Battle Mage

by Peter Flannery

  ‘I know,’ said Meredith, rising from his chair. ‘But it’s something I have to do.’

  Aurelian shook his head.

  ‘Well I need to dig out a clean shirt,’ he said. ‘The Queen asked me to tell her when the Rite was over. She was hoping to speak with Falco and will be anxious to hear that he’s all right.’

  Meredith was suddenly struck by the dramatic changes that had taken place in their lives. Less than a year ago they had been little more than boys, their horizons limited to the petty squabbles of a small provincial town. Now he was about to question the most powerful Mage in the world while the Queen of Wrath was waiting to speak to someone who, for most of his life, had been thought of as nothing more than a weak and sickly servant.

  He glanced up at Malaki and Bryna. They too had come into their own.

  ‘We’ll tell him you were here,’ said Bryna, and Meredith gave a nod of thanks as he left the cottage and turned in the direction of the mage tower.

  Now that the Rite was over he felt the full weight of the fatigue that he had been holding at bay for days. He was desperate to confront Thrall but he would need his wits about him. He would not risk it when his mind was fogged by the need for sleep. Suppressing a wave of impatience he made his way to his own chambers and drank a large glass of vermillion wine before lying down to sleep.

  It was late morning when Falco woke. His mouth and throat felt raw and his entire body ached but his mind was clear. Wincing with pain he raised himself up on one elbow and blinked the sleep from his eyes as he gazed around the dimly lit room. He was in the Crofters’ cottage.

  Beside the bed, Bryna and Malaki were dozing in a chair, Bryna sitting on her husband’s lap. Falco stared at them, struggling to reconcile their presence with the terrible visions he had endured in the labyrinth. He looked at them again as if to convince himself that they were really here, that he had not hurt or betrayed them as the whispers would have had him believe.

  ‘You’re alive then!’

  Falco looked up to see Aurelian walking towards him. The old battle mage helped him sit up and handed him a cup of water. He sipped at the cool liquid and his stomach growled with a healthy pang of hunger. Raising a hand he drew back from the cup and settled back against the pillows.

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Aurelian.

  A shadow passed over Falco’s gaze and he paused before answering.

  ‘Unsettled,’ he said.

  ‘I should bloody well think so!’ said Aurelian, snorting at the understatement. Moving to the side of the room he drew back the curtains and opened two small windows in the cottage wall. A cool salt-laden breeze freshened the room and the light of an early summer’s day made the cottage seem warm and homely.

  Beside them Malaki and Bryna stirred in the chair.

  ‘You’re awake,’ said Bryna, easing the stiffness from her back as she came to sit beside Falco on the bed.

  ‘And not looking quite so dreadful,’ added Malaki.

  Falco smiled at his friends then rolled his eyes as Aurelian pulled back the blanket to examine his injuries. The bruising, bites and welts were all much improved and most of the cuts had closed nicely, including two which had required a couple of catgut stitches.

  ‘You’ll live,’ said Aurelian, clearly satisfied by the way Falco’s body was recovering. He moved through to the kitchen area where a pot of soup was simmering on the stove.

  Malaki and Bryna knew better than to ask Falco about his ordeal, instead they told him about the progress they were making with the Irregulars.

  ‘They’re coming on surprisingly well,’ concluded Bryna. ‘Which is just as well because Marshal Breton has just sent orders for us to march within the week.’

  They waited for Falco to express his surprise at this sudden change of plans but his gaze was turned inwards.

  ‘At least you’ll be here for the summoning,’ was all he said.

  ‘Surely you’re not planning to attempt it so soon,’ said Malaki.

  ‘The Possessed won’t wait,’ said Falco, his tone dark and deadly serious. ‘Besides,’ he added more lightly. ‘If the summoning isn’t successful then I can ride out with you and the Irregulars.’

  Malaki and Bryna exchanged a concerned glance, but they knew it would be impossible to change his mind.

  ‘Well, I’m going back to the barracks for a bath,’ said Bryna.

  Rising to her feet she leaned down and kissed Falco on the forehead. ‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ she told him. ‘But take it easy. Just imagine what Fossetta would say.’

  Falco smiled and gave her a nod but there was no concession in his eyes.

  As Bryna left, Falco’s eyes moved to the side of the room where his armour was now laid out on a bench, his shield hanging on the wall above it.

  ‘Aurelian and Dusaule went to get the pieces you left in the labyrinth,’ said Malaki and Falco could not suppress a shudder at the mere mention of the place that had almost broken him. His eyes moved down and his hand came to rest on the sword lying on the bed beside him, now sheathed in its custom-made scabbard. Lifting it onto his lap he drew a few inches of the blade, his gaze shadowed by the memory of reaching for the sword the previous night.

  ‘I would have died if it wasn’t for this,’ he said and Malaki paused at the grim certainty in his voice.

  ‘It’s a little heavy right now. But it’s right for what you will become.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ said Falco.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Malaki and the two shared a look that only life-long friends could understand.

  ‘Well... when I say perfect,’ said Falco. ‘I mean not bad for a country blacksmith who took seven attempts to make his first nail.’

  Malaki laughed, shaking his head at the memory of those first failed attempts to copy his father.

  ‘Right,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘I need to get back to the Irregulars.’

  Falco nodded but Malaki hesitated before leaving.

  ‘Don’t rush into the summoning, Falco,’ he said. ‘You know, better than anyone, how dangerous it could be.’

  Falco just stared at him, and Malaki recognised the stubborn intensity in his eyes.

  ‘Just make sure you’re ready.’

  ‘I will,’ said Falco.

  ‘Oh,’ said Malaki pausing at the door. ‘Meredith was here last night. He sat with you for a while.’

  Falco raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  ‘I didn’t expect him to be back so soon.’

  ‘Seems he hurried back,’ said Malaki. ‘He was concerned about one of the mages in the Rite. He seemed worried, but I guess everything turned out all right.’

  In the filtered light of the cottage Falco’s gaze darkened. He remembered the overwhelming sense of evil he had felt in the presence of the last mage he had faced, the one who spoke in a strange and disturbing tongue.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Malaki and with a wave to Aurelian, he left.

  Falco could see Aurelian pouring a bowl of soup at the stove but in his mind he was transported back to the central chamber of the labyrinth, the room that had echoed with a voice of evil.

  Salutări tineri Falcon. Bun venit la moarte.

  Falco did not understand the language but somehow he understood the meaning of the words.

  Welcome young Falcon. Welcome to your death.

  He shook the memory from his head as Aurelian handed him a bowl of soup and a wooden spoon. With an age-weary groan the old battle mage settled in the chair while Falco set about demolishing the hot and wholesome broth.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Aurelian as Falco tipped the bowl to scoop up the last of his soup. ‘You shouldn’t attempt the summoning until you’re ready.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Falco and Aurelian breathed a sigh of resignation.

  ‘Well maybe you should attend to this before you get your head bitten off by a dragon.’

  Reaching into his jerkin he drew forth a folded piece of cream coloured
parchment, tied with turquoise ribbon and embossed with the royal crest.

  Falco put down his empty soup bowl and wiped his hands before taking the note and starting to read.

  Dear Master Danté

  I am very much relieved to hear that you have survived your ordeal without any lasting harm. I understand that you will need time to rest and recover your strength. I also understand that you will soon have other matters to attend to, but I wonder if you could spare a few minutes to offer me your council.

  I have always valued the advice of our battle mages and your recent experiences at the Illician front could prove invaluable.

  I will send a messenger each day at noon. When you are feeling stronger, simply give your reply to her and, if you are able, then a time will be arranged.

  With kind regards

  Queen Catherine de Sage

  Aurelian laughed at Falco’s stunned expression.

  ‘She’s asking me if I might have the time to speak with her!’

  ‘Well what do you expect?’ said Aurelian with a smile. ‘You’re a battle mage now. Kings and generals, and every frightened scoundrel in the ranks will look to you for guidance.’

  Falco leaned back against the pillows. Aurelian was right. Having completed the Rite of Assay he was now, officially, a battle mage. But to Falco’s mind he was not there yet. Before he could accept the title for himself there was one last thing he needed to do.

  *

  Meredith slept in far longer than he intended and it was early afternoon before he had bathed and dressed in clean robes, ready to confront Thrall. Determined not to be swayed or deterred he made his way down to the Grand Veneratu’s chambers only to find his way barred by two mages guarding the door. They eyed him warily and he was about to demand entry when the door opened and Galen Thrall stood in the doorway, a faint smile of amusement on his lips. At a gesture the two guards stood back and Meredith was invited to enter. He followed Thrall, who stepped up onto the low dais bearing his chair, before turning to face him. Tense with anger Meredith was ready for any kind of reaction from Thrall, any reaction, that is, save praise.

  ‘Well done, Lord Saker,’ said Thrall, flattering Meredith with the title normally reserved for a fully fledged mage. ‘It seems you discharged your duty as guide to Master Danté with distinction.’

  Thrall’s reaction took the heat out of Meredith’s anger and left him feeling confused and irritated.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord,’ he heard himself say. ‘But I’m afraid I can claim little credit for Falco’s success.’

  ‘Oh, but you are too modest. But for your guidance and skill I am quite sure he would have failed.’

  ‘Not at all, My Lord. In fact I’m surprised he survived at all with a mage like Brother Pacatos on the Torquery.’

  Thrall’s smile faltered and the pupils in his waxy green eyes shrank as he looked at Meredith with a sterner gaze.

  ‘Is there something you wish to say to me, Master Saker?’

  Meredith steeled himself. Now that it came to it the thought of openly questioning the Grand Veneratu did not come easily.

  ‘I wish to know why you put Brother Pacatos on the Torquery,’ he managed with renewed determination. ‘I want to know who he is, why he is here in the tower of Wrath and the nature of the illness that troubles him.’

  ‘Is that all?’ returned Thrall, his smile now firmly back in place.

  ‘No,’ said Meredith. ‘I also wish to speak with Brother Pacatos myself.’

  At this Thrall’s face creased with regret.

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’

  Meredith was about to ask why but Thrall raised a hand to forestall him.

  ‘Brother Pacatos is a linguist and historian from the mage tower of Le Matres. However, he also suffers from delusions of grandeur and the belief that he has been alive for centuries. He is here in this tower because we are best equipped to care for his needs and I put him on the Torquery because I felt that he would provide the greatest challenge to Master Danté’s attempt.’

  Meredith was burning to ask if he really was the last surviving witness to the Great Possession but that would betray the true nature of his interest.

  ‘As to you speaking to Brother Pacatos yourself...’

  Meredith’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  ‘It seems Brother Pacatos was not as strong as I had believed. Opposing Master Danté proved more than he could bear.’

  ‘He’s dead!’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Thrall. ‘He is being cared for in the infirmary, but the end is not far off and he should not be disturbed.’

  ‘But I need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that,’ said Thrall as if he only had the stricken mage’s welfare in mind. ‘Brother Pacatos is a venerable member of our order. He should be allowed to spend what time remains to him in peace.’

  Thrall’s gaze slid past Meredith as the two guards now re-entered the chamber and moved to stand at his shoulder. Both had stunning spells held ready in their minds and Meredith took the opportunity to memorise the pattern of thought required for such a spell.

  ‘Now, if you will excuse me,’ said Thrall. ‘I have a summoning to prepare for.’

  Thrall was clearly not enamoured by the thought and it was quite obvious that he held Meredith accountable. If anything went wrong with the summoning then a large part of the blame would rest with Saker’s son.

  Meredith’s stomach was knotted in frustration, but still he refused to accept defeat. Casting a wary glance at the two guards, he drew a veil across his thoughts to prevent Thrall from guessing his intentions.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said with a respectful bow. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Thrall. His tone was benevolent but his eyes narrowed as he sensed the barrier Meredith had placed around his thoughts.

  Meredith waited until the doors to Thrall’s chamber closed before turning in the direction of the infirmary. He knew that Brother Pacatos would be guarded and inaccessible, but he needed to confirm his presence and assess the measures that Thrall had put in place to isolate him. He had no idea how long the mad old mage was expected to live or whether he would be capable of answering questions, but Meredith was determined to try.

  Climbing to the infirmary on the south side of the tower he found that the entire corridor had been cordoned off, with four stern looking wardens standing guard at the entrance.

  ‘Can we help you?’ asked one of the men.

  Meredith paused, as he checked for any wards or spells that might prevent him from entering the corridor.

  ‘I was looking for my father,’ he said at last. ‘Morgan Saker. He was one of the mages on last night’s Torquery.’

  ‘Lord Saker is recovering in his own chambers,’ said the man, the suspicion on his face lessening slightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Meredith, relieved to find that there were no other obstacles. Apart from four imposing and steely minded wardens.

  As he made his way down the winding stone stairs he felt a sudden stab of guilt. He had lied about visiting his father, but the truth was that he had avoided doing exactly that. He should have gone to visit him, to see if he was all right after trying to stop Falco, but he could not bring himself to do so. He was now convinced that the magi had lied to the people of Wrath and that meant that his father had lied too. He was the veneratu of a mage tower. There was no way he was not privy to the secrets of the magi, whatever those secrets might turn out to be.

  Feeling a disturbing mixture of anger, betrayal and disloyalty Meredith made his way back to his chambers. He could not allow his personal feelings to distract him from finding the truth. He did not know how long he had before Brother Pacatos passed away. He needed to start preparing the spells he would need to get past the wardens guarding him. He could only hope that the mad old mage did not die before he was ready.

  *

  After another day of rest Falco was feeling much stronger,
so when the Queen’s messenger arrived at noon it was agreed that he would meet her the following evening in the Chamber of Council. A message had also arrived from Galen Thrall. The earliest the magi would be ready for a summoning would be two days from now.

  ‘The Grand Veneratu insists that we should be properly prepared,’ said the messenger from the tower.

  ‘I’ll bet he does,’ muttered Aurelian.

  And so it was settled. Tomorrow evening Falco would go and speak with the Queen, and the following night he would climb into the mountains in an attempt to summon a dragon. He was still physically and mentally drained from the demands of the Rite but he simply refused to be deterred. He resumed his training and Aurelian and Dusaule continued to aid his recovery with their healing powers. But as the time of the summoning drew closer Dusaule grew more distant and reserved.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Aurelian told Falco. ‘The thought of a summoning brings back painful memories. That’s all.’

  Falco completely understood. He too had felt the power and majesty of a black dragon but he had also witnessed their blind hatred and murderous violence. If a black dragon did answer his call then he was fully prepared to do what was required.

  The following evening, as the cool shadows of twilight filled the city streets, Falco made his way down from the plateau for his meeting with the Queen. The atmosphere in the capital was a strange mixture of calm with an underlying current of anxiety and fear. The number of refugees now camped in the surrounding area was putting a huge strain on the city’s resources and the endless tales of woe made the front feel far closer than it actually was. The people of Wrath were beginning to feel the effects of the war and for the first time they began to realise that the destruction that had driven the refugees here, might one day be visited upon them.

  Dressed once more in the armour of Antonio Missaglias, Falco noticed the way they looked at him as he rode through the city. Some bowed in respect while others raised their hands in blessing. They did not see a young man, recently grown into adulthood. They saw a battle mage and Falco was both humbled and daunted by the faith they had in his ability to save them.