‘Are you all right?’ asked Malaki.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Falco.
At the far end of the barracks he could see Jarek and the others who had attacked him the previous night. He did not want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him struggle, so gritting his teeth against the pain, he dressed quickly and finished his ablutions.
‘What did Lanista Magnus say to you?’ asked Malaki as they headed out of the barracks with Bryna.
‘Just that they’ll make a decision about my training this afternoon.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ said Malaki.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ said Bryna.
Falco was not particularly reassured. He made no reply as they followed the rest of the cadets up to the training field where they were met by Lanista Deloix. The sky was still dark and there was a smirr of rain in the air, so despite their cloaks and sheepskin jackets the cadets shivered in the grey light of a damp morning. Autumn was giving way to winter.
Lanista Deloix directed them to a large white tent at the side of the field. As they entered they were met by assistants who took their cloaks and presented each of them with the weapons of their chosen discipline. Bryna was given a bow, a quiver full of arrows and a shortsword in a belted leather scabbard, while Malaki and Falco were presented with a Valentian bastard sword and a steel alloy round-shield.
Feeling more than a little self conscious Falco adjusted the straps on the shield to account for his skinny arms. Glancing up he noticed the scornful looks from Jarek and several of the other cadets, but he did not care. Once again he felt that sense of satisfaction at being in the presence of weapons, of holding a sword. He was tempted to think it was a male thing but he saw the relish with which Bryna fastened the shortsword around her waist before slinging the quiver over her shoulder and picking up her bow. No. It was about identity and how you saw yourself. He might not look the part the way that Malaki did, but as Falco gripped his sword and couched his shield it felt somehow right.
When they were all suitably equipped they followed Lanista Deloix outside where Lanista Magnus was now waiting for them. The senior instructor raised an arm and pointed up towards the mountains.
‘Up there, in the mist,’ he began, ‘is a stone they call the Pike, a great slab of granite poking out from the side of the mountain. Every morning you will climb to the Pike before returning here to break your fast and prepare for the day’s training.’
The cadets gazed up into the low cloud hanging over the mountain. They could just make out the pale line of a path snaking its way up into the mist.
‘It’s two miles and a thousand feet to the Pike,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘It should take you about an hour,’ he added as the other instructors returned to the shelter of the tent.
Some of the cadets hovered uncertainly but it was clear that some of them were familiar with this ritual and hefting their weapons they set off at a jog.
‘Come on,’ said Alex, urging Falco and the others to follow. ‘It’s quite a climb and it’s more than two miles.’
‘You’ve done it already?’ said Falco as he, Malaki and Bryna fell in beside the two brothers.
‘We did it the other day,’ said Alex. ‘Our cousin told us about it. It’s not supposed to be a competition but he says it always turns out that way.’
Malaki’s eyes lit up but Falco’s spirits dropped. He was already feeling breathless and after just a few more minutes he had slowed to a walk.
‘You go on,’ he said when they held back to walk with him.
Alex and Quirren nodded but Malaki seemed reluctant to leave.
‘Go on, you great oaf,’ said Falco giving him a shove. ‘You can’t let that bastard Jarek beat you.’
Finally Malaki smiled and with a nod to Bryna he sprinted off up the track. Falco saw Quirren step up to match his speed while Alex and Bryna followed at a more leisurely pace.
To Falco the two miles felt like ten but he tried to keep going, only pausing to let those coming back down go past. One of these was Jarek who made a point of forcing Falco off the path. However, Falco soon forgot this affront when he saw that Malaki and Quirren were now right behind him and closing fast. He only wished he could be there when Jarek realised that a blacksmith had beaten him back to the tent.
With a smile he pressed on and eventually came to the ‘Pike’, a massive slab of stone that jutted out from the rocky slope like a finger pointing into the void. The top surface was flat and Falco took a moment to walk along its narrow length, unaffected by the significant drop that opened up below him. Standing at its tip he felt the cold mist swirl about him. It reminded him of being back in the mountains of Caer Dour. He took a breath and smiled. Yes, he had struggled but he had done better than he thought he would, and he even found the exertion quite satisfying. He turned round and, feeling strangely invigorated, he began to run back down the path.
The hour candle had long since burned down when Falco returned to the training field. He found the cadets milling around in the pale, drizzly morning. Some of them were finishing their breakfast while others were talking in groups, comparing weapons and going through manoeuvres and techniques. One of the assistants took Falco’s sword and shield before handing him a plate of food and a beaker of what smelled like chamomile tea.
‘So you made it,’ said Malaki as Falco sat down at one of the benches.
Falco showed him a finger as he put a huge dollop of orange conserve on a hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth.
‘Did you beat him?’ asked Falco, nodding towards a group of cadets gathered round Jarek.
‘What do you think?’ said Malaki with a grin.
Falco smiled and gulped down a mouthful of hot tea as the cadets were directed to move outside.
Lanista Deloix led them to a series of wooden benches arranged in a semicircle beside the large white tent. He motioned for the cadets to take a seat then went to stand in the open space before them. A moment later a dozen instructors with at least as many assistants emerged from the tent and a ripple of excitement ran through the cadets.
Falco nudged Malaki as he saw who was leading them out. There, with Lanista Magnus at his side, was the unmistakeable figure of the emissary dressed in the black surcoat of an instructor. He gave no sign of recognition and Falco felt a twinge of disappointment as he cast his gaze over the cadets with neutral equanimity.
From the corner of his eye Falco caught sight of Alex and Quirren both trying hard not to let their nervousness show. He turned to look at Malaki who was sitting beside him. They had come to know the emissary quite well and the only nerves they felt came from the fear of letting him down. Falco gave Alex a smile of reassurance then tensed as someone leaned in close behind him.
‘So, the Queen’s pet knight has come to watch over you, has he?’
Falco closed his eyes as Jarek whispered in his ear.
‘Well... Prince Ludovico has now heard of this farce. It seems the Fourth Army may be deployed earlier than planned. You won’t enjoy the emissary’s protection for long.’
Jarek leaned back and Falco glanced round at the youths on the back row. It was clear from their contemptuous glances that they expected him to receive preferential treatment from the emissary.
‘What did he say?’ asked Malaki but Falco just waved him to be quiet. The day’s training was about to begin.
The academy assistants had set out a series of tables full of training weapons and armour. They had also erected a number of wood and straw training mannequins dressed in the black armour of Ferocian Kardakae. The very sight of them made Falco shudder.
Everything was ready and the emissary turned to face them.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
The question was quiet, almost introspective and at first no one answered. Then a heavy-set young man with a dark complexion spoke up to Falco’s left.
‘To learn to fight,’ he said. ‘To be the best that we can be.’
The emissary nodded as if
this was a perfectly good answer.
‘Yes...’ he said. ‘But more than this. You are here to become leaders of men. When you leave the academy you will return to your people and teach them what you have learned. In this way the knowledge of the academy can be spread across the world. But why would the elite school of Clemoncé want to share its secrets with the other kingdoms, kingdoms with which it has fought countless wars over the centuries?’
‘To defeat the Possessed.’
Falco looked to his right. It was Alex who had spoken.
‘And why is that so important? What makes them so special?’
‘Because they threaten us all,’ said one.
‘Because they are so cruel,’ said another.
‘Cruel?’ The emissary gave a bitter laugh. ‘When the Illician army captured the Beltonian town of Guerthang, they slaughtered every man, woman and child. My own kinsmen murdered more than a thousand people.’ He frowned as he spoke, as if he could barely believe what he was telling them. ‘Are the Possessed any crueller than that?’
The cadets were silent. They all knew stories of massacres, torture and death within their own kingdoms. The history of Wrath was littered with such horrors, some of which still went on today. Were the Possessed really any different? The emissary let them ponder that question for a moment before speaking again.
‘What is the worst thing you can imagine?’ he directed his question to a blond-haired Illician youth in the front row. ‘What is the worst thing that one person can do to another?’
‘Murder,’ said the young man and the emissary snorted as if this barely qualified as an answer.
‘Torture,’ said another.
‘And what is the worst kind of torture?’
‘Hot irons...’
‘The rack...’
‘Flaying...’
The emissary pursed his lips, still unimpressed.
‘And what if someone you loved was being tortured in such a way and there was nothing you could do to save them? What would you hope for then?’
The cadets stared at him in horror.
‘That they might die quickly,’ said a young man from the back.
The emissary fixed him with a stone hard stare.
‘And what if they could not die?’
The young man looked at him, confused.
‘What if their pain and suffering could not be ended by death? What if the skin was peeled from their flesh and that was but the start of their suffering?’
He stared at them all, not allowing any of them to avoid the implications of what he was saying.
‘Those taken by the Possessed are not killed, they are claimed. They will never be allowed the luxury of death. Even when their bodies are consumed their souls will remain in torment forever. The people who fell to the Possessed five hundred years ago are not dead. They writhe in agony still.’
Silence.
‘Is there no hope for them?’
The question was spoken softly and the emissary paused before answering. He knew that many of these youngsters would have lost people to the Possessed.
‘If they died without losing faith then the enemy cannot claim them. If the demon that claimed them is slain then their souls may be saved. But if they were captured or died in despair then no. Their only hope lies with us. Some believe that if we defeat the Possessed and drive the darkness from our world then perhaps their souls can be redeemed.’
The cadets stared at him. Until now they had thought only of themselves and their own advancement. They had seen the academy as a way to improve their skills and status. Now the emissary was telling them that the fate of countless souls rested with them.
Falco thought of the people they had lost to the Possessed.
Balthazak... Sir Gerallt... Simeon.
Were they at peace or did they also suffer the torments of hell? Glancing to one side he saw that Malaki and Bryna sat with their heads bowed.
‘So I ask you again. Why are you here?’
This time no one was willing to answer.
‘You are here to learn how to fight,’ said the emissary. ‘To be the best that you can be.’ He glanced at the young man who had just given this answer and gave him a nod. ‘That is all that any of us can do.’
The cadets stared up at him and even Jarek Snidesson was not unaffected by the force of his presence.
‘So,’ said the emissary.
And now he smiled.
‘Let us fight.’
The cadets were split into small groups with an instructor and several assistants. Falco found himself in a group under Lanista Magnus with Malaki and Bryna plus a number of Beltonians and several young men with the dark complexion of Acheron or Thraece.
‘But I’m here as an archer,’ said Bryna as one of the assistants handed her a training sword and shield.
‘You each have your chosen discipline,’ said Lanista Magnus. ‘But you will also train in others. Archers will fight with sword and shield and learn the basics of spear formations, while spearmen will learn how to use a bow in ranks without shooting their companions in the back. In this way you will come to appreciate the strengths and limitations of different units on the battle field. Invaluable experience when you come to take command.’
The cadets glanced at each other. They had just begun their training and already the instructors were talking about command. Then, without further ado, they too were kitted out with a training sword, a shield and padded leather armour and the training began in earnest.
They trained for a couple of hours going through some of the basic fighting styles that most of them were familiar with but, after only twenty minutes, Falco’s arms felt like dead weights. Since waking up in Toulwar he had definitely grown stronger but he was still weak compared to the others. He struggled on until one of the assistants rang a bell and the instructors called them back to the benches where the emissary addressed them once more.
‘For sparring we use wooden swords or the metal blunts that most of you are familiar with.’ He nodded to the blunt training swords that each of the cadets held. ‘But we also train with live blades.’ In his hands he held a one-handed Illician ‘arming sword’ and a metal round-shield. ‘Has anyone here trained in the fencing forms of Liberi or the Gladiatoria?’
Fully half the cadets raised an uncertain hand.
Falco glanced at Malaki. Simeon had owned an ancient copy of the Gladiatoria and the two boys had loved nothing better than to sneak into his study and look at the pictures, and later to read the text, of this revered fighting manual.
The emissary nodded to a clean jawed Clemoncéan youth with sandy blonde hair. He handed him the sharp longsword and shield and invited him to take up position in front of the training mannequins which had been made to look like Kardakae. The mannequins had been furnished with swords, each presenting the blade to replicate various types of attack.
‘On the bell I would like you to dispatch the enemy,’ said the emissary, giving the young man a smile to assuage his nerves.
The cadet nodded then as the assistant rang the bell he lunged forward, the point of his sword finding the gap beneath the Kardakae breastplate. He stepped to his left engaged the next mannequin’s blade with his own and retained it to deliver a precise stab into the unprotected armpit. The next he cut across the neck, then it was the elbow and finally he moved past the last dummy, parrying with his shield before turning to deliver a ‘lethal cut’ through another gap in the Kardakae’s heavy armour.
He stood, panting, while the mannequins wobbled and rocked from his attacks. Each had been dispatched by a precise strike, delivered with great accuracy and skill. The cadets were impressed and the emissary nodded in appreciation. He indicated for the young man to take his seat.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Has anyone here actually fought the Possessed?’
The cadets shook their heads slowly, all save those from Caer Dour who had fought the Possessed in the mountains.
The emissary moved to stand in front
of Malaki. Malaki’s head had been bowed but now he looked up, the expression in his eyes dark as if he had no wish to remember how it felt to face one of these warriors in the flesh. The emissary extended the hilt of the sword and slowly Malaki took it. With some reluctance he got to his feet and took the round-shield on his arm. Slowly he moved to take up position.
‘These are Kardakae of the Possessed,’ said the emissary. ‘I want you to defeat them.’
Head still bowed Malaki looked at the emissary before turning to face the lifeless mannequins. He appeared cowed and withdrawn but Falco noticed the blade of the sword lift slightly as Malaki’s hand tightened on the grip.
The bell rang and Malaki powered forward. His first attack came up inside the Kardakae’s guard, forcing the black breastplate up and slicing through the straw body that tied it to the post. His second attack was a continuation of the first and the Illician blade hacked down into the Mannequin’s shoulder, severing the sword arm as Malaki moved past. The next was felled by a massive blow from the rim of his shield and finished by a sword strike that took a great chunk out of the thick wooden post. Two left... Malaki snapped the post of one with a powerful kick and demolished the last with a series of blows from sword and shield. The final mannequin collapsed to the ground in several pieces, the black helmet rolling free.
Malaki stood there, tense but poised as if he were ready to fell a hundred more and the cadets looked on in shock. Lanista Deloix gave a small nod while Lanista Magnus wore a grim smile of satisfaction.
For the most part the cadets looked at Malaki with newfound respect. Only Jarek and a few of his followers seemed unimpressed. He gave a scornful snort at Malaki’s display, while the big Beltonian looked at Malaki with a distinct challenge in his eyes.
The emissary turned to the cadets.
‘One of the main things we teach you here at the academy is the difference between sparring and genuine combat.’ He waited for Malaki to retake his seat. ‘A well placed hit might score you a point in a fencing match, but in order for an attack to be effective in battle the enemy must fear for their lives. It takes real force to cut through leather armour, or break an arm through chain, and it’s not so easy to find gaps in plate armour when your opponent is trying to kill you.’
Battle Mage Page 30