Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  “We are the new Gods of this world. Forget the churches and their faceless stone idols. They should be building temples to our glory. We can do anything we want. We’re only limited by our imagination, but you don’t believe me, do you?” He was ranting now and his eyes showed white all the way around. Not trusting himself to answer, Balfruss shook his head.

  “Then answer me this. You were taught at the Red Tower, yes? How long did it take you to realise the teachers were lying?”

  Balfruss considered the question. “They taught me and the others as best they could. They didn’t lie.”

  The Warlock pursed his lips, one eyebrow raised. “Really?” His mood quickly shifted again and just as suddenly he was smiling again. “I think you’re being modest. I think you played the same games I did as a boy in the dormitories. Ah, I see you did,” laughed the Warlock, reading something from his expression.

  They were not supposed to do it, but just as warriors sparred to test their skills, students at the Red Tower tested their strength against one another when no one was watching. Rumours were rife about pupils burning out their power in unauthorised duels, but he never saw or heard about it actually happening to any students while studying there.

  “You noticed it during the fights in the dormitories, didn’t you?” said Torval, and when Balfruss didn’t reply his expression turned sour again. “Didn’t you?” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. Balfruss was so startled he almost lost grip on his shield. The guards at the end of the corridor should have heard Torval yelling, and yet seconds ticked by in silence as they stared at each other. Somehow the Warlock was muffling all sounds, maybe even silencing the whole corridor so that their conversation remained private.

  “I noticed after three months,” Balfruss said finally. “At first I thought it was a mistake. They were the teachers and I was just a boy. I was there to learn. I didn’t have their experience, so I trusted them.”

  Torval nodded encouragingly and smiled. “You asked them, didn’t you?”

  Balfruss cast his mind back to his days at the Red Tower. “The teachers said I was mistaken. That I hadn’t been concentrating properly the first time.”

  “It’s one of the first tenets laid down on the first day you arrive. Every student is told the same thing.” The Warlock was getting worked up again, but this time his rage was directed at their teachers who were missing and presumed dead. “We’re all different. We’re all special.” His tone was mocking and nasal, like one of the instructors Balfruss remembered. “And we all have different levels of strength.”

  “And a Battlemage’s strength will never change over time,” finished Balfruss.

  “Exactly,” said Torval, jabbing a finger towards him. “And it’s the biggest lie they ever told.”

  It was dangerous, deadly in fact, for a Battlemage and anyone nearby if they lost concentration, but it was possible to keep reaching for more power from the Source and stretch what you could wield. Push it too far and the power would surge through you, burn out your mind and scour away all ability to touch the Source as it melted the flesh from your bones.

  But if you pushed just hard enough, if you walked the razor’s edge long enough, you could hold on to a little more each time. A trickle. A drop. But over time those drops added up. And if you practised every day for months, or even years, it could make a huge difference to your strength.

  During his first term at the Red Tower, Balfruss had duelled a second-year student called Pyson. Balfruss was thrown the entire length of the dormitory and pinned to the wall. The bruises from his beating stayed with him for weeks. His opponent had been just too strong. Six months later his strength surpassed Pyson’s and he’d taken great pleasure in thrashing the older boy. He didn’t know why, but Balfruss found himself telling Torval the story.

  “The same happened to me.”

  “Why do you serve Taikon?” asked Balfruss, finally releasing his shield. If Torval intended to kill him he would have done so by now. “Surely you can see how insane he is?”

  “He is mad,” admitted Torval, “but he keeps pulling back only to skirt across to the other side. Recently he’s spent more time over the line, but that’s partly my fault.”

  “Was he just another experiment, like the Splinters?”

  The Warlock sat down on a window ledge and looked up at the night sky. He seemed completely at ease. Balfruss wondered if he could catch the Warlock unawares and kill him before he could defend himself, but his instincts told him he would be too slow.

  “It was an experiment of a kind,” conceded Torval. “I gave him the artefact to help him unite the west. The Zecorrans and Morrin in the north needed a bauble to make them believe he was their prophet.” Torval laughed at that. “I didn’t think the idiot would swallow it. He’s more paranoid than I thought.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s changed him in ways I never anticipated.” Torval seemed genuinely puzzled, which was probably something rare, because for once he didn’t have all the answers. “But I’m making the best of it. We both get something from our arrangement.”

  “Why did you come here tonight?” asked Balfruss, quickly tiring of Torval’s rambling and rapid mood swings. “What do you want?”

  Torval’s smile showed far too many teeth. “I want you to realise that the others mean nothing. I want you to admit that we’re better than all of them. That we’re superior.”

  Balfruss shook his head. “I’m the same as every other man.”

  “Hold on to your false modesty a while longer,” said Torval, getting to his feet. “But it won’t last. The day will come when you realise we’re far beyond these mortal men. On that day, I will face you on the battlefield and we will shake the very foundations of the earth. The sky will split and mountains will tumble into the sea. We will bend the world to our will and we will show them exactly what we are capable of.” Torval’s eyes were fevered. “And even if you win, they will hate you and fear you like no other man in history. Because they will know, deep down in their hearts, that Gods walk among them.”

  The Warlock started to walk away down the corridor and with each step he faded like a desert mirage. Before he reached the end of the corridor he’d vanished.

  CHAPTER 20

  Normally Talandra sought out the peace and quiet of the royal chapel when she needed a moment alone. She came to sit quietly and think, although not for the usual reasons. If the Patriarch asked, she would lie and tell him her thoughts were of a spiritual nature, rather than espionage and politics. Today she didn’t have to lie.

  At any moment she expected her father to come blustering through the door, make his way down the row of pews and sit down beside her. If she closed her eyes and focused she could almost smell him. His presence still echoed along the corridors of the palace.

  It would be a long time before she stopped looking for him.

  Everyone in the palace and the city grieved with her family, but all of them had only known the monarch, not the man who wore the crown. Talandra would never claim that her father had been perfect, but he’d been a steady and encouraging force her entire life.

  The chapel door creaked open but Talandra didn’t turn around. Shani sat down beside her and together they stared in silence at the stained-glass windows that depicted creation at the hands of the Maker. She’d grown up hearing the stories all her life. The seven wonders, the seven early races of mankind, the seven oceans and the seven sins that mark the fall of humanity. Despite not being deeply religious, and even after she learned about other faiths, she always felt most at ease in a church of the Maker.

  As a child, Talandra had questioned the Matriarch, a skinny woman with a shrill voice, who had grown increasingly exasperated by her endless questions. Eventually she’d resorted to avoiding Talandra or quoting scripture when she didn’t know the answer. It was one of the most disappointing moments in her life as a child. The sudden realisation that adults didn’t know everything and that no one had all of the answ
ers. The skinny Matriarch had died a few years ago and a more patient priest had taken her place.

  Shani’s hand crept into Talandra’s, startling her.

  “You shouldn’t,” said the Princess.

  “It’s not unseemly to offer comfort to a grieving friend,” said Shani, giving Talandra’s hand a squeeze. After a moment she returned it, glad for the warmth and contact of another person.

  “Did you pray to the Maker for your father?” asked Shani in a hushed voice. The chapel was large enough for twenty people but they were alone. A door at the back to the priest’s quarters stood open, but Talandra thought she was elsewhere today.

  “Yes I did,” said Talandra, her voice muffled by the thick blue and grey curtains that covered the cold stone walls. “And I prayed for the Prince of Yerskania.”

  Talandra felt Shani stiffen beside her. “Why didn’t the Queen fight?”

  “She can’t take the risk.”

  “The risk of what?”

  “That her country will become another Shael,” said Talandra. It seemed apt to be talking of sorrow and death in the chapel. The Maker’s scripture was full of stories of warring brothers, duplicitous Kings and Queens and savage armies that clashed to claim countries of their own before the land had names and boundaries. “Most of Yerskania’s warriors are fighting here, with the rest of the western army. There aren’t enough members of the Watch to stop an invasion into Yerskania. Her country and people have already suffered, with thousands of her warriors dying for her disobedience, and now this. A personal attack on her family.”

  The same family had ruled in Yerskania for generations and now her son would never father any children. One of her daughters could take the throne, but only if Yerskania were free. Thinking about the succession of Yerskania reminded her it was time to begin the process of finding Thias a wife. She had a few names in mind already, those who would be useful allies in the future.

  “I’ve just received a report from Zecorria,” said Shani. “High Priest Filbin has returned home and he’s started making some noise.”

  “That’s good news at least,” said Talandra, turning her hand over and looking at the grey veins beneath the skin on Shani’s hand.

  “There are rumblings about blasphemy, pollution of the faith, even a story of him flagellating himself in public.”

  Talandra raised an eyebrow. “Is it true?”

  Shani shrugged. “Perhaps. Filbin has yet to speak out in public against Taikon, but it will happen soon. It’s a shame the people of Yerskania are so divided among different religions.”

  “Then we need to unite them around something else. Most people think the Yerskani care only about profit, but they’re incredibly patriotic.”

  “The Queen,” said Shani and Talandra smiled.

  “Right now the people are angry. They were grieving for their loved ones who died in the war, and now many feel personally slighted. They loved the Prince and they love their Queen. He was the future of their country and now it’s been taken from them.”

  “Perizzi is a city full of merchants,” said Shani, shaking her head, her tawny eyes narrowed in frustration. Talandra couldn’t help staring at her lips as Shani thought it through. “Surely you don’t want to arm them?”

  “No. They wouldn’t survive more than a day. But a city full of merchants means a lot of money and goods that need to be protected. The Drassi are supposedly part of the western alliance, and yet we’ve not seen one of them fighting on the battlefield.”

  “Because no one was paying them to fight,” said Shani.

  “The merchants have the money to hire their own army. It will have to be done carefully and with some subtlety, so the Yerskani still believe it’s their rebellion, but it will be the Drassi who free Perizzi from Taikon’s stain.”

  “They’ll need to unite behind someone charismatic,” mused Shani, lightly running a finger across the back of Talandra’s hand in a way that she found very distracting. “Someone eye-catching and bold.”

  “A fat merchant with a toupee won’t inspire anyone,” murmured Talandra, closing her eyes as Shani’s delicate fingers moved across the skin of her forearm.

  “How about a bold blonde beauty from Yerskania?” asked Shani.

  “That sounds perfect.”

  With obvious reluctance Shani stood up. “I’ll get in contact with Roza. See you tonight?” she asked.

  “I’d like that.”

  The chapel door opened and a royal guard entered.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he whispered, staring at the altar with reverence. “But Prince Thias asked to see you.”

  Shani walked past the guard, who barely looked at her as he’d become so familiar with her presence. He had no idea of her value or importance to Talandra. If recent events had taught her anything, it was that she should enjoy every moment because tomorrow it could all end. Once Thias had taken the throne she could look to her own future. With the feeling of Shani’s touch lingering on her skin, Talandra hurried out of the chapel.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Sheepdog and Whistle wasn’t the nicest tavern in Charas, but the food was decent, the owner seemed honest and the beer wasn’t watered down. It mostly catered to locals rather than travellers, but a lot of people had already left the city in readiness for the siege. Without the local warriors it would have been empty, so the owner voiced no complaints.

  The crowd was probably louder than his usual, but there were a couple of big lads lurking, just in case anything got out of hand. As Vargus came through the front door most heads in the room turned his way and everyone waved or smiled. He didn’t know more than a dozen by name, but they all knew him. Vargus tried his best to ignore the tingling across his skin from so many people staring.

  A locally brewed pale ale was on tap, but there was also imported dark ale from Yerskania for those with a hankering. In the current climate the portly owner kept the barrel out of sight, but he was happy to fetch Vargus a pint when he asked.

  Hargo and the others were already well into their cups by the time he sat down. The mood in the tavern was sombre, as it was across the whole city, and he doubted these were the only people in Charas tonight that were toasting the late King. Orran was absent from the usual crowd and there were some new faces, lads who’d recently joined the squad. There were also a few noticeable absences, Tan, Curly and, more recently, Rudd. The skinny man had died horribly, gurgling and gasping for breath, as blood pumped from a savage wound in his throat. It took him less than a minute to die.

  “There you are,” slurred Hargo, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. “Was jus’ telling the boys about you spearing that fucker in the throat.”

  Vargus approached the table and a seat was cleared for him.

  “Tell them. Tell them what he did,” insisted Hargo, his head lolling forward as if he might fall asleep at any second.

  “He just kept walking round and round,” muttered Vargus. “Like a headless chicken. Took him a long time to die.”

  “Funniest thing I ever saw,” said Hargo, but he didn’t laugh and didn’t look even slightly amused. A few smiled to indulge the big man, but no one laughed. It wasn’t something any of them thought was funny. Not any more.

  The war was taking its toll on all of them. This break from the front line was overdue for the squad, but he wondered if there would be another.

  For a time Vargus sipped his beer and let the conversation wash over him. The streets outside were wet from a recent shower, and he was tempted to take off his boots and leave them by the fire. He’d avoided losing any toes on the campaign so far and didn’t want to start now. After a few minutes he realised that while the others were still talking Hargo was staring.

  “Are you all right? Because you look like shit,” said Vargus.

  Hargo grinned. “I feel it.”

  “You should do that in your tent.”

  This time Hargo’s laugh was genuine. “Not that. The thrill. The thrill of being alive.”

 
Vargus noticed he wasn’t slurring his words as badly as before. Looking down at Hargo’s half-empty glass, he suspected it was the big man’s first. It didn’t even count as a warm-up for him.

  “What’s brought this on?”

  “When we’re up to our balls in it, the mud and the blood, there’s no time to think. It’s just hack and slice and chop,” said Hargo, touching the Yerskani cleaver at his waist. “All I can do is try to stay alive.” He stopped suddenly and looked away, wiped at his face and took a minute.

  Vargus rested a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’re all scared of dying. Me more than most.”

  When Hargo turned back, his eyes were still red, but they were dry. “The Brotherhood, or whatever you want to call it. I know it’s changed me, but I never believed the other stuff you said. About being glad to be breathing. I thought it was religious shit you were spouting.”

  “I’m not a priest, you got that, you big bastard?” said Vargus, digging his fingers into Hargo’s shoulder. He relented when the big man nodded. “I told you about it, but the idea was passed on to me from someone else. I didn’t start it. So don’t go making me into some kind of saint or leader.”

  Vargus sat back and slowly sipped his beer, forcing himself to calm down. Hargo hadn’t taken offence at being knocked on his arse in public. He wouldn’t take offence at being called names.

  “Well, you said it, and the words took root. I didn’t want them to, but they did,” said Hargo, breaking the strained silence between them. “Some of the lads wouldn’t have made it this far without your words. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  Vargus looked closely at the man who’d fought beside him every day in the war. His face was harder and leaner than when they’d first met, and his eyes burned with a hunger that hadn’t been there before. Scars and cuts marked his thick arms and a piece of his right ear was missing. To look at him, most would only see a thick-headed brute, or maybe a good soldier. But Vargus could see there was a lot more going on behind his eyes than he let on.