Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  Finn sighed and stared down at the sword on the table. He seemed lost in thought so Balfruss left him alone, enjoying the rest of his drink in silence.

  Not far away the tired musicians were having a well-deserved rest, but despite the hour the crowd showed no signs of going home. The landlord was urging them to play again and people all around started cheering them on. A slow clap started to get them moving and soon almost every person in the room was applauding. A third musician, carrying a set of bamboo pipes from Shael, joined the other two on the little stage. They let the noise from the crowd build before the lead musician finally agreed with a florid bow. The crowd roared then fell silent in expectation. The trio launched into a fast-paced tune that Balfruss remembered hearing as a boy. It was about reading the future and finding true love from the pattern in a rug, or some such nonsense. Within a few minutes everyone was clapping and singing along and he couldn’t help smiling at the buoyant mood.

  Vargus tapped him on the shoulder and he turned back to see Finn had fallen asleep. The warrior reverently put Finn’s sword in its leather scabbard and then slung it across his back alongside his own blade. Working together they managed to get Finn to his feet. The smith was a massive dead weight and they struggled to keep him upright, but thankfully the crowd made space for them. No doubt they were glad to see the back of the Battlemages.

  Outside the air was cooler but their burden no lighter. It was going to be a long walk back to the palace.

  “Do you think he really heard any of what we said?” asked Vargus.

  “I don’t know. The wound is deep and he hates what he’s become,” huffed Balfruss. “Fucking Grey Council.”

  If they hadn’t abandoned their posts, the Red Tower wouldn’t have become so disorganised and Battlemages wouldn’t be so rare. Seekers would have identified Finn’s ability years ago. If they’d done their job Finn would be the most powerful Battlemage alive. He might have been able to stop the Warlock by himself and save thousands of lives. Maybe he could have ended the war before it began.

  “You don’t blame the Warlock?” said Vargus.

  “I blame him too, but a lot of people would still be alive if the Grey Council hadn’t deserted us.”

  The noise from the tavern faded as they shuffled Finn towards the gates of the Old City. Not for the first time Balfruss wished Finn was a much smaller man. As his muscles began to burn he considered using magic to carry the smith. Gritting his teeth against the pain they pressed on.

  “Is it true what they say about the Warlock?” asked Vargus. “We hear stories in camp, but I don’t believe most of them.”

  Eager for a distraction to keep his mind off their burden, Balfruss was happy to talk. “What have you heard?”

  “That Taikon is dead and the Warlock controls his corpse like a meat puppet.”

  “Sadly that’s not true. Taikon is still alive, but he’s completely insane.”

  “I heard he was always mad, but the Warlock made him worse,” said Vargus.

  They paused to catch their breath, leaning Finn against the side of a building. Balfruss took a moment to stretch his back and rest his aching shoulders.

  “The Warlock gave Taikon an artefact, some ancient relic.”

  “Magic?” asked Vargus, rolling his shoulders.

  Balfruss nodded. “Taikon was paranoid about it being stolen, so he swallowed it. No one knows what it is, but it made him worse. Drove him over the edge.”

  “If I had a magic stone in my belly, it would probably do the same,” mused Vargus. “Ready?”

  They pulled Finn to his feet again and resumed their long walk. A few minutes later Balfruss was glad to see the gates of the Old City.

  “Do you know where the artefact came from?” asked Vargus as they passed through the gates. The guards had seen them pass the other way so they just waved them through.

  “There are rumours, but I have a theory,” said Balfruss.

  For a few minutes they shuffled along in silence. The muscles in Balfruss’s arms and shoulders were screaming at him to put Finn down and yet he kept smiling at the pain in his joints.

  “I’ve got time,” said Vargus. He sounded out of breath and Balfruss realised his own breathing was getting loud.

  “I think it might be a relic from one of the old religions. There are stories about priests healing wounds and bringing the dead back to life.”

  “A priest of the Twelve?”

  Balfruss peered curiously at Vargus but the warrior was staring straight ahead, watching their path for obstructions. Not many people knew about the Twelve. Most thought religion started with the Maker.

  “No. I was thinking of those that came before the Twelve. The Triumvirate.” This time Balfruss felt Vargus’s stare and their eyes met briefly.

  “I’m surprised you know about them.”

  “I could say the same thing.”

  Looming over the top of nearby buildings stood the palace at the heart of the Old City. The upward sloping streets were more pronounced and the muscles in Balfruss’s legs began to pull more fiercely.

  After what seemed like the longest hour of their lives, they stumbled through the front doors of the palace. The guards recognised Vargus and knew all of the Battlemages on sight. Although their presence made some servants in the palace nervous, the guards also saw the wisdom of keeping them close. After what had happened to the King no one was taking any chances with protecting the Queen.

  Finn was still completely unconscious and had started to snore. As they manhandled him along the corridors and up the stairs he didn’t stir, not even when they accidentally knocked his head against a wall.

  Eventually they reached Finn’s room and after shuffling sideways through the door they dumped him on the bed. He fell in a heap and continued to snore, lying face down. Balfruss stretched out his back, working out the kinks before taking a minute to catch his breath. He was slick with sweat, even more exhausted than when he’d seen Vargus waiting at his bedroom door, and yet he was glad. It felt good to hear his heart pounding and his whole body throb with tired muscles. Vargus was winded but he recovered quickly.

  They rolled Finn onto his side, pulled off his boots and covered him with a blanket before retreating into the corridor.

  “I’m glad you came to get me,” said Balfruss.

  “I’m just glad it didn’t end in violence,” said Vargus. “Magic or otherwise.”

  Balfruss’s headache had returned with a vengeance and he was practically asleep on his feet. Vargus left in search of his own bed and when Balfruss lay down he fell asleep almost immediately. But his dreams were not peaceful. His mind’s eye swarmed with images of burning cities in Shael where charred corpses walked through the streets, beseeching him to end their suffering.

  Balfruss came awake with a start, bile rising in the back of his throat but he pushed it down. One man was responsible for everything that had happened. Rage worse than any Balfruss had ever felt before burned inside. His hands began to shake and blue fire spread along his arms until he was completely engulfed in flame. The Warlock would pay for what he’d done.

  CHAPTER 32

  It was a cool day and a gentle wind blew in from the west, bringing with it an array of smells and the distant sound of voices. The combined army of the west lurked at the edge of her vision, slowly and inextricably marching towards Charas, her city, her home. Talandra tried not to look too hard at the assembled army, or attempt to count the men. There were simply too many and she’d already spent an hour studying them through her spyglass after running through strategies with her Generals.

  She took a deep breath and forced the muscles in her face to relax until she looked calm. Breathing slowly and evenly she put one hand on her sword, to prevent it tangling her legs, and stepped out onto the battlements.

  It was the first day of the siege. Others had reassured her it was their best chance to beat the enemy, and Talandra believed them. She trusted their experience and the plans they’d made together
, but that didn’t stop the nerves.

  Her warriors were in place, spaced out along the wall, armed to the teeth, and at their feet lay various tools and implements of war. Pronged and notched iron spears to repel ladders, heavy axes and maces, spare arrows, rations, medical kits, water canteens, unlit torches, and in the courtyards and streets below, huge cauldrons full of bubbling oil. The courtyards nearest the western wall had been cleared and piles of rubble sat beside six catapults. Each could throw huge stones twice as big as a horse. The engineer had been as good as his word, and despite several field tests, he raced between the six engines making final checks.

  Nearby the reserves sat in neat lines, talking and gambling, trying to distract themselves from what was about to happen. Surgeons, nurses and stretcher bearers lurked in doorways, smoking, dozing quietly and staying out of sight as much as possible. No one cursed or wished them ill, but no one spoke to them either. No one needed them yet, but they would. Buildings were set aside for what must inevitably happen, where Sisters of Mercy and more surgeons waited with sterile tools, a mountain of bandages and priests for last rites.

  The mood was tense but only a few men seemed anxious. Their collective fear was being eased by the men that passed through their ranks.

  Graegor stalked through the streets and then up to the battlements where he glared at the enemy before spitting over the wall. As ever he was dressed in black mail over ragged furs, a plain short sword on his belt and a shield strapped to his right arm. In his left hand he carried the lethal axe that was already infamous for saving her father from an assassin. Wherever the black General went, men stared at him with a mix of awe, fear and respect. A few brave men asked what he thought of the enemy and the response was always coarse and to the point. Graegor swore, spat and made vulgar gestures. The men laughed and relaxed at his dismissive attitude towards the invading army. He gave them strength and hope that they might see tomorrow, if they just held on to the shreds of their courage.

  Walking through the men in the opposite direction was Vannok Lore. Like Graegor, the younger General had earned his position the hard way. Having no friends in high places and being common born, he’d received no preferential treatment in his career. Vannok had started in the front line and risen up through the ranks due to skill, hard work and sheer determination. He was tough, slow to anger, intelligent and a damned good fighter, which always helped. Men shook his hand, clapped him on the shoulder and offered him toothy grins. They were ready and didn’t want to let him down.

  Thias and Hyram moved through the reserves and the response from those warriors was no less awed. Talandra wondered what would happen if she went to meet the men. Would they smile or just stare? Would they even recognise her? Would they think her a foolish girl playing dress up as a warrior?

  Each man down there knew how to wield their sword and had used it many times to defend their life. The blade at Talandra’s side had not been drawn in years and had been gathering dust until two days ago. Her father had insisted all of his children learn how to fight and, ever the dutiful daughter, Talandra had complied with his wishes. She knew all the basic forms and understood the principles, but she wondered if she could actually kill someone. She would never be anywhere near the front line, so would never find out. Thias and Hyram had asked permission to fight but Talandra had refused their request. There might come a time when the men needed something to inspire them. A symbol that all hope was not lost, but they were not that desperate yet. Talandra put the thought to one side and focused on the present.

  She wasn’t here to fight on the wall. That wasn’t why her brother had given up his rightful place on the throne. Talandra thought on that for a moment, on what it must have cost him and why she was here in his place.

  As she stepped onto the battlements a few men turned in her direction. Much to her surprise a cheer went up that spread as far as she could see. The roar of the crowd became deafening as men stamped their feet, rattled blades against their shields and chanted her name.

  Talandra remembered how her father would act in these situations and struggled to do the same. She kept her expression calm, acknowledged a few with firm nods and smiles and tried to appear relaxed, even though her heart was pounding.

  Vargus sat with eyes closed, resting his head back against the stones of the battlements. In the distance he could hear the steady tromp of thousands of marching soldiers and the rattle and squeak of siege engine wheels. The acrid stink from the oil below stuck in his nose and wouldn’t leave him despite a breeze. All around him hundreds of men made last-minute preparations for the coming battle.

  “You should take a look at this, Vargus,” said Orran. His voice held a mix of awe and fear. Curly whistled and nearby he could hear Black Tom’s endless chewing. “They’re huge. They got more than a dozen horses pulling each one.”

  “It’s not the towers I’m worried about,” came Hargo’s reply from somewhere above his head.

  “I’m fine where I am,” said Vargus.

  There was a pronounced silence and Vargus knew the others were staring. “What are you doing?” asked Orran. “Don’t you want to watch?”

  “What for?” asked Vargus, cracking open an eye. Orran opened his mouth to answer but didn’t know what to say. “Are they still marching towards us?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Vargus closed his eyes and got comfortable again. “So tell me when they get here. Until then I’m going to rest and finish digesting my last meal. I’m still a bit stuffed, but I’m going to need it. Every single mouthful. Because make no mistake lads, this is going to be the longest day of our lives.”

  A hush spread over the men immediately around him and Vargus knew his audience had grown. Opening both eyes he spoke directly to the men in his squad, to the faces he knew, but his voice carried beyond their ears to other men on the wall.

  “When they finally arrive, when they climb up here on their ladders and towers, they’ll break against this wall like the tide, over and over again. There’ll be so many of them you won’t believe it. Time won’t matter and the sun will stop in the sky.” Vargus took a deep breath and looked away. His mind was once again caught up in a memory from another war and a similar speech he’d made a long time ago.

  “That’s what it will feel like. That we’re outnumbered and that it’s hopeless to even try fighting. Looking at them will turn your knees weak and make you piss yourself,” he said with a gesture over the wall. “But, remember, you’re not alone. The only way any of us will live to see tomorrow is by trusting our brothers. You can’t fight ten men by yourself, but you don’t have to. I’ll be there with you, and so will Hargo, Orran, Black Tom and a hundred others. I might die today, but that’s all right, because there’s ten of my brothers who will take my place and kill the bastard that got me. You know that anyone here will guard your back and step into the breach, because we are one. It’s the only way we’ll win.”

  Vargus settled down again and just before he closed his eyes he saw a few men stand a little taller. Some leaned against the wall and one or two copied him and sat down to rest and wait for the enemy to arrive. He hoped they were ready, because this was the ultimate test and for many it would be their last day alive.

  Balfruss was the last of the five Battlemages to step onto the crowded western wall, but the warriors made room. He leaned forward against the stones and stared at the approaching army less than a mile away. Voices carried on the wind and he could hear officers shouting orders, the grunt and whinny of horse teams pulling the enormous siege towers, and the rattle of weapons and armour.

  Despite the proclamations of unity, the western army was split into distinct squads from different nations. To the right were the Morrin, clad in black leather with short stabbing spears and tall oval shields painted gold and red. Naked Morrin berserkers took up the front two ranks, their pale skin daubed with orange and yellow paint, each carrying a weapon in both hands. Many were already chanting, screaming and breaking rank, only to
be beaten back in line by officers with whips and quarterstaffs. Beside them were the steady Zecorrans, clad in mail painted with white lanterns and armed with a mix of swords, axes and pikes. A small unit of Yerskani militia held the centre, and on the left came the savage Vorga, dressed in little or no armour, but each carried an array of vicious weapons. Their rubbery skin was so thick it could deflect an ill-timed blow. The Drassi were absent from the army and Balfruss was pleased there were no golden-skinned prisoners from Shael being forced to fight.

  Balfruss spent only a short time looking at the soldiers before his eyes were drawn to the robed figures spread throughout their ranks. The five distinct figures were a part of the army, and yet they marched with space all around them in pools of silence. The Splinters carried no weapons, didn’t cheer or make threats, sang no songs and gave no signs they were alive. If not for the tiny spark of life fed into them by the Warlock they would be rotting corpses. They were nothing but husks. Shells of men and women.

  “We will release them,” said Thule.

  Balfruss nodded and wondered again how someone could do that to one of their own. It would be worse than death, to be utterly powerless and trapped in a prison of your own flesh, unable to resist or lie down and die. How self-aware were they? Did they even know what they were doing? Did they have any memories, or were they without thoughts? What happened when they slept? Did they dream?

  “I pray that they remember nothing of who they once were,” said Thule, answering his thought.

  He hoped Thule was right, but felt certain the Warlock wouldn’t care and had never thought about it.

  Although they couldn’t see him, Balfruss knew the Warlock was out there somewhere, controlling the Splinters. He scanned the colourful ranks of soldiers but saw no more people dressed in robes. This close to the walls a stray arrow or crossbow bolt would kill the Warlock just as easily as any other man. He considered the entire war beneath him, nothing more than an entertaining distraction, and yet he wasn’t brave enough to wear his red robe. Perhaps the Warlock’s brush with death had shaken him up more than Balfruss realised. Red rage started to creep in around the edges of his vision and Balfruss took a deep breath to calm himself. Soon, but not yet.