Falco looked up sharply. Once again the emissary had cut to the chase.
They were silent for a moment as they watched Dagoran Sorn concluding his audience with the Queen.
‘I once had to execute a man under my command,’ said the emissary. ‘A friend who had committed murder in a moment of madness.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what he said to me as they slipped the noose around his neck?’
Falco just looked at him.
‘He said it was easier to die, than to have killed a man and live.’
Falco’s eyes welled up because it was true. The fear of committing evil was greater than the fear of evil itself.
‘You are not your father, Falco,’ said the emissary. ‘You are not doomed to share his fate.’
Falco blinked the tears from his eyes. Out on the terrace he suddenly became aware that Cyrano was hovering. Sorn’s audience was over. The Queen was waiting on the commander of the Fourth. The emissary gave the Queen’s advisor a nod.
‘Until we meet again,’ he said, offering Falco his hand.
‘Do you think we will?’
‘In war, who can say?’ said the emissary. ‘But it’s always good to hope.’
He pulled Falco into a rough embrace then with a final smile he walked away to say goodbye to his Queen.
Falco watched as the emissary approached the Queen. Head high and shoulders square, no one would suspect the doubts and fears clutching at his heart. As he reached her he knelt and waited to feel the gentle pressure of her hand upon his head.
Far below them the people watched as the Queen received the commander of the Fourth Army. They watched as she reached out to bestow what blessing she could on the men and women who would march out behind him. Finally she removed her hand and the emissary stood before her. From where he was standing Falco could not hear a word of what was said but the Queen and her emissary spoke for a few minutes while the people of Wrath looked on.
*
Sir William Chevalier felt the full weight of the mail upon his shoulders as he stood to face his Queen. His composure nearly failed him as he raised his eyes to look upon her face, but he knew that they each relied upon the other’s strength and so his gaze was steady as he looked into the deep blue eyes of the woman he loved.
*
For what seemed a long time the Queen said nothing but simply let her eyes roam over the emissary’s familiar features: the strong and weathered face, the growing number of scars, the stern jaw swathed in its eternal stubble, peppered, as was his shoulder length hair, with an increasing amount of grey. The broken nose, the proud brow, and the eyes... the beautiful stone grey eyes that always reminded her of the sea.
Fully aware that the entire city was watching, the Queen drank in the sight of him. She could not escape the horrible feeling that this might be the last time they saw each other; that he was riding into a shadow from which he might never return. The thought was almost too much and she felt her resolve begin to weaken but, as ever, he was there to steady her.
‘The Fourth Army of Clemoncé seeks the blessing of the Throne as we ride out to face the enemies of our realm.’
The stuffy ceremonial words brought the Queen back from the brink and she raised her chin in dignity once more.
‘You have it,’ she said. ‘Ride with the light of our love in your hearts.’
The emissary bowed in acknowledgement and the Queen spoke in a quieter more intimate tone.
‘Will there ever come a time, do you think, when we are not bound by the shackles of duty and honour?’
‘Duty and honour might dictate of our lives,’ said the emissary. ‘But my heart remains unbound.’
The Queen gave a sad smile, while inwardly she cursed the forces that prevented them from pronouncing their love for each other. Almost without realising it her hand began to reach out towards his, but at the last moment she reined in her desire for a last parting touch. He was the commander of the Fourth Army, Captain of the Knights Adamant, the Chevalier. She would not embarrass him with such an open display of affection.
‘Come back to us, Chevalier.’
‘Though all the hordes of hell should stand between us.’
The Queen smiled at the certainty in his tone but she knew that no soldier alive could be so certain of their future.
‘We’ve had so little time,’ she murmured, her voice finally breaking with emotion. ‘No time to share the passing of our lives.’
She lowered her face and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
For a moment the emissary stood there, the very picture of the stoic, immovable knight. But then his hand reached out to find the Queen’s, his rough fingers folding around the delicacy of hers. He drew her close, looked into her eyes and then, though Prince Ludovico and all the people of Wrath looked on, he kissed her, just the gentlest touch of his lips to hers, the bristles of his stubble coarse against her skin, every sharp and tiny point a memory to be treasured.
‘In a single touch my life entire,’ he whispered, his cheek lingering just a breath away from hers.
For a second he felt her fingers tighten around his and then the commander of the Fourth Army turned and walked away, taking the blessing of the Queen down to the men he led to war.
A silence settled over the city, a silence that spoke of twenty thousand equally sad goodbyes: lover to lover, mother to son, and father to confused and frightened child. They promised to be careful. They promised to return. But a soldier cannot keep such promises. He can only hope that they come true.
48
Progress
The departure of the Fourth Army had a marked effect on the cadets. It brought home to them the fact that in a few months’ time it would be them riding out to face the uncertainty of war. They might survive the first battle but what about the second or the third? How long would it be before they were hacked to pieces or taken by the enemy and delivered into a living hell as one of the Possessed?
Horrifying as it may be, this was the fate that lay in wait for some of them, but their training made it less likely to happen and so they pushed themselves harder than ever. In the mornings they continued to train together, building their stamina and perfecting their skills, while in the afternoon they would work with the units under their command, repeating battlefield drills or studying the elements required to launch a military campaign.
Following the breakthrough with Paddy, Bryna continued to make good progress with the Dalwhinnies and was almost ready to attempt the traverser manoeuvre with cavalry. But she was not the only one making progress. Malaki and Quirren were displaying the qualities of much older and more seasoned men. As individual fighters they were impressive. Mounted on the war horses, gifted to them by their orders, they were beginning to look truly formidable.
In keeping with the Black Eagle’s tradition Quirren was given a black Freysian stallion, while Malaki was mounted on a magnificent bay destrier, a war horse bred from the finest courser stock. Over the last few weeks they had been furnished with their armour; custom made suits of plate. Quirren needed an entire suit, from the armoured boots to the distinctive Illician salet, with its double slit visor and reinforced brow. Malaki’s own blue-steel armour was as good as anything that Wrath had to offer, so it had simply been adapted although he now wore the intimidating great helm, or heaume, for which the Knights of Wrath were famed.
Truth be told, all the cadets were doing well, but none of them had improved as much as Falco. He had arrived at the academy a tall skinny youth, still recovering from injury, illness and trauma. Now he stood tall and strong, lithe as opposed to stocky but no longer what one might think of as thin. He still suffered from a painful tightness in his chest when he pushed himself to the limit and the burn scars on his neck and shoulder remained tender and raw, but any trace of weakness or frailty had long since vanished.
The emissary’s departure left Falco feeling strangely bereft but he also felt clearer in his mind. If he was going to make a difference in the war then it was
down to him. Without the emissary he was finding his balance and learning to stand on his own. When the others went to train with their respective units Falco climbed up to the crucible. He was still unable to summon any kind of offensive force, but his repertoire of skills was steadily increasing and he was growing stronger every day.
‘Don’t worry,’ Aurelian told him one afternoon when he failed, yet again, to destroy a clay pot resting on the steps of the arena. ‘If ten thousand warriors can stand and fight because you stand with them, then believe me... that will make a difference.’
Falco remembered the way Simeon’s presence had steadied the army of Caer Dour in the mountains, allowing them to fight when they would otherwise have thrown down their weapons and fled. But despite knowing this he could not shake off the feeling of failure.
‘Come on,’ said Aurelian. ‘Let’s try some combined physical and magical protection. I don’t want to blow smoke up your arse but your defences are actually starting to take shape.’
Falco smiled at this backhanded compliment. He knew for a fact that the old battle mage was impressed with his defensive capability. So, pushing his doubts to one side, Falco picked up the sword and shield that no longer felt so heavy in his hands. In terms of physical combat he could now run rings round Aurelian, so Dusaule would often step in to put Falco through his paces. Dusaule never spoke and he showed no appetite for violence but it was quite clear that he was a skilled swordsman.
At times Dwimervane would take on the role of a demon and Aurelian would show Falco how to go about tackling an enemy that might be several times his size. It was one thing to defend yourself against sword and shield, quite another to guard against teeth and claws and fire that could kill you from fifty feet away. At first Dwimervane could slap Falco round the arena like a cat playing with a clumsy mouse, but Falco’s skills were developing quickly and his reactions, which had always been limited by the strength of his body, were finally catching up to the speed of his mind.
‘That’s it,’ said Aurelian as Falco took a great paw swipe on his shield and rolled to avoid the full impact of the blow.
He used protection to fend off an attack from Dwimervane’s jaws and his shield to block her tail before lunging in quickly to try for a strike behind her left foreleg. But Dwimervane swung her head and smashed him to one side.
‘Fortification!’ said Aurelian, laughing as Falco was sent sprawling on the cold wet ground. ‘You can’t afford to get so close without some degree of fortification.’
‘You could at least give me a chance,’ said Falco, giving Dwimervane a sour look as he got to his feet but the dragon looked at him with disdain. There was no way she was just going to let him score a hit. She was far too proud for that.
When it came to casting protection Falco was indeed progressing well. He could now protect himself from most normal attacks and was learning to fortify his body so that even Dwimervane struggled to press him to the ground with one of her mighty paws.
‘Remember, it’s not just physical strength,’ Aurelian would say as Falco strained to stand upright beneath the dragon’s massive paw. ‘This is your mind, heart and soul. If you start to doubt, your strength will crumble and you will fall.’
Falco remembered the way Simeon had begun to fail under the demon’s mental assault. But at least now he knew how Darius had been able to hold the black dragon’s jaws at bay in the Castle of the Winds. Falco was doing quite well against Dwimervane but he knew it would be very different against a dragon or a demon that was actually trying to kill him.
Using fortification he could now land safely when jumping from a moving horse, although again, this was a far cry from the aerial acrobatics of leaping from the back of a flying dragon. In addition he had finally learned to cast protection at a distance. The breakthrough had come when Meredith suggested a new way to visualise the task.
‘Don’t try to surround the target,’ he said. ‘Just think of a single point and expand it into a sphere.
At first Falco could not envisage a ‘single point’ but Meredith patiently observed the shifting patterns in his mind until he finally saw what he was looking for.
‘There,’ he said one afternoon. ‘It’s almost like a sound, like the first instant of a bell being struck. Focus on that and then expand it to enclose the target.
They practised on a helmet perched on one the fortissite columns some twenty feet away. Falco’s job was to protect it while Aurelian knocked it off with a spear. At first Falco only succeeded in dislodging it with the effort of his mind, which Aurelian kept on reminding him was his job. But finally he seemed to grasp what Meredith was trying to describe.
A single point and expand it into a sphere.
‘Try it now,’ Meredith told Aurelian as he felt the subtle change in Falco’s concentration.
With a grunt Aurelian launched the spear, which flew unerringly towards the helmet, but at the last second it seemed to strike an invisible barrier and shot off to one side. Before it had even stopped skidding along the floor Aurelian sent a fireball hurtling towards the helmet. It exploded around the pillar with tremendous force but still the helmet remained in place and they could all see the way the flames played across the surface of the sphere that Falco had cast around it.
‘Good,’ said Aurelian. ‘That’s good.’
As the days lengthened and winter released its grip Falco’s skills became ever more impressive. Meredith watched one day as Falco fought against Dusaule and Dwimervane at the same time, his sword and shield a blur, his footwork quick and certain, his every movement a testament to the emerging warrior that had been trapped for so long in the body of a weak and sickly child. There was joy in their sparring and Aurelian laughed out loud as Falco was knocked off his feet only to roll and come back at his assailants with an attack of his own. Every now and then the old battle mage would throw in a surprise attack and Meredith was amazed by the speed with which Falco could repel a fireball or bat aside a barb of glowing light while never breaking the flow of movement in his physical defence.
‘Go on, Dwim!’ roared Aurelian as the maimed dragon beat Falco down to one knee with a blow from a huge paw. Her other paw swept sideways but Falco switched his shield to block it. The force of the blow drove him back, his feet skidding in the gritty sand but his shield arm did not give way, it was fortified by the redoubtable force of his mind. Falco blocked an attack from Dusaule, rolled beneath another swipe from Dwimervane’s tail and even managed to save Meredith from being roasted as Aurelian sent a fireball hurtling in his direction.
Meredith cringed as the flames swirled around the protective sphere that Falco had cast around him. He looked at Aurelian with disbelief but the old battle mage just laughed.
‘Ah, go on,’ he said, dismissing the look of outrage on Meredith’s face. ‘I was pretty sure he could manage one little fireball.’
Amazed by Aurelian’s recklessness Meredith looked back at Falco who was now being driven towards the far end of the crucible by Dusaule and Dwimervane. His stamina still needed work and he looked exhausted. He just about managed to parry an attack from Dusaule but he was too slow to block a back-handed swipe from Dwimervane. The knuckles of the dragon’s paw slammed into Falco’s side and once again he was sent sprawling on the ground. His sword flew from his grasp and the shield dangled from the strap on his forearm. Meredith watched as he came to a halt just a few feet from the dark archway of L’obscurité.
They all became still as if Falco had fallen at the feet of some dire and dangerous beast. Slowly he got to his feet and Meredith was surprised to see Dusaule step in front of him, as if protecting Falco from whatever might lie in the shadows beyond. Meredith felt a sudden rush of fear looming in his mind and for a moment he thought he could hear a clamour of malevolent whispers issuing from the darkness of the tunnel.
Falco and Dusaule did not move, while to one side Dwimervane also remained still as if she too could sense the unholy presence lurking in the darkness. Meredith’s mouth
ran dry and he felt an overwhelming desire to back away from the gaping portal. Slowly Aurelian walked up to stand beside Falco and only then did Dusaule step aside.
‘I want to do it,’ said Falco, breathing heavily from the exertion of the sparring. ‘I want to enter.’
The very thought of going into that dark passageway made Meredith feel sick with fear.
‘You are not ready,’ said Aurelian.
‘But the enemy grows stronger every day,’ said Falco. ‘I have to do something.’
‘I know,’ said Aurelian. ‘But you will gain nothing by dashing your mind on the perils that lie in there.’
‘I can do it,’ said Falco.
‘No!’ replied Aurelian and Meredith was surprised by the severity of his tone.
For a moment they stood facing each other and then Aurelian gave a sigh. Taking Falco’s arm he led him away from the tunnel and over to the steps at the side of the arena. The others went to follow.
‘You can’t stop me,’ said Falco as they sat down on the lower steps. ‘The decision to attempt the rite is mine.’
Aurelian laughed but not in a patronising way. Rather the sound conveyed affection and respect.
‘Yes, the decision is yours,’ he said. ‘But you must decide when you are ready. Not just because you are desperate to do something.’
‘But my protection is strong,’ said Falco. ‘You’ve said as much yourself.’
Again Aurelian laughed. ‘It is not only down to protection. You’ll need every tool at your disposal to pass the Rite of Assay and as yet, you can’t even cast an offensive spell.’ He was not criticising. He was just trying to make Falco understand.
‘But, surely I’m not expected to ‘fight’ the magi on the Torquery.’
‘No,’ said Aurelian. ‘But it is their job to oppose you, and you will have to defeat the manifestations that they place in your way.’ He paused. ‘Just knowing that you can attack if you need to offers strength in itself.’
Falco gave a sigh. ‘And what if I never achieve offensive abilities?’
Battle Mage Page 42