Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  The Zecorran gave him a strange look before stepping inside. He was probably more used to people hurling abuse in his face than engaging him in polite conversation and offering him a drink.

  “No, thank you.”

  A heavy object hit the floor and shattered, making Gunder wince.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” roared the officer, hurrying towards the kitchen. Gunder followed at a more sedate pace, as befitting an overweight man with a bad knee.

  As expected every cupboard and drawer had been opened and their contents scattered across the table and heaped on the floor. A couple of glasses had been broken and the shards were being ground underfoot by the thugs.

  “We’ve got to be thorough, Sir,” said one of the men with a grin that showed uneven yellow teeth. He pushed past Gunder and went into the front room. Taking out his sword, Yellowtooth pointed at a delicate black vase sat on the mantle above the fireplace. “Anything you want to tell us?” he asked, tapping the point of his blade against the vase.

  “I don’t understand,” said Gunder. With a sad shake of his head Yellowtooth pushed the vase off the mantle. It shattered against the tiled floor with a loud crash and the other men cheered from the doorway. Next Yellowtooth pointed his blade at the watercolour hung above the fireplace. It was a simple painting Gunder had picked up from one of the local markets. It wasn’t expensive and the artist wasn’t famous, but there was something about it that he liked. It depicted a busy day in port, with ships jostling for space on the docks and sailors swarming like ants as they unloaded cargo. His favourite part was the sky. A single white gull soared in a cloudless sky, high above the noise and the rush. It spoke to him of freedom and peace.

  “Anything to say?” asked Yellowtooth, pressing the tip of his sword against the canvas. “Favourite of yours, is it? Expensive, maybe?”

  Gunder was about to protest, but then stopped himself. He realised he was genuinely concerned about the painting. A cheap object that had no worth other than sentimental value. From his eye corner Gunder caught sight of his reflection in a decorative mirror, another local handicraft he’d picked up on a whim. A fat merchant stared back at him.

  “Anything you want to tell us, fatty?” asked Yellowtooth, getting impatient.

  “No,” said Gunder. The man slashed the painting while the others continued with the search, moving into other rooms of the house. The loss of the painting stung, but Gunder pushed away the feelings as other personal items around the house were broken.

  The officer looked puzzled when Gunder sat down and ignored the continuing destruction. A few minutes later the men returned from the other rooms looking annoyed and dejected. Sticking out of Yellowtooth’s pocket was a small white marble statue taken from Gunder’s sacred corner. One of the other men had suspicious lumps in the pockets of his breeches.

  “We didn’t find anything. No papers or nothing.”

  The officer pointed at the barely concealed icon. “What’s that?”

  Yellowtooth grinned as he pulled out the statue, a representation of the Lord of Light. “Illegal, innit. It’s not Taikon, the one true God, just that Lantern prick.”

  The officer snatched it away from Yellowtooth and backhanded him across the face. “Get out!”

  For a second it looked as if Yellowtooth was going to reach for his weapon. Then he saw the officer’s hand already resting on the hilt of his sword and changed his mind. “All of you. Empty your pockets then get out!”

  Looking suitably cowed the Chosen dumped several items by the front door and shuffled out. Once he’d regained his composure the officer carefully put the religious icon down on the table with a touch of reverence. “I apologise for my men and for any damage they’ve caused. I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

  “Nothing important was destroyed,” said Gunder, in a hollow voice. “It can be easily replaced.”

  “Well then,” said the officer. He clearly wasn’t sure what he was doing any more and seemed at a loss for words. With a vague shrug he went to the front door. Just as he was about to step outside, Gunder spoke.

  “I would offer a blessing, but I wouldn’t want to break any new laws.” The officer froze on the threshold and Gunder thought he would apologise again. With a sigh he went out, carefully closing the door behind him. Gunder sat down and stared around at the wreckage of his house.

  The silence that filled Gunder’s ears was so complete it made his ears hum.

  “I take it you heard everything?” he said to the empty room.

  “Most of it.”

  Roza came into the room from the kitchen. She was dressed in a long black cloak, but as she approached, Gunder caught a brief glimpse of her clothing underneath. The short black leather skirt, knee-high boots and black corset with red lace wasn’t her usual attire.

  He raised an eyebrow and she pulled the cloak tighter. “Should I ask?”

  Roza shook her head and he let the matter drop. He was aware she had several aliases, but this was the first time he’d seen one of her costumes. The clothes were very much at odds with Roza’s nature. Then again, who was he to comment? He barely knew where the fat man in the mirror ended and he began any more.

  “Do you want to change our plans?” she asked, gesturing at the front door with her chin.

  “No. I’ll just have to take more precautions from now on.” Gunder picked up the icon of the Lord of Light. The sculptor had been very careful not to commit sacrilege. The face inside the hood remained totally blank, without any human features, not even a shadow of a jawline or nose. A faceless man. It seemed quite apt. “How did your last meeting go with the local rebels?”

  “Good. Mercenaries from Drassia are continuing to trickle into the country and city in small groups. They’re being lodged in warehouses and walled estates that the Chosen wouldn’t dare approach. In a few days we’ll have enough men to hold the city and more close by. Enough to stop an invading army, perhaps.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you well?” asked Roza, taking a few steps closer.

  Gunder ignored the question. “I’ve spoken to several senior officers in the Watch. It’s painstaking and slow work. They’re being very careful with everyone, given recent events.”

  “I don’t blame them. Has something else happened? You seem… different.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ve received word from several contacts in the north. Civil unrest is continuing to mount in Zecorria with High Priest Filbin speaking out in public against Taikon. A few of the Emperor’s fanatics have even been attacked in the streets of the capital. There have also been some protests and demonstrations at Taikon’s new temples. But did you notice building has recommenced here on Taikon’s temple?”

  Roza grimaced. “I thought we’d done enough to sabotage that.”

  “Apparently not. The Seve army is withdrawing to Charas. They’re claiming it as a victory, which helped morale. As a result they’ve swelled the local ranks of the Chosen with thieves, thugs and pickpockets. Useless in a pitched fight, but a large group of men will intimidate anyone.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Gunder turned the icon over before seizing it by the base and smashing it down on the edge of the table. The head snapped off and rolled away under his chair.

  “Our orders are to push forward with the rebellion as fast as we dare. Strengthen Yerskania and free Perizzi.”

  “Is the war going that badly?”

  “No, but the siege is about to begin. Any birds or bats leaving the city might be shot down, so we may not receive orders very often going forward. Talandra also gave me one more order.” Gunder paused and thought about how best to phrase it.

  “From your expression it’s not good.”

  “We’re to prepare for the worst.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Roza.

  “That if Seveldrom should fall and the west wins the war, we’re to stay in character and continue working from the shadows.”

/>   Despite the bleak scenario he’d just laid out Roza was still looking at him with concern. He found it touching, and smothered that emotion too.

  “You have your orders. Keep me posted on the rebels.”

  She studied his face, looking deep into his eyes and probably read a lot more than he was used to sharing with others. Breathing deeply Gunder relaxed his facial muscles and shoulders until his body language became unreadable and his expression blank.

  She nodded slowly, and went out the door without another word.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was well past midnight when Balfruss stumbled towards his room in the palace. After a long day the army was finally inside the city and the gates were sealed. The western army wasn’t expected to arrive for another two days, but that didn’t mean there was time to rest during the interim. His first day in the capital had been filled running drills with warriors and endless meetings with the Queen and her advisors. He hoped that after such a tiring day he would fall asleep the moment he closed his eyes, and mercifully rest without dreams.

  As his bedroom door came into view Balfruss came to an abrupt halt. Crouched in front of the door was a man. For a split second he thought it was the Warlock, but realised his eyes were playing tricks on him. The warrior looked nothing like Torval, a tall man with a grizzled face, deep blue eyes and shaven head. He was thick across the chest and his arms were criss-crossed with old scars. Most surprising was the sword on his back and the heavy daggers on his belt. No one apart from warriors guarding the royal family were allowed to carry weapons in the palace.

  “I’m Vargus,” he said, offering his hand. Balfruss shook it and took further measure of the man. His grip was firm but not crushing, suggesting a man of strength who didn’t need to prove it. There was also a careful, measured look in his eyes that spoke of wisdom and an instinct for survival.

  “I need your help with Finn,” said Vargus.

  Balfruss leaned against a wall and closed his eyes for a moment. “What happened?”

  “He’s in The Tin Whistle. It’s a warriors’ tavern.”

  Balfruss rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache was forming behind his eyes. “Has he caused any trouble?”

  “Not yet, but he’s been drinking for hours and he won’t leave.”

  Everyone in the army knew who the Battlemages were and what they could do, and although no one had said it, Balfruss knew a lot of people were afraid of him and his brethren. The old folk story about angering a wizard and the explosive consequences was deeply ingrained in the general psyche.

  “Show me,” said Balfruss.

  The Tin Whistle was located in the New City and the long walk from the palace in the cool air helped Balfruss wake up. On the way Vargus didn’t speak unless spoken to and he seemed watchful for danger.

  “Expecting trouble?”

  Vargus spoke without turning around. “You never know. They closed the gates, but didn’t flush out all the rats first.”

  Balfruss heard noise from The Tin Whistle long before he saw the tavern. Music from fiddle and drum, surprisingly in tune, drifted along the streets, and he could also hear a crowd of people stamping their feet in time to the music. As the tavern came into sight the music reached a crescendo and the noise from the crowd increased. Rich golden light spilled through windows onto the street, and Balfruss was surprised to see a few tables outside. Given the current circumstances, rules about drinking on the streets must have been eased.

  Thankfully it looked as if there hadn’t been any trouble, as the mood of those drinking outside remained friendly. Most were leaning into the tavern through the windows, singing along with everyone else. Not far away Balfruss spotted two enforcers keeping watch, but tonight they had little to do except tap their feet to the rhythm. The music swelled one final time and the tavern erupted in a huge round of applause.

  Vargus led the way through the packed room, filled with warriors drinking away their wages, and valiant barmaids trying to keep up with the thirsty crowd. The room was warm from so many bodies pressed together and the musicians were dripping with sweat from their exertions. Every tavern was experiencing its best trade in months and this would continue until the siege ended. If the war didn’t end soon the warriors would drain every barrel in the city.

  Every chair and space in the room was filled, except for one table against the far wall with only one occupant. Balfruss went straight towards it and was surprised to see a long sword on the table in front of Finn. A dozen empty glasses were lined up beside the blade and the smith was nursing another half-empty glass. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a dangerous gleam behind them. He was desperate for a fight.

  People carried on talking and laughing as if nothing was wrong, but Balfruss noticed a few glanced nervously in their direction. Vargus sat down beside him and touched the hilt of the long sword with reverence.

  “That’s beautiful,” said Vargus. At first glance it looked exactly like every other sword Balfruss had seen, until he tilted his head to one side. The steel had a green tinge one second and then shifted to pale blue the next. It was an elegant blade that bore no fanciful decoration or unnecessary adornments. A simple weapon created with its purpose in mind over style. Nevertheless, the sword was the work of a master smith.

  “You’d think so,” slurred Finn. His voice was rough and cracked as if he’d been shouting, or perhaps crying for hours.

  “What is it?” Balfruss was keen to get Finn talking. A fight in the tavern with magic would kill everyone and bring down the building on top of them.

  “It’s what I’ve been working on at night,” said Finn. He stared at the sword with a mixture of hatred and despair. Balfruss reached out a hand towards the blade before pulling up short. “It’s safe,” Finn reassured him.

  The metal felt cool to the touch but Balfruss could sense something stirring beneath the surface. A faint prickle of energy danced across his fingertips. He pulled his hand back as if burned, but the skin was unmarked. Finn smiled but it quickly became a grimace, painting his face with misery. He downed the last of his ale and waved the empty glass towards one of the serving girls. She keenly avoided making eye contact and he growled.

  “This was forged from that weird lump of metal?” asked Balfruss, trying to distract the smith.

  Finn nodded. “Star metal. No one has done it before. Ever,” he said, thumping the table, and all of the glasses jumped and clinked together. “I took it to the Forge Masters in the Old City.”

  From the corner of his eye Balfruss could see Vargus staring in wonder, or perhaps fear, at the sword. “What happened?”

  “At first they didn’t believe me. They thought I was a fraud until I showed them how.” A tiny spark of blue fire danced along Finn’s fingertips and over his knuckles like a coin before disappearing.

  “And then?”

  “They didn’t want to know,” snarled Finn. His hands tightened around his glass until it cracked. “They were scared of me and Maligne, for she is truly spiteful. Forge Masters, scared of a sword.” Finn’s laugh was harsh and bitter. It rattled in his chest until he started to cough violently. He raised the glass to his lips, remembering at the last second that it remained empty. A dangerous glimmer crept back into his eyes and Balfruss quickly lowered Finn’s hand.

  “I’ll get us a drink,” he promised. Balfruss waved at a barmaid, who was slow to approach. From her expression he could see she’d rather stick her head into a wasps’ nest than come too close. At first he thought she was just afraid of Finn, but then he realised it wasn’t only the smith.

  “Three ales please,” he said before leaning close to whisper. “Water his down. He won’t be able to taste the difference.”

  The girl nodded, took his money and disappeared into the crowd.

  “I told you this power was a curse,” muttered Finn. “Doesn’t matter what I can do, or how many times I save people, they’re still afraid of me. Everyone is afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid
of you,” said Balfruss.

  “The rest are,” said Finn with a vague wave of his hand at the crowd, “and they should be. This power, it’s not something we’re supposed to have. I can kill hundreds of people with just a wave of my hand. No one should have that power over others.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” said Vargus. Finn laughed but then just stared at the warrior with a puzzled expression. Their drinks arrived but the staring contest between the two men continued. The barmaid tapped the rim of one glass before leaving. Balfruss pushed it across the table towards the smith.

  “You’re not afraid,” admitted Finn with a grunt. “Why?”

  Vargus shrugged and took a sip of ale. “I’ve been around people with magic before. I know roughly how it’s done. Most people are scared because they can’t share what you can do.”

  “What do you mean?” said Finn, reaching for his ale. He took a drink and didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about the taste.

  “All of my stories are about stopping someone from hacking me to pieces at the last second. About muscles burning, my heart pounding and going blind from blood running in my eyes. I talk about nearly drowning in the mud after being stepped on and not knowing which way is up or down. I’ve been in a hundred battles, and in the end they all come down to a bloodbath in the mud. Do they sound like your sort of stories?”

  Finn shook his head.

  “Every warrior is afraid of dying,” said Vargus, gesturing at other men in the room. “If it comes at the end of a sword, it’s a tragedy and all, but it’s not surprising, given what we do. The risk comes with the work. I don’t like the idea of dying, I don’t want it to happen, but I can understand it.” Vargus paused then shook his head in bemusement. “But what you do, tearing people apart with a wave, calling down lightning, setting people on fire with just your mind, they don’t understand that. It makes you different, but you’re still just a man. Flesh and blood, like the rest of us.”