Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  Gathering his strength Falco climbed to his feet and stared into the fire that surrounded him. He drew a breath and the flames seemed to suck in around him, but then he closed his eyes and let the tingling sensation of power surge through his body. Like a dying star it shrank to his core before rebounding back in a shockwave of energy. The flames were suddenly extinguished and in a nearby chamber Morgan Saker sank to his knees as the sum of all his power was snuffed out by a boy he had always thought of as weak.

  As the tingling sensation dissipated Falco opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to remember where he was and another for his eyes to adjust to the dim green light of the crystals on the walls. His scalded skin felt raw and his entire body shook from the trauma of the flames. The aftershocks of grief reverberated through his mind but he had no time for sadness and regret. Every minute he spent in this hellish place he grew weaker and so he drove himself on, back into the unforgiving tunnels of the labyrinth where all the horrors from his childhood dreams were waiting for him.

  There were the demons, and the shades, and the vile sadistic children with their misshapen faces and glazed white eyes. There were the crawling things and the gnawing things and the worms that bored beneath his skin, and finally the mad old woman with the slime-black hair and the insane glint in the empty sockets of her eyes. They came to feast on his beleaguered soul and Falco was powerless to stop them. The fire of a battle mage could have dispelled them, but Falco had no such powers, and so he could only stagger on as they tore at him with teeth and claws and scything blades that filled his body with mind numbing pain.

  Saturated with fear and delirious with fatigue, Falco was nearing the end of his strength. Stumbling in the darkness he lost his footing and dropped his sword. The straps of his shield twisted around his arm as he scrambled backwards, unable to get to his feet as the mad old woman loomed out of the darkness. She did not walk, but crawled, on swollen knees and arthritic knuckles, she crawled, coming on with unnatural speed.

  In mindless panic Falco backed away, shuffling awkwardly as the terrifying figure advanced, her skeletal nose gathered in a snarl and her brow furrowed like the corpse of an unrepentant witch. Just a few more feet and she would be on him. Just a few more feet and those black decaying teeth would sink into his neck while she clawed at his face with nails that would break off in his flesh like foul rotting splinters.

  Fuelled by desperation Falco fled, but still she closed him down, scrabbling and clawing to reach him. Knowing he could no longer escape Falco had no choice but to concede, but even as the word began to form in his mind, he emerged into the open space of yet another room. Back in the passageway the apparitions of torment hovered in the darkness and even the whispers faded to the edge of hearing. Falco felt suddenly frightened to turn around. What could possibly be so terrible as to give such horrors pause? Finally he found the courage and when at last he turned he almost wept with relief.

  He had entered a circular chamber, the walls of which curved away into darkness and there, lying in a pool of pale light at the centre of the room, was his sword, the sword his friend had made for him, the sword that sang in silence, the sword that had burned forever in his soul.

  *

  The moon was riding high when Meredith finally arrived at the mage tower of Wrath. Despite his weariness he climbed the steps and made his way directly to Thrall’s personal chambers only to find the door closed. Raising his hand he began to bang on the dark polished wood.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked a passing mage, shocked to see an apprentice pounding on the Master’s door.

  ‘I need to speak with the Grand Veneratu.’

  ‘He is not here,’ said the mage. ‘The Worshipful Master is attending the Rite of Assay in the Crucible.’

  Meredith knew it. ‘The magi on the Torquery,’ he snapped, advancing on the mage. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘It is not my place to know such things!’ said the mage backing away.

  With a gasp of irritation Meredith turned to leave the tower then checked himself. There was a quicker way to learn what he needed to know. Leaving the senior mage gaping at his disrespect he hurried down to the cells of contemplation where he had first encountered brother Pacatos.

  Emerging from the winding stairwell Meredith saw no sign of the wardens who watched over the troubled monk. Hurrying down the long corridor he was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. He half expected to hear that dreadful voice filling the air around him, but there was only silence. Even before he reached the endmost cell Meredith knew it would be empty. Brother Pacatos was gone and with a cold feeling of dread Meredith knew precisely where he would be.

  *

  Falco had never seen the finished sword but he recognised it instantly. A beautifully proportioned Valentian bastard sword with a handle designed for one hand or two. The blade was too short for a fencing match but ideal for those who fought with sword and shield, the weight and taper perfectly matched to a simple hilt of steel, cast and chased in the subtle likeness of dragons. No garish showpiece this, no flamboyant expression of wealth and power. This was the sword of a battle mage. The strength and power lay within.

  The sight of the sword filled Falco with hope, but he tried to hold his excitement in check. Surely it could not be as simple as it appeared.

  Coming to his knees he withdrew his arm from the twisted strap of his shield. He reached out with his perception, trying to detect the final barrier that lay between him and his goal. All he could sense was a simple field of energy holding his sword in place, nothing insurmountable, just enough to prevent him from using his powers to retrieve it. He would need to take the sword with his hand. But that was it. There was nothing else in the way and this was just as well for he did not think he had the strength to overcome another challenge.

  Climbing to his feet Falco started forward. And then he felt it. The sword was not the only thing in this room. In the darkness beyond it there was something else. And now, with its presence unmasked the entity revealed itself. Ten feet beyond the sword, a cold light illuminated a man sitting in a stone chair, a man ravaged not by age but by the relentless passage of time.

  Dressed in the filthy robes of a mage, his bare arms were grey and disfigured with open sores and bruise-like shadows of purple and black. His lips were thin and shrunken, revealing the decaying stumps of broken teeth. Wisps of hair clung to his scalp, the translucent skin covered with tar coloured spots and a tracery of dark capillaries as if the blood in his veins had been replaced by ink. Falco might have taken him for a corpse, were it not for the light of malice in his milk white eyes.

  ‘Salutări tineri Falcon, Bun venit la moarte,’ intoned the man and Falco stared at him in horror and suspicion. This apparition of death spoke in a language that made Falco’s skin crawl, but his sword was almost in reach and it would take more than a mad old mage to stop him now. But Falco did not appreciate the nature of the creature sitting before him.

  Born more than four hundred years ago, he was once a senior researcher at the remote mage tower of Ossanda. He was the last surviving witness to the Great Possession. His mind had been broken by the events of that terrible day, although there are those who say he had ever been drawn to darkness.

  His true name was lost in the swirling mists of time. Now he was known only by the name that his depravity had earned him. A name drawn from the ancient language of the enemy. They called him Pacatos... Sinner.

  Oblivious to all of this Falco started towards his sword, but he had barely taken a step when he was struck down by the force of the Sinner’s mind. The power of Brother Pacatos flooded his thoughts with a terrible sense of corruption. It felt as if something vile had just forced its way into his skull and Falco felt an overwhelming urge to tear it out. Pushing the helmet from his head he gouged his nails into the flesh beneath his right eye and the wizened old mage began to laugh, not the wheezing death rattle that one might have expected, but a deep guttural laugh that reverberated around the room.<
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  Falco felt blood running down his cheek but a part of him understood the nature of this new attack. Self harm was a particularly cruel weapon of the enemy. Convince a person that they are worthless or defiled and they could inflict the most horrific injuries upon themselves. With an immense effort of will Falco lowered his hands and struggled to his feet.

  Beyond the sword the mad old mage frowned with displeasure, surprised that any single person could withstand the full force of his compulsion. Even the stone hearted wardens of the tower attended him in threes and even then it was sometimes not enough to restrain him. His frown turned to one of determination and he raised a mummified finger to point directly at Falco’s heart.

  Once again Falco collapsed to his knees as the blood in his veins was replaced by some kind of foul burning excrement. Pulling off his gauntlets he stared in horror as the veins on the back of his hands turned black. He tried to get to his feet but his legs felt numb and heavy and would no longer hold his weight. Falling forward he began to crawl as a tracery of black veins stretched up his neck and spread beneath the pale skin of his face.

  Fear coursed through Falco’s mind as the inky poison bled into the small capillaries of his eyes. His breath became shallow and his heart lurched as the corruption choked his veins. His stomach heaved and he coughed up a great gout of stinking black vomit, the bilious fluid scouring his nose and throat. Finally the world around him began to disappear as his eyes clouded over with thick grey cataracts.

  But still he crawled.

  Lost in anguish he crawled towards the only light that still existed in his mind. Not because he had any hope of salvation, but because it was all that he could do. After all that he had been through it was not the cruel designs of the magi that had brought him down, it was the unholy power of the last surviving witness. The other magi on the Torquery had merely tried to break him, tried to force him to concede. There would be no such clemency here. Brother Pacatos would never allow him to surrender. Falco could cry ‘cedo’ until his lungs burst but it would not save him now.

  Falco’s body was being consumed from within, his mind slowly being eclipsed by evil. He should have curled into a wailing ball of despair, but still he crawled and beyond his sword Brother Pacatos spat out a dry cadaverous curse. There was nothing left of this Defiant’s resolve and yet somehow he remained. Leaning forward in his chair the living corpse gave a hissing snarl and redoubled his efforts, but still Falco inched towards his sword.

  The Sinner’s snarl became a consumptive roar and the very walls of the labyrinth began to shake. Dust billowed and chunks of masonry broke free, flying through the air to strike at Falco. Most bounced harmlessly off his armour but one gave a dull ‘clock’ as it struck him in the head. He slumped as the rock rendered him momentarily senseless. He had no strength to summon a defence and more blows hammered into his body but he was now barely an arm’s length from his sword. With a trembling hand he began to reach out. But even as he did so he felt an invisible force clutching at his throat.

  Ahead of him Brother Pacatos reached out a skeletal hand and began to squeeze. Whatever happened he could not allow Falco to claim his sword. To Falco the sword sang with the silent song of faith, but to a sinner it sang with the promise of redemption, and to those lost in darkness there was nothing more terrifying, to face what they had become and to breathe life back into the withered clinker of their soul. No torment of hell could ever be worse than this and so, with all his vitriolic might the mad old mage tried to crush the life from Falco. Four hundred years of insanity, anguish and blind psychotic rage. He disgorged it all.

  Behind the cataracts on his eyes Falco’s vision began to fade. A new kind of darkness was encroaching on his mind, one from which he would never return. Beyond the realm of normal suffering Falco was finally spent. But then his fingers closed around the hilt of a sword, a sword he had never held before and yet had known for all his life.

  It was a thing of metal, base, unliving and yet it gave him strength.

  The mad old mage seemed to sense the faint glimmer of hope and raised his attack to crush it. The renewed assault was like a scream that tore at Falco’s sanity and the only thing to stand against it was the silent singing of a sword. He gripped the handle of his sword and the crusted cataracts faded from his eyes. He dragged himself up to his knees and set the sword upright with its point stabbing into the floor. He pressed his face to the steel hilt and felt the burning ichor draining from his veins. His arms shook with exertion as he summoned every last shred of will to oppose the ancient mind that was trying to destroy him.

  The battle rose to a soul rending intensity and both contestants knew that this was now a fight to the death. Whoever failed first would be dashed on the rocks of defeat, their minds shattered beyond all hope of repair.

  Falco knew he had to fight but a part of him no longer cared. The world no longer seemed to exist as he became lost in a timeless void somewhere between the silence and the scream.

  *

  The Crucible was flooded with the pale light of the moon. It was now almost two hours since Falco had entered the labyrinth and Aurelian was growing increasingly concerned. It was not unusual for a Rite to last so long but he could not shake off the feeling that something had gone wrong. From the expression on his face Dusaule shared his concerns and even Dwimervane seemed anxious. The dragon was staring at the archway, a low growl sounding in her chest. Aurelian laid his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right. He’ll be out soon.’

  Despite the growing sense of unease, he refused to believe that Falco would fail. He might not have offensive capabilities but he had the strongest defence that Aurelian had ever known and he did not believe that any mage was strong enough to overcome that. But then a figure appeared over the lip of the Crucible. It was Meredith, and even from this distance Aurelian could sense the mortal fear surging through his mind.

  With a feeling of dread Aurelian turned back to look at the archway. All hope had suddenly vanished. Somewhere down there in the labyrinth Falco had been overcome. As if to confirm the fact there was a sudden pulse of energy from somewhere deep underground and a great cloud of dust rolled out of the archway.

  A stillness settled on the arena and all eyes were fixed on the gaping maw of the entrance. The minutes stretched and the archway was filled with deep shadow cast by the light of the silver moon. Ten minutes past, twenty, and neither word nor breath was heard in the arena until suddenly...

  There was something there in the tunnel, but it was impossible to say if it was Falco or the labyrinth wardens dragging out the senseless body of a young man who had not been up to the task. But then a figure appeared, a figure that shone with the unmistakable glint of steel. Like a man waking from a dream Falco emerged into the moonlight. His helmet, shield and gauntlets were gone, but in his hand he held a sword. Swaying with weariness he took a few halting steps before turning to face the magi. With the last of his strength he raised his sword like a victorious gladiator but then his legs gave way and he collapsed flat on his face on the shifting gravel of the Crucible.

  Thrall’s displeasure was like a palpable force but it did not matter. Falco had walked the pathways of the oubliette. He had faced all that the magi could throw at him, and survived. He had passed the Rite of Assay. And whether it went unanswered, or conjured a lethal black, he had won the right to a summoning.

  76

  For What You Will Become

  Dusaule carried Falco to the Crofters’ cottage where he and Aurelian removed his armour and bathed his tormented skin before taking it in turns to infuse his body with waves of healing energy. While they worked, Meredith went to find Malaki and Bryna who then sat with Falco while the two battle mages went to retrieve Falco’s gauntlets, shield and helm from the Labyrinth.

  ‘Will they be all right?’ asked Bryna.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ said Meredith. ‘There are no magi to stand in their way but it won’t be easy. That place is thick with
the echoes of nightmare.’

  Almost an hour later Aurelian and Dusaule returned. Both looked pale and strained but they had found the armour that Falco had left behind. They had also found the belt and scabbard for his sword, beautifully crafted from ebony leather with polished steel fittings.

  Malaki sheathed the sword and laid it beside Falco on the bed, then he and Dusaule set about cleaning Falco’s armour which was filthy with dirt and soot and blood. While they worked Aurelian moved to speak with Meredith. He remembered seeing the fear on his face when he arrived at the Crucible and wanted to know what it was that had made him so afraid. Meredith told him everything he knew about Brother Pacatos and his efforts to find out exactly what had happened during the Great Possession.

  ‘Bloody Thrall!’ cursed Aurelian as Meredith finished. ‘How could he allow an insane mage to take part in the Rite!’ He clenched his fist in anger, his brow gathered in thought. ‘And what about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you think this Pacatos could be four hundred years old?’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ said Meredith. ‘But I’m certain he knows something about the Great Possession.’

  ‘Is there really more to know?’ said Aurelian. He sounded distinctly weary of the topic. ‘So the magi made a mistake, or kept the knowledge to themselves. What does it matter? It’s all ancient history now.’

  Meredith had not expected to hear such indifference from the old battle mage but he was not surprised. Despite their wariness and suspicion, most people simply accepted the magi with all their secrecy and jostling for power. But Meredith was about to become one of them. He would soon be making vows of loyalty and secrecy, vows that simply could not be broken. He could not allow himself to be bound by such constraints, not while he harboured so much doubt.

  ‘You be careful,’ said Aurelian, guessing at the rebellious nature of Meredith’s thoughts. ‘The magi won’t thank you for dredging up the past.’