‘He could make a challenge. If he beat one of the nobles that would earn him the right to fight.’
‘Ah, but first he’d need two votes of confidence,’ said Falco. ‘One from the nobles and one from the warrior class. And there’s not a nobleman in the entire region who would go against Bellius and accept a challenge from a blacksmith’s son.’
‘Well they should!’ Fossetta threw the towel on the table and bent down to place her ear against Falco’s back. ‘Demon armies on our doorstep and we quibble over the standing of a man’s birth. It’s hopeless.’
‘It’s never hopeless,’ said Falco quietly.
The housekeeper straightened up and, taking hold of Falco’s chin, she raised his face to look him in the eye. ‘I know that tone of voice, Falco Danté. I hope you’re not planning anything foolish.’
‘Who, me?’ Falco’s expression seemed to say.
Fossetta arched a suspicious eyebrow before tossing Falco’s chin aside.
‘You two boys are terrible,’ she chided. ‘You deserve each other.’
The housekeeper walked back over to the stove while Falco moved the bowl of steaming water to one side.
‘Not sure he deserves me,’ he said pensively. ‘His life would be a lot easier if he didn’t have me as a friend.’
There was no self-pity in Falco’s tone. He was simply stating the truth.
‘He’s not always been the strapping good fighter he is today,’ said Fossetta as she bent over the pans she had been stirring earlier. ‘I remember the snotty-nosed little boy who used to cry because of the names they called him.’ She dipped a finger into the smaller pan and raised it to her lips before adding a generous spoonful of sugar.
Falco filled two cups with water and set spoons and bowls ready on the table. He too remembered the name-calling on account of Malaki’s birthmark.
Red Devil, they used to call him, and Blusher. But the one that used to upset Malaki the most was Berry, short for Strawberry. Most upsetting because it made him sound soft.
Fossetta returned to the table and poured hot porridge into the bowls.
‘And I remember the skinny little runt who used to stick up for him.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘How you kept coming up with those names for the older boys, I will never know.’
Falco smiled as Fossetta returned with the second pan.
‘Stewed apricots,’ she said, adding a dollop of the sweetened fruit to their bowls.
She took her seat beside Falco and picked up her spoon.
‘You took a good many beatings for the sake of Malaki de Vane,’ she said. ‘I haven’t forgotten, and neither has he.’
Falco stared into his breakfast. Whatever he might have done as a child, in the years since, Malaki had paid him back many times over. Sometimes he doubted that he would be here at all if it were not for the imposing presence of his friend. Yes, the scales of friendship were firmly tipped in Malaki’s favour. But this was the day of the trials and Falco was determined to set the balance right.
3
The Trials
The pavilion sat on the southern edge of the tournament field where the raised platform would offer the clearest view of the trials. The white canvas was dazzling in the mid-morning sun and high above it the dragon pennant of Caer Dour rippled in the cool autumn breeze. The day of the trials was supposed to be a day of celebration, but on this occasion the excitement was tempered by a shadow of fear at the approach of the Ferocian army.
Looking out from the pavilion, Falco swept his eyes over the crowds lining the edge of the field. There was a notable absence of male faces, especially those of fighting age. Only those with family members taking part had been given leave to attend the trials. The army had been mobilised and most of the town’s men were now camped further down the valley ready to engage the Possessed before they came too close to the town. The route that the enemy followed led in just one direction. Apart from the occasional goat track there was no opportunity for them to turn aside. The Possessed were heading directly for Caer Dour.
Refugees from villages and estates further down the valley had already started to arrive in the town as people fled the approaching danger. Their arrival had added to the sense of apprehension, but the people of Valentia were of warrior stock. With support from the outlying regions Caer Dour could muster an army over two-thousand strong, but few among its ranks had ever faced the Possessed, and none of them had even seen, let alone confronted, a demon.
No, the people of Caer Dour had not voiced their fears, but there was a tangible sense of relief at Darius’s return. Their battle mage had returned just in time to save them and now they could enjoy the day of the trials before the last of their warriors rode off to battle.
Thinking back to Simeon’s nightmares earlier in the day, Falco breathed his own private sigh of relief. The intensity of his dreams had grown more terrifying of late, though whether this was due to the proximity of the Possessed or his own imagination he could not say. Either way he was sure that they would ease once Darius had defeated the demon. For now, he brought his attention back to the present. The trials were almost ready to begin.
The tournament field lay just outside the town on a natural plateau where the craggy landscape had been levelled and covered with pale, gritty sand. The mountains of northern Valentia extended in every direction, but over to the west there was one peak that stood out from all the rest.
Mont Noir, the black mountain.
Named for the dark colour of its stone, the mountain rose like a sentinel above the town of Caer Dour. It was there that the magi kept their secret towers, and it was from there that the battle mages of the past had attempted to summon a dragon. And tonight, when everyone else was drinking and reliving the drama of the trials, Falco would climb the mountain to witness a summoning. It might be the only chance he would ever get to see a dragon up close and he was determined to take it. But the climb was not an easy one, especially for someone like him.
He must leave early.
He must leave quietly.
‘Psst!’
Shaken from his thoughts, Falco almost dropped his tray of goat’s cheese pastries. He backed away from the tables and moved to the side of the pavilion where one of the canvas panels had been drawn back.
‘Are you serving those, or just waiting for the flies to get them?’
Malaki’s arm snaked in through the side of the pavilion and deftly removed one of the tasty snacks from Falco’s tray.
‘You’ll throw up,’ Falco warned him.
‘I’m not nervous,’ said Malaki with his mouth full.
Falco raised a dubious eyebrow. Malaki always ate when he was nervous.
‘All right, maybe a little,’ he admitted. ‘It’s that bloody Jarek. He’s been all smiles and politeness.’
Falco’s expression was one of suspicion.
‘Exactly,’ said Malaki. ‘It’s enough to make anyone nervous.’
‘Yeah, but you can beat Jarek.’
‘I know,’ said Malaki. ‘But he is good, and there’s always the chance of a lucky blow. I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.’
‘You won’t.’
Malaki flashed him a smile then he nodded towards the crush of well-dressed people in the pavilion.
‘How are things going in there?’
‘Fine,’ Falco lied.
Bellius had been every bit as bad as they feared. He had even used Falco’s presence to cast a slur on Simeon’s name. The truth was that even the other servants resented his presence. On any given task Falco took longer or carried less, but he was not complaining. If it put him in the right place at the right time then he was content.
‘Have you served him yet? Has he spoken to you?’
Falco shook his head as he followed the line of Malaki’s gaze. Through the press of bodies they could just see the emissary.
His name was Sir William Chevalier and he looked more ‘seasoned knight’ than courtly ambassador. He was tall and br
oad-shouldered with a number of scars on his weathered skin. His long hair was shot through with streaks of grey and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw. His face fell short of being handsome but he had an easy manner and a warm smile that gave his strong features a certain charm. He smiled now as he talked with the nobles.
‘He came into the forge,’ said Malaki.
‘Really!’ said Falco in surprise.
‘Yep,’ replied Malaki. ‘He left something for my dad to cast.’
‘What was it?’
‘A belt buckle, I think,’ said Malaki. ‘Something like the pendant he’s wearing. Dad said it was none of my business, but he got to work on it straight away.’
Looking back Falco could see the silver pendant hanging from a leather cord around the emissary’s neck. It was carved in the shape of a horse’s head. Every now and then the emissary’s hand would drift up to touch it as if he found its presence comforting. The emissary was still smiling, but even Malaki could see that something was wrong.
‘He doesn’t look happy.’
‘He’s not,’ said Falco.
‘Oh?’
‘He thinks the nobles have been overconfident.’
‘What? He doesn’t think Darius can defeat the Possessed?’
‘It’s not that,’ said Falco. ‘It seems that Illicia sent word to several towns in the area, warning them that a Ferocian army had broken through their defences.’
‘They did?’ said Malaki, leaning in closer.
Falco nodded. ‘Apparently the nobles were advised to request a battle mage from Caer Laison.’
Malaki snorted.
‘Bellius would rather eat his own foot than ask Caer Laison for help.’
‘Exactly,’ said Falco as the attention of the two boys shifted to the manicured form of Bellius Snidesson. He was a tall good-looking man with glossy dark hair and a perfectly trimmed beard. Even the grey at his temples had the sheen of silver. He was impeccably dressed and, with Darius to his left and the emissary to his right, he looked the very picture of smugness.
‘Well, the emissary is not impressed,’ Falco went on. ‘He thinks the nobles were foolish, gambling that Darius would arrive on time.’
‘Well he has,’ replied Malaki.
Falco gave his friend a withering look as if he were surprised to hear him siding with the nobles.
‘But say he hadn’t. Say he’d been delayed. The town would have been defenceless.’
Malaki conceded the point, but what did it matter? Darius was here now.
‘So this is why you wanted to serve at the trials,’ he said accusingly. ‘So you could be privy to all the latest gossip.’
Falco’s raised eyebrow was giving nothing away.
‘Darius looks so different,’ said Malaki, looking at the striking young man at the centre of attention.
‘In a way,’ said Falco distractedly. True, he seemed more mature and confident, but the essence of the man, that sense of spirit, that hidden fire... that had always been obvious to Falco.
‘What do you mean, in a way?’ scoffed Malaki. ‘Look at him!’
Malaki was right. Darius was only in his early twenties, but he had the bearing of a much older man. In fact, for all the noble knights in the pavilion, there were only two other men who could match his strength of presence. One was the Queen’s emissary, the other was Simeon le Roy.
Simeon had been placed as far down the tables as protocol would allow, but on entering the pavilion Darius had made a point of seeking him out. The two battle mages had shaken hands and something unspoken had passed between them, something that no one else in the tent could hope to understand. Their moment did not last long however, as, with a comment about ‘seeing out the old and bringing in the new’, Bellius had moved quickly to draw Darius back into the circles he had chosen to impress.
Caer Dour’s new battle mage was of medium build with dark brown hair, chiselled features and a strong hawkish nose. He was dressed in a surcoat of green and gold with only his sword and a single shoulder guard to hint at the armour he would wear in battle. If he were aware of any tension in the air he did not show it. His blue eyes met the smiles of the excited nobles and he handled the attention with self-assured composure.
A great cheer suddenly rose up outside the pavilion and the awkward mood evaporated as all eyes were drawn out onto the tournament field.
‘Here they come,’ said Malaki.
Falco moved to watch as the cadets entered the field, each group accompanied by a relevant detachment from the army.
The first category to arrive was cavalry, escorted by five fully armoured knights from the Order of the Dragon. Tomorrow these troops would ride out to engage the enemy, but today they brought with them ten of the town’s most promising youngsters. The cadets reared up on their horses, showing off their skills while the knights lowered their lances in salute to the Queen’s representative.
‘Who do you fancy?’ asked Falco.
‘Pah!’ said Malaki. ‘None of them would have the guts to attempt the épreuve du force.’
Falco looked at his friend and smiled. The épreuve du force, or ‘trial by strength’, was a gruelling test by which men of low birth could become a knight. As nobles, these young men did not need to pass a test. They would earn the title of ‘knight’ automatically as soon as they reached their twenty-first birthday.
‘They’ll be training to become officers, not knights,’ said Falco. ‘Now come on, Master Grumpy, who’s your money on?’
Malaki looked at the ten young hopefuls and pursed his lips. Falco knew he would love to be out there with them. On horse or foot he could match any one of these privileged noble youths.
‘Owen’s the best all-rounder,’ said Malaki, ‘but Jarek’s the best horseman.’
‘What about Gwilhem?’
Malaki nodded. ‘Tough as a mountain boar,’ he conceded. ‘And about as skilful,’ he added with a sideways grin.
Next came the swordsmen. This was the style of fighting for which Valentia was famed - one to one combat with sword and shield.
The swordsmen wore barbute helmets, with the distinctive T-shaped visor. Their torsos were protected by mail hauberks with plate mail on the sword-arm, shoulders and the lower part of their leading leg. The two friends watched them carefully as most of these young men would be competing against Malaki in the melee. Open to anyone mad enough to enter, the melee marked the end of the trials. It was the final and most popular event of the day.
Then it was the turn of the spear and pikemen. They would be judged on strength, technique and formation, but everyone knew that the emissary would be looking for men of courage, men who could hold their ground in the face of an enemy charge. Such men could steady a line that would otherwise collapse. And, although the trials were not a real battle, Sir William Chevalier had a gift for judging the character of men.
Finally the archers entered the field and for some reason the cheering rose to an even greater pitch. From his slightly elevated position Falco could see the reason for the heightened enthusiasm. With a smile he nodded towards the last but one of the cadets.
‘Told you she’d do it,’ he said.
Malaki put a despairing hand to his forehead. Most of the twenty archer cadets were broad-shouldered young men who looked more like farmers’ sons than genteel nobles. It was precisely their strength that allowed them to bend such powerful bows, and powerful bows gave them greater accuracy over longer distances. However, the figure to which Falco nodded was neither broad-shouldered nor particularly strong, and was in fact a woman.
Her name was Bryna Godwyn, only daughter of Sir Gerallt Godwyn. Her black tunic and breeches were cut from fine leather and trimmed with knot-work of red and gold. Her long red hair was tied back with a leather cord and the redness of her cheeks stood out clearly against the nervous pallor of her face. To the casual observer she appeared completely out of place. But Bryna Godwyn was an archer, and it was in the company of archers that she felt most at
home.
‘She’s mad,’ said Malaki.
‘Yes,’ agreed Falco. ‘But you have to admire her spirit.’
Bryna was not the first woman to enter the trials, but the field of battle was generally not considered to be a suitable place for a woman, especially a noble woman. And, by the defiant set of her jaw, it was clear that Bryna was all too aware of this.
Falco looked across the pavilion to see if he could see Bryna’s father.
Sir Gerallt Godwyn was a proud, but somewhat tragic figure. A knight of some renown, he had lost two sons and a wife to an illness that had swept through the town some years ago. He was one of the few nobles who had the courage to challenge Bellius Snidesson. Falco caught sight of him near the far end of the pavilion. He was being congratulated by Julius Merryweather, a large, apple-cheeked nobleman dressed in overly colourful robes. Merryweather seemed delighted that Bryna had entered the trials but it was clear from Sir Gerallt’s expression that he did not approve of his daughter’s actions.
With a final clap on the shoulder Merryweather left Gerallt and returned to his son, Tobias, who was seated in a wheeled chair by one of the tables. Falco’s eyes lingered on the irrepressibly happy man as he bent down and wiped the drool from his son’s sagging mouth. He could not hear what Julius said but his palsied son shifted happily in his chair and waved the small wooden ‘knight dolls’ that were tied to his wrists.
If the nobles disapproved of Bryna Godwyn’s audacity then they verged on hostility towards Merryweather’s decision to raise so disabled a son. Not that Merryweather seemed to notice. He met all adversity with jest and good humour, though how much of it was sincere and how much a well maintained front was impossible to say.
As Falco watched, Merryweather looked over the wall of bodies at the front of the pavilion then manoeuvred his son’s chair down towards Falco where the pavilion was not so crowded.
‘Don’t mind if I settle him here, do you Master Danté?’ he asked as if he were speaking to an equal and not a household servant. ‘Can’t see the wood for the trees up there,’ said Merryweather with a laugh as if he had made some kind of joke.
Battle Mage Page 3