Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  Vargus offered his hand, still slick with the dead man’s blood, and the surgeon took it, coming to his feet with a grunt. His clothes hung off him as if they were borrowed from a larger man, but Vargus guessed what had happened. The war was taking its toll on the surgeon and the weight was dropping off him. If the man lived to see the end of the conflict he would be as thin as Orran.

  Vargus heard the heavy crunch of familiar footsteps approaching.

  “Something’s happening,” said Hargo, glancing between Vargus and the dead man.

  The black clouds above their heads started to pull together. An unusual smell began to wash away the stench of the dead, and this time even Hargo could feel the difference in pressure. The hairs stood up on the back of his forearms and the big man shook his head. They’d already seen what the Battlemage they called Titan could do to the enemy.

  “Reckon we’ll see Titan?” asked Orran.

  “I’m just glad the big bastard is on our side. He’s the most dangerous one out there,” said Hargo. Beside him Orran nodded, tightening the straps on his shield.

  Vargus had a different opinion, but didn’t say anything. Not far away, enemy units were pulling themselves together into a semblance of order. All around him Seve warriors started getting ready, locking their shields together, while bowmen winched back the arm of their crossbows. Behind them archers took up position and the surgeons pulled back out of range, away from the worst of the fighting.

  Vargus picked up his bastard sword, rolled his weary shoulders and cast a quick glance at the sky. Beyond the magically drawn clouds, the sky was clear and the sun still high. It wasn’t even noon and yet it felt as if he’d been fighting all day. Looking at the others he saw the same weariness in their movements. Their respite from the front line had given them a boost, but it had quickly eroded in only a few days. The memories of pleasure and home comforts had been ground out in the dirt, blood and carnage. Without another rest they would all die, veteran and fresh recruit alike, face down in the mud.

  There was no signal this time. No horn summoning them to battle, not even a roar of angry voices. The enemy just marched forward at a steady pace, weapons at the ready.

  “Let’s show these pig-fuckers what we can do!” shouted Vargus, trying to fire up the men. It roused them a bit, a few yelled insults, but not nearly enough showed any real passion. “And remember what they did to our King!”

  That caught the attention of every warrior in earshot. Those out of range had the message relayed to them. The same eerie silence that had settled on the men in the morning returned. The King’s murder was still a fresh wound and Vargus had just stuck his hand in and twisted. Now they were ready.

  There were only a few minutes until the Splinters and the Warlock arrived on the front line. After a lengthy discussion Ecko had volunteered to stay outside of the Link. The others would defend the army and he would keep an eye out for trickery and separate attacks.

  Ecko watched as the two huge armies crashed together again. There was no ocean or shore here, only two monstrous waves of flesh and metal. Even if the sounds of their chaotic embrace hadn’t reached his ears, he would have felt it. The earth shook with the pounding of thousands of feet, rattling his teeth and shaking leaves and berries from the few trees on the plain. The din shocked a flock of small grey birds into flight. They fled and then circled back, no doubt staring down at the armies with agitation.

  The blood of the dying and dead was already nourishing the soil, sinking deep into the land. More would follow soon enough. And from all of this death and carnage, new life would blossom.

  In this place, thick grass and tall golden crops would rise and the bodies would be gone, turned to bones and then dust. Red and blue flowers would spring up in dense patches, and no one would know where the seeds had come from, or why they grew here and nowhere else.

  As Ecko looked out across the battlefield, he didn’t see thousands of men fighting for survival, but an endless sea of green moving in the wind like waves on the ocean. And rising up from the middle of the land was a shining obelisk, sometimes black, sometimes amber, glowing in the sunlight like a sword from the heavens. An endless number of people journeyed to see it, a line that stretched to the horizon, coming from lands in the east and the west. Each came to look for names they recognised, searching for a way to put down the pain they carried inside.

  For all of their learning, the people of this land had forgotten much. They built towers of stone, wore thick boots and covered themselves in metal, severing their roots, cutting themselves off from the land. But the First People remembered. Despite their exile and being forced to begin again in a foreign country, they endured and still remembered. They remembered the past, they honoured the land, and in return it gave them many rich bounties. But most of all they honoured Elwei.

  “Lord, I am far from your embrace,” said Ecko as he knelt on the ground, digging his fingers into the rich black earth. “I beg you, do not forsake your humble servant. Give me the strength to face what must be. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid, Lord.”

  As he bowed his head in silent prayer a wondrous calm fell over him like a heavy blanket. His whole body tingled and his scalp prickled because he wasn’t alone any more. Elwei was with him, even here in this distant land, so far from home. Ecko felt a hand on his shoulder and tears of joy fell from his eyes.

  The others were already linked together, creating a huge barrier only those able to touch the Source could see. It pulsed and shifted as if it were alive and had a spirit. Flowing from each Battlemage into the barrier he could see threads of power in a variety of colours. There were too many to count and some he could not name, but they all spoke of life and passion, joy and love, and a terrible sorrow.

  From across the battlefield they came, black spots amid a sea of life. They were husks without spirits. Pits of darkness that moved like people, but they had not been individuals for a long time. Ecko could see narrow threads of power flowing into them, pulsing blue and grey, feeding the tiny spark of life that kept them moving. Sat at the centre of the web, like a fat spider, was the one they called the Warlock. He was a thousand colours by himself but mostly a deep, volcanic red. A mountain of anger and pain drove him forward, and where his heart should have been there was nothing at all. If they were stood facing each other Ecko thought it possible he might see through the hole in the Warlock’s chest. The Source endlessly fed and nourished him, and yet the Warlock was as hollow as his Splinters. No matter how much he learned, no matter how many lives he took, no matter how great his accomplishments, he was empty and would forever be.

  The Warlock directed the Splinters to attack with the barest trace of power. Ecko’s siblings reacted, blocking the first of many deadly strikes which would continue until the Splinters died or were told to stop.

  The warriors around him knew the hooded figure. His blood-red robe made him stand out amid the sea of black, grey and silver. The western warriors gave him room, and the Warlock walked unopposed through their ranks until he was standing on the front line. Normally it would be impossible to see inside the hood, but Ecko let the Source flow into him and his eyesight sharpened. The Warlock was younger than he’d expected, but behind his eyes Ecko sensed something ancient. All of his accomplishments were not his own. Someone, or some thing much older, had been schooling him.

  As soon as Ecko embraced the Source, the Warlock’s eyes scanned the sea of opposing faces until they were staring at one another. The Warlock grinned and Ecko smiled in return, but he wasn’t smiling at the boy.

  The first attack came so quickly Ecko barely reacted in time. The tip of it lashed his face like a whip, cutting a deep gouge in his left cheek. The taste of blood wasn’t new, but it still came as a surprise. Before the second strike came, Ecko drew more heavily on the Source as his feet sketched patterns on the earth. With a shower of sparks the whip-attack shattered against his shield, dazzling his eyes and filling his ears with a faint buzzing.

  Far away someo
ne was calling his name, but Ecko couldn’t risk looking away from the Warlock. The boy was still grinning, enjoying a new challenge and the promise of something he’d not faced before. Someone with power and control. A worthy adversary to test himself.

  The Warlock started to concoct something unpleasant, weaving together a nightmare with threads of malice. Tilting his head to one side Ecko touched the construct with a small filament of power, unravelling it in a heartbeat. The Warlock tried again and then again, but each time Ecko was able to pass the smallest thread of power through any shield and tug the nightmare apart, before it became fully formed. The Warlock met his gaze and this time Ecko was smiling at the frustrated boy. Eventually he would work out how it was done, but for now his complex shield only extended above the ground. He didn’t see Ecko reaching into the earth and coming up between his feet. A simple child’s trick and yet the boy still fell for it. While he was distracted Ecko wove a net with his other hand and cast it at his feet.

  Instead of trying to work out how it was done the Warlock showed his age and lack of discipline. With the impatience of youth he gave up with his weave and lashed out with brute force. A monstrous hammer thundered into Ecko’s shield, cracking his defences and making him stumble. Pressing his advantage the Warlock sent a shower of searing darts that would burn holes straight through his flesh. Even though his ears were ringing, Ecko sketched with his toes, reinforcing his shield, and the darts bounced away.

  The Warlock’s eyes widened as he realised how his shield had been breached. With a snarl of rage he sent his power deep into the earth to rise up underneath Ecko. A shrill scream of pain split the air as he became tangled in Ecko’s net. The weave, laden with traps and invisible blades, tore into his arms and legs. The pain was so intense the Warlock’s concentration broke, his shield collapsed and even the faint threads of power flowing into the Splinters stopped. As he fell forward onto his hands and knees Ecko sensed the flow of the battle changing around him.

  His siblings drew more deeply and began to lash the enemy soldiers with lethal strikes. The Splinters remained utterly immobile, unaware of the fighting all around them. When a stray arrow hit one of them in the shoulder the man didn’t react. In fact he showed no signs of life at all.

  Finn was right. Or at least, he dared where the others valued caution. The worst of this could be brought to an end in a day.

  The Warlock was still on his knees, wiping blood from his mouth, when Ecko made a short stabbing motion towards him with one hand. The incision must have hurt, but the boy didn’t show it until Ecko made a scooping gesture with his outstretched hand. The Warlock’s scream changed in pitch at the gesture, becoming strangled.

  Ecko sensed something hurtling towards him and barely had time to sketch a shield before it crashed into him. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and black spots danced before his eyes. When he regained his feet the Warlock was standing, one hand pressed to the wound in his chest. Blood oozed from between his fingers and a darker patch of red was spreading across the front of his robe.

  His threats were lost in the noise of battle, carried away on the wind, but the boy’s hatred was clear. Ecko expected more tricks or a complex weave to rip him to pieces, but instead the Warlock drew heavily on the Source. A river of power flowed into him, more and more until it seemed as if he must surely burst. The air around him crackled with pent-up energy, blue flames danced along his arms and shoulders, and his eyes began to glow. And yet, he channelled more power, as if he were dying of thirst.

  Too late Ecko realised what was about to happen. He sketched out a shield on the earth and crafted another with his hands, but part of him knew it would not be enough.

  Fire fell from the sky and the world turned white as the earth rose up to meet him. Every bone in his body throbbed and it felt as if his skin was on fire. Blood dripped from his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue. His shields had stopped the attack, but as he watched they started to fracture and fell apart.

  His fingers were weaving a second shield when something hit him again, hard enough for his feet to leave the ground. At that point all of his aches and pains, all of his worries about his people and the future, didn’t matter any more. They belonged to someone else. His hands twitched and he thought they were weaving another shield, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Ecko knew he was lying on the earth, as he was staring at the clouds, but for some reason he couldn’t feel his body. It should have worried him, but he was so tired and comfortable that it didn’t seem to matter any more. Above his head the sky was growing dark as dense grey clouds pulled together with unnatural speed. Thunder rumbled, distant and then much closer, and he felt a build-up of energy in the air that came before a lightning strike. There was a flash and then he saw nothing.

  CHAPTER 25

  Roza timed it carefully so that she was the last to arrive at the warehouse. Officially it was empty and currently available to rent, but unofficially Gunder owned it and several similar properties across the city. It was a good location for the first of the rebellion’s clandestine meetings.

  She slipped on the mask, pulled up the hood and then boldly stepped into the building. Normally the warehouse was cool, but with more than a hundred heavily dressed bodies inside, the air felt sticky. Every person wore a mask of some description, although some had gone for a much simpler approach of a hood with a scarf tied across the bottom of their face. She spotted Gunder in the crowd and had to repress a laugh at the ill-fitting peacock mask stretched across his face. The costume shop she’d bought her mask from had no idea as to the sudden cause of its good fortune, but the owner wasn’t complaining. Almost every mask in the shop had been sold in a day, and the masquerade for the summer solstice was several months away.

  Despite their disguises, people had made it very easy for her to identify them by not changing their clothes. Many were dyed very specific colours and others wore their family crests. None of them had removed their jewellery, which were mostly unique and priceless items. More obvious were three Morrin in the crowd who wore exceptionally tall hoods in a poor attempt to hide their horns. Amazingly no one was laughing at them.

  As she passed through the crowd Roza felt eyes lingering on her and waves of raw emotion radiated from the people. The whispered conversations ended as she jumped onto the raised platform at the far end of the warehouse. As she turned to face the crowd Roza cast back her hood to reveal blonde hair. This, combined with her pale skin, marked her as native to Yerskania.

  “My name is Petra,” a name as fake as her blonde wig, “and you’ve all come here for one reason. There are other gatherings out there. Those that prefer to talk endlessly, so if that’s as far as you’re willing to go, leave now.” She waited a few seconds, looking over the crowd expectantly, but no one dared move. A few had probably come along for the thrill, thinking it was exciting to play rebel, but they had no intention of actually lifting a finger to help their own country. They would slink away after this meeting and not come to the next one. Those who returned would form the heart of the rebellion. “I want to take back my country from those who have crippled it,” she declared passionately.

  “We should kill all the Chosen. Send a message!” someone called out.

  “Some of the Chosen are my countrymen. But, for a moment, let’s pretend we did kill them. Then what?” asked Roza. “How does that help us? Taikon will send his soldiers south, or the Vorga north to deal with us. He will focus his attention on Yerskania instead of Seveldrom.”

  “The Chosen arrest people for no reason,” someone complained. “The City Watch and Guardians of the Peace are outnumbered. We have to do something.”

  “We will, but it must be done at the right time and with great care, because the stakes are high. And I don’t just mean your lives, or those of your families. If we make a mistake, Yerskania will become another Shael.”

  She let that sit for a while, her words soaking into the crowd. They’d all heard the horror stories. De
ath camps led by the bloodthirsty Vorga who relished slaughter. Funeral pyres that burned day and night. Experiments being conducted on live victims. Mass graves filled with rotting corpses. The entire nation had become a country of slaves who were being worked to death. Those Yerskani who spoke out against Taikon were executed or they disappeared, and many believed they were sent south to Shael. If the Yerskani rebellion became public knowledge too soon everyone would suffer.

  “Then what do you suggest?” asked a man with an oversized hood.

  “The alliance is a fraud. We were all lied to.” Roza made sure her voice carried a hard edge, as if she’d personally been deceived by Taikon. “It’s time others knew what you all know. The Morrin are not evil butchers, but misguided people turned away from the Blessed Mother. The Zecorrans are not black-eyed devils. Their leaders have been deceived by the Warlock and his black magic. He manipulated them into believing Taikon is a prophet of the Lord of Light, twisting their faith.”

  “Lord of Light save us,” muttered someone and a few others repeated the blessing.

  “Yes, let us hope He will save us,” agreed Roza. “And the Maker, and the Blessed Mother too, because we’ve become idolaters. Taikon and his pet wizard have made a mockery of all faiths. Claiming one thing to our faces and laughing at us in private. We helped raise up a man who is not chosen of any God.”

  Again she paused for dramatic effect, letting her words sit with the crowd, and a faint murmur of conversation swept through them. In Yerskania people were free to choose their own faith. You were not spat at in the street, or treated as if you had the pox like some in the north. Those who didn’t give lip service to the Blessed Mother in Morrinow and the Lord of Light in Zecorria didn’t last very long. Atheists and those who didn’t conform chose to live elsewhere before they were banished or worse.