The Battlemage

by Taran Matharu

  The recruits stood silently, sullen-faced. Only the elven woman, the one who had glowered at Fletcher so vehemently, showed any sign of vigor. She managed a surly kick at a pebble, but said nothing.

  Her face was angular and fierce, with light brown hair braided tightly on the sides, and a thick plume arching up along the center and down her back. Most striking of all were her eyes, a deep amber that reminded Fletcher of a wildcat’s.

  A polite cough from Sir Caulder brought Fletcher back to the task at hand: his first order. There were a thousand things to do. But if he knew anything about survival in the wilderness, it was that shelter was their first priority. At least, as long as the water barrels in the wagons lasted.

  “These homes have been abandoned for nearly two decades. The wooden floors will be rotten, if there are any at all. All manner of animals could have made their homes in the buildings—snakes, hyenas, warthogs. I need two groups to scout and clear each building and find a suitable place that’s safe for us to camp in.”

  He paused, contemplating who to choose. It would help if he knew more than one name.

  “Kobe, take fifteen recruits with you and search the east side of the village,” Fletcher ordered, dividing the group into two with a motion of his arm. “If you find a likely spot, leave your men there to clear it out and return to make your report.”

  Kobe grinned, clearly taking the responsibility as a compliment.

  “As for the rest of you—what’s your name?” he asked, pointing at the surly elf.

  “Dalia,” she replied, lifting her chin.

  “Dalia, take the remainder west,” Fletcher said, pointing down the dilapidated street. “I want both team leaders back in twenty minutes.”

  Dalia and Kobe stood uncertainly for a moment, unsure of the protocol.

  “Well, you heard him. Move out!” Sir Caulder ordered.

  The teams jumped to obey, but their faces still showed their discontentment as they stumbled down the overgrown streets. Fletcher wondered what they had expected when they signed up at the barracks. All he knew was that they would never have imagined they would be out here, starting a colony deep in the wilderness. Were they disappointed? Relieved? He didn’t know what to think, and suspected neither did they.

  “Good work, lad,” Sir Caulder said, stomping up to him. “Now the colonists. You lead them too, you know.”

  Fletcher turned to the gathering of villagers and dwarves. Many were wandering aimlessly, others standing with bewildered looks. Even Berdon had sidled up to one of the buildings and was peering through the rotten remains of a door. They needed direction, and as their lord, it was up to Fletcher to give it to them.

  It was strange, looking around, to know that all of this was his, ruined though it was. And the land, as far as the eye could see, and farther still. All his. It felt wrong to have so much.

  “I need everyone to stay by the convoy,” Fletcher called. “Berdon, Thaissa, Janet, Millo, might I have a word?”

  As the four hurried up to him, Fletcher tried to wrap his mind around the fact that it was not just the soldiers but everyone in the convoy who answered to him now. Even his own father.

  “I’ve thirty-two soldiers, if we include Sir Caulder. Add fifty dwarves makes eighty-two. Janet, how many villagers?” Fletcher asked.

  “Fifty-two,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

  “So that’s one hundred and thirty-five souls all told,” Fletcher said, amazed at the numbers of his colony. It was almost as large as Pelt’s population had been before Didric had turned it into a prison.

  “So what’s the plan?” Thaissa asked, smoothing her veil anxiously.

  “Let’s set up camp somewhere to rest, and get to work tomorrow,” Fletcher said, watching a nearby villager yawn and resisting the urge to do the same. “But I’ll need a complete manifest of our rations, tools and supplies before the day is out. Thaissa, Millo, you’ll have a better understanding of what was packed; I’ll leave you in charge of that. Janet, Berdon, I’d like you to assess the skills of our colonists. We know we have at least two blacksmiths, but we’ll need carpenters, masons, farmers, lumberjacks, potters, to name but a few. Can you do that for me?”

  “Aye, we can do that,” Berdon answered for them, smiling proudly at his son. The four set off to their tasks, waving over nearby colonists to help.

  “What about us?” Sir Caulder asked.

  “Let’s explore a little,” Fletcher said, beginning to enjoy himself. “You can show me where everything once was.”

  The pair strolled along the street, toward the south of the town. Sir Caulder stared at the ruins he had once called home, and Fletcher wondered how it would feel to be back after all these years. To see the ruins of another life.

  “Blacksmith’s there,” Sir Caulder said, pointing to a low building with a wide entrance, the double doors long rotted away. Within, Fletcher could see the block of an anvil, and rusty tools strewn about the floor. A pile of metal ingots was neatly stacked in the corner.

  “We’ll be able to clean off the rust on some of those, make ’em usable,” Sir Caulder said, continuing on.

  They walked deeper into the town, and Fletcher began to get a sense of its size. It was smaller than he had first thought—many of the buildings were two or three stories high, making for a dense population in a space that could easily have fit within the circle of Vocans’s moat. He could walk around the edge of the town in less than ten minutes.

  “Stables and kennels there,” Sir Caulder said, pointing at another low structure, separated into stalls. “Carpenters, apothecary, bakery, town hall…”

  Sir Caulder stopped suddenly in front of the town hall: a large, round-walled building with a gaping hole in its rotted roof. His eyes fell on a depression in the ground, in the center of an empty space opposite the front entrance. Rubble surrounded it.

  “This is where they came from,” he said, his eyes flinty as he crouched beside the hole and trailed his fingers through the dirt and loose stones within its center.

  “The orcs?” Fletcher asked.

  “Aye,” Sir Caulder said, hurling a pebble down the overgrown street. “Used to be a statue of your grandfather here. The tunnel to the other side of the mountains was beneath. Look.”

  They were almost at the border of the town, and the savannah could be seen between the buildings. And beyond were the mountains, stretching into the sky.

  “That range stretches from the river to the sea,” Sir Caulder said, sweeping a finger across the plains. “It blocks off Raleighshire from the orc jungles, except for the pass just a forty-minute walk away.”

  But Fletcher was no longer looking at the mountains. He had just seen a structure a hundred feet beyond the town’s edge. The remains of a mansion that he recognized, even after seventeen years of neglect.

  His family home.

  CHAPTER

  39

  THE RUINS OF THE OLD MANSION were more broken than the rest of the town. Building stones from the explosion during his parents’ last battle were strewn across what was once the lawn, now wild with young shrubs and tangled weeds. Half of the front of the mansion was missing, revealing the stone flooring of the second story.

  “I saw this place once,” Fletcher said as they picked their way to the gaping hole. “An infusion dream from Athena’s memory.”

  Sir Caulder said nothing, instead sitting heavily on the ragged edge of the entrance. He stared blankly at the wreckage around them, his eyes seeming to settle on the remains of a staircase that wound halfway to the second floor.

  “How did you survive it?” Fletcher asked, sitting beside him. “They say all the bodies were taken by the orcs and…” He trailed off, remembering the fate that had awaited his father’s body.

  “An orc saved me,” Sir Caulder said, then caught Fletcher’s expression and shook his head. “Its body anyway. He was a big bugger, covered me completely. When the Celestial Corps arrived a few hours later, they found me there, flew me out bef
ore the orcs came back. Too late for my arm and leg, but they saved my life.”

  Sir Caulder sighed and stared into the distance.

  “I wish I’d had a chance to see your mother, Fletcher,” Sir Caulder murmured, so quiet Fletcher had to strain to hear. “I need to apologize to her. I didn’t stop them. Didn’t save Edmund.”

  Fletcher shook his head and patted the old man on the shoulder.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. They were betrayed, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.”

  At the mention of his father, Fletcher tried to picture the dark-haired man he had seen so briefly in that dream. Then he realized he didn’t have to remember. There was a painting, still hanging above an ancient fireplace on the left side of the room.

  He hurried over to it, amazed at its condition. There was his father, Edmund, stubble-chinned and tousle-haired, his swarthy arms wrapped around Alice. She was smiling with joy, clutching a newborn baby in her arms. Himself.

  “My god. How is this still here?” Sir Caulder breathed. “They commissioned it on the day of your birth.”

  Fletcher reached out to touch the baby’s forehead. The faintest hint of a slippery barrier met his finger before it met the canvas. Then he noticed. Corundum crystals, embedded around the edge of the painting. All these years, they had powered a weak barrier spell that had kept it safe from the ravages of time, the wind, heat and rain. The expense would have been immense. This must have been his parents’ most prized possession.

  It hit him then. The loss of it all. To have grown up without the love of his parents. Without the knowledge of this beautiful, wild land. What would life have been like if Lord Forsyth had not betrayed them? His thoughts turned to his mother, an empty shell of the woman she once was. She looked so happy in the painting.

  He felt his eyes water and fought the tears.

  “It looks just like you,” came a voice from behind them. Berdon.

  He stared at the painting, his face filled with sadness.

  “Exactly like you. I remember when I held you for the first time … how happy I was,” he said. “To think … that you had just lost your family. I’m so sorry, son.”

  “I lost a family,” Fletcher said, smiling through his tears and hugging the bluff blacksmith close. “But I gained a new one, thanks to you. You have nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.”

  For a moment they held each other, and Sir Caulder wandered off, wiping at his eyes when he thought they weren’t looking.

  Finally, Berdon released him.

  “The soldiers are back,” he said gruffly. “We’ve found somewhere to camp.”

  * * *

  It was a church. The stained-glass windows were gone, but the ceiling and roofs were made from arched stone, standing the test of time to leave a stable covering over their heads. The benches had remained dry and out from the brunt of the wind, so they remained serviceable. Other than some wayward weeds and the detritus of dead leaves that had blown in through the windows, it was as good a shelter as any for the colonists to make camp in.

  Sir Caulder had shown them an old well as they walked back, which would be usable once it was cleared of the animal remains and rotting vegetation that had made their way in over the years.

  Their main concern was food—what had seemed like plenty to Fletcher was barely enough to last them a few more meals at most, for 135 people easily consumed the two barrels of salt pork and venison that the dwarves had brought with them.

  For now, though, Fletcher’s main priority was setting up the shelter and solving more pressing concerns. He ordered spare sheets of canvas to be placed over the window holes. The dust was removed with old brooms found in nearby houses, and pillows and bedding were laid out for the sleepy colonists.

  The boars and goats were tied up in the stables, for the surrounding countryside would be too full of predators to allow them to roam free range—hyenas, jackals and big cats had been spotted nearby on their way in. Villagers were sent to cut fodder from the long grasses around the camp, while nuts and roots were gathered and tugged from the ground for the hungry boars. The chickens were left in their cages and fed with the sparse handfuls of seeds that could be gathered from local wheatgrass.

  A meal had to be cooked, with three cauldrons boiling a simple broth of salt meat and chopped tubers to stave the hunger away. Sentries were organized to watch for predators, and poleaxes were cleaned and oiled after the night’s work. Sleeping spaces were divided, introductions hastily made and forgotten just as quickly.

  Endless questions were asked, nearly all of which Fletcher had no answer for. Only the stern support of Sir Caulder and Berdon’s calming presence kept him from losing his patience.

  It was late afternoon by the time the wagons had been emptied and organized, and all the crucial tasks were completed. As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the colonists finally slept.

  CHAPTER

  40

  THE MAIN PROBLEM WAS WOOD. Weeds could be pulled, vegetation cut, debris cleared away. But many roofs were gone or rotten to the brink of collapse, and the wooden floors between the stories were worse.

  Then there was food. Many houses had the remains of vegetable gardens, now overgrown and interspersed with brambles and vines. They salvaged what they could to supplement their supplies, but the meat was half-gone after breakfast. Unless they wanted to subsist on handfuls of roots, vegetables, fruit and berries, they would need to hunt, and soon.

  There were three carpenters from Pelt, a husband, wife and their son who had made furniture and boarding from the local pinewood in the mountains. Four dwarves, two male and two female, also had some woodworking skills, though theirs was limited to carving gun stocks and bows. Still, it was more than enough to begin restoring the houses nearby, and teach unskilled colonists the rudiments. They just needed the raw materials.

  When midday approached, Fletcher finally finished dividing the tasks, having separated the colonists into groups that would focus on minding the animals, sanitizing the well, replanting the gardens and the hard work of removing the weeds and debris from the town. Berdon and Millo were sent to salvage what tools they could from the carpenters and blacksmiths, scrubbing the tools free of rust with the help of juice from wild limes and steel wool from their supplies.

  Fletcher gathered his army the next day, now well fed and rested, and led them into the green-yellow savannah of tall grasses, shrubs and tree copses. This far south the weather was warm, even in early spring, so the sun was high and hot as they waded through the grasses and onto the Raleighshire plains. They walked fully armed, with bandoliers of musket cartridges strung across their chests and their muskets and poleaxes slung crosswise on their backs.

  “I want your muskets at the ready,” Fletcher ordered. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything for our cooking pot tonight.”

  Sir Caulder sidled up to him.

  “Their muskets aren’t loaded yet,” he whispered. “They don’t know how.”

  “So teach them,” Fletcher said.

  “I’m an old warrior,” Sir Caulder replied, looking over his shoulder at the waiting soldiers. “The guns came after my time.”

  “Kobe,” Fletcher called. The boy jogged over, wiping his brow.

  “What can I do for you, Lord Raleigh?” Kobe asked.

  “You used to be a private, right? Can you load a musket?”

  “It’s been a few years, but … more or less.”

  “Show them how it’s done,” Fletcher ordered.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Fletcher watched as Kobe returned to the others and unslung his musket. The boy was hesitant, but the motions he went through looked right to Fletcher, if loading a musket was anything like loading a pistol.

  “We need to teach them the proper techniques,” Fletcher said, squinting in the midday sun. “Firing lines, formations, fast-loading, aiming. In the army they go through basic training, but this lot…”
/>   “Didn’t they teach you that in Vocans?” Sir Caulder asked.

  “No. I missed my second year,” Fletcher said, remembering the books on strategy and tactics that had been sitting on the library shelves while he studied demonology and spellcraft. “Kobe probably knows more about musketry than I do.”

  “I can’t help you there. But give me a few weeks with them and they’ll be better with those poleaxes than any warrior.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Fletcher sighed and looked out over the savannah. There was a large copse of trees nearby, the trunks tall and straight, the tops capped with a wide umbrella of branches. Shade.

  “We’ll be needing timber soon enough,” Fletcher said, motioning at the trees with his chin. “You know much about trees?”

  “Only what your grandfather told me,” Sir Caulder said, looking at the copse with a rueful smile. “He planted those when he was your age, wanted a forest for his descendants to play in. Makes me feel my age; I remember when they were nought but saplings.”

  The beginnings of an idea began to form in Fletcher’s mind. He turned.

  “Men, follow me,” Fletcher said loudly.

  A startled elf fired his half-loaded musket, his finger tightening involuntarily on the trigger. There was a bang, the stench of brimstone, and a ramrod spun through the air to land in the grassland a dozen feet away. Fletcher shook his head in disappointment.

  “Let’s find some shade,” he said, turning his back on them and making his way to the trees.

  They filed in behind him, sweaty and frustrated. Without waiting to be dismissed, most of the soldiers collapsed onto the ground to relax in the cool. Fletcher didn’t have the heart to reprimand them. Or was it fear that made him hesitate?

  There were a hundred trees or so in the copse, all as tall as three men standing on one another’s shoulders. Many had termite nests growing around the base, though the trees looked unharmed by the insects’ ministrations.