Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘Down and close!’ she cried and the entire formation dropped to one knee and leaned in close to the person in front of them, bows laid flat on the ground, heads resting in the small of the next person’s back, one hand gripping whatever piece of clothing they could find.

  Bryna had a brief moment to check that all was as it should be. The formation was perfect, the channels clear and wide. She gave a nod of satisfaction just as she heard the second clarion call sounding across the field.

  ‘Down!’ said Paddy and Bryna felt a strong hand on the back of her neck, forcing her down as he moved to shield her body with his own.

  Bryna pressed her forehead into the next man’s back and time seemed to stall as the sound of the galloping horses loomed behind them. She smelled leather and sweat and felt the rapid rise and fall of the man’s breathing. Glancing up she saw Alnwick in the file to her left and Daniel in the one to her right. Both boys were clearly struggling to stay still as the sound of the cavalry grew ever louder.

  Alnwick suddenly lurched forward, trying to make a break for it, but Dedric Sayer dragged him back into line, holding him down with his own body weight.

  To the right Bryna saw Daniel shifting nervously, the man behind him trying to calm him with a steady grip.

  ‘Hold on boys,’ thought Bryna as the ground beneath her shook. ‘Just a few seconds more.’

  Bryna clenched her teeth and hunkered down as the first of the horses thundered past. Bits of grass and earth flew up into her face. A sense of panic was rising in her but she knew it was almost over. Risking another glance she looked up towards the boys, catching fleeting glimpses of them between the storm of equine legs and hooves. The man behind Daniel was clearly struggling to keep him calm.

  The last of the horses was just passing through when Daniel wrenched his shoulder free and turned to see when it would be over. He did not move very far out of line but it was enough. The edge of a horse’s hoof caught him on the side of the head and Bryna winced as a spray of blood burst into the air. The man behind him threw himself over the boy, flattening him to the ground but it was too late. As the last of the horses passed through the lines Bryna broke free of Paddy’s grasp and scrambled forward to see if Daniel was all right.

  The man lying over him slowly raised himself up and Daniel rolled onto his back. His blond hair was wet with blood and his body twitched as he lay on the churned up turf. Bryna knelt beside him and laid a hand on his cheek.

  ‘Daniel. Can you hear me?’ she asked, her voice strained with concern.

  Daniel’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘I was a bit frightened,’ he said, his voice slurred and dreamy. ‘Horses,’ he added, one side of his face hanging slack and lifeless. ‘So big and strong. You don’t realise till you see them up close.’

  Bryna felt her throat constrict as Daniel’s left eye closed, dragged shut by muscles that no longer obeyed his commands. His mouth sagged and he began to drool. He tried to say something else but then his face creased with pain and he began to cry. His body seemed to tighten, his chin shrinking down into his neck. Then he spasmed once, twice and was still, blood pooling in the muddy grass around his head.

  Bryna stared at him through a film of tears.

  How could this happen?

  They were almost finished. They had done it perfectly and they were almost finished.

  How could one little slip end like this?

  The tragedy of it twisted her guts and it was only when Paddy tried to draw her away that she realised her fists were clenched in Daniel’s clothes. The rest of the Dalwhinnies were getting to their feet. Smiles of satisfaction falling from their faces as they realised that something had gone wrong.

  ‘It’s Daniel,’ Bryna heard them say. ‘Young Daniel, dead.’

  Young Daniel, dead.

  The Dalwhinnies drew back as the marshals arrived along with several assistants carrying a stretcher. The sense of urgency in their movements faded away as they realised that the casualty was dead.

  Slowly Bryna stood up and Paddy drew her away.

  ‘I should have kept him out,’ she said in a hollow tone. ‘I should have kept them both out.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Paddy, looking grim but unperturbed. ‘I told you. They would either be all right or they would not.’

  Bryna stared at him blankly. Somewhere in his words was an arid kind of wisdom. She tried to grasp it but found that she could not. Tears spilled down her cheeks but Paddy just looked at her.

  ‘It does no good to care,’ he said. ‘It’ll only tear you up.’

  They watched as the academy assistants carried Daniel away on the stretcher, blood seeping through the pale canvas on which he lay.

  ‘We’ll drink to him tonight,’ said Paddy. ‘And then it’ll be done.’

  With that he walked away and began to herd the Dalwhinnies back in the direction of the Irregular’s barracks. As they moved away Bryna saw Malaki and Falco coming towards her. Her first feeling was one of relief but it was closely followed by guilt. Maybe Paddy was right, maybe it was wrong to care but Bryna could not help it.

  She did care.

  And it was tearing her up.

  *

  Despite their best intentions there was nothing that Malaki or anyone else could say to assuage Bryna’s guilt. Later that night, in the subdued gloom of the barracks, Falco watched as Malaki and Alex tried their best to comfort her. He stood at the foot of Bryna’s bed and now Quirren came to stand beside him.

  ‘It’s a shame the emissary isn’t here,’ said the big Illician. ‘He would know what to say.’

  Falco nodded.

  Quirren had spoken quietly but somehow Bryna heard him.

  ‘And what would he say?’ she insisted, rising to her feet and coming forward to challenge them.

  Quirren looked away uncomfortably but Falco just frowned.

  ‘That would depend on what you decided to do,’ he said.

  Bryna’s chin came up, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘If you were planning to return to the quiet life of a noble woman he would tell you that it’s good to grieve for one so young.’ Falco did not flinch from the fire that flashed in Bryna’s eyes. ‘But if you were intending to remain at the academy,’ he added, remembering the stern approach the emissary often took, ‘he would tell you to stop behaving like the matron of an orphanage and start behaving like a captain of the army.’

  For a moment it looked like Bryna might strike him, but then her eyes filled with tears and she lowered her head. Snatching up her sheepskin jacket she pushed past Falco and started out of the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Malaki, rising to his feet.

  ‘I’m going to get drunk with the Dalwhinnies,’ said Bryna. ‘And then it’ll be done.’

  In the uneasy silence that followed Malaki did not look at Falco. What he had said might be true but Malaki felt angry that Falco had only added to Bryna’s pain. Picking up his own jacket he pushed past his friends and followed after Bryna. If she did get drunk it would not be men from the Dalwhinnies who helped her home tonight.

  As Malaki left, Alex gave Falco an uneasy smile, while Quirren placed a hand on his shoulder. There were times when it took courage to say what needed to be said.

  Falco remained in thought as the two brothers went to get some supper. He had not enjoyed being so hard on Bryna but he felt sure it was the right thing to do. The emissary might have left the academy but his presence and his wisdom still echoed in their hearts.

  Over the days that followed Bryna displayed again the strength of character that had won the Dalwhinnies’ respect and was soon back to her spirited and bossy self. In a strange way the sad event of Daniel’s death brought the cadets closer together. At some point they would all need to deal with the death of people under their command. It was just that Bryna was the first to do so. The marshals determined that Bryna was not to blame for the incident. Furthermore it was judged that the Dalwhinnies had performed the t
raverser with skill and precision and would be allowed on the training campaign after all.

  Winter had now given way to spring and the land was slowly coming back to life. The grass on the plateau appeared greener and even the mountains seemed to take on a warmer hue. In the gardens below the palace the buds were swelling and the orchards were carpeted with wild crocus and small white narcissus. The time of their departure was rapidly approaching and the academy was bustling with activity.

  While the cadets continued to train, the workshops were busy preparing all the things they would need. Those cadets commanding units were also required to act as quartermasters, drawing up a list of the provisions their unit would require.

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a school for combat,’ said Alex, looking down at the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Never thought I’d be spending my time calculating how much flour a unit of two hundred men would get through in a month.’

  They all smiled then stopped as Falco struck off in the direction of the crucible.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Bryna.

  ‘Just imagine it’s Snidesson’s face,’ said Malaki.

  Falco laughed and waved as he continued on his way. They all knew he was struggling to produce any kind of offensive force. Aurelian continued to insist that the most important thing was his ability to shield people from the fear. But what good would that be if he could not stop a demon from rampaging across the battlefield.

  Pausing at the rim of the crucible he gave a bitter laugh.

  Stop a rampaging demon... Hah!

  Falco now bore little resemblance to the feeble youth that had woken up in the infirmary of Toulwar. But the idea that he might ever be able to stop a rampaging demon struck him as an outrageous conceit. He remembered the terrifying power of the creature that had torn through the ranks of Caer Dour’s warriors in the mountains. How could anyone hope to stop something like that?

  ‘Are you coming down or what?!’

  The irritated cry echoed around the crucible and Falco looked down to see Aurelian staring up at him with Meredith, Dusaule and Dwimervane close by as ever. On the broad steps at the far end of the arena were a number of large clay urns laid out as targets. It seemed that Aurelian for one had not given up on his offensive capabilities.

  Putting aside his doubts Falco started down the terraced sides of the crucible. During their time in Wrath, Malaki, Bryna and Meredith had all shown the depth of their character. It was time for Falco to show the depth of his own.

  52

  The Elemental Weakness of Steel

  In the Forsaken Lands of Illicia a group of riders fled from the terrifying presence of a demon. The Slayer gave no thought to the men fleeing through the trees. Instead it looked into the Defiant’s eyes as he hung in the air, impaled on one of the demon’s great curving blades. Even now the man displayed no fear, only pain and regret at the failure of his defeat.

  The Slayer gave a sudden thrust and the Defiant coughed out a bloody gasp as the point of the blade emerged through the armour on his back. At first the metal had resisted its blows and the Slayer had been surprised by the strength of faith that denied its weapons, but as the Defiant grew weaker so the armour showed its elemental weakness, no match for steel forged by the Enlightened.

  Even now, in the grip of an agonising death, the Defiant did not capitulate and the Slayer found itself wondering how long it would take to break such faith and claim his soul. But that was not its mission. The Slayer’s assignment was simply to kill and with this, it was content. It might have severed the Defiant’s head or thrust higher to cleave his heart but instead the demon simply held him up and watched him as he died. As the last breath went out of his body, the Slayer flung the ‘great soul’ down beside the horse that was cloven from breastbone to saddle, two piles of meat, now barely distinguishable in death.

  With the Defiant’s blood still steaming on its blade the Slayer turned again to the northwest where another Defiant was entering the sphere of its awareness. Striding into shadow once more it sank beneath the surface of the world and moved on.

  *

  Far to the south, in the Forsaken Lands of Beltane, the Marchio Dolor closed his eyes in appreciation of the creature his prayers had called forth. It was a rare demon that could defeat a battle mage in single combat, but now such a creature was roaming in the north. Now he could focus all his energy on Vercincallidus, the man they called the Serthian Wolf. The Beltonian general offered little in the way of a challenge but there was always a degree of satisfaction in laying low the proud.

  PART III

  RAGE

  53

  Convergence

  Despite Aurelian’s persistence and Meredith’s patience, Falco failed to make any progress with regard to magical attacks. But while he struggled with offensive capabilities he continued to improve in others. As the training campaign approached they began to focus on healing, something for which Falco had a natural affinity. Nicolas was particularly skilled in this respect and would often accompany them on their visits to the academy’s infirmary.

  ‘It’s mostly fairly minor injuries,’ explained the chief physician as Falco laid his hands on the broken leg of a stable hand who had taken a kick from horse. ‘Sprains, minor wounds and broken bones, like this.’

  The chief physician was no stranger to the healing powers of a battle mage and was always pleased to see Dusaule walk into his infirmary.

  ‘The ability to relieve pain is a wonderful gift,’ he went on. ‘But people do not die from pain. Constricted breathing, bleeding, shock and infection... These are the things that kill.’

  Falco closed his eyes and focussed on the injury he could feel inside the man’s leg. He could not perceive the precise details, but he was able to form a sense of it.

  ‘Don’t try to heal the specific injury,’ said Meredith, standing over him. ‘Just infuse the body so it can heal itself.’ Beside him Dusaule gave a nod of agreement while the man lying on the bed first winced at the sudden sensation of tingling heat, then sighed as the pain in his leg subsided. He looked at Falco in astonishment.

  ‘Merci, jeune maître,’ he said in the language of Clemoncé. ‘Thank you, young master.’

  Falco smiled and stood back as two of the attendants came forward to splint and bind the man’s leg. It was not mended yet but it would heal much more quickly thanks to Falco’s intervention.

  ‘In the same way you can stop bleeding, stabilize internal systems and prevent the putrefaction of a wound,’ continued Meredith. ‘But such accelerated healing is not achieved without a cost. Treating serious injuries can leave a battle mage exhausted.’

  Falco nodded his understanding as they moved down the ward to see who else they could help. A detachment from the Royal Corps of Physicians would be joining the cadets on the training campaign and they would be relieved to know that they could call on the services of a battle mage, even a battle mage in training who was still discovering the extent of his skills.

  On the eve of the cadets’ departure Aurelian presented Falco with armour, sword and shield for the campaign.

  ‘It’ll do well enough,’ said the old battle mage, adjusting the pauldrons on Falco’s shoulders. ‘It’s a long way from Antonio’s standards but the quality’s not bad.’

  Falco tried on the helm before taking up the Valentian round-shield and sword.

  ‘The sword wouldn’t survive the magical energy of a battle mage,’ said Aurelian. ‘But as you can’t heat so much as a bowl of soup that shouldn’t be a problem. Besides,’ he added. ‘It’s a training campaign. I’m not really sure why you need a sword at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Falco, testing his movement in the armour. The helmet was an open faced barbute and Aurelian had found a pair of armoured cavalry boots in Falco’s size. It was well made, but it felt crude and uncomfortable after the bespoke armour that Master Missaglias was working on.

  ‘Remember,’ said Aure
lian, as Falco prepared to leave. ‘The soldiers of an army might not feel comfortable in your presence. Do not take it personally. Men have always feared what they do not understand. They’ll whisper and talk behind your back. Their laughter and singing will cease as you walk by. But make no mistake. If you do encounter the Possessed, then every man and woman in the army will look to you for guidance. Do you understand?’

  For a moment Falco just stared at the grim faced old battle mage and the armour on his shoulders felt suddenly heavy, but finally he nodded.

  ‘Then good luck,’ said Aurelian. ‘And try not to make a fool of yourself.’

  The cadet army departed on a cold spring morning with a thin layer of mist hanging over the dew laden grass. In contrast to the departure of the Fourth, they got underway with little in the way of fanfare. A solitary horn sounded the traditional salute as the cadets led their units down from the plateau. They did not pass through the city. Instead they followed a broad road that led down from the plateau before turning inland towards the Ford of Garr.

  As they passed behind the city they could just make out a distant figure standing on the eastern terrace of the palace. It was too far away to be certain but they knew it was the Queen. Many of the cadets raised arms or weapons in salute but Falco just stared. He remembered the Queen’s anxiety during their last meeting. He knew she was haunted by uncertainty and questions to which she had no answers.

  Could Beltane survive against the armies of the Marchio Dolor?

  Would Valentia stand fast or leave the way open to the defenceless state of Navaria?

  Was there something they had overlooked in Illicia?

  And if so... had she sent the emissary to his death?

  Finally Falco drew his eyes away from the distant figure. They were embarking on a training exercise that would take them within a few miles of the front. They were not expected to engage the enemy, but Falco was determined to keep his mind open to anything that could help the Queen. If there was any way he could glean something of the enemy’s mind, he would.