Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Draw swords!’ she had called out to Paddy who frowned as if she were babbling nonsense, but then she had grabbed his shoulder and turned him to look out over the field.

  ‘The demon!’ she cried. ‘That’s the demon that took Quirren.’

  A shadow of fear passed over Paddy’s face at the thought of getting closer to a demon, but then a fierce light appeared in his deep set eyes. He paused for a moment and then.

  ‘Bucklers, bonnets and blades, you luckless bastards!’ he bellowed and the Dalwhinnies shouldered their bows and took up their secondary weapons. Then Bryna led them out in support of the Exiles who were already fifty paces ahead of them.

  Only the fact that the Possessed forces were thinning allowed them to make progress but even so it was not long before there were hundreds of Sciritae between the Dalwhinnies and the security of the allied lines.

  *

  Several hundred yards to the right Malaki watched in horror as the black clad Exiles moved out of position and the Dalwhinnies followed in their wake. It was too far away for him to make out the Gaoler and he could not fathom why Alex and Bryna would act in such a way.

  The Knights of Wrath had just broken a block of four hundred Kardakae that had threatened to breach Marshal Breton’s lines. Now Malaki blinked the gritty sweat from his eyes as he struggled to keep his wife’s unit in view.

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked Huthgarl beside him.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he murmured.

  As the Knights of Wrath returned to their position on the left flank of Marshal Breton’s force the heart of Sir Malaki de Vane was filled with fear.

  *

  Falco’s mind burned with the effort of keeping the fireball in place but he knew it was almost over. Just a few more seconds and the flail wielding demon would be dead. But he needed to be careful. The demon’s flails were still swinging in wild arcs and a blow from either could be lethal. He watched as the demon raised a flail and he knew it would swing down towards him, but he also knew that he had won.

  With a final effort Falco allowed the fireball to explode in the demon’s chest. The massive creature convulsed as its flesh was consumed and fire burst out between the gaps in its armour.

  The moment of release made Falco’s head swim and he prepared to duck beneath the glowing flail that was still swinging towards him but at the last instant he felt a new presence on the battlefield. Falco recognised the Gaoler immediately and in that instant he paused. The dying demon’s flail slammed into his helm and the last thing to flash through his mind was a name.

  Quirren.

  101

  The Mercy of Patrick Feckler

  A wave of despair washed over the allied forces as the cloak of Falco’s protection disappeared. Marshal Breton’s mouth felt suddenly dry and panic fluttered in his chest like the wings of a frantic bird.

  They were lost.

  Falco had fallen, and they were lost.

  For an instant he felt the urge to turn his horse and flee, but he did not. He was the Marshal of Clemoncé and he could not desert the men he had brought here.

  The cruel irony was that the battle had just turned in their favour. They had survived this first wave of the Possessed and were beginning to gain the upper hand. Indeed, Marshal Breton had even considered sounding the advance but now that was impossible. The demon that had just appeared on the field was not as powerful as those that Falco had killed but even so, the fear that exuded from its ash-white form made it difficult to think. And now the shadow at the far end of the valley was growing closer and the fear that came with it was of an altogether different magnitude.

  The Marchio Dolor was upon them and Marshal Breton knew they could not stand against him. With a rush of crippling horror he realised what a terrible mistake it had been to come here. He had trusted a man less than half his age and now they would pay the price. Their defensive line was in disarray and any attempt to retreat would only end in disaster. He was about to lose the largest army that the allies had ever assembled.

  Oh, shame.

  Oh, shame.

  In a stupor of guilt Marshal Breton could only stare into the valley as a second Possessed army surged towards them.

  *

  The men of the Exiles also felt the moment of Falco’s fall but they had long since given up on hope, and so for them the impact of his loss was less than it was for most. With grim determination they fought their way forward, led on by a young commander who seemed to be ‘possessed’ by some vengeful spirit of his own.

  Alex Klingemann attacked the Sciritae with a savagery that seemed at odds with the light-hearted nature of his personality. Spattered with black blood he drove the Exiles on towards the demon that walked away from them in oblivious disdain. Even with its back to them the fear from the Gaoler was like a hot wind beating at the walls of his mind, but Alex’s teeth were clenched in a snarl of unwavering certainty. He would reach this demon and save his brother and nothing short of death would stop him.

  Behind him the allied lines were thrown into confusion. For a while they tried to support the Exiles, but their discipline crumbled as the foundation of Falco’s faith was cut out from under them. As the line fragmented they retreated back, leaving the Exiles and the Dalwhinnies adrift like islands in a sea of Sciritae, and the two units grew increasingly isolated as they moved further away from the main body of the army. But Alex had no thought for such things. All his thoughts were on the Gaoler and one particular bundle trailing from its belt.

  Besides the mass of battered flesh, Alex caught a glimpse of dark hair and crimson cloth, the same crimson worn by Knights from the Order of the Black Eagle. That bundle of chain and dust-blackened meat was his brother. Cutting another Sciritae down he pushed forward more strongly than ever. There were still many Possessed between them but now the gaoler had stopped. Alex saw it look down at the first demon that Falco had defeated and he realised that the hellish creature was still alive.

  The Gaoler drew in one of the chains from its belt. It raised the bag of tortured flesh into the air then looked down at the dying demon at its feet. Dark Baëlfire flared along its arm and suddenly the contents of the bag were consumed by flames while the unfortunate’s soul was delivered into the pitiless realms of hell. At the same time a surge of dark energy flowed from the Gaoler’s other hand into the body of the injured demon and slowly it began to stir.

  Still glowing from the infernal heat, the horrific bag hung empty, a residue of scorched blood and charred flesh still clung to the chains, but the person within it was gone. With no thought for the soul it had just used the Gaoler let the empty bag fall and reached for another.

  With a cry of despair Alex realised what was happening. The Gaoler was using the chained souls to rejuvenate the dying demon. He did not know how many it would take, but sooner or later it would draw up Quirren’s chain and his brother’s soul would be lost forever.

  To the left of the Exiles a huge bestiarum went thundering by, but the Exiles paid it no heed. All their attention was focussed on reaching the Gaoler and so they did not notice another beast charging directly towards them from the right. Even by bestiarum standards this brute was massive and it was about to tear the Exiles apart.

  *

  Bryna wept as she felt the familiar cloak of Falco’s protection fall away. She wept for his downfall and she wept for the fear that came rushing in to fill her mind. The only thing that allowed her to focus was the need to protect the Exiles.

  Even without the fear she had never felt so exposed in a battle. Archers were not supposed to fight in close quarters with the enemy, but the Dalwhinnies were doing well. They fought with the viciousness of street fighters, but still Bryna was grateful that the Possessed were not focussing on them.

  Some fifty paces ahead, the Exiles were now closing on the Gaoler and thankfully it still appeared unaware of their presence. Bryna had no idea what Alex intended to do once he reached it and suddenly the folly of their impulsive actions struck home. B
ehind the Dalwhinnies there was a deep mass of Sciritae, cutting them off from the main body of the army and now she could see a new mass of troops advancing towards them.

  They were going to die here. She was sure of it.

  A kind of paralysis crept over her and even as the Dalwhinnies continued to fight Bryna began to look for a way to escape.

  ‘Captain!’

  The shout meant nothing to her. It was a mere distraction from the instinct to survive.

  ‘BRYNA!’

  The desperation in Paddy’s voice finally broke through the veil of panic and Bryna focussed on his face.

  ‘We have to retreat!’ he cried. ‘We’ve come too far. We have to fight our way back.’

  For a moment Bryna could only stare at him. She could see the feral tension in his eyes and she knew that he too was just moments away from losing control. Whipping her head round she looked back towards the allied lines, but there were now a thousand Sciritae between them and the main body of the army. She looked forward to where the Exiles had almost reached the Gaoler and then she spotted the enormous bestiarum coming in from the right. The huge creature was tossing Sciritae out of its path as it headed directly for the Exiles.

  Ignoring Paddy, Bryna gripped her bow and ran to the front of the Dalwhinnies. She nocked an arrow and drew back the string.

  ‘Suivez dix!’ she cried and eight arrows followed her own, stabbing into the monster’s side.

  It did not even pause.

  The thundering beast was now just seconds from smashing the Exiles to pieces and there was no way a mere ten arrows could stop it.

  Bryna nocked another arrow then, at the top of her lungs, she cried out.

  ‘DALWHINNIES...’

  ‘SUIVEZ MOI!’

  She loosed her arrow and the air shook with a collective ‘bang’ as a hundred shafts followed its course. In a dense mass the arrows tore into the bestiarum’s side and it collapsed onto its chest. Its momentum carried the dead creature forward and it knocked over several of Alex’s troops but the Exiles’ formation held strong as they closed the remaining distance to the Gaoler.

  The killing of the bestiarum cleared Bryna’s thoughts and she took a moment to take stock of their situation. The Dalwhinnies were caught in a no-man’s land between the first wave of Possessed and the army that now approached with the Marchio Dolor. There was no way they could fight their way free and now a mass of black armoured Kardakae was closing on their position.

  ‘We’re fucked!’ said Paddy beside her and Bryna could only nod.

  ‘We’ll move over to the right,’ she said, her voice surprisingly steady. ‘Try to draw the Kardakae away from Alex.’

  Paddy looked at her as if he did not know how she could think of others when they were about to be reborn as Possessed.

  ‘Come on Feckler,’ said Bryna as he hesitated. ‘We can still kill a few of these bastards before we’re done.’

  Paddy the Feck frowned. He had always thought of ‘nice people’ as weak, fools to be preyed upon by those of greater strength, but ever since meeting Bryna Godwin he had realised that he was wrong. Following her example he began ordering the terrified Dalwhinnies over to the right. A few Sciritae still came screaming in to attack them, but in this brief window of calm they were no real threat. But as the archers took up their new position Paddy turned to look at the wall of black steel that was now marching towards them.

  ‘Have you ever heard of archers stopping a thousand Kardakae?’ he asked.

  Bryna’s mouth was too dry to answer but they both knew the answer was, no.

  Standing sideways to the enemy, Bryna prepared to give the order for the Dalwhinnies to shoot. Almost idly, her free hand reached back to cup the base of her quiver. A casual observer might have surmised that she was checking its weight to see how many arrows she had left, but Paddy knew she was thinking about the man who had given it to her and suddenly the unfairness of life struck at his heart.

  These young people should be spawning brats on some stinking farm in the country, happy in blissful ignorance of how cruel life could be. They should not be dying on a battlefield where even their corpses would not be allowed to rest.

  Paddy had never known what it meant to love someone and so he did not recognise the emotions stirring in his chest. What he did know was that if Bryna died in fear then her soul would be claimed by the Possessed, but if she died while thinking about her ballsy knight of a husband, then her soul would be put forever beyond their reach.

  Almost unconsciously, Patrick Feckler drew the razor sharp knife from his belt then, as the rest of the Dalwhinnies prepared to shoot at the approaching Kardakae, his gaze moved to the pale skin of Bryna’s neck.

  102

  To Save The Ones We Love

  The darkness remained as impenetrable as ever, but slowly the silence gave way to the distant roar of the sea. Falco remembered the first time he had seen it from the rugged coast of Clemoncé, a vast expanse of blue and grey that seemed to go on forever. It was never still, never the same, the waves rolling in and drawing back like the very breath of the world.

  But something was wrong.

  There was no rhythm to the noise of this ocean, it just went on and on. And since when did the waves cry out in pain or echo with the grinding ring of steel?

  No.

  This was not the distant roar of the ocean it was the tumultuous din of war.

  Hauling himself up from some great intangible depth, Falco fought his way back into the waking world. As his mind merged once more with the substance of his flesh, so the pain and the exhaustion returned. His entire body hummed like a rod of iron struck off an anvil.

  He was lying on his back and he could sense movement all around him. Rolling onto his side he spat out a mouthful of blood and struggled up to one knee, wincing from the stiffness in his neck and the pain that throbbed in his skull.

  Slowly he opened his eyes.

  Battle was raging all about him and now he could see Sidian fighting alongside the men of the Fourth Army, but the men were struggling. They were filled with fear and they were failing. Falco knew he had to protect them, but he was still dazed by the impact of the demon’s final attack. Only his helm and a burst of instinctive protection had saved him, but even so, he had come close to death and he needed a moment to collect himself.

  His sword was still in its scabbard and Falco reached across his body until his fingers closed around the hilt. A distant note rang deep inside the blade and somehow it gave him strength. Grasping the handle he closed his eyes and felt the tingling sensation of power surge through his body. It began somewhere behind his eyes, washed down over his face and raised the hairs on his arms. It carried with it a deep healing warmth and as his strength returned Falco was able to gather the army beneath the cloak of his protection once more.

  Slowly he climbed to his feet. He took a deep breath to clear his head and as his thoughts ran true so he recalled the last thought that had flashed through his mind before the demon’s flail struck.

  Quirren!

  Falco’s gaze snapped over to the far side of the battlefield where he could still sense the presence of the demon that had taken their friend. His thoughts came into sharp focus and he started to move, haltingly at first but then faster as the stiffness in his body was banished by need.

  ‘Sidian!’ he cried, but there was no need to call his dragon.

  Of all those on the battlefield, only Sidian had known that Falco was not dead and he had been waiting for his brother to return. Slashing down two Sciritae the dragon disengaged from the battle and raced towards him.

  Falco straightened his shield and watched as the dragon approached. Drawing level, Sidian dipped his wing and with only a trace of stiffness, Falco leapt for his back. Giving him barely a moment to settle himself the dragon spread his wings and took to the air. Up they soared and the spirits of the entire army soared with them.

  With their combined vision Falco could see a unit of infantry direct
ly behind the Gaoler. He did not need to see their colours of silver and black to know it was the Exiles. They were not attacking the demon, but still Falco could see sparks flying from a few individuals at the front of the depleted unit. For some reason the Gaoler appeared to be ignoring them but Falco knew that this would not last for long. Soon it would turn and the Exiles would be finished.

  There was no need to convey the urgency to Sidian. The dragon’s limbs were tucked in tight as he sped over the battlefield. From the corner of his eye Falco could see the vast shadow of the second Possessed army spreading up the valley. He could sense the burgeoning presence of yet more demons and now he could feel the scrutiny of the Marchio Dolor himself. The Marquis of Pain was aware of his presence and Falco felt suddenly naked and vulnerable. The enemy’s chief lieutenant was trying to make sense of the human that opposed it and Falco felt as if all the secrets of his heart were being raked over and laid bare.

  You would never have the courage.

  You would never have the faith.

  Trying to shut out the violating presence he focussed all his thoughts on the Gaoler and the faint hope of freeing Quirren from its thrall.

  Knees tucked beneath the dragon’s wings, he gripped the ridges at the base of Sidian’s neck. They covered the half mile distance quickly, but even as Sidian came in for the attack they saw the Gaoler turn. The Exiles were scattered as the demon used one of the chained bodies to smash them aside. A small group of them was retreating while the others tried to form a wall of defence, but there was no way they could stand against the demon.

  *

  Sparks flew up as Alex hacked at the chain linking Quirren to the Gaoler’s belt. This close to the demon he could hardly tell the difference between the fear and the terrible heat that radiated from its body. The handle of his sword felt slick in the sweat-soaked leather of his gauntlet, but then his blade made a different sound as something in the chain gave way. Another blow, and another, and with a metallic chink the chain was severed.