Who are your favourite wizards in the fantasy genre?
While I like Gandalf, you always know that deep down he’s a good man trying to do the right thing. Raistlin Majere, created by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, from the Dragonlance novels, is fascinating because he’s so grey and multilayered. You never really know where his true loyalties lie or what he’s up to, which stops him being predictable. Ged, from the Earthsea novels by Ursula K. Le Guin, is another favourite. His story is really unusual and unexpected, and its dark tone left a mark on me at an early age. Harry Dresden, created by Jim Butcher, from the Dresden Files, is a fantastic character who I absolutely love after spending so much time with him over the last fifteen years.
Tell us about your writing routine.
My writing routine is very traditional. I’m a planner, so I always have the start, end and milestones of the novel worked out before I actually begin writing chapter one properly. There’s always some creative wiggle room in there, so I’m making some discoveries as I write, which keeps it interesting, but the story never deviates dramatically from the plan. I don’t use any index cards or special writing software, just a basic word processor. I write during the evenings and at weekends, and I try to write as often as possible but that’s not always every day. My best hours are first thing in the morning and late at night when everyone is asleep and everything is very quiet.
It’s very easy to write magic and wizards badly—characters who can make all their problems go away with the wave of a hand and the words of a spell. How do you write them well?
Exerting any kind of force, physical or mental, takes a toll on the body and the mind. Whether it’s chopping down a tree or concentrating for hours trying to solve a mental puzzle. It taxes you and is draining. Using magic, when it’s done right, should reflect this as well. Magic must have a cost and I’ve stuck to this, so if you push yourself too hard it will kill you. Also I’ve tried to make it realistic like any other acquired skill in the world. Therefore no single wizard can know everything, or do everything with magic, and there’s always going to be someone out there who is stronger, more skilled or cunning. There also has to be a learning curve, otherwise someone could do anything just by waving their hands. The more I can ground the magic system in a logical structure, the more realistic, and hopefully satisfying, it will feel.
What do you do when you’re not writing?
I like to read a lot, and mostly it’s SFF novels and comics. I’m always trying to stay up-to-date with a growing number of TV shows, but am constantly falling behind. I’ve been podcasting for the last eight years and love talking about all things in geekdom. I’ve recently taken up archery and am finding it quite challenging but a lot of fun. I also love walking in the countryside, particularly if there’s a nice pub at the end of it where I can get a pint of real ale and some good food.
Who are your influences in the fantasy genre and without?
From within the fantasy genre, David Gemmell is undoubtedly the biggest influence on my writing. Other fantasy influences include David Eddings, Terry Brooks, Ursula K. Le Guin, James Barclay, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, Tad Williams, Jim Butcher. Outside of fantasy, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, J. Michael Straczynski and Joss Whedon, particularly for their work on television.
The old epic mythology films like Clash of the Titans, Jason and the Argonauts and the Sinbad films with visual effects by Ray Harryhausen influenced me from an early age. After seeing those films I read every book of Greek and then worldwide mythology in the library.
Balfruss loses a lot of friends in this book. How difficult is it to write scenes with character death, and which were the hardest to write?
I’ve lived with all of these characters in my head for many years, so it was incredibly tough writing the final scenes for all of them. The most challenging to write were Finn’s death and Ecko’s funeral scene. While writing Ecko’s death scene itself was difficult, it was even more of a wrench to have each of the characters talk about how he’d affected them. For a moment it lays each of them bare and reveals something about their characters. It was a way to sum up each of them in a few sentences.
What’s coming next in the world after Battlemage?
I didn’t want to write a series where everything resets at the end of book one. So at the start of book two the story begins a year after the war and the world has been irreparably changed. The West was previously stable, but now there’s civil war in Morrinow, power struggles in Zecorria for the throne, general unrest and greater distrust of neighbouring countries. Magic was already on the downward spiral, but now people are more afraid of it than ever before because of the Warlock. Some of what Balfruss foretold has come to pass and the world is entering a new Dark Age for magic, hence the Age of Darkness title. Now, if some new terror was to rise up, there are no more Battlemages to call on for help as most of them are dead. There’s a lot of anger and blame flying around because of the many warriors who died in the war, and now someone has to pay.
introducing
If you enjoyed
BATTLEMAGE,
look out for
BLOODMAGE
Book Two of the Battlemage Trilogy
by Stephen Aryan
Chapter 1
A large crowd had gathered on the street by the time Byrne arrived at the murder scene.
“Guardian of the Peace, let me through,” he said shoving people aside. “Alright, fun’s over. Go home. Nothing to see.”
He kept up the litany of platitudes, trying to get the crowd to move on even though he knew there was something to see.
Worried and scared faces surrounded him on all sides. People who’d spilled out of nearby taverns. A large group of fisherman on their way home after a long day at sea. A gaggle of drunk Morrin. A clutch of local merchants. A pair of Seve traders. A lesser noble flanked by two Drassi bodyguards and even a black eyed Zecorran. He lurked on the fringe of onlookers, nervously dividing his attention between the crowd and the dead body. A few people glared but so far it had not come to anything more than dirty looks.
Just over a year had passed since the West had surrendered to Seveldrom. In the days immediately after the war people went through the motions, pretending nothing had changed and they could just go back to their old lives. Buying and selling, getting on with their jobs, drinking and gambling, loving and fighting. But it was just a sham. A shadow puppet play where everyone knew their part.
No one had been unaffected, no one left without scars of some kind on the outside or within. After weeks and then months without a resurgence in violence the people in Perizzi finally started to relax. They stopped overreacting to small outbursts of hostility. Stopped staring at every stranger with suspicion, and gradually a new rhythm started to emerge. People started paying attention to what needed rebuilding and what needed to change. When they realised another conflict wasn’t around the corner they finally started to live again.
More than a year on and only now did Byrne think life had started to get back to a semblance of normality on the streets. That also meant a return to a certain volume of crimes being reported, but he’d been expecting that too.
Trade, the lifeblood of the city, continued to flow. During the war it had stalled, but now it too had returned to a familiar level. In turn it generated noise, chaos, traffic and crime. The borders were open again and Yerskania traded with people from all nations, even the Vorga. But many still blamed Zecorria for letting a mad King take their throne and for dragging everyone into a pointless war. People needed someone to blame for everything that had happened and the Zecorrans drew the shortest straw.
When he reached the front Byrne gave the crowd another cursory glance. There were no likely candidates. The killer had not come back to relive the moment or gloat at the inability of the Guardians to catch him.
Stood beside the body was another Guardian, Tammy Baker, a blonde who towered over everyone on the street. She and one member of the Watch were trying to keep the cr
owd back, but having some difficulty as everyone wanted a look. Someone had covered the body with a cloak, but a shrunken claw poked out from underneath.
Byrne sighed. He’d seen two like it before. This wasn’t a normal murder, which meant his assumptions and experience counted for nothing. This time the killer could be a man or a woman. In all of his years as a Guardian, Byrne had only ever met one female serial killer. She’d been a cold and detached woman driven to feed an insatiable urge she couldn’t describe. This was something else, something messy and daring. A squad of six members of the Watch turned up and they began to force the crowd back away from the body.
“Alright, time to go home,” said Byrne, facing the crowd. “Get moving. Go on.”
The Watch started to chivvy the crowd and a few people started to disperse. Byrne pulled one of the Watch aside and pointed out the nervous Zecorran.
“Find out where he lives and walk him partway there. When you’re sure no one is following, come back here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The majority of onlookers were not taking any notice and were refusing to leave.
“Sergeant. Encourage them to disperse.”
The Watch started turning people around, shoving them and forcing them backwards. Byrne stood with his arms crossed, doing nothing, simply watching the crowd. Eventually they realised nothing would happen whilst they lingered. The most stubborn finally took the hint and drifted away. Only when the majority were on their way did he turn back to the body and lift a corner of the cloak. Squatting down beside the body Byrne tried to take in every detail and not think that it used to be a person. It was a lot easier to study if he made it into a thing in his head.
As far as dead bodies went, this one looked particularly unpleasant. Judging by the length of the corpse and size of the hands and feet, it had once been a man. Anything more than that was difficult to tell because of its condition. Although it had been lying on the ground for less than an hour, the body looked as if it had been decomposing for decades. All of its skin had been stretched tight over the bones. The eyes resembled two black raisins in cavernous sockets. The tongue was reduced to shrivelled black lace. The mouth gaped open in a silent scream, but he was willing to bet no one had heard a thing.
Looking over the body Byrne saw no visible wounds or marks on the skin. No blood on the ground and the skull wasn’t crushed or mangled in any way.
“Third one in three weeks,” said Baker, clenching her jaw. Her fists were criss-crossed with old scars, the knuckles sunken on both hands. They were the legacy of her former profession as an enforcer for one of the city’s crime Families. Her unusual height was a gift from her Seve father, and if not for her pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, people wouldn’t think her local.
Byrne grunted. “Same story as before?” he asked, looking at their location and the surrounding buildings. The body lay in the middle of a fairly busy side street. Three roads connected at a junction less than half a dozen paces away. People regularly used this street as a shortcut down to the docks to visit the cheap taverns and seedier brothels that lined the waterfront. It wasn’t exactly out of the way. The killer was becoming bold. Or desperate.
“No one saw or heard the murder,” said Baker, shaking her head. “I spoke to a few drinkers dockside. They saw a bright light in the sky. Described it as orange or red. They thought a building had caught fire.”
Byrne didn’t comment because they all knew what that meant. Magic.
He stared at the body, trying to absorb every detail before it was taken away. The victim had a silver ring on one finger and the coin purse in his pocket was half full. But it had never been about robbery.
The sound of marching feet intruded on Byrne’s thoughts.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Baker as the Watch snapped to attention.
“Three in three weeks,” said the Khevassar, his shadow falling over Byrne.
“Yes, Sir.”
Byrne stood up, towering over his slightly built superior. Unlike everyone else, the Khevassar’s red uniform was edged with silver instead of black and he didn’t carry any weapons. The Old Man wasn’t much to look at, slightly built with white hair and blue eyes, but he was one of the most intelligent and dangerous men in Perizzi.
For as long as anyone could remember he’d used the honorary title and nothing else. Some Guardians believed him to be a distant heir to the throne who’d given up his position for a life of service. Others had more outlandish ideas, but having studied the man, Byrne knew they were nothing more than stories. There was no mystery. Whoever he’d been before wasn’t important or relevant to him. He defined himself by what he did, not who he’d been.
Six more members of the Watch flanked the Khevasser and a rotund surgeon trailed after, huffing at the Old Man’s unforgiving pace.
“Same as the others?” asked the Khevasser.
“Sucked dry. Not a drop of moisture left,” said Byrne, gesturing at the corpse and then the streets. “The killer could’ve come from one of six directions. Easy to disappear down here in the warren.”
Centuries ago the city had been a fishing village, then a trading post. Over the years the ramshackle wooden buildings beside the docks had been rebuilt with stone. The village became a town as it spread, first along the mouth of the river, then further inland until it swelled and became a city. The oldest buildings in the city were on the docks and they’d been rebuilt over and over, turning the area into a warren. Down here no two buildings were alike, with old sat beside new as some fell into disrepair or were torn down and rebuilt bigger and taller. There were many reasons the dealers and gangs liked making deals in this area. You could always find a dark alley or a back door that led elsewhere if the Watch drifted too close and you needed to disappear.
“Witnesses?”
“None,” said Baker.
The Khevassar pursed his lips and gestured for the two Guardians to follow him. They moved a short distance away, giving the surgeon space to inspect the body and record his initial findings in his notebook. Byrne already knew there were no clues to help identify the killer, but procedure had to be followed.
“What was the mood of the crowd?” asked the Old Man when they were out of earshot of the others.
“Anxious, scared,” said Baker.
“Any violence?”
“No, but we know it won’t last if this continues,” she replied.
The Khevassar grunted. “We need to find this killer. Quickly and quietly.”
“I know someone who could help with this sort of thing. A specialist,” said Byrne.
“Outsider?”
“No, he’s local, but he’s not a Guardian or member of the Watch.”
The Khevassar shook his head sadly. “Specialist, eh? Is that what we’re calling them now?”
Baker shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything.
Byrne shrugged. “People are scared of magic, and this sort of thing doesn’t help,” he said, gesturing at the body.
“How quickly people forget. It was magic that won the war.”
“There are many people with dead relatives that would disagree,” said Byrne.
“Then their memories are short.”
Byrne didn’t argue the point. Thousands of warriors had died on the battlefield in Seveldrom, hacked to pieces with sharpened steel or torn apart by devious traps. Magic had played a big part at the end, with the death of the Warlock at the hands of Balfruss, but no one liked to talk about it. Or him. That name had become something worse than a curse. No one dared say it out loud. They were scared he might hear them and come back.
Ever since that day the few remaining Seekers had stopped visiting towns and villages looking for children born with the ability to sense the Source. Those who showed any signs of magical ability were shunned, exiled and, in extreme cases, murdered. People claimed to be more civilised in the cities, but out in the countryside, where the Watch didn’t visit, anything could happen.
&nbs
p; Byrne had heard one story about a girl being drowned in a river by a mob from her village, which included her parents. Urban myth or not, Byrne thought the story held a nugget of truth and that worried him a great deal.
The Warlock had brought the world to the brink of destruction and anyone with magical ability was now seen as a threat. No one spoke about the Battlemages who’d died during the war, fighting to protect innocent lives.
Four foot of steel in the gut was deadly and painful, but at least it was something people could understand. A sword was tangible and it had weight. Making someone’s head explode just by staring at them wasn’t natural. It couldn’t be explained with logic.
“Who is this specialist?” asked the Khevassar, his mouth twisting on the last word. “Do I know them?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Old Man ran a hand through his thinning hair, scratched his scalp a few times and sighed. “Despite my feelings, this needs to be done discreetly. Can we trust them?”
Byrne hesitated, then said “It’s Fray.”
Baker’s eyes widened and the Khevassar raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“He’s the right man for the job.”
“I’ve no doubt about that, but you’ll have to do it officially. Enroll him as a Guardian of the Peace. Make him a novice in training, partnered to you.”
“What about passing the entrance requirements and all the paperwork?” asked Byrne.
The Khevassar waved it away. “I’ll take care of it. That’s the least of my worries. If this continues for much longer I’ll be summoned to the palace.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I was about to say the same thing,” said the Khevassar.
Thinking of the right person to solve a magic-related murder hadn’t been difficult. Now all he had to do was convince Fray to become a Guardian, the very job that had killed his father.
introducing
If you enjoyed
BATTLEMAGE,
look out for
AGE OF IRON
Battlemage Page 44