*
The Queen and the emissary had moved round the palace to watch as the line of cadets wound up through the city towards the northern gates. Their gaze was focussed on the skinny figure at the back of the line.
‘Are you sure he is strong enough?’ asked the Queen.
‘No,’ replied the emissary.
‘The magi will not agree to train him.’
‘There might be another way,’ said the emissary thinking of the way Meredith had looked at Falco. ‘Besides, Aurelian might help.’
‘Aurelian is a cantankerous old bastard,’ said the Queen.
‘True. But he is all we have.’
The Queen looked less than convinced.
‘And you still wish to take part in their training?’
‘For a while at least.’
‘Marshal Breton will not approve.’
‘Marshal Breton will be relieved,’ said the emissary. ‘You know he finds my presence irksome.’
‘That is because the men look to you and not to him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the emissary.
They watched as the line of cadets climbed the winding path and disappeared over the lip of the plateau. For a while she was silent and then the Queen asked the question that the emissary had been expecting.
‘Will he turn against us?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said and the Queen sighed as if it were foolish to expect such certainties.
‘So be it,’ she said at length. ‘As the eagle, so the falcon. Let the madman’s son be trained.’
*
Morgan Saker looked down from the balcony of the mage tower as the last of the cadets came into view.
‘Is that him?’ asked the man beside him, a man who radiated even more power and authority than Saker himself. His name was Galen Thrall, Grand Veneratu and Worshipful Master of the Clemoncéan magi.
‘Yes,’ said Saker. ‘That’s him.’
‘Then we have nothing to fear,’ said Thrall with all the certainty of a diktat.
‘You did not see him face the demon.’
Thrall’s eyes narrowed in thought.
‘He is a child,’ he said. ‘Besides... without a mage to guide him he will never become a battle mage. The matter is ended. We stay the course and keep our will focussed on the army. Once the people see what an army of mages is capable of there will be nothing to stop us from dissolving the thrones and assuming the governance of Wrath.’
With that he turned away from the balcony and walked back into the heart of the tower where a council of elders had been called.
Overlooked, unnoticed and deep in contemplation, Meredith watched them leave. The Grand Veneratu spoke with absolute certainty but Meredith was confused. What did it matter if Falco became a battle mage? Surely they would all benefit from that. He moved to the balcony and looked down at the cadets. For some reason his father hated Falco and the Grand Veneratu talked about him as if he were a threat, but Meredith could not understand it. He had never liked Falco but he could not ignore the fact that he had saved his life, saved him from the torture of the dragon’s fire. It was a debt that lay between them and somehow it must be repaid.
He turned from the balcony to face the dark interior of the tower. Tonight he would retire to a chamber of solitude to contemplate the disciplines of lore that would form the basis of his study, one of which, he had already decided, would be history. This tower was the centre of the magi’s power. At its heart lay the knowledge and history of two thousand years. Somewhere amongst the shadowed archives of the past lay the source of his father’s hatred. And Meredith was determined to find it.
*
It was twilight as the cadets made their way up the winding path to the plateau. Falco was only dimly aware of his surroundings as they crested the rise and rode towards a series of low square buildings. He was thinking of the question that the Queen had put to him. He had not lied but he knew in his heart that there was more to it than that. Wrath had come to symbolise more than just the home of the academy, more than just the capital of a great kingdom. It represented the chance of a new beginning and the possibility of finding answers to the questions that had dogged his life. And so, as the others talked in nervous excitement, Falco’s head was bowed in thought. He was only shaken out of his reverie when they climbed onto the plateau and Malaki and Bryna drew up alongside him.
‘What did she say to you?’ asked Malaki.
‘She asked me why I’d come to Wrath.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Malaki. ‘You’re here to become a battle mage.’
The certainty in Malaki’s voice struck a chord in Falco’s soul and with a sudden thrum of revelation he knew that it was true.
Whatever his doubts, whatever challenges lay ahead, the truth was suddenly clear. He was here to become a battle mage.
Boom!
28
The Hermit, The Healer & The Fisherman
It was twilight in the remote Illician mountains and the boy’s heart began to beat faster as he drew closer to the cave, not because of the steep and rocky climb, but because he had never seen the hermit before. The other boys spoke of a wild man with rotten teeth and ragged clothes, his eyes fierce and staring and his skin made filthy by the black dirt on the floor of his cave. They told the tale of one boy who had dropped the basket of food but finished the climb to apologise for his mistake. He was never seen again and, while the other lads did not say as much, their vague hints suggested that the hermit had eaten him in place of the food that the village sent as tribute. And so the boy was truly frightened as he ducked under the Hanging Rock and caught his first glimpse of the cave, a dark gash in the craggy cliffs of the mountain.
Fighting against his fear the boy hugged the basket of food to his chest as he made his way up the crude steps on the final part of the climb. His hands trembled as he placed the basket under the ledge of rock and rang the small brass bell that stood in a crevice.
‘Wait until he comes to take it,’ the elders had told him. ‘Otherwise the rooks and ravens will spill it down the cliffs.’
The boy’s heart thumped in his chest and the sound of his breathing echoed back from the bleak rocks around him. Finally he saw movement. He took an involuntary step backwards then stopped as a man emerged from the cave. They had lied!
Yes the man looked wild with his thick grey hair, tattered clothes and weathered skin but he was not black with dirt and his eyes were not wild and staring, rather they were blue and calm and filled with a sadness that the boy could not begin to comprehend. Without a word he placed his hand on his chest and gave the boy a bow of thanks. Confused and strangely saddened the boy gave him a nervous nod before turning to race back down the path. If he was quick he might make it back before it became fully dark.
With an expression of utter detachment the hermit watched the boy run headlong down the mountain path. Then with no more interest than if it were filled with leaves he picked up the basket of food and walked back in to the cave.
Boom!
The hermit stopped. He turned. The calm dispassion gone from his eyes, replaced by shock and something akin to fear. He put down the basket of food and stood at the mouth of the cave, staring out across the slowly darkening landscape, his heart beating every bit as fast as the young boy who had just delivered the food.
Had he been mistaken?
Had he heard it... felt it?
He waited...
Nothing.
Breathing rapidly he bent to pick up the basket but as he straightened up his eyes were drawn to the darkest recess at the back of the cave. Fear rose up in his mind and a terrible sadness closed around his heart. Nearly twenty years he had lived in this cave and in all that time he had only once ventured into that recess. He peered into the deep impenetrable shadow.
He would not venture to the back of the cave.
He could not.
He dare not.
*
It was twilight as the young Thraecian girl sprinted
through the olive grove with all the speed she could muster. The healer was not at home but her father had taken a turn for the worse and she simply had to find him.
‘I saw him heading up the slope,’ Phineas the goatherd had told her. ‘Towards the cemetery beyond the olive groves.’
And so she raced between the ancient trees hoping to find him and get back to the house before her father was beyond help. The girl skidded in the dusty earth as she emerged from the olive grove. There he was, the finest healer in the entire district, crouching at the foot of the nameless grave. Some said his wife was buried in the grave. Others said it was the first patient he ever lost. Whatever the case it had robbed the healer of any trace of happiness and left him a hollow man. He healed the sick and tended the injured but he never smiled or acknowledged his patients’ thanks with anything more than a distracted nod. He was a source of curiosity and sadness to the town.
For all her haste the girl hesitated before coming forward but the healer seemed to sense her presence and, rising to his feet, he turned to face her.
‘My father,’ gasped the girl now charging forward. ‘The pain is worse than ever and now he cannot breathe.’
The healer reached into a cloth bag slung across his shoulder. He pulled out a small pouch and handed it to the girl.
‘A pinch of this in a little warm water,’ he told her. ‘Keep him calm and tell him I will be with him shortly.’
With tears of gratitude standing in her eyes the girl nodded her thanks and raced away.
The healer watched her go, knowing he was needed and yet reluctant to leave. He had no idea what had brought him here this evening. He used to come here all the time but over the last few years he had tried to stay away. He looked down at the grave and the familiar grief rose up in his heart, the shame as black and poisonous as ever. Then with a sigh he turned to leave.
Boom!
The healer froze.
With something approaching dread he turned back to face the grave. His heart was suddenly pounding as if he expected to see something clawing its way out of the earth. Coming here had been a mistake. He had been right to stay away.
He looked around listening... waiting...
Nothing.
Feeling every bit as breathless as the girl’s father, the healer turned from the graveyard and stumbled away. He might have buried his past but that did not mean he could escape it.
*
It was twilight as the small fishing boat rounded the remote headland on the coast of Beltane. The nets were in and there were just a few more baskets to check before they headed for the safety of the harbour. The fisherman was at the tiller, steering the boat with practiced ease while the two fishing hands gripped long handled hooks ready to snag the sealskin bladders that marked the location of the baskets. The older of the two gave his younger brother a brief nod of encouragement. This was his first time out and he was eager to make a good impression.
As they reached the first bladder the fisherman let the sail go slack and turned the prow of the boat into the waves. This allowed the younger brother to catch the mooring rope and haul the basket up from the sea bed.
‘Well done,’ said his brother as he came to help.
They emptied the lobsters into the holding tubs, put new bait in the basket and threw it back over the side. The fisherman drew the sail tight and brought the small craft about and the two brothers turned their attention to the baskets ahead of them.
‘We missed one,’ said the younger brother as he noticed a pale bladder lying close to the rocky cliffs.
His brother gave him a sharp look and shook his head.
‘Not that one,’ he hissed. ‘We never collect that one.’
He glanced at the fisherman but the master of the boat seemed not to have noticed. No one knew why he never checked that basket or what the sealskin bladder marked. Rumour had it that he had once killed a man and weighed his body down with rocks. But it made no sense to mark the scene of such a crime. Others said that he had lost a shipmate in a storm and the bladder marked the spot where the fisherman’s friend had drowned. The truth was that no one knew.
The fisherman was aware of their eyes upon him. He was also aware of the tales that people told. It mattered not. One of these days he would cut the tether and let the marker float away. Then perhaps, he could forget.
His face impassive, he steered the boat towards the next marker.
Boom!
The fisherman turned the boat so rapidly that the two brothers clung to the sides as the small craft pitched and rolled on the choppy sea. Suddenly frightened they looked up at the man standing in the stern wondering what had made him stop the boat.
The fisherman stared into the depths as the pale bladder bobbed on the water.
Had he heard something? Had he felt it? Or was it just a freak wave sounding in some hollow of the rocks?
He waited, while the ship danced drunkenly beneath him...
Nothing.
The two brothers watched as the fisherman turned back towards them. His expression was dark but there was also a deep sadness in his eyes. Suddenly it was easy to believe that he had killed a man and marked his grave upon the sea. Nervously they took up their hooks but the fisherman ignored the remaining baskets and steered them straight for home. There would be no more fishing done tonight.
Leaving the subdued brothers to sort the catch the fisherman left the harbour and walked back along the coast to the place where the pale marker bobbed in the darkness just a few boat lengths from the cliffs. A bead of salt water ran from his eye.
Time and tide, it seemed, were not enough.
Indeed, an ocean of water was not enough to drown his guilt.
*
In a distant land, far beyond the Endless Sea, a creature raised its head.
And three that never answered too.
Boom!
29
A Familiar Reception
If Falco had been surprised by the intimate nature of their audience with the Queen he was less surprised by the wall of silence that greeted them as they entered the long dormitory of the academy barracks. The squire who had served as their guide gave a nervous bow before making a quick exit, leaving the new arrivals facing the stern gaze of at least thirty strong young men. Their collective expression was one of disdain as they weighed up the competition from the provincial town of Valentia. For the young noblemen of Caer Dour it was not a problem. After a moment’s pause they simply moved towards empty bunks as if they were perfectly entitled to be there.
This left Falco, Bryna and Malaki.
A weakling, a woman and a common blacksmith.
Some of the cadets looked with interest at Bryna but Falco noticed how most of them seemed to focus on Malaki as if they could gauge something of his ability simply from the way he stood. Yes, the one with the birth marked face had been singled out from the start. Falco gave an inward smile, secretly relieved that for once he was not the centre of attention. However, his anonymity did not last for long.
‘Hah!’ said a voice from half way down the room. ‘If it isn’t the traitor from Caer Dour. Come to polish his friend’s armour, no doubt.’
The cadets turned at the voice and a natural channel opened up between them. Falco’s heart sank as he saw the speaker come forward. It was Jarek Snidesson.
‘So you survived,’ he said in an accusing tone. ‘You bring destruction to our town, death to our people and yet you survive.’ He walked forward, the familiar swagger in his lofty poise. Behind him came three or four stout supporters, one of them a huge Beltonian, bigger even than Malaki.
The other cadets watched him come forward. They did not understand the history between them but they could see that one held power and the other did not. For nobles whose fortunes depended on choosing the most advantageous ally the question of which side to take was an easy one.
‘At least we didn’t run,’ said Malaki, stepping slightly ahead of Falco.
‘Ah, the blacksmith’s so
n,’ said Jarek in the same patronising tone that came so easily to his father. ‘And a girl who is only here because she cheated in the trials.’
His eyes flickered to one side and Falco saw Bryna put a hand on Malaki’s arm.
‘But run, you say?’ said Jarek, addressing himself to the cadets in the room. ‘You would have died in the mountains if my father and I had not ridden to get help.’
‘Shame on you,’ said Falco, his face set like stone. He did not go into the details of the riders who had given their lives. He did not need to. The quiet conviction in his voice was more than enough to cast doubt on Jarek’s boast.
For a second Jarek’s eyes flared with a murderous light but then his lip twitched in a sneer as he quickly changed the subject.
‘We would not have been there at all if not for him.’ He paused to stare directly at Falco. ‘You did alert the black dragon that killed the town’s battle mage, did you not?’
Falco said nothing but it was clear from his silence that, in this at least, Jarek spoke the truth. The mood in the room hardened and Jarek smiled, victorious, although his eyes still held the promise of violence.
Suddenly the door to the barracks opened and two men walked in, each wearing surcoats of black with a white horse’s head motif, marking them as academy instructors. One of them held a parchment scroll and both radiated a sense of authority well beyond any of the young princelings in the room. The older of the two men stepped forward. He was heavily built and his bald head was raked with dents and scars. He wore a thinly trimmed beard on a solid jaw, his eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow. He cast a hard eye over the room and it was clear that he had just made an accurate assessment of what was taking place. It was ever the same, young stags establishing the order of dominance.
‘The academy welcomes the cadets from Caer Dour.’ His voice was surprisingly mellow with a strong Clemoncéan accent. ‘My apologies for not meeting you upon your arrival. We had not expected you until tomorrow.’
Battle Mage Page 26