Battlemage

by Stephen Aryan

  Until now Balfruss thought speaking to someone a few hours’ ride away was miraculous. Thule had communicated with his brother in Shael, over a thousand miles distant.

  Thule broke the silence first. His smile was sad and knowing. “My brother was not a kind man. He was greedy and quite often selfish. But he was my blood and if I ever needed help, I knew he would give it, until his dying breath.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “He was a prisoner, held in one of the many camps since the invasion. He let me know that the Zecorran guards disappeared and recently the Morrin returned home. He thought the war might be over, but I told him we were still fighting. With only the Vorga still guarding the cells a revolt began. My people broke out and attacked their captors.”

  Thule had told him about the appalling conditions in the camps where hundreds of his people were stuffed into cells and were often the product of cruel games and experiments. The population had been decimated, whole cities turned to rubble and many of Thule’s people were dead or starving to death in filth.

  “Are you sure he’s not just asleep or unconscious?” asked Balfruss.

  Thule’s smile was sad and knowing. “No, I felt the sword enter his body. He’s dead, but at least he died a free man.”

  “We will free Shael,” insisted Balfruss. “The King swore it and the Queen will uphold his promise.”

  “I know.”

  For a time they were both lost in thought. For the first time since the war had started, Balfruss considered what he might do after it. The war wasn’t over, even if the alliance was falling apart, and they still had the Warlock and his Splinters to deal with. However, before this moment he hadn’t even let himself consider where he might go when it ended.

  He’d been travelling for a few years now, moving from place to place, criss-crossing the world, going wherever someone with his ability was needed. Even before the war had begun he’d been tired and in desperate need of a rest, but he’d kept pushing himself longer and harder.

  “You’ll go home, then,” said Balfruss.

  “To free my people, to see what remains and to rebuild.”

  “Without the Warlock the western army would crumble,” said Balfruss. “We could scatter them and retake your country together.”

  Thule was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “I don’t have Ecko’s vision, but I know that one day soon the Warlock will be defeated.”

  “You sound so sure,” said Balfruss.

  “I am, because you were right about him. He’s weak. Here,” said Thule, touching his forehead. “And here,” he said, touching his heart.

  “But he doesn’t seem afraid of anything,” said Balfruss.

  “That’s because he has nothing to lose. There is nothing he values or cares about.” Balfruss could hear the pity in Thule’s voice. “Every day we are tested in battle. We fight as hard as we can, because we must to preserve what we cherish. There is no other choice. When the Warlock faces something difficult, or grows tired, he just stops or sends in his Splinters to deal with it.”

  “Ecko was his first real challenge,” said Balfruss.

  “And he nearly died. Stripped of everything, the Warlock relied on brute force and still it almost wasn’t enough.” Thule shook his head. “My people have been starved, beaten and left for dead. They fight for their freedom and one day they will succeed, because there is no force more powerful than the desire to be free.”

  Since he had no family Balfruss thought about what he would do to protect his friends. He thought about Vann and his family, Eloise and Darius, his city and all of the people he didn’t know. Every day he fought for them because Charas was his city and his only real home. But for his friends, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect them. He would push himself to the edge and keep going because there was nothing more important. Against that the Warlock would always lose, and with a dwindling number of Splinters to cower behind, Balfruss knew it would happen one day soon.

  CHAPTER 36

  These visits to the hospital were happening too often. It seemed only moments ago that Vargus had been on his back with everyone gathered at his bedside. Now another of his lads had died, crying in the arms of a Sister of Mercy at the end, his insides ripped into shreds that couldn’t be mended.

  Only three of his original squad remained: Hargo, Orran and Black Tom. None of them had made it this far unscathed, and they’d lost many others along the way. Benlor had been the first, gone back south, a leg shorter than when he arrived, and most recent was Curly, sent home with one less arm. Thousands followed the code of the Brotherhood, but Vargus knew only a handful of them, and his name was no longer at its heart. He had been the beginning but wouldn’t be the end.

  Vargus paused at the entrance. The room stank of blood and fear and sweat, but he didn’t smell what he’d expect in a hospital with so many wounded. There were scented burners to try and drive away the smell of rot and festering wounds, but today he couldn’t smell it at all. Maybe the surgeons were doing a better job than he gave them credit for. He took another deep breath but only came back with the smell of unwashed bodies.

  As he ran a hand over his scalp, Vargus realised where part of that smell was coming from: him. He needed a shave, a bath and a fresh set of clothes, but they would have to wait. Food and sleep were all he had planned for the next six hours, anything else was a luxury. He cast one last curious look around the room, then went out after the others.

  The surgeon kept his head dipped forward, chin almost resting on his chest, as the grizzled warrior scanned the room one last time before walking out.

  “Is it bad?” asked the injured man. For a moment the surgeon had forgotten all about him. It wouldn’t do for Vargus, or any of the others for that matter, to find out what he was doing. Not yet anyway. Not until he was ready.

  Returning his mind to the present, the surgeon leaned closer to the man’s wounded leg. The fresh bandages were already soaked through with blood. There was also a strong smell, not too dissimilar to old cheese, coming from the wound. Pulling off the warrior’s boot he saw some of the toes were discoloured, two were yellow and black, and it was spreading to the rest of the foot.

  “Great Maker save me,” said the man on seeing his ruined foot. “Will I lose my leg?”

  “I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” said the surgeon, bending his head again, this time in prayer. When the warrior saw him clasping his hands together he started to weep. “If you’re a religious man, now is a good time to offer a prayer to your God.”

  As the surgeon leaned forward a pendant fell out from between the folds of his shirt.

  “What’s that?” The warrior was staring at his pendant and the surgeon quickly tucked it away.

  The surgeon glanced around in case anyone else had noticed, but no one was looking in their direction. “Nothing. Forget you saw it.”

  The warrior’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That wasn’t the Maker’s symbol, or the Blessed Mother’s.”

  “Course it was.”

  “That wasn’t for the Lord of Light either, was it?”

  “You’re just confused, because of the infection,” suggested the surgeon with a weak smile.

  “What was it? Let me see,” insisted the man, grabbing the front of his shirt with desperate strength.

  The surgeon reluctantly took the pendant out and showed it to the warrior. It was simply made, fashioned from iron to look like an open eye at the centre of a triangle.

  “It’s the symbol of Akharga,” he said in a whisper. “It’s an old God. One for medicine and healing. He’s supposed to be able to cure plagues and infection. I can’t do anything to save your leg, so I thought a prayer wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll take whatever help I can get,” said the warrior. He released the surgeon’s shirt and fell back.

  “Will you pray with me?” asked the surgeon.

  “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  The surgeon guided him and together the
y offered a prayer to the old God of pestilence and plague.

  After whispering a few words he sketched the symbol of Akharga on the man’s forehead, then covered the wound with both hands.

  “My leg feels warm.”

  The surgeon concentrated on the wound, picturing it free of infection and the blood circulating through the lower leg and foot.

  “My toes are tingling.”

  A few more seconds and then it was done. The warrior’s skin was paler and his heart was racing, but when the surgeon took his hands away the wound didn’t smell any more. The skin on the man’s toes was pink and all signs of the black toe were gone. Energy flowed into him, bringing a flush to his pale cheeks.

  “It’s a miracle!” gasped the warrior, on the verge of unconsciousness. A few seconds later he passed out. The surgeon took the chain from around his neck and put it over the man’s head, tucking it away under his clothing.

  His back made loud cracking sounds when he stood up, but the surgeon ignored the pain. Glancing around the hospital he inhaled deeply; not a single tasty infection or any delicious diseases.

  He left the hospital, moving deeper into the New City. Walking along Monstad Street he passed in front of the biggest church in the city devoted to the Lord of Light. Pausing in front of its open doors he spat and sneered at the edifice.

  “One day, you bastard,” promised Kai.

  CHAPTER 37

  Every day since the siege began, the Battlemages rose at the same time as the warriors. By sunrise they were standing on the walls in case of an early attack. Now it was well on its way to midday and still no sign of the enemy. This was the second day they hadn’t attacked, and although the respite was welcome, everyone knew it wouldn’t last. The majority of the Seve warriors were taking advantage, staying out of the sun and catching up on their sleep, but they were still on alert. Whether or not any of them could actually get any sleep with an army camped outside was another matter.

  The Battlemages gathered in an abandoned tailor’s shop, one street away from the city walls. Afraid of having the business destroyed during the siege, the owner had stripped it bare and left. All that remained was a table, four chairs, a couple of wooden dummies, and an old bolt of moth-eaten grey cloth. The bee-hive racks for storing cloth were fixed to the back wall, but every single cell was empty. The front door had been left wide open, and with nothing worth stealing there had been no damage. Perhaps the owner would return once the war was over and carry on as if nothing had happened. Balfruss doubted it would be that simple.

  Spring was starting to wane, summer was on the rise and already it felt as if today was going to be another hot one. All of the Battlemages were sitting inside enjoying the shade, apart from Finn, who kept watch outside the door. The smith stared at the city walls and Balfruss didn’t know what he expected to see. The Warlock and the remaining Splinters would not come flying over the top, but Finn’s concentration never wavered. It was almost as if he expected trouble at any second.

  “The western alliance is crumbling,” said Thule in a rasping whisper. There were no soft furnishings to muffle sounds and his voice echoed off the walls, making it easier to hear. Even though the swelling on his throat had gone it still pained him to speak, but the Queen’s surgeon had told him it was necessary to strengthen his damaged vocal chords.

  Balfruss had already made a report to Talandra on Thule’s behalf about the revolt in Shael, but he didn’t mind hearing it again. It gave him hope for the future. By now new orders would be on their way via raven and pigeon, spreading the good news across the Queen’s network of allies and spies. The war wasn’t over, not even close, but the alliance was rotting at its core like a tainted apple. The centre would have to collapse and spill forth the wriggling maggots before the enemy outside the walls would listen to reason and think about returning home. He reminded himself again that it was good news, but also knew that it would not prevent further bloodshed for at least a few days. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of warriors could die in that time and their lives would’ve been wasted for nothing.

  “What about the Morrin and Zecorrans in Shael?” asked Eloise.

  “Gone. The Morrin have returned home. There are rumours of violent outbreaks between opposing religious groups in their country.”

  Talandra had briefly mentioned receiving reports that supported the rumours. The Morrin nation was also in turmoil, but so far they had not seceded from the alliance, or given the order to withdraw their troops.

  “The zealots persuaded the rest of the Morrin Council to join with Taikon. Now the traditionalists are fighting back and a large portion of the population supports them. There have been riots and a temple of the Blessed Mother was destroyed.”

  “Good news for us,” said Darius.

  “However, despite growing unrest in Zecorria, their troops are not going home as well. They’re coming here from Shael to bolster the army.”

  “Which explains the pause in fighting,” said Eloise.

  “But I’ve heard stories about fighting in the streets of Zecorria. It’s all coming apart,” said Darius, hugging his wife and she smiled.

  Balfruss let the conversation wash over him, splitting his attention between the discussion and Finn. Every muscle of the smith’s body was tense and he stood poised on the balls of his feet.

  “What is it?” asked Balfruss.

  “Something’s happening,” said Finn. He took a few steps into the street then stopped, looking at the surrounding buildings in alarm.

  “What is it? What did you see?”

  “I felt something,” said Finn, scenting the air like a dog. “I think it’s the Splinters.”

  All along the wall Balfruss could see warriors stirring at their posts, nudging others awake and readying their weapons. More were trooping up the stairs to the wall, blinking rapidly in the bright sunlight. A horn blared, a long low note that went on and on, until Balfruss felt the sound in the pit of his stomach. The noise seemed to pass through his skin and then settle inside, like an angry knot of fear and dread.

  A grinding sound cut across the din as the engineers started winding back the winches on the catapults. Balfruss didn’t need to be on the battlements to know what was happening.

  The other Battlemages followed Finn out into the street, shielding their eyes against the sun. The horn came again, insistent and urgent, a call to arms for all those able to fight. Groups of men hurried past him, pulling on armour and strapping on weapons, their expressions a mix of fear and excitement. Stretcher bearers, doctors and nurses carrying stacks of bandages and satchels bulging with medicine trailed after them like an unwelcome cloud of flies on a corpse. Behind them came runners, skinny teenage boys and girls with long legs, clutches of priests and an assortment of tradesmen carrying additional supplies.

  Then came the sound of hundreds of feet marching in unison and a flood of bodies flowed past the Battlemages on both sides. The sea of armoured men seemed to be endless, with rows and rows of them heading for the walls. It seemed as if the entire army had concentrated on this one street. Eventually the flood of men slowed to a trickle. A few latecomers ran to catch up with the rest, some rubbing sleep from their eyes. One man was half dressed, wearing only one boot and no armour. He hopped along, trying to pull on his other boot and don his armour at the same time, but lost his balance and fell over onto his face. Sat on the ground he took a moment to pull on his other boot, rearrange his breastplate and surreptitiously rub his sore nose before getting up.

  When Balfruss sensed someone else approaching from behind he paid them no attention, waiting for the straggler to follow the others. When no one moved past he turned around, eyes widening in surprise.

  The Warlock was standing next to his friends, grinning from ear to ear.

  Time slowed to a crawl. Every frantic beat of his heart stretched out further and further apart. Even as Balfruss summoned power from the Source and opened his mouth to warn the others, it was already too late. The dagger caught th
e sunlight at its zenith, glinting maliciously before it plunged down into Darius’s back. It came away with a red trail of gore. The Warlock stabbed him one more time before dropping the blade. Darius’s mouth stretched wider and wider, a scream surging up from deep inside, but no sound came out. His knees buckled and he started to fall. Eloise screamed as she reached for her husband, but Balfruss couldn’t hear her any more. Either the world had fallen silent or he’d been struck deaf. Somewhere in the distance he could hear something, screams and voices, but the sounds seemed to belong elsewhere.

  Darius collapsed into the arms of his wife, who gently bore him to the ground, blood pumping from the wounds in his back. Balfruss froze in terror, horrified at what he was seeing, his mind unwilling to accept that it was real and not a nightmare.

  A hammer forged of power lashed out towards the Warlock, but he casually sidestepped the blow and retaliated with a flick of his wrist. A loop of energy snagged Finn by one ankle, picked him up and sent him headfirst into a nearby wall. Thule’s attack hit the Warlock next but he fared no better. The thin wires he’d conjured met an invisible barrier a hand’s breadth from the Warlock’s skin, dissolving on impact. Thule managed to erect a shield but the blunt force of the Warlock’s riposte sent him through the nearest shop and out the back of the building in the street beyond.

  All sound returned in a rush, and as the air around him began to crackle with energy, Balfruss realised he held a huge amount of power.

  “I told you this would happen,” shouted the Warlock over the din of the assembling army and the roaring in his ears. “I’ll kill them all and then you’ll be just like me!”

  With a roar Balfruss finally retaliated, but the Warlock had already danced out of the way and the building behind him bore the full brunt of the attack. The entire stone edifice cracked and was compressed under an enormous amount of pressure. The building started leaning to one side and then the walls collapsed inwards, followed by a huge cloud of dust which spread into the street and up into the air. With a snarl Balfruss summoned a fierce wind that blew the yellow cloud away in seconds, but by then there was no sign of the Warlock. All that remained was the destruction he’d left in his wake.