The Battlemage

by Taran Matharu

  “You’ve lost, Khan,” Fletcher said, trying to edge around his opponent. “The prophecy was a lie.”

  The orc smiled through his tusks and cut him off with a languid step to the side. Fletcher could hardly believe how big the orc truly was. He towered above him at eight feet, and his sword was almost as tall as Fletcher himself.

  “The prophecy is true,” Khan said, shaking his head. “He who holds the Salamander will win the war.”

  Fletcher was distracted. Athena. He could sense her, hiding among the rafters that held up the great room’s ceiling. He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on Khan, ignoring her gliding form as she descended to the floor above them, hiding behind the metal railings.

  “If that’s true, then I’ve already won,” Fletcher said.

  “No,” the orc snarled. “Not if I take it from you.”

  Fletcher raised his tattooed hand, and Khan flinched at the sight of it.

  “Your Dragon is dead,” Fletcher bluffed. “You have no mana. I could kill you in a second.”

  As the orc’s eyes focused on his fingers, Fletcher edged around again, managing to put himself a few feet closer to the sword.

  “Show me,” Khan said suddenly.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Fletcher countered, uncurling the finger with the lightning tattoo. He took a few steps closer to the sword.

  “I said, show me!” Khan bellowed, lunging toward Fletcher.

  Fletcher dove forward and felt the macana graze past his head as the orc slashed down at him. Then he was rolling across the stone floor, and the falx sword was in his grasp.

  He jerked it from the Dragon’s eye with a sickening squelch and held it in front of him.

  Khan laughed.

  “So, the puppy wants to play,” he mocked, twirling the macana in his hand. “I like that.”

  The long-handled blade was heavy and unfamiliar in Fletcher’s hands. He had never held a falx before.

  “Come, let us begin,” Khan said, swiping the macana at Fletcher.

  Their swords met, and Fletcher’s arms shuddered at the power behind the orc’s blow, nearly jarring the weapon from his hands. He leaped back, slipping on the smooth marble.

  “That was but a touch,” Khan sneered.

  The blow had shaven away a piece of obsidian from the long, black-edged club; the chip skittered along the ground and into the shadows. Fletcher knew the volcanic glass was brittle, but still sharper than the most fine-edged scalpel, and could quarter flesh with far more ease. He could not meet the orc head on. It would be suicide.

  Khan sliced the macana again, his blow whistling over Fletcher’s head as he ducked. A back slash followed blazingly fast, and Fletcher had to roll to avoid the crushing blow. If he had tried to parry, the macana would have blown right through his guard.

  “Dance, little boy.” Khan laughed.

  Rotherham had taught him to go for the knees.

  Fletcher lashed out with his blade as he got to his feet, an awkward thrust that Khan slapped down with the flat of the wooden club. A foot swung forward and took Fletcher in the ribs, knocking him spinning across the atrium. The sword nearly flew from his grip, the blade clanging on the stone floor. Agony flared along his side.

  “Enough games,” Khan snarled as Fletcher lurched to his feet. “I have an empire to burn.”

  “You’ve … already … lost,” Fletcher gasped.

  He could barely lift the falx—something was broken inside. It hurt to breathe.

  Athena could sense his pain. She crouched above the orc, her eyes boring into the white orc’s exposed back. It was now or never. Now.

  Fletcher sprinted toward the orc with a primal yell, fighting against the pain that tore through him. Athena dove, her claws outstretched. Khan swung his blade as the Gryphowl struck, clawing deep into his eyes. Blinded, his blow missed Fletcher’s face by a hairsbreadth, slicing his ear instead.

  Fletcher cut with all the force he could muster. Felt the sword bite into Khan’s leg, jarring against bone. Heard the clatter of the macana falling to the ground.

  But his attack had lacked force, his broken ribs hampering his swing. Athena screeched as a huge hand swatted her away. Fletcher felt fingers encircle his neck and lift him off the ground.

  Khan roared into his face, bringing him as close as a lover.

  “Die!” the orc snarled through his tusks.

  Fletcher kicked out at his stomach. It was like hitting rock. The grip tightened as Khan brought him closer still.

  “Look me in the eyes,” the orc hissed, the red orbs of his own narrowing as he squeezed. “I want to see the light go out of you.”

  The world swam in and out of focus. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision. He could see Athena dragging herself along the ground, felt the pain of her broken bones mirror his own. Ignatius. He could barely feel Ignatius.

  He was dying. Fletcher closed his eyes and waited for the end.

  And then the pressure released. He fell to the ground, gasping for air. Blood puddled on the floor beside him, trickling down the white trunks of the orc’s legs.

  He looked up and saw the blade of his khopesh buried in Khan’s side. Saw the giant spin, slamming his attacker to the ground with an outstretched fist.

  Sylva.

  “Elf filth,” Khan snarled, kicking her body over the floor and pressing a foot against her neck. She lay there, struggling weakly as he leaned forward. Her hands clutched at her throat.

  “No,” Fletcher gasped. Her mana. She had to use her mana.

  But she was oblivious, her hands clawing at the foot on her neck.

  A wave of nausea overtook him as he grasped for the falx. His hand met a handle. The macana.

  He could hear Sylva’s gurgles, and the throaty laughter of the albino orc as he choked the life from her.

  Then he felt it. A slim trickle of mana, coming from the twin consciousness within him. Athena and Ignatius. They were giving him everything they had, even when they needed it most. Enough for one last, desperate bid.

  He raised a hand, pain tearing through his side. Lifted a finger, pointed it at the inside of Khan’s knee. And pulsed out the last of his mana in a kinetic blast.

  The orc’s leg jerked forward, and Khan fell to his knee, bellowing with anger. And, with the final vestiges of his strength, Fletcher reared up, swinging and yelling with all his might.

  Time seemed to slow as the great club slewed through the air. A moment of doubt as the obsidian blade met pale flesh. Then it was through the orc’s neck, sending the great head tumbling to the ground. Khan’s body keeled over, slapping the ground like a haunch of meat.

  But there was no time for relief, even in victory. He had to heal Ignatius.

  Sylva turned her head, gasping like a beached fish.

  “I came as soon as I could,” she whispered.

  Her eyes were unfocused, and the bruise on her head had spread in an ugly stain across her temple.

  Fletcher felt a wave of dizziness grip him as he struggled to his feet. With every breath, his strength was returning. Enough to stumble to Sylva and drag her along the marble floor, even as the pain of his ribs flared like red-hot pokers, skewering his chest. He heaved and slipped on Khan’s blood, cursing his weakness.

  The Drake’s eyes were closed; blood pooled around him in a halo of red. Fletcher searched his consciousness. There was still the faintest glimmer of life. Fading fast.

  Sylva’s head lolled, her eyes flickering on the edge of unconsciousness.

  “Wake up,” Fletcher yelled, shaking Sylva. “You need to heal Ignatius.”

  She opened her eyes and stretched out a limp hand. A finger swirled in the air, the heart symbol sketched in blue thread. White light pulsed out, flowing over the shards of glass.

  Slowly, the wounds sealed, long crystal fragments pushed out and tinkling on the floor. The spark of consciousness burned again, at first a small light in Fletcher’s mind, then flared fierce as the demon stood and gasped in a deep bre
ath.

  Fletcher sobbed and threw himself around the demon’s neck. He felt relief flooding through him like a drug, softening the pain in his side.

  He felt a downy body slip beneath his arm, nuzzling his injury—Athena had returned to him. She was battered and bruised, but alive as well. He broke from his embrace and clutched the Gryphowl to his chest.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing the demon on her forehead.

  And then he noticed. The silence. No gunfire. No screams, or clash of weapons.

  “Did we win?” Sylva whispered. She held out her arm, and Fletcher lifted the elf to her feet. They leaned against each other like drunken sailors.

  Despite the silence, Fletcher felt no fear. It was out of his hands now. He had done all he could.

  “Let’s go and find out,” Fletcher murmured.

  Ignatius lowered himself to the ground, and Fletcher winced as they eased onto his back. Sylva sat in front of him so he could hold her in place if she fell unconscious again. She rested her head on Fletcher’s shoulder.

  “You sure you’re strong enough for this, buddy?” Fletcher asked, stroking Ignatius’s side. “You lost a lot of blood.”

  The demon barked, and with a slow leap they were flying through the air, spiraling upward to the broken dome. Fletcher shuddered as they passed through the jagged hole, emerging into the empty skies and gliding on the wind.

  He gripped Sylva tightly as they saw the result of the battle below, obscured by gunsmoke, blood and mud. The screaming of the injured drifted on the wind, and he felt Athena’s body shudder on his chest.

  Death and devastation had turned the battlefield into a mess of scorched earth and corpses. Men walked like sleepwalkers through the fields of dead, putting the orcs that remained out of their misery.

  In the distance, elks and their riders rode out over the plains. And just beyond them, a horde of orcs, retreating into the red-stained horizon.

  “We won, Sylva,” Fletcher whispered, hugging Sylva to his chest. Her hands covered his, and they gazed at the horrors beneath them.

  There was no triumph in this victory. Only sorrow. Only loss.

  “We won.”

  EPILOGUE

  FLETCHER THOUGHT LOVETT had never looked more beautiful as Arcturus wheeled her down the ramp of Raleightown’s church. The townsfolk cheered as he lifted her from her chair and carried her to the horse-drawn carriage.

  White suited her. Marriage suited her.

  Arcturus was beaming from ear to ear, his face red from the wine he had drunk at the reception. Fletcher threw another handful of rice over the pair, and Sacharissa sneezed as it fell around her. Her hair had been brushed and curled, and a bow had been tied around her like a collar. She gazed darkly at the revelers, daring someone to stroke her. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin.

  “Wait, wait,” Lovett said, stopping Arcturus in his tracks. He turned her around and she grabbed Fletcher’s face, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you for organizing this,” she said, her face glowing with joy.

  “Think nothing of it; I owe the both of you a thousand times over,” Fletcher said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the cheering crowds.

  The entire town had attended, as well as most of the Vocans staff and servants, a score of battlemages and a few dozen dwarves. Even the grumpy Major Goodwin had attended, though he was now sleeping off a full jug of ale beneath the church altar. It had been a celebration to remember. Fletcher only wished his mother had been there, but she was still too ill to leave the hospital. And Berdon, who had been called away on urgent business in Corcillum.

  The guests were gathered along the streets, waiting to cheer the couple as they made their way back to Corcillum, where Harold had prepared a room for them at the palace. Now that Alfric was dead, killed by an orc on the field of battle, the young king had full run of the place.

  “Fletcher, stop distracting them,” Othello said, throwing an arm around Fletcher’s chest. “Or they’ll be late for their dinner with Harold.”

  Fletcher winced. Even after a month, his ribs were still sore.

  Sacharissa nudged Arcturus with her snout.

  “All right, all right,” Arcturus laughed, allowing himself to be pushed forward. “We’ll come visit soon, Fletcher.”

  “You’d better!” Fletcher called after them as Arcturus carried Lovett into the carriage.

  Fletcher felt a delicate arm thread through his own as he waved the couple away, the crowds surging past him as they chased the carriage down the cobbled streets.

  “Didn’t they look happy,” Sylva said, smiling. “Who would have thought it?”

  “I had some inkling,” Fletcher said.

  “You liar,” Othello butted in. He raised his voice.

  “Cress, Fletcher reckons he knew Arcturus and Lovett fancied each other.”

  “Liar,” Cress called, eating a fistful of cake in the church’s doorway.

  Fletcher grinned and began to walk Sylva down the street.

  “Come on, I haven’t shown you yet,” he said, beckoning the dwarves to follow.

  As they walked, Fletcher could see some gremlins lurking at the town’s borders, though few of them had summoned the courage to enter and take part in the festivities. Blue had set up a new colony beside Watford Bridge, where food was plentiful and the soil was stable enough to dig a new warren. They traded their fish with the people of Raleightown, and a budding friendship had sprung up between the two peoples. Still, most of the gremlins were timid things and watched the celebrations from the safety of the savannah.

  The four trudged past the statue that Fletcher had erected over the old passage in front of the town hall. It had been installed that very morning, much to the admiration of his guests. A dwarf, a man and an elf, standing side by side. And beneath, a plaque, with the names of all who had died in defense of Raleighshire.

  Names like Atilla, Rory, Dalia, Sir Caulder, Rotherham and more than a dozen others. Too many. Othello paused at the plaque, a hint of pain passing across his face.

  “They died so that we could live” was all he said, tracing his finger along Atilla’s name.

  “Heroes, one and all,” Fletcher replied solemnly. He stared up at the dwarf’s face, and Atilla’s own stared back at him.

  “I wish you’d put up a statue of Didric, maybe outside the latrines,” Cress said, kicking a clod of earth. “With what he did underneath, so his cowardice lives on forever.”

  “I think the king’s solution was far more eloquent,” Othello said, a smile touching the edges of his lips.

  Didric’s refusal to fight had not gone unnoticed by King Harold. In his new position as ruler, he had punished not only Didric but the rest of the Triumvirate as well. Great fines had been levied against the three families, and the money used to rebuild what the orcs had destroyed.

  From what Fletcher had heard, the Cavells were left penniless and had last been seen on a ship to Swazulu, carrying nothing more than the clothes on their backs.

  Better still, the Beartooth Mountains, which covered half of Lord Faversham’s lands and all of Didric’s, had been gifted to the dwarves as compensation for the Triumvirate’s crimes against them. Already dwarven colonies were springing up along its peaks, with new homes carved deep into the rock.

  As for Lord Forsyth and Inquisitor Rook, both were imprisoned in Corcillum’s dungeons, to live out the rest of their lives in captivity. Fletcher considered it a fitting end for the pair, though far better than they deserved.

  Othello’s smile turned into a grin, and he put an arm around Fletcher’s shoulders as they walked toward the Foxes’ old training ground.

  But something was different now, emerging from the landscape beyond it. The ruin of the Raleigh mansion had been transformed, rebuilt by the townsfolk while Fletcher had recovered from his wounds. Even the lawns had been cleared of debris.

  “Bloody hell, nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Othello?” Cress joked.
r />   “I haven’t actually been in there yet,” Fletcher said.

  “Why not?” Sylva asked.

  “It doesn’t feel right,” he replied, shrugging. “Not yet anyway.”

  “He’s nuts,” Cress said. “I’ll have it if you don’t want it.”

  “As his best mate, I get first rights to it,” Othello joked.

  “Bugger that,” Cress said. “I’m gonna go choose my room.”

  Fletcher grinned as Othello and Cress raced toward the old mansion.

  “You’d better hurry, before all the good ones are gone,” Fletcher joked, turning to Sylva.

  She smiled faintly, her eyes on the horizon.

  “You know, I should get going,” she said, unrolling a summoning scroll from a pocket in her dress. “My father needs me on the southern border. The elves are holding it while Hominum rebuilds its army.”

  “So soon?” Fletcher asked, his heart sinking. “The whole orc army fled when they saw Khan’s Dragon fall. They don’t believe in the prophecy anymore.”

  “They’ve started raiding again,” Sylva replied, shaking her head regretfully. “There’s an army of leaderless orcs across the frontier. They don’t know anything else—they’ve been raised to fight. This war isn’t over.”

  She caught Fletcher’s crestfallen expression and paused. She leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

  Fletcher was so surprised, he didn’t even have time to react. Not before Lysander materialized and she jumped astride the Griffin with an agile leap.

  “I’ll come visit you,” she said softly.

  Then she was gone, disappearing into the sky.

  Fletcher watched her ruefully, not allowing himself to hope, yet grinning all the same. She was unreadable, but time would tell. For now, he was just happy to be alive. To be free of the weight of Hominum’s future.

  A horse neighed. Fletcher turned and saw a carriage wheeling its way onto the lawn, leaving deep tracks in the neatly trimmed grass.

  “That’s going to leave a mark,” Fletcher groaned.

  He jogged up to it.