The Battlemage

by Taran Matharu

  “You’ll be wanting a spear tip for stabbing and slicing,” Athol said, “and an axe head for chopping when they get in too close and you shift your hands up the staff. So I reckon the best weapon for you is a poleaxe.”

  Athol took a new pole-arm from the rack and held it up to the dim light of the oil lamp. It was a fearsome weapon, and Fletcher could hardly believe a combination of so many implements could exist. A sharp spear point extended from the tip, and beneath it a broad, curved axe blade. On the other side of the axe, he saw the square cube of a hammer, with a strange hooked spike emerging from its center.

  Fletcher recognized the spike as a blade known as a crow’s beak, designed for both piercing as well as hooking riders from their mounts or fighters from their feet. The hammer acted as added weight to give the axe momentum in its swing and allowed the crow’s beak enough force to penetrate armor, or a thick orc skull.

  Athol pointed to a metal bracing along the top third of the pole, covering the wood in a shaft of metal.

  “You’ll not find a more versatile weapon,” he said. “See here, we’ve put a steel lancet along the haft, so that you can block with the handle without shattering the wood.”

  Fletcher smiled and ran his fingers along the axe blade, then winced as he felt its razor sharpness.

  “There’s even a spike on the other end to help ground the poleaxe in the soil, or backstab as the case may be,” Athol said, pointing to a short metal spike at the butt of the handle. “And there’s a rondel guard to stop a blade sliding down and taking off your fingers.”

  He tapped a small disk of metal near the top of the pole, just beneath the lancet, which looked similar to a hilt.

  “All right, don’t overegg the pudding,” Sir Caulder said, clapping Athol on the back. “Fletcher, I think it’s a fine weapon. If you want ’em, I’ll train the lads up to use ’em properly. I’m as good with the quarterstaff as I am with a sword.”

  “We’ll take those too,” Fletcher said, amazed that they had found such an ideal weapon so quickly.

  “Great!” Athol said, with a hint of relief in his voice. “I thought we’d be here all day otherwise. Now, for the big reveal. It’s a shame Briss couldn’t be here to show you it, but she’s too busy looking after all your guests.”

  He began walking deeper into the room.

  Fletcher could hardly resist jogging ahead of Athol, but he didn’t have to wait long; Athol stopped only a dozen paces away. He held the oil lamp up to reveal a mannequin, positioned as if it were standing to attention. It was clad with a brand-new uniform.

  “It’s beautiful,” Fletcher breathed.

  The uniform was made from dark-green cloth, with black buttons and calf-length boots of dark leather. The jacket was double-breasted and extended down to just above the knees, beneath which straight trousers were tucked into laced boot tops.

  Athol’s handiwork had provided the most beautiful parts to the ensemble. The mannequin wore two armored bracers along the outer forearms, to deflect blows that would otherwise shatter or dismember, while around the neck there was a steel gorget, which protected the shoulders, upper chest and throat without constricting movement.

  “We didn’t want to weigh them down with too much armor,” Athol said, shuffling his feet self-consciously. “So we had to compromise. It’s made of the same oil-rubbed wool that Briss used for your uniform in the mission, so it’s warm, but breathable and waterproof.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sir Caulder said, stroking the fabric. “You’ve struck gold here, lad.”

  “Yes.” Fletcher grinned. “That I have.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  FROM THE HEIGHT OF THE SUN, it was already late in the morning when Fletcher woke. It was time to face the music.

  Fletcher put on his new uniform—for he had little else in the way of clothing—then strapped on his pistols, sword, bow and quiver. His satchel from the mission went on his back, and then Fletcher realized that was it. All his worldly possessions were with him now.

  For a moment he had the mad desire to avoid the responsibilities of nobility. To sneak out of the window, catch a boat to Swazulu and never come back. He shook the temptation from his thoughts with a rueful grin and headed for the door.

  Downstairs, the bar area was packed to the rafters, with scores of men and women sitting on the right side, dwarves on the left. The room, once abuzz with conversation, fell silent as their faces turned toward him. Berdon was the only human seated among the dwarves, and he gave Fletcher an encouraging nod.

  Fletcher cleared his throat.

  “It is good to see you all,” he said. “To see so many familiar faces.”

  Silence.

  “Our new friends, the dwarves,” he said, motioning to his left, “have kindly organized our accommodation for the night, as well as transport to our destination. They have also provided tools, food, clothing, and building materials. Everything we need to begin our new lives. I am sure I am not alone in saying that we are grateful for everything they have done for us.”

  His words elicited a smattering of applause from the right side of the room, and a twinge of relief ran through him. But only for a moment.

  “And I am sure I’m not alone in asking, at what cost?” demanded a voice.

  The speaker stood, and Fletcher recognized Janet, the leatherworker who had been the spokesperson for Pelt, back when they had been evicted by Didric’s men.

  “What’s the catch?” she asked. “And why are they all gathered here? There’s something you’re not telling us, and I think I know what it is.”

  “I am about to tell you,” Fletcher said, lacing his voice with what he hoped was authority. “If you’d be so kind as to sit down and listen.”

  Janet sat down, but her crossed arms and glare told him he had done little to mollify her.

  “In exchange for their help, I have agreed that fifty dwarves can join our colony. These are the people you see sitting here with you.” He waved to the dwarves, who looked nervously for a reaction from the humans.

  Janet’s brow furrowed.

  “So … we don’t owe them anything?” she asked. “They’re not here to collect payment?”

  “No. Of course not,” Fletcher said, confused. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Have you seen what’s out there?” Janet said, pointing at the tavern entrance. “There’s a score of wagons full of bales of cloth and canvas, fishing gear, axes, picks and spades, wax candles, cooking utensils, hunting muskets, goddamn seeds of every crop under the sun.”

  She took a breath.

  “I saw chests full of soaps and medicines, inks and papers, linens and bloody pillows, hell, they’ve got half a dozen goats at the back somewhere. You’re saying we can just have it? No debt, no nothing?”

  “It’s for all of us,” Fletcher said, motioning to the entire room. “Dwarf, man, whoever. We are in this together now.”

  Janet broke into a smile.

  “Well, I think that’s bloody marvelous!”

  Already some of the villagers were grinning, some even raising their glasses to the dwarves from across the room. But Fletcher could see not all of the villagers were happy with the situation—a few were glowering into their mugs, some even muttering under their breaths. He held up a hand for their attention.

  “We will be leaving soon, so I want you all to gather your belongings and join the dwarves on the wagons immediately. But first, I want to make something clear. If any of you are unhappy with the living arrangements, you can leave right now. There are a thousand opportunities in this city, especially for skilled workers such as yourselves. So if you don’t think you can stomach living with dwarves, there’s the door.”

  Fletcher allowed his eyes to linger on each of the most unhappy-looking villagers. He knew them all by name, knew their personalities. Pelt was a small village.

  “I’m out,” someone announced, standing up and heading for the door. He was a big bruiser of a man, formerly of the town
guard. His name was Clint, and he had been a rival of Didric’s long ago. Fletcher suspected that was why he had not been offered a position in Pelt’s new prison guard.

  “I’ll take my chances with my fellow man,” he continued, ignoring the dark glances from his fellow villagers. “I hear the Pinkertons are hiring.”

  More villagers followed him, some shamefaced, others standing proudly and slapping Clint on the back.

  “Tell Sergeants Murphy and Turner I said hello,” Fletcher called after Clint as he and the others strolled out.

  The door slammed shut behind them, but with their departure a weight seemed to lift from the room. All in all, a dozen men and women had departed, leaving roughly a hundred dwarves and humans in the tavern.

  “Right,” Fletcher said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get moving.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  THE GOOD-BYES WERE ALL too swift. Othello, Cress and Atilla had received their marching orders from the king that very morning, commissioning all three as officers in the dwarven battalion. Cress had sniffled as she bade Fletcher farewell, and both Fletcher and Othello had to surreptitiously wipe at their eyes after a gruff hug. The three dwarves departed before the convoy had even left, eager to take command of their men. He had not envied them—while he only had to manage thirty-two soldiers, theirs would number in the hundreds.

  Sylva flew to meet the elven army on their way down from the north, and her soft parting kiss on Fletcher’s cheek lingered long after she and Lysander disappeared into the sky. Fletcher caught her backward glance as she took off. It was a bittersweet reminder of what he knew could never be.

  In the rush to prepare for the expedition, he had almost forgotten that he would be parting ways with his dearest friends, and he felt their loss even before they were out of sight. Worst of all would be his mother, who he had not had time to visit. It was only thanks to the knowledge that he could fly back on Ignatius and visit her that he could bring himself to leave at all. Until then, Harold had promised she would receive the best care that the doctors of Corcillum could provide.

  One happy surprise came with the discovery that Thaissa would be joining the colonists. She shyly introduced her husband before embarking on their wagon, a young dwarven blacksmith named Millo who had apprenticed beneath Uhtred before opening his own workshop.

  There was a brief scramble as Uhtred held up the morning traffic of carriages so their convoy could leave, and then they were off in a rumble of wheels and clopping trotters on the cobbled streets. Dwarves waved handkerchiefs as they went by, others running up and handing them last-minute gifts of food as the wagons rolled past. Within the hour they were outside of the city and trundling along the dusty road south, surrounded by the rolling hills of crops and minor hamlets.

  At first, Fletcher rode at the front with Sir Caulder and Berdon, but soon the pair’s eyes grew heavy, for the two were exhausted from their long journey down south. So as they slept, he climbed out onto the roof plate, sitting beside the dwarven wagon master and discussing the route ahead. But the old dwarf seemed fearful, constantly looking over his shoulder. Fletcher asked what he was afraid of.

  “Bandits,” the wagon master replied curtly, staring out across the empty landscape.

  It was only then that Fletcher realized how valuable their convoy actually was. Leaving aside his share of the prize money stashed in his satchel, the contents of the wagons could be sold for a great deal on the black market. They were a prime target for any one of the roving bands of highwaymen that ranged across Hominum, and his little band of soldiers were far from prepared to defend it.

  Someone needed to scout the surrounding area. So, he jumped from the wagon and walked into a nearby cornfield. He watched as the convoy rolled past and was pleased to see that Sir Caulder had placed his soldiers on three wagons in the front, middle and back, preparing the convoy for attack from any direction. There were twenty vehicles in all, and each was hitched to a pair of boars, enormous animals as large as donkeys and twice as wide. He watched the strange beasts as he waited for them to pass by, fascinated by the marmalade coloring of their bristly fur and the short tusks that curved from their lower jaws.

  Then, when the wagons were out of sight, he summoned Ignatius and Athena, and took off. It was as exhilarating as it had been the first time, to shoot into the sky and watch the road turn into a thin brown line along the patchwork yellow-green quilt of the surrounding fields. But this time it was better—there were no demons to fear, no orcs to escape. The sky was all but empty, filled only with wisps of cloud and far in the distance, a skein of geese flying in formation.

  Athena’s wing was still on the mend, though well on its way to being usable again, so she perched on Ignatius’s rump and peered out over the landscapes. To the east, Fletcher could see the distant shape of Vocans, half-obscured by a haze of morning mist. For a moment he was tempted to fly by it, perhaps even catch a glimpse of students through the domed skylight on its roof. Only the safety of the convoy held him back.

  At first Fletcher had wished for Pria’s heat vision, but he needn’t have worried—Athena’s sharp eyes missed nothing. So the rest of the day was spent gliding on the breeze, searching the plains surrounding the convoy for suspicious movements. But if there were any bandits, they did not show themselves. Only the occasional goatherd and his flock broke the stillness of the plains, that and the thin streams of chimney smoke from the rare sleepy hamlet that dotted the landscape.

  As they journeyed on, the land became less and less populated. Fields of crops became rocky hills, and the remains of scattered homesteads long abandoned appeared as overgrown mounds of rubble and tile. Fletcher knew that the front lines lay just beyond the horizon, and the ground below them had been ravaged by endless conflict between orc and man: from the orc raids in the centuries before the war began to the bloody battles since. The entire area was devoid of human life, a buffer between civilization and savagery.

  The road beneath branched, one path heading toward the southern front, the other curving west toward the Vesanian Sea. The convoy took the west road, and now the going became slower. Fletcher swooped for a closer look and saw that the route was poorly cared for. Weeds and wayward roots had invaded the dirt road, requiring Sir Caulder to occasionally call a halt and order the recruits to hack apart the debris. At other times muddy puddles blocked the way, and the passengers were forced to get off and walk around so that the heavy wagons weren’t bogged down as the wheels churned through the mires.

  And so it went on. Afternoon turned to dusk, until the setting sun hung fat and yellow on the skyline. Still the road stretched into the horizon, and Fletcher was forced to send wyrdlights down to illuminate their way, great balls of raw mana that ate at his reserves but hung above the convoy like miniature blue moons.

  It was around midnight when they reached the river. In the dark of night the water looked black, rushing silent beneath a wide stone bridge that looked as if it had stood there since the beginning of time. It was the marker for where Raleighshire began, the land behind them owned by the king, the land beyond … his.

  As the convoy crossed over, he listened to the fearful snorts of the boars, skittish at the sound of the roiling water beneath them. His mind wandered to the history of this place. A great battle had been fought here once, named after the bridge itself—Watford Bridge.

  They were in savannah country now—what had once been a sea of undulating green took on a yellow tinge, flat and interspersed with copses of trees and shrubs. The road was barely existent, overgrown with tall grasses and strewn with stray rocks and nascent plants. Faced with the wild growth of almost two decades, Fletcher’s recruits were forced to use their poleaxes to hack a path, working from the early morning hours to the first hint of dawn. Even the dwarves and villagers lent a hand, carrying the detritus aside as the soldiers cut them away.

  And then, as the first rays of the morning sun spread across the sky, he saw it. Raleightown.


  CHAPTER

  38

  IT WAS EARLY DAWN when the convoy arrived. The wyrdlights were snuffed out, having shrunk into nothingness overnight as their mana depleted. So, the town was cast with a dim glow of orange as the wagons rolled to a halt, and when Ignatius landed with a bone-juddering thud beside the lead wagon.

  Nothing stirred. They had made it to the center of the ruined town, the wheels rattling on the still-cobbled streets, overgrown with the grasses that squeezed through the cracks in between. They were in a small square, a simple space that could just fit the wagons in if they crowded together.

  The remains of decaying buildings shadowed them on all sides, their stone walls still standing after almost two decades of abandonment. The roofs had long fallen in with neglect, and the window spaces were nothing more than empty hollows. Everything was covered in a layer of green, from a coat of furry moss on the dew-damp stones to tangled vines that flowed down the dwellings and along the streets like an iridescent waterfall. All was cast in the golden blush of sunrise, warming the night-cold air.

  Fletcher dismounted, taking in the sounds of his new home. There was a constant chirr of insects, broken by the warbles and trills of birdsong, welcoming in the morning. These were the noises of the wild lands that they had come to conquer. The music of his homeland.

  Sir Caulder stomped down the sides of the wagons, cajoling the exhausted soldiers out of them and into ranks. Fletcher pitied the poor recruits, many of them swaying on their feet, their heads nodding as the warmth of the morning took hold. The passengers emerged behind them, yawning and stretching in the dawn light.

  “Listen up for Lord Raleigh’s orders now,” Sir Caulder barked.

  The old knight raised his eyebrows at Fletcher and signaled with his eyes. It was time for Fletcher to take control. Only—he hadn’t planned on giving any orders.

  “I know it’s been a long night,” Fletcher began, cursing the quaver in his voice as he began to speak. “You’ve done me proud, getting our people here. Now we’ve one last task before we can rest and settle in to our new home.”