humans advanced so their numbers grew and more Defiants came to join them. And then he learned that Prince Ernest, the whelp of Illicia, was now marching to meet them, and with him came two more Defiants with their detestable wyrms.

  ‘The fools,’ the Marchio had scoffed. ‘Did they really think that he would meet them on their terms, that he would allow himself to be outnumbered?’

  These humans thought they could gather all their strength to oppose him, but he would show them that such single minded resistance would come at a cost. Taking a penitent in each fist he had plunged them into the underworld and begun to pray.