Talandra grunted. “Gunder and his people will find a way, they always do. There’s one more thing. High Priest Filbin is on his way to Perizzi.”
The First Minister of the Church of the Holy Light was a disgusting creature, but also one of the most powerful players in Zecorria. He sat at the top of a huge network of priests that he ran like his own army. People who disagreed with him had a habit of disappearing or being the victim of unfortunate accidents. Talandra had carefully monitored his rise to power and had been collecting information on him for years.
“He decides to take a pilgrimage now? In the middle of a war? It can’t be good news for Yerskania, or us.”
“I thought the same,” said Talandra. “But we might be able to turn it to our advantage. In Zecorria he’s surrounded by legions of dedicated people and is untouchable.”
“Surely you’re not thinking—”
“No, although it did cross my mind,” admitted Talandra, penning a coded note back to Gunder with her instructions.
“Filbin isn’t someone who can be bribed, blackmailed or coerced,” said Shani. “How do you intend to persuade him?”
“With the truth,” said Talandra with a grin. “It’s our best weapon to remind him of who he is and how far his people have drifted off course.”
From her expression Shani wasn’t convinced but, underneath, Talandra knew she trusted her judgement. The Morrin woman took the note and looked over her shoulder again.
“Will that be everything for tonight?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Talandra cleared her throat. There was only so much she could say with others in earshot. “Yes. I have one more meeting and it’s already late.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Shani, heading for the door. Talandra watched her go, nodding to the guards on her way out.
Talandra tried to suppress a yawn, but her jaw cracked and her eyes filled with tears.
“Maybe we should talk tomorrow morning, Highness, before I leave,” suggested Balfruss, striding into the room. “You look exhausted.”
“No, it’s fine. Come in.”
Talandra rose to meet the Battlemage and they shook hands. Balfruss’s grip was firm, but not crushing, and the skin on his hands was calloused from hard labour. She’d never seen him with steel in his hands, but if she hadn’t known he was a Battlemage, it wouldn’t have surprised her to see him wielding a sword.
Just like her brothers he was built like a warrior, with broad shoulders and thick arms. Whenever she stood beside her father and brothers, Talandra knew she looked out of place. They were dark of hair and eye, tall and broad like all Seves. She had the height, but was slender and not as curvaceous as she’d like. Her hair was blonde, her eyes a deep blue and her skin paler than most, three gifts from her late mother. The only visible kinship she shared with her family was a slightly hooked nose and the same smile, although none of them had laughed in weeks.
“I’m sorry about Graegor. He’s a difficult man,” said Talandra.
“That’s putting it mildly,” commented Balfruss.
“Drink?” offered Talandra, gesturing at the jug of ale.
“No, thank you, Highness.”
“There’s no need to be so formal in private. Talandra is fine,” she said, waving at a seat.
“Thank you,” said Balfruss, getting comfortable. “You have some questions for me?”
Talandra nodded and took a drink to buy herself time to study the Battlemage. Vannok had told her a little about their shared history, but most of it was tales of their childhood. At eight years old Balfruss left the village to start his training at the Red Tower. After that, Vannok only saw him two or three times a year. After Balfruss completed his training they only saw each once every few years in the capital city. Battlemages were in short supply and high demand, especially in those nations with few or no native practitioners of their own, like Morrinow. Balfruss was educated, respected, and a natural leader who others instinctively followed. The story of how he’d destroyed the giant worm was already becoming an urban legend and his fame was growing.
Despite knowing all that, Talandra still felt as if she were missing something important. She also had the feeling that Vannok knew more but had been unwilling to tell her. Perhaps it wasn’t his secret to tell.
“I wanted to ask you about the Opsum Prophecy.”
Balfruss snorted and then laughed. “I wouldn’t wipe my arse with it,” he said and then realised who he was talking to. “My apologies, Highness. It’s a very sore point that’s been responsible for countless years of grief. I can’t even imagine how many lives have been wasted because of it.”
“What do you know of the prophecy itself?”
“I can recite parts of it from memory. In short it talks about a child of magic who will reshape the world for centuries. But, with respect, what do you know about the Oracles who make the prophecies?”
Talandra rubbed her chin as she thought about it. “I’ve read they’re Battlemages, or they were.”
“Have you ever seen an Oracle?” asked Balfruss. Talandra shook her head. “They’re mindless idiots who dribble, shit and piss themselves all day. They live in squalor and their own filth, worse than any animal. They endlessly talk gibberish and their minds are nothing but empty shells.”
“Really?”
“They are not seers,” scoffed Balfruss. “They’re idiots who pushed themselves too hard before they knew what they were doing. They burned out their own minds. Some believe this makes them open to receiving divine messages.”
“But not you.”
Balfruss’s expression darkened. “Do you know why it’s called the Opsum Prophecy?” He barely waited for Talandra to shake her head. “Because it’s the only thing he said for the first month. No one knows if it was his name, or just a random noise.”
“And yet the Grey Council believed it so much, they abandoned their posts at the Red Tower to search for the one mentioned in the prophecy.”
Talandra expected Balfruss to respond angrily. Instead he just looked disappointed and terribly sad.
“And just look at the results of their wise decision,” he said bitterly. “When I was a boy, a Seeker passed through our village every six months. Remote places used to see them once a year, but it was enough. Children with any Talents, or the ability to touch the Source, were identified, accidents were avoided, and the Red Tower was busy with students. Now it’s all but deserted. These days there are only a handful of Seekers, and each must cover entire nations by themselves. It’s an impossible task.” Balfruss shook his head. “In the last fifteen years, most children with any ability have died before, or during, puberty. Sometimes it’s obvious how they died, other times they just die in their sleep. Whole families have been killed in terrible accidents, because children with no training couldn’t control the power. Entire villages have even been destroyed. Those that find their way to the Red Tower are always ill-trained when they leave and you end up with—”
“Finn Smith,” said Talandra.
Balfruss nodded. “He’s incredibly powerful and no one died in his village, but he can never go home. People are afraid of him and what he might do.”
“And what of the Grey Council? Where are they now?”
Balfruss scratched at his beard and sighed. “Gone to find their chosen one. No one has seen or heard from them in fifteen years. After what they did, it’s good riddance to a bunch of arrogant bastards.”
Talandra took another drink before asking the one question to which she really wanted an answer. “Do you think the Warlock is the one mentioned in the Opsum Prophecy?”
Balfruss took a moment before answering, running a hand through his beard which she noticed was dotted with patches of grey. There were also touches of white in his hair. Those, and the deeply etched worry lines in his forehead, made him look older than his years. He was probably the same age as her eldest brother, Thias, who hadn’t seen forty summers yet.
“No,” Balfruss said finally. “I don�
��t believe the Warlock is the one. The prophecy is vague and it could refer to anyone. There have even been a few prophecies some claim were written about me. None of those have come true either. The Opsum is imprecise and the Grey Council interpreted it to suit their needs. I doubt they’ll suddenly reappear and name him their messiah.” Talandra heaved a sigh of relief. “Besides, they’re most likely dead by now.”
“I don’t know whether I should be relieved about that or not.”
“We are a dying breed,” said Balfruss. “In two decades, three at most, the few remaining teachers at the Red Tower will retire, or die from old age, and then it will close its doors. After that, we will enter another Dark Age, where any child showing even the slightest Talent will be burned at the stake or drowned, like the bad old days.”
“Could someone else not take on the responsibility? Form a new Grey Council?”
“A few have tried and failed. Most Battlemages don’t see the point, or the profit, in such an investment of their time. It might generate a lot of goodwill, but that won’t feed them. Besides, the money they can earn right now is considerable.”
“You keeping say ‘they’. Aren’t you one of them?”
“Do you think I’m here for the money?”
Even if she’d just met him, a quick look at his clothes told her the answer. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t. You were telling me about the Red Tower?”
“Someone might be able to form a new Council, but it will take a better man than me to make it work. I don’t have the wisdom, or the patience, to be a teacher and a leader.”
“I have just one more question about the Warlock. How powerful is he?”
Balfruss hesitated before speaking. “So far, he’s only sent his apprentices against us, and there’s much about them that worries me. From his actions so far I believe he’s brutal and merciless, but I’ll know more about him when he takes to the battlefield. We all will.”
“Thank you for coming. I know it’s late,” said Talandra. “I appreciate your honesty and your candour. I may need to call on you again.”
Balfruss stood and gave her a short bow. “I am at your service. Goodnight, Talandra.”
She sat a while longer pondering what Balfruss had told her about Battlemages and the inevitable fall of the Red Tower. After a while she decided there was enough to worry about without adding to her list.
She hoped Balfruss was right and that all prophecies were just the ravings of lunatics. Otherwise their situation could become even more desperate.
CHAPTER 12
Vargus snarled at the Zecorran soldier, easily blocking a poor thrust with the edge of his shield. Screaming like a petulant child the man attacked again. His wild swing nearly severed the throat of the soldier to his right. Vargus swayed backwards and then came forward in a rush. His forehead crunched in the man’s face, breaking his nose and spraying them both with blood. The Zecorran started to mewl like a child, so Vargus finished him quickly before he started to feel pity.
To his right Hargo was busy hacking apart his latest victim. He’d become very attached to the Yerskani cleaver, and used it with brutal efficiency. Unlike most, he fought silently and with savage grace, making each attack look as if it were a step in an elaborate dance. With precision Hargo lopped off one man’s hand, then split another’s face with the sharpened edge of his shield. Before either could recover, Orran moved in, stabbing each man through the chest with a short spear he’d picked up somewhere. All of the Seves were fighting in teams or pairs, watching out for each other and getting in the way of weapons that were meant for someone else. Vargus had witnessed one man step in front of a spear that would have killed the man beside him. With only his bare hands, and a spear through his ribs, the Seve strangled the Zecorran to death before he succumbed to his injury.
Vargus witnessed countless acts of selfless bravery that did little to change the overall course of the war, but they meant everything to the men on the front line. All doubts about the men who fought beside them, and how far they would go for one another, disappeared. They would do stupid and ridiculous things for each other, and sometimes they would pay off. The shakes, and the nightmares of what could have happened for being so reckless, would come later for those who survived.
The close-combat fighting skills of every man were being pushed to the limit, and then beyond. Rehearsing moves a thousand times was less instructive than half a day’s fighting in a shield wall, when it often turned into a shoving match. The slightest thing could turn the tide, and yesterday it had been loose gravel under the feet of the enemy. One man fell over and then two more. A bloodbath followed as the Seves piled on, stabbing and chopping until it was just so much red meat.
Vargus and the others cut deeply into the enemy’s ranks who broke off their attack and ran for their lives. Those not paying attention to the rout were cut down without mercy.
Vargus watched dispassionately as an archer picked off an enemy soldier who thought he was beyond the range of their bows. With a squawk of pain and indignation, the Zecorran soldier turned to face them, then keeled over with one arrow in his arse and another through his chest.
The other retreating soldiers saw their comrade fall and kept running, well into the foothills. Today’s attack had been poorly organised because of the Seve night raid on the western camp. The Morrin citizens involved had proven their loyalty beyond reproach to King Matthias and their adopted home.
Tents had been set on fire, picket lines cut, meat spoiled, food wagons burned to the ground, and several senior officers killed in their beds. King Matthias and his Generals had thought there would not be any engagement today, and perhaps a reprieve for two days. Someone in the western army stubbornly ignored the problems caused by the raid and ordered an attack at first light. The result had been disjointed and doomed to failure from the start.
Whole units of men were wiped out with simple ambushes, while others fell into traps lined with sharpened stakes. Giving the western army no time to recover, the Seves shredded the enemy with archers, then slammed into their ranks with infantry. It was another demoralising defeat for the righteous army of the west.
So far no enemy soldiers had tried to surrender, and no mercy had been given. Vargus knew that would have to change when they fought on the plains, which would be soon, if not tomorrow. They were at the very edge of the Fosse hills. Behind him stretched fertile farmland, a few villages and copses of trees all the way to the capital. Today was the last day their tricks and traps would work. Tomorrow, the real war would begin on a scale not seen before. It was going to be bloody work.
“Back!” someone shouted. The buglers began to repeat two sharp notes over and over.
Vargus turned and ran as fast as his legs would allow. The Battlemages were coming.
Balfruss and the others watched as the last of their warriors ran past, trying to get as far away as possible from what they knew was coming. This was the third time Balfruss and the Battlemages had faced the Warlock’s apprentices, and the last two occasions had been a stalemate. Despite the loss of one of their number, the Splinters’ attacks were almost as powerful as the first time, but they were still without any subtlety or creativity.
If their situations were reversed, and a blunt-force attack didn’t work, Balfruss would have tried assaulting the senses, commanding the elements, or finding a way into the minds of his opponents to unlock phobias and nightmares. The Splinters attempted nothing new and just kept battering away relentlessly, trying to wear them down. It was always the same, as if they had no original thoughts of their own. Someone had trained them, as their control was impeccable and it never wavered, but there was something very wrong with the faceless apprentices. They seemed hollow.
“You already know why,” said Thule’s voice in his mind.
“I only have suspicions,” said Balfruss. “No proof, and the dead body told me nothing. I need to speak to one of them, face to face, to know the truth. But I think that’s unlikely to happen, don’t y
ou?”
“Yes, unless we can lure one of them away.”
“No,” said Balfruss, casting around for Thule. As he became more comfortable with the mind link between them it was working over increasingly longer distances. It was also starting to work both ways and some of Thule’s thoughts were bleeding into his mind. “No. I will not use one of our brethren as bait. The risk is too great.”
“Then we may have to do something rash. This stalemate cannot continue.”
A few minutes later Thule came into sight, galloping to the front line on a Seve warhorse. He slid off the beast’s back with athletic grace and gave the others a nod as he took his place in the line.
The Warlock’s apprentices slowly came into view, walking in unison towards them, just like the last time. Five robed and hooded figures, faceless and nameless. And with them came that growing pressure against his ears. A crushing force of combined power and channelled will.
The others looked at Balfruss expectantly. He had suggested someone else take control of the Link, but it seemed as if they had decided he should take the lead again. One by one they added their strength to his. This time he was ready for all that came with it, and even managed to stay on his feet. It also seemed a little easier, although that was probably his imagination.
Sweat began to bead in his hairline as the Splinters launched their first attack and he focused to unravel it.
It was supposed to be spring, and although the last of the snow had melted, Vargus was pleased to be sitting close to a fire. In the middle of the battle, with the blood pounding and survival his only concern, he barely noticed the weather, hot or cold. But tonight there was a chill in the air, a last desperate attempt by winter to thwart the turning of the seasons. He edged slightly closer, trying not to set his boots on fire.
He took only a small sip from the wine skin before passing it around the fire to Hargo. The big man sent it on to the next man without taking a drink. He was too busy listening to the newcomer’s story about a second assassination attempt on King Matthias.
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