Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Forget the doomed land of Clemoncé for now,’ he told the demons along the front. ‘Look instead to the cities. Lay them low and deliver all within unto the fires of Hell.’

  Soon their cities would be transformed into smoking ruins of despair, unless their Defiants moved to defend them. The Marchio Dolor smiled. He knew the Defiants could never abandon the innocent to death and damnation. It was just one of their many weaknesses.

  Night closed over the Possessed but that was no reason for them to stop. To the northeast the ‘Whelp of Illicia’ was getting closer. It was clear that Marshal Breton was hoping to meet the Prince and the Marchio Dolor saw no reason to disappoint him. Revelling in the prospect of what was to come, he drove his army onwards into the night.

  *

  Sidian carried Falco to a lofty hilltop and laid him down on a patch of level ground. The dragon had not felt so unsettled since that night on the dragon stone. Like Falco, he could feel the swelling presence of the demon army to the south but he could sense nothing of this other debilitating fear. All he knew was that he had to protect his companion soul and so he lay beside Falco and stretched out a black wing to shelter him.

  On the ground beside him Falco ground his teeth and gasped with the effort of resisting the guilt, the fear and the shame. He wanted to throw himself from the mountain, drown himself in the sea or bury himself in the earth, anything to escape the wings of vengeance that beat towards him. For another hour he fought the fear until finally he could take it no more. With a final effort Falco tore the fear from his mind and cast it away. For a moment he felt as if he had abandoned a beloved friend, but he was too tired to care. He had closed his mind to the fear and finally he was able to sleep.

  Sidian’s posture also relaxed as he realised that Falco was now sleeping. Careful not to wake him, he moved closer so that Falco could feel the warmth of his inner heat. He still did not know what had caused him so much anguish. What he did know was that the great demon’s army was still closing on them from the south and if they were going to confront it then He That Burns With Grief would need all the strength that he possessed.

  And so he laid down his great horned head, closed his eyes and listened to Falco’s breathing as he slept.

  *

  In the mountains of Illicia.

  And the olive groves of Thraece.

  And the wild coast of Beltane.

  Three tormented men stared with terror into the night. For weeks now they had felt the darkness getting closer and only the presence of the child had prevented them from going mad or taking their own lives in payment for their crimes.

  But now the time had come. The child had given all he could and they were left to face the final judgement on their own. For too long they had hidden themselves away, thinking that they could escape the guilt, and the grief, and the pain. But they could not.

  In the darkening sky they could feel their nemeses approaching and so, with the resolve of the damned, the Disavowed went out to meet their doom.

  The hermit left his cave and walked to the summit of the great cliff, so reminiscent of the place where the original crime had been committed.

  The healer did not have time to reach the graveyard. He only got as far as the rocky mound where the kid goats liked to play in the sun.

  And as for the fisherman, he did not have far to go. He simply walked down from his cottage to the headland where the cliffs looked out to sea.

  Three broken men, resigned at last to their fate. They stared into the sky and watched as the dragons came into view. Closer they came like a winged vision of death, and not one of the men was surprised to see that the dragons were black. Were they the ghosts of murdered souls? Or just the agents of vengeance come to mete out justice, well deserved.

  Over the past few days the guilt and the shame had become unbearable, but now it seemed to fade away as the curtain of their lives was about to fall.

  The hermit, the healer and the fisherman knelt. As the angels of death descended towards them they bowed their heads and offered up their lives in a final act of contrition. Perhaps in death they would find some measure of peace.

  Their hearts were pounding but their thoughts were clear as the wind of mighty wings stirred their hair and rocked them on their knees. Too ashamed to raise their eyes they did not look up as the dragons landed before them. They could hear the great bellows of their breathing, the scrape of steel hard claws and the swish of blade-tipped tails. They could feel the warmth of their inner fire and sense the heat of that fierce golden gaze, such strength, such beauty, killed by their own hands.

  Now all the fear was washed away in tears.

  ‘Forgive us,’ they breathed.

  For a moment there was silence and stillness, and then the Disavowed felt the gentle touch of something pressing against their foreheads. They tensed, as if at the kiss of death, but then they realised it was not revenge but grace and forgiveness that had been bestowed upon them.

  In wonder they raised their heads and gazed upon the mirror of their souls. In disbelief they got to their feet and looked into the golden eyes of the dragons that had come in place of the ones that they had slain. In humility they opened their hearts and made a new pledge.

  My life,

  My strength,

  My soul, I cleave to thee.

  The echo of this pledge was shining in their dragons’ eyes and they felt their thoughts begin to merge. And as the guilt and fear receded from their minds so they sensed the desperate need of the child and the fight from which they had hidden for so long. In their minds they saw a high valley surrounded by three hills.

  ‘Tal Der Drei Brüder,’ thought the hermit, and suddenly the Disavowed were running.

  The hermit ran to his mountain home and moved through to the deepest recess of his cavern. The healer ran to the graveyard and there he began to dig and scrabble in the earth of the nameless grave. The fisherman turned from his dragon and, racing towards the sea, he threw himself from the cliffs. Through the air he fell until he broke the water in a dive just twenty yards from the pale bladder that had never marked the location of a crab or lobster pot. Down he swam, pulling himself through the water with strong strokes until his lungs began to burn for air. Too dark to see, he groped on the sea bed for a bundle wrapped in rotting cloth, so too did the healer and the hermit find a bundle of their own, a bundle of metal and leather, preserved by the magic with which it was imbued.

  And the bundle was not all.

  For in the dark,

  And in the deep,

  And in the grave,

  A sword.

  98

  The Chevalier

  At noon of the following day the army came to a halt on a vast meadow enclosed by a great curve in the river. It was the perfect place for such a large army to rest but Marshal Breton was not happy for it was also at this point that the main road was joined by the wide and dusty path leading up into the hills towards the Valley of the Three Brethren. The scouts had been using this route to keep track of Prince Ernest’s army, but one of them was overdue and so they took the opportunity to rest while they waited for him to return.

  Falco was sitting astride Sidian on a series of crags overlooking the army. From this vantage point he could see Marshal Breton pacing back and forth among the senior officers of the command group. The tension in the army was already high and the marshal was eager for them to move on. By this time tomorrow they would have joined with the army of Prince Ernest and then they would confront the Marchio Dolor if they still had enough battle mages to face him.

  In the early hours of the morning Armand Dietrich had been called away to protect another city that was coming under threat. That left them with Lucas, Dominic and Falco plus the two battle mages that would arrive with the Prince. This was still deemed to be enough but Armand’s departure did nothing to improve Marshal Breton’s mood or his opinion of the venture on which they were currently engaged. Indeed the whole army was more subdued. Not only had two of
their great souls now departed but word of Falco’s worrying behaviour from the previous night had now spread throughout the army.

  For his part Falco felt numb and exhausted. He remembered little of what had happened and he had no answers for Malaki and the emissary when they asked him what it was that had troubled him so.

  All he knew was that he had lost something.

  The unexplained fear had now gone, but so too had something that he had never really appreciated before, a presence that had been with him since his earliest recollections as a child. He had never known if the feelings were real or just a figment of his imagination, but whatever they were they had somehow brought him comfort.

  Until the meeting in Amboss he had never heard of the Valley of the Three Brethren, but now Falco was confused. He still felt as if his destiny lay in that direction, but soon they would move past the route that would take them to this remote and windswept place.

  He could not make sense of these strange sensations, but then his thoughts were arrested as one of the magi called out and Marshal Breton moved quickly to hear what had caused such alarm. Falco saw Meredith emerge from the covered wagon in which he had been sleeping and the emissary also moved towards the mage who was currently in contact with the other cities up and down the front.

  Falco and Sidian swooped down from the rocks then, leaving the dragon at the side of the road, Falco worked his way through to the knot of people now gathered round the magi.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Maidstein,’ said the emissary. ‘A city some thirty miles east of Ville de Pierre. A demon army is just six hours from the city walls.’

  ‘That’s my territory,’ said Lucas Vale. ‘The garrison there is strong, but there’s no way they can hold out against a demon.’

  They all turned to look at Marshal Breton.

  ‘Go,’ he said and Lucas bowed his head.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said and with that he raced away.

  Within moments the army watched another dragon disappearing into the clouds.

  Silence descended and Marshal Breton’s brow was clouded with concern. With Prince Ernest’s two battle mages that left them with only four to confront the Marchio Dolor and the other demons that marched with him.

  ‘Do we turn back?’ asked General Renucci.

  ‘If we do we will only have to face this demon another day,’ said Dominic.

  ‘I agree,’ said Lord Cabal.

  ‘And I,’ added Sir Konrad.

  Many of the other commanders concurred, but still they turned to hear what the Chevalier had to say.

  The emissary frowned in thought. He was about to speak when a murmur ran through the army and people began pointing up into the sky to the north. Turning in that direction they could all see a dragon flying towards them. At first they thought it was Lucas Vale coming back to join them, but as it drew closer they could see that this dragon was the dark blue of a winter storm cloud. Closer still and they could see that the battle mage on its back wore the bronze coloured armour of Acheron.

  A space opened up in the gathered troops and the blue dragon landed in a cloud of dry grass and dust. The Acheronian battle mage was a typically large man and his dark skin gleamed in the sunlight as he hooked his hoplite helm onto his riding harness. He rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness of several days flying and then he started towards the group of men who were clearly the leaders of this impressive force.

  The soldiers parted to let him through, but others crowded forward to get a clearer view. Few had ever seen an Acheronian warrior, much less a battle mage from that realm.

  The way opened up and Marshal Breton moved to meet him. He raised a hand in greeting, but the Acheronian did not reply. His dark face was set in a grim expression and it was clear that he was not the bearer of good news. He looked around at the gathered troops, but then his eyes fell on the horse-head insignia on Marshal Breton’s chest. His shoulders seemed to sag and Falco had a sudden premonition of dread.

  ‘I am looking for the Queen’s emissary. The one they call the Chevalier.’ His voice was deep and his accent was strong, but he made an effort to speak clearly in the common tongue.

  ‘I am he,’ said the emissary and people moved aside to let him through.

  He walked forward until he stood beside Marshal Breton, his grey eyes searching the Acheronian’s face.

  For a moment the battle mage just looked at him as if he were measuring how well the man lived up to the stories that were told about him. He gave a barely discernible nod of satisfaction but then he sighed.

  ‘I bring news from Navaria,’ he said and all those in earshot now hung on his words, waiting to hear if the Queen had been successful or not.

  ‘Queen Catherine saved the city of Sophia,’ he said. ‘The Legion du Trône prevailed against a Possessed army of much greater size.’

  Marshal Breton and the other Clemoncéan commanders breathed a sigh of relief, but Falco and the emissary were waiting for the words that were caught in the battle mage’s throat.

  ‘She truly was the Queen of Wrath,’ he said and suddenly the relief in Marshal Breton’s eyes was gone.

  Beside him the emissary had become as still as stone. He felt suddenly hollow and his breathing seemed to echo in his ears.

  Slowly the battle mage opened a leather pouch at his waist and drew out a belt made from interwoven strips of black leather. But the belt was broken and the leather strips were crusted with blood. With great solemnity the battle mage stepped forward and placed the broken belt in the emissary’s hands.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Even as the battle was won, she fell.’

  Like a man struck dumb the emissary looked at the straps of leather in his grasp. He opened his hands and there it was, the horse-head buckle that he had carved on the way to Caer Dour. The burnished silver was dented and scratched and there was dried blood in the crude folds of the horse’s mane.

  ‘Dead?’ breathed Marshal Breton, but the emissary did not hear him.

  ‘The Queen is dead,’ went out the ripples of dismay, but the emissary did not hear them.

  All across the flood plain the word was spread until some ninety thousand souls stood still in shock.

  ‘Queen Catherine has fallen. The Queen of Wrath is dead.’

  Falco stood in stunned silence as his vision slowly blurred with tears. His mind was reeling, his heart torn apart by disbelief.

  ‘It cannot be,’ he thought. ‘She is all we have, all that holds the world together. It cannot be.’

  ‘King Tyramimus and all of Acheron share your grief,’ said the Acheronian battle mage. ‘The king has pledged our legions to come and fight beside you.’ His expression and his words were sincere, but Marshal Breton just stared at him as if he were mad.

  ‘It is too late!’ he bellowed and the battle mage narrowed his eyes at the force of his accusation. ‘The world has bled to death while you wallowed in your conceit. Your offer of help is too late.’

  The man’s dark face showed little reaction as he accepted Marshal Breton’s anger. He himself had been fighting in Beltane for years, but this Clemoncéan was right. King Tyramimus had been wrong to hold back while others faced the evil of the Possessed.

  A murmur of despair was now sweeping through the army as they considered what this news meant for their kingdom and the war. But Falco’s thoughts were all for just one man.

  He watched as the emissary walked aimlessly away, still staring down at the broken leather in his hands. Soldiers moved back from him until he was surrounded by a wall of distraught faces.

  The emissary looked up from the belt and the expression on his face felt like a blade in Falco’s heart. Every man there knew of the love between Queen Catherine de Sage and Sir William of Eltz. It was a story of romance and tragedy, a story that bound the emissary to these common soldiers even as they missed their own loved ones around the campfires in the night. Ever since he had taken up the post as the Queen’s advisor the emis
sary had accepted the fact that they could never be together. But now...

  But now.

  The emissary’s grey eyes were like the windows of a tomb.

  ‘My life,’ he mumbled and his legs seemed to buckle beneath him. ‘My life entire.’

  The emissary’s legs gave out and he stumbled to the ground.

  All around him heads were bowed and embarrassed eyes looked away. They could not bear to see this man brought low, this man who had ever been a symbol of constancy and strength.

  Falco rushed to his side and tried to help him to his feet, but the emissary pushed him away. With one hand he held the sword belt that he had made. With the other, he reached up and snatched the horse-head pendant from around his neck. No longer would he be Commander of the Queen’s Fourth Army. It was time for him to fight and die as she herself had done.

  For all his powers Falco felt utterly helpless. He wanted to help the emissary, but then other figures moved past him and he watched as Sir Konrad and two of his fellow knights raised the emissary to his feet.

  ‘We’ll take care of him now,’ said Sir Konrad and with that the Adamanti brought one of their own back into the fold.

  Falco’s heart ached as the emissary disappeared among his fellow knights. He wanted to go and find Malaki and Bryna, he wanted to find Sidian and fly so high that he left the world and all its tragedy far behind. But then a call went up and people began pointing up the broad track that led towards the Valley of the Three Brethren.

  Careering down the slope was the scout that they were waiting for. He rode until his horse was forced to stop by the mass of soldiers now surrounding Marshal Breton

  ‘It’s the prince,’ he gasped even as he slid from the saddle and pushed his way through. ‘The Marchio Dolor attacked him in the night. His army is broken and retreating through the hills.’

  Marshal Breton just stared at the man.

  ‘And his battle mages?’

  ‘One dead, one dying,’ said the man. His face was pale and he gulped in air as if he had run and not ridden back to deliver his report.