Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  A common misconception was that the people of Yerskania stood for nothing. That they were just greedy merchants and middlemen. That their only loyalty was to money, and their real places of worship were the banks. In truth, there was a deep-seated national pride and loyalty to the royal family, who had transformed them from a nation of fishermen and miners into shrewd business people. They were a rich nation compared to some, and while their wealth might be envied, their open stance on religion was not. Now their freedom was under fire and Gunder felt it was time to stir the ancestors.

  Six men dressed in bulky mail, with blue and white tabards over the top, marched towards Gunder. People gave them plenty of room on the wide streets, trying their best not to draw any attention to themselves. The Chosen were the new religious foot soldiers of Emperor Taikon, Overlord of the West.

  Two of the six black-eyed Zecorrans stared at Gunder as they marched past. One touched the heavy mace at his waist, but made no move towards him. A week ago there had been few of them in the city, perhaps fifty at most. Now their numbers had swelled and new recruits joined their ranks every day. The Chosen received three meals a day, a uniform, money, weapons and power. All they had to do was swear allegiance to the new Emperor. Most of those who had already signed up were the worst of the worst. People who enjoyed inflicting pain, power-seekers, the greedy, the desperate and the insane. There were only a few natives in their ranks, but Gunder thought it would only be a matter of time before more joined up to take advantage of what was on offer.

  He’d also seen the temple being erected on the site of the old pagan shrine. Something told him it wasn’t the first of these being constructed. A place of worship devoted to God-Emperor Taikon, the man who could not be killed.

  The burning down of the temple of the Maker had angered the locals, but without some military backup to support them, any rebellion was doomed to fail from the start against enemies both within and without.

  As he stepped into The Lord’s Blessing, Gunder was surprised to see all tables were occupied. Every face in the room turned in his direction, but, his face being familiar, they quickly went back to their conversations. Masson, the enforcer, sat near the door and beside him were two bulky men with scarred faces. Both were armed with swords and metal coshes, and from the way they held themselves they were not street toughs. They stared at his walking stick for a moment, but after seeing how much he leaned on it, they disregarded it. Masson nodded in his direction, but then went back to watching the street through the window.

  Gunder joined his friends, who had saved him a seat at their table. The grim and nervous expressions around the room told him he’d missed something.

  “Out with it. Before you burst.”

  “A group of Chosen tried to arrest someone,” said Zoll in a quiet voice. “A sailor.”

  “What did he do?” asked Gunder.

  Zoll shrugged. “Nothing. They made something up about smuggling. I think they wanted to commandeer his ship. Parrick’s a good man,” he said, gesturing with his chin towards one of the men by the fire. Parrick was a hook-nosed man with a shaven head, broad hairy arms and a stocky build. From the way those nearby deferred to him, Gunder guessed he was the ship’s Captain.

  “Every man and woman in the room stood up to defend him,” said Iyele with more than a hint of pride. He glanced briefly around the room at the crowd, which was the usual mix of locals and a spattering of Morrin and Zecorrans.

  “The Chosen. They will try this again,” warned Ramalyas, “and someone else will not be so lucky.”

  “I may not have been born here, but this is my home now. We should drive them out of the city,” declared Gunder.

  “How?” asked Zoll. “The army is fighting abroad and every day more Chosen are recruited. Already the Watch is outnumbered.”

  “These are troubling times,” agreed Gunder. “My spices come from the four corners of the world and are often hijacked by bandits or pirates. Extra protection at my warehouse would help me sleep at night. Perhaps a couple of Drassi Fists would be enough. Perhaps five or six, just to be sure.”

  As ever there were always a couple of hundred Drassi warriors for hire in the city and many more nearby.

  Iyele was quick to catch on. “Some of my wine is very expensive. I wouldn’t want to see it stolen. A few Drassi would secure my business.”

  “This will cost,” muttered Zoll.

  “Then let it,” snapped Iyele. “I will give up every coin and become a beggar on the streets if I must.”

  “It will take more than a few Drassi to drive them out,” said Ramalyas.

  “I’ve heard of several groups that support the Queen and her rightful place on the throne,” said Gunder.

  “Pah,” scoffed Zoll. “I have seen these people. Shouting slogans and marching up and down in front of the palace. They are nothing but sheep. One Drassi Swordmaster could scatter them.”

  “At least they show willing,” said Iyele.

  “They make a lot of noise, but they’re not the group I’m talking about,” said Gunder with a vague wave of his hand. “There is another group. True patriots who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

  “I’ve heard nothing of such a group,” said Iyele with a frown.

  “They’re very secretive,” said Gunder. “Some of them are business people, like us, and they take few risks. Their next meeting is tomorrow night.”

  “I will attend,” said Iyele.

  “As will I,” promised Ramalyas.

  When Zoll hesitated to show support, the others looked at him. “The Chosen. I do not agree with their methods, but what if Taikon is a prophet?”

  “Even if that were true, now he proclaims himself to be a God. He will replace all other religions with his own,” promised Gunder. “He’s already burned down one temple of the Maker.”

  “That was an accident,” said Zoll.

  “When did you ever hear of a stone temple accidentally burning down?” asked Gunder. “And now he’s building a temple of his own.”

  “Taikon—”

  “Promotes a perversion of your faith,” said Gunder, stabbing a finger at Zoll. “In your heart, you know he’s not a prophet. The people know it too, but they’re too scared to say it. Alone, we’re vulnerable, but together, supported by an army of our own, we cannot be stopped. We can reclaim this city from the Chosen and restore the Queen to her rightful place.”

  A heavy silence settled on their table as his words sunk in. The talk in the room flowed around them. Gunder caught snatches of conversations and most of them had the same tone. People were angry and tense. They felt personally slighted but couldn’t see a way to disperse the poison that had infected their city.

  Gunder let it sit with the other merchants for a while then moved the conversation on to other matters.

  Roza and the rest of the network would spread the word to other merchants and people of influence in the city. Tomorrow night the rebellion would begin to free Perizzi from Taikon’s corruption before it was too late and they were all bowing to his idol in church.

  CHAPTER 23

  The sun was barely over the horizon, but Vargus and the others stood ready, waiting in the growing light for the enemy. Not one man spoke or even whispered. Every face was tight with concentration and a murderous rage burned in every heart. Normally many took strength from seeing him on the battlefield, but today they all had something to prove to someone else.

  Spaced out along the front line stood only five of the Battlemages, shoulder to shoulder with the warriors. If they were nervous about Balfruss’s absence they didn’t show it.

  The magic users had come to Seveldrom from all over the world, and yet each had proven themselves sufficiently that they were as much a part of the Seve army as any soldier. The smith, the one some called Titan, stood clenching his scarred fists over and over. The heavy muscles in his bare arms jumped up and down, the air around him charged with energy. Vargus could see that Finn was impatient to begin, and he
could feel the smith drawing heavily on the Source.

  More worrying was the implacable and calm expression on the face of Thule. He didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe, and if not for the slow blinking of his eyes, most would think him dead. There was a lot of empty space around him and the smith, just in case. Eloise and her husband looked relaxed, their body language showing two people at ease, but Vargus could sense their nervousness. The little tribesman, Ecko, stood ready, his eyes scanning the land in all directions.

  It felt like hours before the enemy arrived. A sea of shaggy faces with horns from Morrinow, swarthy Zecorrans, and this time even the savage Vorga had come. Green coastal, brown marsh and even some of the smaller blue-skinned hill tribes were there. A sea of swords, pikes, axes and shields caught the first rays of sunlight that broke through the choppy clouds.

  The enemy’s hopes of a surprise attack were quashed as they saw the Seve army stood ready. Nearby a great horn rang out. A single clean note that shattered the silence, with a purity that made the heart soar. Seconds after came a horrendous roar of voices that destroyed the moment of beauty in a guttural cry for blood. Thousands of warriors joined together in a wordless cry of anger, rage and hatred.

  No ground would be given on this day. No mercy shown and no prisoners taken. The earth trembled as the Seve army marched towards the enemy, on the offensive for the first time since the war began.

  The clouds thickened overhead and a storm rolled in from nowhere. Thunder rumbled, but no rain fell in its wake. Taking long and slow deep breaths Finn tried to calm his mind and control his emotions, just as Eloise had taught him. He drew heavily on the Source, shaping and carefully manipulating thick cords of power into a gigantic hammer forged from his imagination. The grey clouds turned black and, reaching out with one hand towards the sky, Darius brought down lightning, directing its raw power into the face of the enemy.

  One bolt struck close to their front line, and their charge faltered. The second strike landed among the ranks, as did the third, sending them tumbling into the air, cooking men alive in their armour and blowing others apart, creating a rain of blood and body parts.

  Finn could feel every single hair on his body. The faces of the dying and the dead were etched in his mind with such clarity he thought he would never forget them. The blood rushing through his body sounded like a river in his ears. Every heartbeat within a mile echoed in his thoughts like drums in a monstrous orchestra, all clamouring for attention. And with each death the music receded and the call of the Source grew. A siren’s song that was so strong it made him ache right down to the core of his bones.

  The enemy soldiers began to look so small, as if he were growing taller or floating above them like a bird. He could see their tidy lines and units, hear the rattle of their armour, taste the fear that coursed through them. The Splinters were nowhere in sight, and the cost of their absence began to show. For every westerner cut down by a sword or axe, ten or a dozen were killed by the Battlemages.

  To his left Finn saw the little tribesman, Ecko, weaving his magic with brutal efficiency against a group of soldiers. It spread out from his hands like a spider’s web. An intricate and invisible net of wires that he laid over their heads. At first glance it looked harmless. Finn looked closer and this time he could see the hooks, spikes and blades hidden in the weave. With a twist of both wrists Ecko pulled the net tight, drawing it towards him like a fisherman reeling in his catch. A dozen men were split apart and sliced into gobbets of meat. Heads flew off and fountains of blood erupted from gaping mouths as invisible blades tore into their bodies. At first he thought Ecko was dancing with glee, but watching closely he saw his feet weaving patterns in the dirt. Even as he slaughtered the enemy, he wove a protective shield against surprise attacks.

  Darius’s expression remained utterly calm despite the storm that raged around him as he continued to strike at the enemy with summoned lightning. With a sweep of both arms, Darius brought the wrath of the storm down into the enemy ranks. They didn’t even have time to scream. Men vanished in bright white flashes, and chunks of blackened, scorched meat tumbled to the ground. The control and precision he wielded made Finn feel clumsy. Balfruss had taught him some control during their nightly lessons, but it was still meagre compared to the others. Finn used raw force like a giant hammer, to smash the enemy into a pulp, while they wove power into lethal weapons with great skill.

  The calm expression on Eloise’s face helped him focus and control his breathing. Despite what they were facing, the screams of the dying and the din of so many warriors, she remained serene and at peace.

  A horde of savage Vorga broke off from the rest and ran straight towards Darius. They whooped and clicked their teeth together, their bone armour rattling. As Eloise raised a hand towards them, a shiver ran across Finn’s body and his breath began to frost in the air. A vortex of swirling sparks began to gather in her outstretched hand, growing in size and spinning faster and faster. Heat continued to be leached from all around, and soon Finn lost the feeling in his toes. His bones began to throb as if he stood naked in the heart of a terrible winter storm.

  With a flick of her wrist, Eloise released the energy and a massive streak of fire rushed from her hand towards the Vorga, roasting them alive in a conflagration. The flow of fire kept pouring from her hand, as if it were hidden up her sleeve, and she swept the unnaturally sticky flames back and forth, setting more soldiers alight like dry stalks of wheat.

  As the flesh melted from the Vorga’s bones, the smell reminded Finn of his mother’s fish stew. Their high-pitched war cries quickly turned into gurgles and wet plopping noises as they dissolved. The oily black fat from their bodies sizzled and the fire swelled with new fuel, catching more warriors unawares, who burned to death in their armour.

  A stocky Zecorran pointed a crossbow at Darius, whose attention was focused on the storm. While controlling the fire with one hand Eloise pointed a finger at the crossbowman and made a twisting motion with her hand, snapping his neck.

  Furthest away in the line, and silent as ever, Thule faced the enemy soldiers with an icy detachment. With him there was no slow gathering of his will, no build-up of pressure or even a gesture with his hands. Groups of men simply dropped dead when he stared at them.

  Finn felt a shifting in the air. A change in pressure, as if he’d climbed into the mountains where the air was thin. His stomach lurched and for a moment he felt dizzy. There was an echo in his blood, a familiar calling from far away. He lost his concentration and the hammer he’d forged with his power dissolved. The warriors around him had no idea what was about to happen, but the other Battlemages felt it.

  “They’re coming,” shouted Eloise. Finn didn’t need to be told who they were. The Splinters. He’d been waiting for this moment since the last time they’d fought. The others had been horrified when Balfruss explained what had been done to them, but he knew the truth.

  They were prisoners. Slaves to a terrible power they didn’t want and hadn’t asked for. It had ruined their lives, and what little remained had been stolen by the Warlock. Their memories had been stripped away until they were nothing more than ghosts with a heartbeat. In truth they were already dead and just didn’t know it. Finn intended to give them peace in the hope that, one day, someone would grant him the same.

  As the five Splinters drew closer, Finn realised he could feel something different about them. A new heartbeat and a pulse he’d never felt before.

  “It’s him. He’s here,” whispered Eloise. The Battlemages exchanged a look and even the enemy soldiers hesitated in their advance. Somehow they could feel it too. The Warlock was taking to the battlefield for the first time.

  CHAPTER 24

  The dying man raised a hand to cover his face and hide his terror. Moments ago he’d been cursing Vargus, promising torture and death. With one swift thrust Vargus’s sword pierced the man’s chest, straight through the heart. Stepping over the staring corpse Vargus dragged his sword free and saw tha
t there was an unexpected lull in the battle. Those around him were looking for the cause, but he could feel it. The Splinters were approaching from the west, and each was drawing heavily on the Source. His skin tingled in response and his mouth felt dry.

  “What is it?” asked Hargo, cleaning his cleaver on a piece of cloth torn from one of the many corpses.

  “The Battlemages are coming.”

  “Theirs?”

  Vargus nodded. “And someone else.” He knew he’d said too much. There was no way to see them from where they were standing. Vargus moved away to help one of the surgeons before Hargo could ask how he knew.

  The crows were taking advantage of the lull, treating men where they lay or pulling them onto stretchers and dragging them back to the hospital tent.

  “Give me a hand,” snapped a fat, red-faced surgeon. He was trying to press down on a man’s stomach and reach into his bag at the same time. Vargus pushed down on the warrior’s gushing wound with both hands, making the man wheeze and his eyes bulge with pain. There wasn’t any breath left in him to scream. The ragged wound was deep and the blood flowing from it was dark and smelly. They’d cut into the man’s bowels and he was slowly poisoning himself. The surgeon took out a small purple vial, held it to the man’s lips and almost immediately he started to breathe easier. He closed his eyes and all of the muscles in his body relaxed.

  “You can stop now,” said the surgeon, taking a dagger from his bag. He sliced the man’s right leg on the inner thigh, severing the artery. In a few seconds the warrior was dead. It wouldn’t look like it to some, but Vargus knew it was mercy. No man could survive a wound like that. It would fester and the pain would become unbearable. After a few days of horrendous agony, the man would die screaming, covered in shit, coughing up blood and crying for his mother.